by Hondo Jinx
“Is Brawley inside?” Tessa asked. “We’re just bringing him some cold beer.”
Tammy had one arm folded across her body, just beneath her breasts. The other held the smoking cigarette, which she raised to her lips as she nodded. “He’s upstairs.”
“Okay, thanks,” Tessa said, and the pack of scantily clad girls shuffled toward the door.
Arabella lifted a finely shaped hand in the air and twiddled her fingers. “Bye-ee!”
Tammy watched them through narrowed eyes, exhaled a long stream of smoke, dropped the cigarette to the gravel, and ground it out beneath her pink-stitched boot.
The screen door banged again. Laughter exploded in the kitchen downstairs, and Brawley heard them start up the stairs. Three gorgeous young women in barely-there bikinis were bringing him ice-cold beer.
He ignored them and watched Tammy get into the truck and drive away.
9
The fuggle commentators sat at their glossy desks, telling everyone what to think.
Unsurprisingly, the narrative had shifted.
Dramatically.
The Tiger Mage, who’d dominated initial broadcasts, had vanished. No footage, no mentions, no callers asking about him.
The Order was hard at work, burying this story deep. To aid in their manipulation, they had conjured that reliable old bogeyman, terrorism.
That’s where the blame had fallen, and now the fuggle stations were going back and forth between recapping the tragedy and speculating over which specific terrorist organization was to blame.
“It’s a dark, dark day, Dave,” the pretty brunette broadcaster told the lantern-jawed man to her left, “but what me must remember, what should really resonate, is the amazing and beautiful way in which people all over the planet are coming together in the wake of this terrible tragedy.”
Before the nodding puppet could expand on her bullshit, Brawley blinked and muted the TV.
Besides, trucks were pulling up outside the ranch house. The new girls were here. Time to get started.
“It’s about damned time,” Remi snarled. The news of Braxton’s call had brought her to tears. But she had moved past them and now paced back and forth across the kitchen, one lip arched in a perma-snarl, her eyes flashing murderously.
The screen door opened, and the new girls joined them. There was no joking, no laughter, no jerking around. With wary expressions, they lined up along the back wall, near where Tammy sat alone, looking rattled.
Tammy had dropped the kids with Mama. She hadn’t said word one since coming through the door. Her eyes were red and puffy. She wouldn’t even look at Brawley.
Which kindly bothered him. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it now. He couldn’t give her what she wanted and wouldn’t waste words pretending he could.
Because regardless of Tammy’s fears, a promise was still a damn promise.
He would ride with Braxton and either rescue Winnie or die trying.
Which he explained in no uncertain terms to the women.
Once the clamor of their reactions died down, he got straight to business.
“We have work to do,” he said. “We have to protect the ranch, get our gear together, and hammer out a plan.”
People nodded. Then the questions started.
But Brawley plowed over them. “Frankie, how are the mobile cloakers coming along?”
“So-so,” Frankie said. “I mean, they work fine, but I’m having trouble with the mobile part.”
Frankie had been working on the mobile cloakers for weeks. They were miniaturized versions of Blanton Cherry’s whole ranch cloakers meant to generate a wide-radius cloak centered around an object in motion.
“If I drive slowly or tighten the cloak, it’s fine,” Frankie explained, “but even at moderate speeds, the Seeker chip isn’t fast enough to read the surrounding territory and render a matching cloak. If we made the umbrella smaller—”
“No,” Brawley interrupted. “We need a big cloak. I don’t know how many Scars Braxton plans on bringing, but—”
“All of them,” Remi jumped in. “Daddy will bring the whole gang, every last Scar, guns a blazin’. He’ll drive full throttle, hit the Chop Shop hard, and take Winnie by force. Brute force is all he knows.”
Brawley nodded, having figured as much. “I reckon we’ll use plenty of brute force. But we need a real plan. I’m not going in there half-cocked.”
Frankie drummed her grease-stained fingers on the kitchen table, her luminous green eyes temporarily cloudy with thought. “For what it’s worth, Operation Apache Glide is pretty much finished. Just a couple of small tweaks left. I’ll try to get the mobile cloakers up and running as fast as I can.”
“Husband,” Sage said, “I will assist Frankie with the Seeker chips. Perhaps together we will solve the problem quickly.”
“Thanks, Sage,” Frankie said, showing the slender Seeker her dimples.
“Good idea,” Brawley said. “Y’all might could talk to Yolanda, too. She’s an illusionist after all.”
“While they’re working on that,” Brawley said, “Remi and Callie, you want to take a trip with me?”
Brawley could tell the notion of another delay rankled Remi, but the Carnal reined in her emotions and nodded.
As did Callie, who’d been up on the balls of her feet, bouncing and ready for action, ever since Brawley called them together and told them the basics.
“We’ll leave in the morning,” Brawley told them. “I just gotta go over a couple of things with Jamaal and check flights.”
“Flights?” Remi said. “Where are we going?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Brawley said. “I’ll tell you after I talk with Jamaal. But here’s the deal. I’m fixing to take most of you girls with me to the Chop Shop. Which’ll leave fewer folks to watch the ranch. But tomorrow’s trip should make the ranch safer when a bunch of us head out later.”
“Sir?” Arabella asked, raising a tentative hand.
Brawley looked at her and grunted.
The pretty blonde smiled nervously, one finger tugging at her hobble collar. “Might I ask which of us you’ll be taking on your rescue mission?”
Brawley shrugged. “Not sure yet. We need more intel on the Chop Shop. We don’t even know where they’re keeping Winnie, let alone how to bust her out. We don’t even have a map. Hell, we don’t even have a damn snapshot.”
“I believe that you are in error, husband,” Sage said from beside the refrigerator. “Correct me if I am wrong, but didn’t you scan Beecham prior to eliminating him?”
Brawley remembered the sniveling Seeker who’d been helping the FPI and recalled the inglorious end Beecham had met alongside the highway.
Then Brawley grinned, understanding. “Sage, you’re beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
Dipping into his mind for a quick glimpse, he found the Beecham scan shelved there, waiting for him. Cracking it open, he peeked inside.
And was instantly sickened by the essence of the man. Beecham was a disgusting piece of shit, a slimy bastard with no heart and no character, propelled through the car wreck of his existence by a long chain of perverted transgressions.
Having taken measure of the man, Brawley descended through these noxious clouds and drilled into the past, Seeking Beecham’s memories of the Chop Shop.
Suddenly, he was looking through Beecham’s eyes at a nondescript brick building within a series of high, chain-link fences topped in razor wire.
Brawley felt a rush of vicarious fear and desperation as the shroud of Beecham’s emotions enveloped him.
He paused, aware that he stood at the gate of a vast and terrible labyrinth of memories. By pushing forward, he could study the Chop Shop through Beecham’s memories.
Which was great news… despite the fact that riding in Beecham’s perspective felt like doggy paddling at the center of a pool of warm vomit.
Brawley snapped off the connection and blinked at his wives.
“You were right,
Sage,” he said, forcing a smile. “I caught a glimpse of the Chop Shop. It ain’t gonna be pretty, but I should be able to run some good recon. Then we can figure how to get in there and get Winnie.”
Sage smiled and squinched her glasses. “There is no need for you to slog through Beecham’s unpalatable perspective, husband. Hazel is an expert at extracting this sort of information. If you share the scan with her, she will capture everything worth salvaging and will likely use intersecting perspectives to delve into the pasts and knowledge of others.”
“That sounds great, darlin,” Brawley said with a surge of optimism. If Hazel could give them a picture of the Chop Shop’s design, defenses, and procedures…
“Look, it’s Payter Jackassian again,” Nina said, pointing at the muted TV.
Brawley turned, saw that the Arch Mage was making another announcement, and unmuted the television.
Recent events had apparently wreaked havoc on Payter Janusian, who looked old and haggard despite his lemon sherbet suit and cool blue tie.
“…trying times, ladies and gentlemen,” Janusian said, his smoke-colored eyes staring straight at the camera. “Perilous times. But we will persevere, and we will prevail.”
The Arch Mage gripped his rattan cane as if he were afraid the camera might attack at any second.
“Please continue to report any suspicious psionic activity to your local Order officials. Only working together will we root out those who wish to destroy us.
“I implore each and every one of you to do whatever you can to soothe your non-psionic friends and neighbors. Distract them. Assuage their fear. Redirect their anger. And above all else, discourage curiosity.”
Janusian held up a white pamphlet. “See your local Order officials for this free, easy-to-follow guide, which provides best practices, actionable strategies, and concrete techniques both general and strand-specific to help you help us.”
Janusian straightened in his seat, and a slight smile lifted his features. “Stay strong. Good things are headed our way. Very good things. In the coming days, I will announce a new initiative that will improve your lives drastically—”
Brawley barely had time to register a twitch of unease concerning whatever the hell Janusian was talking about before the Arch Mage sheered away and a new broadcast took his place.
Not the original fuggle propaganda show.
An amateur production filled the screen, bright lights shining on an empty couch against a wall of green canvas.
“We are the Voice of Freedom,” a man’s voice said from off camera, “addressing the entire psionic community. The Order is lying to you.”
He spoke rapidly, with the clipped and businesslike delivery Brawley associated with old WWII newsreels. The man was probably hurrying to get as much out as he could before the Order took down his broadcast.
“The horrific attack at Times Square is only half the story,” the unseen narrator continued. “Just as the Order is now hiding the Tiger Mage from the fuggles, they are also hiding a shocking truth from us.
“The story of today’s tragedy came from the only known Times Square survivor, a fuggle named Alex Angelini, who disappeared shortly after delivering her story and startling cell phone footage of the Tiger Mage to Fox News in Manhattan.
“The Order quickly killed the Tiger Mage clip and convinced the fuggles that it was a hoax. Now they are searching for Miss Angelini, because they wish to silence her.
“The Voice of Freedom rescued Miss Angelini even as Order assassins were coming for her.”
A stunned-looking and badly battered woman wrapped in a dark bathrobe limped into the room, assisted by two lean men in black hoodies and sunglasses with handkerchiefs covering their lower faces.
The woman winced as the men lowered her onto the couch. One of her eyes was completely closed. Between her gauze and bandages, she was halfway to a mummy costume.
The men left, and the woman turned toward the camera, looking like a proverbial deer in headlights.
“Thank you for joining us, Miss Angelini,” the unseen man said. “Can you tell us what happened today… after the massacre?”
“Which one?” the battered woman asked.
“After the Tiger Mage spared you.”
Alex Angelini nodded and stared into the camera. “I passed out for a while among the… people. When I came to, I saw a group of people in black jumpsuits walking among the dead, looking for survivors. For a second, I thought…”
Alex Angelini’s eye glazed as she trailed off, seeming to stare into an inferno of memory.
“I know this is difficult, but please continue,” her unseen interviewer said. “We don’t have much time, and people need to know the truth.”
“I thought they were a search and rescue team. The leader was a slim, red-haired woman. She told the team to find all survivors. I was so relieved. I tried to call out to them, but I was too weak.”
Alex Angelini trailed off again, her eye staring out through the camera, through the world, straight into the pits of hell.
Off camera, the man encouraged her to keep speaking.
And Alex Angelini did continue her tale, her face deeply haunted.
“Then they found a survivor,” she said. “And the red-haired woman shot fire from her mouth and… burned him to death.”
“Please continue, Miss Angelini. What happened next?”
Alex Angelini took a deep breath, seeming to summon courage, and stared directly into the camera. “They burned everyone.”
“Everyone?”
Alex Angelini nodded. “Everyone. All the survivors. One of the killers was like a dog, the way he sniffed out survivors. He would look around then point where someone still lived, and the red-haired woman would burn the survivor alive. I was certain I was next. I mean, I knew that I was going to die.”
The traumatized woman buried her face in her hands, overcome by the memory.
One of the hoodie guys slipped into the frame and comforted the weeping woman as the unseen interviewer said, “We know who that red-haired woman was, ladies and gentlemen. Order Agent Danica “the Dragon” McLeod.
“The Order sent her to kill all witnesses. Payter Janusian pretends to be a champion of the fuggles, but he doesn’t care about them or us. He only cares about control.”
The broadcast switched to a different scene. A dimly lit set of bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes.
An unseen woman spoke, her voice as soft and smooth. “The Order is manipulating you. They are using the horrific deeds of the Tiger Mage to make you malleable. They will try to frighten you into surrendering your freedom.”
The voice was rich, seductive, familiar.
“They are weaving a false narrative to connect the Tiger Mage and the new power mage, whom they wish you to fear and hate,” the woman said, and strolled into view, concealed in vibrant green robes from the large and shadowy hood of which spilled a vibrant cascade of bright red hair. “Because they know the new power mage is our only hope, the savior spoken of in prophecies since—"
And then the screen went black.
Janusian didn’t return. Neither did the original fuggle broadcast.
The Order, apparently unable to override the Chaotics’ transmission had killed everything to silence the Voice of Freedom.
But not before Brawley had seen and heard enough to understand that once again, things had changed. A new piece of information had served only to cast him deeper into the abyss of mystery.
“That was her,” he said, pointing at the blank screen. That was the woman who stole my damn book.”
10
It was a hell of an afternoon, everyone working like their lives depended on it.
Which they did, Brawley reckoned.
He’d spoken with Jamaal, verifying the Chaotics’ claim about The Dragon and setting everything up for the next day’s big trip.
Unfortunately, Jamaal didn’t know the identity of the mysterious woman.
Jamaal would provide consta
nt surveillance and stand ready to leak crucial misinformation onto the Latticework.
It wasn’t a perfect plan, but Brawley reckoned perfect plans were overrated. Action trumped planning. A solid punch to the face thrown without warning beat years of karate lessons.
So that night after dinner, instead of obsessing over plans, Brawley visited Red Haven.
The Times Square massacre had honed his focus to razor sharpness.
He’d been training a lot over recent weeks and knew he needed all of the skills he’d been learning and practicing.
But only one skill actually stood a chance of killing the Tiger Mage.
Splicing.
To date, he had only successfully spliced one time, bypassing the two-strand splice and using a third strand like a bull rope.
A ballsy, super risky move.
Paralyzed by Uno, his life force draining away into the dark realm of Eleazar Blackthorne, Brawley had been all out of options.
So he’d done it. He’d ridden the damn bull.
And that meant he could do it again.
Of course, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t get thrown trying. Not by a long shot.
And since his clash with Uno and Blackthorne, that’s exactly what happened every time he’d attempted splicing. He would descend into his mind, haul out the double strand, and get pitched ass over tea kettle.
But now, in the wake of the massacre, he rededicated himself to beating the damn splice.
So he descended into his mind.
He pulled two strands, braided them, and climbed aboard. Once again, the damn thing tossed him.
Again, he tried. Again, he failed.
And again.
Soon, pain was squawking like a crow at the center of his mind, making him half sick.
After the fifth or sixth attempt—it’s hard to keep track when you’re getting skull-fucked by a migraine—he felt his expectations adjust.
It was a subtle thing, but as he braided the strands, doubt whispered from the back of his mind.
That would not do.
Like a bull rider climbing into the chute after a string of buck offs, he had to refocus his mind.