Firedrake - Volume 1

by T. Mike McCurley

  “Crawling on your belly, I see,” Broadsword taunted, bringing the sword up before his face with the grace of a fencer saluting his opponent. He took a couple of shuffling steps to his side. “You truly are a serpent.”

  “Actually, I’m more of a lizard, if you want to get technical,” Drake replied, watching the man and slowly circling with him.

  A shot rang out, followed by the whining sound of a bullet ricocheting into the distance. Drake glanced aside for a second to see Lara standing with her hands before her, pistol braced in a two-handed grip. Broadsword barely broke stride, his eyes flicking downward to see the coppery streak where the woman’s bullet had impacted and partially disintegrated before it bounced away into the distance.

  “Stop it!” Drake yelled at the woman, sidestepping a casual thrust by Broadsword. He slapped his hand against the flat of the blade, but the armored man simply spun in place to face Drake once again. A maniacal laughter drifted from within the helmet.

  From the trucks, nearly a dozen men responded to Lara’s attack by standing and aiming their weapons at the small woman. She scrambled to get out of their way as the first barking report sounded. A heavy grey hand gripped the shoulder of her leather jacket, and Lara found herself suddenly and securely tucked behind the blocky figure of Shane Baxter. It was as if she had been miraculously sheltered from a blizzard. Even the wind seemed unable to reach her, protected as she was by the nearly-invulnerable form of her friend. Bullets scattered into the distance with whines and sharp tones as they skipped off Shane’s rocky flesh.

  Drake could not spare the woman any more of his attention. Broadsword had pressed his attack, making lightning-quick passes with his sword and forcing the reptilian booster into a purely defensive mode. Ducking and weaving to avoid the assaults, Drake was left with few options for attacks of his own. He leaned backward as the whistling blade cut the air above him, then hugged the ground as Broadsword slashed back. Slipping left to avoid a downward strike, Drake cursed as he recognized the feint for what it was. The blade cut instantly to the side, as though it had no weight at all, and Drake felt a cold sensation that turned rapidly to a blazing fire as the sword carved a gash nearly a foot long in his chest plate. It was not a deep cut, but Broadsword delighted in the sudden flow from the wound.

  “First blood to the righteous!” he cheered, taking a step backward to examine his handiwork.

  Drake pressed the palm of his right hand to his chest, making a growling sound at the pain of the contact. He had to separate the man from the weapon before something like that happened again. His mind whirled with ideas even as he dropped a shoulder to escape a potentially crippling blow. Broadsword fell back one step and raised the sword up. Maintaining eye contact with his opponent, Drake used the barbed tip of his tail to scoop sand from the ground and throw it forward in a blinding cloud as his left hand slipped behind him and dragged a pair of cuffs from the carrier on his belt. As Broadsword recovered from the immediate problem of the dust and sand and moved forward to attack again, Drake raised his hand to block the swing. Seeing the arm come up, Broadsword threw his body weight behind the swing with the intention of slicing the hand from Drake’s arm.

  A ring of metal on metal sounded, audible above even the occasional gunfire that still echoed through the desert air, and Broadsword stopped short, looking at his sword in disbelief.

  “The cuffs are durite too, dumbass,” Drake explained, displaying his left hand for the booster to view. The handcuffs were locked in place around Drake’s enormous scaled fist. Before more than a brief image had registered, Drake snapped out a short left jab that impacted the still-extended blade. He succeeded in knocking it to the side long enough to allow him to jump close to Broadsword. The long claws of his right hand wrapped around the heavy helmet and he pulled the man in to him. Drake knew his only hope was to remain in tight quarters that eliminated Broadsword’s chances to use his blade.

  Shane Baxter had grown tired of the men shooting at Lara. As he had explained to Drake, he would not fight simply to protect property that could be replaced. The gunfire, however, posed an imminent threat to the safety of all parties concerned with the possible exception of his own. His eyes narrowed and he marched forward, shaking his head all the way, until he reached the first of the trucks. Bunching his fists, he swung both of them overhead and then down in a ferocious chopping motion that shattered the thin metal of the truck’s hood and tore the engine free from its mountings. Metal collapsed like tissue around his powerful strike, but he did not stop there. He pounded again and again at the truck, reducing the contents of the engine compartment to little more than pieces of scrap. Bending at the waist, he gripped the frame of the vehicle and lifted, twisting his shoulders and turning the Ford onto its side. As the men from the bed of the vehicle shouted and tumbled across the ground, Shane turned his attention to the Dodge. Even before he reached it, the occupants had jumped free and started running. Shane attacked the truck anyway, his anger having taken hold of his senses.

  Drake gripped Broadsword tightly around the waist, hugging the man to his own bleeding chest. The pommel of the sword, tipped with a ball of raw durite, slammed repeatedly into Drake’s head as the armored booster tried to break free. Each strike was like a bolt of lightning ripping through his brain. Drake responded by driving his knee into the man’s groin, and was immediately sorry he had done so. Not only was Broadsword wearing a codpiece of the same metal as the rest of his armor, Drake had used his left leg for the strike. The impact sent fresh waves of pain through the wound left by Retribution’s energy blast outside the hotel in Seattle, and Drake fell to the ground, hands wrapping protectively around the leg.

  Standing above the rolling dragon, Broadsword laughed and raised his weapon over his head in preparation for a devastating downward stroke. Behind him, Shane Baxter broke into a lumbering run that shook the ground, desperate to reach the struggling pair before the fatal blow could land.

  “Your time is at hand, demon!” Broadsword declared, unable to resist a moment of gloating over the downed booster.

  Still grimacing from the agony of his leg, Drake snarled from deep within his chest and spat a streak of flame directly into the face of his opponent. Fire licked through the eyeslit and the grated opening through which the occupant could speak and breathe. The armored man screamed and stumbled back, dropping his precious sword as he reached for his helmet.

  “Baxter!” Drake shouted, staggering to his feet. His tail wrapped around the hilt of the sword and he lifted it into his waiting grasp. The weapon arced around in a swing that was far more force than grace. Shane saw it coming and lowered his shoulder like a linebacker to intercept it, grey eyes widening with fear of what Drake might be doing, and what it might mean to his own safety.

  The weapon caught Shane on the stony surface of his shoulder, striking with the flat of the blade and swung with all the strength Drake could muster. A shower of sparks filled the space between the two boosters as the clanging tone of the sword breaking echoed from the walls of the Quonset huts. Shane managed to keep his footing despite the horrific power of the blow, and he stared at the six inches of blade which still protruded from the hilt as it swept on past him. Drake released it and let it hit the ground, turning his attention back to the screaming figure of Broadsword. The man was on his knees in the sand, still struggling to remove the helmet he wore.

  “Leave it,” Drake ordered. Broadsword ignored him, still tugging on the helm and crying out in pain. Drake reached out with hands that were now as gentle as they had once been fierce. He gripped the man’s wrists in his own powerful hands and knelt in front of him.

  “It’s seared to your face. Take it off and your face goes with it, understand?” he asked softly. A wail came from within the helmet, the tone of despair sending shivers down the spines of everyone present. Releasing the wrists he held, Drake slipped the cuffs free from his hand and used them to secure the crying booster’s hands behind his back. Grunting with effort and su
ppressed pain, Drake stood and looked toward the handful of men who remained even after Shane’s devastating assault on the pickup trucks. He raised a hand, pointing at the men with a finger that quivered with tension, rage and adrenaline.

  “Every damned one of you get down on the ground!” he commanded, voice carrying in a wave across the hot sand. As a group, the men fell to their knees without comment. They had seen their leader bested and none of them wanted to take a chance dealing with the one who had done it. Weapons fell alongside them, discarded as if they were writhing snakes. Drake waved a hand at the men and ordered Lara to tie them up. The woman happily complied, running to a nearby hut and returning with a coil of galvanized fence wire with which she bound them. As she did, Drake leaned close to Broadsword and explained the man’s rights under the Miranda ruling, then moved away. The stench of burned flesh wafted through the air, seeming to follow him as he stepped clear of the injured man.

  “You are injured,” Shane said as he turned from the image of Lara restraining the attackers. “We have a first aid kit in the administration building.”

  “Yeah. Get it for me, would you? And water, lots of water. We need to irrigate his face.” Drake’s voice was hoarse and tired, and he had to project it enough to carry over the sound of Broadsword’s agony.

  Shane nodded, then jogged away in the direction of one of the Quonset huts, his feet making loud thumping noises as he moved. Drake reached into his pocket and retrieved the tiny cell phone he had been issued. He snapped it open and used the tip of a talon to push a speed dial button, then held the device to his head. He listened to the sound of the line ringing. After the eighth tone, it was answered.

  “Hart.” The word was spoken quietly.

  “It’s Drake,” he said, though he knew her caller ID system showed her that, else the Director would not have answered. “Send a wagon and a MedEvac chopper to my location.”

  “The situation?”

  “Got a man with facial burns and a dozen or so prisoners.”

  “Understood. Again I say, the situation?”

  Drake clenched a fist and swallowed before answering in an angry shout. “Yeah, everything’s fine out here, all right? The job’s done. Now send me the damned chopper so I can get this guy to a hospital!”

  “En route,” Hart said. Her voice changed tone and Drake could hear that she was happy that the assignment was complete. He, on the other hand, could not help but look with pity at the crying prisoner that still knelt on the ground before him. The mewling sounds that issued from the man’s tortured throat were certain to haunt Drake’s dreams for some time to come.

  “He’ll be lucky to live,” he murmured aloud.

  “He’ll serve his time,” Hart countered, her voice going cold once more. “You did good, Drake. Ride out on the chopper and go see your brother. I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “A few days. Right,” replied the booster, snapping shut the phone. He glared at it for a moment, wanting nothing so much as to destroy it. If severing his relationship with Hart were that easy, though, he knew that he would have done so long ago. He settled for dropping the phone back into his pocket. The hot desert wind caressed his scaled features and he looked into the distance, his eyes flat and dull. A deep thudding sound preceded Shane Baxter, announcing his return with the medical supplies, and Drake sighed.

  “Pretty sure a few days won’t help,” he whispered.

  Chapter Six

  Drake probed gingerly at the dressing that protected the wound on his chest. The pure white stood out starkly against the sickly yellow of the armor plates that had been so easily sliced by Broadsword’s durite weapon. He hated having the bandage, if only for the fact that when he removed it, he knew he would be confronted with tape residue on his pectorals. Forcing himself to stop toying with the gauze, he sighed and glanced to his left to take in the image of the safehouse where Monster lived.

  He had left the armored genebooster in the hospital once a sufficient guard had been posted. Drake was doubtful that Broadsword would be making any attempt at escape for quite some time - certainly not until he recovered from the surgical removal of his helmet from the ruins of his face. Still, it was better not to take any chances. Once leaving there, Drake had been flown to a remote location in the mountains of Colorado for his own recuperation. It was in those mountains that the Department of Justice maintained a series of homes specifically set aside for the higher-risk families of their employees. The spouses and children of undercover agents lived beside parents and siblings of active geneboosters of the Metahuman Response Division.

  Outside the window of the drab brown van in which Drake now rode, faintly lit by the rays of the setting sun, was a building that seemed to have everything necessary to place it squarely in the center of a Norman Rockwell painting: white picket fence, tire swing dangling from a massive oak tree, cedar-wrapped mailbox on a matching post, and soft yellow walls nestled behind a porch large enough to comfortably seat a dozen.

  The image was a false front, however, and Drake was altogether too aware of that fact. The walls of the building were reinforced to withstand small-arms fire, the mailbox post hid seismic sensors for detecting an intruder as they walked past it, roll-down steel shutters were inside the windows. Hidden gun ports offered overlapping fields of fire for the occupants, and beneath it was a hardened safe room stocked with emergency supplies. Most of the houses out here were of similar construction. Department rumor said that the entire settlement was once designed to provide housing for important governmental figures in the event of a war, but since those fears had lessened the property had been put to a more practical use.

  There were other security measures in place as well, most notably including the presence of armed government agents in practically every home, but none of them concerned Drake in the least. The one thing that did weigh on his mind was keeping the thoughts of Broadsword’s scarred features from affecting him while he was with Monster. With a final deep swallow, Drake popped open his door and levered himself from his seat, striking the pavement of the street with a thud-click sound as the pads of his feet and then his claws struck the asphalt. He snatched a white plastic bag containing some items he had brought for Monster from the seat and slammed shut the door. Pounding on the side of the van to indicate he was clear of it, Drake waited for the driver to leave before he approached the house. He waved happily to the camera he knew was concealed in a nearby light post and walked casually to the front door. The cell phone in his pocket vibrated like an angry wasp, but he ignored it, as he had the last few times it happened. He knocked three times and then patiently waited for a response.

  The door opened to reveal a woman in a navy blue jumpsuit. A belt around her waist held a dozen small pouches, and a large-frame autopistol was strapped in a crossdraw holster to her left hip. A cloth badge was sewn on the suit over her left breast. Her face split wide in a friendly smile as she looked out the door at Drake.

  “Agent Drake,” she greeted in a throaty contralto tone. “Thought that was your ugly mug I spotted on the vid.”

  “Sala!” he said, a note of surprise in his voice. “Damn! Last time I saw you was back at that rumble in Chicago. How’s that shoulder?” he asked, pointing at the officer’s left arm. In response, she held it up and flexed it in a classic bodybuilder’s pose. The jumpsuit strained around the muscles as they bulged. The seams threatened to pop under the pressure.

  “Doing all right. Clinic’s got a new doc up there; does wonders.” she said.

  “You still working for them? When you gonna come over to Justice?”

  “You recruiting now?” she shot back with a chuckle.

  Drake held up his hands as if denying the very thought. “Not me, kid. Wouldn’t wanna force you into dealing with Hart or any of the dumbasses I get. We just got a better dental plan, is all.”

  “Yeah? Teeth like yours, I’d think you’d need it.”

  “So what are you doing here?” Drake asked.

 
“Girl’s gotta work,” she answered with an exaggerated shrug. “The Clinic’s got a new Director, and he’s trying to change things around. We’re all on hold right now until he figures out what he wants to do with everybody. I figured I could pull in a few bucks taking freelance work, and one of my buds over in Justice set me up with this gig.”

  The two shook hands warmly for a second, and then Sala stepped aside to allow him into the house. The temperature was noticeably cooler than even that of the outside air of the mountains in early evening, and Drake shivered at the chill.

  “Still likes it cold, does he?” he asked.

  “As always. You ought to petition to have one of the ice-shapers come work security up here. Probably make him happy as hell.”

  “Not a chance. As bad as cold is for me, you can keep the snowmen. Do me a favor and kick the heat up a couple of notches before I fall over.”

  “Got it,” Sala said, turning and adjusting a thermostat on one wall. The sounds of the air conditioner that had been running in the background stopped. Drake rubbed the hand not holding a bag along his opposite arm in a brisk motion. As he felt his circulation return to a level approaching normal, Drake grinned and filled his lungs with air.

  “MONSTER!” he shouted, the sound reverberating from the walls in a seemingly never-ending roar. From the back of the house came a joyous response, almost as loud as the first.

  “FRANCIS!”