Bringer of Fire

by Jaz Primo

  “Fuel up,” she said good-naturedly.

  I felt a lot better once I’d consumed about a third of a bottle of sports drink.

  Chapter 10

  “This changes the dynamic of the investigation considerably,” Chuck Denton said once Sanders and I had briefed him on our visit with Bernard at the Nuclegene offices.

  “How so? It hardly changes our overall goal,” I challenged.

  “No,” Denton replied. “But it means that we to keep an even tighter lid on all information, just in case Bernard’s correct about competing interests from within our government. Speaking of which, the guys in IT finished downloading the documents from the memory drive that you provided. Sanders, they’re in a folder on the network that only our team has access to.”

  “And the private contractor IT support staff who gave you access to it,” I added dryly.

  Denton frowned at me. “Yeah. I’ll try not to dwell too much on that.”

  “I’ll run these names through our database and see if I can get a hit on any of them,” Sanders said.

  “Good,” Denton said as we rose to leave his office. “Keep me in the loop.”

  He rose and handed me a small sheet of paper and a plastic badge.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “The VIP badge will get you into the building and our office area. The paper has the names of our team members, including their office and cell phone numbers. Put those in your phone and wallet, and please don’t share them with anyone. I’ve already provided the team with your contact information.”

  “Thanks.”

  It felt good to be part of something useful again. I just wished the circumstances were better.

  “Welcome to our team,” he offered with a quick handshake. “Although you may find that you’ve signed on for more than you expected. Just remember, you’re not on the payroll, and there may be a few circumstances where even being under FBI protective custody might not shield you from scrutiny.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Now, follow Sanders and get to work.”

  I nodded and we returned to Sanders’ desk while I mulled over what Denton had just said. It made me wonder what sort of circumstances he meant.

  To my surprise, Sanders logged into the FBI’s information database and showed me how to conduct simple searches. Then she asked me to perform a search on all of the names on the list that Bernard had given us.

  “But don’t let anyone else except agents in our office see you on my workstation, okay? If anybody asks me, I don’t know anything about it,” she warned before leaving to do some additional information gathering.

  I scowled.

  Plausible deniability. Gotta’ love it.

  To my surprise, the computer searches yielded only two hits, though neither individual had any priors. With the assistance of a cute blonde-haired, blue-eyed agent named Lana Collins, I was able to access their last known addresses. A young lady named Justine Ziska was listed in New York City, and a guy named Thomas Gibbons had a Chicago, Illinois address.

  Sanders alerted FBI offices in both cities and made hasty arrangements for us to catch the next flight to Chicago. The New York office would initiate surveillance on Justine Ziska.

  Fortunately, Sanders received word that I’d regained use of my home, so we hastily dropped by my place on the way to the airport. At least I’d be able to change into some dress pants and shirt so that I could blend in next to Sanders somewhat authentically.

  “You’re actually not hard on the eyes when you’re presentably dressed, Bringer,” she quipped with an appraising expression.

  I flashed a charming grin at her, but she merely rolled her eyes. However, the moment quickly faded as my thoughts returned to Maria Edwards.

  In actuality, it was a relatively short flight to Chicago but it felt like forever given the urgent nature of our trip. Flight time aside, O’Hare International Airport was something entirely different.

  For a guy like me who had done very little traveling in recent years, it felt like a madhouse; barely controlled chaos teeming with people. However, I quietly admired the seamless manner that Sanders negotiated a host of harried airport experiences; chiefly, passenger screening and boarding. Of course, having the full influence of the FBI behind us hadn’t hurt, either.

  We were met by two agents from the Chicago office, Buddy Cross and Peter Harker; both of whom sported the textbook dark suits and neatly trimmed haircuts. Both men cordially greeted Agent Sanders, but turned decidedly more guarded when I introduced myself. I couldn’t help wondering if my newfound abilities weren’t somehow subliminally influencing people.

  Then again, maybe I was just being paranoid.

  “Mr. Bringer’s of paramount importance to our investigation and is under the agency’s protection,” Sanders explained.

  Both men eyed me dubiously before leading us through the airport toward the parking garage. I tried to open my mind in an attempt to read their thoughts, but I was assailed by a din of voices that nearly brought me to a halt mid-step. I quickly shut my mind off again, even before realizing that I’d done it.

  “You okay?” Sanders whispered as we approached the Ford sedan in the parking garage.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  Hell, the truth was, I hadn’t felt okay in what seemed liked ages. Maybe managing to find Maria and safely returning her to her kids might help with that.

  “Chicago PD is assisting us on this,” Agent Cross explained from the front passenger seat. “They’re positioned a reasonable distance from the address you gave us. Plus, we’ve got a couple of other agents already on scene. Our field supervisor, Kip Desmond, is meeting us there.”

  Despite the heavy traffic, we seemed to make it to the west side of town relatively quickly. The part of the city we found ourselves in appeared to be in decline, and a number of unsavory-looking characters glared at us as we passed by. I tried to focus my thoughts on my abilities, gently probing at my skills just in case they were needed.

  I made the spare seatbelt between Sanders and me float up from the seat cushion a few inches. She did a double-take at the display and then slapped her hand on top of it while giving me a hard look, shaking her head negatively.

  I innocently shrugged as our car came to a halt in the small parking lot of a neighborhood grocery store. As we stepped from the vehicle, the rear door to a nearby unmarked panel van opened to reveal a group of people, including a police officer wearing SWAT gear and a business suit-clad man and woman.

  “Agents Kip Desmond and Sally Brinks,” Cross introduced. “This is Agent Sanders and Mr. Bringer from the Nevis Corners office.”

  Following a brief series of handshakes, everyone busied themselves with preparations. The agents were each fitted with earpieces and microphones that appeared like the ones often depicted in the movies for Secret Service agents.

  In truth, the entire situation felt a little like a movie set, except that Maria’s life was in very real danger.

  I followed Agents Cross and Sanders as we walked less than a block to the unkempt-looking five-story apartment building that was listed as Thomas Gibbons’ last-known address. We located the apartment manager, a middle-aged and balding man named Tippins, who agreed to let us into Gibbons’ apartment, though not before Cross showed him a newly-acquired search warrant.

  Again, just like in the movies.

  “Do you know if Mr. Gibbons is here right now, Mr. Tippins?” Sanders asked as we exited the elevator on the third floor.

  “I really can’t say,” Tippins replied. “Honestly, I just collect the rent and try to keep everything in semi-working order around here.”

  The sounds from a blaring television, a crying baby, and loud music culminated in the hallway from different apartments. Cross and Sanders removed their pistols from their holsters and held them in guarded positions.

  I tried to open my thoughts, and was assailed by a host of disembodied voices.

  …hope the guy does
n’t have a dead body up here, Tippins thought.

  …ready for anything, Cross thought.

  …stop crying for God’s sake, a woman thought.

  …hope he’s here, Sanders thought.

  Sanders signaled for Tippins and me to stand behind her as she and Cross stood on either side of the door to apartment 305.

  Cross knocked on the wooden door.

  “Mr. Gibbons? FBI,” Cross said. “We have a warrant to search your premises. Please open the door.”

  There was no response and I wasn’t sensing any thoughts from inside. I gently tapped Sanders on the elbow and she looked back at me in silent query.

  I pointed to my head and shook my head in negative fashion.

  “Open it,” she ordered Tippins.

  The apartment was unoccupied, but had quite evidently been lived in. Fortunately, there were no dead bodies inside, specifically Maria’s.

  After being cautioned not to touch anything, I looked around for anything of interest that was lying about. A dated-looking photo of a twenty-something looking man standing next to an older lady was on a living room shelf.

  I wondered if it was Gibbons and a relative; perhaps his mother or aunt.

  Agents Harker, Brinks, and Desmond collaborated with a police forensics team, which quickly filled the small apartment. I wandered out into the main hallway where a lone, bored-looking police officer stood outside the apartment.

  I heard a door open at the end of the hallway and turned to gaze into an astonished-looking man’s face. He appeared to be about ten years older than the man who I’d just seen in the photo.

  It had to be Gibbons.

  The man darted back from where he came, and I yelled, “Gibbons!”

  I took off down the hallway with the Chicago police officer trailing at my heels. By the time I hit the door leading into the stairwell, I caught a sidelong glimpse of Sanders and Harker heading in our direction.

  “He’s in the stairwell!” Sanders yelled. “Cover all the exits and search floor by floor!”

  I made it to the second floor landing but still heard footsteps ahead of me, so I kept going. The young police officer and I hurried neck-in-neck down the stairs.

  Then the young officer slipped and fell forward ahead of me. I lunged to reach out for him but caught only a handful of air.

  “Shit!” he yelled.

  Fortunately, my mind was faster, and I practically sensed a large weight before me. I jerked my hand backward and his body fell back against the concrete steps with a thud.

  “Thanks!” I heard him shout as I rushed downstairs.

  I heard a door open and slam shut seconds before I made it to the bottom floor, only to be confronted with two doors. I started to barrel through the door labeled Lobby, but paused and opened my mind.

  …somebody over to the alley right now.

  …get him if he hits the lobby, came another person’s thoughts.

  I changed direction and barreled through the other door, only belatedly realizing what a bad idea that might be. However, rather than an ambush, I saw Gibbons fleeing at the end of the alleyway.

  I knew I’d never catch him, so I concentrated on a metal trash dumpster just ahead of where he was running. Half-sensing something substantial, I imagined grasping the structure and jerked my hand back toward me.

  The dumpster slammed into the man with a force that knocked him back into the alley. Then a heavy pain roared through my head that was so intense it dropped me to my knees.

  A bout of nausea assailed me as I struggled to rise to my feet.

  I couldn’t afford to lose that guy. We were already grasping at straws as it was.

  I willed myself to put each foot before me, racing to reach Gibbons, who was struggling to rise from his prone position on the ground.

  As I reached him, he’d just regained his footing and was staggering forward, appearing slightly stunned. I grabbed him by the shirt and propelled him against the nearby garbage bin.

  “Where’s Maria Edwards?” I demanded. “Tell me!”

  He stared back at me with a wide-eyed expression. I tried to open my mind to his thoughts but was having trouble focusing as I held him against the container. Then I heard rapid footsteps coming up the alleyway toward us.

  …Wenzel.

  “Freeze!” yelled someone nearby.

  I slammed Gibbons against the bin again, and demanded, “Wenzel, who?!”

  He stared at me as if I was some kind of monster.

  “Bringer, let him go!” Agent Sanders insisted as she pried at my right arm.

  …can’t tell him about Hadrian, the man thought.

  A set of hands gripped my other arm, and Agent Harker ordered, “We’ve got him. Let him go!”

  I released Gibbons as Sanders and Harker cuffed him and read him his Miranda rights. Meanwhile, I strained to glean what I could from the man’s thoughts.

  Unfortunately, there was too much mental noise surrounding me, like too many people talking at once.

  Who the hell does that guy think he is?

  …going to get into trouble, Bringer.

  …they’ll kill me. Gibbons thought trickled through.

  More police officers, including Agents Cross and Desmond, arrived to add to the mental commotion, so I shut down my ability just to keep from drowning in disjointed voices. It was then I realized that I was consciously channeling my skills somewhat effectively.

  “Who’s Wenzel? Who’s Hadrian?” I demanded of Gibbons as Harker took hold of the cuffed man’s arm to lead him back down the alleyway.

  Gibbons merely stared back at me like I was Satan incarnate.

  “Not saying anything,” he muttered.

  At that moment, I’d have liked to try to beat it out of him.

  “Did he tell you something?” Agent Desmond asked.

  I shrugged while rubbing at my temples with my fingertips. My head hurt like hell.

  “Not in so many words,” I muttered.

  “Um, we’ve been following up on a lot of disjointed leads on this case,” Sanders neatly interjected as she scribbled something onto a small notepad.

  Desmond grunted, but Agent Cross looked at me with a peculiar expression.

  “Good thing you caught him,” Cross ventured. “He had a pretty good start on you, didn’t he?”

  “Bringer’s ex-army,” Sanders said. “He’s in pretty good shape, actually.”

  I looked at her with a semi-amused expression but she pointedly ignored me. However, Desmond chuckled.

  “Well, lucky for us the guy ran headfirst into this trash dumpster, too,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Cross said in a dubious tone. “Damned lucky.”

  At the front of the apartment building, the agents loaded Gibbons into the back seat of one of the police cars. Agent Harker accompanied him.

  “I want two officers in Gibbons’ car,” Desmond ordered, to which a police sergeant nodded.

  “I’d like to accompany Gibbons, as well,” Sanders said.

  “Nothing to worry about. We’ll interrogate Gibbons downtown once they process him,” Desmond said. “Sanders, you and Bringer can ride with Cross and me. We’ll follow them in together. Agent Brinks is going to stay onsite with the forensics team.”

  Minutes later, I sat in the back seat of a sedan with Sanders as we followed the police car through the city.

  Sanders gently nudged me with her elbow. “You okay?” she whispered.

  I nodded. Fortunately, the achiness in my head had subsided somewhat. The truth was, I would’ve given most anything for a Gatorade at that moment. I noticed Cross staring back at me with a suspicious expression in the rear view mirror as he drove.

  “You think this guy has something to do with the Wallace Building explosion?” Desmond asked.

  “Possibly,” Sanders replied.

  “What the hell?” Cross asked as he stared ahead.

  Sanders and I simultaneously sat forward to look out through the windshield. The lead police car tran
sporting Gibbons swerved erratically as it approached the next major intersection and then slammed into an oncoming vehicle.

  “Jesus!” Desmond exclaimed.

  Agent Cross initiated the siren on our car while swerving out of the way of an oncoming vehicle that had cascaded into our lane.

  “Shit!” Cross cursed.

  Our car came to a halt less than twenty feet from the crashed police car ahead of us. Its front hood was crumpled and smoke was pouring out from the hood.

  I glanced to my left just in time to see an oncoming full-size Hummer bearing directly at us.

  “Hold on!” I yelled.

  The Hummer impacted the driver’s side of our vehicle full-on, displacing our vehicle and propelling me against Sanders to my right. The front airbags immediately deployed, knocking Cross and Desmond back into their seats.

  Half-dazed, I heard shouts and horns, as well as the warbling of our car’s siren around me.

  Sanders moaned and I struggled to sit up.

  Then I heard gunshots.

  Sanders managed to unholster her weapon as she opened her car door and the two of us half-fell onto the street outside. I looked inside and noticed that Cross was unconscious or worse, as well as partially pinned behind the steering wheel. Desmond appeared only half-aware of his surroundings as he popped his passenger door open and attempted to draw his own weapon.

  I looked beyond the hood of our car toward the crashed police car and saw a red-haired man standing beside the vehicle. Using an assault rifle, he rapid-fired into the vehicle less than twenty yards from us.

  It was the guy who’d tried to kill Sanders and myself.

  “It’s him!” I yelled.

  Sanders aimed her pistol at the man and shouted, “Freeze! FBI!”

  The man pivoted toward us and his rifle belched with flame. I heard rounds impact the vehicle around us, and I managed to grab Sanders’ jacket to pull her down to the pavement with me. I noticed that she had a bleeding cut on her forehead.

  I realized our hopes of interrogating Gibbons were all but lost if we didn’t stop that red-haired bastard. I jumped up from behind the side of the car, even as Sanders grabbed at my jacket.