Firedrake - Volume Two

by T. Mike McCurley

  “Oh, yeah? That’s good,” the man said in reply. He bit at his lip for a moment as the two officers behind him continued to speak quietly. The fourth man stood at an almost perfect parade-rest position, carefully watching not only the interplay between the officer and Drake, but also the surroundings. A downward flick of the eye showed Drake the name on the gold plate affixed to his white uniform shirt: “Terrell”, the nameplate declared. Drake’s estimation of that officer climbed a bit as he realized the man had a decent grasp of situational awareness.

  “Look, man, you’re trying to figure out what to say or do next, right?” Drake asked, returning his attention to the officer who had spoken to him. The man’s name was Tran. “It ain’t no thing. You can do whichever of the following sounds good. First, you can tell us to have a nice day and you can go on. Or, you can make a call to Justice and confirm my creds. Last option, you can ask us to leave.”

  “There’s no reason you’d need to leave, sir,” Tran said. He held out a hand. “If I could see those ID papers, though?”

  “Not a problem,” Drake said, handing them over. The conversation between the two officers in the back had become more animated, and Drake caught the words, ‘booster’ and ‘Onslaught’ in their hissed comments.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he said, directing his response to them. One of the pair grinned widely.

  “I told you it was him, Donny,” he said, pointing at the other of the pair and grinning. “Man, I saw you on the ‘net when you went up against that Onslaught guy. That was sweet!”

  “Thanks,” Drake said dryly. “It’s not every day that I get to be on worldwide broadcasts.”

  “Yeah, well, you did good. We were all sick of hearing him get on TV and say how everybody was scared of him and stuff.”

  “Thanks,” Drake said again. Tran, apparently satisfied with the credentials and his own officers’ comments, returned the wallet and nodded his head.

  “Thank you, Agent Drake,” he said. “Sorry about stopping you. It’s just…” he paused.

  “Just say it’s ‘cause of the guns,” Drake suggested with a smile. “That pretty much covers it.”

  “Yes, sir. You folks have a nice day, and thanks for shopping with us.”

  The four men continued on, splitting into two pairs once they had gone fifty feet or so past Drake and Monster. A few moments later and they separated completely, each one going their own way and filtering back into the crowd.

  “Did we do something bad, Francis?” Monster asked.

  “No, buddy. They’re just making sure that, well, that nobody’s pretending to be me, you know. Like Halloween.”

  The explanation seemed to placate Monster, and the pair continued on toward the pretzel stand, seemingly oblivious to the terrified glances coming their way from within the stores they passed. They paused once so Drake could let Monster feed a quarter into a vending machine for a handful of M&M’s, and then again to admire the five-foot wide screen of a plasma TV hanging in the window of an electronics store.

  “That thing’s big,” Monster said around a mouthful of chocolate. Drake nodded, watching as a baseball game unfolded in perfect clarity on the screen. They stood for a moment, watching as the batter took a swing at a curve ball and missed by a mile. The runner on second took advantage of the pitch to make a mad dash for third, and both Drakes tensed as the catcher snapped the ball toward the third baseman.

  “Go, go, go,” Drake muttered, watching the man slide headfirst toward the bag. His fingers grazed it a heartbeat before the ball snapped into the baseman’s glove, and both Drakes cheered as the runner was called ‘safe’. The station went to a commercial, and they continued on.

  Moments later, they had a double fistful of hot pretzels and moved to a metal chair-and-table combination near the little stand to await Sala. Drake had just bitten into his jalapeno-flavored snack when the woman arrived, walking up beside them with a heavy bag in her hand.

  “You, uh, you get what you need?” Drake asked as he gestured to one of the chairs. Sala sat, accepting the cheese-covered pretzel Monster was holding out for her. She took a small bite and nodded.

  “Mmmm, this is good, Monster,” she said. “Did you pick this out?”

  “I like cheese,” he said, words muffled by his own mouthful.

  “Me, too.” Sala took another bite, then ripped a napkin from the metal holder on the table and used it to wipe excess cheese from her lips. She followed suit a moment later with Monster, dabbing up the yellow string that was running down his chin.

  “O-Oh my God,” stammered a voice from behind them, in the area of the pretzel cart. Drake turned to look, a part of him expecting to see someone filled with fear, but noting also that the voice had seemed surprised rather than afraid.

  The man he saw there was of average height and build, with sandy brown hair and shining eyes. He was clutching a pair of sacks, each loaded with merchandise from various stores. Presently he was rummaging through one of them, though his eyes never left the group at the table.

  “You’re really him,” the man said. He pulled a bulky package from inside one of the bags and held it out in front of him as though it were a shield. Drake’s jaw dropped as he beheld what the man was displaying.

  “Well, kiss my scaly ass,” he muttered. “They did it.”

  A thin cardboard box in an almost neon blue color framed a cellophane window, through which could be seen green flannel with hints of yellow visible as well. A picture of his own face was on the box, though it had been toned down somewhat from the level of ferocity it normally displayed to the public. He was actually smiling, and a morphed picture of his hand rose on the opposite edge of the cellophane window, formed into a thumbs-up gesture. At the top of the box was the legend, “FIREDRAKE” in large block letters of brilliant metallic red.

  “What in the hell?” Sala asked.

  “They’re pajamas,” the man explained. “I got the slippers to go with them.” He began digging in the bag again, and emerged a few seconds later with a pair of giant fuzzy slippers, tipped with long yellow claws of a plush material.

  “Those are your feet,” Monster said, looking from the slippers to Drake and back. He looked confused.

  “Yup, kid. Sure are,” Drake said. He stood from the table, towering over the shopper, who blanched noticeably at the sudden size difference. Drake tapped at the box with a claw, almost daring it to not be real.

  “Could…could you sign it for me?” the man asked, grinning as he once again fumbled in his bags. He came out a moment later with a set of Magic Marker felt-tip pens, tore open the pack and handed Drake a black one.

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “No! Seriously!” the man said, almost pleading.

  “Not that,” Drake said, waving his hand. “I meant the whole thing. They actually made pajamas!”

  “I think they’re cute,” Sala teased, chuckling around a bite of pretzel. “Sign the man’s pajama’s, Drake. I mean, when else in your life will you get a chance like this?”

  Drake shot her a murderous glare, but smiled at the man. “All right,” he agreed, popping off the cap of the pen. “What’s your name, slick?”

  “Harry. Harry Callahan, sir.”

  “No shit,” Drake said, lips peeling back in a wide grin. “Harry Callahan?”

  “No relation,” Harry said, laughing a bit himself, even as he tried to back away from the frightening specter of the glistening teeth that had suddenly been bared.

  “To Harry,” Drake said aloud, scrawling the words across the edge of the box as he spoke. “My number one fan. Francis Drake.”

  “Thank you!” Harry gushed as Drake returned the box to him. He looked at the words and smiled. “Nobody’s gonna believe this!”

  “Have a seat, Harry,” Drake invited. He indicated the other two present. “This is Monster and Sala.”

  “Francis is my brother,” Monster said proudly. “I’m gonna be like him when I grow up.”

  “That
’s a good goal,” Harry replied, looking at the chair Drake had offered. He seemed hesitant, and Drake slapped at the seat with his tail.

  “Come on, slick. Sit down. If I’ve really got a fan, he might as well have a pretzel with us. Right guys?”

  Harry swallowed and took the proffered seat, piling his bags on the floor beside him. Drake slid a paper-wrapped pretzel across the table before retaking his own seat. There was a moment of awkward silence.

  “You have my brother’s feet,” Monster said suddenly.

  “Yeah. I like them,” Harry replied with a slow nod. “I saw your brother on TV with Patriot.”

  “Me, too!” Monster crowed, leaning across the table, not caring that he put his right elbow atop what remained of Sala’s cheese-covered pretzel. “Patriot’s cool!”

  “Sure is,” Harry said. “So when he said ‘hello to Monster’, he was talking about you. Wow, dude, that is so neat!”

  “Patriot likes me,” Monster said with no little pride in his voice.

  Drake took another bite of his pretzel, chewing noisily as he spoke. “So what is it you do, Harry?” he asked.

  “I’m a programmer….” Harry began, the words trailing off as his eyes flicked away for a moment. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?” Drake asked, turning to look over his left shoulder in the direction the young man was staring. In the distance, a brilliant purple flash reflected off the walls of the mall. A second later, a scream rent the air. Drake grimaced and dropped his pretzel to the table.

  “Well, that can’t be good,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The afterimages of the purple flash were still rebounding from the walls as Drake dropped his pretzel onto the coated metal mesh of the table and stood. His wings flared a bit and then he tucked them in against his back once more. Shaking his head sadly, he turned in the direction from which the light had come. The vibrant purple color had not been a mark of a photographic strobe or anything similar, and the only thing Drake could surmise as that it was the ability of a booster.

  “Sala, stay with the kid,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” Harry asked. He was leaning in his chair and craning his neck in an attempt to peer past the frame of the reptilian booster.

  “My vacation’s going straight down the crapper, that’s what,” Drake groused as he marched away from the tables. Ahead of him, he could hear the sounds of breaking glass and clanging metal, and he picked up his pace somewhat. Whatever was going on, it was not going to be good.

  A pair of mall security officers sprinted past him, both en route to the disturbance, and neither one paid him any attention whatsoever. Their radios were crackling with calls for assistance. Around him Drake noticed several stores sliding closed the metal grates that sealed off their shops. Many still had customers inside, and he nodded as he noticed employees shuttling them to the rear of each store.

  He continued on, ignoring the rumbling of his stomach as he passed by Schnitzel-on-a-stick and the scent of the cooking meat tantalized his nostrils. His pace quickened as he began to hear shouted commands - most likely from the security officers, he mused - and a series of curses snarled in response. He broke into a full run as yet another purple flash lit the mall. It was from a section around the nearest corridor, and rather than deal with skidding to a stop, Drake simply launched himself into the air and unfurled his leathery wings. They snapped out and bit into the air as he banked sharply and turned the corner.

  The mall corridor was a shambles. A wooden bench, fitted with cast iron supports that bolted it to the floor, had been ripped free of its moorings and lay shattered on the imitation marble tiles beside the unconscious body of an elderly woman Drake had seen ‘power-walking’ past his group as they entered. A vending machine lay on one side, spewing its contents across the floor in sporadic belches of twelve ounce cans. A rack of clothing had been torn from its store, and fashionable blouses lay scattered across the floor in bright patterns. The bent frame of a mall directory sagged on its supports, flapping back and forth slowly.

  In the middle of it all stood a man in a classic boxers’ ready-stance, his fists cocked and held before him as he stared into the depths of the clothing store. His faded Levi’s jeans were stretched tightly over heavy leg muscles and a lightweight leather jacket covered his torso. The two security officers were still shouting orders for the man to surrender, but he seemed to pay them no heed. Drake settled to the ground, resuming his walk toward the group as he studied the man. His eyes widened in sudden recognition.

  “Retribution!” Drake shouted. The man’s attention changed from the clothing store to the immense wall of emerald muscle that was moving toward him.

  “Ah, shit,” cursed the man. He waved a dismissing hand toward Drake before turning back to the store. “Not you. Not now,” he added. It sounded like a plea as much as a demand.

  “Yes, now, slick,” Drake said. He reached behind him with his left hand, angling for his cuff pouch.

  “Piss off, lizard. This one’s mine,” announced a voice from within the store. It was a woman’s voice, but seemed to hold as much femininity as Drake himself. His gaze turned to regard her as she stepped from within the store. She wore black leather pants and matching knee-length boots with sharp, gleaming spurs. A sleeveless tunic of silvery chain mail covered her torso atop a grey blouse that looked to be heavy silk. At her left hip was sheathed a longsword with a wide crosspiece. The hilt was not adorned, but the sheath had a row of what looked to be rubies running the length of it. Glittering blue eyes glared at Drake from within a face sharp as the edge of a hatchet, their ferocity matched by the severity of her razor-cut flattop hairstyle.

  “Bounty hunter?” Drake guessed, knowing that many boosters had taken to the field. Their abilities made it pitifully easy to retrieve normal bail-jumpers, but none save a booster had much chance to track and apprehend another of their kind.

  “As if,” the woman scoffed. She raised her left hand, concealed within the folds of a studded black leather gauntlet, and pointed at Drake. “You stay back, Barney, else me and you gonna have words,” she declared in frosty tones.

  Drake began to snap back with a witticism of his own, but a new voice cut him off and his expression fell.

  “He’s not Barney! He’s my brother!” shouted Monster. He stepped up to a position beside Drake, standing with his hands on his hips and glaring defiantly at the armor-clad woman.

  “What are you doing?” Drake asked Monster, laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  “I came to help you,” Monster said proudly.

  “Tried to stop him,” Sala reported. She was standing behind the younger Drake, slowly shaking her head.

  “Yeah. Like you could,” Drake said with a knowing nod. When Monster decided to do something, very little could stop him, and certainly not someone who did not want to harm him in the process. “Just stay there, little bro, and keep quiet,” he urged.

  “You best tell your brother stop stickin’ his green nose where it don‘t belong,” the woman said, lips peeling back in a feral grin. “Less he wants my foot in his ass.”

  “You’re a potty mouth,” Monster taunted, sticking out his tongue.

  “And you’re --” the woman began, but let the phrase trail off as she snapped her gaze back to Retribution. The big booster was slowly backing away from the scene, and had already put an additional twenty feet between himself and the woman.

  “Had your chance,” she grunted. She lunged forward, leaping from the ground as she closed and feinted a left jab. As Retribution raised a hand to block, her left leg snapped forward and connected just below the man’s chin. The solid smacking sound echoed from the walls. Retribution was lifted from the floor by the force, sailing backward until he crashed into the wall behind him. Concrete cracked and dust puffed from the impact site. The two security officers dived aside as the woman walked calmly across the floor toward the downed booster.

  “Federal Agent,” D
rake announced, stepping forward. He held one hand behind him, applying pressure against Monster’s chest to keep the youth in place. “You’re under arrest.”

  At his side, Monster cheered and waved his arms over his head. Drake sighed, knowing it was never as easy as the television made his brother believe it to be. As expected, the woman turned her attention to him. She stood in a low crouch, facing the floor but with her head tilted up so that when she looked at him, the expression was one of pure malice.

  “You still look stupid, cop,” she said, peering up at him. She flicked a finger out, indicating Sala. “This your girlfriend? Bitch forget her armor today?”

  Drake stopped, puzzled. “I know you from somewhere?” he asked. The woman snorted.

  “Smart one, ain’t ya? Try Texas. You and the Tin Woman there, grubbin’ around in the dirt like rats? Lookin’ for your Hell-spawned toys? Sound familiar?”

  Drake remembered the images, blurred though they were, of the man with the charismatic voice that had tried to talk to Soundstage alongside the road in Austin. There had been two others with him, and one was about the right height for this woman.

  “Who are you?” he asked, trying to forestall her slow, measured approach long enough to put his own bulk between her and his two companions.

  “Not your problem,” the woman said, smashing a fist straight down into the floor. The tile before her shattered into a half-dozen pieces, each nearly a foot wide and easily two inches thick. She hefted one in her gauntleted left hand and grinned, then spun on one heel and launched it in a whistling arc. The stone slammed into the chest of Retribution as the man began to rise from the floor. His grunt of pain was lost in the explosive rush of air being forced from his lungs.

  “I’m here for this ass-wipe, pig,” the woman said. She did not even look at Drake as she headed once more toward Retribution. “Done told you, stay out, less you wanna get bloody.”

  “I’ve been bloody before,” Drake said. “And that dumbass is a Federal fugitive. I can’t let you have him.”