Archenemies (Renegades #2)(39)



Years ago, as part of an effort to ensure the safety of their recruits, it was decided that all dispatches to patrol units could be accessed in real time by all active Renegades, and that the movements of on-duty patrols could be tracked and monitored. The information was made available to any Renegade who wanted it, though they were usually kept so busy with their respective jobs that Adrian didn’t know of anyone who actually took advantage of the information. Except for himself, and then, only since becoming the Sentinel.

It was part of how he had managed to be so effective. Whenever he heard that a patrol unit was being sent to handle a particularly high-profile crime, he only had to log in to the system to see where they were being sent. If there was a chase happening, he could easily follow their movements through the city. With the spring tattoos on the bottoms of his feet, Adrian could move faster than most Renegades, excepting only those with flight or superspeed powers. That advantage alone often allowed him to reach the scene of the crime and deal with the perpetrators before the assigned Renegades showed up.

Over the last week, he’d considered turning off the notifications every time the wristband chimed at him. He was caught in a constant battle with himself. The almost irresistible yearning to involve himself in the situations, to prove both his value and his good intentions. But on the other hand, he knew it was safer to let people go on believing the Sentinel was dead, especially with the reveal of Agent N. The Sentinel was a wanted man, and he knew that once patrols were equipped with the neutralizing agent, few of them would hesitate to use it on him.

Unable to fully resist the temptation, Adrian glanced at the most recent notification, just to make sure no one was being murdered or something. But no—a patrol unit had been summoned to deal with a car theft. Definitely something his peers could handle.

He sent the alert away and silenced all other incoming notifications.

Pausing at the base of the stairs, he shone the flashlight over the walls. There was an empty vessel where a fire extinguisher had once been, and an ancient pay phone with the receiver missing at the end of its curled cord. The platform itself was littered with the bodies of dead wasps, a few stray candy wrappers, and a handful of silhouettes drawn in red chalk and labeled with official Renegade signage.

He stepped closer and scanned the nearest signs: EXHIBIT 19: PUPPETEER TENT (1/3). EXHIBIT 20: MISC. PUPPETEER BELONGINGS. EXHIBIT 21: SHELL CASING—POISON RELEASE DEVICE.

None of the objects mentioned were there anymore, only the chalk outlines and the signage to indicate what had been there before the Renegades’ investigative teams and cleanup crew confiscated it all.

Adrian’s frown deepened. He should have guessed that all of the Anarchists’ belongings would have been removed from the tunnels by now. For some reason, he’d expected that only weapons or things that indicated criminal activity would have been taken back to headquarters, but clearly he was wrong. It seemed that nothing had been overlooked.

Pacing to the edge of the platform, he peered down onto the tracks, turning his head each way as they disappeared into the tunnels. More signage. More chalk lines. And here, more evidence of the battle that had occurred. One tunnel was partially caved in as a result of the Detonator’s bombs. More dead wasps were strewn across the tracks.

Adrian knew a lot of the Renegades who had been involved in that fight. Some of them he’d known almost his whole life. They’d been lucky that no one died, but there were countless injuries, from broken bones and severe burns to lungs and throats that had been scraped raw from Cyanide’s poisons. Even now, Adrian could detect the tangy smell of chemicals hanging in the musty air.

The healers had worked overtime for weeks afterward.

And in the end, the Anarchists had gotten away. It was the proverbial salt in their extensive wounds.

Adrian sighed. He wasn’t going to find Winston Pratt’s puppet down here. He would have to talk to the cleanup crew, maybe call in a favor with the sort-and-tag team. He hoped they hadn’t already shipped a bunch of the Anarchists’ stuff to the junkyard. That wouldn’t be any fun to wade through.

He was about to turn back when his flashlight caught on one of the tags posted beside the next tunnel.

EXHIBIT N/A: NIGHTMARE?

An arrow had been drawn, pointing into the tunnel.

Pushing up his glasses, Adrian hopped down onto the tracks. A quarter of a mile later he reached a wide chamber of arched ceilings, where multiple train lines intersected and diverged. A series of narrow platforms stood on either side of the tracks, not for passengers, but perhaps maintenance crews.

Adrian hadn’t been in this part of the tunnels before. He had never been on one of the patrols sent to check that the Anarchists weren’t hoarding weaponry or recruiting new members. He had only been to visit the villain gang once, when he caught Frostbite and her squad trying to bully the Anarchists into false confessions. Though he still didn’t agree with their tactics, he couldn’t help thinking that if he had let Genissa and her crew handle things, probably the Anarchists would have been arrested that day, and the city would have been spared a lot of trauma.

It made his jaw twitch to think about.

An abandoned train car sat at one end of the chamber, still on its track as if it could roll away at any second, though the accumulation of dirt and grime on its windows made it clear that it hadn’t moved for a long time.

Adrian approached the car and read the sign on one of its windows. EXHIBIT 47: TRAIN CAR—USED BY NIGHTMARE?

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