Hero Force United Boxed Set 1

by Baron Sord

  “Neither.” I walked over to Torch Head.

  He lay writhing on the ground, his head still on fire, his skin melting. The pungent smell of his burning hair was foul in the extreme.

  I’d always heard bad burns were some of the most painful injuries anyone would ever suffer. Nobody deserved this kind of misery.

  I knelt and placed my palms on Torch Head’s face. Extracted the excess heat energy until the flames went out, being careful not to freeze his face or skull. With the colorful mental heat gradient image of him showing clearly in my mind and changing in real time, it was easy to see when his head and shoulders had settled into the same greenish temperature range as his body.

  Next, I extracted heat from both Rifle Thugs.

  Last was Bowling Ball, who had fallen down and was coiled in agony, kicking himself in circles on the dirt. He took a moment longer to extinguish than the others because I’d blasted him with more fire by far.

  Now all four men lay moaning and smoldering.

  “Jesus,” Arnold muttered rhetorically. Prior to tonight, he had only seen me do nifty parlor tricks with my fire powers, not burn people alive.

  Despite my relief Arnold was safe, on an emotional level, I felt awful for what I’d done to these men. Nothing I could do about that. My powers had not made my conscience go away. Physically, I felt great except for the pounding in the back of my head. I would probably have a monster of a headache until I ate and slept it off, but I wasn’t anywhere close to dead.

  Arnold said, “Should we call 911 for these guys?”

  “Probably,” I said. “If they don’t get to a burn unit soon, some or all of them might die.”

  “I don’t have my phone. I left it in the car like you said.”

  “Use one of theirs.” I fished through Bowling Ball’s leather jacket and found a phone. The screen was melted and it wouldn’t turn on.

  I searched Torch Head. His phone was fine. I turned it on. Password protected. “Hey, can you hear me? What’s your password?”

  “Fuuuuuh yuuuuuuh,” he groaned.

  “If you want me to call you an ambulance, give me your password.”

  “Fuuuuuh awwwwwff.”

  I said to Arnold, “Any ideas?”

  “I’ll try this guy.” Arnold went over to one of the Rifle Thugs. Now it was impossible to tell one from the other. Arnold said, “Hey, man. Do you want an ambulance?”

  Rifle Thug #-Whatever groaned unintelligibly.

  The other Rifle Thug wasn’t even moving and was eerily silent. Possibly dead.

  I gave Arnold a pained look.

  He shrugged, “Don’t look at me. They started it.”

  I walked over to Vince, suddenly aware I was completely naked and glowing orange. I ignored it. Next time, I needed to wear some sort of fire-resistant clothes. Not that I wanted there to be a next time burning people alive.

  I said to Vince, “You want an ambulance?”

  “Uhhh… no. I’ll take my chances. Can you cut me loose?” He twisted his body and nodded toward his hands, which were still tied behind his back.

  That’s when I noticed Vince had a FwCK tattoo on his neck too, the same as Bowling Ball and the other thugs. Vince was definitely one of the gang.

  I said, “Hey, Vince. What’s F-w-C-K?”

  He stared at me, poker faced. He wasn’t talking.

  I sighed, “What’s the deal, Vince? Why don’t you people want an ambulance?”

  “It’s more trouble than it’s worth. Believe me.”

  “Maybe for you, but your four friends might die.”

  “Ain’t my friends now,” he snorted. “Fuck ’em. They got themselves in this fucking mess, not me.”

  I frowned, “Aren’t you better than that?”

  Vince smirked with his ragged and bloody lips, “They wanted to kill me. Need I say more?”

  I sighed, “Do you have a phone?”

  He smirked, “It’s password protected.”

  “I assume you won’t tell me the password?”

  He shook his head.

  Luckily, the second rifle thug’s phone wasn’t password protected. But it was fingerprint protected. Not a problem. I used his. Fortunately, his fingerprints were intact. Speaking of fingerprints, mine were all over this phone and several others because my gloves had burned off.

  Arnold still had his.

  I said, “Can you wipe the phones for prints? I touched at least two.”

  “Yeah.” Arnold pulled out a damp rag from his damp pocket. It had been no more than 20 or 30 minutes since he had jumped into the silty water of the rock-processor tank where he’d been caught by the Rifle Thugs. If not for the warm San Diego summer weather, he would probably still be dripping. If I had to guess, it was almost 70 degrees F (21 C) out despite the late night hour.

  While Arnold wiped phones, I said, “What do we tell 911?”

  He said, “I’ll handle it.” Finished wiping, he tried dialing, then said, “Dial this. It doesn’t work with my gloves on.”

  I quickly dialed with the back of my index finger’s knuckle, put it on speaker, then handed it to back to him.

  He re-wiped it and waited.

  The operator answered, “911, what’s your emergency?”

  In a high falsetto voice that was reminiscent of Mickey Mouse, Arnold said, “I burned myself and my friends real bad! We set off a bunch of fireworks and we all got burned! We need an ambulance real bad!”

  I snickered quietly.

  The 911 operator said, “What’s your location, sir?”

  Arnold continued in his Mickey voice, “I’m in the Deep Canyon Quarry and Mine! At the end of Slaughterhouse Canyon Road near Lakeside! We snuck inside! Send an ambulance quick! We’re at the back of the quarry!” Arnold put the phone on the thug’s chest.

  “Sir? Sir? Are you still there? Sir?”

  I pulled Arnold 10 yards away from the phone and whispered, “What should we do with Vince?”

  “I say we leave him here,” Arnold whispered, his eyeglasses flickering in the moonlight. “Let the ambulance deal with him.”

  “Agreed. Let’s go.” I started jogging.

  Arnold followed, still carrying the assault rifle with the attached suppressor. He stopped to pick up his ninja mask and mine, then jogged to catch up and handed me my mask.

  I put it on.

  “Now you’re dressed,” Arnold snickered.

  I was still naked from the neck down. “Maybe you should get rid of that rifle.”

  “Are you crazy? Who knows who might show up? What if more of these guys come back?” Arnold glanced at the four thugs lying on the gravel.

  I saw Vince was on his feet and stumbling toward one of the assault rifles. His hands were tied behind his back, but something told me he might enjoy killing his ex-business partners if given half a chance.

  “Give me your gloves,” I said to Arnold. “I need to move those guns.”

  “Sure.” He pulled them off.

  I put them on and ran back. Grabbed the other assault rifle before Vince could get it, and took the two handguns from Bowling Ball and Torch Head. I considered the lone black SUV. The keys were around here somewhere. I didn’t want Vince finding them and driving off. So I put the guns on the ground and threw Vince over my shoulder.

  “Put me the fuck down!” he barked.

  “Shut up,” I grumbled and ran to catch up with Arnold.

  When I caught up with Arnold where he stood near the first of many 40-foot-tall gravel cones that were laid out in the checkerboard maze of gravel cones that was the quarry, he muttered, “Why’d you bring him?”

  Vince said, “I don’t wanna be here!”

  I said to Arnold, “So he doesn’t shoot his friends.”

  “Smart,” Arnold nodded. “But where are we gonna put him?”

  “In our car?” I suggested.

  Vince said, “Back with the SUV!”

  Arnold ignored him and said, “If we do that, we have to get rid of him someplace el
se.”

  “True,” I said. “But where?”

  “Don’t get rid of me!” Vince said in a panicked voice. “Just leave me here! Please! I can walk home! I won’t be any trouble, I swear! Just let me live, okay? Please don’t get rid of me!”

  I sighed, “Not that kind of get rid, Vince. He means we’ll have to drop you off someplace safe.”

  “Oh,” Vince said.

  “You’re right,” I said to Arnold. “Bringing him with will be a hassle.”

  Arnold nodded, “We should zip-tie him to the back seat of the SUV.”

  “What if one of Vince’s buddies recovers enough to kill him?”

  “We zip-tie all of them.” As always, Arnold carried heavy-duty zip-ties on every mission. “And we lock Vince inside the remaining SUV. And take all their guns.”

  The whole time Arnold was talking, I noticed his eyes were locked on mine, which was odd for him. I said, “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  Arnold grimaced, “So I don’t see your junk.”

  “Right,” I chuckled. “Do me a favor, have Mickey tell 911 to make sure that ambulance is on its way, then hang up the phone.” I pulled off his gloves and handed them back, “Here.”

  He put them on. “Wait here for a second.” He jogged back to Torch Head where the phone lay on the man’s chest. Arnold leaned over it and gurgled like strangled dying Mickey, “Please help! Please! Send an ambulance! Please!” He touched the phone screen with one gloved finger. Rolled his eyes in frustration. Looked at his gloved hands in confusion for a moment, shrugged, grabbed the phone, and pushed the screen against his nose to end the call. He quickly wiped the phone screen with the forearm of his long-sleeve black shirt, set the phone on Torch Head’s chest, then trotted back toward me.

  I met him halfway.

  We put Vince in the backseat of the remaining SUV, zip-tied his ankles, and zip-tied his neck to the headrest. Between that and his hands — which were already tied behind his back — Vince wasn’t going anywhere. We locked all the SUV doors manually and shut him in.

  Then we starting zip-tying all the thugs where they lay on the gravel.

  I said, “Look for the keys to the SUV.”

  Arnold said, “I don’t have enough zip-ties for their legs and ankles. I have to get more from the car.”

  “We don’t have time. Just do their wrists.” I checked the pockets of the last two thugs and found the keys for the SUV. “Got ’em! Let’s go!”

  —: Chapter 3 :—

  Arnold and I started the long jog back to my Ford Fusion where it was parked at the entrance to the quarry. Arnold carried the assault rifle he had taken. I carried the other rifle and pistols clutched to my naked chest. We passed the boxy rock processor from before.

  I could still picture Arnold standing on the end of the conveyor belt over the tall water tank with his hands up while Rifle Thug #1 and #2 had held him at gunpoint. I could also picture him tossing his Glock in the water.

  I said, “We should fish your Glock out of the water and throw these in.”

  “Yeah. It’s registered. Let me wipe them down for prints first.” He pulled out his damp rag and went to work.

  “Make it fast,” I said. “Emergency services are going to roll in any minute.”

  He made quick work of it. After wiping each weapon, I told him to remove the magazines and clear the chambers, which he did before tossing each empty weapon over the 15-foot tall cylindrical wall of the tank, followed by the magazines and loose bullets.

  “Let’s go,” I said after the last splash.

  “Wait! My Glock!”

  “Almost forgot.”

  While Arnold ran up one of the steep staircases, I jumped up onto the 4-inch rim of the tank. In the darkness, the still water was black. A reflection from the full moon bounced off it like a mirror.

  Arnold clattered across the steel grating on the first level of the processor, then ran across the long conveyor belt that led over the tank. He stopped at the end and stared at the mirrored surface of the water and said, “I can’t see a thing! We’ll never find it!”

  “Gimme a second. I need to think. There’s a simple solve here. We need to get the water out, right?”

  “That’s simple?” Arnold said, worried.

  “Simpler than swimming around underwater in the silt and searching blind.”

  Earlier, when Arnold had jumped in the water, we had learned the 15-foot tall tank was full of approximately 11 or 12 feet of sand. That was to our advantage. To our disadvantage was the tank’s diameter of 50 or 60 feet (15-18 meters). Finding Arnold’s Glock quickly in that much dark and cloudy water would be very difficult.

  He nodded, “Is there a valve at the bottom? Can we open that and drain the water?”

  “I’ll check.” I jumped off the tank wall and landed 15 feet below on the dirt. Ran around the base until I found a short open pipe attached to a big valve assembly bolted to the side of the tank. I twisted the valve wheel with a rusty squeak and watched water start to flow and splash onto the hard-packed dirt.

  I jumped back up onto the tank rim.

  “Did you open it?” Arnold hissed from where he was now kneeling on the conveyor belt and peering into the dark water.

  “I did.”

  “It’s not flowing fast enough! It must be all the sand!” His panic was unmistakable. If the authorities found his gun at a crime scene, they’d come knocking.

  I felt responsible. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. I said, “We need a better solution.”

  “Can you use your fire power to evaporate all the water?”

  “I’d have to draw the necessary heat from the environment. That will take time. There’s a ton of water here. Boiling off all of it will take forever.”

  “Oh! I know!” Arnold said. “What if I take my shoes off and we both walk around in the tank feeling for my Glock with our feet?”

  “That’s not a bad idea…” Just then, I looked up and saw flashing red lights faintly reflecting off the side of the canyon near where Slaughterhouse Canyon Road connected to the 67. “…but I don’t think we have time. EMS is already here!”

  “Is it an ambulance or the fire department?”

  “I can’t tell, but there will be people here any minute. People with radios who can call the cops.”

  Arnold cringed, “Should we come back tomorrow and get my Glock then?”

  “No, someone might find it tonight.”

  “Too bad we don’t have a metal detector.”

  “A waterproof metal detector,” I added.

  “Do they make those? For like, scuba diving treasure hunters?”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “Too bad we don’t have one,” Arnold said, frustrated. “Damn it! Why didn’t we think to bring a water proof metal detector?!” He was panicking again. He had every right to. Tonight had been the most intense distress call he had ever handled.

  For me, it was right up near the top.

  The flashing red lights in the canyon were getting closer.

  I grit my teeth, “Hold on, hold on!” The stress was finally kicking in for me too. Too many loose ends we couldn’t tie up. Arnold’s Glock was far too loose to leave. We had to find it tonight.

  A second later, I blurted, “I’ve got an idea!”

  I walked along the rim of the tank like a balance beam until I got to one of the vertical seams where the 1/4-inch sheet steel walls were bolted together. I grabbed the rim and hung down over the side, bracing my feet against the curve of the circular wall. Then I pulled the right section toward me while pushing the left one forward as hard as I could.

  “What are you doing?” Arnold asked.

  “Tearing this thing a new drain,” I grunted, gritting my teeth as I poured the power of my supercharged muscles into the task. I didn’t need excess heat for that. That said, I released what I had remaining into the metal to soften it and the bolts. Saw that mental picture of the colorful temperature gradient as heat fl
owed from me to the tank walls. Also saw my orange glow fade to red then brown.

  Unfortunately, metal was an excellent conductor of heat and mine flowed freely out into the walls. Much of it drifted away from the seam where I wanted it to say. As always, I had no control over heat flow after it left my body. In my mind’s eye, I could also see much of the heat transferring from the metal walls out to the cold water in the tank where it wasn’t doing me any good.

  No problem — I’d make up for it with effort.

  Grimacing, I pulled as hard as I could on the tank walls in opposing directions.

  Metal started to creak.

  I cranked down harder, my tendons popping out as I growled audibly. Every muscle in my body felt like it was ready to snap.

  PANG!

  The top bolt popped.

  PANG!

  Then another.

  PANG!

  Silty water sloshed over the top and splashed into my face and mouth. I shook it off.

  The opening in the curved wall wasn’t large enough. I shifted my grip on the shredded seam and lowered myself down farther to increase my leverage. Then I pulled on the opposing sheets of metal with everything I had.

  PANG!

  PANG!

  PANG!

  PANG!

  As the seam ripped open and downward several more feet, a silty waterfall spilled on my head, drenching me instantly. Then suddenly, it geysered out the side and pounded into me, almost knocking me off the tank, but I held onto one torn wall and climbed back up to the now-twisted top edge.

  “You did it!” Arnold hissed, pumping a fist in the air.

  I grinned at him and watched as hundreds if not thousands of gallons of water rushed out of the tank in a loud splashing torrent. It took only seconds for the water to drain to the level of the sand, then it slowed to a quiet splatter.

  A firetruck sped past loudly on the road behind us, followed by an ambulance and a police car.

  Make that two police cars.

  “We need to get out of here,” I said quietly, breathing hard from the effort.

  “Help!” Arnold dangled from the end of the conveyor belt. His feet were at least six feet above the wet sand. “I’m slipping!”

  Having fallen a hundred feet to the beach from that terraced garden in Del Mar, I knew a thing or two about how hard wet sand was when you fell on it. I hopped down to the sand and ran over. “Drop and I’ll catch you!”