In the passenger seat, Donaher scowled from under his fishing hat. “No, just rush hour."
"Rush hour on a weekend?"
A shrug. “Welcome to New York."
Not amused, I watched as a snail raced by on the berm. Some of our fellow prisoners were starting to read books, or begin jigsaw puzzles. Guess this was old hat to them. Then an odd movement amid the traffic caught my attention. A gasoline truck was starting down the up ramp of the expressway, forcing cars out of its way to reach the motionless river of vehicles.
"Drunk driver?” Mindy asked, gesturing in that direction.
"Just a New Yorker,” Raul said grumpily, polishing his wand with a chamois cloth.
My sunglasses had broken during our recent sojourn, so all I had now was a single lens to peer through. As I dialed for enhancement, I could see the driver had a human aura, but on his forehead was clearly visible the tattoo of a silver knife stabbing through the moon. Hoo boy. That was the symbol of the Scion of the Silver Dagger, a lunatic group dedicated to the destruction of the world for no particular reason that the Bureau could ever discover.
"It's the Scion!” I shouted, drawing my Magnum.
Everybody grabbed weapons, George even flipped the switch arming our missile pod before remembering it was empty. “Shit,” he growled, glaring at the roof.
Rolling down a window, Richard gestured with his staff and a low stone wall appeared directly in front of the truck. A split second later, the tanker smashed through the barrier as if it was paper mache.
"Looks bad,” Raul said grimly, his wand glowing with power.
"Its worse!” Jessica added, staring to our left.
On the other side of the expressway, another tanker marked ‘Liquid Hydrogen’ was proceeding down that ramp. A dozen plans flipped through my mind, each critically flawed by the fact we could not move the van an inch. Only one thing left to do.
"Abandon ship!” I yelled and kicked open the door. There was only a slim chance for escape, but we had to try. I hit the ground running and slammed directly into a green wall.
Turning about, I saw that the van was now surround by a shimmering green ball of force that encased us completely. I had seen its like before, but never on this grand a scale. Damn thing must be thirty feet in diameter! Tingling with an adrenaline rush, I hesitantly climbed back inside. We exchanged nervous glances. What was happening outside the sphere around us was impossible to say. This spell blocked all vision, noise, vibrations, everything short of a nuclear bomb.
Think they have one? Jessica sent nervously.
I shrugged. With the Scion, it was anybody's guess.
On the couch in the back, the two wizards were holding their wands in clenched hands, eyes closed, muscles tightened and sweat pouring off their bodies. I could almost feel the ethereal vibrations in the air.
"How long can they hold the shield?” I whispered, fearful of breaking their concentration. This was not an easy spell to conjure, I knew that from past experience.
"Uncertain,” Donaher said softly, mopping their brows with a soft cloth. “They are both pretty fresh, but this shield is huge. Biggest I've ever seen."
As we waited in green silence, faint age lines began to appear around the eyes of Raul, and Richard's hair began to gray at the temples. Minutes passed and we started to fear for their lives, when the wizards broke apart gasping for breath. They limply slumped to the floor, wands still tight in their grips. As Donaher and Jessica moved in with oxygen masks, I went to a window bursting with the desire to know what the hell had happened.
The RV was sitting in a clear patch of floor, surrounded by a pile of brick and plasterboard that filled the room to the ceiling and spilled through the side doorway and down the stairs. In front of us, was a ragged tunnel the size of the van leading through a series of smashed walls. With sudden understanding, I realized that the blast resulting from the colliding trucks must have thrown us off the highway and inside an apartment building. And from the dilapidated condition of the room about us, obviously an abandoned one. Nothing unusual there. The Bronx was full of vacant buildings. Hundreds of them waiting for a promised renovation that would never come.
Pushing open the door, I wadded through the wreckage to reach a section of clear floor and proceeded down the tunnel. It ended in a crumbling hole through the outer brick wall of the building. Watching my step, I took a position near the edge of the floor and trained a pair of inflatable binoculars on the distant elevated highway. Looking through the cool glass, I actually felt my heart stop.
The field of debris stretched as far as I could see, the twisted burning wrecks were strewn everywhere. It would take a forensic team months to determine how many died in the titanic blast. Nothing visible was larger than a smoking tire; cars and people included. As I relayed this information via my watch, I did not need Jessica's talent to read the minds of my companions. Somebody was going to pay dearly for this senseless massacre. Attacking us was expected, just part of the job, but this kind of wholesale slaughter of civilians was intolerable.
Supporting the pale wizards, the rest of the team joined me at the rim of the hole. Mindy kicked a chunk of brick off and watched it drop to the garbage strewn lot below. “How are we going to get down?"
"The stairs,” I said, tossing the binoculars to Donaher.
Mindy gestured. “But the van..."
"Stays here,” I interrupted.
This statement raised a flurry of comments and I saw an explanation was necessary. “We have been tracked and pursued since the lake. We've managed to stay one jump ahead of our faceless enemy, but they're using the big guns now and there isn't enough clearance. Civilians are getting murdered."
"But I thought the van could scramble any electronic surveillance,” Raul stated weakly, his face almost white in color. He looked years older and reeked of sour sweat.
"Correct."
Trembling, Richard gestured in the air, his fingers leaving trails of light behind. “There are no magical tracers on us,” he announced.
Jessica tilted her head. “Psyonics, clear."
I scowled darkly. “Goddamn it, you're forgetting the obvious."
Crossing her arms, Mindy asked, “Visual tracking?"
"Why not?"
"So what do we do?” George asked, tapping a finger on the long vented barrel of his machine gun.
"Take advantage of a golden opportunity,” I stated. “The blast that hurled the van here, also masked our escape. If we play this quiet, our enemy will never know we survived until its too late."
They murmured hesitant approval. I went on. “We leave the van here and split up. First into groups of two, then individually. The plan is to scatter and converge. That way, at least some of us will get to Bureau headquarters."
"On 33rd and 3rd,” Raul said grimly. He sounded stronger by the minute, but mages were known to be fast healers. Already there was a faint aroma of Old Spice aftershave around the man.
"As far as we know, that is the place,” I agreed.
Returning to the van, I opened a small safe under the drivers seat and pulled out a wad of money. It was a bit dusty, but still serviceable. “Here's five thousand for each of you. Remember, use cash only, no credit cards. Sign nothing and never give your real name."
"What about you?” asked Jessica asked in concern. “How will you operate without funds?"
I patted her hand. It was nice to know there were some thing she couldn't read. “Thanks for the concern. But if I need more than fifty bucks to get from here to there, I've lost my touch."
"Special private eye training?” Richard asked curiously.
"Nope,” I lied. “Just cheap."
Climbing into the swivel chair before the console, Jessica got busy with the document forger. A fantastic device built by Dr. Roberston, the Bureau's pet genius. The compact machine was a combination computer, printer, embosser with the precise details of over 20,000 government documents in storage; passports, library cards, federal weapon per
mits, security passes, military ID, arrest warrants, drivers licenses, tax stamps, diplomas, writs of habeas corpus, stays of execution, season Yankee tickets, you-name-it. In short order, she made an assortment of documents and identification cards for each member of the team, ending with a new drivers license for me under the name of Joe Smith. I like a challenge.
"What about Amigo?” Raul asked, swiveling his chair around. The lizard waddled closer and he ran a finger over the scaly head of our tiny guardian who rumbled in pleasure.
"Take him with you,” I suggested, cleaning my wallet of unwanted material. I fed the cards into the ash tray where they burst into ash. “We can't leave him here, or let him loose."
"Fair enough.” Smiling, Raul slipped the lizard into a side jacket pocket. Amigo poked his head out and flicked his forked tongue as if to say goodbye, then withdrew and began squirming about to get comfortable. Mindy handed the mage a matchbox of chirping crickets.
After a brief dissertation on the practical uses of greasepaint, our disguise trunk was emptied of supplies and everybody changed their hair color, donned glasses and/or moustaches and stuffed clothing packs into pockets. In deadly silence, Donaher shaved his moustache off, his only consolation was the near weeping of George as he left his M60/Banjo on the floorboards. There was nothing silly about it. Took a soldier a long time to know the particular idiosyncrasies of a favored weapon. George was consoled with a MAC 10 assault pistol with infra-red laser spotter, flip-clips and Mark IV Glaser Sure-Kill Safety Slugs. The rest of us were satisfied with less exotic weaponry.
Each team member departed when they were ready. Deliberately stalling, I was the last to leave. Setting the van's self-destruct mechanism for fifteen minutes, I hurried out of the ruins. Sensors had shown the building empty of human life, so the maneuver was a safe act. There was too much important information and valuable weapons in the vehicle to chance letting it fall into enemy hands. Or worse, the hated press. The forty five pounds of strategically placed thermite charges would reduce the van to a memory in exactly 2.4 seconds. And I knew that for a solid fact. This was our third van.
Taking the rat-dropping covered stairs, we soon reached ground level. Removing the boards covering the front door, the group raced into the courtyard when came was a mighty whump above us and long tongues of flame gushed from the windows of the ninth, tenth and eleventh stories.
"So long number three,” Raul said, giving a brief salute.
Leaving the growing conflagration behind, we crossed the street, pushing our way through the crowd of people staring at the distant highway. Faintly, we could hear the wail of ambulances. Father Donaher said a quick prayer for the dead, and we moved past the crumbling overpass. Down here on the street level, larger wreckage dotted the sidewalk; a melted car door, an intact engine, the charred husk of something small, but we paid it no attention and moved steadily on. I think Mindy wiped a tear from her eye, but I couldn't be sure, as something was blurring my own vision. Dust perhaps. Yeah, dust.
Together, we entered a bar on 175th Street and separated throughout the establishment, within minutes each pair departed via the bathroom windows, back door, or cellar. Dressed as gothic punks, Donaher and I strolled out of the garbage strewn alley and hailed a cab. Paying the driver early, we jumped out halfway to the ordered destination and took off zigzagging through a weed infested empty lot. Thirty minutes later, two bearded police officers boldly strolled into the George Washington Bridge Port Authority Terminal. In a utility closet, I became a rastafarian and openly bought a ticket for Philadelphia. Across the concourse, I spotted Donaher hobbling out of the lavatory as a naval lieutenant with only one leg. How did he do that? As the priest headed for the subway platforms, I adjusted the brim of my cap to disguise a wave and the naval officer scratched his nose, then brushed some lint off his stomach, left and right shoulders, giving me a brief benediction. Every little bit helps.
At the Meadowlands Arena in north New Jersey, I left early again with a bunch of howling sports fans, stole a car from the parking lot and drove south on the Jersey Turnpike to the Lincoln Tunnel and then back into New York City. Pulling into a sleazy motel on 10th Street, I dodged an army of ugly hookers and took the service elevator to the basement, raided a locker and exited as a cigar smoking African janitor.
* * * *
A few hours later, I was leaning against the mouth of the alley at Thirty Second Street.
Belching loudly at the passing crowds, I took another sip from the empty whiskey bottle concealed within a rumpled paper bag. Ninety-nine per cent of the whiskey had been poured over my tattered, filthy clothes, the other one percent sloshed about in my mouth to flavor my breath. Maybe a random sip had accidentally flowed down my throat, but no more than a sip. Singing an obscene song about sheep, I scratched at pretend fleas and waited for the rest of my team to show.
George was the first to arrive, hopping out of the trunk of a moving cab as the vehicle turned a corner. This being Manhattan, nobody paid the incident the slightest attention. Dressed as a yuppie, he took a position near the hotdog cart on the corner and that was when I realized the redheaded vendor wearing the dark glasses was Jessica. She sent a telepathic laugh my way and I tipped a mental hat in appreciation of a job well done. Damn she was good.
Thanks!
In the street, a manhole cover nosily slid aside and out of the sewer crawled a skinny utility worker in grimy overalls. Richard clicked off the light on his hardhat and joined us cool as could be. Didn't know the mage had it in him.
With a sputtering roar, a huge motorcycle pulled to the curb. The driver was an amazingly buxom blonde whose physical charms many porno magazines would have considered overwhelming. She was dressed in black latex body suit cut down to the ohmigod level, fishnet stockings, boots, and a slick black leather jacket. She sure looked familiar. Maybe I saw her on the internet.
Climbing down from behind her, was Father Donaher, bare chested, in a chainmail vest, studded denims and sandals. He gave her a complicated hand shake, and whispered something too soft to hear.
She beamed a smile, and gunning the big 1700cc engine, popped a wheely to roar off into Manhattan traffic.
As the motorcycle departed, a stretch limousine parked in its place. I watched the rear door, but instead, Mindy stepped out from the front in chauffeurs livery. We formed a ragged line at hot dog cart, munching the fare in sincere appreciation, each paying no attention to the others.
The clock in the window of a local restaurant caught my attention, so I nudged Jess and she made telepathic contact.
Everybody here? I asked her inside my head.
No, came the soft reply. Her voice always felt soft to me.
Who's missing?
Raul.
Check the bystanders, I suggested, squirting mustard on my dog and getting my sleeve in the process. After all, I was playing a drunk.
Jessica made change for Mindy. Already did. Not here.
Parked cars? Alley ways?
I said, he is not here.
Which meant Jessica had done a total sweep of the area to the maximum range of her abilities. I didn't like this. The mage was late, but only by a few minutes. Jess, please ask George what was his last move?
A few ticks later, she reported, When last seen, he was disguised as a rabbi, heading for Brooklyn on the M19 bus.
The long way, eh? We'll give him an extra ten minutes.
Sounds good.
But he still did not appear. The team waited as long as we dared, a full half-hour, but Raul never showed. Finally, we had to move and with a heavy heart I counted our friend dead. My only hope was that he took a bunch of the bastards with him to the grave. In our next fight, if any of the enemy was wounded, I'd chalk it up to last licks from Raul Horta. Then taking a breath, I forced the matter aside. Mourning for a fallen comrade could come later. We still had a job to do.
Reaching 33rd Street, we walked round the corner to third Avenue expecting anything but what we saw. The sidewalks w
ere blocked with wooden saw horses, the street filled with heavily armed soldiers and concrete tripods. Tank traps, George identified. Army helicopters hovered above a ten story building and the roof was lined with more armed troops.
On the corner was a film production crew, with cameras, boom mikes, huge arc lights, cue card girls, best boys, gaffers, dozens of extras and a young wag in riding breeches sitting in a director's chair, shouting orders to everybody and not liking the answers.
My team bobbed their heads in approval. This was a gag the Bureau used often. The organization actually owned a motion picture production company in Los Angeles. Filming a movie was a great cover. Anything strange would simply be chalked up to special effects. Many new agents were shocked to discover how many famous monster movies were actually live footage of Bureau 13 battles. It sure saved money on costumes and make-up. Plus, since movies sometimes take years to be released, most of the idle curious would have forgotten about the incident, or attribute it to the vagaries of Hollywood. We had used something similar ourselves once. Pretended to be a TV news team to gain entrance to a ghoul infested yacht race in Malibu Beach. Nasty job. Crack addict ghouls, that was about as bad as it got.
At the barricade, our disreputable dress caused a commotion among the soldiers until we showed our FBI cards to a corporal. As she inspected them, the rifles of her companions never wavered from our direction. It was nice to see professionals at work.
Finally, the corporal summoned a sergeant, who ignored our identification cards and asked what our favorite food was. I leaned close and whispered into his ear, “Tunafish."
Grudgingly, he accepted that and walked us past the multiple defense rings to the front revolving door of the building. We couldn't see through the glass panels as heavy cloth had been taped over the windows. One at a time, we were placed inside a section of the door. It would revolve halfway, stop, and a brilliant yellow light flooded the area, seeming to illuminate us from the bones out.
"I've heard about those,” Richard said on the sly. “Its a molecular scanner. They now know everything we're carrying, what we had for lunch and probably the color of our underwear."
Judgment Night [BUREAU 13 Book One] Page 5
