Brodie claps his hands together, giddy with nervous energy. “Alright, I’m ready to do this thing. Let’s jump through a portal and go save her.”
Dia shakes her head. “Sorry, but you’re not going anywhere, and neither is Jens. Someone needs to stick around here and babysit Franco.”
Jens throws his arms to his sides. “You mean protect him? With what?”
“With nothing,” Dia replies curtly. “You see anything suspicious you call me right away – I’ll open a portal and get you out of here. Brodie, you’re in charge. Nobody touches my yogurt, no one goes in my room, and if I see one of my programs missing from the TiVo I’m burning all your video games.”
“If you’re going to leave us behind you should take these with you,” says Brodie, pulling a container from beneath the kitchen counter. “I built these a couple nights ago.” He unlatches the case and pulls out an angular black gauntlet with a touch-screen built into it. "You know that movie where Conan the Barbarian and Apollo Creed fight an alien with dreadlocks? I got the idea from there. Who wants to give it a go?”
Dia offers her arm and allows him to attach the wristband. Brodie snaps it into place and secures several latches before silently tapping the activation code into the screen, illuminating the dark surface with a bright green imprint wherever his finger presses. The gauntlet vibrates and she feels a sharp burning sensation piercing her skin. “Ouch! What the hell, Brodie?”
“Needles,” he replies apologetically. “Sorry, D...I probably should have mentioned that before I started the activation sequence.”
“Ya think?” says Dia with a frown.
“It’s part of the design, but you won’t notice them in a minute or two. Sixteen small, flexible syringes embed into your forearm and secure the gauntlet in place. Type in your six-digit code and it’ll mainline the Plan B serum into your bloodstream until the supply runs out; instant trigger and you’re ready to manifest. These things also have an internal tracking device, a heat sig reader, com system, self destruct code...”
“Whoa, hold up there,” Cole interrupts. “I thought I just heard you say self destruct. As in an explosive device…strapped to our forearms?”
“Well it’s nothing too crazy as far as firepower goes; just enough to blow up the device and fry the Plan B serum if someone enters the wrong code five times. So you should program in some digits that you’re not gonna forget.” Brodie attaches the gauntlet to Cole and Paige, assisting them with the programming and explaining the various features as quickly as possible.
Cole is in his manifested state all the time and no longer requires a trigger, but a shot of Brodie’s serum could give him a much-needed boost in power if they run into resistance while they’re in Barcelona.
Preparing to leave, Dia activates her armband and manifests instantly, tearing open a glowing gateway to Spain.
“Just type the same code again to shut it down,” says Brodie, pointing to Dia’s gauntlet. “Save up the juice for when you really need it. You’ll have about twenty minutes of gas before you run dry.”
As Paige and Dia make their way through the portal Cole follows, but can’t help but contemplate the integrity of the experimental device strapped to his arm.
Filled with explosives.
Which is untested in the field.
And was designed by a borderline alcoholic who hasn’t slept in a week.
Who may, or may not, secretly want him dead.
Chapter Twenty-One – Divagate
Barcelona | August 30, 2011 | 9:19 am, Central European Time
Crammed into the backseat of a small white electric car, Cole feels more like a tightly packed sardine than a passenger. Dia races through the winding roads, narrowly avoiding throngs of tourists occupying the streets. Weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic is nerve-wracking enough, but her near-brushes with the locals on their scooters are even more perilous. “Hey, you do realize that they drive on the right side of the road in Spain?” he mutters. “I thought the whole point of renting this toy car was so we wouldn’t attract unwanted attention?”
She relents slightly, slowing to merge into a busy roundabout. “Sorry cowboy. I know it’s a tight fit back there, but I think we’re close. And I’m driving this way because I’m trying to blend.”
“Get off here,” instructs Paige, pointing to her left. “We’re less than a kilometer from the tennis court.”
As they approach the crime scene they’re waved away by a number of police officers who have sealed off the area. The tennis court and the surrounding park are isolated, roped off from the public with thick yellow tape. More than twenty officers stand guard, ensuring that the press and curious onlookers don’t get too close; but that doesn’t stop hundreds of them from snapping pictures from every available space, halting traffic from all directions.
Within the fenced-off area a group of people collect evidence dressed in full hazmat suits; loose-fitting white uniforms that cover their entire bodies from head to toe complete with gas masks, thick orange boots and matching rubber gloves. Some are gathering samples from the clay surface with long metal tongs, while others prepare to transport the corpse, which has already been zipped into a body bag.
“What are they doing over there?” asks Cole, dipping his head and twisting awkwardly to peer out the side window. “I’ve seen those suits in movies and it never ends well. Everyone takes off their helmets because they think they’re safe, and five minutes later they all drop dead from the Ebola Virus.”
“They probably have no idea what happened,” says Paige as she scans the area. “But you can bet they know that there’s no need for the space suits. This all went down hours ago. They would have detected a chemical threat within minutes of arriving on the scene.”
Dia nods in agreement. “If the Barcelona police are putting on this puppet show for the press they must have received instructions from the Council. And check it out: when was the last time a police force was carrying?”
A number of the police officers working crowd control are wearing side arms strapped to their belts – something that hasn’t been legal in over three years within countries that are part of the New World Council. SWAT teams and Special Forces have always been allowed to use guns when given special permission from the government, but re-arming local police means that someone with major political pull has made a drastic decision. The backlash for a move like this will be severe in a number of countries, so it’s clear that law enforcement is armed just for show.
Dia comes to the realization that if they’re spotted, the police won’t be shy about opening fire.
Paige taps a command into the touch screen on her forearm. Rolling down the window she points it towards the tennis court and within a few seconds the gauntlet emits five successive beeps, and continues to pulse like sonar. “I have a strong signature. Now we just need to follow the trail and we’ll find her.”
“What if she’s already in custody?” asks Cole.
“Then we’re too late,” Dia replies, “We can’t risk an extraction from a government facility, especially if dad is running things. He’ll expect us, and who knows what kind of muscle he’ll have there.”
“I have muscle,” says Cole with a grunt, shifting around uncomfortably. “They’re a little compressed at the moment, but give me a minute or two to limber up and I’ll be ready to kick some ass.”
Fifteen minutes later the signal begins to strengthen; the beeps increasing in volume and frequency as they make their way to the north end of the city. The device functions like a GPS, allowing Paige to navigate through the streets and choose the most efficient route towards the source of the heat signature. She motions for her sister to turn down a narrow alley next to a hotel.
Dia turns sharply and brings the car to a stop beneath a rusted fire escape.
“Allison is definitely in here,” says Paige, stepping out of the car. “There are only five stories and I’m betting she’s near the top. But we have a problem.”
&nbs
p; Dia glares at her sister, slamming her door shut. “Define the word ‘problem’.”
Paige increases the volume on the device. “Hear that beeping? If you listen carefully you can tell there are two different signals, and they’re overlapping.”
“So what does that mean?” asks Cole, wriggling himself free from the back seat, his broad shoulders barely fitting through the opening.
“It means that there are two separate signatures coming from this building, and they’re in close proximity. Someone else has manifested in there, and that someone is with Allison.”
Cole stares up at the balconies overhead. “Shit...a Collector?”
“Possibly,” Paige replies, unable to mask the concern in her voice. “Cole, take the fire escape and check out the halls, starting on the top floors. If they were able to track Allison this fast then it means they have the same tech that we do, so they might already know we’re here.”
Without warning Cole leaps to the first rung of the fire escape ladder – seven feet off the ground – and launches himself up two additional stories before Paige and Dia realize that his feet have left the ground.
“Cole!” Dia shouts. “Don’t do anything crazy; text me if you see anything and we’ll be right there.” She’s certain that he heard her instructions, although he neglects to respond and continues to ascend towards the top level.
Paige and Dia enter through the front doors of the hotel and make their way into the small marble entrance. They approach the reception desk where a portly, grey-haired man lounges in a chair with his feet propped up, flipping through a newspaper in front of a slowly oscillating fan.
“Did a young blond girl check in here recently?” asks Dia, leaning forward on the desk. “I’m guessing she was probably with an entourage?”
The man flips down his paper and lets out a long sigh. “No English.” Even if the man truly doesn’t understand what Dia is asking, his communication was loud and clear; that sigh, combined with his facial expression, is an internationally recognized gesture that means ‘get the fuck out of my face’.
Digging a one-hundred dollar bill from her front pocket, Dia slaps it down on the surface of the desk with authority and slides it forward. “Lucky for me I brought a translator.”
The man looks down at the bill and flicks his eyes back to Dia. “Top floor, room 501. Elevator is to your left.”
Cole reaches a small window on the fifth story. He shields his eyes from the glare of the sun and presses his nose against the glass, peering down the long corridor. Towards the center of the building near the elevators he spots a pair of guards wearing protective armor vests, clutching automatic machine guns. They’re both unnaturally large, close to seven feet tall, and are built like chiselled bodybuilders. They appear to be guarding a particular hotel room, with one man posted on either side of the doorway.
Letting his hand fall to the pocket of his jeans Cole touches the outline of his phone through the denim but hesitates, and decides not to remove it. A sensation of rage starts to build inside him. His muscles twitch, his teeth grind, and his heart rate elevates. Suddenly the world is on mute. The sound of the wind rushing in his ears, traffic from the street below and birds chirping on the rooftop are silenced; the only perceptible noise is the pulse in his neck, pounding with increasing intensity.
Glass shatters around him, and the jagged shards shred his black tank top. Small gashes open the skin across his shoulders and forearms.
He’s in a full sprint down the hallway before he’s fully aware of what he’s done.
Leaping forward Cole slams the point of his knee into one of the guards’ vests. It provides enough protection to save him from several broken ribs, but the Kevlar bends from the sheer force of the strike. Cole unleashes a blur of punches that sends the guard reeling, slamming the back of his skull against the exposed brick wall.
The second guard swings his machinegun, narrowly missing Cole’s head as he ducks underneath. Retaliating with a jaw-shattering uppercut, Cole scoops the dazed guard under his shoulder and drives him into a framed picture on the wall, smashing it to pieces and dislodges several bricks.
Cole feels the first guard driving punches into his ribcage from behind. He spins to face his assailant and unloads with a series of elbow strikes and a push kick to the chest that sends him crashing through the door of a utility closet.
The second guard tackles him to the ground and attempts to restrain him, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt as he thrusts his palm into Cole’s throat.
From his back, Cole throws his legs around the guard’s neck and arm, hooking his left foot under the back of his right knee. Restricting the flow of blood through the carotid artery, Cole increases the pressure on the triangle choke and squeezes his legs together, leaving his victim little room to breathe. In competition this submission hold would likely induce a ‘tap out’, where the competitor trapped without hope of escape would pat the mat several times as a sign of surrender. “Tap or nap”, as Gary liked to say when someone was falling unconscious from a choke hold, but was refusing to accept the inevitable. Unfortunately for the guard there is no referee, and no opportunity to offer surrender. His eyes roll back into their sockets and his face continues to redden; within moments the guard sags and passes out, still locked in Cole’s grip.
The other guard stumbles from the closet and Cole springs to his feet, grabbing the edges of his protective vest. Like a rag doll he whips the guard back and forth, smashing him into one wall, and then the other. The force of his massive frame hitting the brick causes a number of light fixtures to dislodge from the ceiling and smash into the floor. As the guard falls to his knees Cole steps back, and uncorks a vicious spinning back kick to the center of his chest. The guard bounces and rolls down the hall as if he’d been thrown from a car during a violent head-on collision.
Cole brushes the shards of glass and debris from his jeans before tearing off the shredded remains of his tank top. He uses the tattered garment as a rag, soaking the blood from his chest, arms and shoulders. The cuts underneath have already healed, leaving no indication that the skin was ever damaged.
The elevator doors slide open with a loud ping to reveal Cole clutching his torn shirt. The walls are crumbling in several places and bricks have fallen to the carpet. Snapped picture frames and shattered light fixtures litter the area, and crunch under his feet as he takes a few steps towards Paige and Dia.
They peer cautiously into the hallway, observing the carnage. Dia raises her eyebrows and makes eye contact with Cole, awaiting an explanation.
“You know these old European buildings,” he says with a shrug, attempting to suppress a smile. “A lot of them are just falling apart.”
Paige points her gauntlet towards room 501, directly across from the elevators. The beeps are so close together than they start to blend, becoming a single, continuous tone as she nears the entrance. “So are we ready to pop in and say hello?”
“You know it.” Cole stands in front of the door, preparing to enter. Paige and Dia enter the codes on their wrist bands, manifesting in unison.
With a swift kick Cole sends the door spiralling into the hotel room, splintering the frame as the hinges rip from the wall. He rushes in and is greeted by four guards – not unlike the two he just disabled in the hallway – pressing gun barrels into his head and chest.
A man clears his throat, and the two guards in front of Cole separate, revealing Allison, her manager, and a familiar enemy sitting at a round table drinking tea.
“Welcome, Mister Cole,” says Goto, cheerfully raising his cup after taking a short sip. “Can I offer you refreshment?”
Chapter Twenty-Two – Mercurial
Barcelona | August 30, 2011 | 10:24 am, Central European Time
The guards stand down and lower their weapons.
Goto raises two fingers and points out the door; without further instruction a pair of them march into the hall and resume the positions of their unconscious counterpa
rts.
Cole balls his fists so tightly that his knuckles crack. He notices Allison and her manager sitting calmly, and is sure that they’re under some form of mind control. “What did you do to them?”
Goto pivots his chair and crosses his legs, leaning back casually with his cup in hand. “I saved them, Mister Cole, and told them the truth: that we’re a group of independent contractors out to help those who are in danger of being wrongly imprisoned by the New World Council.”
“Hey asshole,” adds Paige, “Did you leave out the part about vaporizing the people you ‘help’ once you trap them in The Basement?” As her temper flares the bright purple light dances behind her eyes, swirling like a maelstrom.
“Miss Davenport, really. Please try to differentiate between myself and Govinda. With his...removal...our original task can continue without the unnecessary death of innocent people.” Goto takes another quick sip and shrugs. “Well, at least for the foreseeable future. I’m sure you understand that there are no guarantees.”
“Hello, I’m Richard Steinberg, Allison’s manager.” He stands, if for no other reason than to break the tension in the room. As a reflex reaches into his pocket to remove a stack of business cards; he pulls them halfway out before pausing and thinking better of his decision, and drops them back in. “They showed up not long after the...the incident back at the tennis court. Mister Goto and his guards rushed us here and said we should wait for you and your team to arrive.”
Cole glares at Goto. “So you weren’t bullshitting me. You really want to help us stop The General.”
“Well, help is such a strong word. I was thinking more along the lines of allowing your little band to join my Collectors – that you might assist us in stopping him? But I suppose that’s the idea.”
“You said this was your original mission; to stop The General,” says Cole. “A mission from who? If Govinda wasn’t running the show, then who gave you the orders?”
Relapse (The Vs. Reality Series Book 2) Page 11