by Hondo Jinx
For fuck’s sake, Brawley, he’s a good guy! He wants to help you!
Again, her words rang of truth. But from what Remi had told Brawley, Jamaal was a powerful Seeker. He could have planted the notion in Tammy’s head.
He didn’t brainwash me, Tammy insisted, reading his thoughts. Brawley sensed a quiver of doubt in her assertion.
You get away from him, you let me know, darlin.
How? I’ve been trying all night to reach you, and this is the first I’ve gotten through. I have no clue where you are, and if you go out of range, I won’t know which—
Texas, Brawley interrupted, bothered by the notion of getting this girl and kids into trouble. That’s where we’re headed.
Thank you for telling me.
Brawley released a strong pulse of Seeker force. You will not tell them. You and your kids get away from Jamaal. Come to the Lone Star State and give me a shout. I’ll help y’all. Bring Hazel, too, if you can, but not the cop.
I don’t know how we can do that. I mean, he’s—
Figure it out, darlin. Brawley gave her another shot of juice. Any of my thoughts you picked up on without me putting them into words, forget them right now.
All right. But Brawley—
No, he thought in a commanding tone. Now back off and leave me alone. No snooping. If you want to get in touch, you just say knock-knock-knock. And if I don’t answer, leave me the hell alone. You hear me?
You’re a pain in the ass, Brawley. You owe me. Big time. You better not leave us high and dry.
Give Jamaal the shake.
You’re asking me to piss off the Order.
Make your choice, darlin. Ain’t nobody gonna make it for you. Who do you want protecting you and your kids? Jamaal or me?
21
“It’s here,” Brawley said.
Sage nodded. “I thought so, too, but I wasn’t sure. I sense something.”
Everyone stood outside the RV, parked a fair distance back from the rest stop facility, which burned brightly in the humid Louisiana night.
Out on the highway, cars passed sporadically. But traffic was starting to build again as night hastened toward dawn.
“It’s here,” Brawley repeated, and went about the business of double-checking his pistols, extra mags, and the energy in his arm. He dipped into his mind and quickly prepped a few dozen rounds of telekinetic ammunition.
Because he not only sensed the item. He also sensed danger. Dread had been burgeoning within him the whole long ride from Trucker’s Paradise.
By Sage’s frown, he suspected she sensed danger, too.
“A turnpike rest stop,” Nina said. “Not exactly the hiding place I would’ve expected for some epic power mage artifact, but okay.”
“Trust me,” Brawley said, “it’s inside.”
“Perhaps the item’s signal is only perceptible to you, husband,” Sage said. “Your parents or their assignees could have limited its transmission to your psionic signature. All I sense is significance, and I am certain that even this would be imperceptible to me if I weren’t searching alongside you.”
Brawley nodded. “Could be, darlin. But let’s get the damn thing and figure out the finer points later. I got a feeling we’re in for another shitstorm.”
“I have the same feeling, husband,” Sage said.
“Me too,” Callie said, looking around, her skinny shoulders hunched like those of a cat ready to spring away. “It feels like something is waiting, just out of sight. Like a cat-killing dog, one that knows enough to wait.”
“Guaranteed someone back at the diner contacted the Order,” Remi said. “Let’s get the thing and get out of here.”
Frankie stood close to Remi, her green eyes full of worry. The poor girl was shaking like a car about to blow its engine.
He touched Frankie’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze of Seeker juice. “You’re all right, darlin. Do me a favor? Wait in the RV so it’ll be ready to go, all right?”
Frankie nodded, obviously relieved. Unlike Brawley’s other traveling companions, Frankie apparently wasn’t a full-blown danger ranger.
“Did you knock out the cameras, darlin?”
Frankie nodded again.
“Good work. Thank you.”
“Let’s go,” Nina said. “I want to get this over. You’ve been talking so much shit about Texas I’m actually excited to see it.”
“You’re going to love Texas, darlin,” Brawley said, “but I need you to stay in the RV and keep everyone safe.”
The girls all started talking at once, everyone saying he couldn’t go in alone.
“You’re not thinking straight,” he said. “You heard that broadcast. They’re looking for large concentrations of power. Together, we have a psi score of over 900 points.”
“Nine hundred and five points to be precise, husband,” Sage said.
“Thank you, Doctor Nerdwell,” Nina said.
“Brawley’s right,” Remi said. “Anyone sees a dude and five chicks strolling along, rocking close to a thousand points, they’re going to wonder.”
“Especially a rest stop,” Brawley said. “They know we’re on the move. We’re going to make this quick. Nina, Sage, Callie, and Frankie, you stay in the RV.”
Nina and Callie started to protest, but Brawley stopped them with his eyes and a subtle shake of his head.
Then he pointed to the back of the lot. “Park back there. Sage, stay on high alert for anyone who takes a special interest in the RV. Nina and Callie, you stay ready to defend. Frankie, you monitor the security and get ready to drive like hell.”
All four women nodded.
He turned to Remi. “Give me a ride, darlin?”
“My pleasure, handsome,” she said, flashing the feral grin he’d come to both love and trust.
Brawley climbed onto the Harley, deepened their cloak, and watched Frankie drive off toward the back of the lot.
There were a surprising number of vehicles in the lot, given the late hour. That was good, having so many fuggles around. If the Order did show up, they would be hesitant.
As they say, he who hesitates is lost.
And that goes double when violence is involved.
Brawley’s sense of the item grew as they approached the building.
Nina was right. It was a weird place to stash an item of great power.
But the location had certain advantages. It was open 24/7, accessible from either direction. It offered plenty of cover and a quick escape.
The more he thought about it, the more sense this location made.
They parked and went inside, where the item’s aura strengthened yet again.
The scene inside was familiar to him from countless late-night roadside pitstops during his years on the road.
The restaurants were closed, but several customers and employees milled around in the brightly lit convenience market. The central dining section was mostly empty. People occupied only half a dozen tables. Some were tired-looking families, scarfing down gas station meals. The others were loners sipping coffee and fiddling with cell phones.
Brawley scanned the lot of them. All fuggles.
Good.
“So where is this thing?” Remi asked, studying their surroundings like an off-duty cop.
Brawley held her question in his mind for half a second and had the answer. His eyes went to the back wall, where a tall guy with an afro was emerging from an opening over which hung a large sign reading “MEN.”
He pointed.
“Glorious,” Remi said. “Let’s go, then.”
Brawley shook his head, watching as two guys entered the restroom. One looked like he really had to go. The other followed, mocking his buddy’s urgency. Both were fuggles.
“I got this, darlin. You just wait here and look pretty.”
“Very funny, handsome. Hurry up.”
“In and out,” he said.
“That’s what she said.”
Brawley shook his head. “Nina’s wearing off on yo
u.”
Remi laughed. “Heaven help me. Be careful, handsome.”
He gave her a quick kiss and went inside.
As soon as he passed through the door, he knew he’d been right. The item was in there.
The two dudes stood at opposite ends of the urinals, still laughing. They sounded Cajun.
“You drillin’ a hole in the porcelain?” one guy asked.
Brawley cast a quick glance around the large restroom, seeing no one else but knowing the stalls might be occupied.
He approached a sink. The automatic faucet kicked on.
He splashed water on his face, trying to sense where the item was exactly. His attention was drawn to the stalls behind him.
His sense of danger lingered. Was someone in there, waiting for him?
He didn’t sense anyone.
Wanting to wait for the Cajuns to leave, he splashed more water on his face and glanced in the mirror.
The dudes were finishing up. Good.
Brawley went for a paper towel, but the dispenser was empty.
Paper hung like a brown tongue from the next dispenser over. He leaned in that direction, triggering the next sink’s faucet, pulled out a few sheets, and patted his face dry. By the time he’d balled up the towels and tossed them out, the men had left.
Go time.
Brawley approached the stalls. As he walked down the row, the sense of the item grew more and more intense. Finally, reaching the last stall, it waned slightly.
He backed up to the next to last stall and pushed through the door.
No attacker waited inside. It was just a run-of-the-mill restroom stall in need of cleaning.
He stepped inside, letting the door shut behind him.
Where was the artifact?
Here. Definitely. But where?
The floor was empty, save for shoe prints and toilet paper and a discarded candy wrapper.
Within the filthy toilet, a translucent sheet of toilet paper floated in the dirty water like a ghost hovering in a dusky sky.
He hoped to hell the item wasn’t inside the toilet.
His eyes went to the toilet paper dispenser, but that felt wrong, like he was moving in the wrong direction.
His eyes looked up at the lights overhead. Again, this felt like his search had gone off the rails.
Stepping forward, he felt the opposite sensation. He was getting warmer. He stepped forward until he was right in front of the toilet.
Warmer still.
There was nothing on the stall or rear cinder block wall except a few uninspired scribblings.
But his eyes riveted to the wall at the rear of the stall. Not the uninspired graffiti there but the wall itself. The cinder blocks.
One block seized his attention. It didn’t look special. It was just an eight by twelve rectangle painted institutional yellow decorated with a Sharpie doodle depicting either a three-legged man or a profoundly obscene stick figure.
The item was behind that stick figure inside the block.
Brawley was sure of it.
He placed his hand on the block and could almost feel the item vibrating just out of reach. Unfortunately, he felt no seam, no latch, no way in.
He climbed on top of the toilet and stood up just enough to scan the bathroom, dragging his eyes across the wooden door, the row of sinks and mirrors in front of him, and the bank of urinals.
All empty.
Then why was his danger sense clanging like a speeding fire truck?
Jumping down again, he placed one hand on the back wall and directed carnal energy to his other fist, hardening the knuckles to steel. He punched the block with a crisp shot, careful not to pulverize it. After all, he couldn’t risk destroying the gift in the process of extracting it.
He hit the block again, slightly harder this time.
A tiny crack shot vertically across the block from top to bottom, jagged as lightning.
Yes.
He punched again, harder still, and the surface of the block spiderwebbed with cracks.
With the next shot, the surface of the block crumbled inward. Chunks of cinder block tumbled away, dinging loudly off the pipes and porcelain and splashing into the disgusting water.
Brawley pushed his fingers into the broken cinder block clearing away broken pieces and brushing them aside.
The sense of the item’s presence filled the small space now.
He reached inside, and his fingers closed on a slender metal item. Instantly, Brawley knew he’d found the second gift.
He pulled his hand from the rubble. It was a key. A large, yellowish, skeleton key covered in the dust of pulverized cinder block material.
A key to what, exactly?
He had no clue. Regardless, he felt the thrill of victory. That had been much easier than he’d expected.
Beyond the stall, the restroom door whined open, bumped slowly off the wall, and sighed, closing again.
Brawley’s danger sense spiked.
He climbed quietly onto the toilet, crouching on the lid, and doubled down on his cloak.
Because he sensed that a psi mage had entered the room.
The wooden door thumped softly shut. All was silent.
Brawley readied his arm and leaned forward to peer out the slender crack in the stall door.
He saw no one, heard no one.
But someone had opened the door, and it felt like someone was in here.
He rose just enough to peer over the stall door, scanned the space, and crouched again.
Empty.
Then why was his danger sense wigging out?
The automatic sink near the door kicked on.
Brawley rose, peered over the door, and saw no one.
The next sink kicked on. And the next.
He saw no one, but something was triggering those sinks.
His danger sense clanged like a dinner bell.
You sneaky son of a bitch, Brawley thought, remembering something Sage had told him about invisibility. Some Seekers could make themselves imperceptible to humans but still triggered motion-detecting machines.
When the next faucet snapped on, Brawley shoved the stall door open and released a telekinetic blast.
There was a loud explosion, and Brawley flew backwards onto the toilet as if telekinetic recoil had blown him off his feet.
But the burning pain in his gut and sudden hot wetness there told another story.
Apparently, getting blasted with force canceled a Seeker’s invisibility. Because his would-be assassin lay semiconscious and wholly visible upon the ground, still wearing his greasy white apron.
It was the skinny cook who had eyed them at the truck stop before disappearing abruptly. The bastard had cloaked himself, followed them here, and waited to catch Brawley alone, meaning to collect on the bounty.
He lay broken at Brawley’s feet, flopping awkwardly on the ground, not even going for the chunky revolver he’d used to shoot Brawley.
The man’s upper body was intact but only barely. The torso was misshapen and lumpy like a duffel bag full of sporting equipment. His face was masked in blood. The jaw flopped up and down with the dogged rhythm of a dying thing fading fast.
Brawley got to his feet, the pain in his stomach ebbing away as the bullet wound healed.
“You should’ve stuck with cooking, buddy,” Brawley said, and raised his boot in the air. Then he slammed it down, crushing the asshole’s skull.
And that was that.
Brawley studied the corpse for half a second and was struck by a smattering of facts. The cook’s name was Edwin Medara. He had been a restless soul and an unrepentant asshole of the lowest order, who had been working at Trucker’s Paradise in order to take advantage of—
The rush slammed into Brawley then, flooding his mind and body for a second sizzling euphoria.
A quick check revealed that killing this asshole had boosted his psi score to an even 200 points.
The door banged open, and a wild-eyed Remi rushed in sweeping a sawe
d-off, double-barreled shotgun back and forth.
Seeing Brawley, Remi said, “You good?”
He nodded. “But he ain’t.”
Reaching down, he picked up the dead man and dumped him in the stall. Edwin Medara’s corpse jammed against the wall, his crushed head stuffed into the dirty toilet.
Brawley closed the door.
“Whoever finds that guy is going to have one hell of a shock,” Remi said. “What a weird way to commit suicide.”
Brawley kicked the revolver into the stall.
“Let’s go,” he said. “My danger sense is squawking like a wet parrot in a room full of cats. People hear gunshots, they call the cops. And I reckon the Order is paying close attention to the fuggle police scanners tonight.”
Remi nodded and opened the door. “Did you get it?”
“I sure did,” he said. He held up the key, loving the fierce smile that burned across her pretty face. “Let’s go.”
The dining area had cleared out. Over in the well-lit marketplace, a few patrons and workers peeked like frightened gophers from behind shelves and counters.
Brawley strode toward the doors, wishing to hell he had a hat to tip in their direction.
Soon enough, he thought. Soon enough. Because he had plans concerning that off-limits hat of his.
Moving cautiously, they left the building.
The RV was coming toward them from across the lot.
He scanned the rest of the parking area, sensing nothing unusual. Out on the highway, cars came and went, came and went.
Somewhere in the distance, others were fast approaching. Fuggle police. The Order. Maybe the FPI.
Yes, his intuition responded. All of them.
Remembering his dreams, he shifted his eyes skyward and scanned the darkness for anything else. Namely, a great pair of gray eyes staring down out of the night sky.
Luckily, he saw no such thing. And no purple wormhole shot through with lightning, either.
Brawley’s dread lingered. Probably because of everybody coming this way.
“Come on, handsome,” Remi said, slapping the seat behind her.
He straddled the bike, studying the strange key as Remi brought the Harley to life.
There were etchings in the golden shaft.
Brawley wiped dirt from the key and squinted, trying to read the inscription by the illumination of the sodium lamps overhead.