Page 21

Back at Andrew’s condo, it occurs to me that someone on the yacht must know where Norm went.

Thinking back to the row of gun-toting thugs, I settle on the guy at the far end. I focus on the small space directly behind him—and make the leap.

A heartbeat later, I’m standing in the darkest shadows of the deck, right behind him. Before he even knows what hit him, I grab his shoulders and teleport us both over to the nearby shore.

On an empty beach, he starts screaming. Loudly.

I command him to shut up and drop his gun.

He obeys, dropping the weapon with a clunk, and I shove him forward. He stumbles and face-plants in the sand. I pick up the weapon and hurl it as far into the ocean as I can.

“Get up,” I tell him.

He crab-crawls away, totally panicked.

Not that I blame him. One minute he’s guarding a yacht, the next he's abducted by some monster girl.

A firm command stops his scrambling, and he rises awkwardly to his feet, zombie-like.

“Please don’t kill me,” he stammers.

“Why not? You were going to kill me.”

“We—we were told just to shoot you in the arm or leg. That the silver bullets would, uh, incapacitate you. Said you were some kind of monster.”

“Do I look like a monster?”

He hesitates. “Actually, you look kind of cute.”

Before he gets any stupid ideas—like asking me to the prom—I command him to spill everything he knows about Norm.

Turns out Norm had purchased a surface-to-air missile.

Because, of course, he did.

What was he planning to do with it?

The thug just shrugs and smirks. “What else you use a surface-to-air missile for?”

Good point.

Shoot down planes.

I press harder: where has Norm gone?

Another shrug. He genuinely doesn’t know; Norm hadn’t trusted him enough to share the full plan.

At least when I force him to focus on the speedboat Norm escaped on, he’s helpful. I get a solid mental image: color, shape, manufacturer. Enough to work with.

Satisfied, I teleport the goon back to Andrew’s condo and shove him into Kingsley’s surprised hands.

“Hand him over to the FBI,” I tell the big guy.

Then I’m gone—teleporting from the condo straight onto a small, fast-moving speedboat cutting through the ocean waves.

Three men, all in black, man the vessel. I land right in the center of it. Naturally, two of them start screaming.

When they’re done, they whip out guns.

But I’m already moving, a blur.

In seconds, I wrench away their weapons and chuck them into the drink.

The boat itself isn’t far from the Redondo Beach Pier.

And beyond that?

LAX Airport.

Where planes circle low over the water, right above us.

Which means... they were planning to shoot down a plane.

A hell of a distraction.

Norm must've paid them a king’s ransom for this little act of terrorism.

A quick dip into their minds tells me what I need to know:

These two are sociopaths, eager to pull the trigger—and to kill me, too, if given half the chance. Big bonus for completing both missions.

I command them to sit.

They do, glaring up at me like two oversized schoolkids who got caught cheating.

(And no, I don’t want to throw them overboard. Pretty sure we’re too far out for them to swim back.)

Meanwhile, the third guy at the wheel hasn’t even noticed the chaos behind him. He’s too focused on assembling the rocket launcher still half-crated at his feet.

I command him to sit with the others.

He stumbles over reluctantly, wide-eyed.

Another quick mind scan reveals that Norm was dropped off earlier along the shores of San Pedro.

Meaning he’s loose again, probably plotting his next disaster.

Perfect.

I spend the next few minutes teleporting all three goons back to Andrew’s condo and dumping them at Kingsley’s feet.

Minutes later, I give Lindsey Aeon and her FBI team the full rundown: the hijacked yacht, the armed thugs, the almost-missile launch.

I also point them toward the shiny new, half-assembled, surface-to-air missile now resting against Andrew’s fancy bed.

Crisis averted.

But Norm is still missing.

Grr.