Team Omega

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Parker Lewis,” Lane said. A picture appeared on the display. “Fourteen years old, born in Washington; father’s a soldier with the 3rd Infantry Division. Parents are separated, but apparently the father does play a large role in his son’s life when not on deployment. Or so we’ve been told. I’d prefer not to inform the father until we have confirmation one way or the other.”

  Jackson nodded. Back on deployment, he’d seen a fellow Marine lose his edge through worrying about his wife, who had been injured by a drunken driver. It sounded cruel, but if the kid could be found alive and well, the father wouldn’t go through hell worrying about him.

  “Earlier today, the kid went to a Dreamy Girl concert—the same concert that three of our own attended,” Lane continued. He managed to sound disapproving even though he’d probably authorised their leave. “Lucky bastard looks older than I did when I was his age, so he didn't have many problems getting in with a fake ID. The FBI looked at the ones produced by his friends, and they confirm that they weren't bad fakes. Someone is going to get into deep shit because of it.”

  “How lucky for them,” Jackson said, dryly. Two hours of sleep had left him feeling better, although he’d had weird dreams that he couldn't quite remember. “I thought the lower age limit on these things was eighteen.”

  “That's what the ID cards said,” Lane commented. “It didn't help that most of the group he was with were actually genuinely eighteen or older...”

  He shook his head. “Not that that matters to us,” he added. “Fake ID cards aren't our problem. The real problem is that Parker’s disappearance isn't the first one connected to a Dreamy Girl concert.”

  The screen changed at his command. “Dylan King,” he said. A young black man appeared on the display. “Fourteen years old; attended a Dreamy Girl concert in Atlanta—and didn't come home that night. Local police investigated, but found nothing—Dylan ended up marked as a runaway, one of the thousands of other kids who leave their homes every year and generally come to a bad end. No history of drug abuse, incidentally; his mother was one of the ones who pulled herself out of the ghetto by her fingernails. Dylan had great prospects and no reason to run from his home.

  “Davy Wheat,” he said, changing the picture again. “Fifteen years old; vanished at a Dreamy Girl concert in San Francisco. Unlike the other two, Davy did have an arrest record; the cops picked him up twice for hotwiring cars and taking them out for a spin. He also tested positive for drug use, but they didn’t use that against him. The cops didn't take much interest in his disappearance as there was no evidence of foul play and Davy probably did have a motive for running away from home. Mother is a drunken bitch, according to the police reports; father unknown, probably one of the men who fluttered around her when she was younger and prettier.

  “And finally, Gavin Sato,” he concluded. “He actually vanished two days after the concert in San Francisco, so he may not actually be connected to the case at all, but the cops dug up the reference and included it in their database. Unlike Davy, he had a good home and a reasonably good family life; no clear reason for running away that anyone can see.”

  He put down the remote and turned to face his team. “Some of you have already had experience in criminal investigations, when our work blurs into theirs,” he said. “Others of you are new to this, but it can be just as important as actually taking down rogue superhumans. We’ll be working with the SDI on this one, but the person they would normally send to investigate is indisposed.”

  His face twisted into a grin. “Brainstorming time,” he said. “What do all these kids have in common?”

  “They’re young,” Ron said, thoughtfully. “And they were all underage when they attended the concert. Are we actually sure that they vanished there?”

  “It's difficult to be completely certain, but witness testimonies and camera networks certainly suggest as much,” Lane said. “The FBI wanted to pull the records from the stadium’s security network, only to be told that part of the agreement with Dreamy Girl and her agents stated that they weren't to operate any cameras within the building. We do have some footage from outside the buildings, but it’s incomplete.”

  “And one of them vanished two days later,” Jackson said. He remembered one of the exercises he’d been given when he first joined Team Omega. All he’d had to do was put together a jigsaw, but he had had no idea what the completed picture looked like—and some pieces didn't actually belong to the original jigsaw. Criminal investigation wasn't too different; the fourth missing boy might be unconnected to the overall puzzle.

  Something clicked in his mind. “Three of the four were good boys, weren't they?” He said. “They didn't drink or smoke or do drugs—the fourth did take drugs and might have been still taking them, even after his arrest.”

  “Very good,” Lane said. “Now...what does it actually mean?”

  Jackson shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose...they were all handsome enough to attract her attention?”

  “It would be career suicide if she started preying on her underage fans,” Chris countered. “Besides, she wouldn't find it difficult to pull in perfectly legal eighteen-year-old kids with baby faces. Most paedophiles go for preteen or early teen children.”

  “If you call it preying,” Thomas said. “I don’t know about you, but if Madonna had asked me into her private rooms when I was fifteen, I wouldn't have said no.”

  “And Madonna would still have been in deep shit when it came out,” Lane said, sharply. “I know...pop stars and superhumans do have the chance to seduce almost anyone they want from their fans, but none of these people have ever returned home. Underage or not, they are gone and people want answers. What happened to them and what, if anything, does Dreamy Girl have to do with it?”

  Jackson hesitated, and then spoke up. “She...put me into a trance, of sorts,” he admitted. There were some sniggers from the rest of the team. “Couldn’t she have done that to her younger fans and programmed them to wait behind when the rest of the audience had gone?”

  “It’s possible,” Von Shrakenberg agreed. “I suppose having so much blood rushing to your dick would help anyone hypnotise you.”

  There were more chuckles as Jackson flushed angrily.

  “But so far the effect has been isolated to three, perhaps four teenage kids,” Lane added. “A telepath could presumably pick them out of a crowd, but very few telepaths would want to go into the stadium anyway. Nothing about this makes sense; what few patterns we have been able to see are too vague to be any actual use.”

  He looked around the room, his gaze alighting on each and every one of the team. “Dreamy Girl is scheduled to take two days of rest, then she will give another concert. That one will presumably have a handful of underage kids, all of whom are at risk from whatever the fuck is going on. The FBI has passed the buck to the SDI, and the SDI has passed it down to us. We need to know what happens to those kids before the next concert—and another kid disappears. Any questions?”

  “Just one,” Ron said. “What authority do we have to go poking around?”

  “The FBI waved their case under a tame judge’s nose and got a warrant to search the stadium and Dreamy Girl’s vehicles,” Lane said. “I suggest that any of you who don’t feel that you can be completely professional about this let me know, and I’ll leave you behind on kitchen duty. Dreamy Girl’s agents will probably make a fuss, but luckily the FBI will take the heat. Special Agent Anderson will be attached to us and she will deal with the agents.”

  “Great,” Chris muttered. “The ball-crusher herself.”

  “She’ll be busting their balls while we try to dig up evidence one way or the other,” Lane said. “We leave in thirty minutes, so grab your weapons and equipment and assemble outside the barracks. Move.”

  ***

  Special Agent Dana Anderson was a strikingly tall woman with short red hair, wearing a suit that had been professionally tailore
d to show off her assets to best advantage. She reminded Jackson of his mother, a woman who never took any shit from anyone. A brief glance into the files had informed him that the Special Agent had an impressive conviction rate, mainly investigating international and corporate espionage in the United States. The link to intelligence work probably explained why the FBI had chosen her as the link between them and Team Omega.

  “Rumour has it that she’s a lesbian,” Chris muttered, as Lane and Dana talked just out of earshot. “She doesn't have any time for men—or for the whinging feminists who think that they’re owed an easy ride just because they have tits instead of dicks. Don’t try to make a pass, or the medics will have to stitch your balls back on.”

  “Alpha Team will accompany me,” Lane said, raising his voice so they could hear him. “Beta Team will search the public areas of the stadium; Gamma Team will remain on backup duty. If someone calls, break out the heavy weapons and come to our aid.”

  “Understood, sir,” the Sergeant said.

  He led Beta Team off towards the public entrance, leaving Lane and Dana to walk towards the private section. It was on the other side of the building to the executive entrance they’d used when they’d been simple tourists, but Jackson supposed that that wasn't a surprise. The stars had a reputation for being difficult, forcing their managers to provide every luxury item they felt they’d earned. Some of the stories Jackson had heard suggested that managers had been forced to hire prostitutes for their stars, as well as everything else. Dreamy Girl probably wasn't any different, even if she was a superhuman. The Young Stars had had their own obsession with sex and illegal drugs, after all.

  A single man met them at the entrance, wearing a slicked-down suit and too much oil in his hair. He started to speak, but Dana cut in and overrode him effortlessly.

  “I have authority to search this stadium and your property for Parker Lewis, who has been missing since this afternoon after entering this building,” she said, bluntly. She held up the warrant and waved it under his nose. “While you are at liberty to file a complaint with the FBI, you are not at liberty to prevent us from entering and searching the building. I must warn you that any attempt to do so will result in your arrest, followed by charges of interfering with a federal investigation. The charges will stand even if the search reveals no trace of Parker Lewis.”

  The man smiled, too brightly. “We have absolutely nothing to hide,” he said, after a moment. “I must just ask you to keep the noise down. Miss Reynar is currently resting after being seen by so many people. It puts quite a strain on her body and soul.”

  “I’m sure it does,” Dana said, “but I’m afraid I cannot allow such concerns to impede my search. There is a missing child at stake here.”

  “I must also inform you that we will seek recompense from the FBI for any damage to our properly caused by your searchers,” the man added, “and...”

  “Thank you,” Dana said, cutting him off and walking past him into the stadium. “I understand from the plans that this front office is empty when there isn't a game on?”

  “Why...yes, that’s correct,” the man said. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I want you to call everyone in the building here, so they can wait in this room until the search is completed,” Dana said, glancing into the empty room. Jackson couldn't see anything worth noticing apart from a pair of baseball posters someone had stuck on the bare walls. “And everyone includes Miss Reynar.”

  “My client has special permission from the SDI to remain secluded apart from when she is on the stage,” the manager blustered. “I think...”

  “That doesn't cover criminal investigation,” Dana said, coldly. “Call them all in, or we’ll be forced to arrest everyone in the building to prevent them from impeding an investigation.”

  They locked eyes for a long moment, and then the manager looked away. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll call them.”

  Jackson had been taught that maintaining a single soldier in the front lines required at least three or four people in the rear areas, but it seemed that maintaining a celebrity required at least forty people. Apart from the manager and a pair of bodyguards, who eyed the soldiers as if they wanted to start a fight, they were all women, ranging from a personal trainer to a woman who was described as Dreamy Girl’s close personal friend. The look she gave some of Alpha Team suggested that she wasn't really interested in women. Jackson followed orders, took a list of names for Dana to cross-check against the files, and kept his eyes on their faces. Quite a few of their training simulations had involved the use of nude women as a distraction.

  Dreamy Girl herself wore a garment that shrouded her entire body in a shapeless piece of cloth. Dana made noises about forcing her to take it off, but didn't push it; Jackson couldn't tell if she was sympathetic to Dreamy Girl’s requests, grimly aware that exposing her would distract everyone, or merely unwilling to risk the lawsuits. It wasn't as if Dreamy Girl was a penniless civilian who could be pushed around safely. She sat in one corner of the room and completely ignored everyone else, even her so-called close, personal friend. That worthy just kept making eyes at the soldiers.

  “Chris, you and I will remain here,” Lane said. “Dana, Ron, and Jackson will start searching the private compartment. Keep in touch and don’t hesitate to sing out if you find anything.”

  Jackson nodded and followed Ron and Dana through the doors into the private section, looking around for signs of luxury—or criminal activity. The interior reminded him of a rather tacky hotel, although it was in better taste than the pictures he'd seen of the interior of the Young Stars hangout. A large painting of Babe Ruth dominated the corridor, surrounded by images of lesser baseball players and a handful of rock stars. He hadn't known that the Beatles had played in Washington until he saw pictures of them entertaining the President.

  “There aren't enough of us,” Ron said. “It will take hours to search this building properly.”

  “We should have the rest of your team once they’ve finished with the public part of the stadium,” Dana said, calmly. She didn't seem intimidated or wowed by the operators, but it was quite possible that her superiors hadn't told her everything about Team Omega. “This search will mark down areas for later attention, if we manage to get a complete FBI team out here.”

  Jackson and Ron exchanged glanced as Dana stopped in front of a large pair of doors decorated with golden stars. “Locked,” she said. Before Jackson could say anything, she produced a lock pick from her pocket and fiddled with the lock, which clicked open a moment later. None of the operators could have done it any quicker. “Let’s see what she has in her private rooms.”

  The smell struck them as soon as they opened the door. It took Jackson several moments to place it as the smell of junk food, emanating from a pile of pizza and burger wrappers on one of the large tables. The room didn't seem to have any air conditioning at all, let alone a window allowing the occupant to look out over Washington, or into the stadium. Jackson was used to barracks intended for hundreds of soldiers, but even he would have found the suite a little claustrophobic. The other rooms were crammed with bags of clothes, and a single golden mirror.

  Ron posed in front of it with a grin. “Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who’s the...”

  “I have it on good authority that you’re too ugly for anything other than pity sex,” Jackson said, dryly. “Why would someone like her need a mirror?”

  “Perhaps because she needs to know what she looks like,” Dana said. She scowled at the pair of them. “I suggest that we concentrate on searching this place and leaving the clowning until later. We can't legally hold them for very long; it isn't as if they’re under arrest.”

  “And the lawyers would have a field day,” Ron agreed. He picked up a bra and studied it thoughtfully. “How many bras does the woman have?”

  Jackson followed his gaze. Several bags appeared to be crammed with bras; if that was all they held, Dreamy Girl had to have over a thousand bras in the
room. It wasn't the only thing she had in vast quantities; there were panties, shirts and nightgowns in thousands of different colours and styles. One brand name leapt out at him, a fantastically expensive designer brand that charged upwards of five hundred dollars for a mere purse.

  “Men,” Dana said, with some irritation. “Did you notice anything interesting about the shirts?”

  “No,” Jackson said, slowly.

  Dana picked one up and held it in front of her chest. “It’s big,” Ron said, slowly. “Much bigger than you need.”

  “Quite,” Dana agreed. “And the bras are huge too. And so is the garment she was wearing when she came to wait with her staff. Tell me...what do you think she really looks like?”

  Jackson tried to envisage the woman who would need such a huge shirt. The mental picture wasn't pretty.

  “Fat,” Dana said. She put on an expression that suggested insufferable superiority. “And there you are, drooling over an illusion.”

  She paused, looking down into the bathroom. “And what the hell is this?”