Firedrake - Volume Two

by T. Mike McCurley

  “Those are some interesting ideas, doctor,” Hart said, waving away his comments. “Wish we did have things like that.”

  “We call ‘em ‘magic healing rays’,” Drake said with a snort. “Most of ‘em are on level three, in the lab behind the janitor’s closet. They’re not as cool as you’d think, though. Most of ‘em are about as reliable as a politician.”

  “Agent,” Hart growled through clenched teeth.

  “What? Not like everyone isn’t thinking they’re out there somewhere. Might as well tell him. It’d be nice if they worked all the time,” he continued, turning back to the doctor. “Thing with boostertech, though, is the guy that made it is usually the only one who can make it work. It’s like it’s connected or something. And since most of the guys who make these little toys aren’t really skilled in medical matters, you’re more likely to wind up getting a new set of hubcaps to replace that broken knee.”

  “Thank you for the report. I sincerely hope your condition improves,” said the man before he stormed out of the room, muttering under his breath.

  “Were you struck in the head, Agent?” Hart asked, accompanying her question with a frosty glare. “Did you forget about the Secrets Act?”

  “Naw, just blew it off. Thing is, he thinks I was just being an asshole and mocking him. He won’t mention any of his ‘miracle machines’ for a while. Now, can you snag my gear while I get out of this bed?”

  “We have a truck coming,” Hart said as she gathered up the plastic bags containing Drake’s clothing and equipment.

  Drake stepped down from the bed, unconcerned about his own state of undress. He swung his tail from side to side to ease a cramp that had settled in at the base while he had been lying atop it.

  “We’re taking you down to Nellis for a while - at least until this can blow over.”

  “What? The reward thing? Ain’t gonna blow over,” Drake replied, trying unsuccessfully to wiggle his shoulder back and forth. The move nearly dropped him to his knees. “You pricks couldn’t pay for some painkillers or something?”

  “That is with the painkillers, Agent,” Hart said. “Can you function?”

  “I can move, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said. He reached to one of the bags and drew out his pants. Holding them with his left hand, he worked his feet through the tiger-striped fabric with some difficulty, threading his tail through the hole in the back with a little less trouble. His face fell as he tried to button the fly closed and realized he needed both hands to perform the operation. He half-turned, seeing the raised eyebrow he was getting from Hart in response to his unasked question.

  “You…you want me to…” she began.

  “If you would,” Drake said. His mouth closed and opened once. “Please,” he added in a strained voice.

  A sigh of air escaped her as she stood and stared at him for a moment. Her jaw clenched briefly.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered, kneeling down and grasping the trousers. She began to close the buttons as quickly as her fingers could move.

  “If this was a sitcom, this is where someone would walk in,” Drake quipped, keeping his gaze directed upward.

  “Naw. If it was a sitcom, I’d have a camera,” answered a voice from the door. Hart jerked her hands away as if scalded as she and Drake both spun to regard the new arrival. The woman wore an elaborate set of body armor, designed to resemble the ornate samurai armor of ancient Japan, but incorporating modern technology to arrive at a lightweight and highly efficient means of self-protection. There was a pair of long swords strapped to her hips. Sparkling green eyes watched the pair from above a freckled nose. Hair of a flaming red hue was cut and pulled back into a topknot. The woman called Samurai Sally had made a name for herself battling the Yakuza on the streets of Tokyo before moving to the United States. Her record earned her a visit from the Department of Metahuman Affairs -- by a recruiter.

  “Perhaps next time you will knock before entering,” Hart said with an exaggerated sigh.

  “Sally,” Drake greeted with a nod. “I’d wave, but…” he said, trailing off as he glanced down to where he was holding his pants up.

  “Don’t let me interrupt anything,” Sally teased, grinning as she flicked her hands at both of them. “You just keep on with what you were doing.”

  “Always knew you was a watcher,” Drake said, thrusting his hips forward to meet Hart’s hands. The Director quickly finished buttoning the trousers, then buckled his belt and stood. She brushed imaginary dirt from the knees of her own pants before turning an intimidating glare on Sally.

  “I trust you will be discreet in regards to what you have seen here,” she said. “I would not like to hear about it from anyone, in any form whatsoever.”

  “Buzzkill,” Sally said with a giggle.

  “Yes, but certainly that is better than your next assignment involving the retrieval of debris from the bottom of a sewer?”

  Sally tilted her head to one side for a moment as if thinking. “It might be worth it,” she said.

  “Trust me. It would not.”

  “How you feeling, Drake?” Sally asked, changing the subject.

  “Think my golf game’ll be off for a while.”

  “Yeah? You’ll be happy to know I picked off a couple of idiots outside that thought they could come in here and collect the reward while you were out.”

  “Happy? I don‘t know about that,” Drake said, shrugging his shoulders and instantly wishing he had not. “I didn‘t get a chance to try out the local talent,” he added with a groan.

  “Not much talent,” she said, waving off the comment. “Two norms with pistols. Couple good kicks and they just folded.”

  “You sound disappointed,” he said.

  “Kinda was. Got a new Glock out of it, though,” she said, reaching to a pocket and withdrawing a matte-black pistol long enough for Drake to see it before slipping it back into hiding.

  “That would be evidence,” Hart prompted, her eyebrow rising once again.

  “It would be if I’d made an arrest,” Sally corrected, sounding infinitely pleased with herself. “As it was, I just smacked ‘em around and took their guns.”

  “You didn’t bother to arrest -”

  “Nope. You said keep a watch until the truck showed up then come up here. Well, the truck’s here and I was headed this way. Figured telling you about the ride was more important.”

  “And yet it took you this long.”

  “Let her be, Hart,” Drake said, taking one of his pistols from the bag and slipping it into his waistband. “I swear, you’re about as much fun as sex with a light socket. I mean, could I maybe get a second helping of ‘by the book‘?”

  “Do you believe you will need…?” Hart began, gesturing to the pistol, but her words trailed off. She shook her head. “Forget it.”

  Drake pointed at the bag. “You might want the other one,” he said. “No telling how many more folks might want to try and collect.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Sally interjected, resting one hand on the hilt of her katana.

  “To collect?” Drake asked with a chuckle.

  “No, to make sure no one gets close enough,” she answered. “Hell, if I wanted to collect, you’d never have got up out of that bed.”

  “I’d chop you into sushi first,” Drake shot back, wiggling the heavy claws on his left hand for emphasis.

  “Children, please,” Hart urged before they could get out of hand. “Let’s just get to the truck and head out.”

  “I don’t wanna go,” Drake protested. “First off, Nellis sucks. Nothing to do, and I ain’t exactly in shape to use their airstrips. Second, I don’t need this Onslaught dumbass thinking he’s won.”

  “It’s not a matter of --”

  “It is, and you know it!” Drake said, cutting her off. “I go into hiding and he’s won. He’s put me out of the game before I could even get on the field. Everybody will know it, ‘cause he’ll go out of his way to make sur
e they do.”

  “Yes, but he wants you in condition to fight him. Well, the footage from the fight with Gunsmoke has already aired. BoosterScene had cameras rolling for most of it,” Hart explained. “And they showed how badly you were injured. He will not expect to see you for some time.”

  “All the better reason for him to make an appearance now,” Sally said as she held open the door for the two of them. “By showing his opponent that not even this level of injury will stop him, he strengthens his own position and makes Onslaught wonder just how powerful Drake really is. Think of it. The Ancients said that once in China there was a man fascinated with dragons, and he had his clothing, furnishings, everything, designed accordingly. One day, a real dragon showed up and the man died of fright. It was said that he was a man who probably spoke big words but acted differently when facing the real thing.”

  “Nice,” Hart said, leading the way out of the room. “How does it apply?”

  “Same philosophy. He’s throwing out all the threats, but you’ll notice he’s not actually appearing to make good on them. Showing him that Drake is ready to meet any challenge will leave him wondering if he’s bitten off more than he can chew. You honestly think that he wants to fight Drake up close? I mean, look at him. Huge, scales everywhere, big teeth, claws, the whole nine yards. If he ever does meet the guy up close, he’ll scare him to death.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Drake muttered. “Nice to know I’m so cuddly.”

  “Call ’em like I see ‘em,” Sally said with a wink.

  “Listen, your theory is one thing, but reality is another,” Hart said. The trio was walking through a long hall toward a back exit from the hospital. Drake’s claws clicking on the tile floor were the only sounds other than their voices. “The fact is, Gunsmoke tried for him. That’s like having a destroyer take a shot at you. How long until the battleships come out?”

  “Why exactly did he do it?” Drake asked, stopping short. The others turned to regard him as he scratched behind his left ear with a talon. “I mean, really? What the hell does Gunsmoke need that he can’t just reach out and take? It’s the fact that he never bothers trying to take anything any more that kept us from targeting him a long time ago, right? So why now?”

  “He’s crazy,” Sally said with a shrug. “Not like you can predict the behavior of a crazy man.”

  “Actually, you can, but that is beside the point,” Hart said. She folded her arms across her chest, the action bringing up Drake’s bags of possessions to dangle at her sides. “You have a point, Agent. No one thought to ask what he hoped to gain from the confrontation.”

  “I was a little busy,” he said, shaking his head at her.

  “Not an accusation,” she replied. “Just an observation. We don’t know what it is he wants. Normals, most often, will want money. Plain and simple. Even a lot of boosters would ask for the same thing and never care where it came from. But Gunsmoke?”

  “Come on,” Sally prompted, starting back toward the exit again. “We can talk about it in the truck. Let’s just get out of here before someone like Manifest or FlashFire decides they want to get their hands in.”

  “They’re not gonna --” Drake began, but the samurai silenced him with a look.

  “Nobody would have figured Gunsmoke for it either,” she said. She slipped the katana from its scabbard with a hiss of metal. The fluorescent lights overhead gleamed off the length of polished osmium. Though not as strong or resilient as durite, the swords Sally carried could cut through nearly anything in their path. In her hands, they were among the deadliest tools on the planet. As she readied the weapon, she glanced down at the pistol in Drake’s waistband.

  “You might want to be prepared. No telling who’s on the other side of the door,” she said. Drake started to respond with a joke, but noted that the woman had slipped into her working persona, and that the jest would fall on deaf ears. She had become focused on the tasks at hand, and nothing else would penetrate her thoughts. Nodding, he gripped the butt of the weapon.

  Depressing the button on the door, Sally pushed it open and stepped into the breach, scanning the surroundings before allowing either Drake or Hart to exit. Only when she felt the scene was clear did she move forward.

  Parked in the street, flanked by four US Marshals armed with submachineguns, was a heavy panel truck. The back doors were open and there was a driver in the front seat. The engine was running, its diesel rattling clearly audible. Behind it was a Chrysler sedan, also idling.

  “Look. A parade, just for me. Short one, though,” Drake quipped.

  “Move,” Sally ordered, advancing at a quick march as her eyes swept back and forth. The katana was held low and loose in her right hand, while her left gripped the hilt of the still-sheathed wakizashi on her hip. Drake motioned Hart forward and stepped out behind her, moving to her side in a pair of his long strides.

  One of the Marshals looked up at them, blanching slightly at the sight of the reptilian booster, and waved them onward. He clutched the Uzi tightly, as if it was some sort of magic talisman. He turned to say something to one of his partners and then simply collapsed to the ground in a heap.

  “It’s a hit!” Sally shouted, though her warning was unnecessary. Drake had already pushed Hart to the ground and dropped down beside her, stretching his left wing out to provide her with a slight measure of concealment.

  A second Marshal fell backward, clutching at his neck. Blood spurted from behind his hand.

  “Sniper,” Hart said, easing out from under Drake’s wing to crane her head up and behind them. “He’s on the roof. Silenced Heckler and Koch rifle.”

  “Good eyes,” Drake remarked, gripping the Director and pulling her in tight to his massive frame. She writhed in his grip. “Stay still,” he ordered, using his right hand to grip the butt of his pistol and draw it from his waistband.

  “You are the target, not me,” she said.

  “Yeah, and more’s the pity,” Drake said with a laugh. “This is gonna hurt me more than it will you, pal,” he muttered, raising the pistol. His world became a whirling flash of pain, and he knew, as his vision swam, that he had next to no chance of hitting the sniper accurately. Still, he switched the pistol over to full-auto and depressed the trigger. The stuttering roar of the weapon shattered the otherwise unearthly quiet of the kill-zone, though it was nearly overpowered by Drake as he screamed out his agony.

  The roofline of the hospital shattered as the micro-explosive rounds struck home. Clouds of concrete and rock dust filled the air, joining with a layer of thin smoke from the explosions. Together, they created a light smokescreen that was more helpful than even the near-miss that sent the sniper sprawling away from the edge.

  “Move, move, move, move, move!” Sally was shouting. She had appropriated the Uzi from the fallen Marshal and - using the target point provided by Drake’s wild fire - was putting it to work from her shoulder, providing suppressive fire as were the remaining Marshals. “Get to the damned truck!”

  “What’s she think? We’re doing the tango?” Drake asked, letting the arm drop to his side. He barely managed to hold onto the pistol. Still holding Hart against his side, he sprinted for the image of the truck that appeared most solid of three he was currently seeing. As they neared it, he thrust the Director forward and swung her, pivoting from the hip to throw the woman into the back of the truck, hooking his claws into the pavement to arrest his own momentum, then gripped the frame of the truck and prepared to leap inside.

  “Step on up, Lizard-boy,” greeted a gravelly voice. Drake looked up to see Gunsmoke standing inside the trailer, his hand pressed to the head of Colleen Hart. “Come in easy or the bitch gets it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Drake stood in stunned silence for a half-second, looking at the grey-clad killer holding his employer hostage. The hand that was pressed to her head could unleash a bolt of energy powerful enough to crack tank armor at the slightest mental command, and Drake knew that Gunsmoke was not the sort to be b
othered with formalities such as the legality of murder.

  “Drop that hog-leg,” Gunsmoke ordered, jerking his chin toward the pistol Drake still gripped in his enormous paw. Sucking at a tooth, Drake complied. From behind him, he heard a snarled curse and knew without turning that Samurai Sally had come around to a point that allowed her to see inside the truck. The heavy clank of the pistol hitting the ground came at the same time as his warning to her.

  “Stay chill, Sal. This is between me and Festus.”

  Gunsmoke raised an eyebrow at the comment, but rose no further to the bait.

  “So what next, huh?” Drake asked.

  “Next?” Gunsmoke repeated. His voice was rough and hoarse. “Next you give me your word. I know about you, pal. I know you’ll stick to it once you say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That you give up.”

  “Give up?” Drake asked, laughing aloud. “For what?”

  “I’m gonna collect on the bounty,” the booster replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Why?”

  “Say it. Gimme your word.”

  “What is it you want? Maybe we can arrange something,” Drake countered. “I mean, we work for the government, right? If we can’t get it…”

  “How’d you get past the Marshals?” Sally demanded. The Uzi was still in her hand, though it was not aimed.

  “Stay out of this, miss,” Gunsmoke said. “It’s between me and Drake.”

  “And that makes it my business,” she said, upper lip twitching with restrained anger. “I am his retainer. You will have to go through me to get to him.”

  “Little lady,” Gunsmoke said, not bothering to even look at her. His eyes were fixed on Drake’s. “If I wanted to go through you I wouldn’t even have to blink.”

  As if to emphasize his words, he used the hand against Hart’s head to grip her hair. The move pulled his hand in even tighter and freed up his left, which he raised and pointed in Sally’s direction.