by Peter Darley
“What’s ‘nine-point-two’ mean?”
“Near-mint-minus condition. Near-mint is nine-point-four. That particular copy is worth approximately fifty-thousand dollars at the current rate of exchange.”
B.J.’s eyes widened. “Fifty-thousand?”
“Yeah, but it’s not just the money. My dad bought it and kept it in beautiful condition. My dad told me what he’d been thinking in twenty-fourteen when it all kicked off with your dad. He said he would’ve voted Drake for president. That comic is very precious to me. If I ever had to sell it, it would tear my soul out.”
B.J. looked at him affectionately. An ironic realization came to him. The comic bonded them in such a unique way. “Your dad bought my dad.”
The room shook. Heather leaped off the bed, and B.J. looked around to see the shelves vibrating.
“What the hell—?” Woody said.
B.J. turned back to him urgently. “They’re hitting L.A.”
“Who is?”
B.J. ran across to the corner of the room and picked up the INT-Nine chest plate. After tearing his shirt off, he clasped the plate to his torso. “If I make it back, Woody, I’ll explain everything. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Heather came closer to him, fearfully. “Babe, you’re wanted. You can’t—”
He fixed the arm units to himself as he spoke. “What was it you said to me earlier? I can put everything right? They haven’t even come close to capturing me, and right now, I need to do this more than ever. You know what I’m talking about.”
Heather and Woody stood back as he fixed the leg sections in place.
“Am I really seeing this?” Woody said. “In my house?”
“Yes, Woody, you are.” He fixed the jet boots on, and then picked up the helmet.
They followed B.J. down the stairs. Heather reached him as he opened the front door, embraced him, and kissed him tenderly. “Don’t ever forget, I love you.”
He winked. “I kinda got that idea.”
“All right, get out of here. Save as many as you can.”
“You got it.”
Woody caught his attention, held out his hand for B.J. —and then he hugged the armor without warning.
“Hey, hey, it’s OK,” B.J. said. “I’m not gonna die.” His mothers’ voice suddenly echoed in his mind:
Your father’s last words to me were ‘I’m not gonna die.’
He looked down noticing Woody’s tearful eyes and felt a lump in his throat. “I’ll be back later, so get that pizza ready, bud.”
“You got it.”
B.J. donned the helmet, walked along the path, and activated the jet boots.
With the street shaking all around him, he hovered for a second, and then rocketed into the sky.
Thirty-Four
Public Address
“What the hell is happening, Director Crane?”
Jed looked upon President Jennifer Braithwaite, a tall, slender woman of fifty-two with undeniable reverence. Her straight, neatly-groomed, mid-brown fringe didn’t conceal the hitherto-absent bags under her eyes. The current situation was clearly having a detrimental effect on her wellbeing.
Vice President Gabriel Myers stood beside her in silence.
“Madam President—”
“Sit down, Director Crane. I’ll get you a brandy. You need it.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Crane sat opposite the president’s seat in the Oval Office.
President Braithwaite went to the liquor cabinet, poured a brandy and handed it to Crane. “I did my bit in Des Moines, then Dallas, under constant media scrutiny. This country has never known anything like this, and neither has the rest of the world. The last thing I needed was for a mentally-deranged senator to go haywire and initiate an attack against my boy, especially when he was in the heat of rescue.”
Jed put his brandy down. “Your boy, ma’am?”
“I’m running this country, and he’s out there saving innocent kids when I’m trying to give people hope. I was away for only five days, and that lunatic launched an attack against him. Drake still persisted, against all odds. You bet, he’s my boy.”
“Madam President, I was incarcerated on account of this—”
“That’s how I knew you could use a drink. I’d convey my regrets to you, but we don’t have time for that right now.”
“That’s not what I meant, ma’am. What has happened to Senator Sloane?”
The president walked around her desk and sat down. “After Senator Bambury called me, I received another call. The police had picked Sloane up for ranting and raving in the streets.”
“What did they do with him?”
“They took him to St. Elizabeth’s for observation. That’s all I know. I got back only this morning.”
“What’s your position with the Senate on this issue, ma’am?” Crane said.
“The same as it’s always been. If I get out of line, I answer to them. If they get out of line, they answer to me. Checks and balances, the foundation of democracy. This time, there’s no case to answer. We’re dealing with the monkey in the wrench—mental illness.”
Crane leaned forward. “Madam President, Agent Drake is still out there, alone as far as I know, and he won’t be aware he’s now running from nothing.”
The president stood. “I have a public address in five minutes. Are you up to it? I want you there.”
Jed smiled with prideful conviction. “Yes, Madam President. I love that boy. Let’s bring him home.”
The president checked her watch. “We still have a few minutes, Director. I need you tell me whatever it is you’ve been able to ascertain about these disasters.”
Jed sighed with a hint of disappointment. “We have everything . . . and nothing at all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Before Agent Drake took off, he received a call from someone who told him the disasters were the work of an apocalyptic cult called C.O.T. That’s all we have.”
“C.O.T.?”
Vice President Myers stepped forward with notable intrigue. “Have you been able to identify this group?”
“No,” Crane said. “We’ve exhausted every database in the country. There are no known cults that fit that abbreviation.”
Myers looked at him doubtfully. “That doesn’t ring true to me. Who would have the ability to do something like that and remain anonymous?”
“I agree,” the president said. “It sounds like a crock. Who was it that called Agent Drake with this?”
“He said it was a female, and that she sounded terrified. As I recall, he said she ended the call because ‘they were coming’.”
The president’s eyes showed doubt. “I still don’t buy it.”
Jed put his brandy on the desk, stood, and approached her. “Madam President, Agent Drake believes this person. We’ve had experts working on this, including Professor Sully in Oregon. They are all in agreement. There is no natural cause for these disasters. If nature isn’t responsible, that leaves only the hand of man.”
The president held his gaze for a prolonged moment, and then said, “Come on, gentlemen. Let’s cut that kid a goddamn break.”
Jed and Myers followed the president out through the Oval Office door. A legion of reporters and several TV news crews waited in the main foyer. Incessant chatter and indefinable questions blending into one another were immediately silenced by the sharply raised hands of presidential personnel.
An aide approached the president and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and turned to Jed and Myers.
“What is it?” Crane said.
“I’ve just received word that Los Angeles has been hit, and The Interceptor is already on the scene.”
Jed’s eyebrow rose. “Los Angeles? What the hell is he doing there?”
“I don’t know, but I have never felt more proud of anyone. This is a man who absolutely will not stop putting himself on the line for the sake of others.”
Jed had known the explanation for many yea
rs. All his life, B.J. had been obsessed with trying to emulate the father he’d never known. He’d been determined to protect B.J. from the truth under the strong suspicion it would destroy him. An extraordinary man had arisen as a result of a mostly-fallacious belief—but one that had led to the salvation of many. B.J. had always been driven by emotion, and countless innocents had benefitted from it.
Myers took his position beside Jed. They stood behind the president at the podium as she spoke into a pre-set microphone:
“My fellow Americans. I come to you in the spirit of regret . . . and great hope. A terrible mistake has been made. Due to an extraordinary misunderstanding in Congress, an incredibly courageous operative, the hero known as The Interceptor, has fallen under unforgivable persecution in the face of unprecedented tragedy.”
Jed suppressed a grin at the president’s diplomatic use of the word ‘misunderstanding’. It covered so much, without revealing Sloane’s mental illness and causing too much harm to public faith in the system.
“I am hereby ordering all law-enforcement agencies to cease and desist the hunt for The Interceptor, effective immediately, and to assist him in any way they can.” She lowered her head for a moment. After composing herself, she resumed. “I have just received word that Los Angeles has fallen prey to the geological disasters that have afflicted countless cities around the world. I’ve also been informed that The Interceptor is already on the scene.” She paused again, with a fragmentary moment of uncertainty in her eyes. Finally, she said, “Brandon . . . if you get this message, come home. When you’re done in Los Angeles, just come home. There’s no need to run anymore. In fact, there never was.”
She moved away from the podium and returned to the Oval Office.
Jed remained where he stood and smiled. I’ll be damned.
Thirty-Five
The Watchers
The earth cracked. The city’s structures shattered all around, under the devastating roar of destruction, as though the earth itself had come to life. A tsunami loomed in the distance from L.A. harbor.
Rookie fire-fighter, Mark Slater, stepped out of a fire truck with his colleagues beside an engineering factory in flames. Mark donned his oxygen mask, joined his colleagues, and ran inside the building. Many panic-stricken civilians were already coming down the stairwell.
A balding man in a suit approached Mark. “I’m sorry,” the man said, choked. “I had to get out. It was too hot. There was nothing I could do to help them.”
“Sir, are you saying there are people trapped up there?” Mark said.
“Yes. Fourth floor.”
“All right.” Mark gestured to his colleagues. “Guys, fourth floor.”
Together, they sprinted up the stairwell, through the smoke.
Having only worked for the fire department for two months, Mark was still getting acclimatized to the experience. The oxygen mask enabled him to breathe safely and the goggles protected his eyes. But he still couldn’t see anything in this smoke.
They quickly reached the fourth floor. The flames were spreading, but Mark noticed through a window, the guys outside were rigging up the crane and the water hoses.
He stepped away from the window and saw the room was a smoke den. He detected movement just a few yards ahead of him and ran toward it. It was a man, perhaps mid-thirties in working overalls, pinned under a wooden beam. He glanced up and saw the ceiling had fallen in. The guy must’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong moment.
Mark turned to his colleagues. “I’ve got this one. Can you see any others?”
“Yeah, I think so,” one of them said. “Two over here.”
“And two over here,” another said.
Mark bent down and tried to move the wooden beam but it wouldn’t budge. As he looked closer, he saw it was weighed down by a large chunk of mortar. “Damn. I can’t move it. I’m gonna need some help. What’s your name, buddy?”
“Rick.”
“All right, Rick. Just take it easy. We’re gonna get you out of here.”
He glanced around, looking for help. Four of the guys were already heading toward the window to help the civilians onto the crane. Two more were still at the back of the room.
An explosion tore through the building. More of the ceiling fell in, this time onto Mark. The impact of two beams and a shower of heavy slabs of mortar took the air out of his lungs, pressing him into the floor beside Rick. He tried to move but an excruciating pain ripped through his midsection. Ribs broken. Oh, shit. The irony struck him. He was now in the same position as the one he was about to rescue.
He managed to turn his head to the left and could see more clearly now that he was below the density of the smoke. One of his colleagues lay choking with blood pouring from his mouth. “H-Hart . . .” He reached out his free arm toward his friend, Greg Hart, but the lifeless glaze of death came over Hart’s eyes.
Sadness filled his heart. He’d always wanted to be a firefighter because he believed it was a noble profession. Now, he understood the terrible price of nobility.
The fires were spreading and coming closer. The most horrific death imaginable awaited him, and it was going to be imminent. Being only twenty-four, his mind became consumed with regret at all of the things he wanted to do with his life. Now, he’d never get the chance. Tears came to his eyes and his goggles began to steam up. I love you, Mom.
Suddenly, he was staring at a pair of silver, metallic boots. He looked up and his tears flowed copiously under the mask—this time with overwhelming hope. “I-I can’t believe it.”
The Interceptor knelt down beside him. “Hi, there, bud. Let’s get this crap off of you.”
“W-where did you come from?”
“Most recently, the Capitol Records building. Before that, the Griffith Observatory. It was pretty bad. I just caught sight of this one by chance.” He stretched out his arm and bent his wrist down.
Mark was startled when a slender, orange laser shot out of an opening on the back of The Interceptor’s wrist. He cut through the two wooden beams just a couple of inches short of the boulder that was pinning the beams to him. The Interceptor gripped the wood and threw it clear.
Without delay, he moved over to Rick and repeated the procedure. “Can you stand up?”
“No.” Rick broke into a coughing fit, choking on the smoke. “T-think my legs are broken.”
“All right. Can you reach up and grab the back of my neck?”
The Interceptor bent down. Rick reached up and held onto him. As the armor straightened up again, Rick howled with the pain of his broken legs jerking.
“I’m sorry, but we have no choice.” The Interceptor turned back to Mark. “I’ll be back in a second. This man has no oxygen mask.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Mark rolled over in an attempt to get as far away from the flames as possible, but he was surrounded by fire and knew he had to try and stand. The Interceptor would only be a moment, and he’d seen what he was capable of on TV. He was incredible.
However, Mark knew he had to do whatever he could to make it as easy as possible on both of them. He forced himself to stand, but the pain was unbearable. Come on, come on. You can do it. You have to.
The Interceptor flew back through the flames and stood before him. “The fire has spread across our exit route to the crane. I’m OK, but if I try to fly you through it, you might be badly injured. The floor below has been evacuated. I checked with your buddies.”
“What are you gonna do?”
In response, The Interceptor aimed his wrist laser at the burning floor. The beam cut around the perimeter of the flaming lake and the floor collapsed onto the lower level. A clear, gaping hole remained. “All right, grab me around the neck like the other guy did.”
Infused with dread, Mark complied.
The jet boots lifted them. Mark screamed in agony as he held on, but he knew he had to endure it. It was his only chance for life.
Mercifully, The Interceptor got him out within a second and
laid him down on the crane’s platform. One of his colleagues stepped in and attended to him while the others switched on the hoses.
Mark reached out to catch The Interceptor’s attention.
“Hey there, buddy. You made it.”
“Only because of you,” Mark said weakly. “You’re amazing, sir. You’re a miracle.”
“It’s not me. It’s the armor. Without it, I’m just like you. You don’t have this armor, bro. That’s why you’re more of a hero than I’ll ever be.”
Mark sensed his emotions surging. “Why are they doing this to you? Why are they so hot to capture you?”
“Isn’t that the question of the day?” The Interceptor looked up. “Oh, shit.”
Mark tried to look, but could only see the inside of the crane. “What is it?”
“A tsunami is coming in from the harbor. I have to go. Good luck, buddy.”
“You too.”
Mark shivered with shock, almost not noticing Nick, his colleague, who was trying to comfort him while the others attended the fire. The earth continued to rumble beneath them, shaking the crane violently. But all Mark could think about was the extraordinary stranger who had saved his life. His one wish in that moment was to live another day—just to be able to shake the hand of The Interceptor.
B.J. flew in low toward L.A. harbor. The wave came in and crashed down, transforming the streets into a deluge. He watched as panic-stricken pedestrians darted into buildings along the walkways, with the tidal wave racing toward them. He felt encouraged that people were willing to unlock their doors to help complete strangers. Despite what the world was doing to him, maybe there was hope, after all.
Just ahead, he spotted a fair-haired woman, approximately mid-twenties, with a little boy holding her hand. She frantically knocked on doors, desperate for shelter. But every time she stopped, she inevitably allowed the wave to come closer. They didn’t stand a chance.
AOR rock boomed through the helmet’s MP3 player, urging him on with every lyric:
You’ve got to give it, give it, give it, all or nothing at all. All or nothing at all . . .
