“Kimberly? I can’t believe you’d bring that scaly piece of shit on the show and not me. Oh, and Ron, you’re just a dick. Cut the feed.”
The webcam went dark. In the BoosterScene studio, there was only silence for a long moment, and then a murmur of voices began within the crowd. No one seemed to know quite what to do or say.
“Aww, Hell, Ron, you ain’t that bad,” Drake drawled, chuckling as he reached over to clap an enormous hand on Ron’s shoulder.
The gesture broke the tension on the stage for a second. Ron managed a laugh. Kimberly just looked concerned.
“What are you going to do about that?” she asked, gesturing toward the monitor. Drake shrugged.
“Not much I can do right now. When I get back to my office, I’ll contact the US attorney; see if we can get him on something. Incitement to kidnap or some damn thing. Hell, my boss is probably already making the calls.”
“So you’re not worried?”
“Kimberly, if I worried every time some crazy monkey put out a hit on me, I’d have an ulcer big as my head,” Drake said, waving away the idea. “What gets me is he thought I was ducking him. I didn’t know he had issued any challenge. Truth be told, I didn’t know who the guy was. Never heard of him. Not that I missed much, if that little show was his best,” he added with a derisive snort. Laughter erupted from a few within the crowd, then quickly spread.
Squinting at the camera, Drake clenched his jaws. “I…am…Onslaught,” he mocked, lowering his voice and emphasizing the words. “Seriously, slick. Like anyone else is gonna claim that name. Tell you what, folks, I’ve got a counter-offer. Whoever uploads the coolest ‘I am Onslaught’ video in the next, say, twenty-four hours, I’ll give you two tickets for a Lakers game and the keys to a beat-up Chevy Impala.”
“Impala?” Ron prompted, arching an eyebrow. Drake spread his hands and shrugged expansively.
“I don’t need it. Can’t fit my wings inside.”
Everyone laughed at that comment, and the interview quickly wound down. Ron and Kimberly had done the job they were expected to do and Drake had been allowed to speak. No further mention was made of the threat posed by Onslaught.
“We gotta go,” Shaw told Drake as the reptilian booster exited the stage. Behind them Ron and Kimberly were launching into their next piece, an expose of so-called “geneboosting clinics”, where people could pay exorbitant sums of money for genetic treatments that had the possibility—however slight—of stimulating an active Emergence. To date, one such treatment had proved effective, but only due to the severe allergic reaction it generated in the patient, whose stress levels triggered his own Emergence.
“What’s the rush?” Drake asked, though he walked along with the agent.
“The word’s out, big fella. Folks are taking that offer he made seriously,” Shaw explained as they reached the limousine set aside for their transport. Shaw looked around wildly before ducking into the massive vehicle. From inside he beckoned to Drake.
“Get in before someone shoots you!” he urged.
“Been shot before,” Drake said in a slow drawl as he folded his frame into the limo. “It ain’t the end of the world.”
With a squeal of tires, the massive car rocketed away from the loading zone and slipped into traffic. Shaw let out a breath that he had been holding for some time and helped himself to a shot of Crown Royal from the well-stocked bar.
“We’re going to have to do some heavy, heavy damage control on this,” he mused aloud. In his seat, Drake fidgeted, trying to get his tail and wings into a comfortable position. Seeing that he was being ignored by his charge, Shaw retreated to using his cell phone.
They turned a corner and Drake looked up sharply, staring at the black glass between them and the driver. “Hey, slick, this ain’t the way back to the Justice building,” he remarked. A sinking feeling in his stomach told him what was happening even before the voice came over the intercom.
“Just sit back and relax, Firedrake,” it said in a voice that was most certainly not that of the driver who had brought them to the show. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“Sure as Hell will,” Drake said, leaning forward in his seat. His claws shattered through the supposedly-unbreakable glass and raked it aside. He reached forward, intent on gripping the driver by the head. Beside him, Shaw was screaming frantically into his phone.
Space itself split and slammed shut with a sound of thunder around an ionic pulse from outside. The brilliant neon-blue bolt hit the limousine a foot behind the lead tires and blasted through the armored metal as though it were paper. The engine was torn apart by the horrendous impact and most of the components beneath the hood were reduced to scrap in an instant. Shuddering at the force of the assault, the massive vehicle began a rapid clockwise spin before the rear of the limo slammed into the frame of a parked Honda and knocked the smaller car onto the sidewalk. The air was suddenly filled with the scents of ozone, antifreeze, gasoline, and smoke, and car alarms wailed for ten blocks.
The back door of the limo flew open, propelled by a size eighteen foot covered in green scales. Drake looked around himself as he emerged from the armored cocoon, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he sought the source of the attack. Those eyes flared widely and a growl began deep in his chest as he saw the man that stood leaning casually against a lamppost across the street. There was no mistaking the identity of someone he had seen in so many pictures and films through the years.
A gaunt, pinched face was shadowed by the flat brim of a leather cowboy hat. A long riding coat flapped in the morning breeze, exposing the grey hue of the Kevlar-reinforced outfit worn by the man. Dusty boots spread slowly as the man shifted from his leaning position to square his shoulders toward Drake and the wrecked limousine.
“Gunsmoke? What are you doing here?” Drake demanded, stepping away from the wreckage.
“There’s a bounty on your scaly ass, Drake,” the man called, raising his hands to waist level and letting them slowly roll over so the palms pointed at the reptilian booster. “I aim to collect.”
The air erupted once more with the sound of ionic discharge.
Chapter Nineteen
The ionic blasts from Gunsmoke’s palm issued forth as twin brilliant neon-blue streaks of energy that ripped space apart with a thunderclap of sound. Drake was in motion even as the pulse began. He threw himself backward and to his left, tucking his wings in tightly against his body and rolling as he hit the ground. Behind him, the dual pulses shredded the remainder of the limousine, scattering its smoking remains and showering Drake with bits of jagged, smoking metal.
A high, keening scream sounded, and from the corner of his left eye Drake saw the cowering figure of Marty Shaw as the agent curled himself into a fetal ball against the wall of the BoosterScene studio. A quick reaction by Drake had forced the agent from the limousine as it had shuddered to a stop once Gunsmoke had wiped out the engine. Given the piercing nature of the scream, a part of him wondered if he had made the right choice.
As his shoulder hit the ground and he began a headlong roll, Drake slapped a hand to the grip of the pistol under his left arm and jerked it free of the holster that held it. He shouted the words, “Federal Agent! You’re under arrest!” even as he continued the roll. It was meaningless when dealing with a booster who had Gunsmoke’s history, but Drake intended to observe every possible formality. This close to a television studio, there was no way of knowing how many cameras might already be capturing this encounter.
Regaining his footing, Drake threw himself to the ground behind the front wheel of an abandoned taxi, and then leaped up to brace his pistol across the hood as his arm swept the weapon across the street in search of a target. The pistol roared twice as the sights settled on the shadowy figure. Each impact was marked with a blossom of orange flame as the low-yield explosive charge in the tip of the bullet detonated. The successive concussions were enough to knock Gunsmoke off his feet. The flat-brimmed hat fell away, exposing the gaunt feature
s of his face. Pale, deep-set eyes narrowed to mere slits as he slowly stood.
“Stay down!” Drake ordered. His peripheral vision showed images of running civilians, and ears tortured by the ionic pulses and the cannonade of his own pistol made out the sounds of sirens in the distance. Marty Shaw was still screaming.
“Can’t,” Gunsmoke said simply. His hands glowed with sudden light and the world around Drake erupted into smoke and flame with a deafening roar. The front third of the taxi slammed backward and bowled Drake over, smashing him painfully into the concrete wall behind him. The twisted frame of the vehicle pinned him to the wall of the studio.
Drake triggered three rounds from his pistol, more to keep Gunsmoke at bay than to strike him. With his left hand, he gripped the body of the cab and heaved, throwing his weight as well as his considerable strength behind the move. With a screech of tearing metal, the taxi slid free. Another shot from the pistol for good measure, and Drake leaped into the air, unfurling his wings and beating them furiously against the air.
“Big ol’ skeet, ain’t ya?” Gunsmoke drawled, thrusting his right hand forward. As the first hint of a glow erupted around it, Drake curled his wings in and dropped to the ground, letting the shot pass over his head without connecting. It struck the side of the BoosterScene studio, blasting free a quantity of brick and concrete that showered to the ground with a crunching sound nearly lost in the echo of the ionic pulse.
“So you can hit the broad side of a barn,” Drake taunted, firing twice more as he slipped free the pistol beneath his right arm. One shot clipped Gunsmoke in the left arm, the explosion jerking his hand to the side even as his follow-up blast spat from the palm. It impacted down the block, shattering the front windows of a jewelry store. A glittering field of broken glass, precious stones and gold cascaded onto the sidewalk. Despite the danger, several citizens darted forth to try to recover the valuables.
“And then some,” Gunsmoke replied, twisting his shoulder as though testing the joint following the explosive round.
“Not giving you a chance,” Drake growled, raising both pistols in a fluid motion. His thumbs slipped a selector switch as the weapons rose to eye level. The twin barrels spat flame and casings flew from the ejection ports in what looked like solid columns of brass as the pistols roared on automatic fire mode. Though the magazines lasted only a couple of brief seconds of fire, the attack was enough to send Gunsmoke sprawling. The Kevlar woven into his outfit absorbed considerable energy from the impact, even tempering the explosive damage of the red-tipped rounds loaded into Drake’s right-hand pistol, but it was the blue-tipped slugs of the left weapon that caused him true distress. Tungsten penetrators protected by plastic sabots that fell away as they left the barrel, the blue slugs punched through the armor as if it were no more than paper. Gouts of blood spewed from the back of Gunsmoke’s duster and the sudden shock of the assault stunned him for longer than the initial fusillade lasted. His hollow eyes looked up in time to see Drake simply release the weapons as he leaped into the air and dived toward the armored booster. Streetlights gleamed off the edges of his claws.
Grunting in pain, Gunsmoke raised a hand and fired off a shot that clipped Drake in the right shoulder. Scales vanished into powder as the meat beneath them peeled back in a bloody spray. The white of bone showed through.
Howling in sudden agony, Drake fell short of his intended prey, driving the claws of his toes into the pavement to arrest his momentum. Left-handed, he lashed out and carved a quartet of deep gashes across the chest of the downed booster.
The early evening gloom was split with the strobing red-and-blue lights of several police cruisers arriving. Their sirens were louder than the cries of pain from the combatants and for a moment nothing else could be heard. A voice on a public address system cut through the cacophony.
“Sheriff’s Office!” yelled the voice, echoing off the neighboring buildings. “Hands up!”
“Not a good idea,” Drake warned as Gunsmoke slowly brought his hands in line with the cruisers.
“Gotta go,” Gunsmoke rasped, drawing in a breath. “See you around.”
A pulse from each hand exploded the front of two separate Sheriffs’ vehicles, sending roiling fireballs of gasoline-fueled flame into the sky. For a moment, the street was lit as brightly as noon. Deputies were sent sailing through the air like rag dolls. Without hesitation, Gunsmoke grabbed one of the unconscious officers by the head and clutched the man tightly to his bloody chest. He pressed a palm to the man’s head. Drake shouted in protest, but the grey-clad booster just grinned in response. What officers still had their footing turned their weapons onto Gunsmoke, screaming orders in a wild mix of sounds.
“You hurt him and you’ll never see the end of me,” Drake swore. His vision was beginning to swim, and he knew that he had lost a considerable quantity of blood. Despite the tingling in his right arm, he could feel it running, sticky and warm, down across his scales.
“Chainsaw Dave thought so, too,” Gunsmoke managed to say as he retreated around the corner of a liquor store and vanished from sight. A second later, the deputy was thrown from behind the building to land in a heap in the street. A powerful engine screamed to life and the sound of tires screeching filled the evening air.
“Little bitch got himself a motorcycle,” Drake grumbled before falling to the ground himself. A half-dozen deputies surrounded him, weapons drawn and aimed. They seemed to shimmer in his vision for a moment, and then all went black.
*****
The light was brilliant when his eyes opened and for a brief second his vision clouded as membranes slid into place as a protective measure. Blinking to clear them, he saw that he was staring into an overhead light. His shoulder throbbed. Scales scraped across metal as he rolled his head to the side in hopes of seeing what had happened. He could see a chair and a couple of diagnostic machines with fluctuating readouts that made no sense to him.
“You’re awake,” declared a man’s voice.
“Looks that way,” Drake replied. He struggled to sit up. The throbbing pain became a flare of white-hot agony and he grunted in surprise.
“Easy, now, Agent Drake,” urged the voice. “You’re healing, but it’ll be a bit before you’re a hundred percent.”
Head swiveling slowly, Drake turned toward the voice. A man with ebony skin in a laboratory coat stood beside him. He was smiling in a friendly manner, though it appeared a bit forced.
“You a doc?” he asked.
“I am. You’re in Saint Michael’s Hospital. What can you remember about what happened?”
“Had a fight with Gunsmoke. Took a shot in the arm. Woke up here. That about cover it?”
“Pretty much. You had a massive avulsive injury to your right shoulder. What that means is --”
“I know what it means, slick. Chunk of my arm got blown off. I was there, remember?” Drake turned and looked down at the shoulder. It was wrapped in bandages, but long metal frames stuck out above the wound. The bars of the frames were threaded like giant screws.
“We clamped it shut,” the doctor explained in a soft voice. “We had nothing that would pierce your scales to suture the wounds, but your employer advised us that construction-grade clamp devices would hold the wound closed until such time as your healing factor could deal with it.”
“So you guys just ran down to the Home Depot and snagged a couple of C-clamps? Great. I bought some a couple weeks back and I know what they cost. These better not show up on my bill for a hundred bucks each,” Drake joked, grimacing as another flash of pain ran down the arm. He clenched the fist and repeated the expression.
“Yes, it is going to hurt if you do that,” the doctor said, shaking his head slightly. He sketched a quick note on a clipboard and slid it back into a holder attached to the foot of the bed, which was, Drake was unsurprised to see, a metal morgue table. He had encountered similar difficulties in Austin when it was determined that a normal hospital bed would be insufficient to support his considerable
mass.
“How’s what’s-his-name?” Drake asked. He spun his left hand lazily as he fought to remember the name of the media consultant who had been in the limousine. “Ummm, Shaw?”
“Mister Shaw is doing fine. Some minor lacerations and a light burn.”
“Did it shut him up?”
“Not in the least,” the doctor said with a quiet chuckle. Before he could continue, the door opened to frame a woman in a Navy blue business suit.
“Aww, shit. Who invited you?” Drake groaned.
“Wonderful to see you as well, Agent,” Colleen Hart said, rolling her eyes. She glanced at the doctor. “We have men coming to secure the patient for transport.”
“Lovely. Don’t let me stand in your way,” the doctor replied in a sour tone. “Wouldn’t want to actually heal him or anything.”
“Agent Drake will best be served by one of our clinics where he can be tended to by those with …let’s just say more knowledge of his particular needs.”
“He is not the first genebooster I have treated, madam,” snapped the doctor.
“He is, however, in my employ, and as such will be taken where I deem appropriate.”
“Umm, guys?” Drake interrupted, waving to get their attention. “You two want to go get a room or something, feel free. Meantime, the next one of you who talks about me like I ain’t sitting right here gets a foot in the ass.”
“I am sorry, Agent Drake,” the doctor quickly said. “It’s just that I’m not used to this sort of… heavy-handedness, I guess one would call it?”
Hart gritted her teeth. “Listen carefully, doctor,” she said in a low, slow voice. “Your efforts are not unappreciated. You have done an excellent job here, but we have people who specialize in treating our Agents.”
“Yeah, and you’ve got tech that you don’t bother to share with the medical community at large, too. I know all about it. Miracle machines. Chemical bonesetters, chromosomal restructuring tools, genetic anagathic therapies, am I on the right track?”
Firedrake - Volume Two Page 8