by S. A. Beck
Suddenly Jaxon had a horrible thought. A chill went down her spine. “Maybe the press isn’t looking at beatingthebums.com, but Courtney is.”
Brett’s face fell. “Uh-oh.”
“What are we going to do?” Jaxon asked.
Brett’s face went blank. “Uh…”
“Sorry, forgot you aren’t the brains of this outfit.”
Brett looked more surprised than insulted. “What do you mean? I think of lots of stuff.”
“All right, then. Think of a way out of this mess.”
Brett’s forehead furrowed. It didn’t look as though it furrowed very often. In fact, his forehead seemed to resist furrowing, as though that was something it wasn’t designed to do. After a moment, his forehead stopped trying to furrow, and Brett shook his head.
“Nope, can’t think of anything.”
Jaxon sighed. “So what do we do?” she asked.
Brett shrugged. “Nothing we can do tonight. Look, I’ll talk to Courtney. I’ll tell her about the video—”
“Don’t do that!”
“She’ll find it anyway. That’s one of her favorite websites right now. I’ll tell her to keep quiet, or I’ll go to the principal about the coke dealing.”
Jaxon looked at him in amazement. “You’d do that?”
“Why not? I’d get in as much trouble as you would.”
“Wow. You actually came up with a good plan all by yourself.”
“I do it all for you, baby!”
Jaxon groaned and rolled her eyes. How could someone have such a cool double life and still be such a dork?
“I’m not a baby.”
“Sorry. I’m trying.”
“And failing.”
“Oh, come on! I haven’t tried to put my arm around you for a week now!”
“You don’t earn brownie points for not harassing me. All you earn is the right to speak with me.”
Brett drove in silence for a minute. Jaxon gave him a sidelong glance and saw him frowning, his lips moving silently as he tried to put his thoughts into words.
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry if I come off wrong, but I really like you. You’re like no other girl in the school.”
“Yeah, I’ve never had plastic surgery, and my brain isn’t filled with cocaine.”
Brett chuckled. “That’s only part of it. You’re different, you know? In a good way. If someone told me another person at school was doing these night adventures, I would have guessed it was you.”
Jaxon didn’t know what to say to that. The conversation lulled into silence again. That time, it was a comfortable silence.
They pulled off the highway onto a business loop. Run-down motels with flickering neon signs offered hourly rates. Women in fishnet stockings and imitation fur coats walked along the sidewalk, waving to passing drivers. In a parking lot were half a dozen cars in a little cluster. A group of men knocked back cheap booze and watched as two guys fought each other. Brett came to a stop at a red light. A man in shabby clothes staggered out into the street and walked up to the passenger-side door. Jaxon locked it as Brett checked for oncoming cars and then revved his Porsche through the red light.
“Ugh, how do you find these places?” Jaxon said, disgusted.
“It’s amazing what people will talk about on the Internet. You just have to find the right chat room.”
“My parents would kill me if they caught me looking at something like that,” Jaxon said, feeling the old familiar ache when she said “parents.” It was one lie she’d never gotten used to.
“So would mine, but it’s not like they’re going to check.”
Jaxon looked at him. “Do they know you go out this late?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Mom will be on her fifth gin and tonic by now, and Dad, well, we might see Dad around here somewhere.”
“Seriously?”
“Usually he goes for higher-priced call girls. He might decide to go slumming once in a while, though.”
Jaxon felt a tug of pity for him. Otto’s parents had been the same way. She couldn’t decide which was worse—not having parents at all or being stuck with a pair of losers who didn’t give a damn about their child.
Brett pulled off onto a dark side street and parked the Porsche. He turned to Jaxon. “So how do you want to handle this?” he asked.
Jaxon looked around the street, the adrenaline pumping in her veins. She didn’t see anyone nearby. “Let’s just go for a walk. Trouble will find us soon enough.”
They got out and started to walk toward the main street where they had seen all the action. In the distance, they could hear drunken shouting. Brett edged away from Jaxon. After a moment, he crossed the street and walked parallel to her.
“Are you using me as bait?” Jaxon called over.
“This will attract them quicker. We can turn in early. Maybe I won’t fall asleep in class tomorrow.”
Jaxon chuckled and shook her head in disbelief, then laughed out loud when she realized that she didn’t mind doing that at all. Yeah, bring them on!
They came to the main street and turned a corner. Brett cut across the four-lane road, leaving Jaxon very much alone. Up ahead, she could see the neon glow of the strip of cheap motels. A car came up the street and slowed. She saw the shadowy figure of a man at the wheel, staring at her. After a moment, the car picked up speed and passed her. She felt energy prickle through her entire body. Brett was right. It wouldn’t take long.
It took even less time than they’d expected.
A loud beeping came from the street where they had parked. Brett sprinted across the street to join her.
“That’s my car alarm!”
“Looks like you had more than one piece of bait,” Jaxon said.
They hurried around the corner together. Up ahead, half a block away, the Porsche’s lights flashed in time to the loud beeping. Two figures in hooded sweatshirts were busy prying off Brett’s hubcaps, completely ignoring the car alarm.
As Brett and Jaxon ran for them, the thieves looked up, spotted them, and took off. One had a hubcap tucked under his arm.
Brett angled toward him. Jaxon grabbed his arm.
“Let them go.”
“They have one of my hubcaps!”
“Forget it. These are small-timers. Let’s not waste our time on them.”
Brett looked at the fleeing figures uncertainly, then shrugged.
“I should have known something like this would happen.”
“Ask your daddy to buy you a less expensive car.”
“You kids all right?” someone drawled from behind them.
They turned and saw a skeletal man in baggy sweatpants and a grimy T-shirt. His face was sunken, with eyes that bugged out. Even in the dim glow of the flickering streetlight, Jaxon could see his eyes were glassy and bloodshot. The man sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“We’re fine, thanks,” Jaxon said, taking a step back and keeping an eye on him.
“You kids gotta be careful around here,” the man slurred, wiping his nose again. Jaxon could barely hear him over the noise of the car alarm.
Brett edged closer to Jaxon. “Yeah, well, thanks for your concern. Bye.”
The stranger turned unsteadily and looked at Brett’s Porsche. “Nice wheels! Is that a 911 GT3?”
“You know your cars, buddy,” Brett said in a friendly voice. “I need to turn off that car alarm before I wake the whole neighborhood. Bye.”
“Can I take it for a spin?”
Brett’s face hardened. “I don’t think so.”
The man cocked his head and studied him. “You think I’m not good enough to drive your car.”
It came out as a statement, not a question.
“It’s not that, man, I—”
“Shut up, rich kid. I’ve been working all my life, and I’ll never be able to afford a car like this. What are you? Sixteen? And here you are with a Porsche 911 GT3!”
Brett took Jaxon by the arm, and they stepped away
. Jaxon kept a close eye on the man, unsure how to handle that.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!”
He walked after them.
“Leave us alone,” Brett said.
The man snarled, pulled a pistol out of his pocket, and aimed it at Brett’s head.
For a moment, the three of them stood motionless, like some strange, menacing statue in the middle of the street. The car alarm rang in their ears.
“Give me the keys,” the stranger said, wiping his nose with his free hand.
“Whoa, take it easy. I’m reaching in my pocket for my keys now,” Brett said.
Jaxon was amazed at how calm he sounded. She was trembling all over. Her mind remained calm, calculating the distance between her and the gunman, thinking about the moves Marquis had taught her for just such a scenario, gauging whether the guy would let them go once he had the keys. He was a menace and needed to be taken down, whether he let them go or not. He had a gun, though. Was it worth the risk?
Isadore’s words over dinner came back to her. “If that young man comes up against someone with a gun, he could wind up dead.”
Brett extended his arm, the keys dangling from his hand. The gunman stepped forward to take them.
Should she make a move? She couldn’t reach the gunman without stepping toward him, and that might make him pull the trigger. No, as long as he took only the Porsche, it was best to do nothing.
But what if Brett tried something stupid?
Jaxon tensed as the man grabbed the keys. To her immense relief, Brett let him. The gunman shivered all over, his bug eyes growing even bigger. He snuffled, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and turned to Jaxon.
“Want to go for a ride, girl?” he said in a sickly sweet voice.
Rage rose up within her, followed quickly by fear. Not fear for herself. Fear for Brett.
As soon as the gunman said the words, Brett started edging toward him. Jaxon stepped to the side to make the gunman turn a little away from Brett. The guy was so fixated on her he didn’t even notice Brett’s movement.
Brett leaped for him. The sound made the gunman turn, bringing his pistol around in an attempt to gun Brett down.
Jaxon was quicker than both of them. She dove for the attacker and swept her hand under his wrist to make his gun hand jerk upward. The pistol barked as the bullet flew harmlessly toward the sky. Her other hand was already hitting hard on the pressure point on the back of his wrist.
Marquis had explained that she could stun a person using the move, that the pain would be so intense that the assailant wouldn’t be able to use that hand for a couple of minutes.
Marquis didn’t know about her strength. A bone snapped, and the man wailed. Jaxon performed a takedown and pinned him to the pavement. As the man fell, a small pipe and a clear plastic bag filled with some sort of little crystals fell onto the street.
“Damn, a meth head. That was a close one,” Brett said. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” she huffed.
Jaxon stood there for a moment, pressing the gunman down onto the ground, too afraid to let him go. She looked Brett over and found he was unhurt.
A police siren wailed in the distance, coming closer.
“There’s actually a patrol car in this neighborhood?” Jaxon said.
“I’m surprised too. Let’s get out of here before LA’s finest show up.”
Jaxon was afraid to let go of the gunman.
“What about him?” she asked.
Brett pulled a strip of looped plastic out of his pocket. With a quick movement, he brought the gunman’s hands behind his back, put them through the loops, and bound them together.
“Zip cuffs,” he explained. “Cheap and disposable, just like this guy.”
Once their attacker was restrained, they leaped into the car, turned off the alarm, and zoomed away.
The car veered to the right. A telephone pole loomed up ahead.
“Watch out!” Jaxon cried, grabbing the wheel and swerving out of the way just in time.
The car wove along the lane, crossing the centerline. Brett was trembling all over. He turned a corner, nearly hitting a truck coming from the other direction, and downshifted, grinding gears. He struggled with the clutch for a moment, and the engine stalled. The Porsche slowed to a stop, the wheels rubbing against the curb.
“What happened?” Jaxon asked.
Brett didn’t answer. He was leaning against the steering wheel, sobbing, his face in his hands.
Chapter 15
JUNE 29, 2016, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
NOON
General Meade returned to the Poseidon Project with a new sense of optimism. He’d finally found an ally. Not only that, he had in his possession the full data of General Corbin’s decade of research. Together they could forge ahead and develop the Atlanteans to their full potential.
And then what? Meade felt troubled. America couldn’t face the alien threat if the nation was led by a bunch of weak-willed politicians who only cared about getting reelected and pandering to the big donors who financed their campaigns.
That sort of legalized corruption was ruining the country. It was ruining the military too. Jobs that used to be performed by soldiers were handled by civilian contractors who had won fat deals with the government. That meant civilians on base, which was bad for security, and big inequalities in pay, which was bad for morale.
The head computer programmer for General Meade’s own base used to be a man in uniform. When that man’s enlistment was up, he became a civilian, got a job with the firm that was taking over the base’s programming services, and ended up sitting at the same desk doing the same job as before but getting paid three times as much. How could they run an army like that?
No, the politicians had to go. It was the only way. Corbin agreed with him on that.
But to overthrow a democratically elected government, even a corrupt one…it went against everything he had sworn to uphold. It went against the reasons he’d put on a uniform in the first place.
It will only be temporary, he told himself. Just until Earth is secure. It wouldn’t be the first time a democratic nation suspended some legal rights in order to face down a dangerous enemy.
Meade suppressed a shudder. He’d faced combat dozens of times, but the mere idea of overthrowing the government was more frightening than anything he’d ever experienced. Not only the boldness of it but also the chance of his going down in history as a traitor. Then there was the fact that he could easily end up getting shot or be sentenced to a lethal injection.
Well, that he could accept. He had made the decision to offer his life for his country back when he was only eighteen. Then, he figured he might die on some foreign battlefield and be called a hero. At the moment, it looked as though he might die right there at home and be labeled a traitor. That thought hurt more than anything else.
Things had to be done right. He and Corbin needed to get in charge and start a united front against the aliens. Once the people of Earth saw the threat, they’d rally behind them. If he died fighting the aliens, at least he’d die a hero.
But that wouldn’t happen unless he could make a quick strike and take over all the key government buildings and announce his coup. How could he do that without ending up with a bullet in his brain?
Then it hit him. The Atlanteans, of course. They were getting the best training and the best equipment, and they were completely in his power. Those were the soldiers he needed to strike Washington. With enough Atlanteans, he could take and hold the capital until the other military leaders fell into line. General Corbin would help, and there were probably others he didn’t know about, others concerned about what was going on in the skies but who kept quiet for fear of hurting their careers.
Timing would be everything. He had to wait until the alien invasion was imminent and obvious. When the Earth trembled in fear, when the politicians looked useless in the face of the biggest danger the planet had ever faced, that would be the time to strike
. The people wouldn’t look at him as a traitor, they’d look at him as a savior.
He hoped.
First things first, he needed to get rid of the opposition, and that meant finding out what that captured Atlantean knew.
He entered the Poseidon Project lab and found Dr. Jones and Bill Ziegler had made it there ahead of him. Ziegler was a hypnotist General Meade had stolen from the Italian Mafia to use for his own purposes. The guy was utterly without morals. He’d practiced medicine with a fake license, had done jobs for the Mafia so he could shower his mistress with diamonds and fur coats while his wife sat clueless in a modest suburban home, and currently he was working for the Poseidon Project because Meade had offered him more than the Mafia had, plus immunity from prosecution.
The two men flanked an operating table on which the Atlantean lay. The man was in his late twenties, with the typical features of his people. His chest and one arm were bandaged from where Meade’s agents had shot him. His eyes were shut. Thick straps of woven steel secured his arms and legs.
“Is he conscious?” Meade asked as he went up to the operating table.
“Not yet,” Dr. Jones said, picking up a hypodermic needle from a tray of medical equipment set on a table next to the patient. “I’ll wake him up now.”
“How is he?”
“Remarkably well. His bullet wounds look like they’ve been healing for weeks instead of days. I estimate he’ll be perfectly fine within seventy-two hours.”
General Meade shook his head in amazement. That fellow had taken a bullet through the right lung, and another bullet had severed the main artery in his left arm. Because of the fight and the need to hide him from the regular police and hospital staff, he hadn’t received medical attention for almost an hour. Any normal human would have bled to death long before that.
Dr. Jones continued. “A couple of his team members weren’t any worse off, and they died. Bled out before the paramedics got there. You know how I was saying each Atlantean has a special power? I think this man’s power is rapid healing. Even though your average Atlantean is tough, they’re nothing like this guy. They can still go down if hit by a bullet.”
