Team Omega

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jackson had expected the bathroom to be luxurious, but he hadn't realised just how big it would be. There was a shower, a bathtub large enough for three people and a sink, as well as a selection of towels, shampoos and designer hairsprays from a dozen different brands. Dana ignored the luxury, moving straight to the bathtub and peering at the plug. It was surrounded by black ashes.

  “Interesting,” she said, pulling on a rubber glove and picking up a tiny sample of the ash. “I wonder what this is...”

  “Cigarette ash?” Jackson hazarded. “The anti-smoking mafia might have convinced the owners to ban smoking within the stadium.”

  “You think that would have stopped them from allowing her to smoke?” Dana asked, dryly. “Dreamy Girl brought them millions; they’d be happy giving her pretty much anything she wanted in exchange. Look at all the concessions they made to her privacy. They wouldn't do that for any random stranger off the streets.”

  Jackson nodded, slowly. “So what’s the ash?”

  “I have no idea,” Dana said. She sniffed it thoughtfully. “Doesn't smell of fire, almost as if whatever caused the ash wasn’t a real fire...”

  Her face darkened suddenly. “Smell it,” she said, extending her fingers towards Ron. “Doesn’t it smell familiar?”

  Ron shuddered. “Burning human flesh,” he said, darkly. Burnt flesh wasn't uncommon on military operations—and there were superhumans who used fire as a weapon. Several operators had left Team Omega because they were too badly burned to continue to serve. “Someone burned a human body in the bathtub.”

  “Maybe,” Dana said. She picked up her cell phone and looked down at it. “I’m not a forensic expert—we’ll have to call someone in to look at the ashes and do a DNA test—but the tub isn't even scorched. The fire happened somewhere else and they tried to wash the ashes down the bathtub into the sewers.”

  “Fuck,” Jackson said, grimly. Parker Lewis had been fourteen years old, with his entire life ahead of him. Now...if this was Parker Lewis, they were looking at his remains. “What the hell did Dreamy Girl do to him?”

  “I would hesitate to speculate,” Dana said. She clicked her cell phone and called the FBI’s office. “This is Anderson; I need a forensic team out here now.”

  Jackson listened as she rattled out a description of what she was seeing, including snapping photographs with a modified digital camera of the crime scene. The FBI would start analysing them even before the forensic team arrived to start dissecting the entire suite piece by piece. Ron stepped back and nodded for Jackson to follow him back into the main room, looking over at the remains of someone’s feast. It was possible that Dreamy Girl had ordered the food to cover the smell of burned ashes. They hadn't smelled anything until they’d found the ash themselves.

  “Damn it,” Dana said, as she finished her call. “Should have had the team on standby, or brought them with me, but the Director was worried about the political implications. That smarmy bastard back there shelled out a vast amount of money in a city where everything is up for sale; we start prodding too hard at Dreamy Girl, we get roped in by our superiors and crucified by the media.”

  “I need to inform the Captain,” Ron said. Jackson cursed himself. He should have thought of that too. “And then...do we arrest Dreamy Girl on suspicion of murder?”

  “I should have convinced the FBI to give me that all-female team I wanted,” Dana said, without answering the question. “One look at her unveiled and you’ll be too distracted to arrest anyone.”

  She shook her head. “The forensic team should be here in twenty minutes,” she added. “Call your Captain, but don't let the suspects know that you’ve found anything. I assume you have a procedure for that?”

  Ron nodded and activated his communicator. “Oscar-Blue-Sierra,” he said, a term meaningless to anyone outside Team Omega. “Confirm, over.”

  There was a pause as Lane sought privacy. “Confirmed,” his voice said in their earpieces. “Go ahead.”

  “We have evidence of at least one body destroyed, perhaps by extra-normal means,” Ron said. “Dreamy Girl may have become the number one suspect in the disappearance of Parker Lewis and the others. Code Black; I say again, Code Black. The forensic team is on its way to attempt to ID the dead body...”

  “I’ll call in the others,” Lane said. “Remain with Agent Anderson and don’t allow anyone to contaminate the crime scene.”

  Jackson nodded to himself. At least Dreamy Girl didn't have any abilities apart from her ability to look like the most desirable woman in the world. Or, he reminded himself sharply, they thought she had no other superpowers. What if she had something else, something that allowed her to break down a dead body into ash? Jackson couldn't imagine how that power and her semi-telepathic power went together, but so little was understood about the genetic lottery that produced superhumans—and mutants. For all they knew, the seemingly-harmless woman was deadly dangerous.

  Gamma Team was armed, but it would take time for them to get into position and back up the Captain if necessary. Besides, there was a legal issue here; Dreamy Girl was rich enough to afford the best lawyers in Washington, people who could take an inch of doubt in the prosecution’s case and widen it enough to convince a jury that she was actually innocent, or the helpless victim of circumstances. He was still mulling it over when a team of FBI agents arrived, chased them out of the suite, and started to examine the remains.

  “Got an ID,” their leader said, ten minutes later. “I downloaded the DNA record of the boy’s father from the Pentagon database and ran it against this one. There’s no doubt that the dead body was related to Major Lewis, almost definitely his son.”

  Jackson frowned. “Almost definitely?”

  “DNA testing is a little more finicky than anyone likes to admit,” the agent said. “Particularly when the crime scene has already been badly contaminated—and this one has. It could be his son, or his brother...anything past that is highly unlikely. I’ll need to get a copy of the mother’s DNA to confirm that it was her son who died here.”

  “But we have enough to proceed,” Dana said. “We know that Parker Lewis died here, right in Dreamy Girl’s bedroom. I think it's time we arrested them, read them their rights and carted them off to holding cells. The SDI will probably want Dreamy Girl, but we can start by taking her statement—if she has anything to say.”

  She stood up. “I need to speak to Captain Lane and then deal with her,” she added. “Make sure you file copies of everything offsite. We don’t want to lose our prey now we’ve caught her.”

  Jackson and Ron followed her back through the corridors to where Lane was waiting, along with the Sergeant and two armed and armoured men from the backup team. It was an uncomfortable reminder that they were only wearing light body armour so that they didn't look too military. The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team used military-grade gear, he reminded himself, promising to bring it up during the AAR. They shouldn't have had to use weaker body armour when they could have posed as HRT operatives.

  “I’ll make the arrest,” Dana said, once she’d briefly outlined what they’d discovered. “If it hits the fan, you need to put her down as hard as possible.”

  “I think we may need to try to get people out of the room first,” Lane reminded her, dryly. “We don’t want civilians in the area if we can afford it.”

  “They’re all under arrest,” Dana said, flushing slightly. She wouldn't be used to superhuman violence, even if she did have a good arrest record. “Can you handle that?”

  “Just tell them that we need to speak to them separately,” Lane suggested. Behind Dana, Ron winked at Jackson, who fought to keep a straight expression. “And then we can move in on Dreamy Girl herself.”

  Jackson could envisage hundreds of things that could go wrong—he’d worked through dozens of simulations where hostages and innocent bystanders died because someone made a rookie mistake—but surprisingly most of Dreamy Girl’s support staff agree
d to be interviewed without a fight. They walked out of the room, where the FBI formally arrested them and read their rights, before handcuffing them and marching them outside to a prisoner transport. At least they’d be out of the firing line if something went badly wrong. In the end, only the bodyguards and the manager remained with her. They’d refused to leave.

  He followed Dana into the room, one hand on his pistol and the other on his baton. “Miss Reynar, I must inform you that you are under arrest on suspicion of multiple murder,” Dana said, kneeling down in front of the shrouded Dreamy Girl. “You have...”

  “This is outrageous,” the manager interrupted. “You cannot arrest my client...”

  “You are also under arrest,” Dana said, interrupting him in turn. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney; if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do you understand these rights I have just read to you?”

  Dreamy Girl said nothing. “I have to ask,” Dana said, sharply. “Do you understand...?”

  A hand shot out of Dreamy Girl’s cloak and latched onto Dana’s hand. She started to struggle and then started to scream. Jackson lunged forward, unsure of what was happening, until he saw Dana’s arm growing old and wrinkled. Her bright red hair was turning grey so quickly that he could see it. Desperately, he pulled out his baton and brought it down on Dreamy Girl’s hand. There was a crack as her wrist broke and Dana staggered backwards, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

  Dreamy Girl seemed to look up...and then slammed a punch right into Jackson’s chest. The impact threw him backwards, dropping his baton as he stumbled and fell on his ass. Hadn't he just broken her wrist? Why wasn’t she screaming in pain?

  Dreamy Girl moved to her feet with stunning speed, her cloak falling away to reveal her face. It seemed to be shimmering, as if Jackson had been too badly stunned to see the illusion properly. One of the FBI agents stumbled forward, but Dreamy Girl caught his arm, her fingers touching his bare skin; a moment later, his entire body disintegrated into dust and ashes. The stench of burning human flesh filled the air.

  “Take her,” Lane ordered. “Now!”

  Gamma Team moved in, surrounding Dreamy Girl and hammering away at her with their batons. She lashed out twice, nearly beheading Lane with a single clawed hand, before finally falling to the ground. Gamma Team hit her several more times just to be sure, before pulling back in horror. Jackson stumbled to his feet and joined them, staring at the stunned girl.

  The girl he'd seen on the stage—the illusionary girl—had been everything he'd ever wanted. But the girl in front of him now was chillingly different; she was so huge that she was almost misshapen. His sister had complained about being fat. Dreamy Girl was so large that Jackson couldn't see how she had walked on her own two feet. She had to be at least six hundred pounds. In some ways, her misshapen body reminded him of the Sergeant’s body, but he’d been the result of Dr. Death’s meddling with superhuman genetics. Dreamy Girl was almost certainly a mutant.

  “Medic,” Ron bellowed, calling their attention back to Dana. He was hovering over her, trying to find a pulse. “Get a medic over here, now!”

  Jackson stared as two of the FBI’s medics ran in to tend their special agent. Dana looked as if she had aged fifty years overnight, whimpering slightly as she struggled to come to terms with what had happened to her. There had been no long slow passage into old age, but the sudden theft of years she should have enjoyed before growing old. What the hell had Dreamy Girl done?

  A sudden sob broke the air as the manager seemed to snap out of his shock. Lane nodded to Gamma Team; they picked him up and cuffed him, before marching him out of the room to the FBI’s vans. The SDI would probably want Dreamy Girl—according to the medics, she would probably recover completely—but the manager would go to the FBI. God alone knew what would happen to him. Whatever else he’d done, he’d certainly helped conceal Dreamy Girl’s crimes.

  “The FBI can handle it from here,” Lane said, softly. There was something in his voice that bothered Jackson, a grim awareness that they’d fucked up. But there had been no clue about Dreamy Girl’s real abilities. “Sergeant, take the team back to barracks. We’ll hold the AAR tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said. Lane would probably have to stay long enough to explain what had happened to the FBI. Someone else would probably have to explain to the owners of the stadium that Dreamy Girl wouldn't be giving any more concerts—and they might be liable for the death of Parker Lewis...and for whatever had happened to Agent Anderson. “Come on, lads. Move it.”

  ***

  It was a more pensive team that met in the briefing compartment for the AAR the following day. “The FBI say that Agent Anderson seems to be stuck as an elderly woman,” Lane said, without preamble. “There are some superhuman healers who may be able to do something for her, but the doctors aren't particularly hopeful. It seems likely that she won’t be able to continue her work with the FBI.”

  There was a long pause. “It might be more ammunition for the Congressmen who want to rewrite SARA,” the Sergeant offered. “They might give us more authority to intervene earlier...”

  “If Dreamy Girl hadn't been a registered superhuman, we would never have been called in,” Lane said, shortly. “More to the point, do you want a situation where we are required to poke our noses into every registered superhuman’s business?”

  He tapped the table before anyone could say a word. “The manager confessed once he was safely away from her,” he continued. “You can read a copy of the transcript if you like, but the short version of the story is that Rita Reynar was born with mutant characteristics that became more pronounced as she grew older. If her powers hadn't kicked in at around the same time, I suspect that she would have been forced to go to one of the establishments for mutants who can't really fit into normal society. Instead, she hid her true nature as best she could, only to discover that the only way to maintain her powers was to drain life energy from innocent victims. By then, she was well past caring about a society that would have rejected her if it had seen her true face.”

  “Sounds like some of the problems with Dr. Death’s early creations,” the Sergeant offered. “Could she have been someone’s deliberate experiment?”

  “The SDI is looking into that, but so far they haven’t found anything that would suggest that her appearance was anything more than random chance,” Lane said. “In her career, she apparently discovered that young boys from good backgrounds—no drinking, no drugs—produced the greatest amounts of life energy, so she became a vampire. Davy Wheat was apparently picked up by mistake, hence the decision to risk snatching another boy from San Francisco. Hiding the remains was no problem as once all of the life energy was gone, the body crumbled into dust and ashes.”

  “A freaking vampire,” Ron said, to no one in particular. “Makes you wonder why so many people admire them.”

  Jackson raised a hand. “What’s going to happen to her?”

  “The SDI has taken her into custody and placed her in a cell that will keep her isolated until we can determine if she’s fit to stand trial,” Lane said. “Luckily, that decision doesn't have anything to do with us. Some of this will leak out now that her second concert has been cancelled and the media will start howling their outrage. The FBI will get all the credit, of course.”

  There were some chuckles at that from the team. “At best, she was a Level 2 superhuman when boosted with life energy, but bagging her could have gone a great deal worse,” Lane added. “Once we've had some downtime, we’re going to have to add someone like her to the training scenarios. Every time we relax, something bad happens and the shit hits the fan.”

  He shrugged. “Get some rest,” he ordered. “You’re on leave for the next two days, so enjoy yourself—and remember, anyone who isn't fit for duty on Thursday will be cleaning
the toilets across the entire base. The budget’s too thin to afford proper cleaners.”

  “If we were allowed to hire them,” Ron said. Jackson joined in the chuckles. The base was secure; no one was allowed to enter without permission from the base CO, who often had to check with the specific unit concerned before granting permission. Reporters and other bottom-feeders were not permitted onto the base under any circumstances. “Sir, request permission to borrow a vehicle and leave the base.”

  “Keep your beepers with you,” Lane said. “Just make sure you get some rest. Word has come down from on high that we may be deployed outside the country soon. We need to be ready for that if it actually happens.”

  Jackson nodded. The Marines had been put on alert dozens of times while he’d been a PFC, but only a couple of alerts had led to an actual deployment. It had been enough to frustrate every Jarhead who had to take each separate alert seriously.

  “And we all did well yesterday,” Lane added. “Dismissed!”