by Jaxon Reed
“But when the strong ones do show up, they spread havoc everywhere. You stay away from her, Gerald. You stay far away from the harpy.”
“I’ll try, Mom. I’ll try.”
It was just another lie, he told himself. Like pretending to still be in college.
He squeezed her hand, trying to comfort her. He patted her shoulder with his other hand as he digested her words.
Ashley closed her eyes, the conversation exhausting her strength. Her breathing steadied as she started slipping into sleep.
“Mom? How do you defeat a harpy? How do you take one down?”
She kept her eyes closed, and her voice came out even softer than before. He leaned forward, straining to listen.
“A harpy’s weakness . . . is her emotions. If you can distract her emotionally, you can kill her.”
-+-
“Okay, that sounds awfully sexist.”
Bryce grimaced, then nodded. He took another bite of chicken fried steak covered in gravy.
He and Parker sat in Shar’lay’s Comfort Food, a small place with an outsized reputation. Shar’lay’s had been written about extensively in every travel guide for Texas, and had been featured on several food shows. The chicken fried steak was, as every other dish on the menu, extraordinarily good.
The place seemed to always be incredibly busy, and tables were either impossible to get or required at least a two-hour wait. But Shar’lay was the daughter of a cop and she had a special fondness for the police, who were always given preferential seating whether on duty or not.
So, Bryce had taken Parker to the front of the line, where they flashed their badges and were seated immediately.
It was Saturday, and the restaurant seemed particularly busy. One good thing about a noisy place, Bryce reflected: it ensured a private conversation. No one could make out what they were saying.
“I agree it sounds sexist at first. But think about your stereotypes for a moment. Here’s the man, stoically refusing to show emotion. ‘Boys don’t cry,’ and all that. Here’s the woman, wearing her emotions on her sleeves. It’s a stereotype based in cultural acclimations and other things, but it’s there for a reason.”
Parker frowned in irritation.
“My husband wants me to stay home and have a baby. Now, you’re telling me that women are more emotional than men, and that some of them . . . ‘harpies’ no less . . . are responsible for all the chaos and destruction down through the ages. It’s been a bad week, Bryce.”
He raised his hand in a calming gesture.
“Just hear me out.”
He had not been entirely forthcoming with Parker. He simply relayed the information from his mother, saying it came from a “source” he would rather not reveal at the moment.
Somewhat to his surprise, she had not keyed in on the “anonymous source” as a bone of contention so much as the “sexist” content of the message.
“I’ve done some research since learning about this. I can trace at least three women since the Middle Ages in Europe who almost certainly had similar powers as Desiree Lamont, including one involved in the formative history of Lichtenstein. And I have my suspicions about the first Queen Elizabeth, too.”
“Every powerful woman is not a harpy, Bryce.”
“No. No, of course not. What I’m saying is, women like Desiree Lamont have existed throughout history. And I think I know her weak spot. Now we just need to find her again.”
Chapter Seven
Bryce walked into precinct headquarters Monday morning. The clock on the wall read 8:00 am. Jenkins pounded on a keyboard, already at work. Bryce sat down at the desk near his.
“Why don’t you just dictate? It’s easier.”
Jenkins shrugged.
“I prefer the old fashioned way, I guess.”
“You’re going to get bored when you retire.”
Jenkins shrugged again.
“There’s always some kind of work to be done. I just won’t be paid for the work I’ve got planned after retirement.”
Bryce smiled, and felt happy for the old guy. Unlike other “short timers,” Jenkins obviously planned to continue working hard until the very end, even if his heart wasn’t really into it.
Bryce still suspected he would miss working at a real job. Maybe Jenkins would pick up something part time to help stay busy.
“Any sign of our mystery woman over the weekend?”
“Not a peep. It’s like she fell off the face of the earth. Nothing from public transport. Car monitors haven’t seen anything, neither have surveillance cams. No facial recognition, nothing. Evidently she doesn’t have a phone implant, either.”
Bryce nodded. He felt frustrated, but not surprised.
Parker walked in, threw her purse down on the desk, and grabbed a chair opposite from Bryce. He glanced at her and felt the signs of a recent argument affecting her mood.
He offered a conversational gambit.
“Jenkins says there’s no sign of Lamont.”
She nodded, firing up her terminal.
“I’ve got to fill in some more details on the Mile High Alamo shooting. The Rangers want their dots and crosses.”
Bryce nodded, and let her alone to stew in her emotions. He could not, offhand, think of anything to say that might cheer her up. He fired up his own terminal and began absently paging through reports from across the city, keeping an eye out for any hints as to the whereabouts of Desiree Lamont.
A muffled explosion shook the building. Everybody froze, and looked up from what they were doing. All conversation stopped.
The lights flickered, then went out. Emergency lights clicked on. A klaxon began blaring, red alarm strobes flashing.
A calm but insistent female computer voice came over the building’s speaker system.
“Alert level one. The building is under attack. Alert level one . . .”
Everybody moved at once. Several cops pulled out their guns.
Captain Wilton’s door crashed open as he rushed out of his office. He pointed at a group of officers.
“Get to the armory! Get suited up! Bryce! I need eyes on the exterior! Now!”
Bryce nodded, holstered his weapon, and hurried over to a large vid screen on the wall. Parker followed him. Moments later, a view from the surveillance cam facing the front of the building showed up on the screen.
Half a dozen men dressed in black tactical armor and masks steadily jogged toward the entrance in rough formation, each carrying a short-barreled rifle. A policeman nearby drew his sidearm and opened fire on one. The shots bounced off harmlessly. The armored man stopped and opened fire on the officer, killing him in a hail of bullets.
“Fully automatic weapons. Body armor. Who are those guys?”
“That’s got to be the Bolshoi Boys, Captain. Nobody else in the city is that organized.”
Wilton nodded, agreeing with Bryce.
“Russian mafia. Why are they attacking my building?”
Bryce and Parker exchanged glances.
“I can take a good guess, sir,” Parker said.
At a command, the attackers split suddenly, three to the left and three to the right. Someone behind them suddenly had a clear shot at the door. That person stopped, assumed a balanced stance, shouldered a missile launcher and pulled the trigger.
A trail of smoke shot out from the launcher, and the building shuddered again from another explosion.
At the sound of the alarm, the building’s computer had sealed the door. A solid sheet of tempered steel covered the entrance. It buckled with the explosion, but held fast.
Wilton snarled a nasty word, moving his feet to rebalance himself on the shaking floor.
“We need to get that sumbitch before he takes down the whole building with that thing!”
“It’s not a son of a bitch, Captain. Look, she’s got breasts.”
Wilton’s face fell when he saw where Parker pointed on the screen.
“You’re right. What do you think, Bryce? Is that Lamon
t?”
“Almost certainly, Captain.”
Wilton rushed over to a mic and made some adjustments on the console so his voice could be heard throughout the building.
“This is Captain Wilton! Everybody needs to suit up and get an earpiece! We’ve got seven perps attacking the front door. They are wearing bulletproof armor and are armed and dangerous. Pistol fire will not be effective. Use high caliber rifles only. They’ve already taken out at least one of our guys. I need a group on the roof and the side exits monitored for entry. The rest of you cover the front door. It’s not going to take too many more hits like that before it caves in and they gain entry to the building.
“Now listen to me very carefully. The leader is a woman. She’s the one who’s been firing missiles at us. We need to take her out with extreme prejudice! Do NOT pay attention to your emotions when facing her. You may not FEEL like pulling the trigger. But whatever happens, IGNORE YOUR EMOTIONS AND TAKE HER OUT!”
He clicked off the mic and looked over at Bryce.
“Maybe that’ll help.”
Bryce shrugged.
“It probably won’t. But you’re right, it can’t hurt.”
He headed toward the door, Parker following close behind.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where y’all going?”
“We need to help out down there, Captain.”
“I need you up here with me. Help me strategize against this woman.”
Reluctantly, Bryce came back near the center of the room. He exchanged glances with Parker.
“He’s right, Jerry. We can do more up here.”
Bryce frowned, but nodded in acquiescence.
The floor shook again with another muffled explosion. Police on the roof began pouring gunfire down on the attackers below. Wilton, Bryce, and Parker watched on the screen as officers now in their own bullet proof armor streamed into the lobby near the front entrance. They took covered positions, aiming their carbines at the door.
Bryce switched the camera to a view of the armored doorway. It showed signs of stress and stood mostly buckled in by this time, the walls around it smashed, smoke rising from its middle.
Wilton grabbed the mic again, switching it over to com links.
“One more hit and the door’s going to give way. Everybody on the ground floor, take cover!”
They watched as police ducked under tables and chairs, behind furniture and walls.
Bryce switched to the front surveillance cam, and they watched as Lamont fired another missile, a line of smoke streaking toward the door.
Another explosion rocked the building, this one slightly louder. Bryce switched back to the lobby. Smoke obscured the view, but they watched as most of the police picked themselves up off the floor. Some did not, though, and they saw blood pooling around some of the officers.
The door was gone, a gaping hole in the building was all that remained.
Wilton clicked the mic again.
“Fire at will! Don’t let them inside!”
Officers began shooting toward the doorway, as the six black-clad Bolshoi Boys maneuvered toward the entrance, returning fire.
They drew closer to the building.
“I’ve got an idea, Captain.”
Bryce took the mic from him and switched it on.
“Rooftop! Drop some flash grenades down on those guys!”
The officers on the roof looked at each other, and their eyes lit up with the idea. They started grabbing grenades off their belts, taking out the pins, and throwing them down on the gunmen.
WHUMPF! WHUMPF! WHUMPF!
Two dozen grenades went off more or less at once as they neared ground level. When the smoke cleared, four of the Bolshoi Boys lay stunned. Bryce saw blood coming out of the helmets from two of them, no doubt from burst eardrums.
The remaining two were far enough away to have missed most of the force from the flashbangs. They staggered back to their feet and resumed firing toward the doorway.
“Good thinking, Bryce.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Wilton took the mic back.
“Four down, three to go. Take them out!”
The officers in the lobby jockeyed for position, nearing the door, each searching for a better shot.
The console speaker crackled to life with a calm, but serious voice.
“Captain, it’s Jenkins. I’m up on the roof.”
“Go ahead, Jenkins.”
“We’ve got a problem. Rocket Girl is about to fire again, and this time the door is breached.”
The blood drained from Wilton’s face.
“Everybody in the lobby! Evacuate now! Seek shelter!”
Bryce switched to the lobby cam, and they watched as officers retreated, running down halls, throwing open doors, looking for anywhere to escape the threatened explosion.
“Jenkins, do you have any snipers up there? Anybody with a fifty?”
“Yes, sir. Boswell has a fifty caliber rifle.”
“Have him take her out before she fires that thing!”
They watched tensely as Lamont moved out of hiding, a fresh missile peeking out from her launcher. She shouldered the weapon, aiming it toward the smashed doorway.
Kerpow!
The force of a huge bullet slammed into her, throwing her backwards, sending the missile launcher flying out of her hands.
She lay stunned on her back for a moment, hands and arms stretched out wide as if making a snow angel.
“Zoom in on her. Do you see blood?”
Bryce manipulated the cam controls for the Captain, zooming closer.
“Yes sir, her shoulder’s bleeding. But look at the missile launcher. Looks like it took most of the hit instead of her.”
Wilton looked over at the launcher.
“You’re right, it’s heavily damaged.”
Bryce flicked the screen back to a wide angle view. They watched as the remaining two Bolshoi Boys stopped shooting into the doorway and looked back over toward Lamont. Seeing her down, they stopped, seemingly confused. They glanced down at their guns, then at each other, then around at their fallen comrades and the damaged door.
Wilton clicked the mic.
“After them! Round them up!”
Officers streamed out the doorway, firing at them. They threw down their guns and ran away. A line of police officers chased after them.
The speaker crackled back to life.
“Heads up! Lamont’s no longer down.”
Bryce zoomed back in on Lamont. She struggled to her elbows, watched the police running after the last two men. She looked up at the roof, seeking out the sniper who shot her.
The Captain flicked the mic.
“Boswell! Take her out!”
The scene seemed to switch to slow motion. Desiree on her elbows, looking up across the distance to the rooftop, locking eyes with Boswell through his high powered scope.
“Do it, Boswell! Take her out! Do it NOW!”
But Carlton Boswell could not do it. They heard him sobbing over the com link as he broke down crying.
Desiree stood up, brushed herself off, and walked away.
Chapter Eight
Bryce entered coordinates into his car’s computer, and sat back as it turned west down the old U.S. 290 out of town. He passed over suburban development that grew steadily thinner the further he flew.
Soon the city lay far behind, and signs of population grew thinner. More signs of life cropped up as he passed over the town of Dripping Springs, but they faded even quicker as the car sped further west.
The sun peeked into his windshield. He flipped the visor down to keep it out of his face. The stark beauty of the Hill Country, with its constant elevation changes and relatively arid landscape, always intrigued him. He passed the time watching scenery.
Near Johnson City, the car veered off the main flight path and headed across private land. The Texas Hill Country had long been filled with bed and breakfast establishments, spas and resorts, and private homes rented out
for quick getaways catering to the wealthy. On occasion, a government entity purchased land and buildings out here as well. The privacy offered by an isolated retreat often proved useful for meetings and conferences, away from the hustle and bustle of urban settings.
As his car began descending toward a large manor nestled in a secluded area, Bryce roused from his thoughts. The car landed in the front, next to several other cars. Two men in suits, bulges under their jackets, stood on either side of the door to the manor.
Bryce climbed out of his car, approached the door and flashed his badge. The men nodded at him, and he went inside.
“There you are, Detective!”
The Chief waved at him from a conference room adjoining the large foyer. Bryce walked into the room, dominated by a big table surrounded with a dozen plush leather chairs. Six were occupied by people he did not know. The Chief sat at the head of the table in the seventh chair. He stood up and shook Bryce’s hand.
“Have a seat, Detective. Anywhere you like. Help yourself to something to drink or snack on, too.”
The Chief waved to a side table loaded with beverages, donuts, chips, vegetables, grapes, and a plate of cold cuts. Bryce nodded, and grabbed a bottle of tea. It was sweetened, he noticed, but it would do for now.
He sat down close to the end of the table, leaving a chair between himself and the next person. She had close-cropped dark hair, and stared at him with interest along with the others.
“Everyone, this is one of our finest detectives, Gerald Bryce. He’s been on the Lamont case from the beginning and should be able to fill in anything I’ve missed so far. Detective, let me introduce you to everybody.”
The Chief went around the table, offering each person’s name and agency. Bryce noticed he did so without consulting notes. A consummate politician, the Chief had already memorized everything about everyone.
Three of the men present were from federal agencies. One of the women represented the Texas Rangers. The remaining man and woman were from Europol; Agents Renard and Desmet.
Gauging their emotions, Bryce realized they were all very interested in him. He had no doubt been a recent topic of conversation.
“Detective Bryce, we are pleased someone of your abilities is able to work on this case.”
