Free Just Cause Universe 3: Day of the Destroyer by Ian Thomas Healy Page A

train us to watch for loose power lines or to recognize the sound of a transformer blowing or whatever.”
    “I always thought power guys just hung around drinking coffee and eating donuts until something went wrong,” said Gretchen.
    Shane laughed. “When we can. But I’m trying to give you a better impression of New Yorkers. How am I doing so far?”
    “Not bad.”
    “Hey, you hear that? Under the sound of the traffic?”
    Gretchen cocked her head and listened. Just barely, she could hear a humming, hissing sound. It reminded her of something from a mad scientist’s lab in an old black and white movie. “I think so,” she said.
    “That’s a dying transformer.” Shane checked his mirrors and then cut across two lanes of traffic onto a side street. “Any second now…” Gretchen heard a loud bang like a gunshot and saw a puff of black smoke rise a block away. “There it goes,” said Shane. “Now I get to play hero, because I’ll be Johnny-on-the-spot.”
    “Shane on the spot,” said Gretchen.
    He got on his radio and called in the blown transformer, repeating a bunch of numbers and information to the Con Ed dispatcher. Shane parked the truck in front of a small auto mechanic’s shop. “You want to get out or wait here?” he asked.
    Gretchen looked out at the street full of unfamiliar dark faces. She didn’t think of herself as racist, but she felt completely out of her element. “I’ll wait.”
    “No problem,” said Shane. “I’ve got a thermos of Coke under the dash. You’re welcome to it. We’ll grab some lunch after I’m done here.”
    The word lunch made Gretchen’s stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten since the day before. Her stomach grumbled again, this time loud enough to make Shane look back at her as he climbed out of the cab. She bent her head forward to let her hair fall across her face, obscuring the blush she could feel crawling up her cheeks.
    She watched in the side mirror as Shane pulled tools and equipment from the side of the truck and then jammed a hardhat on his head.
    “It just hummed and then blew,” said an old Hispanic man with oil-stained hands. “You got here just in time.”
    “I’ll take care of it, mister.” Shane grinned from ear to ear. “I’ll need access to your back lot. You don’t have a dog back there, do you?”
    “No, no dogs.” The man led Shane behind the shop.
    Gretchen reached down, found the thermos, and poured herself a cup of soda. A few people glanced at her riding shotgun in the Con Ed truck, but most of them went about their business or watched as Shane climbed up the telephone pole toward the now-quiet transformer. She sipped at the Coke and then heard the sound of parts and tools rustling around. She looked in the mirror and saw a kid was rummaging through the side-mounted toolbox on the truck. Shane was already up the pole, and nobody else seemed to notice. She’d have to be the one to do something.
    She leaned out the window and looked back at the kid. He was scrawny, in his early teens, and filthy. He had the furtive, haunted look about him of someone who’d been persecuted pretty much every day of his life. In his own way, he was as much a victim as Gretchen was. She felt a little sorry for him, but she couldn’t let him steal something from Shane’s truck. She cleared her throat. “Can I help you?”
    He jumped back from the truck as if he’d been scalded by a hot stove. His eyes widened as he realized he’d been caught red-handed. His face betrayed the terror of someone who knew a far worse fate lay ahead.
    “Easy, kid. I’m not going to do anything. Just leave the tools and stuff alone, okay? My friend needs them to fix the power.”
    The kid narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to turn me in?”
    Gretchen smiled at him. “No, you’re not hurting anything. Just leave the stuff alone and we’ll call it even, okay?”
    He wavered, uncertain what to do. Maybe he wasn’t used to anyone being nice to him, Gretchen