by Dowell, Trey
Nobody conscious got in our way, although we did have to step over a full tactical team sleeping in a hallway next to the cafeteria. They were armed more like an army platoon than a security force: heavy squad automatic weapons and full-plate body armor. One of the guys even had a nasty-looking grenade launcher—with a circular drum magazine like an old-time gangster’s tommy gun. Armament like that wasn’t mentioned in the intel from Lyla’s minions; evidently Tucker or his bosses had added a little muscle to their defenses. Still, sleeping muscle wasn’t very intimidating. We kept going.
The quick pace didn’t stop until we approached the mouth of a large glass walkway. The path ahead led to the central courtyard of the Administration Building, an atrium comprising the last bit of open ground separating us from the Operations Center. The atrium was square, almost two hundred feet on each side and six stories of building façade looming all around. Too big an area to blanket wipe, not to mention the hundreds of office windows on the surrounding walls, any of which could be a perfect shooter’s nest. Filled with gardens and a paved walking path, the atrium was a quiet, tranquil killing field.
Diego motioned for me to hold back. “Same as before. Wait until I say go.”
He initiated the bubble before he made it fully into the courtyard. Glass and metal door frame melted in response to the sustained arcs of electricity. By the time he stood in the center of the atrium, there was a well-defined hole in the glass walkway he’d entered from. Diego waited patiently in the center of the walking path through the atrium gardens. No shots came. He slowly turned in place several times, left palm upturned at his side, waiting. After an excruciatingly long minute, he motioned for me to come and dropped his bubble. I took one step into the courtyard and heard glass shatter, above and to my right.
The source was a fourth-floor window on the far side of the atrium. An emergency light silhouetted an SPS officer breaking the glass with the butt of his weapon. I recognized the bulky drum of another grenade launcher. Diego turned and reinitiated the bullet shield on reflex, assuming it was a rifle.
He doesn’t realize . . .
The officer fired and his grenade hit the boundary of the shield, exploding in the air above Diego’s head. Blaster crumpled to the ground beneath the fireball, his shield dissolving in the process.
“No!” I ran for him, no longer worried about cover.
Halfway to Diego’s body, self-preservation kicked in and I twisted on the run to see if I was about to be on the receiving end of another boom. I wasn’t. The grenade’s only fortunate side effect was it blew up fifty feet in the air—a lot closer to the shooter than he’d anticipated. Three floors’ worth of office windows shattered from the up-close explosion and the shooter’s was at the epicenter.
I got to Diego at a dead run, barely slowing down enough to grab his arms. The words “please don’t be dead” spilled from my mouth more than once. The moment I touched him, though, I knew he was alive. Unfortunately, I knew it because the contact zapped the hell outta me.
It wasn’t a full-on electrocution—more surprising than painful. Like Blaster’s “up yours” handshakes. Y’know, the exact amount of electricity necessary to render me powerless.
“Oh, you dick,” I muttered while pulling his unconscious body to the far side of the atrium. I leaned back to kick open the door, knowing full well we were screwed. If another of those tactical teams waited beyond, we were dead. Hell, with Diego unconscious and me powerless, a janitor with a mop and a bad attitude could fuck us up. But waiting in the wide-open atrium was worse. The door flew open and revealed a blessedly empty hall. I pulled Diego into a nearby men’s room to check him.
Pulse strong. Couple of nicks, not much bleeding.
Whatever remained of his energy shield must have vaporized the grenade fragments in the milliseconds before it collapsed. Even without shrapnel, though, the concussive force of the grenade was enough to knock him out.
I slapped his cheek. Nothing. So I slapped him again, harder.
“Diego! Wake up, man, I need you. Bad.”
I was about to smack him a third time when a quiet voice said, “Please stop hitting me.”
My joy was spontaneous enough that I cried out and hugged him.
“What happened? Are we in the crapper?” He was dazed, but appeared unharmed.
“Please tell me you’ve got some juice left. You shocked me when I dragged you in here. I’m shooting blanks.”
His eyes stopped wandering around the john and found mine. “What? How long until you get your powers back?”
I shook my head. “Don’t know. Ten minutes, twenty. More time than we have. Our little light show will bring helicopters out of D.C. in less than that. We’ve got to keep moving.” I helped him to his feet.
He steadied himself on the low counter of sinks. “I’ll be okay.”
“Only fifty more feet. Down the hall to the left.”
We exited the bathroom and moved down the last hall. Diego had his fists raised, ready to turn the entire corridor ahead of us to plasma. I did my best to violate the laws of physics and make an almost two-hundred-pound man disappear behind a 140-pound one. We made it halfway to the Operations Center before things went to shit.
First, the door to the OC banged open and three SPS guards spilled into the hall. It’s fair to say they were more surprised to see us than we were to see them. Diego lit them up just as I clamped hands over my ears. The shock wave from the lightning cracked the walls on either side. In the closed corridor, the thunder was so loud, covering my ears almost didn’t matter; I recoiled and turned back the other direction, sinking to my knees in pain. The metal door to the stairwell flew open in front of me. Another guy in body armor stepped into the corridor, and he looked angry.
Bloody, dirty, with sweat dripping off his face, he held a battered grenade launcher. The asshole who’d almost killed Diego; damaged but not disabled from the explosion’s backlash. He’d recovered enough to run down a maze of dark floors and find the staircase leading down to Operations. And he was standing less than ten feet behind us.
I moved without thinking.
I lunged off the floor and ran at him, catching him in the upper body before he could aim the launcher. I kept pumping my legs after contact—my high school football coach would have been proud—lifting the larger man up, then driving him straight down into the hard surface of the corridor. When we landed, the air whooshed out of his chest and I went at him like an animal. I couldn’t put him out my normal way, so I went old-school. While he was still worried about breathing, I grabbed him by the helmet and rammed the back of his head into the ground. I kept ramming until his eyes shut. The helmet probably saved his life, but his consciousness kicked the bucket after seven smacks against the linoleum. I pushed up off his unconscious body and got to my feet.
When I turned around, Diego had his hands on his hips. “Still powerless?”
I reached down and hefted the grenade launcher to my shoulder. “Not exactly.”
“You know how to work that thing?”
“It’s got a safety and a trigger. I’m good.”
“Then show me,” he said, pointing at the door to the Operations Center. “I’m not walking in there first.”
I sidled up next to the open door and fired a single grenade around the corner into the middle of the OC. The explosion wreaked havoc on equipment, but I didn’t hear any voices. Diego and I spun into the room, ready to fire again if necessary.
Computers, chairs, and desks were strewn about the room. The acrid smell of the grenade filled the air. Several ceiling lights were damaged in the blast, but the rest beamed fluorescent light over the wreckage, which meant this section of the building was shielded against EMPs. Not a surprise, but the lack of people was. The room was empty.
“The analysts on duty must have evacuated to the emergency bunker,” I said. “Keeping Tucker company.�
�
Diego walked to the large metal door at the far end of the room. The sign on front shouted KEEP CLEAR IN CASE OF EMERGENCY in bold red letters. Door didn’t do the barrier justice. It looked more like a compartment hatch on a submarine; thick metal, blast-proof, and locked tight. Diego smiled. “You’re gonna want to cover your ears for this.”
Six seconds’ exposure to temperatures hotter than the sun turned the big, bad, scary door into molten goo. Diego stood like a butler presenting a dining room full of guests, ushering me toward the opening with both hands. He practically oozed self-satisfaction. I muttered something about getting the short end of the superpower stick again, and we walked into the access tunnel of the bunker.
No question that this part of the complex was shielded. Bright light filled the fifty-foot-long tunnel, and the door on the far side had a security keypad with red numerals. The tunnel itself was completely white, floor and curved walls alike. There were vents along the ceiling, but other than that, the walls were featureless and smooth. I touched one. Not cement, and not metal. Felt more like . . . ceramic.
“Strange,” I said. “There’s a tiny vibration behind the surface.” I pulled back, suddenly aware of how alien the tunnel felt, and how exposed we were inside. “I don’t like this. Fry that door and let’s get to the bunker.”
Diego stepped ahead. “Open, says me,” he joked. He aimed and I clamped hands over my ears. Lightning erupted from his fist, more electricity in a single second than I’d use in a lifetime. The door ahead glowed like the first one, but before it dissolved into slag, the lightning cut off. I turned back to Diego, surprised. He looked confused yet undeterred, like a dog after the hidden-ball trick. It was almost funny.
Until he staggered and fell.
“Something’s wrong,” he moaned on his hands and knees.
Behind us, a secondary barrier came down like a guillotine, cutting off the tunnel from ceiling to floor. The vents above clunked open and water flowed out in thin curtains, soaking us. It wasn’t a one-time shot, either—the water kept coming—no deluge, but it was constant.
“This wasn’t on any of the plans,” I said.
Diego rolled to his butt and grimaced. “Shit. I can’t use my power if they soak the tunnel. I’ll electrocute you.”
“I’m more concerned about you. What’s wrong?”
“I feel weak, like I can’t . . .” His eyes opened wide. Too wide. “Oh no. Oh God no,” he gasped. I’d never seen the expression on Diego’s face before. Terror.
“What?! You’re scaring me, man. What the hell is wrong?”
“This tunnel . . . it’s not what you think. It’s a superconductor. Built to expel electromagnetic fields.”
“Speak English! What does that mean? It nullifies your power?”
His defeated expression scared me more than his eyes. “Worse. Welcome to my evolution, Scott. I’m an electromagnetic field now. Squeezed into human form. The superconductor will pull my body apart, siphon it off. They’ll shunt me into the earth . . . kill me.”
His head lolled back. I gripped the back of his neck to support him.
“I can feel it happening,” he said. “Some of me . . . already gone. Miles from here.” He lifted a thin arm. Impossible though it seemed, his fingers were dissolving, unraveling at the tips. It was like watching an inkjet printer in reverse, once-indelible lines of humanity vanishing row by row.
“No! Fight it,” I pleaded. “There’s got to be something you can do.”
He started to laugh but it drowned in a coughing fit. After he composed himself, Diego said, “I’m open to suggestions.”
Only one came to mind. “Transform. Blast your way out. The superconductor can’t grab on to something moving at the speed of light, right?”
“Maybe, but”—he pointed his finger stubs at the rising water, now ankle deep—“you’ll die if I change.” Diego’s transformation would electrify the entire water-covered floor.
I chuckled and lifted a handful of water. “Champ, I got bad news for you. I’m powerless and trapped in an aquarium in the middle of CIA headquarters. I’m dead either way. If you manage to blow a hole in that wall behind us, I’ll at least have a shot.”
Diego turned toward the wall, then fixed his fading eyes on me. “I’ll give it a try. Can you get out of the water?”
I gently released him and took a few steps back. “Guess I have to. I’ll take a run at the wall and kick off. Be in the air for maybe a second. Can you do it that fast?”
His mischievous smile returned. “So fast you won’t believe it.”
I suddenly felt very heavy. When your existence depends on kicking yourself up into the air, you start regretting the multiple beers you had the night before, as well as your fashion choices. I struggled to free myself from the water-logged duster.
“Even if I make it . . . somehow survive and convert back,” Diego said while I stripped, “I’ll be half a world away with no energy to return.” He sounded stronger now, as though the decision to act somehow bound him together more tightly. Yet his fingers continued to spool away.
“Don’t worry, pal. I’ll take it from here. Just do one thing for me. If you make it, find Lyla. Tell her I’m sorry and I love her.”
His face softened, despite the pain. “Of course, my friend. Least I can do.”
“Show these bastards what a god can really do . . . Zeus.”
Diego’s eyes focused on something . . . nothing . . . in the distance. Then he grinned.
“Fuck it. Call me Blaster.”
I took two running steps, planted a boot on the wall just above the waterline, and pushed off as hard as I could.
Diego exploded into light. I closed my eyes and the thunder’s shock wave thrust me backward down the tunnel. I hit the water at an angle and slid until I banged into the far door. It didn’t feel good, but I was still breathing.
Blaster was gone. So was the barricade. The accumulated water flowed into the Operations Center. On the opposite side of the OC there was a four-foot hole in the wall. Through that hole I could see another in the room beyond. And the next.
The way out was clear, but I wasn’t going to kid myself with any fantasies of escape. I was powerless and alone. I’d be shot before I even made the parking lot.
I grabbed the grenade launcher from the floor and shook the water off, hoping the ammo magazine was sealed. I ducked through the hole into the Operations Center and turned around, now a safe distance from the partially melted door.
Following Blaster’s path was a death sentence. Going in the opposite direction? No damn better, but at least I’d get to take somebody with me.
I fired a grenade down the length of the tunnel. It smacked against the warped metal and blew up just fine. When the blast cleared, I ran through the shattered doorway to find Tucker.
The doorway opened into a small antechamber with steps leading down to the emergency command bunker—a smaller, more secure version of what we’d just blasted through—buried beneath the floor of the CIA complex.
I stepped through the door at the bottom of the steps and saw four guys with assault rifles looking back. Agent Reyes stood in the middle, two gunmen on either side. He’d ditched the gas mask, although he had a Taser leveled at my chest. No Tucker in sight, which meant I was done. Finished. No use detonating a bunch of innocent SPS cops. I dropped the launcher.
One of the riflemen looked at Reyes. The big man nodded in return.
“So that’s it,” I said, more disappointed than angry. I waited for the hail of bullets with a single, overwhelming thought, a question way more clinical and detached than I assumed final thoughts would be.
I wonder if death hurts.
I never found out, because Reyes grinned and shot me with the Taser.
But trust me, it hurt.
CHAPTER 50
My eyes blinked open to
blinding light.
I’ll be honest, my first thought was: Heaven?
Yeah, a little self-aggrandizing considering my track record, but it didn’t last long. Whatever heaven may be, I’m guessing the lights aren’t fluorescent and it doesn’t reek of body odor.
I was seated in a chair, staring at overhead lights. My skull snapped forward and my neck muscles screamed in protest. When I could focus on who was in front of me, my brain did a little screaming as well.
Tucker sat across a wide metal table. His toothy smile radiated triumph, but judging from his three-day stubble and sleep-deprived eyes, it was a recent phenomenon. He didn’t look nearly as put-together as he’d been in the past. Didn’t mean he was any less of a dick, though.
“Welcome back, Mr. McAlister. How are we feeling?”
I lifted my hands to the table and felt the handcuffs for the first time. “Captured.” I smacked my lips to clear the lingering metallic taste from the Taser. “How long was I out?”
He checked his watch. “About ten minutes. Surprising, really. Mr. Reyes said he’s never seen a Taser make someone lose consciousness.”
“Reyes actually spoke?”
Tucker motioned to the side. “Be nice.”
I twisted to see Reyes, his hulking figure blocking the door of our small room, an interrogation area, with a large two-way mirror behind Tucker and twin video cameras mounted in opposite corners near the ceiling. Both had blinking red lights. A powered-down flat-panel computer monitor sat on the table next to Tucker, screen turned toward me.
I corrected my slouch in the metal chair and found that my neck muscles weren’t the only ones with complaints. Even my toes felt sore. The malaise was mental, too; I knew where I was, knew I was seriously screwed, but I couldn’t seem to focus enough to care. I knew there was one question worth asking, though.
“Why am I still alive?”
“Because we have unfinished business, you and I.”
“You’re taking a big risk, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” He pointed to the cameras. “Those aren’t the only ones still working. I witnessed your dustup in the hallway outside Operations. Took out that guard with your bare hands. Apparently Mr. Mendoza’s electricity tricks have taken their toll on you.”