Bringer Unleashed (Logan Bringer Series Book 2)

by Jaz Primo

  Still, there was very little that I could say to that. My failure at mastering my talents caused many to rank among the killed and injured. I would have gladly done more if I could have.

  Hell, I never asked for this.

  What began almost six weeks ago as an FBI investigation into a supposed terrorist attack against the cancer treatment center that I had been attending as a patient quickly turned into a giant load of crap. I was swallowed up by a global conspiracy involving shadow corporations left over from the Cold War, including experiments seeking to manifest telekinetic abilities in humans.

  These were all matters that I felt completely out of my depth to adequately negotiate. Much of what I had learned was literally acquired as I went along, honed by trial and error.

  Sometimes, many errors.

  Regrettably, what was done was done. All that I could hope to affect was the present, or perhaps even the future.

  “We’re still trying to repair all of the damage in and around the city’s central park,” Prievus continued. “Not to mention the four buildings and vast expanse of street infrastructure that was heavily damaged two weeks ago. And where are the funds supposed to come from for that? We may have to order an increase in city residents’ user fees to earmark for the repairs.”

  The resident user fees were nothing short of a tax, in my opinion. Each resident paid annual user fees in lieu of federal and local taxes for maintenance and upkeep of the city, which conservative politicians crowed was a tax decrease for those residents compared to the usual federal and municipal taxes.

  What wasn’t clearly communicated to the public was that the user fees curtailed the state and federal government’s influence to interfere with the city’s corporate-led operations and management, since little if any traditional tax dollars flowed into the city’s coffers.

  “Just take a breath, Prievus,” cautioned FBI Deputy Director Mark Wainright, a person who I counted as one of my supporters, and a man who I had grown to respect during the short time that we had known each other. “Logan Bringer is the only reason that you still have a city left standing to administrate.”

  I liked Wainright. He might, in fact, be the central reason that I wasn’t already being whisked away to become a resident in some government lab for closer study.

  Sanders bit her lip; though I still caught the subtle formation of a smile. I also noticed the frown that her supervisor, Denton, cast in her direction.

  “Bringer is the reason that the city was attacked in the first place,” Prievus said. “He’s drawing unhealthy attention to Nevis Corners. The press has practically camped out here since day one covering this situation.”

  “And by situation, you mean—” Wainright said.

  “Him,” Prievus said, pointing to me with a finger that looked far lengthier than any normal human finger should. “He’s the situation. Just this morning, one of the cable news networks reported that a church congregation from Kansas was on their way up here to demonstrate outside the city because of him. They’re practically calling him the Anti-Christ. They’re claiming the city is suffering a penance from God for our iniquities.”

  Oh, brother. You’ve got to be kidding.

  While I had tried to stay away from the network news channels in recent weeks, my sister and mother had been more than happy to fill me in. Despite that, I hadn’t realized that I was labeled with the mark of the beast already.

  “Wait just a damned minute,” Denton said. “If, by church, do you mean those extremist yahoos who demonstrate at soldier’s funerals? Give me a break.”

  “They attract attention,” Prievus said. “And negative, undue attention matters whether you like it or not.”

  “Hey, I’m for the first amendment and all,” I said with a shrug. “That being said, those nutty bastards can kiss my ass on their way to a deservingly fiery hell. But then, that’s just my personal opinion.”

  “Ditto,” Sanders muttered.

  I gave her an appreciative wink.

  “I think we should make better use of our time by focusing on the core matters at hand,” suggested Cheryl Henson, Iowa’s State Attorney General. “Namely, identifying the perpetrators and quickly locating their command structure before they have time to initiate further destruction. Our governor is very concerned by what’s taken place and has charged me with assembling a state task force to secure our state’s infrastructure.”

  “Those are excellent points,” agreed Bob Tevin, the Deputy Director of the National Security Agency/Central Security Service. “Federal agencies will happily collaborate with your efforts.”

  “Yet, this still involves a sensitive matter of national security. There are topics that we may not be able to share at this time,” said Yasmine Prichard, Special Agent in Charge of Domestic Affairs for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  I wasn’t one of Prichard’s biggest fans, and I was betting I was still at the top of her shit list, as well.

  “The core matter at hand here today should be ensuring that one of America’s newest and premier corporate city isn’t turned into rubble,” Prievus insisted. “Both the state and federal governments, in accordance with the Land Reclamation and Investment in America Act, are obligated to provide proper protection for Nevis Corners.”

  I didn’t much care for that historic piece of land-grab legislation. Unused, privately-owned land all across America was seized by the federal government and parceled out to corporations who promised to construct modern cities to serve as shiny bastions of new private sector jobs for the nation.

  What they became were taxpayer-fronted, yet corporately owned and controlled, utopias where corporations had virtual run of the place, tax-free and with minimal government intervention.

  Granted, Nevis Corners had become my home in recent years, but that was primarily because my cancer treatments were here. If not for having secured a job from one of the city’s sanctioned supporting businesses, I wouldn’t be authorized to be a permanent resident.

  The conference room door abruptly opened to reveal a cadre of business suit clad individuals.

  “My apologies for being late,” said a middle-aged man at the head of the group. “Our flight was delayed due to some foul weather in Washington.”

  “Who are you?” Prievus demanded.

  The man extended his hand toward Prievus.

  “I’m Roger Beck, Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security,” the man declared. “I’m here to take command of this situation, as well as secure this city.”

  Everyone rose to greet Beck and his entourage.

  I extended my hand. “I’m—”

  “Yes, Logan Bringer,” Beck interrupted. “Oh, I know of you all too well already, Mr. Bringer. You and your unique set of abilities were quickly and prominently affixed on my radar.”

  Somehow that didn’t inspire my confidence in him. Granted, I’d been on the FBI’s radar immediately following the destruction of the Wallace Building; former host of, among other services and offices, the Nuclegene Cancer Treatment Center. But this fellow conjured a vision of shadowy government figures sitting in dark rooms making all sorts of impactful decisions that few were privy to.

  “You’ve created quite a mess for us, Bringer,” Beck continued, taking a formerly empty seat at the head of the table as if it were intended for him.

  “As had been mentioned earlier, Secretary Beck,” Deputy Director Tevin smartly interjected. “Bringer is the reason that there’s something left for you to actually clean up.”

  Like Deputy Director Wainright, Tevin was another one of the few government bureaucrats who had earned my respect.

  “That may well be,” Beck coolly conceded. “However, the fact remains that, by the order of the President, federal authorities are being installed to ensure that if further unexpected and destructive surprises appear, we’re prepared to handle it.”

  My recent experiences with a hostile telekinetic suggested that they were already in well over their heads. But then, nobody asked m
e.

  The room fell eerily silent, though Prievus appeared quite satisfied with Beck’s revelation.

  “The city’s board of directors will be very pleased to hear that,” he said.

  Beck’s stare shifted to Deputy Director Wainright.

  “Now, Wainright,” he prompted. “First, what are the FBI’s next steps in pursuing those responsible? And second, what are you anticipating Mr. Bringer’s role to be?”

  Frankly, I had to concede that both were excellent questions.

  Wainright diplomatically assured everyone that the FBI had mobilized their resources and was making progress. As for me, he stated that I was a civilian collaborating with the investigation.

  Somehow, I found that a less than satisfying classification for my participation.

  Two hours later, the meeting concluded. However, government bureaucracies being what they were, it was merely the conclusion of one meeting and followed by yet another meeting hosted at the downtown offices of the city’s corporately-managed police department.

  In the aftermath of my duel with a telekinetic madman, the Nevis Corners’ federal building housing their FBI office was damaged beyond use until expansive repairs were completed. As such, the FBI had temporarily relocated to office space inside the local police department’s facility.

  As Agents Sanders and Denton and I exited into the hallway, grateful to leave the roomful of bureaucrats behind, I mulled over the tentative plan sketched out during the meeting.

  According to Deputy Secretary Beck, by the order of the President, a special joint FBI/NSA taskforce established under the title Telekinetic Anti-terrorism Surveillance and Interdiction Taskforce, or TASIT, was co-led by Deputy Directors Wainright and Tevin, to root out the sources and participants involved with both the destruction of the Wallace Building and the attack on the downtown federal building.

  “What happens next?” Sanders asked her supervisor.

  “That’s what the next meeting is about,” he replied. “The Secretary issued his marching orders and it’s up to the Deputy Directors to put everything together. What I do know is that our local FBI office is to be involved. We’re a key piece of this pie.”

  “Involved? Aren’t we the choice center of the pie?” she countered.

  Denton pointed at me. “No, he’s the center; we’re just the flaky crust around the edge.”

  “All this talk about pie is making me hungry,” I said.

  “Well, it’s almost four o’clock, so we’d better go get something to eat while we can,” Denton suggested. “I have the feeling that our long day isn’t over by a mile.”

  “I could eat,” I said.

  Sanders gave me a long look. “When are you not hungry?”

  “Usually, right after I eat,” I replied.

  Denton chuckled.

  We walked outside the building, and had no sooner stepped onto the sidewalk, when a shiny black stretch limousine pulled up to the curb before us.

  The rearmost tinted window rolled down to reveal the smiling face of Clive Bernard, a multimillionaire in his own right and the President of Nuclegene Corporation.

  “Good day, Mr. Bringer. Agents,” he greeted. “Mr. Bringer, I don’t suppose that you would be so kind as to share a ride with me?”

  “We’re on a bit of a tight schedule, Mr. Bernard,” Sanders said.

  “I understand,” he replied. “However, I think that what I have to discuss is worth just a few minutes of Mr. Bringer’s time.”

  I had to admit that I was curious as to what Bernard wanted to discuss. My initial guess was it was about his recent contract offer.

  I suddenly wished that Sanders had already had a chance to read over the documents.

  “We’re on our way to an early dinner,” I said. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “Normally, I might. However, I’m afraid that my topic of interest is intended for your ears only,” Bernard replied. “But I promise that you won’t go hungry.”

  “Go ahead, Bringer,” Denton said. “We’ll meet you at police headquarters. Be there by six o’clock sharp.”

  As if on cue, the front passenger door opened and a giant of a man, one of Bernard’s personal body guards, stepped out of the vehicle to open the rear passenger door for me.

  “Mr. Bringer,” the man—who I knew simply as Scott—offered with a polite nod.

  It hadn’t been that long ago that I almost propelled the guy through a wall with my skills. Glad to see that he didn’t appear to hold a grudge.

  I nodded back at him while ducking into the roomy interior. Sandra Yalesin, Bernard’s assistant, sat beside him, so I commandeered the empty seat across from them.

  “Do you have a restaurant preference, Mr. Bringer?” Bernard inquired.

  “Surprise me,” I replied.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll endeavor to do just that.”

  Not one for too many of the wrong sorts of surprises, I opened my mind to listen in on stray thoughts.

  …only hope that he likes what I have to say, came a thought that had to be Bernard’s.

  …can he look so relaxed after all that’s happened?

  I nodded at Ms. Yalesin, who responded with a welcoming smile.

  …very handsome, came an immediate thought.

  After only a brief journey, we stopped in front of the one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants. As I waited for Bernard and Yalesin to exit the limo, I spied a non-descript dark sedan just down the street from us. Two men sat in the vehicle, both wearing sunglasses.

  I was willing to bet they were government agents, though I couldn’t discount the idea that they might also represent the Continuance Corporation.

  Rather than take matters into my own hands, I texted Sanders.

  Ten minutes later, I sat in a private dining suite with Bernard and Yalesin reviewing a menu that listed numerous exotic dishes; likely at outlandish prices.

  “See anything that you like?” Bernard asked. “I highly recommend both the Roasted Duck Magret or the Baked Skate ‘En Papillote.’”

  In the end, I ordered the largest rib eye on the menu. “Well done, please.”

  “Well done, sir?” the waiter asked, his disapproval all too evident.

  I stared him in the eye with the best hard look that I could muster. “Burn it. Or I will.”

  Yalesin nearly choked on her mineral water, while Bernard adopted an amused expression.

  “Of course, sir,” the waiter replied with a hard swallow before slowly backing away from the table.

  Was it something I said?

  Then again, he’d likely seen the various film footages that the news kept rerunning around the clock.

  Looked like the joke was on me, after all.

  “Speaking of burning,” Bernard began once the waiter had left. “Your performance has been nothing short of amazing. In Seattle, as with here, you appear to have handled an untenable situation with remarkable skill.”

  “Very charitable of you,” I said. “However, the truth is that I almost had my ass handed to me…on both occasions.”

  “You merely need additional practice,” he said offhandedly, as if we were casually discussing my golf game.

  Still, I conceded that his suggestion for practice was credible. The little amount that I had done at one of the construction sites outside of town had been remarkably helpful. Hell, in the army, we practiced until we could execute skills in our sleep.

  “Nuclegene Corporation can be quite helpful in that area,” he offered. “In fact, we can do even more than help you refine your talents; we may even be able to strengthen them. We are, after all, the inventors of the beneficial drug that made your abilities possible in the first place.”

  While the drug had certainly eradicated my brain cancer, in my mind the jury was still out on the whole blessing versus curse argument regarding my newfound telekinetic abilities.

  “Rest assured, we’ve already made some excellent progress in understanding some of what’s manifeste
d inside of you,” Bernard continued. “Though we lost some key researchers and project data in the treatment center explosion, we have already reassigned some of our company’s leading engineers and staff onto the project.”

  “Like Maria Edwards?” I promoted.

  Maria had been one of the few survivors of the explosion, a clinical assistant whose chemical engineering knowledge was sorely underutilized for her role in the project. Not to mention that she had been the one person who helped me to understand the nature of my abilities.

  I wondered if Bernard had figured out that Maria had also been supplying me with a daily regimen of injections that helped sharpen my abilities.

  “Yes. Ms. Edwards is still involved with the project,” he confirmed.

  “Give it to me straight. I’ve read through your contract proposal, though it practically gave me headaches. What is it exactly that you’re offering me, Bernard?” I asked. “And more to the point, what’s the catch if I were to accept?”

  He quietly considered me while his assistant impassively watched.

  …important that he accept, came a useful stray thought.

  “Nuclegene Corporation is facing a remarkable opportunity to help shape the course of world events in a number of important ways,” he began. “As you’ve seen firsthand, we’ve found new ways to treat, and even cure, cancers. But more importantly, we’ve proven that humans have latent abilities at their grasp, and, as with you, we’re very close to activating them on a larger scale.”

  “What you’ve done is open Pandora’s Box,” I countered.

  Then it hit me.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Continuance Corporation was also researching those latent abilities dating all the way back to the Cold War. And I can’t help wondering if they might’ve even done it before Nuclegene Corporation.”

  “You’re merely speculating,” Bernard said. “Our formula could just as easily have been stolen and reproduced elsewhere after our achievements were already well under way.”

  I didn’t dare add that Maria had already told me about the numerous deaths resulting from Nuclegene’s repeated failed attempts at success.

  “Ah, then how do you explain the guy who took apart a portion of the city a couple of weeks ago?”