His eyes round as saucers, Bolt lowered his hand and stared at the charred stub of paper.
"Sorry,” I said, pocketing the lighter. “These darn things malfunction occasional."
"Who are you?” he demanded in a very quiet voice.
No more niceties, the game was over. I had openly displayed advanced technology and a knowledge of magic, and his shield spoke volumes about him. We each knew who the other was. This was it. Fast, I shook my watch activating the self-destruct mechanism. A lot depended on what Mathais attacked with next. If he used psionics, I was dead meat. But I would take this dirt bag with me, along with a good part of the mansion. Sure hope he had a lot of insurance.
"Ask me in Hell,” I snarled, placing my feet on the floor, and sliding to the edge of the chair. As I started to reach for my gun, he smiled. It was as pleasant a sight as a child's grave.
"Accepted,” Bolt whispered.
There was no other warning. Exploding across the desk came a boiling wave of intangible force, a hellish tsunami of primordial black magic that blew aside the blotter, exploded the pen and pencils, and engulfed me like a blast of live steam.
Frantically, I raised both hands, the copper bracelets tingling as they expended every erg of stored white magic in a desperate try to counter the lethal conjure. The very air seemed to seethe as the magiks met and battled it out in silent ethereal combat. Inside my aching skull, my beleaguered brain vibrated under the pounding command to: Tell him everything I did not want him to know! It was an old spell, but a goody.
Then my chest burned as the mystic rune painted there flared in response, absorbing the ethereal onslaught, containing it, controlling the spell, and violently throwing it right back in the face of the caster.
"Its in the desk!” he screamed, eyes wide with panic.
Grateful, I spat in his face. Outraged beyond words, Mathais started to rise and then slowly ground to halt like an old machine rusting solid. He froze, motionless, hands raised, trapped in the very act of casting some deadly spell. Aw, too bad, so sad. I win.
With a finger, I toppled him over into his chair and pushed it away from the desk. By necessity, the lotion on my hand must act slowly. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been allowed in here. Contradictorily, the swallowed potion reacted nigh instantly, but only for about ten minutes, so I had to move fast. I had made him angry enough to try and magically force the truth out of me. In return, it had forced the truth out of him. Black magic was something. I could not use and retain my soul, but I could outwit its caster. Bolt was out of commission for nine more minutes, and the item was in the desk. What else did I need? How tough could a desk be?
I soon found out. Underneath the hutch was a full control panel of hidden buttons, knee switch and foot pedals. Most were labeled, in cryptic symbols of some arcane language that resembled chicken droppings. However, off to one side, behind a sliding panel was a very modern computer lock keypad. Bingo!
From the burglar's kit in my coat pocket, I dusted the push buttons and found prints on only four of the numbers. Ha! That lowered the math quite a bit. Plus, two of the integers were more worn than the rest. Those had a high probability of the first and last numbers. Typical formation, start sure and end with a flourish. For all his faults, Mathais Bolt was still a human being. Well, probably.
Unfortunately, there was still a small problem. There was a Stuart Industries box around the keypad.
Originally, electronic boxes would be indelibly stamped with the name of the manufacturer to help promote sales of the product. But it was soon apparent that this advertising ploy worked against the client. A smart crook would have a library of plans stolen/purchased/copied from each manufacturer, and after reviewing the schematics of a particular keypad, would simply drill holes in the box at the precise critical points to cut crucial circuits and tremendously ease entry into the home or business. That is, until Stuart Industries Limited.
Stuart Industries didn't make alarms, security systems or even locks. What they made was boxes. Undecorated, steel re-enforced, dully identical boxes that could hold the works of a hundred other companies. With no brand name to work with, it became a crapshoot for the crooks. Thus, for only a few paltry bucks, a hundred thousand dollar security system could be massively augmented. State prisons were full of master thieves who could attest to the efficiency of the Stuart Box.
Careful not to bump into any of the controls around me, I tapped here and there on the burnished metal cube. Listened, smelled, and glanced at my watch. Five minutes till he broke loose. Think, Alvarez, think! Millionaire bad boy Bolt should have purchased the very best for his private safe. A Gotterstein Deluxe? No, must be a Vische. Okay, go for it.
Holding my breath, I filed a tiny slit in the top of the box exactly seven millimeters from left side. Uncorking a tiny vial from my kit, I poured in a couple drops of smelly sulfuric acid, waited ten seconds, eased off the Stuart and tapped in the most likely combination on the keypad.
I allowed myself to inhale again, when a section of the desk slid into the floor exposing a squat armored cube masquerading as a safe. Turning to smile victoriously at Dr, Bolt, my grin wilted when I saw a barrier of laser beams encircling the desk. Extending from ceiling to floor, the beams were barely separated. It would have been difficult to pass a sheet of paper between them. Hoo boy.
Radiating hate like a furnace, Bolt was watching my every move.
Returning to work, I ignored him and the lasers. I still had to breach the safe. Afterwards I'd worry about departing, surviving and secondary stuff like that.
The four dials fronting the safe in a diamond pattern. Here, I was on home turf. It was an Anderson. Two were real, two were armed with explosives, but all joined together in the middle where the master support bar of ultra-rigid titanium-steel pivoted the semi-flexible sidereal arms of nickel-cobalt to activate the easily melted copper drop pins that retained the eighteen independent dead bolts which held the six thick alloy door closed. She was a bitch to blow, burn or pick your way into, but I had an answer to that.
Four minutes.
From my kit I withdrew a fat tube and removed the crinkling plastic wrapper. A DeTalion Turbo-Drill. This tool was so new it was not even on the market yet. But I had read about it in Popular Science and used my FBI clearance to get one immediately. I was sure they would soon be all the rage among the top crooks and brain surgeons.
With a tiny click, the miniature battery started revving the small electric motor. Then the tube jerked as the motor finally obtained operational speed and activated the main flywheel assembly. The soft vibration in the tool increased as the flywheel reached the necessary RPMs to activate the main air turbine, and a warm breeze blow on my hand the turbine whined into the ultra-sonic range.
Now rotating at half-a-million RPMs, the carbide-steel drill bit was moving so fast it appeared to be smooth metal. Touching the tip to the alloy of the safe, a fine spray of metal filings sprayed out as I started to carve a path around the dial. Offensive technology had finally caught up with defensive, and the centuries old technique of a ‘punch job’ had returned to safe cracking. Made me proud to be an American.
At the three minute mark, I finished cutting the desired pattern, the dials spun themselves like crazy, and the bolts disengaged. Killing the DeTalion, I placed the warm vibrating tube tenderly in my kit and eased open the door, being wary of any additional magical or demonic defenses. But there was none.
Inside, the safe was stacked with mounds of cash, a clear plastic box filed with vials of colored liquids and a flat jewelers box. Sliding on my kid leather beauties, I eased open the case so that it was facing away from me. There was a puff of greenish smoke and a dart thumped into the carpet. Satisfied the boobytraps were all deboobied, I rotated the case and looked inside.
For a split second, I truly think my eyes left my head. Then I silently sent heartfelt thanks to whoever watched over fools and private dicks. If I hadn't been wearing gloves when I picked up this case, my hat size
would now be zero. Because no catalog of legendary occult amulets was necessary for me to recognize the infamous Necklace of Me.
A millennium or so ago, a mad master magician who had been born mute forged a unique amulet out of metals stolen from the center of the Earth, smelted in a furnace fed by trees he had personally grown and quenched in a bucket of his own blood. To say that this guy needed a hobby, was putting it mildly.
As the mage had never been given a name by his parents, whom he killed by the way, he refused to christen the necklace. Instead, whenever the mage thought of a person he disliked, the poor slob would be bodily torn to pieces by the thundering clarion telepath call of ‘IT'S ME!’ Hence, the name.
Although weakened by the passage of thousands of years, it was still a lethal psionic booster. Now without a master, ME wildly amplified the telepathic ability inherent in any person, so that with a single touch your head would explode. Nobody could touch the amulet and live. Nobody with even the faintest smidgen of telepathic powers. Except, perhaps, for my telepathically dead wife.
Wrapping the case in a Bureau handkerchief, I slid it into an inside pocket of my jacket and buttoned the flap down. After what I went through to get ME, I was taking no chances on losing the necklace.
Job done. Two minutes remaining. In smirking satisfaction, the impulse came upon me to take the money. Or burn it. Depriving the Brotherhood of a few million in cash would seriously hinder their operations. The rub was, I was a cop.
This necklace was stolen property. Not provable in court, but the truth nonetheless. A grateful President had given the Bureau great legal leeway in these delicate matters. I felt little remorse reclaiming the dangerous artifact from homicidal lunatics.
However, the vials of chemicals and the cash were the undeniably legitimate property of the Brotherhood. And there I had to draw the line. I know that George would have no such reticence. Or Mindy, for that matter. Which was why neither would ever lead their own field team. But I did. Ah well, sometimes it was tough being the good guy.
Duck-walking out from under the desk, I stood with a creak.Standing inches away from the wall of lasers beams, I could truly appreciate their searing gigawatt majesty. With a flick of my right wrist, I activated my next to last magic bracelet and turned Invisible. Unharmed, I stepped through the deadly curtain of lasing photons. With no colors to react to, a laser was just so much indirect lighting. Ain't science grand?
But at the exact moment the jewelry case passed the brink of the lasers, I heard glass shatter. Eh? Pivoting, I saw the broken vials in the safe, their bubbling liquid contents combining into a translucent greenish ooze, which broke apart into small spheres and bounced to the floor. Pulsating, they commenced to grow; ping-pong balls, baseballs, basketballs....
Utilizing extreme wisdom, I ran for my frigging life.
In the hallway, I nearly tripped over the sleeping guards I to whom had given the ol’ Morpheus happy handshake. I made it past the infrared sensors no problem, and passed through the X-rays as easily as they did me. But I paused at the top of the main staircase. The winding expanse of carpeted marble steps appeared totally innocent, open and safe. In this place? Yeah, right. Hey, Bolt! Sell me some swampland only driven by a little old lady minister on Sundays.
Removing a special Bureau device from my side pocket, I placed it at the top of the stairs, and with a finger push started the Slinky down the steps.
Ka-ching, ka-ching. Arrows flew, bullets zinged, flame whooshed, poison gas hissed, spears jabbed, swinging blades did, crashing weights also. But at knee and chest level. Casually, I strolled along in the calm wake behind my diminutive six-inch-tall assistant. Ka-ching, ka-ching.
At the bottom landing I reclaimed the oiled coil and was forced to nudge the snoring butler out of the way of the front door. The empty suits of armor stirred at the action, but did not attack.
Stepping outside, I closed the door as quietly as possible. Safe! The Brotherhood mansion was tightly sealed against teleporting and Gating. But once off the front veranda, I was home free! Then a bronze arrow the size of a javelin slammed into the doorframe. Turning, I saw the whole zodiac advancing towards me. Oops.
Nimbly, I ducked between the shapely legs of Virgo, and outmaneuvered the Gemini twins, the hollow metal giants clanging like church bell when they collided, but Aquarius drowned me in water and Leo pinned me to the ground under paws the size of sofas. Shaking the fluid from my ears, I could sirens starting to wail, and yawning guards were stumbling onto the grounds. Options came and went in my mind like the fluttering pages of a book. I was only a yard from freedom. But nothing I had, not my Magnums, grenades, acid squirting pen, pocketknife, or dazzling personality could dent those bronze Titans. No, wait a second, that was wrong.
Taking the jewelry case from my coat, I tore off the handkerchief and tossed it at the lion. Leo made the catch in his mouth and his head exploded like a bronze balloon. Moving fast, Virgo snatched the case before it hit the ground, and her skull blew apart. Pisces made a successful snap and went to pieces.
Animating an inanimate object was always a tricky job. Being born dead, they were incredibly stupid and your instructions had to be most explicit. Bolt had probably ordered them to get the necklace. Well, they got it. Each and every one.
Bullets were starting to fly my way when I used gloves and handkerchief to recover the jewelry case from amid the jumble of headless bronze junk. Contemptuously, I thumbed my nose at the onrushing guards in the official Bureau 13 salute to bad guys, took two giant steps and used my last bracelet to teleport away.
* * * *
As per regulations, I appeared in the parking lot of the motel instead of our rooms. That was just in case anything could follow a teleport. Ha. What a laugh.
Then a swarm of large black balls appeared.
Yikes! God bless regulations. Cursing Matthias Bolt, I emptied my pistols at the bouncing spheres. I raced across the parking lot and hit the door to our rooms in a baseball tackle worth of any center. The cheap wood bent alarmingly under my strike, and didn't crack, but the lock popped and I lunged into what I sincerely hoped was the correct room.
"Orson Wells!” I cried, announcing the invasion and dove over the bed towards my suitcase.
My team turned, and the balls were upon us. Closest to the door, George dropped his sandwich and kicked over the television on top the first globe. In an explosion of electrical sparks, the black thing was gone.
Spinning around from the sink, Jessica quick-drew her Uzi and started pumping 9mm rounds into the demonic ... whatever these things were. Satan's beach balls?
Larger than the rest, King Beachball hissed a billowing cloud which set fire to a cushioned chair, while another spewed a stream of brackish liquid at me. Fast as possible, I ducked out of the way, and the vicious liquid hit the wall, dissolving the wood panels, glass mirror, and lamp. Wow, talk about morning breath.
Slamming a clip into an Uzi machine pistol, I gave the devil rounders a taste of 9mm Parabellums Ala Alvarez.
Charging in from the parking lot came two more Beachballs. Frantically, Raul gestured and a loud grinding noise suddenly came from the doorway, although nothing was visible. Unstoppable, the balls leapt into the air to sail through the doorway at us.
Bad move. As the globes crossed the doorjamb, they were converted into a fine mist which sprayed across the hotel room, dampening the carpet and wetting the bed. The Invisible Lawnmower Barrier had worked again.
However, bullets were not doing so well. Lead slugs simply bounced off their adamantine hides, phosphorus rounds flattened as glowing dots of yellow fire, the steel rounds musically ricocheted away, and blessed wood splintered. Ah, but then I noticed that silver bullets hit the Beachballs with sledgehammer force. I tried to keep them busy, while Jess got more silver ammunition.
Going for her sword, Mindy flipped over backwards in her chair as a ball jumped to get her. As it passed overhead, a slim hand holding a silver knife shot up and gutted the thing in mid-fl
ight. Deflated, it collapsed and vanished.
Just then the bathroom door was shoved aside and out came Katrina, stark naked, dripping wet, hair matted with shampoo and the four feet of stainless-steel wizard's wand held in both hands. As lovely as the lady is, I was more pleased to see the staff than her ample feminine charms.
"...!” Katrina shouted, her staff pointed at one of the monsters. It went motionless and turned gray as stone.
Bouncing off a wall, a particularly nimble Beachball went careening towards Father Donaher. Swinging an arm, he slapped the thing with his steel-reinforced Bible. There was an audible crunch above the tumultuous combat and the black globe dropped to the carpeted floor incredibly dead.
"Get thee back, hellspawn!” the priest bellowed, the golden cross in his hand ablaze with holy power. The snarls of rage from the globes changed into whimpers of fear and the demonic balls retreated.
Snapping the bolt and clicking off the safety, George added the firepower of the big M60 to the battle, spraying a glittering stream of silver rounds into the remaining demons trapped between the intoning priest and the doorway jammed full of an invisible lawnmower. Steadily blown to pieces, the scraps started to roll into tiny spheres which began pulsating and growing again.
Then inspiration hit! Maintaining fire with the Uzi, I dug inside my pocket and tossed the jewelry case towards my wife. My shirt had ridden up in the battle and the box nudged my bare wrist. Fleeting as the touch was, my entire left arm went limp and I was blinded by the mother of headaches.
Through tears of pain, I saw Jess make the catch one handed, but then stagger violently backwards against the wall, her small body rigid in pain.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER NINE
Instantly, my wife recovered, her eyes narrowing in concentration. Standing straight, Jessica turned towards the bouncing demons totally confident. Yowsa! I hadn't seen her like this in years.
"Die!” she throated, clutching the necklace in her bare hands.
Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three] Page 10
