by Hondo Jinx
Brawley jagged sideways, looking for an angle.
Outgunned, the driver swung into the van. A second later, the vehicle lurched backward. Then the van jarred to a stop and surged forward, racing straight at Brawley.
A more civilized man might have frozen for a fatal fraction of a second or lost his cool and fired wild.
But Brawley drew down on the driver’s side of the onrushing vehicle, found his target, and pulled the trigger before diving to one side.
The van smashed into the storefront with a loud crash. Its ass end popped into the air like the rear of a bucking bull and fell back to earth, horn blaring steadily and a geyser of steam jetting up from the radiator.
Just like that, Brawley’s sense of danger lifted.
He was virtually certain he’d killed the son of a bitch, but he wouldn’t get careless now. You chop a rattler in half, you still gotta mind the head.
“Get back inside, Nina,” he hollered over the blaring horn.
Nina machine-gunned one of her trademark curses, spewing profanity as she retreated dutifully into the store.
Brawley approached the van with caution. The guy was dead, all right. Slumped forward against the wheel with a good portion of his head missing.
Leaning into the bad smells filling the cabin, Brawley scanned the interior of the van, noticing the stubby dashboard cam. Further back, one side of the van was straight paddy wagon, with bench seating and fixed shackles. The other side was floor-to-ceiling machinery with more switches and dials than an airplane’s dashboard.
Not good.
He didn’t know what all that electronic shit did, but it had apparently helped these assholes to find them, and probably did more than that. Who knew what it was capturing? Video obviously, but what else? Did psionic energy have a fingerprint?
You need to figure out how to handle all this.
Stepping back, he reached out mentally as Sage had explained, scanning the van and holding the question at the center of his mind, steeping its urgency full of sparking yellow Seeker energy until the answer came to him.
There.
Swinging wide of the van, he knelt down, raised his .45, and let his mind guide his aim. When he knew he had lined up the shot, he squeezed the trigger. The bullet panged loudly off metal. A second later, he heard the steady splashing of gasoline leaking from the van.
Brawley backtracked, collecting brass, and stepped into the shop. Sage was just wrapping up with the store owner, who looked badly rattled but nodded at everything she said.
“It’s go time,” Brawley said, and once more, in an echo of his recent past, he heard sirens in the distance. Luckily, the shop sat alone on a relatively deserted stretch of highway. But either the FPI boys had called it in or some passing Samaritan had notified the police. Either way, it was time to skedaddle.
Nina was instantly at his side, throwing one arm around his waist.
Sage lingered a second longer, speaking softly to the store owner and saying something that made no sense to Brawley. “It doesn’t matter which of you has the remote control,” Sage said, and the man nodded in agreement, “but be straight with her. Tell her to choose something or tell her what you want to watch. You will both be happier.”
Then they left.
“Cloak us,” Brawley said. Sage nodded and climbed into the RV.
Nina cursed, glancing back at the destruction. “The FPI,” she said, shaking her head. “This is so fucking bad.”
“Well, it sure ain’t good,” Brawley said, “but we’ll be all right. Mind your hat.”
“Oh shit,” she said, straightening the tinfoil atop her head, and followed Sage into the RV.
Rather than piling into the driver’s seat, Brawley gave Sage’s slender calf muscle a light squeeze and pointed to the center of the dash. “Be a doll and reach me that pack of matches in the ashtray, would you?”
A few seconds later, he struck a match and tossed it at the spreading puddle of amber liquid beneath the van. Before the match even touched the gasoline, the fumes ignited with a huff, and flame blossomed brightly, lighting up the night before collapsing into a tighter, steadier fire that filled the space beneath the van and rushed halfway up its carriage.
He hoped the damned thing burnt to a crisp, but he didn’t have time to hang around and play firebug. Those sirens were getting closer by the second.
There was one more thing to do, however. He dipped into the RV, swapped mags, and racked the slide. Then he raised his .45, squeezed off a final shot, and the spinning paddle atop the van exploded into a spray of silver shards. In case the fire didn’t do its job, he didn’t want the FPI fixing that thing on top of another vehicle. Knowing government agencies, replacing it would probably cost them millions of dollars. Smashing their toy would hit them straight in the wallet.
Then he got out of there. Gunshots wouldn’t blow up a gas tank the way they did in the movies, but that burning pool of gas certainly might.
And a few seconds later, as he pulled the heavily cloaked RV out onto the highway, that’s exactly what happened. A muffled thump sounded behind them, and the rearview flashed as fire jetted from the sides of the van and the vehicle was engulfed in flames.
4
The cat lay on her belly in the poolside foliage, her huge amber eyes fixed on the gaunt, orange-stubbled face of the man pacing angrily at the water’s edge.
The cat was a bony little thing with a long tail that twitched back and forth like the tail of a kitten ready to pounce.
But she had no intention of pouncing.
Not yet.
Near the lounge chairs stood Gabriella, the telepath. Seated beside her, Mr. Bostic looked nearly comatose with Seeker concentration. Dutchman’s infamous hitmen, Uno and Dos, leaned against the gate, looking bored.
“My son is dead,” Roland “Senior” Dutchman said again. “That displeases me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dutchman,” the bloody-faced technopath sobbed. Uno and Dos had dragged Rick in and handcuffed him to a poolside chair a few minutes earlier.
“Junior was stupid,” Mr. Dutchman said. “Strong, in his way. Deadly, certainly. But reckless and greedy. Blinded by outsized notions of himself.”
“I’m sorry,” Rick said again, and continued weeping.
“I spent a considerable amount of time grooming him,” Mr. Dutchman said, seeming not to notice the weeping technopath. “That’s what most infuriates me. All that wasted time…” He trailed off, his upper lip lifting in a silent snarl. “Now he’s dead, and I’m left with no heir and no plan.”
Mr. Dutchman cleared his throat.
Gabriella shifted her weight uncomfortably, staring at the back of Dutchman’s head.
“My son’s death means I made a mistake,” Mr. Dutchman said. “I fell for the myth of genetics. I put too much faith in my son. Anyone with half a brain could see he would never follow in my footsteps.”
No one said anything.
The cat sniffed, opening her mouth in a flehmen response. The air was delicious with fear.
“Valdez is displeased,” Dutchman said. “He has arranged a meeting for tomorrow.”
All was silent for several seconds. Dutchman’s eyes shifted back and forth, flicking from person to person. “Which means that Valdez is reevaluating South Florida. And that news, ladies and gentlemen, should alarm you. Because if I die, you die.”
The cat’s inky pupils swelled, nearly eclipsing the amber irises, and her tail whipped back and forth faster than ever.
“Valdez will expect us to avenge tonight’s bloodbath,” Dutchman said, and turned to Rick. “What else can you tell me?”
The technopath shook his tear-streaked face. “I told you everything.”
Mr. Dutchman regarded the weeping young man for a second, looking disgusted, then turned to Gabriella. “Ransack.”
The woman, who was dressed like a corporate lawyer, nodded and stepped forward.
“Hey,” Rick said, slapping his hands to his forehead. “Wait.
I… hey… it burns.” He shook his head, slapped his temples, and leapt from his chair to which he was cuffed, dragging it several feet across the concrete until the muscular Dos forced him once more into his seat.
Ten seconds later, Gabriella breathed deeply through her nostrils and took a backward step, mouth wriggling as if she’d swallowed a bug. “I am finished, sir. His mind harbored nothing of value. He told you the truth. He panicked and fled the scene.”
Dutchman turned to Bostic. “Would his absence create problems?”
The Seeker stared at Rick for a few seconds then shrugged. “Not really, sir.”
“Wait,” Rick said, his eyes wide with panic. He tried to stand again and was once more shoved back into the seat by Dos, who still looked bored. “Please, Mr. Dutchman, don’t have them kill me.”
“I won’t have them kill you, Rick. You’re still of use to me.
Rick settled back into his chair and exhaled a shuddering breath. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
“Still of use to me,” Mr. Dutchman said again. “After all, even a pitiful Gearhead like you will boost my psi score.”
Rick screamed and slapped his hands to his temples again.
Dos stepped away.
Rick’s body thrashed, lifting into the air. His head remained steady, as if gripped by an invisible claw. He screamed, twisting to no avail. His back arched, his legs kicked, and his hands scratched madly at his temples, trying in vain to pry free from the invisible force. His face shifted from red to purple as his screams filled the courtyard, wordless and desperate and terrible.
Within the house, lights flashed on and off then popped like fireworks as a discordant blast of stereos and televisions clamored and cut off sharply. Out in the driveway, an engine roared to life.
A second later, a driverless SUV plowed through the fence, charging straight at Mr. Dutchman, who dived out of the way with surprising speed.
The vehicle plunged into the pool with a loud splash.
“Nice try,” Dutchman said.
There was a sharp cracking sound as Rick’s temples crushed inward. His skull elongated, split at its apex, and popped like a zit, vomiting a pulpy mass of blood and brains down his front and into the pool, where it floated, pinkening the choppy water like a dissolving jellyfish.
Gabriella covered her mouth and looked away.
Uno and Dos approached the pool, apparently more interested in the car that had nearly killed their boss than the dead technopath who had caused it to do so.
Dutchman stood and brushed himself off, then breathed deeply, like a man inhaling the world’s most fragrant roses. “Ah, there’s the rush.” He turned to Bostic. “Update on Officer Whittaker?”
“It’s as I suspected, sir,” Bostic reported. “Jamaal is remaining in Key West to meet with officials from Central. He has confidentially hired the bounty hunter to capture the Mack girl and her companion.”
“Interesting,” Mr. Dutchman said.
“I have a psi sensor on her Harley,” Bostic said with a touch of pride.
“She’s not an assassin, you idiot,” Mr. Dutchman said. “She won’t take the motorcycle. How the hell would she bring them back?”
Bostic sputtered.
“She’ll take the Suburban,” Mr. Dutchman said. “Did you place a sensor on the Suburban?”
Bostic shook his head, eyeing his employer warily.
“Uno,” Mr. Dutchman said, turning to the man in the baggy bowling shirt, “you will stay with me. The psi cartel thinks we’re weak. Let them come, and I’ll feed them to the tarpons.”
“Or perhaps something even better,” Uno said, giving a little bow.
“Dos,” Mr. Dutchman said, and the muscular hitman in the tight tank top looked up from his contemplation of the sunken vehicle. “Choose some foot soldiers and follow the bounty hunter.”
Dos nodded.
“Kill her, if necessary. Same goes for the Mack girl and her friend. But take some hobbles with you. If possible, bring them back alive.”
Dutchman didn’t explain his motives, but the cat understood them clearly enough. Rendering a power mage would provide an incredible psionic boost.
“Bring them back alive,” Dutchman told his Carnal enforcer, “and you can choose whichever girl you want from my next shipment of virgins.”
“Fuck or kill?” Dos asked.
“Either,” Dutchman said. “Both if you want the points. But fuck first. Otherwise, you won’t get points for cracking her strand.”
Dos nodded and started for the hole in the fence.
“Bostic,” Mr. Dutchman said, turning to his Seeker, “you will ride with Dos and show him the way.”
“Me?” Bostic said. “Sir, I have a bad feeling about—”
“Yes, you,” Dutchman said. “And if Dos leaves without you, I’ll feed you to the tarpons, too.”
Bostic’s eyes went even wider. “Yes, sir.” He popped to his feet and chased after the assassin.
“In the meantime, Gabriella, here’s what I want you to do,” Dutchman said.
But whatever his directions were to the telepath, the cat missed them, because she slinked away after the Seeker, who was calling for the assassin to slow down.
Dutchman’s threats had rattled Bostic badly. So badly that he didn’t even notice the lithe calico slipping into the shadowy confines of the SUV behind him.
Even amidst inestimable tragedy, fortune favors the bold.
5
Brawley headed north, the AA-12 lying beside him with a full drum of double-aught buck. When cop cars raced past on the other side of the highway, Sage deepened the cloak, obscuring the RV with the impression of darkness.
After a couple of miles, Nina finally stopped losing her shit, which was nice because Brawley had questions.
“How did they find us? That machinery in the van?”
“Yeah,” Nina said. “They can detect psi energy. They must have sensed us and put two and two together with the big blowup back in Key West.”
“What about the cloak?”
“Cloaks won’t block their equipment,” Sage said. “At least not the cloaks I’m capable of constructing. Since cloaks affect the perception of truth, they are most effective against direct observation, eyes and ears and noses.”
“Noses?” Nina said. “So, could a Seeker cut a fart in public and make it odorless?”
Sage laughed. “Yes.”
Nina looked impressed then thoughtful. “Could you generate a fake fart and make it seem like somebody else cut it?”
More laughter. “Yes.”
Nina shook her foil-capped head. “Man, I wish I was a Seeker.”
Brawley grinned, happy to see his purple-haired wife returning to herself. It had been all daisy-chained profanity for a mile or two.
“A cloak still works well in direct playback such as surveillance cameras or audio recordings,” Sage said, “but the FPI machines merely detect energy, and energy is pure, very close to truth, so with the machines themselves, there is no sentient perception to manipulate. They simply register our energy the way Geiger counters detect radiation. A similar principle explains why Seekers who can make themselves invisible still trigger motion detectors or laser-based alarms.”
“What the hey hey?” Nina blurted. “You can make yourself invisible?”
“Not yet,” Sage said. “But someday, with enough practice, I should be able to vanish from the perception of others, especially after our husband boosts my psi score by bonding with other women.”
“A boost sounds good,” Nina said. “I just wish we weren’t starting in Miami. You haven’t seen a bitch until you’ve met a South Beach Carnal chick.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Brawley said. “There are too many bullets flying in my direction to put this off. But I won’t go bonding with just any old girl. This shit’s forever, after all.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Nina said, frowning.
Brawley asked a few more questions abou
t the FPI. Nina figured the agents who’d attacked them were pretty much the entirety of the Miami office.
“The FPI is spread pretty thin,” Nina said, “but what they lack in numbers, they make up for in persistence. Tomorrow, South Florida will be crawling with feds. And that will only serve to further piss off the Order.”
Before Nina started gushing worries again, Brawley changed the subject. He wanted to know more about the FPI, but he pivoted his curiosity toward a more pragmatic subject. “Sage, what happened back at the gun shop? When that guy recognized me, I tried to twist the truth like you talked about. For a second, it seemed to work, but then he shook it off.”
Sage smiled brightly. “You did amazingly well, husband. I was impressed that you were able to modify his perception at all, not only because it was your first attempt but also because his original response to your identity was so momentous. He was clearly a fan. There was no question in his mind that you were you, especially because you were wearing your gold buckle.”
“Not gonna lie,” Nina said. “It was kind of hot, listening to that dude gush about you like that. Funny, too. Like an inside joke? Because I know you, and even if you’re like king shit bull rider or whatever, you’re still you, you know? Like you talk funny and eat Fruit Loops and stand on that stupid medicine ball. So, hot and funny, I guess.”
“Thanks,” Brawley said, “I think.”
“The man seized quite firmly onto the reality of having met you,” Sage said. “I needed to give him a strong push to dissuade his certainty. Human perception is an interesting phenomenon. Various factors come into play, none more heavily than emotional connotation. It is, therefore, simpler to convince a stranger that you are her long-lost cousin than it is to make a perfectly wonderful person who grew up in an abusive household believe that he or she deserves to be valued.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud,” Nina said. “Marathon is just ahead. How about that pie?”
Another cop car whipped past on the southbound lane, sirens wailing and lights flashing, but by this point, the RV had joined a loose pack of obscuring northbound traffic.
Brawley hit the blinker. “You’ll get your pie, darlin. But first, we’re going to pull over and take care of business.”