"Son of a bitch!" Steve barked, kicking him in the face. "You killed them all!"
But it still wasn’t enough, and he leaped upon the man, raining blow after blow upon him. Every hit spurred him on to the next, and that small, barely objective part of him warned that he might end up killing the man after all if he didn’t stop soon.
Good! he retorted at the unwanted voice of reason. But part of the problem was that, as he begrudgingly recalled, Ensign Takayasu had explained that paranormals with control over electricity and lighting were a relatively common occurrence. As much as he wanted, needed, satisfaction, it slowly began to dawn on him that maybe this wasn’t the same man who massacred his life. Oh, he was one of the bad guys for sure — there was no doubting that — but what if ...
In the next instant, something hit him in the back so hard he almost blacked out. He rolled forward and back up to his feet, but it was only his years of training taking over — his conscious thoughts were scattered and disjointed, until he found himself facing the big guy with the ski mask once more. A darting glance to the side also revealed just what had hit him.
What, did he break the bench in half and throw it at me? he wondered. His hind ribs protested his movements, but his breath came back more rapidly than he would have thought possible. Thank God I had the double-protection from the cape. I’ll have to point this out to Ardette when I’m through.
And he had no doubt that he would be through shortly. The lightning man shouldn’t be moving anytime soon — ditto for the corrosive man. And now that he had the big guy in his sights — literally — he was ready to finish this.
The funny thing was, this last opponent clearly had no concept of his predicament. He stepped forward and blustered in a tough-guy voice, "Listen, why don’t you just stand down, Mister? I don’t want to hurt you—"
Whatever, Steve smirked, and kicked on the vortex wave. Rather than slam him with a repellent wave as he had the lightning man, he cut loose with the standard variety. He would simply squeeze this guy into unconsciousness, then take the time to decide, once and for all, just what he really wanted to do with ...
To Steve’s amazement, the rogue froze for a second, then slowly advanced upon him. After the whole bench thing, he figured that this guy was a super-strong paranormal, but he didn’t expect him to be this strong.
Fine. If that’s the way he wants it. We’ll just see how much he can take.
Focusing his concentration, Steve pushed the vortex wave to a higher intensity. He’d dabbled with increasing both his laser and the vortex during his training with Alan and Ardette, but this would be his first true field test. The rogue was obviously affected — the strain showed in his eyes, the tendons and veins stood out in his neck, and his muscles bulged under his black shirt ...
But still he came, ever slowly but surely.
Steve’s breath started coming faster in a way that the physical exertion with the lightning man had failed to induce. He felt ... well, as absurd as it almost was, he sort of felt as though he were having a difficult bowel movement — except the labor was focused in his head and lungs rather than his lower regions. His pulse thudded in his temples and he gritted his teeth together.
I guess we’ll just have to see who lasts the longest...
But it didn’t come to that. A flash of light that would have blinded his natural eyes streaked toward him and struck him in the chest, almost perfectly in the center of his vortex emblem. The charge seared through his body, making his muscles lock up like granite before dancing into a million tiny spasms. He saw a supernova that originated behind his mechanical eyes, and his lungs burned. His heart skipped a beat ...
... and then he was flat on his back, far more disoriented than he had been from the bench-blow, and virtually unable to move. The same instincts from before tried to force him back up, but this time his limbs decided they just weren’t going to cooperate.
As he lay there, his eyelids fluttering, he heard the redhead’s voice. "Be damned. Still alive, and conscious. Tough sonuvabitch. Not for long. Thanks for holdin’em, Powerhouse."
I should have killed you when I had the chance! Steve cursed inwardly, more at himself than at the rogue. I didn’t even get to finish off this "Powerhouse" character, damn it!
Steve heard the shuffling of feet and managed to roll his head in that direction. The rogue was there, grinning at him. He tried desperately to fire his lasers straight through the guy’s face, but after the combined strain of his suped-up vortex wave and taking a lightning bolt to the sternum, he just couldn’t coerce the necessary juice — the fact that his eyelids wouldn’t stop flapping probably played a role in that failure as well. He couldn’t even catch his breath, let alone fire one of his weapons.
I’m about to die.
The futility of it all filled him with impotent anger. Here he had survived this man’s initial onslaught upon his family, only to die by the same bastard’s whim a couple of months later? Alan might even suggest that he’d brought this on himself with his silly desire to play—
No. He did not regret his decision. However it had turned out, he truly believed that he’d had the right idea, a good idea. He could only pray that perhaps somehow, someway, some paranormal out there would also read Jeffrey Lawrence’s essay, or something like it, and come to the same conclusion as he had. He’d given it his best shot — for the first, and last, time in his life, he’d aspired to something meaningful and larger than himself, and he was proud of what he’d tried to do.
He stared up at the rogue, who was slowly raising his hand to emit the deathblow, and thought, Do your worst, you son of a bitch. I’m ready.
Suddenly, Steve heard a loud crunch that could not have been confused with a lightning bolt by any stretch of the imagination. The rogue’s eyes bulged in his head, but not in shock — the life had already gone out of them. His neck swelled and his mouth gaped and he lifted onto his tiptoes. Then he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, and behind him stood the big guy, "Powerhouse," his outstretched fist slowly lowering to his side.
Did ... did Powerhouse just kill him? For me?!
Steve shook his head — maybe his brains had been fried worse than he realized. This Powerhouse was threatening him and marching straight into his vortex wave not thirty seconds before. Why would he come to his rescue?
Powerhouse stared down at Steve a moment longer ... then reached up and removed his ski mask. For a melodramatic moment, Steve half-expected to recognize the face, that surely he would know his rescuer. But it was no one Steve knew — dark-complected Caucasian, dark hair, dark eyes ... just an ordinary face, but one filled with angst.
"They’ve been calling me ‘Powerhouse,’ " the man said, "but my real name is Lincoln Roberts."
Whoa, Steve thought. Did I miss something? What’s this all about?
"I’m being forced to work for a man named Richard McLane," Lincoln Roberts explained, and he immediately had Steve’s attention. In spite of his adrenaline rush of hatred upon identifying the lightning man, Steve was still fully aware that it was McLane who gave the orders. "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, Lincoln offered Steve his hand.
Steve gaped at the hand, then glanced up into the man’s eyes. In that instant, he understood everything. What he saw in Lincoln Roberts’ eyes was something akin to hero worship. Lincoln had the star-struck look of a small boy meeting his idol — athlete, actor, astronaut, whatever — for the first time. That look might have confused the hell out of Steve if it hadn’t dawned on him that, with at least this one man, he’d already accomplished what he’d set out to do. Lincoln wasn’t seeing Steve Davison, he was seeing the costume, the emblem, the mask ... he was seeing Vortex.
Grinning, Steve accepted Lincoln’s offer of assistance. The big man pulled him effortlessly to his feet — which was a good thing, as Steve most certainly could not have stood on his own. He held on to Lincoln�
��s grip and forearm, trying to will the capricious dizziness away.
"I’ve seen several people killed by Graham’s lightning bolts," Lincoln marveled. "I’m impressed that you’re still breathing."
That made Steve suddenly realize that his breathing was far too shallow, and he forced himself to draw a long, deep, cleansing breath. His hind ribs groused about it, but at least his diaphragm had decided to be his friend again.
"Barely," Steve pointed out, reminding himself that he would indeed be dead now if Powerhouse had not interfered on his behalf. There was no way he could have survived a second lightning bolt, let alone a third or fourth or ... "This suit ... protects me," he explained. "It’s insulated against electrical shock ... but I guess that bolt was a bit more than it could handle."
"So it’s the suit?" Lincoln repeated, sounding slightly confused. "Invulnerability isn’t one of your paranormal powers?"
Steve almost asked, What are you talking about? But of course that was the assumption Lincoln would make — in fact, it was a misconception that Steve had counted on when he decided to take up this guise. He was tempted to confide, I’m not a paranormal, I’m a cyborg, but instead came out with, "No. Not invulnerable. Not like you, anyway. Talk about ‘impressive.’ "
"Uh ... thanks," Lincoln said quietly, glancing around the training center. "Listen, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll tell McLane that you killed Graham, if that’s all right."
It wasn’t Steve’s first choice, to be pegged for a murder which had tempted him but that he ultimately did not commit, but he figured that his position was less delicate than Lincoln’s. "If it’ll help you, fine." After all, even if McLane and his clan believed that, it’s not like they would be running to the authorities anytime soon, whereas Lincoln dare not own up to his actions in this matter.
"Wait." Lincoln steadied him and then let go of Steve’s arm. He trotted over to the table with the computer and began looking around until he turned up an ink pen. Checking his pants pockets, he produced a little piece of paper. As Steve joined him on legs that were now screaming with little pins and needles, Lincoln wrote something on the slip before handing it over. "This is where we usually meet," he explained. "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 ..."
Steve saw the tears swelling in the man’s eyes, and if there were one thing he could certainly identify with of late, it was pain. He gripped Lincoln’s shoulder. "I’ll do whatever I can. And I think I know where to find some help."
Lincoln nodded, blinking his eyes in embarrassment. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and pulled his mask back on, once again becoming Powerhouse. "Gotta go. Thank you."
"Thank you."
Powerhouse nodded again, then gently lifted the chubby rogue — whom Steve had forgotten completely — off the floor. Carrying him over to the redhead’s body, he arranged him just so, then he bent, seized the lightning man by his lifeless ankle, and heaved him up and over his shoulder like an oversized garment bag. Again making sure the unconscious corrosive man was as carefully balanced as possible, he moved toward the impromptu exit.
"Wait!" Steve called.
Powerhouse looked back.
Moving as quickly as he could on his uneven legs, Steve joined him. "I’ll make sure the coast is clear."
And while that was what he intended, he had another motive as well. Peering out through the burned opening, he checked around with his thermal vision. He turned toward Powerhouse, who was also looking around for whatever it was worth, then looked down upon the dead man’s face. He wanted to remember that face, burn it into his mind for all time. In the end, he supposed that he was somewhat grateful for not having finished him off himself — a slate that would hopefully remain clean, at least until he found McLane, which would require a lot more soul-searching in itself — but he still wanted some closure. He wanted to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that whoever may have given the order, the instrument of his family’s massacre was gone and he wasn’t coming back.
"Okay," he said finally, "I’ve seen enough. Take off straight that way, and move as quickly as you can. If it comes down to it, I’ll provide another diversion if I have to, but I’d rather not, so watch your butt."
Powerhouse started to say something, then merely nodded and took off.
Steve sighed, leaning heavily against the edge of the disintegrated concrete. Rushing in and taking on the bad guys was one thing, but now he’d been given a real hero’s duty. How in the world would he be able to help Lincoln save his brother and sister? In the confusion of the moment, he realized that he’d failed to even ask their names or ages! Guess he’d never make a detective hero.
But at least he had an idea. He hadn’t just been blowing smoke when he mentioned someone who might be able to help. He knew he could count on Alan and Ardette, but that wasn’t whom he had in mind. He needed someone with resources and expertise that he just didn’t have. He knew he’d be taking a big chance, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice.
It was time for Vortex to pay a visit to Ensign Michael Takayasu and his partner Shockwave ...
TAKAYASU, SHOCKWAVE, AND POWERHOUSE
Bleep! Bleep! Bleep!
Grunting, Michael rolled over. He slapped the snooze button on his alarm clock, distantly aware that he’d already done so once, and if he did it one more time, there would be consequences.
But, at the moment, those repercussions seemed vague and far away. After all, it’d been a while since he’d had such a good night’s sleep ... or, more correctly, been put to sleep in such a pleasant fashion.
Christine shifted and snuggled closer to him as he slipped his arm around her.
As tempting as it was to just doze off again, Michael slowly realized that he really shouldn’t wait for the alarm to bleep again. Sighing, he attempted to pull his arm free.
Frowning in her daze, Christine held onto the arm more tightly.
"Sorry," Michael whispered, kissing her lightly on the forehead. "I’ve got to get up."
"Nah, ya don’t," she mumbled. "Call’n sick."
Michael smiled. "Tempting. Very tempting. But I can’t."
Christine frowned more deeply, her lips pursing out in a pout ... but she let go of his arm.
Shuffling toward the bathroom, and the shower, Michael stooped to pull the pager from the belt of his discarded pants. Turning it on, he groaned inwardly when it immediately vibrated — he groaned aloud when he found seven numeric messages glaring at him, all of them Brase’s code, the first one almost four hours prior. Michael stopped, one foot still in the bedroom, the other on the bathroom tile.
Given the circumstances, he figured that he would have to forego the shower ...
Christine finally roused just as he swallowed his last bite of Pop-Tart and pulled on his work coat. "Hey," she mumbled.
"Hey," he returned with a smile, but his eyes favored the pager screen — would it be better to call now, or just show up at the office as soon as possible? The meeting wasn’t scheduled to start for over an hour, but he figured that it would be prudent to—
Christine slipped her arms around him, pressing her head to his chest. "You can’t go."
"Believe me, I don’t want to go. But it looks like there’s going to be hell to pay for turning off my pager, so I really can’t—"
"I don’t care. Don’t go."
Uh-oh, Michael thought. "Are you okay?" he asked. She hadn’t struck him as the super-clingy type before, but then ... he really didn’t know her all that well, did he?
"I’m fine," she insisted in a not even remotely convincing tone of voice. "It’s just that ... last night was very special to me, Michael. I was kind of hoping ... I don’t know, for a day to match."
"Christine," he said carefully, "remember that I told you about—"
"I know, I know. About the paranormal senate thing ...
"
Synod, he almost corrected before biting his tongue.
"... I didn’t forget or anything. I was just ... hoping. You know?"
"I know." He pulled her back just far enough so he could bend forward and kiss her lightly. Damn, but she had beautiful eyes! "Tell you what ... why don’t you wait here for me? I won’t lie to you — I have no idea how long I’ll be. The meeting would have taken a few hours as it is, but now I’ve got all these pages and ... well, would you like to just stay here and ... and make yourself at home?"
Paranormals (Book 1) Page 22