by Jack Parker
In five minutes she had all six cameras launched from their ready perches atop the Mirage's front pavilion and circling the volcano area. The camera's started feeding her images, and she selected a primary to put on the big screen that showed her little else than fire and debris scattering a scorched lawn. Her heart leapt into her throat, choking the breath from her.
Where the fuck is everyone?
Switching cameras she expanded her search. She found two bodies, one in a tuxedo amongst the palm trees, and one wearing the uniform of a utility worker that had landed in an awkward heap, his neck bent ant an odd angle. Switching to the camera closest to the hotel revealed four unconcerned looking police officers with weapons holstered starting to cordon off the area. It seemed the response to Grace's emergency call had arrived too late. There was no Victoria, no Steve, not even the young contestant, Claire Bishop, who had stubbornly made an appearance. All of the skycars, except whichever ones had obviously been destroyed, were gone. It could not have been more than ten to fifteen minutes since she had left the scene, but she was afraid this would happen.
Damn it. I should have known I would be too late to be of any use.
She lowered her head and had a grip on it to remove it when an odd sound caught her attention. It was distant and hard to distinguish mixed in amongst the sounds of police sirens, the voices of the police officers, the erupting volcano . . .
"The volcano?" Grace asked herself. "No. What is that?"
Switching cameras showed the Volcano was indeed going through its eruption show. The only camera she would get audio from at any time however, was whichever one she had selected as the main one, she flew her current camera towards the Volcano, and there she heard the sound again, clear and distinct over the popping explosions of the Volcano fire geysers—gunfire.
It was coming from inside the volcano. Grace checked her watch. It was nearly eleven forty five p.m.. The last show on weekdays was always at eleven on the dot. That meant that someone had wither started the show again manually, or it had been inadvertently set off. She had to alert the police officers at the scene. Someone could be in trouble. She swiped frantically with two fingers at the screen of her Ipad, switching cameras all the way back to the one closest to the officers. She set the altitude at about six feet off the ground, and drove it right toward the nearest officer at full speed. He cried out in a sharp curse and stumbled forward as the camera hit him in the back of the head. Meanwhile, she kept one eye on the volcano itself.
A maintenance door at the rear of the Volcano burst open, and out spewed fire, smoke, and Steve. He had lost his sports coat and was retreating while firing his weapon at the smoking portal. His white shirt was blackened with soot and ash, and singed at the sleeves, his pants torn along one seam and his was missing a shoe. Instead of trying to find cover, he zig-zagged through the columns of fire jetting into the air at regular intervals as he splashed through the shallow pool surrounding the volcano. There was no way he would hear her, but Grace could not help but cry out his name.
"Steve!"
The cop she had rammed turned and saw Steve running and firing, and the four drew their weapons and ran forward to assist. Grace could see, but not hear Steve trying to warn them to stay back, to get back, or even to flee the area. Two of them did not heed his warning fast enough. A huge fireball geyser exploded from the ground beneath the lead Cop's feet, engulfing him in flame for a good three or four second. Grace would not have missed the man's screams of agony on the audio receiver of any camera. The closest man reacted quickly, tackling his partner to the ground in an effort to smother the flames, where another flame geyser consumed them both as soon as they the ground. The remaining two cops froze in their tracks.
She heard Steve loud and clear this time as she flew a camera toward him.
"Stay back. It's a trap!"
The Volcano erupted for real. Curious pedestrians standing outside the police barricade fled in terror as the top of the Volcano exploded, sending a huge rolling fireball skyward. Jets of flame and debris scattered in all directions, and Steve threw himself face down in the water as the fireball passed over him. One of Grace's remote cameras was caught in the blast, and she lost the feed as it was consumed. The flame jets in the pool surrounding the Volcano shot twice as high into the air, then flashed out. The flames died out, and all that remained of the tourist attraction was a smoking shell of fake rock and twisted metal.
Grace frantically flew a camera over to see if Steve was all right. He stood up slowly, soaked to the bone, and looked directly into the camera lens.
"Grace? Grace is that you?"
She made the camera do quick rotational spin.
"Hang on, I'll call you."
Her phone started ringing even as she watched him affix his bluetooth to his ear. The reception was filled with static and she could barely understand him.
"Lo . . . Grace? Can you . . .er."
"Steve? Steve. . . honey I can't hear you."
"-one got wet. Pro . . . can you . . .?"
"Steve? Can I what? Can you hear me ok?"
"Yes. Quick! Fol—"
Steve was gesturing at her on camera frantically. He wanted her to look towards the street. She switched to a different one pointed at the street and glimpsed the assassin bride Angelina getting into the passenger side of the front seat of a black limousine just before it sped away. Grace sent four cameras hurtling after it. Their top speed was about forty miles an hour, maybe fifty in a decent, and she wasn't sure if she was going to be able to keep up with the limo at first. The main camera she kept with Steve.
"I'm following the limo. I saw Angelina. Is that who did all this?"
"-es. She rigged the gas system of the . . . .cano. Some of them always meant to escape again by . . ."
The rest of his sentence was complete static. This is starting to piss me off, Grace thought sourly. I really need to be in good communication with him.
"Steve, if you can hear me fine just put your phone on mute and talk to the camera that I am going to slave to you. I'll be able to hear you better that way."
Steve nodded to her on the largest central screen as she brought the camera closer and set it to stay within three feet of him.
"Can you hear me now?" he asked.
"Yes this works better."
"Steve, she's getting away. Once their limo reaches the highway I won't be able to keep up, but I have their plate number."
"Good, give it to me I'll have those cops put out an APB."
"Charlie left our motorcycle,"
"I'm stuck here for now on the water. The whole lot around the Volcano is rigged with pressure sensors that will blow a gas pocket when tripped. Only reason I made it in after her is because I was right on her heals and she disarmed them while we ran through. I guess she didn't feel like blowing herself up."
"Will these gas pockets show up on infrared?" Grace asked.
Steve nodded. "They might. They basically just tore the system of pipes apart down there and rigged them to blow. But All that stops if the city or the hotel will just shot off the gas."
"We don't have time for that. My camera should be able to guide you."
"Grace even if you walk me through I'll never catch—"
"They've been obeying traffic laws since their first turn and they are dealing with Vegas Friday night traffic. Now shut up and pay attention. Step out to your left and go three steps."
With her camera set on infrared, she could see eight hot spots in Steve's path, terminating about fifty yards away where the two cops still stood, too terrified to move. He yelled at them to turn around and go back, and to put out an APB on a black limo with the plate GHX 367. It took a lot of maneuvering and learning to communicate, as Steve almost stepped too far twice. But with her help he navigated the flame-mine field in less than a minute.
"Grace," Steve said grinning at the camera. "You beautiful, sexy—"
"Stop flirting and get after the bitch already!"
"Yes,
Dear. And, I think I love you!"
Grace was too stunned at his words to answer, and before she found her voice again, he was off in hot pursuit on the bike that Charlie had brought. The limo itself had turned off of the densely packed Las Vegas Blvd and onto a small road north of the Mirage in an effort to work their way west toward the highway. Steve was going to have to pull some of his own tricks just to catch them. Before she gave him directions, she could only manage three words herself.
"Just be careful."
* * *
"Step one of my master plan," Jake grunted to himself as he pushed with all his might against the crate with his feet. He had his back to the cabin wall, and was slowly managing to slide the top crate off the two it sat upon. "Cause mischief."
The crate toppled forward and he crawled forward to the tailgate, where the crate was now resting half its weight. It took some wiggling of the handle to get it open, but a great shove and another heave from his arms had the gate open and sent the heavy crate toppling out onto the highway. The reaction from the sexy sleuths was immediate, and exactly what he hoped for.
His own truck slammed on the brakes so hard it made him tumble back toward the front of the truck. He rolled out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed by the other two crates, which were now loose in the cargo area. He took cover behind them as a storm of bullets tore through metal, wood and fabric—a gift from Jessica. Both trucks had stopped. Over the noise of two engines idling on an empty highway he heard Jessica speak.
"We don't have time for this shit. I've got to go prep the hovercraft. Take care of your problem, Scarlett, and meet me there."
"Yes, sister." said Scarlett. "He's just some rat. It won't take long."
Well you got their attention, Jake, he thought. You have only yourself to blame if you end up dead now.
He tried to listen to Scarlett's footsteps, but lost them in the wash of sound caused by Jessica throttling up her truck and driving away. He braced himself for an attack from any direction, but took cover prone behind the crates with the revolver pointed at the large opening of the back of the truck. The attack came from above.
A single crossbow bolt tore through the fabric above him and stuck in the crates right in front of him. It beeped three times as he stared at it wide-eyed, and began to dispense a putrid looking brown gas from a small silver tube attached to the hilt. Jake had to assume anything that wasn't the familiar white of tear gas had to be poisonous.
I can't stay here!
Jake sprang for the rear of the truck. He dove out the opening head first, and hit the ground in a well-trained forward roll. The leap was probably the only thing that saved his life. That, and the large piece of wood from the crate that had broken open on the highway pavement that he managed to pick up and shield himself with just as two bolts thumped into the wood with such force the arrow heads nearly reached his nose and forehead despite the barrier. He brought his gun out from behind his crude shield and returned fire with two shots of his own, but Scarlett cartwheeled off the truck to her right, avoiding his shots and landing as nimbly as a cat in a three-point stance.
Their eyes met in deadly challenge. The next exchange would decide things. He had one shot. He wasn't sure if she had any, as her crossbow was pointed behind her for balance. He shifted his aim and squeezed the trigger. There was a brilliant flash and a loud bang the deafened his ears ten times more than the crack of his gun. He realized too late that of the bolts must have been armed as a delayed flash bang. He fired blindly, and was rewarded with a boot cracking him under the chin. He tried to roll with the blow and crab walked backward, but a sharp knee in his chest knocked the wind out of him and pinned him to the ground.
"Looks like someone went off a little prematurely, hmmm stud?" Scarlett taunted.
Jake coughed and reached behind him, his hand searching for anything he might use as a weapon—perhaps a piece of wood from the crate or . . .he felt metal under his hand. It was certainly heavy, and lay inside and under a good deal of foam and straw packing material. Even so, he found he could easily roll the cold metal cylinder toward him. His hand slid down the length as he tried to roll it towards him. Jake coughed, trying to reply. If I can just stall her for a few seconds . . .
"This . . ." he wheezed. "This never happens to me I swear."
Scarlett laughed. It was a playful, yet sadistic sort of chirp. She leaned in close, a tight grin curled her lips back, making her appear shark-like as the point of a sharp bolt began cutting into his neck. He felt the sticky wetness of his own blood begin to flow towards his shirt.
"Oh don't worry," she cooed. "I have enough hard shaft for the both of us."
The cylinder slid toward him. He felt a pistol grip, a trigger guard, a trigger that his finger couldn't quite get a good grip around. He would have to surprise her and act fast if he was to have any chance at all. As long as I'm still breathing . . .
"Sounds kinky," Jake said, trying not to wince at the pain in his throat. "Are you sure we have time? You'll be late for your delivery. Won't your sister be mad?"
"Don't worry, stud. This will be quick. Though, maybe not painless."
"If pain is involved," Jake croaked, "What's the safety word?"
Scarlet laughed again, sitting up a little to regard him. The pressure on his throat eased just slightly. It would be enough.
"I like you," she said. "It's a pity you'll have to die now."
Jake thrust his heels into the ground and curled his knees toward his chest as he thrust his free hand through the crossbow and caught ahold of the bowstring. He twisted the bow as far as he could, trying to delay any shot while the momentum of his sudden thrust into a fetal position threw her off balance. She rolled to her knees and made an effort to squeeze the trigger. Jake continued his own roll onto his back.
There was a brilliant flash of white hot blue white and the strange musical sound of a guitar being smashed to bits. Scarlett was thrown backward, spun head over heels, and toppled off the highway down the concrete slope, landing in the tall grass next to the access road.
Jake examined the weapon he had cradled in his arm. Its cone-shaped muzzle still sizzled with a faint blue glow. Its outer casing was of a silvery chrome, and as the length of his entire armspan. Behind the trigger it had a fixture that would allow it to be attached to a tripod. It had the feel of and shape of a very heavy potato gun, with the rear end counterbalanced with vertical black disc that was still spinning and crackling with energy after his shot. The weapon had very little kick for such amazing power, and Jake had no doubt it could cut through armored vehicles with ease.
Jake slowly rolled the weapon off of him and lay it to the side as he rolled off his back and stood. He walked to the edge of the highway and looked down the slope. The dragon sister, or whatever they were called, lay staring lifeless at the night sky, a cauterized three foot hole in her abdomen.
"Sorry baby," said Jake to the body. "Dying is such a turn off."
Lights were flashing in the distance—police that were no doubt investigating the bodies of those who were thrown from the trucks a few miles back. He would have to move fast to load the heavy weapon back into the truck and clear the area before the got to this body too. He doubted he would catch up with Jessica before she made it on base, but there was no way he was letting weapons as powerful as these fall into the wrong hands. Hopefully, Victoria already had that problem taken care of.
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Damn it. Lost it again."
Carlo Bennedetto glanced the screen on his phone. Above the picture of himself and the two scantily clad women at the playboy mansion he was using for his wallpaper, the status once again read "no service."
"I can't get through to anyone," he complained to the pilot and copilot sitting in front of him in the cockpit of his personal C-130. The mighty dark grey aircraft buzzed with electricity on the inside, and was now ready for engine start at any moment. "The shipment we are expecting is an hour and a half late, and I'm about
ready to rip out someone's spleen! Why is the reception so god damn awful. Can't you guys place a call or, or something?"
"You're not really supposed to use cell phones out here on the flightline, boss," said his pilot, a dark-skinned Gulf War vet in his forties who went by Reggie. "But like I told ya, security forces said they would notify us when the trucks went through. We should get a call from the ground crew."
"Which means I'm just sitting and waiting, grinding my fucking teeth in anticipation of castrating whoever is responsible for not moving their asses while I listen to you two banter on about French politics or whatever. And no Jacque you still can't fucking smoke. It's my plane and if I have to suffer you are going to—"
Jacque, the copilot and one of Carlo's original hired mercenaries from when he went into business for himself eight years ago, put down his unlit cigarette and held up a hand to his ear, indicating a radio call was coming in. He held up an index finger and Carlo waited.
"Well," Carlo asked impatiently after a moment. "What is it?"
"One of the trucks is on its way over to the flightline. It just cleared security. You will be happy now, no?"
"Just one?"
"That's all they said," Jacque confirmed.
"Well start the engines up anyway. I'll go get the ramp lowered."
"Whatever you say, boss," said the pilot.
Carlo got up from the navigator's chair and headed down the short ladder into the cargo area, where Jameson and Shane sat playing some sort of cooperative video game on hand held gaming systems. Carlo seethed. Can't get good help these days at all.
"You two stop fooling around and help me get this hold ready."
"They finally here?" asked Jameson.
"At least one truck is. The other won't be far behind. Now get the door open!"
Carlo looked at his phone again as Jameson and Shane reluctantly got up started going about the business of lowering the door and reading cargo netting. It had one bar. He dialed Juan and hoped the Mexican bastard would actually pick up this time. Somebody was going to tell him what the fuck was going on if he had to fly this plane downtown himself.