Katrina folded her arms beneath her breasts, looking at Damien through lowered lashes.

"I am not taking my shirt off, and that's final."

He quirked an eyebrow at her and wiped down the last plate of his armor, careful not to touch the surface of the metal with his fingers. When the surface gleamed, he carefully placed it atop the rest of his armor. Siren's suit lay next to his, both tucked away at the bottom of a set of basement steps. The basement itself held the remains of the building; during the Rain of Fire the shock of so many meteorites hitting nearby shook the old building to pieces. Satisfied with his work, if not with Katrina's stubbornness, he lifted the exterior basement doors, frame and all, from where he'd set them across the alley. They settled into place with a thump.

Katrina stepped over to the doors and tugged on the handles, making sure Damien's manhandling hadn't dislodged any of the rust welding them shut. Despite her repeated insistence she'd been fully healed, she winced when the doors didn't budge.

He wrapped his unseen hands gently around her, cradling her and carrying her back to their battered news van. More than once the station offered to replace it, but the engine ran fine, the locks worked, and anything pristine stood out too much in the shattered streets of post-Rain Manhattan.

"Y'know, I'm gonna get really upset if you keep doing this."

"Ayep." He opened the van's back doors, wafted Katrina gently inside.

"I'll insist you put me down and never pick me up again."

Damien unfolded the old Army cot, the various poles sliding smoothly into position. The thing was dead easy to put together when you had as many hands as you needed.

"I'll start screaming about how you molest me. I'll tell you to never touch me again."

He lay her on the cot, scrunching a blanket up to mold the surface of the cot to her. With a few pairs of his hands he worked his way across her shoulders and down her sides, working the day's tension from them. Her arms slid out from in front of her, dropping to droop bonelessly over the sides of the cot.

"Don't think I can't see right through you."

"Nope."

Katrina had shed Siren's high heeled boots the moment they'd arrived at the hiding spot, but the low black pumps she'd replaced them with couldn't be much better. Damien slid them off her, leaning one shoulder against the back door of the van and watching her squirm as he worked his invisible fingers across the soles of her feet.

"This is all just a ploy to get my shirt off. I know it."

"Prolly so."

Damien's fingers wandered up Katrina's calves, kneading the knotted muscles there. A soft hiss escaped her when he found the spot where her boot buckles always left faint sore spots. It melted into a faint groan as he worked the knots until they unclenched.

"Yeah. Working. Buttons?"

Unseen hands teased the front of her shirt, lifting it away from her skin and gently working the buttons free. She arched her back, freeing her shirt, and it slid up, bunching under her armpits.

Her cell phone rang. Damien's unseen hands froze.

"Ignore it."

He picked her phone up, glanced at the number. It wasn't a number he recognized, and the caller Id showed 'blocked'. With a thought he flicked the 'hang up' button and set the phone on the passenger seat of the van. He turned his attention back to Katrina's shirt, teasing the buttons at her cuffs loose and tugging them over her hands.

The phone rang again.

Damien sighed, his shoulders sagging as he pulled the phone back in front of him. He checked the number, then flipped open the laptop bolted to one of the van's shelves and started a search.

"Hang. Up."

"Nope."

Katrina's eyes opened to slits, and she levered herself up onto her elbows. "Why not?" Her voice wobbled between frustration and curiosity.

"Same number. DC."

She flopped back onto the cot, a stifled shriek slipping from between her clenched teeth. The roof of the van vibrated until she stopped. She held out one hand.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Help me up."

Damien's invisible hands slipped behind her back to lift her gently to a sitting position. As he did, he reached out with one flesh and blood hand to trace the bruises across her abdomen.

"They're just bruises, Damien. I'll be fine."

"I hate seeing you hurt."

"Yeah, well. You gonna stop?"

"Nope."

"And I'm not going to let you do it alone, so I'm gonna get dinged up now and then. Hand me the phone and get us moving. I want fast food and my own bed tonight."

Damien handed her the phone with another pointed look at her exposed bruises. She shook her head, but smiled at him.

"You can pamper me all night tonight, but for now I'll be fine."

Damien flipped on the interior lights, pulled a safety belt around Katrina and buckled it, then closed the back doors. Before he walked around to the driver's seat, he leaned his head against the doors. No matter what, he couldn't lose her again. Without looking, he brought his legions of unseen fists crashing down into the cellar door.

***

Katrina stared at the phone, wishing she could just let the call go to voice mail. As she reached to press the 'connect' button, a rumbling crash sounded from behind the van. Before she could react, the driver's door swung open and Damien slid into the driver's seat.

"Settling."

"Okay. Let's go."

The ringing stopped, and Katrina winced. She hit the buttons to redial, but before the call went through she got a text message.

'Ms. Wells. Please answer your phone. Special Agent Johnson.'

That explains the DC number.

The phone rang again, and Katrina spent a moment making sure she'd answer rather than dialing Agent Johnson back.

"Good Afternoon, Agent Johnson. Sorry to keep you waiting. This is Katrina Wells. What can I do for you?"

"Good Afternoon, Ms. Wells. I'm Special Agent Johnson. I'm with the FBI. I need to ask you a few questions about the vigilantes known as the Centurion and Siren."

Johnson's deep bass reminded Katrina of any number of African American leading men. His accent placed him as former military, or maybe an Army brat. Katrina's gut clenched, but a smile teased across her lips at his use of 'Siren' instead of 'Shriek'.

"If you send me an email address I can send you all of the pieces I've done on them."

"Please, Ms. Wells, don't be disingenuous. I've seen all of your news reports. They're why I'm calling you."

The pleasure at being recognized disappeared as the implications of Johnson's words sunk in. Still, Katrina hadn't survived television this long without being able to think on her feet.

"Do you have more information for me?"

"Ms. Wells, so far the FBI is aware of six incidents where Centurion and Siren have intervened during some form of violent crime. Additionally, my analysts tell me Centurion may be the same man you interviewed on the night of the Rain of Fire. If that's the case, you've filmed every one of Centurion's vigilante actions, and you're the only one who has interviewed him."

Katrina shifted gears, trying to throw the Agent off his game. "Is there a point you're trying to make, Agent Johnson?"

"I believe you may be in contact Centurion or his partner."

Her response came before she had a chance to think about it. "I'm afraid, as a member of the press, I can't reveal my sources."

"I'm not asking you to, Ms. Wells."

"I find that hard to believe, Agent Johnson."

"Ms. Wells, I need to speak with Centurion or his partner. If you are in direct contact with them, I need you to have them contact me. If not, I need to speak with your source, for the same reason. I had been hoping I could find a way to contact Centurion or Siren directly, but this afternoon's events have forced my hand."

Katrina's producer cut the live feed when she fell. Somehow Johnson had seen the whole thing anyway. If Centurion and Siren didn't disappear, they would wind up being disappeared to somewhere like Guantanamo Bay, or worse.

"What is this all about?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Ms. Wells."

"Then I don't see why I'm going to help you. I am a reporter, after all."

Jamil sighed audibly and, by the sound coming over the line, covered his mouthpiece with his hand and muttered something uncharitable. "Ma'am, I'm not in much of a mood or position to bargain with you at this point..."

"But?"

"Can I speak to you entirely off the record?"

"That depends on what you tell me."

"I can't tell you anything unless I know it won't go any further until I give you the go-ahead."

Katrina bit her lip. Johnson had news about something big, and she wanted it, but she couldn't give in too easily, or he'd never tell her anything.

"Are you suggesting you want me to be part of a cover up? I can't guarantee that. In fact, I can guarantee I won't be. I take my profession very seriously."

"Miss Wells, are you telling me your professional ethics won't let you be part of a cover up?"

"Duh." Pain and fatigue were finally taking their toll, the word slipped out before she could stop it. She continued quickly. "I'm sorry, Agent Johnson, that was rude of me. Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you. I may be a reporter, but I'm not paparazzi."

"You take your career seriously, Ms. Wells."

"Seriously enough to travel to Manhattan while it's still burning in order to cover the biggest story of my lifetime."

Johnson's pause was just long enough for her to worry he'd hung up, and his next words forced her upright, desperately hoping she hadn't misheard. "It might not be."

"Oh?"

"Miss Wells, I will make a deal with you. If you will agree to hold off on reporting any information you get from me or regarding me until I release that information, I will personally guarantee you exclusive access."

Static fuzzed Johnson's last few words. Katrina mashed the mute button.

"Turn around! I'm losing signal!"

As the van spun, Damien's invisible hands holding her steady despite her lack of a backrest, Katrina unmuted her phone.

"Agent Johnson, are you there?"

"Yes, Ms. Wells. I'm here, although I'm almost out of time. Do we have an agreement?"

"One caveat; if I find you're trying to cover up some illegal act by someone in the government, all bets are off."

"Ma'am, I take my job as seriously as you do yours. If you ever catch me trying to hide something I've done wrong, you have my permission to put it on the ten o clock news."

"Deal. What do you have for me, Agent Johnson?"

"First of all, I really don't have any more time. Second, I do need to talk to Centurion or Siren. Once I have, I'll be able to find some time to speak with you again."

"I'll see what I can do." Holding the phone away from her face, she muttered, "This better be worth it."

Johnson's deep bass carried, she heard it even with the phone held away from her ear. "It will be, Ms. Wells. It will be."