Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone

by Andrews, Christopher

When Cooper spoke again, his voice suggested the same. “Yeah, I guess I believe you. I’m ... I’m sorry, kid. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He snorted. “We both were.”

  Arturo was amazed to feel a little touched by this apology (not that he would admit that to anyone in a million years).

  Cooper rallied enough to say, “Just don’t do anything stupid to give us both more regrets, okay? Let me get out of here and I’ll never bother you again.”

  Arturo nodded once more, and watched Cooper as he left the bank. The next customer walked up and asked him a question, but Arturo didn’t have a clue she was even there.

  PCA

  Once outside, Cooper moved along the sidewalk at a hurried pace, forcing himself not to go too fast, so as to avoid drawing any attention. He had the envelope of money tucked under his arm inside his stolen jacket; he needed to get out of sight of the bank and transfer the bills to different pockets about his person — a big envelope of cash would raise too many eyebrows. Then he needed to take a bus out of town, because he could not handle another nerve-wracking night jumping at every shadow. The worst part was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched or follow—

  A cop car rolled to a stop at the intersection in front of him. The officer inside glanced his way ...

  That might have been all it was, a harmless glance; it wasn’t like Cooper had been put at the top of the Most Wanted Rogues list (had he?). Either way, Cooper turned into a tight alleyway between a coffee shop and a fast food restaurant, the latter of which had been his destination; now he just wanted to get out of the cop’s line of sight. He was relieved to see that the alley was fairly narrow, too narrow for the cop car to enter — if it came to pursuit, it would be a foot race, and Cooper had learned that his shield could roll faster than most norms could run.

  Heading through the alley toward what appeared to be an employee parking lot, Cooper slowed down, stopped to withdraw the envelope ... and dropped it when he heard a voice speak right beside him.

  “Stop hiding.”

  Cooper’s yelp hadn’t fully left his mouth before he was hovering above the ground, safe within his protective shield. He looked all around, turning his head and rotating his shield back and forth, but he could see no one else around. He wanted, desperately, to roll out of the alley without looking back, but the money had fallen outside his shield and he needed the cash even more desperately than he needed to run.

  The voice spoke again. “I did not relieve you so that you can escape quiet,” it said. Its qualities were almost as bizarre as its apparent lack of a speaker — a completely monotone male voice with an odd accent Cooper couldn’t place.

  When he could get words past his dry tongue, Cooper did his best to sound brave. “Who are you?! What do you want?!”

  “I want you to make noise,” the voice replied, now coming from somewhere above him. “I want you to break things. I want you to pull down fire, as you did to the communal dwelling.”

  The “communal dwelling”? What the hell?

  “I do not,” the voice continued, “want to watch that you are hiding. I do not want to watch that you are quiet. If you do not make noise, I will not to need you any longer. You understand?”

  Cooper put it together: Whoever this weird-talker was, it was the person who freed him and the other rogues from that holding cell.

  Jesus, that’s creepy. Out loud, he said, “Yeah. I understand.”

  “Then make noise. I will watch.”

  In the silence that followed, Cooper fought back tears of defeat. He didn’t want to “make noise” anymore. The frustration that he had built inside him, the fire that had fueled his violent outburst back at his apartment, was long gone. Financial difficulties and a spray-painted car now seemed so stupid and trivial compared to the trouble he’d brought down on himself, to the people he’d hurt.

  Maybe it would be easiest just to turn myself in ...

  Cooper had actually dropped his shield and taken a step back toward the street and the cop car when it occurred to him that, if his invisible liberator could break him out of jail, he could just as easily break back in to get at him.

  Feeling twice his age, Cooper stooped to collect his envelope of cash. Noise or no noise, he’d need money, right? Should he just go back to the bank and take all that he could carry? That would make a lot of noise, right?

  But no, he’d caused that Arturo kid enough trouble already. Besides ... he was hungry, too.

  Dragging his feet, figuratively and literally, Cooper begrudgingly headed back toward the fast food restaurant, planning how to get the food inside his shield before all hell broke loose.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  While Cooper was storming the fast food restaurant, lowly Ensign Adam Vogt was signing people into PCA headquarters. Most of it was standard operating procedure, with familiar agents getting a knowing nod, although every one of them still had to peer into the retina scanner and speak their name into the voice-print verification microphone. Other agents, randomly selected by the computer (though Vogt always tried to imply that he was in charge of the selection process), had to place his or her hand upon a scanner that not only checked their handprints but a few other bio-signature readings that Vogt barely remembered from his PCA academy tech tests. So here he was, still just an Ensign, even though he graduated from the academy in the same class as ...

  Speak of the devil.

  The nauseatingly famous Lieutenant Takayasu and Shockwave entered the building with a few other people in tow. Rather than heading around to the retina scanner, et cetera, Takayasu led his company right up to the desk.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Vogt asked, making sure to keep his tone congenial after the direction his thoughts had been going just a few seconds ago.

  “I need the Guest Registration book. And please bring over the box of temp badges, too.”

  The Ensign nodded as he slid over the registry “book,” which was actually a dedicated tablet computer. Most guests had to be cleared in advance, but much to Vogt’s chagrin, Takayasu was a full Lieutenant and had more leeway. He was reaching for the temporary badges (which were themselves a dirty little secret, as anyone who acted up while wearing one of these bad boys could be stunned by remote) as he glanced over Takayasu’s shoulder for a head count. He recognized Powerhouse right away, of course, so he wouldn’t need a badge, which just left the other—

  “Holy shit!” he blurted.

  “At ease, Ensign Vogt,” Takayasu said in a calm voice without even looking up from the tablet.

  “But ... but, sir!” the Ensign stammered. “That’s— that’s Vortex! Isn’t it ...?” The situation was so surreal, Takayasu was acting so calm about all of this, maybe he was wrong?

  “Yes, it is,” the Lieutenant replied. “And I have signed him in as such.”

  Vogt’s eyes were dancing back and forth, now taking in the whole fantastic party. They had another guy with them who was wearing tinted skiing goggles— wait, not goggles, it was another kind of mask. And a shiny white suit and a silver cape, for God’s sake?! “But— but, sir!”

  “You already said that,” Shockwave commented with a smartass smirk.

  “Please hand over the temp badges, Ensign Vogt,” Takayasu said as he pushed the tablet back across the desk.

  A few other agents had entered behind the bizarre group and were gawking as well, and Vogt was pretty sure he heard whispering coming from behind himself to boot. He tried to take some form of control over the situation one more time. “Sir, I really don’t think ... I ... I think I should at least insist on the removal of the masks—”

  “That will be all, Ensign Vogt. The badges, please. That’s an order.”

  Vogt froze in indecision for a moment, then slumped and handed over the badges.

  As Takayasu passed them back to his guests, he added, “I’m also ordering you not to call any other stations or sound any alarms. We’re all going upstairs, so the higher-ups will know all about th
is soon. Everyone is here on my authority, and you will not be held accountable for any lapse or wrongdoing, Ensign, provided you follow the orders I just gave to you. Is that understood?”

  “Yeah— Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, then,” Takayasu said as he headed around the desk. “Gentlemen ... shall we?”

  PCA

  Captain Brunn was in the middle of reviewing some critical reports — yet another rogue breakout attempt had occurred around dawn; thankfully, it was another failure, but how the hell were they doing this?! — when he slowly became conscious of Lieutenant Hart’s voice coming from outside his office door. Normally, Brunn tuned this out as simple office white noise, as Hart’s desk was in the anteroom, but this morning his voice was raised and sounded like he was standing literally in front of the door.

  Annoyed, his concentration derailed, Brunn stabbed a finger down on his intercom button. “Lieutenant Hart,” he clipped, “why should I bother asking not to be disturbed if you’re going to throw a damn party right outside my office?”

  Brunn expected the raised voices to desist, and in that he was satisfied, but he had also presumed that Hart would respond with an apology over the intercom. Instead, the office door opened, and to Brunn’s surprise, he saw Powerhouse standing at the threshold, with only Hart’s eyes and the top of his head visible over the paranormal’s broad shoulder.

  “Captain Brunn,” Powerhouse said, “I need to speak with you.”

  Brunn stared at him for a second before waving him in. “Of course, of course, Lincoln, come on.”

  “S-Sir—” Hart stammered as Powerhouse stepped inside.

  “That will be all, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir—!”

  “I said that will be all, Lieutenant Hart,” Brunn snapped, irritated at having to repeat himself. “And keep it down out there.” What had gotten into Hart today?

  Hart shrank visibly as Powerhouse closed the door in his anxious face, and just before the gap was sealed, Brunn caught what might have been a chuckle coming from the anteroom. Was that Shockwave? Was he going to have to deal with that pain in the ass next? Christ, what a morning.

  Powerhouse came to stand in front of Brunn’s desk. When Brunn gestured for him to have a seat, he responded, “No, thank you, sir. I’d rather stand.”

  That gave Brunn a moment’s pause, but he quickly recovered. “As you will. Would you like something to drink?” Then he finally realized something. “Lincoln, it’s not necessary for you to wear your mask in here. I promise there are no paparazzi lurking behind my desk.”

  “I’m here on official business, sir,” Powerhouse replied, as if that explained it.

  “All right, then. What can I do for you, Lincoln? If you’re here to apologize about the mess you boys made of the gym, there’s no need. I’m sure we both know who started the trouble, and I promise you—”

  “It’s not about that, sir, though I do apologize for it.” Powerhouse appeared to steel himself for a moment, then said, “I need a favor, sir.”

  Brunn reclined in his chair, mulling that over. This was unexpected; although the PCA had gone out of their way to make Lincoln happy, he rarely asked for favoritism outright — and when he did, it always involved those damned kids. But even then, he was very humble about the whole thing.

  Now, though ... now he seemed different. His demeanor was courteous, yet somehow challenging, and Brunn didn’t like it.

  At last, the Captain said, “ ‘A favor.’ I see.” He tipped a finger toward Lincoln’s mask again. “I thought you said this was official business.”

  “It’s an official favor, sir.”

  “All right, then, you know I’m more than happy to help you, Lincoln, whenever I can. But I’m afraid I’ve got a lot on my plate this morning, and, in deference to Lieutenant Hart, you did show up without an appointment. Since it’s an official ‘favor,’ what say you write it up for me and submit—”

  “I’m afraid it can’t wait, sir.”

  Brunn was getting really peeved now, but again, he reminded himself how valuable an asset Lincoln was to the PCA. “All right, then,” he said, keeping his voice casual and rocking very slightly in his chair. “Let’s hear it, Lincoln.”

  “I need you to requisition a private jet for me.”

  Brunn stopped rocking. “Excuse me?”

  Lincoln repeated, “I need to requisition a private PCA jet.”

  “I see,” Brunn said, unable to keep his tone warm this time. He needed to nip this in the bud, right now. With just a touch of sarcasm, he asked, “And when, exactly, would you need this private jet? And where, may I ask, would it be taking you?”

  Unfazed, Lincoln answered, “Right away, preferably this morning. And it would be taking us to Washington, D.C.”

  “Really?” Brunn responded, with more than a touch of sarcasm this time. “I notice you said ‘us.’ So you’re having a real party, are you?”

  “No, sir. I’ll be transporting two other PCA agents, one civilian, and one foreign dignitary. I also suggest that you and Lieutenant Commander Panettiere may want to join us.”

  “Oh, do you, now?”

  “Yes, sir. But that would be entirely up to you and the Lieutenant Commander, of course.”

  “My, how gracious of you, agent.” Brunn leaned forward, placing his palms on his desk, and stood. “And why, exactly, do you feel you can make such an outrageous request? I was just reflecting upon the fact that the PCA has been very good to you, Lincoln, out of generosity and gratitude for your paranormal services. But this ...” He shook his head.

  “I know that, sir. But I have to admit, I’ve been wondering lately ...”

  “Wondering what, agent?”

  “If I really belong with the PCA, sir.” Powerhouse folded his arms and gazed up toward the ceiling, as though deep in thought. “I got into this whole business on the wrong side of the tracks. Yeah, I was forced to, but I still felt really guilty about it. I did some things that I’m not proud of.” He snorted at that in self-depreciating humor. “To say the least. So ... I joined the PCA to make amends. Yes, you’ve been very generous to me and my family, but I’ve also toed the line for a good year now. When you said, ‘Jump,’ I jumped.”

  “That’s the way the chain of command works, agent.”

  Powerhouse looked down at Brunn. “I kno0w that. But this isn’t the military, is it? And I’m just a volunteer, aren’t I?” He dropped his arms, matching Brunn’s rigid posture. “So I’m asking for a big favor, Captain. Maybe it’s a little out of line, but you know what? I’ve earned it.”

  Not backing down just yet, Brunn returned, “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that I agree with that, Agent. That you’ve ‘earned’ the right to ask me to requisition you a goddamn private jet at the drop of a hat. Let’s pretend that’s all well and good, just for the moment. I still have to ask: Why the hell would you be taking that jet to Washington? And what’s all this ‘foreign dignitary’ business? Foreign diplomacy is a little out of the PCA’s jurisdiction, and it’s sure as hell out of yours.”

  Powerhouse’s eyes crinkled, and though that’s all that Brunn could see of his face, he was pretty sure Lincoln was smiling under his mask. “That’s where I think you and Lieutenant Commander Panettiere may want to tag along. Trust me, sir, this is one sliver of foreign diplomacy that you’ll want the PCA to be a part of.” He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. “Want to see what got Lieutenant Hart all riled up?”

  Brunn had to admit that piqued his interest; he had never known Powerhouse to stoop to melodrama. “All right,” he said at last. “But I’m telling you right now, Lincoln. I’m being truly honest with you. This had better knock my socks off.”

  Powerhouse’s eyes squinted even further, and his voice sounded on the edge of laughter when he said, “Deal.”

  Disgruntled but curious, Brunn rounded his desk. Powerhouse let him take the lead as he marched over to his office door. Throwing Lincoln one more look of annoyance, he opened the door to the
anteroom ...

  ... and then Captain Brunn, the man in charge of the regional headquarters of the PCA, shared an experience in common with The Great American Bank employee Arturo Froment: He very nearly wet his pants.

  PCA

  Defense Secretary McDermott grumbled as he strode down the hall away from the Oval Office. “And they just showed up?” he grilled the Secret Service agent marching alongside him. “Without notice, without making arrangements, without the courtesy of a single damned phone call?!”

  “Mostly, sir, yes,” the agent answered, and it annoyed the Defense Secretary further that the shorter man was keeping up with him without any visible effort.

  “What do you mean, ‘mostly’? Did they make arrangements or didn’t they?”

  “They did not make prior arrangements, sir. But they let us know as soon as they arrived in D.C., so we had some notice.”

  “And why wasn’t I notified immediately?”

  “Because they weren’t asking for you, sir,” the agent explained as they rounded the corner, heading toward one of the underground access points — the entries that the guided tours of the White House didn’t point out to the general public.

  “Then why am I being bothered with this now?!”

  For the first time, the Secret Service agent hesitated. Then he admitted, “You were the compromise, sir.”

  “The compromise?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So if they didn’t want to see me, who were they here ...?” McDermott’s face reddened further as they entered the elevator. “They wanted to go to the top, is that it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McDermott stabbed the button and the doors closed. “This is ridiculous. Who do they think they are?”

  “The ranking officer is Captain—”

  “I understand that! But why are they here, bothering us, instead of back home dealing with those damn prisonbreaks?”

  Again, the Secret Service agent hesitated. At greater length this time, he said, “I ... sir, if this is what I think it is, this might be ... bigger than that.”