by Drew Hayes
“We’re ready,” Vince said. They gathered around Mr. Transport and Mr. Numbers.
An instant later there was only an empty room, echoes of voices still gently reverberating off the walls.
148.
The night was strangely bright as Nick, Alice, and Vince stood on the dusty road. It was still used by the locals during the day, but by this time of night the only ones traveling its worn lengths were the local wildlife and the occasional tourist who got lost. There were some lights scattered about; however, if not for the moonlight, the visibility would have been greatly reduced. Nick wasn’t sure if that suited their purposes well or hurt them. He suspected he wouldn’t know for sure until this whole affair had concluded.
“We’re sure they’re coming down this route?” Alice asked, yet again.
Nick nodded. “Mr. Numbers said his coworker could tell they were moving fifty miles an hour down this highway. It’s off the beaten path so if we’d launched a manhunt they wouldn’t easily be spotted, but the inverse is that there aren’t exits to the highway between where they were and us. They’re coming this way, presumably doing the speed limit so as not to get pulled over, which means we have a couple more minutes by my calculations.”
“I know, I just... what if they stop for the night? Or get a teleporter to help them? Or if wherever they’re going is on this road and they’ve already reached it?”
“Relax,” Nick ordered her. “If they had a teleporter they could use then they wouldn’t be taking a truck. As for stopping, Mr. Numbers will contact us if his source senses any dramatic change in their movement. They’re coming, Alice.”
“Okay,” Alice said, vainly willing her heart to cease its mad pounding. “Okay.”
“You’ll be fine,” Vince assured her. “Just stick to the plan.”
“Right. Get Hershel whiskey and get Mary away,” Alice said.
“Bingo,” Nick said. “I’ll help you if I can, but my main goal is to provide Vince with cover while he fights the coaches. Hopefully, however they’re holding Hershel is something Roy can easily overcome. Mary will definitely be unconscious, though.”
“Why are you so sure about that?” Alice asked.
“Because if she was awake they’d be no way to stop her from trashing the vehicle. Even Persephone’s nerve twitch pheromone didn’t stop me from thinking. If she can think then she can kick ass.”
“All you have to do is get her clear,” Vince reiterated. “We’ll meet up with you down the road. If for any reason we’re delayed, call Mr. Transport after five minutes for pickup.”
“But you won’t be delayed, right? You’re going to get away.”
“Of course we will,” Vince assured her. “But it never hurts to have a backup plan.”
Alice looked away from him, staring down the dark road instead. She didn’t think Vince was lying: just believing in the happiest possible scenario. Alice didn’t quite feel the optimism welling up in herself; her mind kept dwelling on all the ways this could go to shit.
“Heh.” A nervous giggle escaped Alice’s lips. “This sort of feels wrong, doing it at night. Shouldn’t we be having our showdown at high noon?”
“Personally speaking, I prefer poor lighting and shadow when facing overwhelming forces,” Nick replied.
“Don’t count on a whole lot of that,” Vince said.
Nick shot his friend a curious glance. The boy had obviously done something to prep for this fight, but he hadn’t shared it with his comrades. In fact, Vince hadn’t contributed much to any of their hurried planning process. His eyes had been sharp and focused, but not on anything the others could see. For as lunatic a situation as they were in, Vince had been calm and detached nearly the entire time. This was another variable that Nick wasn’t sure if he found comforting or terrifying.
As it would ultimately turn out, the answer was both.
* * *
The man wore a grey silk shirt, black pants, and an expression of extreme derision as he paced in front of Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport.
“So I’m expected to believe that two of our top operatives were surprised and overpowered by a group of children?”
“Teens, actually, all of them old enough to be counted as adults. Except with drinking,” Mr. Transport pointed out.
The man stopped and delivered a withering glare. “This is not the time for semantics or splitting hairs. What you are telling me indicates tremendous incompetence at best and full-out betrayal at worst. I trust I don’t need to explain to you what happens if it’s determined to be the latter?”
Both men would have gulped if they’d had more control over their bodies. However, Mr. Move was not notorious for his mercy or kindness, so as soon as he had heard the bad news, Mr. Move had taken over control of everything in their bodies except for speech.
“I have to tell you, I‘ve very disappointed in you two,” Mr. Move said, taking a seat on the table in front of them.
“I am certain that our supervisors will find our actions both understandable and non-traitorous. We were taken by surprise and bested. No one is perfect, after all,” Mr. Numbers defended.
“Maybe they will,” Mr. Move agreed. “But we’ll be finding out soon. Mr. Transport is going to take us to the home office so that you two can explain things in person.”
Mr. Transport and Mr. Numbers would have shared a look of concern, had they been capable. They’d known this reaction was within the realm of possibility and had tried to take action to mitigate it. Unfortunately, they had yet to see the results they were hoping for, which could prove detrimental to the plan. If they went to the head office they wouldn’t have their phones, and that would result in no one being on hand to retrieve their charges once the mission was complete.
“An excellent idea,” Mr. Transport said. “Won’t you need to give them advanced notice, though? It is a late hour, after all.”
“No need,” Mr. Move replied. “They were already assembled to decide how to react to the initial kidnapping. I was given full authorization to move personnel to their location should a need arise.”
“Well then... excellent,” Mr. Transport said, unable to think of an alternative argument. He could refuse to use his power: Mr. Move only overtook their bodies, not the abilities that they wielded. That move would end the game, though, labeling him and Mr. Numbers as traitors and moving their own safety far higher on their immediate concerns list. Still, it was a viable strategy, and one he might have to employ.
Mr. Transport was saved from his decision by a loud, authoritative knock on the door. Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport couldn’t see one another from the way their heads were positioned. If they had been able to, they would have known they were both smiling quite unprofessionally.
Mitigating factors had arrived.
149.
The three would-be ambushers saw the distant headlights long before they heard the steady thrum of the truck’s engine. The pinpoints of light were too high off the road for a sedan and too widely-spaced for a standard pickup. That left eighteen wheeler or large transport vehicle.
Nick glanced down at his watch. Estimating from the truck’s speed, it would be here in another three minutes, a time which fit neatly into the expected window.
“It’s them,” Nick announced, shooting a quick look at his compatriots. “Everyone ready?”
Vince nodded. Alice did as well, though more hesitantly.
“Good. As soon as they stop, everybody stick to the plan,” Nick instructed one last time. He’d tried to keep things general rather than bogging them down in details, but it was crucial that each one stick to their roles. Their chances of success were already disgustingly slim. If a single person broke rank then all hope would be lost.
“About that. I have a question,” Alice said.
Nick glanced again at the approaching lights, now increasing in size and brightness. “Make it a quick one.”
“It’s about stopping the truck. How do we know standing in the road will get them
to brake? What if they just mow us down?”
“Alice, did you really think I would build an entire plan that depended on basic human decency? Give me a little credit.”
“Then how are you stopping the truck?”
Nick gauged the truck’s speed once more. It would be here very soon, so he might as well get started.
“With a whole lot of bad luck.” Nick clenched his fist and drew in a deep breath. He realized the futility of exercising fake tells when he could no longer hide his real one, but Nick Campbell was nothing if not committed to his role. Nick focused on the truck bearing down upon on them, on the front part of the cab, on the engine, and specifically on the driver. He wasn’t sure who would be at the wheel, but he certainly knew who he was hoping for. He kept his mind aimed at the vehicle, and then he began to gather the bad luck. Normally he could use a simple burst; however, for a project this big, he was going to need one doozy of a wallop.
Alice gasped and took a step back in surprise. Vince was more stoic, merely commenting, “Well, that explains the glasses.”
As the luck built up in Nick, the irises of his eyes began the glow with a golden light. It was dim at first, slowly growing brighter as the power accumulated. Nick kept those radiant eyes trained on his speeding metal adversary. He needed to act when the machine was far enough away not to catch them in whatever catastrophe occurred, but close enough to be quickly reachable by Alice. Optimum timing would come down to a difference of mere seconds. The right corner of Nick’s mouth tugged upward ever so slightly. He hadn’t had a challenge like this in years.
The truck grew nearer and the time was at hand. Nick hardened his focus, shifted just a touch more bad luck in the driver’s direction, and then let fly.
What happened next was an orchestra of malfunction. The engine caught fire and began billowing smoke, all four tires blew out simultaneously, and both axles snapped as the truck came careening to the ground. It dove forward in a headfirst motion, smashing the grill into the ground and severely crumpling the front compartment. It skidded across the cement, coming just on the verge of tipping before slamming back onto its base. Dust flew freely into the air and a sea of shrapnel lay in the truck’s wake. Though it was a tremendous amount of action, it occurred in mere seconds. By the time Nick’s eyes had dulled to their normal brown, the only sound remaining on the dark country road was the soft crackling of flames coming out of the engine.
“Holy shit,” Alice said, her voice dumbstruck.
“Worship me later,” Nick chided her. “Right now we’ve got to get over there before they can recover.”
He and Vince began dashing down the road at top speed. Alice lifted off the ground and accelerated, quickly passing them in the race to save their friends.
* * *
“Well, that was a shitwreck,” Coach George commented calmly as he tossed Mary over his shoulder. The tall man had switched to his robotic form at the first wobble they’d felt from the floor. The crash had been predominantly absorbed by the front of the vehicle, but Hershel still found himself sore, pitched to the side, and with blood trickling from where his handcuffs had pulled against his skin. It seemed Coach George had lifted Mary up during the worst of it, otherwise she would have been tossed about since she wasn’t restrained to the floor.
“What was that?” Hershel asked, his head finally clearing up with the input of these new injuries.
“Hey, Persephone, report. Did you hit a squirrel or something?” Coach George demanded.
No response came from the smoking front cab.
“Fuck. Guess this just became a one-man job.” Coach George kicked open the back door, sending it sprawling off its hinges. He turned back to regard Hershel. “Kid, it’s been fun but my job is delivery of your friend, not to deal with whatever the hell just smashed my truck. Looks like at least you’re off the hook. I can only fly with one passenger.”
A series of flaps on Coach George’s back opened and his legs began pulse with a green energy. Of course, of course he could fly. Hershel cursed inwardly. Someone had come to save them, and now Coach George was going to soar off before they could reach Mary. Coach George was going to get away and Hershel was going to be just sitting here. Useless as always. It was amazing Coach George had even bothered chaining him to the ground. Hershel blinked and looked at his restraints. His hands were still bound by a long length of chain, but the bolt that held him to the floor had been ripped off in the crash. Hershel sucked in a long breath that made his ribs ache. He made a snap decision.
Coach George was still powering up his legs when over two hundred pounds of husky student slammed into his back. Before he could bring himself to believe what was happening, a chain had been thrown around his neck, then wrapped over again. Hershel managed three more layers before George reached up and snared his right arm.
“It has occurred to you that in this mode I don’t need oxygen, right?”
“I pretty much assumed it,” Hershel wheezed. Holding himself onto George’s back was already proving a difficult task to maintain. That had been the true purpose of looping his chains: it bound him to the metallic man with something more than his poor arm strength.
“So what are you doing?”
“You can’t fly with two people,” Hershel replied.
“Really, kid? You’ve spent your whole life living in the shadow of your better alter ego, and now you decide you want to play Hero? I’ve got an idea; let’s skip to the part where you realize you can’t cut it and just let go. Otherwise things might get... troublesome.” On his last word Coach George tightened his grip on Hershel’s arm. Hershel managed to bite back a cry. George’s fingers felt like they were already gripping him on the bone and Hershel was under no illusions that this was the strongest he could clutch.
“Roy isn’t the only son of Titan. Do your worst; I won’t let you take Mary,” Hershel spat back, his voice low as he tried to keep it from quivering.
“Have it your way,” Coach George replied.
Hershel wasn’t able to stop the next scream that rose, or any of the many that followed.
150.
George - he had ceased to think of himself a coach since this night’s inception - was both surprised and aggravated. The tear-stained butterball now panting on the truck’s cock-eyed floor had held on longer than he’d expected. It had taken no less than seven breaks in his arm to finally force Hershel to let go. Of course, George could have just ripped the damn thing off in the first place; however, he knew that wouldn’t have sat well with the man at the top of the ladder.
George turned his back on the softly weeping boy and readjusted his grip on Mary. It didn’t matter that he’d been slowed down. All that mattered was the girl. That was his job and that was what he would deliver. George was a singularly focused man. He took care of the mission at all costs. That was what had made him a great Hero, and, ironically, what had knocked him down to the point of teaching snot-based brats how to fight.
George stepped out into the crisp late-spring night. He flexed his rudders and checked his energy levels. Flying took some extensive warming up of his leg thrusters, but he was nearly there, even with Hershel’s delay. He’d be ready to take off in less than a minute.
George made it fewer than five steps away from the battered vehicle when a pillar of flame thick as a fist came rocketing past him, missing only by a few inches. It struck the ground several feet away, the tar immediately bubbling at the sudden influx of heat. It was a bold move, one that gave away both position and tactical advantage in favor of declaring one’s intentions. George knew plenty of fire users, but only one stupid enough to make an opening gambit like that. He turned around to greet his opponent.
“Reynolds,” George acknowledged, his voice tinged with an electronic variable.
Vince stood down the road, illuminated by the still smoldering spot at George’s back. The air around him shimmered as its temperature was forced upward. He was practically leaking energy; the guy must have absorbed a h
ouse fire or something. Gone were any traces of the usual happiness and optimism that usually peppered his expression. In their place was a vicious stare and eyes that said quite clearly that the only way one of them would come away from this was in a broken, bloody mess. It was a shame things had to go this way; George felt like he could have sculpted this kid into a real warrior.
“Let Mary go,” Vince demanded. His tone wasn’t angry or impatient. It was calm and flat as the waters of an abandoned bath tub.
“Sorry, Reynolds, not going to happen,” George replied.
“What if we say pretty please?” Nick Campbell stepped into view from the behind the front of the truck. He must have been making sure Persephone was down for the count. Smart kid. He edged slightly closer to his friend, though the emanating heat forced a healthy distance between the two. In his hands were a pair of guns, one a standard black pistol but the other a long-barreled silver six-shooter.
“Campbell, I thought you were one of the bright ones. What are you doing out here?” George just needed a little more time to charge up and he could get away without having to risk his unconscious package in a throwdown with these kids.
“Friendship can make us do some spectacularly stupid things,” Nick replied. He squeezed the trigger with his right hand and sparks flashed off George’s torso as the bullet ricocheted.
“Whoa, kid, not even a warning shot?”
“That was the warning shot,” Nick replied evenly.
George assessed the situation and weighed his options. Reynolds was pissed off enough to actually fight worth a damn and clearly hopped up on more energy than usual. Campbell was practically worthless if all he had was a pair of guns, but he could be surprisingly clever and behaved like he had ice water in his veins. Adair was floating overhead, trying to stay unnoticed as she clutched a huge rock. Whatever their plan was, it couldn’t be that sophisticated. Still, he was under strict orders to deliver the girl undamaged, and with kids this inexperienced, they could easily make a mistake and injure their friend.