Fatal Mistake: An Urban Fantasy Action Adventure (The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Book 11)

by Michael Anderle

  The bounty hunter growled, more out of irritation than pain.

  Yilin thrust out her hands, and six ice lances struck James. They cracked against the armor, again barely noticeable.

  Kill the Council. Defeat enemies. Grow stronger. Achieve mastery form.

  James stalked toward Crazak. The rage from before remained there, burning, but the blinding rage that had taken him over during his last use of the armor was absent. The earlier emotions had been like an explosion, but this hatred and anger was like a sniper rifle aimed at the Council.

  Crazak sneered. After a quick motion to draw an energy glyph in the air, a flowing blue force field popped in front of him.

  The bounty hunter stomped right up to the field, and the field vanished with few quick slashes of his blade.

  The elf backed up with a frown. James jerked his head to the side as a door closed. Yilin had fled.

  She won’t get away. I’ll just kill her later.

  Crazak stumbled back, more quick motions and incantations coming. A ball of void-black light appeared between his palms, and he laughed.

  “I’ve wanted to test this for a while,” the elf explained. “It wasn’t worth the risk. You should be honored.”

  James shook his head. “You can’t fucking win against me. Just lie down and die already.”

  The elf smirked. “Armor is nice, Mr. Brownstone, but it just protects from forces, magical or otherwise. This isn’t a force. This is anti-life magic that has been tuned to better affect humans. Don’t worry, after I kill you I’m sure I’ll find some use for your nice artifact armor.”

  The black ball shot out and slammed into James. The blast knocked him into the air, and he flew back, crashing to the floor in the hallway.

  Pain. Nothing but pain. He groaned and blinked, his vision hazy.

  When his vision cleared after a few seconds, there was a massive hole in his chest armor, and he was pretty sure he could see his ribs.

  Useful. New attack. New adaptation, potential strong.

  James tried to take deep breaths, but his lungs wouldn’t fill with air.

  Can’t you heal me? he thought.

  Faster than normal rate insufficient for battle.

  Crazak’s laugh echoed throughout the room. “I’ll grant you credit, Mr. Brownstone. The mere fact you survived that attack proves you’re far more impressive than any others who would come against us. I’m tempted to believe that any other human on the planet would have died.”

  Probably right. Not a human, asshole. Fuck. Can’t breathe.

  James dug into a pouch with his claws and pulled out a healing potion. He ripped the stopper out with his teeth and downed the bottle. Seconds later, he could feel the pain ebbing. He downed an energy potion, then pulled out another healing potion.

  Can’t you fix the hole? he thought.

  Severe damage, the amulet replied. Adaptation achieved, but regeneration limited.

  Maybe this will help.

  He poured the potion over the armor.

  New adaptation, potential strong. Improved short-term regeneration, exterior and interior adaptation in progress.

  The hole in the armor closed.

  “If you crawl in here,” Crazak called, “I’ll make your death quick. Otherwise, I intend to take my time to teach you a lesson about daring to oppose the Council.”

  Healed, James stood and stepped back into the room.

  Kill the enemy. Adaptation potential satisfied.

  The bounty hunter took deep breaths. Killing wasn’t good enough. He wanted to shred Crazak and make him pay. James might not have been out of control, but the anger and hate refused to leave. Every stray thought bounced back to punishing and destroying his enemy, and the amulet loved it.

  James marched toward Crazak. “You could have avoided dealing with me, but you chose to target my city and my woman, so now you’re gonna die. No mercy. No second chances. Just you fucking dying.”

  The elf snorted and summoned another black ball. The ball shot from his hands and smashed into James, the energy dissipating into the air with only a mild sting.

  Crazak’s eyes widened, and something delicious appeared on his face: fear.

  A fireball came next, then a lightning bolt. The elf conjured a sickly green orb of acid and flung it at James. The attacks stung but didn’t slow the advancing juggernaut.

  The elf jerked his head around. “Yilin! Where are you?”

  “She left,” James rumbled. He jumped from halfway across the room, his bioarmor-enhanced legs sending him flying. The bounty hunter landed with a loud thud right in front of Crazak, the wood of the stage cracking.

  The mighty elf leader of the Council scrambled backward, his face showing his panic.

  Not so tough now, huh?

  James grunted and pierced his heart with a blade. He pulled the blade out and then sliced the elf’s head off. Growling, he began hacking at the body, mindless anger now dominating him.

  If he’d been paying more attention, he might have noticed the chill in the air right before the ice formed around his arms and legs. James fell to the ground, grunting. He thrashed and slammed his arms against the stage, but more ice formed around him until only his head was free of it.

  Yilin laughed and clapped from the other side of the room. She made her way onto the stage and stood over James, smiling down at him. She stared at him with her solid-black eyes, a hint of amusement on her face.

  James growled and thrashed, but it didn’t accomplish anything.

  Cold adaptation will maintain body functions, the amulet explained.

  He ignored it and grunted. The frostling needed to die. They all needed to die.

  Yilin sighed. “That’s the problem. You might have taken out Crazak, but who had your back? This is why heroes die. They aren’t cowardly enough.”

  “I’ve got his back,” called a familiar voice. Shay.

  Yilin spun and brought up an ice shield just in time to stop Shay from running her through. The frostling leapt backward. “Mere inconvenience.”

  “Except I’ve got her back,” Maria called from the hallway, her rifle up. “Let’s kill this bitch already. It’s time to go home.”

  Yilin jerked her head toward the cop. Maria fired a burst, the anti-magic bullets nailing the frostling. The Oriceran hissed and waved her hand. A wall of ice formed in front of the door.

  Shay’s blade pierced Yilin’s back and erupted from her chest. She leaned forward to whisper into her ear. “Shouldn’t have let yourself get distracted. I guess we know who the real cold-blooded killer is.” She yanked the blade out and pushed the body to the ground.

  James stared up at Shay, her presence pushing back at the murderous rage that wanted to keep spilling out.

  She tilted her head and smirked. “Huh, now it gives you a helmet, too? It doesn’t look that cool, just so you know.”

  Get me the fuck out of here, James thought to the amulet.

  Temporary realignment of temperature control in progress. Quiescence will follow due to extreme adaptation cycles.

  The helmet receded along with the armor. His entire body warmed, and the ice melted into a puddle.

  Shay laughed and walked over to him. “That hot to see me, huh?”

  25

  Shay helped James up, and they stared down at the dead Council members.

  James grunted and shook his head. “That’s two down. Two to go.”

  She shook her head. “Just one. Maria and I took out the gnome.”

  An explosion blasted a hole in the ice wall and the AET lieutenant rushed through, her rifle ready and her lips pursed.

  “It’s okay,” Shay called from the stage. “We killed the two Council members. Just that last freaky one left.”

  James’ phone rang, and he blinked and grabbed it out of his shredded pants pocket. The call was from Senator Johnston.

  “Yeah?” he answered.

  “Ah, good to hear your voice, son,” came the cheery reply. “PDA just told me that
big-ass shield around the facility went down, so I figured we’d be able to get in contact with you. I was hoping that means you’d finished the job.”

  “Three out of four. Just He Who Hunts left. Most of the minions have been cleaned up.”

  The senator chuckled. “Good, good. How are you and yours, son?”

  “Beat up.” James frowned. He had no idea how Trey’s team had done. They might be facing He Who Hunts. “I’ve got to go. I need to find some of my guys.”

  “Fine,” Senator Johnston replied. “Since the main defenses are down and you’ve thinned the ranks, we’re going to send in some heavy-duty reinforcements. Don’t worry about your pay. It’ll be the same.”

  James grunted. “Fine. Do whatever you need to.”

  “Talk to you soon, son.”

  The call ended.

  “The military’s sending in a bunch of guys for final clean up. Won’t affect our pay.”

  Shay shrugged. “I don’t give a shit, then.”

  Maria stared down at the bodies of Crazak and Yilin. “Three out of four is good revenge. Let the Army finish off the last bastard.”

  Lachlan stumbled into the room, wincing in pain, and tears on his cheeks. “Big man, we’ve got bad trouble. Come with me.”

  James frowned. He’d seen the man injured seriously and not cry. Something had gone terribly wrong.

  Lachlan rushed out of the room. James, Maria, and Shay hopped off the stage and sprinted after him. A few quick turns brought them to a scene of carnage, dead Council witches and wizards all over and the center of the room charred, a few limbs scattered. All of the Brownstone bounty hunters huddled at the other end of the room. Trey knelt, one arm against the wall, his face frozen in disbelief. Shorty lay on the ground.

  James hurried over to Shorty. He’d seen enough dead bodies in his life to recognize one instantly.

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

  “The government’s sending troops to clean up,” he murmured. “I’m sure they can get us out of here. We’re fucking done.”

  Trey pushed off the wall. “Boys, help me carry him. He deserves some dignity for now.”

  Five men walked over to help Trey and they picked up the body, hoisting him over their shoulders. Pallbearers without a coffin.

  The group marched, James in the lead, until they arrived at the blasted remains of the front doors. They stepped outside to helicopters and VTOL landing craft deploying soldiers.

  An officer rushed up to James. “Mr. Brownstone, we’ve been ordered to evacuate your men. Do you have any wounded?”

  The bounty hunter grunted. “Yeah. Several guys hurt.” He nodded to Shorty. “We lost a man, and we need to guarantee his body gets back to LA.”

  The officer nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Brownstone.” He frowned. “I know how it feels to lose good men on an operation.”

  James gritted his teeth. He didn’t. At least he hadn’t before. He’d been angry when cops got hurt, but those weren’t his men.

  I’m sorry, Shorty. If it makes any difference and God lets you watch down here at all, just know we gutted the fucking Council.

  Two days later, Major Tennett and his SAS squadron surrounded the last warehouse in the Amsterdam headquarters of the Council. Other NATO Special Forces units, including American, French, Belgian, German, and Dutch forces, were contributing to Operation Cold Iron.

  Everyone wanted the Council finished. The Americans had cleaned up most of the mess, but there was still one member of the Council at large, a mysterious being who went by “He Who Hunts.”

  You arrogant bloody bastard. How does it feel to be the hunted?

  Two of his men set up breach charges on the door.

  “Iron troop breaching in five,” he transmitted. He tapped on his exoskeleton control panel to start the railgun’s charging cycle.

  The other units radioed their acknowledgment.

  Five, four, three, two, one…

  The breach charges blew open the door and the SAS soldiers rushed into the room, their exoskeletal feet clanking on the cold cement of the warehouse floor.

  A cloaked figure, his head invisible under his hood except for his glowing red eyes floated several feet above crates filled with artifacts.

  “Target sighted,” shouted one of the men.

  “Open fire!” the major shouted.

  Bullets and railguns came to life, a dense cloud of deadly projectiles filling the warehouse. The bullets and railguns shredded the cloak, but they didn’t seem to be doing much other damage to its wearer. The Council member cackled with glee.

  The major gritted his teeth. From what he’d been told He Who Hunts could be wounded, and the Americans had managed to do just that. All the Special Forces personnel for Operation Cold Iron were using anti-magic rounds, so he didn’t know why the bastard wouldn’t die.

  Shuddering red tendrils of mist emerged from the robe and lifted into the air. A few seconds later, reddish-blue bolts blasted from them and struck a half-dozen soldiers. Some were hit in their heads, others their chests or legs. The effects were the same: their afflicted body parts melted like ice hit by a blowtorch.

  Screams ripped from the throats of the soldiers not killed instantly.

  “This is Iron 1. Withdraw. Withdraw. All Merlins enter and engage. I repeat, all Merlins enter and engage.”

  The soldiers kept up their fire as they backed toward the doors. Orbs, rays, and bolts blasted from all sides now as a huge force of witches and wizards entered. They included people from a variety of agencies, including America’s Paranormal Defense Agency and the United Kingdom’s Ministry of Mystical Security. A thin invisible shield absorbed some of the hits, but many were blowing past it and striking He Who Hunts.

  Glowing green ichor spewed from the mist creature now. He might have developed an immunity to bullets, even anti-magic bullets, but raw magic from dozens of witches and wizards was not so easily ignored.

  He Who Hunts jerked and twitched, more and more of his robe burning away, revealing the swirling mass of gaseous red beneath. Ichor dripped from it. A misty tentacle snatched a small hand mirror from a nearby crate.

  The creature threw it on the ground, the sound of the smashing glass swallowed by the din of the spells being flung at him.

  A jagged crack of light in the air appeared above the mirror, blinding in its intensity. The major squinted and looked away, the filters on his helmet not doing much to help. The light died, and the last scrap of He Who Hunts’ robe disappeared into the crack. The fissure in reality sealed itself behind him.

  Major Tennett frowned. “This is Iron 1. Cease fire. Cease fire. Target has fled.”

  A few seconds passed before the mages stopped their attack. He sighed and headed back into the warehouse to look around. Crates filled with artifacts littered the place. He recognized several from a briefing about the LA museum raid.

  The enemy might have escaped, but the bastard had lost his last major base and all his artifacts.

  Whatever the hell you are, what was your plan?

  Major Tennett shook his head. His mission was over. He’d leave the enigma for someone else.

  James kept his hands folded in front of him, just staring straight ahead at Shorty’s coffin at the front of the church. He’d never been to this particular church, given that they were African Methodist Episcopal rather than Catholic, but it didn’t look so different from his church.

  God’s house is God’s house, I guess. Just a different paint job.

  The pews were filled with people, including every man from the Brownstone Agency and Royce, and most of their families. Shay sat beside him.

  Several police officers in full dress uniform lined the back, including Sergeant Mack and Lieutenant Hall. Trey sat between Charlyce and Nana Garfield, a solemn look on his face. Father McCartney was there, even though he wasn’t participating in the service in a formal capacity.

  The pastor finished a prayer at the front. “I would like to take this time for any in t
he community to speak about Brother Theo.”

  James almost chuckled. Shorty seemed more like his real name than Theo.

  Nana Garfield raised her hand.

  “Please, sister,” the pastor replied. “Feel free to stand where you are and share your story.”

  She stood and cleared her throat. “We all know what we used to think about Theo. We used to think, ‘That boy is up to no good. Nothing but trouble, running the streets, thinking about being a thug and a gangster.’”

  Several people nodded, and James frowned.

  It’s his funeral. Come on.

  The old woman pointed at the coffin. “But he didn’t die no gangster, now did he? Y’all have seen it on the news. Terrorists. Terrorists with unholy magic straight from hell. He died a hero fighting them. That boy didn’t need to be there. He didn’t need to be doing what he was doing, risking his life to go after criminals. But he changed. He took the strength he wanted to use to prove himself on the streets, and he used it to help others. The Lord chose to take him from us at a young age, and it can be hard to understand His plan at times, but think about this. Who knows what would have happened if those awful Council people had gotten away with it? How many people did Theo save with his sacrifice? May he find peace with the Lord in heaven.”

  Several people murmured and nodded their agreement, sprinkles of “amen” following.

  James looked down and took a deep breath.

  Shay reached over to squeeze James’ hand, a soft look on her face.

  Community member after community member rose to offer their condolences and thoughts. All gave variations on what Nana Garfield had offered. They’d thought he was shifty and useless, but he’d turned his life around, and they couldn’t be prouder of the fact that he had died to help take down evil people.

  Trey stood to offer his piece. “Y’all can keep calling him Theo, but he’ll always be Shorty to me. I’ve known him for a long time. When we were no-good thugs, sometimes we ran together, sometimes we didn’t. I was worried for a while we were going end up in wrong…groups together, if you know what I’m saying.”