Firedrake - Volume Two

by T. Mike McCurley

  A green fist larger than a pot roast took China in the side of the head with a resounding smack, sending him sailing across the stage to slide across the flooring. Patriot felt the power restraining him release suddenly and took a step toward Emile, who dropped to the ground, too exhausted by the continual use of his talents to even stand.

  “When you have to shoot, shoot. Don’t talk,” Drake said in a slurred Mexican accent. He shrugged at Patriot. “All right, so my Tuco imitation isn’t all that great,” he admitted.

  “Yeah? The Muhammad Ali one was pretty decent,” Patriot said with a grin.

  “Go check on Frenchie,” Drake prompted, slapping a huge hand on Patriot’s shoulder. He slipped cuffs from his belt and turned to head for the man in the turtleneck.

  With a nod and a smile, Patriot turned to aid his fallen friend. He had only taken a couple of steps when he heard the voice of the pale man.

  “Take him,” said the voice. Patriot turned to see Drake glaring at him. The look in the yellow eyes was far from the friendly one he had just seen, and there was an audible hiss as his long jaws opened. A roiling gout of flame belched forth from the scaled mouth to envelop Patriot.

  *****

  -February 13-

  -Brooklyn, New York, 1051 hours-

  The sudden surge of action had kept Saul and Mick glued to the tiny television, as it had people all over the world. The images wobbled constantly, and it was obvious to anyone watching that the camera operators had abandoned any kind of mount for their equipment, choosing to carry it in order to remain mobile. Still, there was no shortage of gasps in New York or anywhere else when they saw the blast of fire strike Patriot.

  Saul murmured in prayer and beside him Mick Ashton followed suit. Both of them had seen the hero sustain a number of injuries over the years - there were in fact several books on the market documenting many of them in graphic detail - but the blast of fire from the mouth of the dragon was so intense it momentarily blinded the camera broadcasting to their station. Both men leaned even closer to the screen, their heads almost touching as they silently willed the image to clear so that they could see what had befallen the hero.

  The scene returned after a couple of tense seconds. Saul realized his prayer had stopped and he was holding his breath. He forced himself to slowly exhale as the camera shot widened to display the battle site. The dragon had stopped his attack and the stage was silent. Even those in the street had ceased their battles at the sight of the flame surrounding Patriot. The pictures on the screen as the camera panned slowly from left to right were mirrored by broadcasters across the globe.

  Emile lay sprawled where he fell, one hand reaching desperately toward Patriot’s last known position, tears of frustration streaming from his eyes. The shattered podium smoked where stray flame had licked across its splintered edges. Overturned chairs were strewn everywhere, their owners having departed in haste following the initial gunshots. The camera panned back across the stage and Saul caught himself holding his breath again.

  Patriot stood, arms folded calmly across his chest. The majority of his uniform had burned away, but not a single hair had been scorched by the blast. He was slowly shaking his head from side to side as though scolding the dragon.

  *****

  -February 13-

  -Atlanta, Georgia, 0952 hours-

  “You know, I’ve about had enough of this,” Patriot said in a clear tone. “Just say what you came to say and get it over with.”

  The man in black stepped from his position of concealment beside the dragon and pointed again. “I want you to admit to these people the truth about Lady Justice!” he crowed.

  Patriot looked puzzled for a moment. His eyes shifted back and forth in confusion, followed by his shoulders shrugging. “Think I just did,” he said. He tilted his head toward the charnel scene in the streets. “You can see where that got me.”

  “Tell them the truth!” demanded China, jumping up and down in place like an angry child. Patriot raised an eyebrow and looked toward Drake. The scaled booster’s eyes were glazed and smoke still filtered out from beneath his teeth.

  “What truth? I already told them the truth.”

  “Dragon-man, go tear the arms off that French bastard over there,” the man ordered. Drake turned toward Emile.

  “Wait! Don’t hurt him,” Patriot urged. He extended his hands, palm out. “I’ll do what you want. Just don’t.”

  “Fine. Then you get over there and tell all those people just who Lady Justice was to you. Tell them about your affair with Her. Tell them how you left Her. Then tell them how you killed Her!” China demanded, frothing at the mouth as he raved.

  “God, man, were you even listening when I spoke? I said as much already!”

  “I heard the lies you spun. I heard you cover your own actions with platitudes and general accusations toward the people. Not once did I hear you admit that you struck the fatal blow.”

  “Why do you not just force him to say what you wish?” asked Emile in a voice as much groan as speech.

  “Because he can’t,” answered Patriot. “They haven’t made the telepath yet that could get a tight grip on my head. That’s why I was able to drop the Mindmaster years back.”

  The pale-skinned man glared at him and spoke slowly, venomous anger dripping from every slowly emphasized word. “That. Was. My. FATHER!” he yelled, stepping forward to swing a wild punch at Patriot. The big booster let it connect, scarcely able to feel the blow on his toughened skin. Behind the telepath, Patriot saw a new life in Drake’s eyes as the psychic shifted his attention and rage to Patriot. One of the yellow orbs winked.

  “So you want to frame me for Alicia’s death because I killed your father? Sorry, son. You’ve got a lot of balls to try it, I’ll give you that, but that’s just not how it works.”

  “I’m not framing anyone,” China said, his voice turning from rage to triumph. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so sure about someone getting into your head.”

  Patriot felt his muscles seize up in response to an unspoken command. China’s voice echoed in his head though no words issued from his lips.

  “You destroyed my father, hero,” China said again, once more spitting the last word so derisively it hurt. “So I made sure you lost someone you loved as well. You, Manifest, Tsunami. I controlled you all. Who else could have taken her out but those she trusted?”

  Images swam before Patriot’s eyes and he was in the alley, staring down at the white-clad body of Lady Justice and seeing Her as though through someone else’s eyes. Beside him were the uniformed members of his old team that China had mentioned. The hands that were still clenched at his sides were pulsing with the energy he had long ago come to know as his own. Something about the picture was wrong, but he could not put his finger on it.

  “It was you who landed the killing blow, Patriot,” whispered China’s voice. “Think. Remember. It was -”

  The projected voice fell silent as a ghastly scream erupted from China’s mouth. Patriot shook off the fuzzy feelings in his head and snapped back to reality. The telepath was being lifted into the air, held in a grip of devastating strength and terrible accuracy by the reptilian booster that stood behind him. Patriot could see long yellow claws tightening their hold on the man’s crotch as a fearsome grin split the scaled jaws wide. With one hand, Drake easily hoisted China nine feet into the air, and then slammed him to the ground. The telepath tried in vain to protect his tortured groin, but his hands never made it that far down as his eyes rolled back and he passed out.

  “You said he had a lot of balls. Looks like he ain’t got a lot now, huh?” Drake asked. He retrieved another set of cuffs from his belt and quickly applied them. Tearing a strip off China’s own turtleneck, he bound the telepath’s eyes as well.

  “Think that’ll keep him from using his powers?” Patriot asked as he helped Emile to his feet.

  “Aaah, I don’t know,” Drake answered with a shrug. “Keep him from seeing which hand I’m gonna smack
him with, though. I’ll get a medic to pump him full of something sleepy and we’ll have him in a DOJ holding cell before it wears off. What about you? You okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Patriot replied. He smacked his lips as though trying to clear a bad taste in his mouth. There was a faraway look in his eyes. “Just… he just left me with a few things to think about, that’s all.”

  The scene in the streets had calmed considerably now that the psychic influence of China was no longer being brought to bear on the frightened citizenry. Police and firefighters were moving in to clean up the damage. What remained of the SEAL sweep team was working its way down the street, subduing anyone and everyone who appeared capable of posing a threat. Apollo was flying away, carrying the body of Grendel draped across the rump of his horse, though whether it was dead or merely unconscious was anyone’s guess.

  The news crews moved in, microphones waving before them like the antennae of a thousand insects. Questions were being shouted at a furious pace, and Patriot looked at them with a helpless expression as they demanded some kind of quote from the hero.

  “I’ll handle this, slick,” Drake said. “I’m good at this.” He hefted the unconscious telepath onto one shoulder and opened his jaws in a sick grin guaranteed to instill fear as he looked into the cameras.

  “I got your quote right here,” he began with a laugh.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What the hell do I wanna be on TV for?” Drake snapped, his eyes narrowing at the thought.

  “You made quite a showing at the Patriot incident,” Colleen Hart said, leaning back in her chair and taking a long drag on her cigarette. The sleeves of her shirt extended beyond the cuffs of her suit jacket to cover a full inch of her hands, Drake noted as he watched her flick ashes into the standing metal ashtray beside her desk. He trailed his gaze up to see the collar of her shirt buttoned high to conceal her neck.

  “That what they’re calling it now?” he drawled, shrugging mountainous shoulders. His tail flicked back and forth behind him in a staccato beat. Hart smiled.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Agent,” she said. “You know full well what the popular press has declared. Patriot’s statements may have given him a warm fuzzy feeling, but they have done little to further the peaceful coexistence of boosted and mundane.”

  “Like I care,” he said. The tail flicked a little faster.

  “Things are evolving on the streets,” Hart said, eyes not missing the increase in tempo of the barbed tail. “As I said, you made quite a showing at the incident. There are those who would like to have you appear for interviews. Our public affairs people met with legal and seem to think the idea is viable.”

  She paused to draw on the filter-tip once more, and then glanced at him from behind a veil of thin smoke. “Me, I think it’s political suicide for the Department.”

  “Aww, gee, mommy, can I go? Can I? Huh?” Drake asked, dancing in his chair and waving his arms like an excited child. After a few seconds, he dropped his arms back to hang at his sides and made a snorting noise. “The whole reverse psychology idea blows, lady. Telling me you don’t want me to go on television in hopes that I’ll then want to. Wow. How original can you get?”

  “In point of fact, Agent, it’s true. Those were my words to the media relations team that I had in my office just two hours ago.” Hart slid a folder across the table. “There are the recommendations they presented in response.”

  “I ain’t reading all this crap,” Drake said, pushing the folder back across the desk with a yellowed talon.

  “You ought to. They have nothing but praise for the way you handled yourself at the Parade.”

  “So what?”

  “Frankly, we could use some good press,” she said, crushing out the cigarette and leaning forward. Her arms flattened on the desk before her as she braced against the metal surface. “National hero or not, what Patriot said and did up there hurt us.”

  “Us as in boosters, not the Department, right?”

  “Correct. His statements may well have been factual, but that does not deter from the fact that he left a sour taste in the mouth of the general public as relates to metahumanity as a whole.”

  “Ain’t like they was too hyped on us in the first place,” Drake said, snorting again.

  “Again, you are right,” Hart said, smiling. “Twice in one day,” she added as she quirked an eyebrow.

  “Cut to the chase.”

  “Have you watched any of the coverage of the event?” Hart asked.

  “Naw. Monster said the TV made me look fat, so I passed.”

  “We are taking a beating,” she said, glossing over his attempt at humor. “They’re still cleaning up Atlanta, and it’s been three weeks. All of our aid attempts were rejected outright by the Atlanta Mayor and the Governor. They said we had done enough damage. CNN’s got a poll going as to whether or not boosters should be regulated and registered.”

  “Fascist bullshit,” Drake snarled.

  “Perhaps, but it is an option that is now and has been previously examined by the powers-that-be. On top of everything there’s the Onslaught faction.”

  “The what?”

  “Onslaught. He’s a booster out of Manhattan,” Hart said with a wave of her hand as though trying to dismiss the man. She opened a drawer of her desk and slipped out a thin remote control, then pointed it at the flat screen television behind Drake and thumbed it to life. “He’s developed a following among the more violent elements of society, both mundane and boosted, due to his…let’s call it flamboyant nature.”

  Drake swiveled in his chair to view the television as Hart hit the ‘PLAY’ button. A heavily-muscled man in urban grey fatigues and an executioner’s hood sat across a desk from Larry King.

  “What they did in Atlanta just ain’t right,” the man was saying. His voice was strong and vibrant, and eyes like brilliant sapphires glared out from behind the mask. “You got Patriot, standing up there for all the world to see and saying we killed Lady Justice. You got some weather-witch asshole tossing lightning bolts, some big snake-man thing with wings—”

  “They said it was some kind of dragon,” King clarified. The man slammed a meaty fist on the desk.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, Larry! If he’s so good and pure, how come he’s gotta show up with an army? If he’d had any balls at all, he’d have shown up alone! In fact, if he’s got any balls, he can come and face off with me! Him or anyone else. I’ll go toe-to-toe with any of them.”

  The image snapped of and Drake turned back to Hart with a chuckle. “He’s a joke, right? Some kind of parody or something? A dumbass kid with a Mortal Kombat fetish?”

  “Actually, he’s got a minor rap sheet for Mob muscle work about five years back,” Hart corrected. “He’s been saturating the airwaves with broadcasts like this since the Parade incident. Open challenges to Patriot, you, Ian Calder, Bonebreaker, anyone.”

  “So you want me to go kick his ass? Nice. Very mature.”

  “Negative. The media relations people think that the only good press we got out of the event was this,” she said, selecting a button on the remote. Drake turned again to see an image of himself as he swept down from the sky and grabbed a bald man with a submachinegun who was firing randomly. The camera managed to catch a good image of the badge on his belt against the arm of the shooter, where the symbol of Humanity First was visible.

  “Seems the dichotomy captured in that one shot is going to get someone a Pulitzer or something,” Hart explained. “It also got splashed on papers all over the country as a symbol of governmental authority cracking down on racism. That, of course, was before the press decided it was more in fashion to call boosters dangerous psychopaths.”

  “As opposed to the friendly huggable psychopaths,” Drake said, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head. “I ain’t your man, boss. There’s all kinds of folks on staff that would be good at this. You need damage control and I’m the guy you call when you need somethi
ng broken, not fixed.”

  “Strangely enough, that is almost exactly what I told the media relations team. My version involved some rather artistic slides and a couple of newspaper shots of you giving the camera the finger, but other than that…”

  “So what am I supposed to do? Go on Jerry Springer and say how great we are? Hell, even I don’t like most of our crowd.”

  “You’ll coordinate with media relations. They’ll assign someone as your watchdog. Then they’ll set up interviews with the right people.”

  “Ah. The right people. Like, the ones who ain’t gonna ask me what it’s like to destroy buildings and set people on fire. Those kind of people?”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, Agent, but yes. We are going to farm you out in arranged interviews. The objective, as you put it earlier, is damage control. We have no interest in starting another war.”

  “Oh, man. This sucks,” Drake said. His tail flicked back and forth in short, sharp arcs. The sound of his teeth grinding was audible even over his speech. “How the hell do you come up with shit that’s this stupid? Making me a spokes-thing for boosters? What’s next? You gonna ask Doctor Viral to make a batch of Kool-Aid for the press conference? I mean, you ain‘t even gonna fight this?”

  “I fought it already. I lost,” Hart said. “Your assignment is fixed, Agent. Like it or not - and that applies to us both—this is it.”

  Moments later, in the midst of Drake’s fevered swearing, the office door opened to admit a man in a suit. A brand new DOJ identification card hung on a thin strap around his neck, and his hair was slicked back into a perfect modern style. Brilliant white teeth flashed as he spoke animatedly. Drake was at first convinced that the man was insane and speaking to himself until he made out the shape of a cell phone pickup slipped into the man’s left ear. A BlackBerry device was clipped to his belt.