Paranormals (Book 1)
Page 18
Russell stood there, not speaking, just occasionally grunting.
Michael placed a hand on his shoulder. "I’ll tell you what, Mister Russell. We don’t want anything else to happen here, or to Steve. I mean, we’re not even sure what exactly the rogues were after tonight. One of your men told me this building is just a storage facility?"
"Yes," Russell affirmed softly.
"Hmm. Seems a little pointless, to risk trespassing on such a well-guarded property as this just to steal a few supplies. It might have even been a reconnaissance mission gone bad, thanks to our mysterious vigilante." He gripped Russell’s shoulder again, very friendly like. "I will speak to our captain personally. With any luck, I’ll be able to get some P C Agents assigned to Steve for protection, preferably some agents who previously worked for the Secret Service." Now he offered his most charming smile. "I’ll make sure they stay by Steve’s side at all times. For all we know, this vigilante could be involved with the Davison family’s deaths as well. If anything illicit is going on, we’ll know about it right away."
Russell looked as though he were in very dire need of a trip to the bathroom. Which was just the reaction Michael was going for.
"Take care, Mister Russell. We’ll be in touch right away. If you think of anything that you want or need to tell us, you can reach us through the PCA. Good night, sir."
PCA
As soon as they got into the car, Shockwave began howling with laughter.
"Oh, man, kid! Jarrah is right about you! You would’ve made a helluva cop!"
Mike grinned as he started the car and pulled away from the scene. "Really? What makes you say that?"
"Don’t play dumbass with me, young’n!" Westmore chided, playfully punching Michael in the shoulder. "You did everything but read that guy his Miranda Rights! ‘If anything illicit is going on, we’ll know about it right away.’ I love it! I take it you think Russell’s involved in whatever the hell is going on?"
Michael half-shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. If he is — and he did seem untowardly nervous, especially once this ‘Vortex’ was brought up — then I want to give him something to think about. If not, I’m sure our conversation will at least get passed on to Davison himself, and then he can sweat over it."
Westmore reclined his seat back a couple of notches. "You’re the brains of this duo, young’n. Just let me know when we have a target and I’ll shove a shockwave right up his ass."
POWERHOUSE
Lincoln never knew he was capable of Hate.
This wasn’t to be confused with small-time "hate." Lincoln hated his father. He hated the apathetic foster system that left him in such an emotional void for so many years. He hated his new paranormal strength and the social stigma it brought down upon him.
But he Hated Richard McLane.
With every thought, with every breath, with every ounce of his total being, he Hated McLane. He dreamed about killing him — about crushing his throat, about breaking his spine, about tearing his cold heart right out of his chest. He fantasized about seizing his face and slowly — oh, so slowly — squeezing his skull as the evil man, the Evil man, screamed and cried and pleaded for mercy. On one lonely afternoon, as he ate a tasteless TV dinner, he even toyed with reworking a poem he’d learned in school so that it would perhaps give proper expression of his Hatred for the Evil man: "How do I Hate thee? Let me count the ways ..." But he got no further than that before realizing that it could never hope to truly capture his feelings on the matter.
All this and more, he Hated Richard McLane ...
... and there was not a damned thing that he could do about it.
He had received two letters from Tommy and Sarah since their belied abduction. As near as he could tell, they seemed all right — they missed him, but they were having fun on some ranch where they were allowed to ride horses every day. They didn’t even seem to know that they were hostages.
Since his initial "assignment," Lincoln had only been forced to sit in on one more of McLane’s meetings, but a phone call earlier today informed him that he was to report once again to the faux recording studio at nine o’clock. As he collected his ski mask and jogging suit — and gloves — he found his hands shaking. He would have to see the Evil man again, and he wasn’t looking forward to another battle with his own self-control. Sooner or later, he might slip ... and then God only knew what would happen to his brother and sister.
PCA
"Ah, Powerhouse, come in and sit down."
Lincoln did as he was told.
There were more rogues in attendance tonight than Lincoln had seen before. Everyone he already knew was present, with the notable exception of Ms. Waid, and there were a dozen more men and women. One man had leathery skin; another man had enlarged, piranha-like teeth. Other than that, everyone appeared as normal as Lincoln, but he knew they wouldn’t be here if that were truly the case — the only norm in the room was the Evil man himself. In addition to the larger number of attendees, it took Lincoln a few minutes to realize that something else was different as well: Everyone was being unusually quiet. It was almost an awed hush, like a church congregation waiting for the minister to arrive. He was tempted to ask what was going on, but the only other rogues he knew by name were the loud-mouth asshole, Graham, and the leeching doctor, Philip Seymour. So, instead, he contented himself to merely sit and stare death at McLane, passing the next few quiet minutes fantasizing about jamming his fingers into McLane’s skull like a bowling ball.
If Lincoln’s glare bothered McLane in the slightest, he betrayed no sign of it. Instead, he merely sat, conferring with the acne-scarred man as usual. When he finally perked up, smiled, and stood, it was by no cue that Lincoln had seen.
"Ladies and gentlemen," McLane spoke, as though he needed to get the silent group’s attention. "We’re privileged this evening to host a very special guest. I’m sure that you’ve all heard of Isaiah Khalkha..."
A nervous ripple washed over the listeners. At first, Lincoln had no idea who this "Isaiah Khalkha" person was, or why he would cause such a stir. Then he recalled a conversation he’d overheard at the last meeting he’d been roped into. If it was this "Khalkha" that Graham and the other man had been talking about ...
"... appreciate his efforts on our common behalf," McLane was still oozing with uncharacteristic relish. "He has been very pleased with our accomplishments, and has therefore agreed to meet with us." He turned toward the front of the studio. "Isaiah?"
Lincoln blinked in surprise — what, had one of the leaders of their little rogue mafia been waiting outside this whole time?
Sure enough, the door opened, and a magnetic, dark-complected man entered. He appeared to be of Mongolian descent, but his features were mellowed by equally-apparent European heritage. There were no obvious paranormal traits to him, but if this was the same man that Graham had been blathering about, then Lincoln knew that was the most deceptive illusion of all.
Most paranormals tended to have only one ability, or one set of abilities — a paranormal who developed, say, canine powers might grow large teeth to go along with their improved sense of smell and hearing ... if not a snout and entire body of fur. More often than not, these "groupings" made sense. Lincoln’s strength would have done him little good without the accompanying invulnerability — otherwise he would have broken his own body to pieces.
But Isaiah Khalkha was apparently among the rarest of the rare: A paranormal with an amalgamation of seemingly unrelated abilities. According to Graham, rumor had it that he was strong and fast and telekinetic, superhuman attributes that would normally be spread over three paranormals rather than contained within this one innocuous-looking rogue. It was no surprise that he engendered such tension among people whose natural impulse had been to use their own abilities to dominate others.
Lincoln, on the other hand, could not have cared less. Khalkha meant nothing to him, the other rogues meant nothing to him. The only thing that mattered was finding some chance, some way, to locate and
free Tommy and Sarah, and then seek his revenge on ...
Lincoln glanced back to McLane and was surprised to notice a vacant glaze over the man’s eyes. It wasn’t anything so extreme as catatonia, but the man’s mind did suddenly appear to be miles away. Having spent so much time scrutinizing McLane recently, Lincoln found that very interesting. The man was, after all, Evil, and always struck Lincoln as extremely focused ... all the better to plot his next callous deed, no doubt. Now this infamous rogue had joined them ... and McLane was daydreaming?
Careful, Lincoln. Don’t make something out of nothing. Just keep your eyes open. And wait.
So Lincoln folded his arms and spared some of his attention for the rogue that was now taking the center stage.
"Richard and I have been in close touch for some time," Khalkha began without preamble — his voice was a rich baritone, with noticeable traces of a Welsh accent underlying about every third word or so, "and I have indeed been very pleased with the progress that you have all made for our cause ..."
Lincoln came close, very close, to guffawing out loud on that sentiment.
Our "cause," huh? What "cause" is that? To overcome the horrible persecution inflicted upon us innocent paranormals by the rest of humanity? I understand that Step One toward redemption is to kidnap small children and threaten to sell them into sexual slavery! How’s that for a "cause?!"
"... success in many critical areas," Khalkha was saying when Lincoln calmed himself enough to continue listening. "We are concerned, of course, over the continuing developments in technology that can be used against us. When Richard was so wrongfully ejected from his position at Davison Electronics, we lost one of our most critical avenues of information."
McLane nodded his agreement, but his eyes remained vapid and detached, as though he weren’t really listening. No one noticed it, of course, except for Lincoln.
"We know that there were several ongoing projects at that time with which he had no direct contact. This was standard security practice, enforced by the Paranormal Control Agency. A recent attempt to infiltrate Davison and secure information on these projects met with unfortunate failure. Their specific target proved a disappointing venue, a former laboratory that is now used as a storage warehouse, and the circumstances of our team’s failure were equally unexpected."
"Have we learned what happened?" asked Scar Face.
Khalkha nodded. "Our lawyer has conferred with the team leader, Jessica Waid ..."
Lincoln smirked. So that’s why ol’ Creepy Eyes isn’t here.
"... they were stopped by a third party. A paranormal."
Now Scar Face sat straight up. "A paranormal?! That can’t be right. I inspected the area beforehand. The PCA had no paranormal agents in place at Davison that night."
"Setting aside your failure to detect the paranormal in question," Khalkha said a bit more sharply, prompting Scar Face to lower his eyes and sulk in silence, "we do not believe that this interloper worked for the PCA. It seems that he is some sort of vigilante. According to Waid, he was wearing a black-and-gold costume, complete with mask and cape, and identified himself as ‘Vortex.’ "
A pregnant pause followed this proclamation ...
... followed by an uproar of laughter.
"Hey, ‘Powerhouse!’ " Graham chided — although Lincoln noted that he was doing so from a safe distance across the room. "Maybe the two of you should go out on a date, huh?!"
Lincoln merely stared at Graham from behind his ski mask. The redhead quickly swallowed the core of his mirth and looked away.
"It may appear humorous on the surface," Khalkha continued, without any trace of humor, which caused the laughter to pretty much die altogether, "but the inescapable fact is that this Vortex impeded our plans. We must find out what Davison Electronics has been developing outside of Richard’s arena. Covert infiltration would take time, effort, and resources that I would prefer not to expend. The last thing we need right now is some maverick precipitating more grief than the PCA is already causing us. Now," Khalkha slowly folded his arms, "with this need in place and this potential problem in mind, we are going to hit Davison again, and this time with a stronger force. Prior to this, we will coordinate several strikes at locations around the city, county, and state. The PCA will be stretched thin. When our elite team moves in on Davison, if this Vortex shows up again, that will be a prime opportunity to kill two birds with one stone."
"Who’d you have in mind for the elite team?" Graham asked, already smiling.
"I have already consulted with Richard on this matter," Khalkha answered him. "The primary team will consist of yourself, Edmond, and ... I believe he prefers to be called ‘Powerhouse?’ "
That prompted more snickers, especially from Graham, who no doubt found safety in numbers ... and the hostage children.
Lincoln paid no attention to this latest round of ridicule. Instead, his full attention was once more on Richard McLane, who was so out of it by this point that a thin trail of drool threatened to roll down his chin at any moment. He had even begun to slump in his chair — Scar Face noticed, however, and casually straightened the man by leaning against his shoulder.
Lincoln took all of this in, and wondered just what to make of it.
Careful. Just keep your eyes open. And wait.
Wait ...
VORTEX
"Damn it, Alan," Steve muttered under his breath, "how could you let this happen?"
Alan grunted and might have defended himself had the two P C Agents not reached them at that exact moment.
"Mister Davison?" the taller of the two men said, and it looked as though Takayasu — the bastard — had come through on his promise of locating agents with a Secret Service background. The height difference between the two men was just about their only distinguishing characteristics. Early- to mid-forties; Caucasian; short, dark hair; humorless, dark eyes; nearly identical dark suits ... the only touch missing was the sunglasses, though Steve suspected those would magically appear if the two men were required to step outside during daylight hours.
"Yes," Steve responded with a nod.
The tall agent continued, "I’m Lieutenant Danny Kremer. This is Lieutenant Junior Grade Chris Johns. We’ve been assigned to protect you in the event of another rogue attack."
They were grim and determined and would probably take a bullet — or lightning bolt — for him.
And this was Takayasu’s fault. The bastard.
I just started my super-heroing career, and I’ve already got major obstacles if I even try to go into action. I bet Clark Kent never had this sort of problem.
Oh, well — at least he wasn’t dating an investigative reporter. Thank God for small favors.
"I appreciate that, gentlemen," Steve said with a resigned smile. "I’ve never held public office, so I’m afraid I don’t really know how this whole bodyguard-thing works."
"Not a problem, sir," the shorter one — Johns — stated. "Most of the time, you’ll never even know we’re here."
I’ll bet.
Takayasu ... the bastard ...
PCA
Luckily, the bodyguards turned out to be fairly true to their word. They weren’t as smothering as Steve had feared ... at least, during "peace time." What would happen if Davison Electronics were attacked again, only time would tell.
The most important factor, of course, was the latitude to speak with Alan freely. A handful of loyal Davison employees might know about the implants, but even fewer knew about the addition of the vortex wave apparatus ... and, until now, only he and Alan knew about his final decision on how to use the vortex.
Acknowledging the inevitable need of further assistance, they had decided to bring Ardette into this most private of circles. They arranged to meet with her in Steve’s office, and Lieutenant Johns offered little resistance to the request of waiting out in the reception area for the duration — so long as Steve understood that if a perimeter alarm sounded, Johns would interrupt the meeting without hesitation.
"So," she said at length. She and Alan sat across from the desk Steve was using with increasing frequency, both for legitimate Davison business and for his more clandestine activities. "I suppose I have a few questions for you, Steve, if you don’t mind."
"Please," Steve invited.
"If you’re determined to take this ... route ... why a cape?"
" ‘A cape?’ You mean with my costume?"
"Yes. On the assumption that you’re going to rely on your athletic skills as much as the implants, why hinder yourself with a cape? Comic book super-heroes don’t have to deal with the realities of such a burden. It will give you extra weight that you’ve never trained with. It could snag on something. Hell, if you move backward while crouching, you might very well step on the damned thing and trip yourself."