white creeping into the black, premature reminders of the hard road he’d taken so far.
“Callie’s been asking for you.” Valerie wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed the top of his ear.
Lester turned so he could return the gesture. “I’m just relieved she hasn’t accidentally strobed the clown unconscious.”
“There is no clown.” Valerie cocked her eyebrow. “He’s late, and his comm goes straight to messaging.”
“Bloody hell,” Lester swore, disengaging from Valerie’s arms. “For the amount of cash I gave that wanker, he should be turning backflips while he makes balloon animals and whistling ‘God Save the Queen’ to boot.”
“Les.” Valerie swallowed when he frowned and started again. “Charlie. I handled it. Go enjoy the party. And for Christo’s sake, tell your daughter happy birthday.”
Lester nodded tightly and went through the hallway into the living room, where nine sugar-injected seven-year-olds were alternately shrieking, jumping on the sofa, and stuffing their faces with more sugar.
“Where’s my birthday girl?” Explaining to Callie why her father was sometimes British and sometimes not had been a trick, but she’d adapted.
“Daddy!” she shrieked, leaping from the sofa and into his arms. “Did you bring me a present?”
“Indeed, I did,” he said. “But that will have to wait.”
Callie squirmed free and went back to her game. She’d blossomed since they’d left Corp, even with the fake names and the anonymous suburban house. No Runners watching her every move, no Yuriko scolding her that she’d be too fat for Branding if she ate a candy bar.
No one spying on his little girl, waiting to see if she’d be fit fodder for Corp’s hero machine.
“Daddy, did you see the cake Mommy baked?” Callie shouted. “It’s this big.” She spread her arms wide, fell off the sofa, and collapsed into a giggle fit on the floor with some of her little friends.
“Be careful,” he said. “Can’t have any cake if you’ve got a concussion.”
The door chime sounded, and Lester muttered “Bloody finally.” Those bastards at Party City were giving back every cent of his deposit.
Years later, Lester would remember that he didn’t check the security camera before he opened the door. He had been distracted, irritated, and preoccupied, like any father of a small, excitable child. If he’d seen the static obscuring his state-of-the-art security system, he would be a free man, he’d think, time and time again.
But he opened the door, and instead of a clown there were six impassive faces in riot shields.
The leader raised his shock pistol. “Lester Bradford. You are hereby ordered to submit to the authority of Corp-Co and appear before the Executive Committee on charges of robbery, fraud, and assault. You have the right to remain silent.”
Blind panic was not something Lester indulged in. He had one second of mild shock, one Oh.
“Who wants cake?” Valerie called from the kitchen. “Put your party hats on for the birthday song!”
Lester stared at the leader of the Corp Containment squad, and the leader stared at him.
“Well,” Lester said, not bothering with the fake Chicago accent. “Boris, isn’t it?”
The leader blinked in surprise, then nodded. “That’s right, Bradford.”
“Boris, my daughter’s in the kitchen having a birthday party. If you’d be so good as to have your gents come in, I’d prefer she didn’t see this.”
Boris peered in to check that Lester was really alone, then nodded.
“All right. For the kid’s sake, Bradford.”
Lester stepped aside, fingers digging divots out of the front door as his palms heated.
Boris held his shock pistol in Lester’s face while his unit filed in and took up defensive positions. “This isn’t personal, Bradford. You know that.”
Lester shut the door and turned the dead bolt home with a soft click. Couldn’t beat a good old-fashioned bolt.
“I know, Boris. Neither is this.”
He released the energy he’d stored up in the minute since the Containment squad appeared on his stoop.
Boris, blinded, staggered and raised his shock pistol. Lester grabbed it, twisted his wrist, disarmed him.
In the kitchen, the kids and Valerie started singing “Happy Birthday.”
“Charlie! You’re missing the big moment!” Valerie called. “Hurry before she blows out the candles!”
The next Corp thug went down with a shock blast at point-blank range, his vest absorbing the small sound of the pistol. The third got an elbow to the throat, the fourth and fifth a broken ankle and wrist, respectively.
Lester didn’t need his power when he had to be quiet. He’d learned how to inflict quick, subtle pain long before Corp. All it took was a cigarette butt, a blow to the soft tissue that wouldn’t bruise,