Brendan ran for the house, the drone bobbing along after him. From inside he heard a bang and glass breaking. The driver emerged from the van with a pistol in one hand. Brendan bounded through the front door. He ran through the entryway and rounded a corner to find strobe lights flashing and blinking and reflecting off the walls. Disoriented, he almost tripped over a small wrapped box with a black bow. When his foot touched it, the box seemed to jump and a fist sprang out and shot up into the ceiling, breaking a glass fixture and sending shards flying. Brendan covered his face as debris rained down on him. Somewhere ahead of him he heard a man scream, but the sound was almost entirely drowned out by the noise of the speakers. The blasting thrum assaulted his ears, vibrating through his entire body and making his teeth hurt.
The entryway had opened out into a foyer and an open-floor layout, with a kitchen and dining area to the right and a large sunken living room dead ahead. Twisting lights threw out moving shapes: hearts, smiles, and elephants in pink and white. Shadows swam about the house. Tiny boxes with dark ribbons lay everywhere. It was like an insane minefield. Brendan watched his step.
There was a hallway to the left that was dark.
“Drone King, your sins are laid before me,” the voice boomed over the speakers. The words came from everywhere.
Brendan walked forward and almost tripped down the short set of stairs to the living room. Someone lay on the floor. Brendan crouched over the body, but he didn’t recognize the man. He wore all black and a mask that left only his eyes visible. A pair of wiring pliers lay on the carpet by his hand. He had a toolbelt on. Brendan couldn’t tell what had happened to him.
“Back off!” cried a panicked voice from down the hallway.
“Kneel,” boomed the God of Clowns. “Kneel, repent, and ask forgiveness.”
Brendan saw a fireplace tool rack standing underneath a marble mantle. The only tool in it was a small shovel for ashes. He took it. The handle was loose. He was moving towards the dark hallway when he saw someone appear from the entryway. It was the driver. He was indeed wearing a UPS uniform, and its gold emblem was glowing in the odd light. His weapon was down, pointing at the floor.
He spotted Brendan.
Without hesitating, Brendan put the blade of the shovel to one of the boxes and swept it towards the man. The box slid and exploded in a white flash and bang. Brendan couldn’t see. He leaned to the right and found the wall and crouched down. The thrumming sound reasserted itself as the ringing in his ears subsided. As his vision began to clear, he saw in hazy outlines the driver lying on the floor unconscious. Several nearby boxes had been thrown about, and some had triggered. He saw blades, boxing gloves, and floating glitter everywhere. Each box held a potentially lethal surprise. None of the videos had shown any of this. Perhaps the God of Clowns was changing his approach.
His drone was now on the floor. It appeared intact, but the blast had no doubt overwhelmed its sensors and perhaps had damaged some of its internal components. No time to check it now.
He stepped into the hallway. A few of the packages lay scattered about, bunched up in a carpet runner pushed askew by the blast. But all these boxes were intact. A light shined up into the ceiling at the end of the hallway. Brendan saw one of the camera operators was down. Past him, open double doors led to what appeared to be a bedroom. Brendan stepped carefully over the carpet and boxes, afraid that the slightest nudge would set one or all of them off.
He could hear the clown’s voice over the speakers, but his microphone must have been damaged. All Brendan could make out was a few garbled words followed by the amplified soft sounds of cloth against the mic. Brendan was inching towards the bedroom when someone darted out of it and grabbed him. A hand clamped over his mouth. Brendan tried to kick, elbow, and bite, but whoever it was proved stronger. He was dragged back into the dark room.
“Shhh,” came a whisper. “Take it easy. Relax. Brendan, it’s me.”
It was his father. Or at least his father’s voice. Brendan relaxed, but he maintained his grip on the shovel. The hand over his mouth let go.
“Dad?”
More white noise came over the speakers. The dull bass sounds also continued, making the windows to the bedroom vibrate.
“It’s me,” Myron Reece said. “Really. What are you doing here?”
“Dad, I’m not alone,” Brendan whispered. “That FBI guy’s with me.”
Myron pulled him to the back of the small room. There was little in the way of furniture except a small desk and a bed. He pointed out towards the hallway. A floorboard creaked as someone moved past the doorway. Someone big. The God of Clowns seemed larger now that Brendan was inside. The clown’s shadow appeared on the bedroom door, backlit by the lights from the living room, and paused. There came a readjustment of the microphone. Silence, and then a dry laugh echoed through the house.
“Pray. Atonement requires penance. Sacrifice. There is no sacrifice without blood.”
A box was thrown into the room. Myron threw them both down and rolled his body between Brendan and the blast as the box exploded with a percussive whump and a flash. Again came the ringing in Brendan’s ears, drowning out all other sounds. Trembling, he worked his jaw to clear his head, but it wasn’t helping. Darkness threatened to overwhelm him. Fighting off the tug of unconsciousness, he forced himself up. The room spun about. His eyes deceived him, showing him a swirl of lights and dark shapes and streaks of patterns embedded in his retinas from the blast. As he leaned on the bed, he felt for his father with his foot.
His dad wasn’t moving.
Brendan crouched down and shook him. “Dad, get up.”
The clown entered the room and paused. “Drone King,” the God of Clowns said. The voice sounded distant and unreal.
Brendan stood up and gripped the shovel with both hands. “No. I’m his son, Brendan Garza.”
Brendan charged and swung the shovel in a high arc. The clown was surprised but moved quickly, backing up into the hall. The shovel hit the doorframe and Brendan lost his grip. He stumbled. The clown caught him in the belly with hard jab, following it with an elbow across Brendan’s head. Brendan dropped to his knees. The blades on the clown’s belt clinked and the large crucifix dangled in front of Brendan’s face. One of the blades dripped with dark liquid that spattered on the clown’s leg and shoes. The clown paused, and his hand went up to the tiny hat perched atop his wig. He adjusted it, tilting it down towards Brendan. Brendan spotted the glint of a lens in the center of the hat. A camera. Now The God of Clowns was his own camera operator.
He pressed a button of something beneath his uniform.
“I hate to interrupt the feed, but this is irritating,” the clown said in an unamplified voice. “I charge extra for sidekicks. It’s bad enough there were two of these guys. Your dad, huh? He shouldn’t have quit. He was one of the good ones. And he just killed it in that purple outfit.” Before Brendan could reply, the clown’s hand pushed the button again. He then took Brendan by the hair and pulled him out of the way before stepping past him towards Myron. He produced a gleaming chrome hatchet from the back of his belt. The speaker crackled.
“Penance,” the clown’s voice boomed. “And absolution.”
Brendan ignored the pain in his midsection that made it hard to move. He crawled to the doorway. The clown was crouching over his father and rolling him onto his back.
“Hey, clown,” Brendan said. He pulled the carpet runner towards him. Inch by inch, the carpet straightened and moved closer. Four of the tiny boxes rode with it.
The God of Clowns looked in Brendan’s direction and put a finger to his lips. “Shhh.” Then he noticed what Brendan was doing and stood. No time to be careful. With a yank, Brendan tugged the runner a foot closer. Then another yank. The clown lunged for him. Brendan dove into the hallway, his arms out so he landed against the wall. Grabbing a fold in the carpet, he snapped it in the clown’s direction. Four mini-presents went tumbling forward. All four went off.
The first
was a spring-loaded fist that punched into the drywall by the door.
The second, a glitter bomb.
The third fired a spiked caltrop into the clown’s thigh.
And the fourth exploded.
27. Bargaining Chips
Brendan’s face felt numb. He was choking on smoke. His lungs burned and he couldn’t get his eyes to focus. Someone near him was coughing. Brendan felt a wall and tried to pull himself up, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He finally managed to sit up. Blood streamed down from his nose. A light played across his face, then down the hall and onto the clown, who lay flat out on his back. The coughing was coming from whoever was holding the light.
“You’ve done my job for me,” Agent Walters said. The shotgun rested in his arms. His footsteps crunched as he walked over to the clown. He checked the man and then went down to another room at the end of the hall. He returned a moment later.
Brendan thought he would vomit but nothing came. His legs disobeyed when he tried to stand. He scooched himself along on his butt towards the clown. The agent was going through the clown’s pockets. He removed a phone and tried unsuccessfully to unlock it before putting it into his own pocket. Brendan reached for the clown.
“Just relax,” Agent Walters said. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”
Brendan grabbed the wig and the clown hat. He stared down at the mass of fake hair as if not knowing what it was. The camera lens was looking back at him.
“This is where you take the drone and go,” Brendan croaked, his throat raw. “Leave us alone.”
“Our little deal isn’t complete yet.”
“Here. You can have my phone. I’ll unlock it. The program has the password autofilled in.”
The agent waved at the smoke hanging in the air before taking Brendan’s phone. “Well, at least that part’s done. Let’s have a look at Daddy.” He went into the bedroom and checked on Myron. “Still alive.” He sounded disappointed.
“Help’s coming,” Brendan said. “I called 911.”
“Why would you—” Agent Walters examined Brendan’s phone and tapped at the screen. Then he swiped the screen off, scowling. He stared at Myron and then glanced at Brendan, as if trying to come to a decision. His grip adjusted on the shotgun. Brendan kept the camera in the hat trained on the agent. If the man was about to execute him and his father, there was little else he could do. The few seconds that passed felt like an eternity.
The agent looked at Brendan and his eyes narrowed. “What are you doing with that wig?”
“There’s a camera here. The God of Clowns broadcasts live. Didn’t you know that?”
“You lie.” The agent snatched the hat and wig away. He dug the camera out of the hat. “Well, that’s inconvenient.” He dropped the camera and stomped on it.
“A hundred thousand viewers just saw you and me and my dad together and alive. If you kill us, the world will know. You can still walk out of this a hero, the man who arrested Drone King and stopped a murder.”
Brendan saw the barrel of the shotgun rise, then lower. Finally, it pointed at the floor. “Maybe Kemp was right,” the agent said. “You should be a lawyer.”
***
The smoke cleared. The agent wouldn’t let Brendan speak with his father and he cuffed the man where he lay. He then produced plastic zip ties and secured the God of Clowns and his accomplices. Brendan felt dizzy. The ringing in his ears persisted. If the 911 call had gone through and his phone’s locator was working, the cops would be there soon. He fought off unconsciousness. All he wanted to do was sleep.
He managed to stand and make his way to the back room. There lay his father’s double. Even with all the blood, Brendan knew it wasn’t his father. This was the Myron Reece from Not-Earth. His own dad was alive. He had saved him. Seeing his dad’s double here like this was awful, but at least it was a note of finality on all the misadventures with Not-Earth, gates, and doubles with superhuman strength.
A weak cough wracked Myron Reece’s body. Brendan almost jumped. The man was breathing, but it wasn’t coming easy and it sounded wet as if he were choking. Brendan went over to him and rolled him onto his back. He had deep wounds on his side and stomach.
“Agent Walters!” Brendan called.
The agent came and moved to help. Brendan took the camera from the unconscious camera operator and trained the light on Myron so they could see what they were doing. The agent told Brendan to search for any first aid supplies in the master bathroom. Brendan found water and towels. The agent began putting pressure on two of the wounds.
“You’ve got me in quite the pickle,” Agent Walters said.
“I didn’t put you here.”
“This would have been so easy. I could be walking away right now, with a happy boss and a paycheck. But now…my shirt is ruined.”
“I’m sure you can afford a new one.”
Agent Walters had Brendan take over. The wounds felt sticky and hot as Brendan applied pressure. The agent then called in to report the situation, saying they needed at least two ambulances, a bomb squad, and backup. After he hung up, he said, “Stupid little boxes are everywhere. One knocked me for a loop before I could even get inside the house. Looks like Daddy or the twin took out a few of the clown’s guys.”
Myron groaned, muttered something, and passed out again. Brendan was glad. He didn’t want to speak with him and had no words of comfort. But then he realized something that should have been glaringly obvious.
“Agent Walters, you have your man,” Brendan said. “This fulfills your warrant for my father, and your employers should be happy.”
“Stop talking for a second.” Agent Walters was distracted, scrolling and texting on his phone. Reflections through a window caught Brendan’s attention, the white, blue, and red blinking lights of an approaching police cruiser.
“My dad’s in the other room with cuffs on,” Brendan said. “Our deal was that he walks free and you get everything you want.”
The agent paused. “Was that our deal? Your dad gets to live. Having two of him will only give me more clout with the agency. I can probably turn this into my own investigative unit. Think of the reaction if the FBI director believes exact duplicates of anyone might show up. Your two daddies are going to be a gold mine of opportunity.”
“Our deal, though—”
“Is changing as we speak. But don’t worry. You’re a poor innocent who gets to go back to school and maybe gets to see one of your daddies in the federal pen on the weekends. So chin up; it’s not all that bad.”
Brendan felt his rage rise. He didn’t like the feeling, he knew it meant he wasn’t thinking clearly, but at that moment he didn’t care. The agent was distracted and didn’t notice when Brendan got up and wiped his bloody hands on his pants. The agent had leaned the shotgun against the wall in the hallway. It was only when he grabbed it that Agent Walters reacted.
“Put that down!” Agent Walters’s hand went to his pistol holster, but it was still empty. His Taser was also gone. The agent hesitated and appeared uncertain what to do. “Think about it, Brendan. You don’t want to go down this road.”
A certain warm feeling came over Brendan. He knew at least for the moment he had all the power in the world and Agent Walters had none.
“I can pay,” Agent Walters said. “Just put it down. Whatever you want.”
“I don’t want anything from you. But I know I can’t trust you.” Brendan marched down the hallway.
From the front door, someone yelled, “Kern County Sheriff’s Department. I’m coming inside.”
He knew he had only a moment before the deputy saw him with the shotgun. He searched the floor of the hallway and living room. Where was it? Amidst all the debris and with the flashing, twirling lights, he felt disoriented and lost. It’s gone.
Brendan saw the beam of a bright flashlight. He fought the tide of panic that almost paralyzed him. He was out of time. Then, by a floor vent, he saw what he was looking for: the little black drone. The last
piece of otherworldly technology in existence. He pointed the barrel of the shotgun straight at it and fired.
28. Breach of Conduct
“What did you do?” Agent Walters asked.
Brendan couldn’t think of a thing to say. He laid the shotgun down on the floor at his feet and put his hands up. The deputy coming in from the front hallway saw him and shined the flashlight in his eyes. He shouted at both Brendan and Agent Walters to get to their knees. Walters told the deputy he was a federal agent and had an ID in his pocket. The deputy had them lace their fingers above their heads while he checked Agent Walters’s ID. Satisfied, he allowed Agent Walters to stand.
“Are you injured?” the deputy asked the agent.
Agent Walters glared at Brendan, obviously furious. “Cuff this kid and get him in your car,” he said. “And tell your backup to hurry if they’re not already on their way.”
As Brendan was handcuffed and led outside towards the lone cruiser, he said to the deputy, “My dad’s in there. I’m afraid Agent Walters is going to kill him.”
The deputy didn’t respond, only asked Brendan if he was carrying anything he needed to know about. He patted Brendan down, missing the flash drive in his pocket, and put him in the back of the cruiser. The deputy then went back inside the house. Brendan held his breath at first, not realizing he was doing it. The events of the day and the feeling of helplessness finally caught up with him, and he began to weep uncontrollably, ashamed of himself as the tears rolled down his face. At any moment he expected to hear another gunshot, maybe more, as the agent eliminated his dad to complete his contract and then murdered the cop.
Minutes passed. Finally another police cruiser showed up and a pair of ambulances soon after. One deputy briefly shined his light into Brendan’s car but didn’t say a word. The light hurt his eyes, but he stared back until the deputy moved on. The blare of the radios the responders wore punctuated the night. The EMTs and deputies were all business, heading straight into the house after receiving their instructions.
The Dark Academy (Supervillain High Book 4) Page 17
