Vortex grunted in surprise, and then the pressure got stronger — a lot stronger. Now Lincoln was feeling it, especially in his eyes and ears. He gasped as he felt his body wanting to curl into a fetal ball — it was all he could do to keep his limbs straightened.
But this new level was taking something out of the vigilante, too. There was still a good twenty feet or so between them, but Lincoln could hear Vortex panting now. The initial burst must have been all he was used to, because holding Lincoln at bay was clearly an effort for him.
I guess we’ll just have to see who lasts the longest...
But it didn’t come to that. An all-too-familiar bolt of lightning suddenly shot past Lincoln to strike Vortex square in the chest. His ... pressure-power, or whatever, cut short immediately, and every muscle in his body tensed and spasmed before he dropped to the floor. He groaned as he tried in vain to get back to his feet.
Graham, his face covered in blood, limped up next to Lincoln. "Be damned," he muttered, his voice sounding nasally and choked. "Still alive, and conscious. Tough sonuvabitch." He lifted a shaky hand to the other side of his head and his fingers came away bloody. He turned so Lincoln could see that one of Vortex’s kicks or punches had torn his ear. He was battered, bruised, and rapidly swelling like Sylvester Stallone at the end of Rocky, but still he grinned, his teeth cracked and gruesome and one of them missing. "Not alive for long. Thanks for holdin’em, Powerhouse." Cradling his side, he shuffled past Lincoln, one hand already targeting the struggling vigilante. Vortex looked up, perhaps struggling to shoot his lasers or pressure-wave, but his eyes were blinking rapidly, with nothing happening.
In a matter of seconds, he would be dead. One more victim in Graham’s — in McLane’s — long list of victims. A man who could have made one hell of a rogue, who could have been one of McLane’s prized possessions for all the paranormal gifts he’d been given. A man who instead chose to live out every little boy’s fantasy, and who would now die for that fantasy — a potential symbol of real hope in an ugly world, snuffed out like a candle.
Lincoln’s decision was made in a heartbeat, almost without any real conscious thought — if he allowed himself to think about it, he knew he would hesitate, and then it would be too late.
Taking a single step forward, Lincoln punched the base of Graham’s skull. There was no reaction — no gasp of surprise, no accusing curse, no death rattle. The bone caved in, and the flesh wrenched as his head tried to leave his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.
That certainly confused the hell out of Vortex. He shook his head, as though he doubted his eyes and was trying to dispel a mirage.
Lincoln stared down at him ... then reached up and removed his ski mask.
"They’ve been calling me ‘Powerhouse,’ but my real name is Lincoln Roberts," he told the stunned hero. And he was a hero as far as Lincoln was concerned — a super-hero, one of the good guys ... the side to which Powerhouse should belong. But that would have to come later. "I’m being forced to work for a man named Richard McLane. He holds the life of my baby brother and sister in his filthy claws. I didn’t think I had a choice — until now." Moving forward, he offered his hand to the costumed hero before him.
Now that he was committed, his heart thundered in his chest until he felt it might burst. What if he were wrong about this man Vortex? What if the little boy inside had just been taken in by the fancy, flashy costume — merely an embellishment upon his own ski mask and gloves — and he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life? A mistake Tommy and Sarah would pay for? What if ...?
Vortex stared at Lincoln’s hand, glanced into his eyes ... and then accepted the offer of help, grasping Lincoln’s gloved hand in his own.
So relieved he felt lightheaded, Lincoln pulled Vortex to his feet, keeping him steady until he had his balance. It came slowly. "I’ve seen several people killed by Graham’s lightning bolts. I’m impressed that you’re still breathing."
As if that reminded him of the necessity, Vortex drew a long, deep breath before responding, "Barely. This suit ... protects me. It’s insulated against electrical shock ... but I guess that bolt was a bit more than it could handle."
"So it’s the suit? Invulnerability isn’t one of your paranormal powers?"
Vortex glanced at him, a funny look in his eyes, then merely shook his head. "No. Not invulnerable. Not like you, anyway. Talk about ‘impressive.’ "
"Uh ... thanks. Listen," he said, glancing over at Edmond to make sure he was still out, "I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll tell McLane that you killed Graham, if that’s all right."
Vortex nodded. "If it’ll help you, fine."
"Wait." Letting go of Vortex’s arm, after making sure that the hero could now stand on his own, Lincoln rushed over to the table with the computer. The flames from the other table had just about eaten up the printout paper for all it was worth, and he had trouble seeing in the flickering light that was rapidly dimming once more. Finally, he found what he was looking for — a pen. Searching the pockets of his black jeans, he found an old sales slip — he’d obviously left his wallet and keys behind for this mission, but what was incriminating about a Texaco cash receipt?
Quickly, he jotted down the address of McLane’s false studio. Vortex had joined him at the table, and Lincoln pushed the paper into his black-gloved hand. "This is where we usually meet. I ... I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what you can do, but I’m asking — I’m begging — for any help you can give. I don’t even know where my brother and sister are, but I’ve got to save them. I ... I ..." His voice trailed off, and he realized that he was close to tears.
Vortex gripped his shoulder. "I’ll do whatever I can. And I think I know where to find some help."
Lincoln nodded, his gratitude bringing the tears on even stronger. He sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and then pulled his mask back on. "Gotta go. Thank you."
"Thank you."
Lincoln nodded again, then scooped Edmond up into his arms ...
VORTEX AND POWERHOUSE
Steve jolted awake as a massive explosion rattled the walls and shook the floor. Sitting up in bed, he looked out the window just in time to see a huge fireball rolling into the night sky on the far side of the company property. A second, smaller explosion followed moments later, this time not far from the main gate.
"What the hell ...?" he muttered, shaking his groggy head and rubbing his eyes out of life-long habit.
The door opened and Lieutenant Kremer burst in, a psi-band on his forehead and a tazer in his hand. "Mr. Davison," he stated in clipped fashion, "we need to get you to safety."
"Yeah," Steve replied, slowly gathering his wits about him as he stood and pulled on a robe.
As they emerged from his small apartment, Alan and Ardette rushed toward them. Both were still dressed, but the rolled up sleeves and rumbled shirts made Steve wonder briefly whether they’d been working late ... or something else. In spite of the chaotic situation, he could not help but smile.
"Lieutenant," Alan said in a rush, "I believe we have just the thing. Follow me ..."
The P C Agent hesitated for a moment, then nodded. The four hurried down the hall, Alan leading the way.
"Sir," the Lieutenant asked, confused, "where are we going? Mr. Davison must be—"
"Protected, yes," Alan agreed. "And he will be. Here."
They screeched to a halt in front of what appeared to be a linen closet.
"Sir?" Kremer insisted, more baffled than ever.
"In here, Steve," Alan urged, "now."
Steve obeyed, stepping inside and turning around just as they closed the door.
Kremer’s confusion was growing by leaps and bounds, and irritation wasn’t far behind. "Mr. Russell, I must ask what is going on?"
"Of course," Alan nodded. "When Davison Electronics first went on the federal payroll, we were concerned that a rogue or other agency might make an attempt on Joseph’s life." He paused, momentarily saddened — and he wasn’t a
cting. "If we’d only remained as paranoid as we were those first few months..."
"This is a safe-room," Ardette jumped in. "It may look like a simple supply closet, but it’s protected by our latest psi-jammers, and the walls are laced with reinforced titanium. Believe me, we’re in far more danger at the moment than Steve is. Hell, he’d be safe against a Level Four tornado now."
"Ah," Kremer nodded, though he still appeared somewhat uncertain. "Well, that’s very good then. I’ll remain here until the alarm stands down."
Ardette nodded. Alan issued one of his patented half-grunts.
Kremer turned and knocked on the closet door. "I’ll be right out here, Mr. Davison." There was no response. "Mr. Davison?"
"He probably can’t hear you very well," Ardette offered, "what with all that armor and such. I’ll buzz him out when it’s safe."
Kremer stared at her intently for a moment ... then turned his back to the door to stand guard. Alan and Ardette exchanged a relieved glance before retrieving some waiting room chairs of their own.
The real reason Steve had not responded, of course, was because he was no longer in the little room. It really had been a linen closet at one point, when Alan was still using the apartment. He and Joseph and a few others spent so much time here, they’d set up a wash room in the basement. Rather than lugging all of their washables down the stairs or elevator, they made sure the closet came complete with its own laundry chute ...
PCA
Down in the laundry room, which he’d reached via the chute that had very recently been converted into a sort of dumbwaiter — after all, he had to be able to get back up for this ruse to work — Steve was just pulling on his mask. Stuffing his robe into a musty, long-unused bag, he rushed over to the basement window, propped it open, and hoisted himself up.
Now the question became: What to do next? He, Alan, and Ardette had come up with this elaborate scheme to allow him to lose the bodyguard and do his thing ... but it wasn’t like he had Spider-Sense to tell him where the danger was coming from. Lurking in the shadows, he watched as security scrambled like crazy — it was obvious that they didn’t really know what was going on, either. He could already hear sirens in the distance, so the fires would probably be under control very soon. Maybe he wouldn’t—
Catching movement from the corner of his eye, he glanced over for a closer look. Switching on his thermal vision, he saw three figures slipping into his training center — through a hole in the wall that had definitely not been there before.
Well, well, well, he thought. Guess it wasn’t a false alarm after all. This looks like a job for—
Oh, God, that’s cheesy ...
Smirking at his own silliness, he drew his cape around him and dashed for the training center ...
It took him longer than he cared for to reach it, what with avoiding security himself. When he finally slipped up to the side of the building, he edged over to the newly — melted? — hole for a peek inside. An acrid stench was still emanating from the mottled edges of the opening — one of the intruders must be some sort of corrosive-paranormal, something he would do well to keep in mind.
He spotted them immediately, huddled around Ardette’s computer. Even with his excellent vision, he couldn’t quite make out the details on the screen, but he saw the chubby guy in the middle directing the big guy to slip a DVD into the burner, and he knew that was no good. For a moment, he wondered whether he could take out the DVD-burner without frying the whole computer ... and then realized: Of course he could! If he could see it, he could hit it.
Setting his sites on that particular drive, he cut loose with his lasers. The beams shot straight through to the other side, melting the drive and the copy the rogue had been making, but leaving the computer’s hard drive completely untouched.
"Look out!" the redhead yelled. He fired an arc of electricity in Steve’s general direction as he dove behind an overturned bench. The attack missed by a good margin, and Steve threw himself through the hole before he lost his nerve.
Three-against-one — not good. Need to even the odds a little ...
As he moved along the wall, he targeted the hanging lights and systematically shot them out with more lasers. In seconds, the warehouse was plunged into darkness.
One of the rogues said something — the only part he heard clearly was the name "Edmond," and then the rest was too muffled to catch.
When one of them — presumably Edmond? — responded, it was the redhead who’d first yelled. "To hell with that!" the man called from his hiding place. "Khalkha chose us for just this occasion! Don’t you remember how Elliott lost his thumb, stupid? It’s him!"
"Him," huh? Steve mused. Glad to know that I’m already leaving an impression on the bad guys ...
But then more blasts of electricity were fired his direction, and he had to move quickly. It would be far too easy to forget that this wasn’t a game, and that these rogues would kill him if they could. He sprinted along the wall until the latest barrage stopped, then raced across the open floor toward their side of the room. Back in elementary school, he’d often used this trick in Dodgeball — slip up behind them when they’re looking the wrong way. So long as he was the only one with night-vision — he crossed his fingers! — the darkness worked to his advantage.
"Did I get him?" he heard.
"Not even close."
"What the hell do you know?"
As they argued amongst themselves, he reached the opposite wall, slowing his pace and moving as silently as he could. Two of them were crouched behind Ardette’s work table — he would reach them first. As he watched, the chubby one scooted back a little and touched the floor with both hands. The ground began to melt.
Now I know who my acid-man is, Steve thought. He’s target Number One.
The big guy — who, unlike the other two, was wearing a ski mask — whispered something, and the acid-man responded, "I’m burning into the floor. Making us a dugout. We’ll be able to drop in and wait for him to give away his position. Since he can’t see us any better than we can see him—"
Steve was right beside them now, and though he knew it was a risk to give away his position before he struck, he couldn’t resist the urge to give them a little Batman-esque scare. Smiling to himself, he said aloud, "I wouldn’t be too sure of that."
The big guy jumped, but the acid-man only looked up. Having taken all the chances he was prepared to give himself, Steve kicked him right between the eyes. His head snapped back sharply, he moaned, and then slumped into the very hole he’d just begun.
"Got you!" the redhead roared, firing a lightning bolt from each hand, heedless of whether or not he might hit either of his companions. They again missed their target, but one of the bolts struck a large pile of computer printouts on a different table, which instantly caught fire. The flames spread quickly to the table itself, and suddenly it wasn’t so dark.
Now Steve realized that he was visible, and way too close to the big guy. Jumping back several steps, he targeted the redhead with a repellent vortex wave, throwing him up and back several yards before he crashed to the floor, moaning, groaning, and cursing the whole way.
That’s not good enough, Steve thought. He’s still conscious, and I don’t know what this big guy can do yet. I don’t want to kill them if I don’t have to, but I can’t give the redhead a chance to fire off another one of those lightning bolts—
Then it hit him: Lightning bolts.
"Lightning," he said aloud ... and now he finally realized just who it was he was fighting. Trembling with rage, his lips drawn back into a fierce snarl, he rushed toward the man who murdered his entire family, leaping over the bench like it wasn’t even there.
He’d fantasized about this possibility, but he’d also kept his expectations in check. After all, it was possible — even likely — that he would never, ever find the man who had so completely upended his life. Blinded him, orphaned him, even turned him into a cyborg, however indirectly. And now he was here, and one str
eam of his lasers would cut the bastard’s head right off of his body.
Except somehow, in spite of his rage and the man’s consummate vulnerability, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.
Doesn’t matter, he rationalized as he rushed toward the bastard. Quick death would be too good for him, anyway. I want to do it myself!
The rogue had gotten back to his feet, but he was lurching, his sense of balance still off. He raised his hands, firing several smaller lightning bolts.
Steve zigged and zagged but kept advancing — one of the bolts clipped his cape, but he was beyond caring about the danger of this mad dash.
When he reached the rogue, he ducked one last attack, then straightened and elbowed the bastard in the left temple as hard as he could. Shaken, stunned, and desperate, the rogue abandoned his paranormal abilities and actually took an uncoordinated swing at him — which was perfectly fine with Steve. Grinning maliciously, he blocked the attack, rolled his arm around the rogue’s, and then twisted sharply away. The murdering son of a bitch screamed as his elbow bent in the wrong direction, but Steve wasn’t done with him yet. He continued to turn, pulling the rogue over his hip by his already-injured arm. He flipped the man all the way over and slammed him down onto the hard floor with gratifying force, flat on his back — the man’s breath exploded from his lungs and his eyes bulged in their sockets.
Paranormals (Book 1) Page 21