Firedrake - Volume 1

by T. Mike McCurley

  “It’s too damned cold down here,” he muttered by way of greeting. He stood in the doorway of the office with his arms wrapped around his body as though the room were freezing. His wings were pulled in tight to his shoulders, and his tail was coiled around his waist like an arm-thick belt. The frail-looking man behind the desk looked at him with bemused eyes as the overhead lights reflected off wire-rimmed spectacles. A wood and brass nameplate on the desk identified him as Andrzej Katzov.

  “The temperature here is maintained at an even sixty-six degrees,” the man said, speaking slowly as if to a child. His voice was low and soft. “We find it very soothing. Is there something I can do for you, Agent…”

  “Drake. Francis Drake. And yeah, there is. What can you tell me about this monkey?” Drake snapped, tossing the folder Hart had provided onto the table and pointing to the photographs arrayed before the man. Katzov studied them for a minute, riffling through each one and scrutinizing the images presented. At last, he spread the photographs out before him in a circular pattern.

  “I will try to make a connection now,” said Katzov. “Please remain silent.” He rubbed at his temples and closed his eyes, mumbling a mantra at too low a volume for Drake to overhear. A few moments later he began to speak in slow, measured phrases. “Strong and fast…brutal…he will not fail…. fear…he needs more money…”

  Drake cut him off with a snorting sound. “That’s it? That’s the best you can do? Hell, I used to work with a guy, in thirty seconds Matt would have been in this mook’s head. He’d have told me where he was, what he was planning, and what he had for breakfast!”

  “It is very difficult to lock onto the mind of a single person, Agent Drake,” Katzov chastised, arching an eyebrow. “It is even more difficult to do so without that person becoming aware of my presence.”

  “Well, goody for you! It’s nice to know that if he figures out what you’re doing, you’ll be in here, with all your shields, armed guards, metal detectors, federal Marshals and registered boosters running around to watch over things, and so on. Wouldn’t want you to put yourself in any danger or anything!”

  “It is not danger that is the threat,” Katzov explained. His soft voice never seemed to change, no matter how irritated he became at the abrasive nature of the booster in his office. “You wish me to discern the whereabouts of this subject. If he determines that he is being scanned, he could very well leave the area in which he now operates. That would, of course, necessitate yet another visit from you, which after the events of this one is something that I freely admit does not interest me in the slightest.”

  Katzov paused, looking up at Drake with an obvious air of superiority. “May I continue?” he asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. Get on with it,” Drake grumbled. He glared at the telepath, but fell silent and allowed the man to work.

  Katzov took a breath to center himself then began to massage his temples once more. With Drake subdued for the moment, he was able to more easily slip into his trance. This time, whatever he was seeing he kept private, an act which further infuriated Drake. After a full thirty minutes of meditation, Katzov looked up. His face was drained of color and his breathing was labored.

  “Your subject is in Washington State,” he began, confirming the information Hart had provided. “Seattle, to be more precise. He has taken refuge in a small, cheap hotel. The name is Sun God, if I am not mistaken. There is a sense of disturbance in the room, of a kind of unease. He is powerful, to be certain, but there is something that Retribution fears.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Drake said enthusiastically, clapping an enormous hand on the telepath’s shoulder. “That’s the kind of info I needed. Did you get the room number, too?”

  “Unfortunately, I did not. I can only see what he sees, and then only for short periods,” Katzov replied. He sagged back in his chair, removing his eyeglasses and rubbing his face briskly with his palms. He opened a drawer and slipped out a small brown plastic bottle. Opening it, he poured two of the yellow tablets into his mouth, then swallowed them with the aid of an hours-cold Styrofoam cup of coffee. Licking at his lips, he looked up at Drake once more.

  “Keeps the migraines back,” he explained, displaying the bottle. “Basic work is taxing enough, but doing what I have just done is vaguely similar to the feeling I imagine I would get by driving iron spikes into my forebrain. I start to see things that are not here, then I catch snatches of conversations from somewhere else. Once I have reached that point, it is usually too late to do more than lie down with an icepack on my eyes and sedate myself.”

  “Well, you did good this time,” Drake said, nodding his head. “I mean, I’d have been happy knowing what state he was in. Picking up the hotel in the city? Magic, man, pure damned magic. Look, man, I’m, uh, I’m sorry if I was short with you earlier. I just wanna get this one over with; go and see my brother.”

  Katzov looked at him for a moment, slipping his glasses back on so that he could scan Drake’s face closely. “He is all you have,” he said flatly. As Drake recoiled, he held up a hand.

  “I did not read you, Agent Drake,” Katzov assured him, waving his hand as if to clear away the thought. “It is etched on your face and in your manner. Everything about you speaks of aggression and anger, but when you mentioned your brother, you changed.”

  Drake grinned, his long upper lip peeling back from his teeth in an unusually friendly version of the expression that he so often used to inspire fear. He slipped his tail loose from his waist to hang once more behind him and hooked his thumbs into his belt, leaning against the doorframe. The top of his head nearly brushed the top of the jamb.

  “Sounds about right,” he said. “Ain’t much left I do give a damn about, ’cept for Monster.”

  “Monster?” Katzov asked, his personal interest piqued by the name.

  “Chris. His name’s Chris, but he likes Monster. Sometimes it kinda fits, too,” he added with a soft laugh that carried the scent of sulphur. His eyes took on a faraway look for a moment, then he suddenly snapped back to reality, extending one of his taloned hands to shake that of Katzov.

  “Look, thanks for your help. I’ll see to it you get mentioned in the after-action report,” he said, the friendly exchange over. It was rare that Drake ever even spoke about his brother to anyone outside his immediate circle of friends, which was notably limited in scope.

  “Please, Agent Drake, exercise caution in your dealings with this Retribution person. He appears to be preparing for something. I was given the impression that he was running and felt he had little to lose.”

  Drake laughed again, from the belly, a loud and deep rolling sound. “Here’s the thing, Andrzej,” he said, raising a hand. He ticked off items on his claws as he spoke. “One, he’s a scumbag. A strong one, sure, but a scumbag nonetheless. Two, I literally ain’t got no choice here. Three, he ain’t gonna expect me. No one ever expects to see me coming after them. People-shaped hunters they figure on. Me? I’m the surprise in the bottom of the box, baby.”

  Katzov laughed along with Drake for a moment. He rose and opened the door to his office to allow the booster egress, looking up at him one final time. “Give me a call if you need further help,” he offered, slipping a business card from a holder on his desk. “This is my direct line.”

  Drake accepted the card, looking at it closely. He tucked it safely away in one of his pockets, reaching out a hand to slap Katzov heavily on the shoulder, a gesture which nearly knocked the telepath to the floor.

  “Thanks, Andrzej. I just might do that. You’re all right,” he said, stepping into the hallway and tipping an imaginary hat to the woman with the shaved head and facial tattoos that was passing the office at that moment. “You know how to reach me, right?”

  “Through Administrator Hart?”

  “Yeah. She’s making me carry some kinda damn cell phone around with me,” Drake said, reaching into a pocket and retrieving a small grey box. In his massive grip, it looked even smaller th
an it really was. He waved it in front of himself and rolled his eyes. “I keep thinking I’m gonna break it.”

  Replacing the phone in his pocket, he turned and walked from the psi-branch offices, pausing to take a deep breath of the warmer air when he emerged into the halls of the Justice building proper. His wings spread and once more folded against his back; their protection no longer necessary now that he was out of the cold environment.

  He passed beyond the borders of the Metahuman Response Division minutes later, long legs carrying him at a rapid pace toward the procurement offices. He ignored the many frightened glances that came his way from the citizens who were in the building for one reason or another. Most of them would never understand what it was to be different, he knew, and though their revulsion at his form stung, it was of no real concern.

  Drake had a flight to Seattle to arrange.

  Chapter Three

  It was raining when the plane landed in Seattle. The pilot had already been on the intercom a half dozen times, explaining the local weather conditions in a strained voice. Drake knew the weather was not the cause of the man’s concern, as evidenced by the pilot’s eyes when Drake walked across the tarmac to the craft. There was an actual fear in the eyes of the pilot, and that bothered Drake more than a little. This was a pilot who was on assignment to the Metahuman Response Division, and the last thing he should have done was show any kind of fear or revulsion at the sight of a booster.

  “Hey! It’s raining out here, ya dink!” Drake yelled toward the cabin. Since the pilot had angered him, Drake figured he might as well amuse himself at the man’s expense. He stepped forward and pounded hard on the reinforced door. “Ain’t one of you slick-skinned monkeys gonna come hold an umbrella for me?”

  The intercom buzzed and Drake laughed aloud as he heard the pilot and copilot both babbling about that particular task not being part of their assigned job duties. Leaving them to their frantic scramble for self-preservation, Drake stepped from the plane and down the set of stairs that had been rolled up to the door. The men at the bottom stared at him for a second, then shrugged and went back to their jobs. The triple pay granted to them for working the government flights was more than enough to offset any personal feelings one way or the other concerning what kind of creature might step off a plane.

  A nondescript brown panel van sat idling barely a hundred feet from the plane. Drake made his way directly toward it, ignoring the cool rain that pelted him as his claws clacked along the paved surface. As he neared it, a dark-suited man in sunglasses stepped out. He was covered by a long black coat that shed the rain almost as soon as it hit.

  “Agent Drake,” he said in greeting. It was not a question. “Welcome to Seattle. I’m John Williams, FBI. I’ll be your liaison here in town. Information you gave said we were headed for the Sun God motel, so I mapped out a route and took the liberty of contacting Seattle PD’s booster crew as backup. They’ll be waiting for us there.”

  “You had them meet us there?” Drake asked, a chill running down his spine.

  “Yeah. It’s only about a thirty minute drive to the motel. They should be staging any time now. Once we get there, they’ll follow your lead,” Williams said, opening the side door to the van. Drake climbed inside, wondering for a moment why he had not been offered the front seat. His unspoken question was answered once he was inside. That seat was occupied by a suit-clad woman with soft café-au-lait skin. She turned to face him as he settled himself into the bench seat. He used his tail to hook the door and slide it closed.

  “Good afternoon, Agent Drake,” she said. Her voice was deep and husky, with a trace of a Cajun accent. “Annalise DeMarceau. Call me Annie. Everyone does.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m just Drake,” he replied as Williams returned to his seat and closed the driver door. “Both of y’all drop the Agent thing. So who are you, Annie? FBI? CIA? NSA? Some other useless alphabet agency no one’s supposed to know exists?”

  Annie laughed quietly. “I’m a sales rep,” she said, reaching a hand into her jacket and a moment later extending a business card. “Armscorp Omega. We’re field-testing some new products with the FBI, and I’m here to play show-and-tell.”

  As Williams accelerated sharply away from the landed plane, Drake took the card and tucked it away with the one he had received from the telepath back at the office. “New products? What could you guys come up with that you haven’t marketed already? Orbital Mind Control Lasers?”

  “Certainly not,” Annie replied, a bit sharply. She reined in her emotions, pasted on the smile, and continued. “We are currently testing a neural disruption beam weapon. We call it the Scrambler. This item will revolutionize law enforcement. Any hostile target struck by the Scrambler will have their entire nervous system subjected to a violent overload. Imagine a Taser with nearly limitless range and the capability to stop a rampaging booster in their tracks…no offense, of course. Once it has been brought into play, the target will be subdued within seconds, saving lives and averting further property damage while simultaneously allowing for restraint and removal from the scene.”

  Drake made a slight snorting noise. “Wow,” he said dryly. “That’s some sales pitch. So you guys come up with some new wonder toy, the Bureau puts it through its paces, and you net a billion-dollar contract with the government so they can stop boosters. That about right?”

  “You need not make me sound quite so mercenary, Ag… Drake,” Annie began, but Drake cut her off.

  “Yeah, well, I’m just naturally surly,” he shot back. “It’s been a long flight, I ain’t had my coffee, and I’m in a hurry to get this job done so I can go home. No offense to you, either, but having you along makes this feel a lot like babysitting.”

  “I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable,” Annie said, the sharp tone noticeable once more. Her resentment of the big booster was evident in the way she spoke, and Drake hid a smile. It was always nice to start the day by irritating someone.

  “Just stay out of the way when we get there and everything’ll be just fine,” he said, making certain he sounded as angry as she did. “And, by the way, that ain’t a request. Consider it an order.”

  They rode for the next twenty minutes in silence. As they neared the point of rendezvous with the Seattle PD team, Williams switched on a radio chosen from the stack beside his right knee. Static crackled for a brief instant, then was gone. Williams handed the microphone back to Drake.

  “Your callsign is Broken Heart,” he said, trying desperately not to grin. His eyes flicked up to see the dirty look Drake was giving him. “Sorry. Your boss said you had to use it. She also said you‘d hate it.”

  Drake gripped the mike tightly enough to make the plastic frame squeak. Slowly, he raised it to his face, murmuring curses directed toward Colleen Hart the entire time. He depressed the talk switch.

  “Broken Heart to city units,” he began, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he spoke the words. A tiny snicker from Williams was rewarded with yet another dirty look. “We are inbound, five minutes. Have your Number One ready to meet with me.”

  “Blue One actual, Broken Heart. Subject residence established, subject is contained. Sweep team stacked and prepared for entry,” came the crackling response. The voice of ‘Blue One’ was strong and confident. Drake sucked at a tooth.

  “Hold them there unless subject moves,” he said, dropping the mike onto the front seat. “Pick it up a bit,” he told Williams.

  “You got it.” Williams jammed the accelerator to the floor. The van rocked suddenly as their speed shot up by twenty miles per hour. He weaved through traffic with ease, even at the advanced speed. Rain hammered the windshield with increased force.

  “Some reason we need to go this fast?” Annie asked, checking the tension on her seat belt.

  “Entry team is stacked. They’ll jump at the first sound,” explained Drake. “I’ve worked with local teams before, and their main goal is to make the arrest; get their names in the papers and keep their fund
ing for another year.”

  “Surely they’re more professional than that.”

  “Yeah. I thought the same about the guys in Phoenix. They moved in on a YMCA to root out the skank that was inside, and she nearly killed them all. If they’d waited for five minutes like I asked, I could have put her down.”

  “Hang on,” Williams warned, making a sharp turn that brought the right side of the van off the ground by a few inches. The vehicle fishtailed slightly when it came back down. He began applying the brakes in a gradual move, then made one final turn into the parking lot of a small motel. The sign overhead proclaimed it to be the Sun God. Williams drove slowly through the parking lot and around behind the main building, bumping the wheels up over a curb and driving across a grassy area to approach a pair of long, dark vans that were parked in the shadow of the building. Beside the van, a trio of officers wearing heavy armor and carrying automatic rifles stood talking among themselves. One of the officers raised a hand toward the van as they neared.

  “That’ll be Blue One,” Williams said as he brought the van to a halt and threw it into Park. Drake stepped out with Williams, ignoring the sharp intake of breath he could easily hear from one of the officers. He leaned against the passenger door of the van, stiff-arming it to keep it closed. His head slowly swiveled to look at Annie through eyes that narrowed with a dark intent.

  “You get out of this van and I’ll put you under it,” he said simply before walking away to meet with the local police.

  “You Broken Heart?” asked the officer who had waved to them. Drake winced at the name. Inwardly, he once again vowed to exact a long and painful vengeance on Hart.

  “Francis Drake,” he said, extending a hand to grasp that of the cop.

  “Julian Thiebold. My guys are ready when you give the word.”

  “Which room?”

  “He’s in 132. We ran a thermal scan of the room from the parking lot. No movement since we arrived. It looks like he might be sleeping.”