Doomsday Exam [BUREAU 13 Book Two]

by Nick Pollotta

  Wow. Burton was even sneakier than I imagined.

  "Well, I have friends in Frisco,” I said, offering the milk. It was refused. “Lucky a Bureau team was there."

  "Yeah, lucky,” the gypsy said the word as if it had a bad taste. “Every night I wake to the screams of the civilians we couldn't save in time from the quake. Lucky."

  I said nothing. There was nothing to say. This was an agent's burden, you accepted the load, went mad, or quit. Sometimes both.

  With fierce strength, Patricia grabbed my arm. “Ed, I'd like to join your team for this mission."

  "Why?"

  "After having seen what that alchemist can do, he's gotta go down for the count. Terminate with extreme prejudice, and I want in."

  Frankly, I was surprised. “Kind of rough talk for a Healer."

  "My powers may be benign,” Pat snarled, “but not me, baby."

  Wow, major personal dichotomy there. I seriously thought about the offer. “What about your home team?"

  She smiled. “I already called Team Angel and its fine with Aki and Damon."

  This was mighty tempting, but logic forced me to decline. “Sorry,” I said softly. “But I must say no. Every field team in the Bureau has been temporarily assigned to the Facility until the damage can be repaired. Gordon has given Tunafish the job of getting Mystery Man, and besides, I've already been assigned Sommers and Sanders. Eight is the most I can handle.” I offered a grin. “Any more and the tires might blow on the RV."

  The Healer accepted the rebuff with class. “Fair enough,” she acknowledged, and released my arm to sit back in her chair.

  Arriving at our table with a tray of food, Jessica gestured at me with a steaming bowl of chili. Quickly I stood, my gut rumbling in impatience. “Gotta go. Take care, Ms.... say what is your last name anyway?"

  This seemed to embarrass the Healer for some reason. “I am of true gypsy heritage,” she explained. “And we often don't have last names. Lineage is sometimes just a matter of opinion. I was going to use the name Gypsy, but the TechServ random name generator decided upon Ritter."

  "Then take care, Pat Ritter. Call if you ever need help."

  "Goodbye, Edwardo,” she said holding out a hand.

  We shook and a pleasant electric sensation flowed up my arm, then over my entire body and I was no longer tired. My leg stopped hurting, my rib straightened and my broken nose slammed into place.

  "That is to let you know what you're missing,” Pat said, walking away with her empty mug.

  After a moment, I turned towards my team running stiff fingers through my hair and scratching the outside of my brain. Maybe we should have kept her. Ah well.

  * * * *

  The report for Technical Services arrived while we were eating. That was fast even for the gang at TechServ. Unfortunately, there wasn't much we could use having garnished the more pertinent points: Caucasian, male, from North America, possible childhood stutter, average height and weight, right-handed. They also ran his fingerprints against the FBI, CIA, Pentagon and NSA files, but didn't find a match. Nothing odd there. Lots of folks weren't in the files; law-abiding civilians, master criminals, and Bureau 13 agents.

  Too bad Mystery Man hadn't gone about barefoot. We caught more criminals from toe prints matched to their baby records from the delivery room of the hospital they were born in, than we ever did from fingerprints. Too many cheap TV shows had taught crooks the value of wearing gloves.

  After lunch, we retrieved Amigo from the basement of Base Command, replaced our broken windshield and headed for home. There were a lot of magical and scientific devices in our Chicago apartment that we could use to try and find SuperFink ***1. With an amoral screwball on the loose armed with the Aztec Book of the Dead, there was no telling what mischief he could be planning. Just reading the table of contents made the sky rain stones for a week. Which simply drove the U.S. Weather Bureau out of its mind trying to explain.

  Once we did find him, going to jail was not an option. There was a nice big grave already waiting for Mystery Man. It was the blast crater where Gil Lapin crashed his jumpjet and burned alive while trapped inside the wreckage. Horace Gordon and Bureau 13 wanted this guy stopped fast and that was fine by us. But my team was not going to make the same mistake twice.

  He was coming back in a coffin, not handcuffs.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Upon receiving our report, Horace Gordon contacted every government law enforcement agency. The FBI, CIA, Secret Service, DEA, Treasury Department, the NSA, ATF, federal marshals, sky marshals, Texas Marshals, plus Army G2, Air Force Intelligence, Navy Security, SAC and NORAD each received a Hunt & Kill order on Mystery Man. An APB was issued to city, county, state and police across the continent, including Canada and Mexico. His picture and featureless fingerprints circulated via satellites and over wires. Our John Doe was listed as a homicidal maniac with rabies, heavily armed, addicted to PCP and totally insane. The police were strictly ordered not to even attempt an arrest, just shoot the suspect and burn the body.

  We highly doubted that any ordinary cop could bring in the alchemist, but their efforts couldn't hurt, and if somebody did manage to pull off a miracle kill, we'd put the person in charge of Bureau 13, just for being the luckiest son-of-a-bitch on the face of the earth.

  * * * *

  Scowling at the tiny photo of Mystery Man on the clipboard, the traffic cop tore a ticket out of her summons book and handed it to George. The soldier's hands were knuckle-white on the steering wheel.

  "Buddy,” the officer drawled. “I don't care if you're a member of the FBI, Mossad and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police combined. Speed in Chicago, and you get a ticket?"

  "Once again, the safety of humanity is in the capable hands of Bureau 13,” Raul announced, as the police officer walked back to her patrol car.

  "Aw shaddup,” George growled, throwing the transmission into drive and easing off the berm at a stately 55mph.

  "Besides, you're still 412 to 2,” Jessica added with a grin.

  Although not telepathic, Mr. Renault's thoughts were plainly readable from the expression on his face. I was surprised he would talk that way about a lady in her presence.

  Shunting out of Bangor-Maine onto Rt. 80 west, we took Interstate 94 to the Dan Ryan Expressway, where Mr. Renault briefly reacquainted us with the local constabulary. Afterwards, we actually obeyed the traffic laws. It was a nice change. I had never known those green/brown blurs alongside the road were trees.

  Taking the Wacker Avenue Exit, we wiggled through the downtown traffic and took Dearborn Road until reaching a modest building in the middle of the block. Home. Our new members did not seem impressed with its innate grandeur, so I started the standard introductory spiel.

  Since no field agent knew where our main headquarters was, each team operated independently. Everybody's home base had to be a fort, sanctuary, armory, supply dump, refueling station and information processing station. It made for interesting structural designs. Once in Roanoke, Virginia we had been forced to apprehend a demonically-possessed Bureau mansion and blasting our way into another agent's home base was not something I would ever like to have to do again. Their robotic lawn jockeys damn near killed me, and to this day, Amigo will not go anywhere near a velvet painting of Elvis.

  The six-story structure before us was an old warehouse converted into an apartment complex. We did the conversion. The warehouse had an antique wrought iron framework, which our mages polymorphed into chrome steel. Then workers poured concrete for the floors and walls, which some friendly gremlins then reinforced with titanium netting.

  Afterwards, the outside of the building was hung with a foot of tough Italian marble and we bricked the interior walls. The windows were three sheets thick: glass, Armorlite, plexiglass. It never got cold in the winter, and for Chicago, that was saying something.

  Every external door was wood sheeting over plate steel, cushioned with xytel plastic inserts and
braced by four oversized hinges. The locks were Bureau specials, and the interior doors were six inch thick African ironwood. Termites broke teeth on the stuff.

  Now an apartment building in downtown Chicago with no tenants would have caused talk. So we did rent out the lower floors, to a family of deaf-mutes and a Heavy Metal rock band that liked to practice at odd hours. Nobody ever investigated any strange noises coming from our place.

  Once we had gotten a deadbeat who refused to pay his rent and invited us to take him to court. Publicity is the last thing we wanted, so after a brief visit by some friends that Raul conjured at midnight, Mr. Deadbeat was gone by morning. Since then, we have had few problems.

  Our team lives on the fifth floor. The forth and sixth levels were jam packed with cinderblocks, sensors, concertina wire, bear traps and Claymore mines. We called the layout a safety sandwich. There was a heliport on the roof, but after what occurred to our last helicopter, the Bureau was rather loathe to give us another. Hey, accidents happen. Personally, I think the new Statue of Liberty looks even better than the old one.

  Now the students were impressed.

  Narrowly missing a crunch between a Mack truck and a taxi, George drove the RV along an inclined ramp into our subterranean parking garage. Flipping a switch on the dashboard, the armored door rumbled into the ceiling, we entered, and it noisily descended behind us.

  To the left was the vehicle repair bay. To the right, parking spaces containing a sleek black sports coupe, a battered red pick-up truck, a white limousine, a station wagon, a sleek speedboat dry-docked on a trailer hitch and a flock of bicycles. Ever spot was filled, except one. We took that.

  "Others park here?” Ken asked, stooping to get out of the van. Both his and Katrina Sommer's suitcases were held in a single hand.

  "Nope, those are all ours,” George said proudly, hefting his 30 lb banjo from the RV. “Never can tell when you're going to need additional transportation."

  "Of appropriate demeanor,” Mindy added.

  Pressing a button on my key chain fob, a piece of the wall dissolved to expose a door. The team trundled inside to the stairs and elevator. We took the lazy way.

  In the lobby, there were two elevators; one for the tenants, another for us. Theirs went from ground level to the third floor. Ours went from the roof to the sub-sub-basement were we kept a bomb shelter.

  "There is a ghost there, no?” Katrina asked.

  Adjusting the leash about Amigo's neck, Raul told her correct. “Old Pirate Pete, a buccaneer from the Spanish Mane. He keeps ordering pizzas and stiffing the delivery man."

  "Why not exorcise the spirit?” Katrina asked suspiciously.

  "He's crotchety, but the local kids love him. Especially at Halloween."

  She gave a fleeting smile. “A most valuable commodity, then."

  "At least for PR purposes."

  Silent as a sigh, the elevator opened to our floor. For anybody else, it would have very loudly dinged. Our private lobby had a plush red carpet to help hide fresh bloodstains and a pleasing abstract wallpaper which disguised bullets holes with amazing success. A Japanese landscape triptych adorned the wall and a couple of chairs offered hospitality to waiting guests. Of course, the chairs closed like a vise on the occupant when commanded.

  While George and the students stood guard, Jessica slid the middle section of the triptych aside to peek into the apartment, I ran a security check, Raul performed a simple Sense Evil spell, and Mindy got the mail.

  "Apartment is clear."

  "No physical intruders."

  "Ethereal vibrations are harmonious."

  "Our subscription to TV Guide has expired!"

  After consoling my friend, I drew a pistol, unlocked the front door and eased it open with foot. The hallway was empty with the lights on. But then, we always leave the lights on. Day and night. George took point, with Mindy doing a cover sweep and we entered the living room. Spreading out in a standard defensive pattern, we waited until Raul stuck his head into the aquarium and asked our fish for a status report.

  "Is this really necessary?” Katrina asked, brushing back her flowing profusion of golden blonde hair.

  Sword in hand, Mindy frowned. “Do you know what we found here once waiting for us?"

  "Nyet,” Katrina replied in stolid Russian.

  "Nobody else either. But it tried to eat the lot of us."

  She frowned. “Ah. Understood."

  Raul surfaced, bone dry, but with a length of seaweed caught behind his ear. I decided not to tell him. “All clear,” he announced, and everybody relaxed.

  Dragging his leash, Amigo headed straight for the kitchen, and two seconds later his empty food bowl began to rattle against the refrigerator. As it was his turn, George shouldered his weapon and followed.

  "Don't forget the sandbox,” Mindy added. The swinging kitchen doors cut off any possible retort.

  Basically in a square format, the apartment had a fancy brick fireplace occupying the entire north wall of the living room, and set before it were three tremendous couches bracketing the hearth. The dining room, kitchen, pantry, laundry, armory, and emergency exit were towards the east. Southward was a blank wall, behind which were Raul's magic library, our InfoNet Cray SV 5 computer, gymnasium and trophy room. To the west was a door-lined corridor that led to our individual bedrooms. Only recently had we removed the dividing partition between mine and Jessica's quarters to form a honeymoon suite. Lord, knows where we'd ever put a nursery.

  A what?!

  Oh, nothing, dear. Nothing.

  "Only thing missing is a batpole,” Ken joked, glancing around the place.

  In artificial panache, Raul kicked a scuffed section of the baseboard and a hidden panel swung out from the wall exposing a polished bronze pipe.

  The giant student gave a rue smile. “I stand corrected."

  "But it only leads to the jacuzzi,” Raul apologized.

  With a loud thump, Ken deposited the luggage to the floor. “What should we do first, sir?"

  "Check the date,” I said, striding to the library and flipping pages on our astrological calendar. Yep, the summer equinox was only two days away.

  "So?” Ken asked, squinting at the ceiling as if he could see the sun overhead.

  Taking a seat on a couch, Kathy crossed her long legs at the knee, her white silk dress hitching to a scandalous position. “Aztec's worshipped sun. Book is strongest at solar crossing."

  The folding partition to the kitchen separated and George appeared. “This timing is too perfect,” he said popping the top on a beer can. “Stealing the book only days before its yearly power surge?"

  "Never trust the obvious,” Raul remarked, scratching at his green draped ear. He extracted the seaweed and glared at me.

  "Laying a false trail to mislead us?” Ken suggested. “When he actually plans on hiding for several months before using the book? While we exhaust ourselves running around in circles?"

  "A possibility,” I noted, starting to pace. “But I have never known any junkie who waited before hitting themselves with a fix. And that is what Mystery Man is, a junkie. A magic addict."

  Getting a hangar from the closet, Jessica hung up her holster and slid the taser into a recharging bracket. “Or perhaps,” she postulated. “He believes that we'll never stop him quickly enough even if we do find him."

  Now that was an unpleasant thought. Ceasing my walk to nowhere, I clapped hands for attention. “Okay people, time is short, so let's divide into three groups. Jessica and I will do a nationwide scan of any unusual occurrences trying to form a pattern."

  "Sounds good,” Ken acknowledged, cracking his knuckles. The simple action made the muscles in his arms ripple and flow like waves on a lake. Stallone, eat your heart out.

  "Raul and Katrina, as our resident mages, you'll hit the books. Try to find something, anything, on the contents of that damn Aztec manual. If we know what Mystery Man is doing, then we can outguess him and lay a trap. But we have got know what the hell is
going on!"

  "I may have something on that,” Raul remarked cryptically, rising to his feet and starting for the library. “Let's go, Sommers."

  The buxom Russian seemed mildly perturbed by our constant use of her last name, but there was a good reason. The Bureau lost recruits at a frightening rate and calling new people by their last names helped us maintain a psychological distance from them and thus lessen the pain of their demise. This was a most unforgiving business.

  As they departed into the lab, I went on. “George, Sanders and Mindy get the tough job. I want you three to try and concoct some kind of weapon we can use against the alchemist: containment, stun, cripple, confusion, anything. No holds barred. Got it?"

  "Check.” They headed for the arsenal on the other side of the kitchen. George had assisted in laying out the floorplans.

  As I palmed the south wall, it broke apart to reveal our quietly humming Cray 4 SVG mainframe InfoNet computers. The free standing, cabinet-style, data processing units that composed the central core of the computer were staggered about in the room in the exact same order as the tissue folds of a human brain. For some reason it improved both speed and memory. Heck, we'll use anything that works.

  Reaching the main terminal, Jess took a seat at the fast-feed video monitor and set the dial to maximum speed. “Normal routine?” she asked. “I'll do radio, television, and cable. You hit the magazines and newspapers?"

  Typing away on a keyboard, I confirmed. “S'okay. But beside the usual things, bizarre robberies, mysterious deaths, that sort of stuff. Be sure to watch for any rocky rain storms."

  "Gotcha."

  We began. As the team had been on the road for over a month, there was a ton of backlog to sift through. But Jess and I were old hands at this. Anything of interest was shunted into a hold file for later review and correlation. Luckily, it seemed to have been a fairly quiet summer in America. There was a report of cubist flying saucers in New Jersey. That was nothing. Probably just the Venusians again stealing more of our toxic waste, God bless'em. But I made a note of it. The Loch Ness monster had been sighted by a drunk in Lake Ontario. Phooey. Nessie lived in the Bermuda Triangle these days. Elderly woman attacked by vampire in Atlanta, Georgia. The police already had the guy, just a nut with a razorblade glued to his incisors.