Jinx was a rock.
She was a bleeding, panting, probably-cursing-him-in-her-head rock, but she was solid.
Her grip on his hoodie was the only thing keeping him tethered to the waking world.
"Almost there, Spooky," she grunted.
He wasn't sure if she was talking to him or herself.
Great, he thought, his mind a foggy, sarcastic swamp. The tough-as-nails scrapper has given me a nickname.
I feel so included in our little suicide squad.
A waypoint popped up on Michael's HUD, a pulsing green beacon of hope just a few feet above them.
Jinx didn't need a waypoint.
She shoved him towards the rusted iron rungs of the ladder.
"You first, hero," she said, her tone devoid of any actual hero-worship. "If you fall, you'll give me something soft to land on."
Michael's arms felt like they were filled with wet cement.
He reached up, his fingers closing around a cold, grimy rung.
He pulled.
Nothing happened.
[STRENGTH: 12]
Apparently, 12 Strength wasn't enough to lift a wet noodle after blowing a hole in reality.
Jinx sighed, a sound of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
"Oh, for the love of… move."
She shoved him aside, grabbed the ladder, and started climbing with a speed that defied her injuries.
She reached the top, put her good shoulder to the heavy sewer grate, and pushed.
It grated open with a screech that set Michael's teeth on edge.
Cool, rain-soaked air washed over him, smelling of freedom and garbage.
Jinx dropped back down, grabbed the front of his shirt, and practically hauled him up the ladder herself.
They spilled out into a narrow, cobblestone alleyway, the pre-dawn gloom a welcome blanket.
And there it was.
A beat-up, unassuming plumber's van, its gray paint chipped and faded.
It was the most beautiful, glorious, chariot-of-the-gods vehicle he had ever seen.
"She's good," Jinx admitted, her voice a low, grudging murmur. "Scary-as-hell, probably-a-robot good, but good."
She half-carried, half-dragged him to the passenger side, threw the door open, and unceremoniously dumped him into the seat.
He landed with a soft, painful thud.
The van smelled of old coffee, stale donuts, and a faint, chemical scent of pipe cleaner.
Home sweet home.
Jinx slid into the driver's seat, her movements economical and precise.
The keys were in the ignition.
She turned them.
The engine sputtered, coughed, then roared to life with the sound of a very angry, very tired badger.
She slammed the van into gear, her bare foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor.
The tires squealed on the wet cobblestones.
They shot out of the alley and onto the main street just as two sleek, black sedans with tinted windows rounded the corner at the far end of the block.
Their headlights cut through the gloom, pinning the van.
"Well, hell," Jinx snarled, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Looks like the welcoming committee has arrived."
"So much for the clean getaway," Michael mumbled, his head lolling against the cool glass of the window.
"There's no such thing as a clean getaway, kid," she shot back, yanking the wheel hard to the left, sending them careening down a narrow side street. "There's only 'got away' and 'didn't'."
The chase was on.
It wasn't a high-speed, Hollywood blockbuster chase.
It was a brawl.
Jinx drove like the van was an extension of her own body, a blunt instrument in a city she knew like the back of her hand.
She didn't try to outrun them.
She out-thought them.
The black sedans were faster, more powerful. They were apex predators.
But Jinx was a rat, and this was her maze.
"They're boxing us in," Michael said, watching in the side mirror as one of the sedans tried to cut them off at the next intersection.
"Cute," Jinx said, a grim smile on her face.
She didn't slow down.
She accelerated, aiming directly for a narrow gap between a parked delivery truck and a mountain of overflowing trash bags.
"You're not going to fit," Michael stated, his eyes wide.
"I'll fit," she said.
The van scraped against the side of the truck with a sound like a giant tearing a sheet of metal in half.
Sparks flew.
Trash bags exploded, showering the pursuing sedan with a cloud of rotten food and old newspapers.
The sedan swerved to avoid the mess, its tires screeching, and slammed into a fire hydrant.
A geyser of water erupted into the air.
One down.
"See?" Jinx said, her voice laced with a grim satisfaction. "Plenty of room."
Chloe's voice cut in, sharp and clear.
"You've got another one on your tail. Two blocks back and closing fast."
"And there's a DGC roadblock forming on the BQE entrance ramp three blocks ahead of you."
"You're being herded."
"Yeah, I got that, thanks, Captain Obvious," Jinx muttered, scanning the road ahead. "Got any good news for me?"
"Yes," Chloe replied. "The driver of the second vehicle is Commander Rourke. General Gideon's right-hand man."
Jinx's eyes lit up with a cold, predatory fire.
"Oh," she whispered, her voice a low, dangerous purr. "Well, now it's personal."
She took a sharp right, fishtailing into another dark, industrial alleyway.
The black sedan followed, its powerful engine roaring.
It was a straight shot, a dead end.
A brick wall loomed at the far end.
"Uh, Jinx?" Michael said, his voice rising in panic. "Brick wall. Just thought I'd point that out."
"I see it," she said calmly.
She slammed on the brakes.
The van skidded to a halt just feet from the wall.
Commander Rourke's sedan, caught by surprise, screeched to a stop right behind them, blocking the only exit.
They were trapped.
Rourke stepped out of his car, a massive, ugly energy rifle in his hands.
"Nowhere to run, anomaly," he boomed, his voice echoing in the narrow alley.
Jinx just smiled.
A slow, terrifying, beautiful smile.
She reached down and pulled a large, red lever that was crudely bolted to the van's dashboard.
"What's that?" Michael asked.
"This?" Jinx said, her eyes sparkling with manic glee. "This is what happens when a demolitions expert gets bored with a plumber's van."
She pulled the lever.
With a loud hiss of pneumatics, the back doors of the van flew open.
A thick, white, oily smoke began to pour out, instantly filling the alley with an impenetrable, choking fog.
"Jax's Patented 'Get-the-Hell-Out-of-Dodge' Smokescreen," she cackled. "Good for obscuring vision and causing mild respiratory distress."
Rourke swore, blinded by the smoke.
Jinx slammed the van into reverse.
She floored it.
They shot backward, straight at the black sedan.
"Brace yourself!" she yelled.
The impact was a jarring, bone-shaking CRUNCH of metal on metal.
Rourke's sedan was shoved backward, out of the alley and into the street.
Jinx didn't stop.
She spun the wheel, the tires screaming, and shot off into the night, leaving a confused commander and a cloud of white smoke behind.
They made it to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, merging into the sparse, early-morning traffic.
They were just another beat-up gray van in a city full of them.
They were invisible.
They were safe.
Jinx let out a long, shuddering breath, the adrenaline finally starting to fade.
She even allowed herself a small, triumphant smile.
"See, kid?" she said, glancing over at him. "What did I tell you? 'Got away'."
Michael just stared past her, his eyes fixed on the passenger-side mirror.
His face was pale.
The blood had drained from it completely.
"Jinx?" he whispered, his voice a choked, terrified thing.
"What is that?"
She frowned and glanced at the mirror.
She saw nothing but the headlights of the cars behind them.
Then she saw it.
It wasn't a car.
It wasn't a reflection.
It was a distortion.
A shimmering, man-shaped heat-haze in the cold, rain-slicked air.
It was pacing their van, gliding effortlessly between the lanes of traffic.
Its form flickered, transparent one moment, solid the next.
It didn't have a face, but she could feel its focus, a cold, relentless pressure.
It was a Ghost.
And it was hunting them.