I swung back around and using the top as a swivel, placed the shotgun barrel on it and started firing. In seconds the slide locked back as I expended the last round on the guy way up on the balcony. It was then or never. I charged up the slight hill to the mansion— a hundred yards and I crossed it like it was one-hundred feet! Bullets punched into the ground behind me as they tried to keep up with my sprint. I dropped the mag, caught the ten-round box and slid it into my pocket, then grabbed a fresh mag of buckshot and slammed that home. The slide crashed forward, jamming a round into the chamber. I was ready.
The doors that led to the dock were large, wooden, and ornate. I hit them like a mule. The wood shattered, flinging both doors open and slamming them into the walls. I already had the shotgun barking as I moved in. Ten men, all with snub-nosed submachine guns opened fire on me. I should have dodged, but I was too fired up with energy. It felt an awful lot like a runner’s high, but a hundred times better. The bullets that did hit me were like bee stings; painful, but nothing more than an annoyance. From left to right I fired, one, two, three, four, five times.
A lucky round caught the shotgun action and blasted it out of my hands. Okay, I was doing this old school then—well, old school for me. I leaped sideways, whipping out my HK P30L and firing from the hip as I moved. The first two rounds took number six and seven, then the slide locked back on eight as I missed the first couple of times and had to stop to adjust.
By that time nine and ten were out of ammo. Mags dropped to the ground as they scrambled to reload.
“Really?” I asked in my Wraith voice. I slid the pistol home and took out a knife. This was the kind of stupid that needed a lesson.
I would have said “one they would never forget,” but they weren’t going to live to remember it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The last man fell to the ground, his throat cut from ear to ear. Now I just needed to find out if there were any more. Before moving on I wiped the blade off on his jacket and slid it back home in its sheath. My own jacket was a shredded mess and since I was going to burn this whole place to the ground, I shrugged it off and tossed it on the floor.
I recovered my shotgun and checked it over; a bullet had lodged in the action and the weapon was ruined. Great. Like Joseph always said, luck isn’t a plan.
This is why I brought backup guns. The shotgun was for big threats like those supers outside anyway; I didn’t need it for dealing with the low-lifes.
I waited another minute for my wounds to fully heal. It was an incredibly odd experience… watching bullets fall out of your body then seeing the holes close by themselves.
The power ebbed, leaving me a tad dizzy as I started clearing the rest of the place. It never worked as well during the day as it did at night, but even still, I had just killed a lot of people and though the high was over I could feel the strength in my body.
Two more popped up as I moved upstairs; they had small UZI-type machine pistols firing off rounds in vast quantities. I fired back exactly two, catching them both between the eyes. They fell dead on the spot as I reached the top of the stairs.
I closed my eyes for a second, calming my beating heart and listening for any more threats. I heard two things at that moment: somewhere on this floor in front of me were at least ten crying, hysterical women who were not prepared for this—they were the cargo ISO was moving out of the country. The other was a low rumble, like a subsonic noise as something big and fast disturbed the air.
“Oh crud,” I said out loud. Every kid who grew up in New Orleans knew the sound of Mach, the leader of the Saints. Even with his massive speed he’d gotten here awful fast. The call must have gone out the second I started shooting.
The last time I heard that sound close-up was the day Charles died. Not that the Saints killed him—Charles adored the Saints. He even swore he would be one someday. No, Charles died because he was a twelve-year-old kid running toward the sound of fighting when he should have been running away. But he wanted to catch a glimpse of Mach, or one of the others.
Fantastic. Now I have to deal with the guy who couldn’t save my brother.
The rumbling grew in my ears but before it washed out everything else I determined there were no more guards in the house. On the property for sure, but not in the house. No one who saw me was still alive.
Now I just had to get out of here before Mach—
The skylight above me exploded; I threw up one hand to shield my eyes and drew the pistol with my other. Mach landed in front of me in all his muscular glory, wearing his trademark white suit with red and blue trim reminiscent of his time as a USAF pilot. His hair had a lot of gray in it these days and he had a scruffy five o’clock shadow that was more gray than brown—like his head.
He glanced down at the two bodies, then at me and my gun. “That won’t do you any good. Toss it over the railing,” he pointed as he spoke, “and lie face down on the carpet.”
I wasn’t ever stupid. Not as a model, not when on the run, and not in training to be the Wraith. I had hoped not to confront the Saints while I was here but it seemed someone anticipated this little move of mine and called them in. I guess they figured taking me out was worth losing shipment of drugs and girls. Good thing I’m smarter than them.
“I don’t suppose I could convince you I am the good guy here?” I asked as I tossed the gun. It landed next to the discarded shotgun by what I hoped looked like a coincidence.
“We can wait for the proper authorities to sort that out. I’m here because you have… do I know you?”
Crap.
I was sure my eyes were still glowing, and with my scarf over my face and nose he shouldn’t be able to see who I am… but he was also really sharp. He was a WW3 combat ace back in the sixties, after all, even if he didn’t look much older than sixty himself.
I carefully turned my body so my left side was away from him, then reached into my jacket and pulled the thermite grenade. Mach was an F5; I wasn’t sure if the thermite would even hurt him. But then again, it wasn’t for him.
“I don’t know anyone in this city, not anymore,” I said with my Wraith voice. He raised an eyebrow at that. I glanced past his shoulder and shouted, “Now!”
He looked around only for a second—he was good—but it was long enough. I leaped off the balcony and landed next to my weapons, popping the thermite and dropping it in between the two guns before I ran for the broken door. The air rumbled around me as he kicked in his powers, swooping after me. Just as he reached the ground level the thermite exploded in his face.
Smoke, fire, and heat erupted around the spot. The carpet instantly caught on fire. Mach turned up, sliding across the ceiling as he crashed past me into the backyard, rolling in the dirt several times.
He recovered faster than I expected; a hand whipped out and wrapped around my ankle like a vise grip. He jerked me back so hard I thought my leg had popped out of its socket.
“You’re not going anywhere. Your little smoke show can’t hurt me,” he said. Now he sounded a little perturbed. What did it take to get this guy angry?
“I didn’t think it could hurt you,” I said.
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because the owner of this mansion is a drug lord and human trafficker. He doesn’t deserve it,” I said in my creepy Wraith voice. “Also, there are ten innocent women locked in the conference room on the second floor. They were scheduled to ship out to the middle east this morning.”
A gout of flame leaped out of the first-floor window as the fire spread from room to room with incredible speed. In moments the entire place would be up in flames.
“You’re bluffing.”
“It’s me or them, and we all know how you feel about letting bystanders die,” I shouldn’t have said that last part—it was mean. But it did the trick. He took off like a tornado. I was up and running before he was ten feet away. The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows on the house and trees. All I needed was to reach one and I would be gone. H
opefully, the rest of the Saints were far behind and I could avoid tangling with the whole team.
I hit the dock, running hard when the rumble hit me. He was coming. That was okay. I climbed up the seaplane, spun and fell backward on the East side of the vehicle. He was ten feet from me when I shadow stepped. I re-appeared on the far bank, falling backward out of the shadow of a large pine, one of the few trees on the bank. I hit the ground, rolled, got my feet under me, and ran until I found the next shadow.
Ten minutes later I was driving back along the dirt road, heading west away from the mansion. Nothing I wore made it with me; I made a complete change of clothes, not to mention ditching my red scarf. It would take me a couple of hours to drive the long way back to New Orleans but it would also put me as far away from Mach and the memories as possible. In the moment I had suppressed them, but seeing his face, hearing his voice, had brought it all back like it was yesterday.
Then I heard it—a low rumble coming toward me. I slammed on the brakes just in time as Mach hit the road in front of me. It was dark enough now that I could escape easily, but I wasn’t using my powers at the moment. No glowing eyes, no crazy voice, and no disguise. Of course, I also didn’t have anything illegal on me.
“Step out of the car,” he said, hovering a foot off the ground.
I opened the door and pulled myself up, standing with one foot on the dirt and one in the car. “Can I help you?” I asked with a calm I certainly didn’t feel.
His eyes narrowed at me. “You’re under arrest for multiple homicides. Put your hands up.”
I looked around, acting as if he were talking to someone else. I didn’t put my hands up, instead, I grinned. “Prove it.”
That annoyed him. He opened his mouth, then shut it. “You were there, I fought you. Then you vanished, I know it was you. There is no point in denying it…”
“I think there’s a great point in denying it. Again, prove it.”
His eyes went wide for a moment and recognition dawned on him.
Crap.
“Your Charles Dumas’ twin sister,” he said in a whisper.
It wasn’t his fault, I know that, but the way he said Charles name pissed me off. I stepped out and slammed the door shut. “And what if I am?”
All kinds of things clicked together for him at that moment. Despite not having any evidence that I was the one who killed all those people at the mansion, he could make my life hell. All he had to do was haul me into the police. Even if they couldn’t prove it was me, and they probably couldn’t, my secret would be out there.
“I’m sorry about your family, Ms. Dumas. It was a tragic—”
“Don’t you dare say accident,” I practically yelled at him. Breath flooded through me and my powers itched to kick in. Somewhere in the back of my mind, they willed me to kill him to protect my secret. It was a fleeting thought and I was shocked that I had it.
He shook his head. “I suspected it wasn’t… and after you woke up and disappeared I pretty much figured it was ISO-1.”
I don’t know what was more shocking, that he wasn’t arguing with me, or that he knew about ISO-1.
“You knew? Or suspected at least, and you didn’t do anything?”
He looked away; a man that honorable doesn’t where shame well. “I’ll look the other way… this time. I understand the need for revenge is powerful, but it’s also consuming. Don’t let it consume you.” He jetted up into the air, the rumbling shockwave of his passage rolled down the valley in his wake.
“It’s not revenge,” I said. “It’s justice.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bill followed his CO, Major Quinton, out of the New Orleans Mayor’s office. No one in that room left happy. “You’ve really caused a stir here, Bill, I hope you know that,” the Major said without looking at him. They reached the elevator and pressed the button. The doors opened a moment later and they rode the box down in silence.
“In my experience, Sir, when an OP receives this kind of resistance, it’s time to push harder, not back off.”
They exited the elevator on the first floor. Bill’s squad, all in plain clothes, fell in behind them as they walked for the exit. Quinton was a stand-up officer in Bill’s opinion. He’d served under him several years now and he respected the man—something very few officers ever deserved.
The limo with the Army plates waited at the foot of the steps leading up to city hall. “Mine too,” he said finally. “Give ‘em hell.” He opened the door to the limo, took his seat, and was about to close the door when he paused. “Bill, watch your six,” he said.
“Affirmative, Sir.” Bill snapped to attention and shot the officer a textbook salute that would have made a drill sergeant envious.
After the limo departed his squad closed ranks around him. “What’s the word, sir?” Rico asked.
“The word, gentlemen, is ‘’give ‘em hell.’ And that’s exactly what we are going to do.” Before he could give the rest of his orders he noticed the short brunette in the plain clothes and sneakers. Krisan wore a pair of sunglasses that still had the tag attached to them. She wasn’t trying to hide, but she also wasn’t seeking him out. Was she there to see him or someone else? “Rico, get the van ready. I don’t know where we're going next, but with the CO’s blessing, it could be anywhere. And Sandy?”
“Yes Sergeant?” Sandy replied.
“I know your sister is getting married, and I’ll do everything to get you there, but if we’re dealing with supers, we’re going to need you.”
“Charlie Mike, Master Sarge.”
“Good man. Go be about it, gentlemen. I see someone I need to talk to.”
Felix smiled—likely because the combat veteran didn’t miss anything. “Sure you do,” he said as they split up. Bill smirked. He liked his squad; they were a well-oiled machine, each with his own specialty and mission, and they trained hard to get where they were. CID was more than happy to give him free rein with them, especially with his track record. Now that they were talking about tons of C4 as opposed to ten pounds, no mere Mayor could get the Major to order Bill to back off.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Krisan said from behind him. Bill blinked; she had just been leaning against the bus stop fifty feet away.
“Somehow I don’t think it was an accident.” After the drink and dinner they’d shared the night before, he was ready to move their relationship, such as it was, forward. But there was something elusive about the woman, something mysterious, and it made her all the more desirable.
“There are no accidents,” she said. Krisan cradled her phone in one hand while she spoke; it sent a red flag up on Bills radar.
“You’re not recording this, are you?”
Her eyes went wide, feigning pain. “You wound me, sir. Of course not. Like I told you I’m not interested in CID business— if you are CID,” she added teasing him.
“Okay, then. Are you here on personal business?” He took a step forward, closing the distance between them, forcing her to look up at him. He was significantly taller than her and only inches apart she had to crane her neck up.
She placed a hand flat on his chest in a clear “no” signal, but because of the physical contact, it wasn’t a definitive no. “Not at the moment, but that could change,” she said coyly. “I have some information for you, and I thought we could make a trade?”
“I like the sound of that. Coffee?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
“You read my mind.”
He took her hand, noticing that she didn’t resist the casual touch, and made his way with her in tow to the coffee stand at the end of the block.
Once they had ordered and received their drinks, she wandered over to a bench with a view of the small park next to city hall.
“How in the name of God can you drink that much sugar and stay so thin and pretty?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but she caught him by surprise when she ordered caramel, sugar, whipped cream, and more sugar in her coffee.
“I
t doesn’t matter what you eat, only how much you eat, at least for me. This is pretty much my diet—this and bagels,” she said sweetly as she licked the whipped cream off the edge of the plastic cup.
“Color me impressed. Now, what was this about a trade?”
She sucked down half her coffee before continuing. “Look at this.” She held up her phone playing a live video feed of a burning mansion somewhere southwest of the city proper.
“Expensive house. You would think they’d have fire suppression,” Bill said.
She nodded. “They probably did, but it doesn’t do much against a fire started by a thermite grenade, does it?”
He frowned, furrowing his eyebrows together he checked the feed. It was indeed live on YouTube. “That’s a live broadcast. How do you know what started it?”
She took the phone away, cradling it with her off hand. Bill wasn’t sure, but he swore he could see her fingers moving as she spoke. “The mansion belonged to one John Baptist. A very rich man who is currently in Europe. He’ll go on TV tonight and deny any knowledge of wrongdoing. That is, once the police release details on the drugs and the identities of the bodies—including three on FBI’s top twenty wanted supers list.”
Bill put his coffee down and stared at her for a good minute. “You’ve been in town all of two days. How do you know any of this?” he asked.
She smiled and gulped down the rest of her coffee, unconcerned about how hot it was. “A good reporter doesn’t give up her sources. So, now that we’ve established that I know what I’m talking about, how about that deal?”
He slowly nodded. “Okay, spill.”
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