Northern_Lights_2017

42 Downward Spiral Ian Laedtke I probably should have been in English class, but the government tended to turn a blind eye towards a lot of what the Special Services Bureau did. That’s what Mom told me when I asked, anyway. Apparently that blind eye extended to saving twelve- year-old girls from lectures about The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time when they were short one sharpshooter. The modified moving truck ker-thumped over a pothole before rumbling forward again, jostling the long, thin box at my feet. I poked my tongue through the spot where I was still getting used to not having a tooth and adjusted the box back to the way it had been set up before. This was the third time I’d had to do that. Stupid roads. I turned to stare at the man sitting next to me, my ponytail brushing against the window as I did. Mr. Reeds was a small man—most of the guys in the SSB were. Big meant bulky, and bulky meant slow. Slow meant getting eaten by whatever monster you were told to get rid of. After a moment of staring, Mr. Reeds sighed and spoke into his headset. “Jerry, the kid’s glaring at me. Please keep the vehicle steady.” After a short pause, his headset buzzed with static and the driver, “Jerry,” responded. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry about that, Reeds.” I couldn’t see him through the bullet-proof barrier that separated the front seats from the back bench, but he sounded like he’d just finished swearing. “Won’t happen again.” I nodded as I turned back to the window, biting the inside of my cheek to avoid smiling. Snipers were supposed to be calm and focused, not smiley and noisy. They definitely weren’t supposed to giggle when the adults were freaked out by their youngness. Especially if they wanted an excuse to skip English class in the future. So, I put on a serious face. Mom had taken me out of school for the day to play sniper, after all. They didn’t want a sarcastic ten-year-old girl who was interested in gymnastics and soccer. They wanted the girl who’d grown up in the office and been trained in how to protect herself and hunt magical predators since she could walk. If Mr. Reeds wanted me to act like a normal ten-year-old, too bad. I wasn’t some sociopath who didn’t care and just killed for the heck of it. It wasn’t long before we reached our destination and the truck pulled to a stop. We were parked in an intersection in northern Manhattan. Even as I opened the door, I could see the usual mix of reactions. Most people were clearing out, scared off by the giant letters painted onto the side of the modified transport. The less intelligent ducked quickly into buildings to watch, or took pictures with their phones. Taking a deep, calming breath, I forced myself into the mindset I used during gymnastics class or while practicing at the SSB offices. Serious time . . . well, more serious time. Picking up the box, I stretched and levered it up onto the roof of the truck. Clambering up after it, I could hear Mr. Reeds grunt. It was a frustrated grunt that clearly said, “I wish I didn’t have to climb up there too. I shouldn’t have eaten those doughnuts for breakfast.” Disregarding his grunt, I hopped up on top of the trailer—brought along solely for its height—and dragged the box over after me. Opening the box, I stared down at the Barrett M82. Licking my lips hesitantly, I swallowed. This was yet more proof that the SSB did not believe in overkill. Shrugging, I got to work setting it up. It wasn’t surprising. Most tactics used to deal with the supernatural involved massive amounts of stealth and overwhelming force. Lots and lots of overwhelming force. Once I was done setting up the sniper rifle, I flopped down to look through the scope at my target. The Thompson Building was yet another massive skyscraper decorating the New York skyline. I had vague memories of it being built when I was younger. It was all metal framing and big, glass windows that took up entire walls and looked in on hotel rooms. People milled about out in front of the building on all sides, which was irritating. Innocent bystanders getting in the way wasn’t an issue. It looked like the traffic lights had been set to route people around somewhere else, and the added height offered by the SSB-modified transport meant I could easily see over the crowd. But even the down-sized New York throng didn’t make finding the room I was looking for any easier. The first floor, five rooms over from the edge of the building . . . . It wasn’t too far from the doors. I could see the room quite clearly. The curtains were only half-drawn, the heavy blackout curtains pulled off to the side while the lighter and partially- transparent ones left silhouettes clearly visible inside. The crowd was thinnest in front of this particular window, limited to an older man and a boy slightly older than me engaged in furious conversation. Both of them wore suits I’m pretty sure cost more than my mom’s yearly salary. I ignored them. I wasn’t here to watch some rich kid arguing with his daddy. I glared past them, trying to make out any moving shapes in the hotel room. It took a moment, but after some confusion with what looked like a floating kitty, I spotted the faint outline of a tall man in the middle of the room. Fromwhat Mom and Mr. Reeds had said—they never did want to share most of the information with me for some reason—I’d pieced together that the guy inside was some sorcerer who’d enthralled over a dozen people, which lowered the pool of suspects to three. I wouldn’t