“Good. Let’s try and make this easy.” Drake turned to Williams. “Got the papers?”
“Right here,” came the reply as Williams handed over a folded arrest warrant. The Bureau Agent had strapped on a suit of body armor over his suit coat, leaving the rain jacket in the van. He carried a cut-down twelve gauge shotgun to complement the automatic pistol on his hip.
“We obtained a passkey from the manager,” Thiebold said, displaying a brass key on a ring attached to a large plastic oval.
“Got my own,” Drake countered, flexing his hands meaningfully.
“I was under the impression that you wanted my team to make entry.”
“Somebody lied to you. I go in first. You’re here to support me.”
Thiebold looked shocked at the suggestion. “We aren’t in the habit of ‘supporting’ anyone,” he said with a sneer. “We have made several arrests of some of the most dangerous boosters -”
Drake cut him off, raising a hand and staring down at the man. “Listen up, slick, ‘cause I’m only saying it once. You guys got a rough job and I respect you for the way you do it. Today, though, your job is to maintain the perimeter and tag that prick if he gets past me. I’m the big monster, I take the risks. You and your boys get your pictures in the paper without having to visit part of the crew in Intensive Care. Easy enough?”
“Okay,” Thiebold said with a slow nod of his head. “You go in first, and we’ll lock the place down for you. Leroy, tell the boys to hold position. No one is to move unless they hear it from me directly.”
“Yes, sir,” said one of the others, pressing a finger to a throat mike and relaying the message to the strike team.
“Good man,” praised Drake. He turned to regard Williams. The Agent stood with his shotgun at port arms as though awaiting orders. “You come to the door with me. After I go in, you see if you can get a clear line of fire. I go down, you hit him hard and fast ‘til that shotgun runs dry. Then you fall back and let the local boys take over. Got it?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Williams said.
“Good. Let’s do this.”
Drake and Williams approached the door to room 132, nodding a greeting to the five-man entry team that crouched, ready for immediate response, on the left side of the door. Drake appreciated their presence, but his past experience with elements of local law enforcement was still enough to leave a sour taste in his mouth. He paused for a second at the door, taking a moment to imagine his brother at home, playing with his trucks or laughing in his loud manner at the antics of the Muppets. The images rolled through his mind in the span of time it took to inhale deeply and tense his muscles. He tapped with a claw on the frame of the door, the sound swallowed by the pattering of the falling rain, and whispered in a voice that even he could not hear.
“Federal Agents.”
Shrugging his shoulders after a heartbeat of waiting, Drake turned and looked at Williams. “Looks like he doesn’t want to comply,” he said with mock sadness in his voice. He braced his weight on his left leg, bringing the right one up and back, then pistoning it out to impact mightily against the door just above the knob. The door shattered inward in a flurry of wood splinters.
“FEDERAL AGENT! GET ON THE FLOOR!” he shouted as he stepped into the room. The brief moment of time spent delivering the required warning was far too long. Retribution was already off the bed and hovering in the air when Drake entered, and his eyes were glowing with an ominous light.
The impact of the bolt of energy was enough to send Drake tumbling backward out of the room. He landed on his back and slid across the pavement. His chest was smoking where the bolt had struck him. Colors spun crazily in his field of vision, and he was dimly aware of the sound of Agent Williams discharging his shotgun in a rapid series of barks.
“Williams! Down!” Drake shouted as he staggered to his feet and threw himself back at the door. His body passed over Williams as the Bureau Agent dropped instinctively to the ground. The lead man from the entry team snaked out a hand and snagged Williams by the straps of his armor, dragging him clear of the doorway.
Drake intercepted a hard right cross, countering by driving a stiffened hand into the muscles of his opponent’s biceps. His claws tore through flesh and Retribution let out a pained shout. A boot snapped up in response, catching Drake in the groin with a loud thump as the steel-capped leather impacted on his armor plates. Ignoring the attack, Drake snapped his head forward into Retribution’s nose, hearing the crunching sound as it broke under the assault of his scaled head.
Another bolt of energy, so brilliant it burned tracks across Drake’s retinas, erupted from Retribution’s watering eyes and took Drake in the upper left thigh with steam-hammer force. Bits of scale blasted free and thick blood welled up for a fraction of a second before the heat of the blast cauterized the wound. Drake screamed, his voice enough to rattle the walls, and half dropped in place, hands going automatically to the injured thigh. A leg sweep from his foe put Drake onto the ground a second later. Grabbing the arm that shot down in an attempt to punch him, Drake opened his mouth and bit down hard on the appendage. He was rewarded with a cry of agony from Retribution. Forcing his long teeth deeper into the forearm, he shook his head back and forth like a dog worrying at a bone. Blood filled his mouth for a moment until he curled back his lips even further, allowing it to run unhindered from the sides of his face.
Shouting defiant curses, Retribution jumped into the air, taking a surprised Drake with him. The pair crashed through the roof of the hotel in a spray of plaster and wood. A high-pitched, warbling whine began in the parking area, followed by a wide beam of bright yellow light. Inside the beam, blue and red sparks danced. The source of the attack, one Annalise DeMarceau, sat inside the van, remaining in her seat as instructed, but utilizing the weapon she so readily advertised. The beam caught Retribution in the left shoulder for the briefest stretch of time and he screamed again. The violent ascent of the two boosters was arrested instantly, and they tumbled toward the ground.
Snarling in pain at the impact, Drake lost his grip on the arm, and Retribution wasted no time in jerking it free of the sharp-toothed maw in which it had been imprisoned. Standing, although a little wobbly on his feet, he snapped another kick into Drake’s face and launched himself once more into the sky. The guns of the Seattle Police opened up, filling the area with the staccato chatter of small arms fire. Bullets pecked against his rising frame, ricocheting off into the distance.
Drake staggered to his feet, trying his best to ignore the burning pain in his left leg. A glance upward told him that Retribution flew faster than he could pursue, and he avenged his bruised ego by drawing a pistol and firing at the rapidly-shrinking image of the man, though his shot went far off target.
“Son of a bitch!” he roared, each word louder and more forceful than the one before it. With a huffing sound, he slammed the pistol back into its holster, then stomped his foot in anger, only to fall once more to the pavement as the pain caused by that simple gesture made the leg give way.
“Agent Drake?” asked Williams, rushing to his side. Drake waved the man away and, forcing himself to his feet, made his way to the van. DeMarceau sat in her chair, eyes fixed on the angrily stalking booster. She was trying her best not to show the fear that she felt.
“Ya done good,” Drake muttered before turning away to speak with the police.
“He’s hurt,” Drake said, spitting out some of the blood that still sat in his mouth. “Both arms. He’ll probably need medical. Get the word out.”
Thiebold waved to one of his men, who hurried to comply, then turned his attention back to Drake. “You’re hurt, too,” he noted. Drake shook his head.
“Ain’t nothing a week in the Bahamas won’t cure,” he said, though his tone gave the comment away as a joke. Seeing the mixture of knowing smile and disapproving gaze from Thiebold, he chuckled. “Ain’t no big thing. I heal quick.”
“What next?” asked Williams. The Agent was still stuffing re
placement shells into the shotgun’s tubular magazine.
Drake sniffed loudly, then shrugged his broad shoulders, making his wings dance. “Next, I call the boss, get yelled at for letting the moron escape, and then I start looking for him again. You guys do your paperwork and go on with your lives.”
The giant booster looked at Thiebold, holding up a hand. “And if your boss’s got any problems with the way things went out here, tell him to come to me with it. I’m, well, let’s just say I have a talent for dealing with people,” he said, unable to suppress a laugh.
Limping slightly on his injured leg, Drake made his way back to the van and to the call that he needed to make. Hart was not going to be pleased, and Drake knew his meeting with Monster would have to wait a little longer.
Chapter Four
“Nice plane you got me, Hart,” Drake growled into the cell phone. From the other end of the line there came an amused snort.
“You fail an assignment and then you have the nerve to protest over your transportation,” Hart said. “Remind me to put that in your next employee evaluation. After all, we wouldn’t want that going unnoticed.”
The plane in question was a military-issue C-130 cargo craft. Drake sat in a seat made of stained yellowish-brown nylon webbing, swaying with every motion of the plane. His feet were propped up on a similar seat, separated only by the short distance between the two. His left arm was braced between his head and the metal wall behind it, while the cell phone rested in his right palm. In his massive hand, the device looked tiny and fragile.
“I didn’t fail anything,” he told her. Wisps of sulfurous smoke drifted from his mouth as visible proof of his anger.
“Really? And where, then, is my prisoner?”
“Temporary setback.”
“I disagree.”
“Like I give a rat’s ass,” Drake muttered. His words did not escape the sharp hearing of the Director.
“You will, Agent Drake,” she said, each word fairly dripping with derision. “As of now, you’re off the Retribution case. I’ll let Osiris handle it.”
Drake laughed aloud, a short, barking sound that echoed even above the omnipresent roar of the engines within the cabin of the plane. “Osiris? That monkey couldn’t find his ass with a ten-man lantern crew,” he said.
“I’ll advise him as to its location,” she countered without missing a beat. “You’re going to be too busy to show him.”
“Doing what?”
“Babysitting. Department of Agriculture has got a special advisor who’s getting hassled because he’s a booster. Seems they’ve escalated from calling him names to more direct action.”
“So what’s the problem? Call in the locals and let them bust a couple of these assholes. They get a good rep, he gets his ass protected, everybody goes home happy. No need for me to go in there.”
“That might work,” Hart said, “but these subjects have enlisted a freelancer.”
“Booster?” Drake asked, sitting up a bit in the web chair.
“Ah. Suddenly you show interest.”
“Anybody we know?” Drake asked, ignoring the barb.
“Doesn’t match any known profile specifically. Strength, speed, the usual. The advisor, a -” Drake could hear papers shuffling in the background. “- a Shane Baxter, reports the suspect to wear what appears to be chain mail armor and carry a sword.”
“You are such a bitch,” Drake said, a sour expression crossing his face. “Couldn’t resist the whole ’knight versus dragon’ thing, could you?”
“Why, Agent Drake, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hart said with obviously feigned innocence. “I simply thought this would be good for you. An assignment that required little thought and simple action.”
“I’m hanging up now,” he said.
“Don’t screw this one up, Drake,” Hart warned, all traces of humor having vanished from her tone. “I don’t have much patience these days.”
“You mean you did once?” he replied, snapping shut the phone and terminating the call before she could respond. For good measure, he switched off the cell and slipped it into the bottom of one of his pockets. He leaned back in the chair, allowing it to swing back and forth like a hammock. He swung his tail up and over his eyes, shielding them from the glow that seeped in through the numerous windows. In minutes he was asleep.
“Sir?” asked a voice. A hand touched Drake on the shoulder and he came awake. The sinuous length of his tail moved from his face and he could see once more. A man in the blue uniform of the US Air Force was standing over him. The man made an attempt at a smile, but it was masked slightly by the fear which he tried to hide.
“Yeah?” Drake asked sleepily. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned. The display of his teeth turned the man white.
“It’s…it’s time, sir,” the man said, trying and failing to refrain from shaking at the hideous sight of Drake’s widely-opened mouth. The scent of sulfur that wafted from it did not help matters.
“Time for what?” Drake asked, glancing out the window. They were still airborne.
“We’re approaching the drop zone.”
Even as the man spoke, Drake felt the attitude of the plane shift. Clouds sped past the plane as they began a rapid descent. Drake shook his head.
“You mean ’landing zone’, right?”
“No sir. I meant what I said: Drop Zone. We’re going on to Nellis. You’re supposed to get off here. Your man will be in a big flatbed truck near the purple smoke. Director Hart explained that you wouldn’t need a parachute.” The man’s eyes flicked upward as he craned his neck a bit to see the wings which were still folded tightly against Drake’s back.
Drake sighed. “So much for the in-flight movie, huh?” he asked, turning his back on the man without further thought. He marched to the tail of the plane, shrugging as he reached the beginning of the drop ramp. His claws gripped the grated floor with ease as he turned to regard the Airman.
“Get it over with!” he shouted, stretching out his wings.
“Go for drop,” the man said into an intercom as he stabbed a finger at a button on the wall. The noise in the cabin increased a hundredfold as the ramp began to open. Swirling winds brought icy cold air and a high-pitched whine with them.
Drake waited until the ramp had opened just enough to allow him passage, then threw himself through the gap and into the sky. His wings bit into the air and he started a slow glide toward the ground. His eyes stung from the pressure of the wind, and he felt the sliding into place of the nictitating membranes that had protected those orbs from attack on so many occasions. They caused a blurring of his vision, but he could still make out the sudden appearance of a column of colored smoke a few miles further along the plane’s initial flight path. Snarling a curse, he angled his flight toward it. As he continued to drop, he felt the air growing warmer and more hospitable, and soon he could easily see where he was headed. He began to flare his wings, slowing his descent to a speed with which he was more comfortable. His vision cleared as the membranes retracted.
Now less than a mile distant, a flatbed truck sat idling on the floor of the near-desert, directly behind a smoke grenade that still spewed a thin stream of purple into the air. There appeared to be two people beside the truck. Never one to make a boring entrance rather than a dramatic one, Drake arrowed his body toward the pair, allowing his flight to build speed as he shot toward the earth. As it appeared that he would surely smash into the ground, he snapped his legs forward and flared his wings as wide as they would go, coming to a near-stop and then settling gently to the ground.
“Hi,” said one of the pair. She was short and thin, with long black hair and sparkling green eyes. She wore loose-fitting Levi’s jeans and a flannel shirt, covered with a battered brown leather jacket. There was a small automatic pistol holstered at her left hip.
Although she was a striking figure, it was the other member of the welcoming party that caught Drake’s eye. He was a good six inches taller than his compan
ion, and it would have been immediately obvious that he was heavily muscled were it not for the fact that his overall look distracted Drake from making that observation. The man appeared to be made of solid stone. A pair of black military trousers, cut off at the knees, covered him from his waist down to their tattered ends. The remainder of the booster was a mottled grey in color, up to and including his eyes. It was nearly impossible to tell where he was looking, though Drake had the distinct impression it was at him. He was used to being stared at, and he figured this man was as well. Rather than make the moment stretch on, he introduced himself.
“Francis Drake, Justice,” he said, extending a clawed hand which the stony booster took easily into his grasp. There was a cautious pressure from the cool rock, then a more hearty grip as it became apparent that he was not going to crush the reptilian hand in his own.
“Shane Baxter. This is Lara,” the booster replied, gesturing toward the woman.
“And no, it’s not Croft,” Lara said without hesitation. “Just wanna get that one out of the way.”
“Not a problem. Nice to meet you,” Drake said.
“You too. Welcome to Nevada,” Lara replied.
“So you’re here to deal with our…situation?” Shane said, struggling for a moment to decide how to phrase the question. His voice was low and raspy, the sound of rocks grating together. It was not by any means a pleasant sound.
“Yeah. The boss said you’ve got a bunch of hicks causing problems. Hired an enforcer. I’m supposed to shut him down.”
“Well, that’s putting it rather bluntly.”
“What can I say? I’m not a politician. I’m just muscle.”
“You see, there are some of the locals who don’t take kindly to what we’re trying to do out here,” Lara said, hooking her thumbs in her belt and leaning against Shane. The enormous booster did not shift his position, even by an inch. “They figure the project ought to be scrapped. When we started it there were a few protesters. Then when Shane showed up, they got pretty vocal.”
Firedrake - Volume 1 Page 3
