The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  From the humored look on the television crew’s faces, they weren’t buying it.

  Then Liang heard a crack of thunder.

  Raindrops began landing on Brad’s head as he crouched in the bushes. Great, it looked like a storm was brewing. Liang’s storm.

  From the open back door of the television truck, excited words crackled over a radio. “New York’s lovin’ this. Stay live.”

  What could Smith be possibly saying to the nation? Somehow a contrite apology didn’t seem likely.

  Brad had to listen in. He looked around for some cover. Why hadn’t the pilot left a weapon behind? Through the leaves, he spied a camera tripod leaning up against the truck. That was one way to knock Liang off.

  He crept between two bushes to the side of the truck. He hefted the tripod in both hands. It was long and heavy, and he could swing it like a baseball bat.

  Can’t you hurl fire at him? Pele sounded offended.

  Sorry, but he was merely human. Brad didn’t have a bag of divine tricks at his disposal. There were no lightning bolts nearby that he could hurl at Liang. And with the wind beginning to whip up, any flame was destined to blow out right away. Sorry Pele. No fires.

  Hey, watch your attitude. That’s the fire goddess you’re talking to.

  He wasn’t talking to anybody.

  To shield his face from the crew, he lifted the tripod onto one shoulder. Then he straightened up, put his head down, and followed a line of cables into the front door of the estate. There he was met by a blaze of television lights. Right in front of him, the Reverend Terry Smith was holding forth in his brash and belligerent way before a national audience.

  Then it happened. The windows filled with supernatural light, and a huge thunderbolt cracked overhead.

  Smith flinched. When he straightened up, he had an ironic smile on his face. The attractive reporter regarded him with awe.

  “Follow me and ye shall be saved!”

  Brad wished he could slug the big brute. But what he really needed was to find Liang and knock the Pueblo water god out of his head.

  There might be a match in the kitchen.

  Now how was a match going to help? And where was the kitchen anyway?

  “Our nation will need to summon up the moral courage that I called for yesterday in Las Vegas.” Smith’s eyes were fixed on the bronzed chest of the television reporter.

  Brad headed past them, under the balcony and into the next room. There he saw a familiar form. It was Liang. All Brad saw was his V-shaped back. But he would recognize May’s former lover, who threatened to take over the world, anywhere.

  Stick it to him.

  No, grab some fire first.

  Brad veered away from the man, who stood contemplating the onset of rain. It was turning the nearby swimming pool into a blur of mist. Okay, the kitchen. He spotted an open door and crept across the carpet in that direction. He passed a wall display of ancient handmade weapons and found a kitchen. It was spacious, built around an island made of butcher block.

  Wood burns.

  A gas grill was built into the island with a metal hood overhead. The rest of the kitchen was illuminated by broad-spectrum ceiling lights that brought a cheery brightness to all surfaces. In contrast, thunder continued to roll across the sky and vibrate the windows.

  If he was going to set the house on fire, he would have to beat the oncoming storm. He set the tripod on the travertine marble floor. Then he flipped one of the gas burners on. With his other hand, he grabbed a spark-producing tool and clicked it over the gas. A flame ignited immediately.

  More fire.

  He turned all the burners on. That sent a ball of fire up to the exhaust hood. How could the house pass fire inspection with such a big grill? And no smoke detectors, either.

  He looked around for what to do next.

  Burn something up.

  The only flammable objects in sight were salad tongs, a long wooden spoon and a pair of pointed stir-fry sticks. He grabbed them all and held them over the fire.

  “What are you doing here?” a deep, Chinese voice said behind him.

  Brad froze. The wooden implements grew hot in his hands. Smoke collected near the ceiling and flowed toward the door. He turned and saw Liang standing there.

  “Bradley!”

  Liang leaped for a knife block and pulled several long blades out. He took careful aim. Brad had nothing to dodge behind, so he yanked on a side-by-side refrigerator door. The first knife bounced harmlessly off the ice dispenser.

  He couldn’t count on such luck on the next throw. So he whirled his flaming spoon at Liang. It caught him on the arm just as he released the next knife. The flashing blade sailed harmlessly past Brad’s ear.

  Liang reached for the tripod that Brad had set down. Under a sooty ceiling that began to char and smolder, he lifted the tripod quickly and forcefully and hurled it straight at Brad’s head.

  Brad raised both hands in self-defense and brought twin columns of fire up in the air. He deflected the blow with his forearms and reeled backward against the kitchen counter. The tripod sailed past and crashed through the window.

  The roaring wind from the storm blew glass and loose utensils around the kitchen. The resulting wind tunnel effect sent flames from the grill directly into Liang’s face. He gave a sharp, shrill cry, spun on his heels, and staggered out.

  Brad was right behind him and plowed into the smoke that engulfed the living room. Coughing, he caught up with Liang halfway to the pool.

  No, not water.

  Brad lunged at his fleeing adversary. His eyes weeping with pain, he jabbed downward at Liang with one of his fiery stir-fry sticks. The point penetrated the back of Liang’s shoulder.

  Brad fell on top of Liang and nearly landed on the blazing salad tongs. The flames licked at Liang’s hair and the back of his suit coat.

  Liang sank to his knees.

  Don’t stop now.

  Brad jumped back in horror. He was looking at a man in pain. He would have to put Liang out of his misery. He interlocked both hands and took a whack at the side of Liang’s head. Liang spun about. He fended off the blow and rolled backward. He ended up on his feet in a low, ready stance.

  What now? Brad was all out of ideas.

  Lightning struck outside and momentarily illuminated the living room. Liang’s features were contorted in anguish, but his eyes were intent on destroying Brad.

  For his part, Brad had to lure Liang out into the yard where Pele might send down another of her thunderbolts. It didn’t matter if the lightning killed them both, as long as it got Liang. Under cover of the billowing smoke, he was able to shoot past Liang and run toward the pool and lanai.

  Stay away from the water.

  He veered into the yard. “Come and get me, Liang!” He turned and shook both fists at his foe. But all he saw was a veil of rain.

  Through the downpour, he heard footsteps rapidly approaching. A moment later, a head struck his abdomen at full tilt.

  Brad felt his breath get knocked out of him. He was driven backward under Liang’s momentum. He couldn’t suck in air. Panic struck, the fear that he would never breathe again. He willed himself to relax enough to let in a wisp of air. The first inhalation brought a hint of burnt hair. Suddenly, he was gagging. He finally became aware of his circumstances. He was being driven back toward the drop-off.

  He grabbed for whatever handhold was available, and only found Liang’s face, slick with sweat.

  Another blinding bolt of lightning struck the housetop. It was accompanied by a simultaneous crash of thunder. Through the curtain of rain, the mansion’s thatched roof sparked and caught on fire. Cinders blew in the wind, many landing in the grass at Brad’s feet.

  Surging water roared and boomed below. He couldn’t stop backpedaling toward the cliff.

  Liang grabbed him by the torso and hoisted him high off his feet. Nothing separated Brad from certain death.

  “The ocean is on my side,” Liang cried. “You have nowhere to
turn.”

  Brad glanced over his shoulder. An enormous wave crashed against the rocks and drained out to sea, baring the teeth of a reef.

  Xen’s clear and even voice cut through the din. Reach out for a higher self. Tap into the resources of other masters and be receptive to the information you need.

  Pele! Get me some help!

  The storm plastered Earl’s back through the cavity in the rock. But he didn’t take his eyes off of Dr. Yu.

  From the scientist’s rocking motion, he seemed to have trouble summoning up all the forces he needed for the great task at hand. Bowed in deep concentration, he sought closer communication with the other spirits. May reached over and mopped her father’s brow.

  Dr. Yapo whispered to the old man, “To prevent the tsunami, you must summon up an accumulation of extra vital force to dematerialize the physical waves into their ethereal form.” Then he gave a solemn incantation, “The prayer takes flight. Let the rain of blessings fall.”

  It was an unfortunate choice of terms.

  The howl increased outside. Rain sprayed into the cave and soaked the entire group. Earl shielded his eyes and looked out at the storm. There on the northernmost coast of Hawaii, he witnessed an ocean at war with itself.

  Suddenly, one of his supports gave way. His crutch slipped out of his grasp and fell to the floor. Moments later, his feet shot out from under him. He crashed onto the rocks and tried to break his fall with an arm.

  Dirt and pebbles crumbled off the cave roof and dribbled into his eyes. Jade rocked on her heels and toppled to the ground beside him. The entire cave was in violent motion.

  Chapter 44

  At that very moment, the ground trembled under Liang’s feet. The shaking traveled up Liang’s arms to Brad, who dangled over the cliff. Brad heard a deep rumble and looked back. Part of the rock face fell away into the ocean. They were in the midst of more than an electrical storm and drenching downpour. It was an earthquake.

  The tremor seemed to animate Liang and give him new hope. “The wave is coming!” His eyebrows lifted and he tried to heave Brad into the sea.

  But his feet were unstable. His fingers lost their grip, and Brad fell. His arms and chest bounced off the ground. His legs swung over the precipice. He grabbed at the wet turf.

  The lawn jerked and rolled like a carpet being shifted and moved. Brad was tossed up into the air. Liang danced around crazily for balance. Brad landed on his hands and knees in the soggy grass. He flattened himself against the ground and hung on for dear life.

  Even if he could gain his feet, he was trapped between the ocean, a madman, and a house whose roof was entirely consumed by fire.

  Liang was jubilant. He shook his fists at the thunderstorm while his knees bobbed up and down to absorb the shockwaves.

  The earthquake might have started a tidal wave, but it had also saved Brad’s life. It was time to turn the tables on Liang. He looked at his bare hands, wet and dug deep into the earth. He had to find some way to knock the guy senseless.

  Brad’s head felt like it was splitting apart, but he had to take advantage of the earthquake. He needed an edge on Liang. Then he remembered the primitive weapons on the walls of the living room. He jumped to his feet and made a break for the house.

  The smell of smoke permeated the room, but most of the thick black cloud trailed upward through holes in the ceiling. The house groaned and creaked on the verge of collapse. He covered his face with a wet sleeve and forged his way in.

  His eyes stung, but he had to find the weapons. In the haze and falling plaster, he passed the foyer where the production crew braced themselves against the walls.

  With a final spasm of the earth, the foyer’s chandelier broke off and fell from the lofty ceiling. It headed straight for Smith. The crystal crashed down upon his silver hair and shattered into a thousand fragments.

  The crouching reporter cupped her earpiece. “Are we still live?”

  She nodded in response to a distant voice and twirled her index finger in the air for the camera to keep rolling.

  The quake and rumbling began to subside. Smith managed to stay upright the entire time, but he needed to brush off the bits of glass that speckled his suit. The cameraman advanced to catch him in a medium close-up.

  Smith was nearly bald.

  The presidential candidate glanced at the floor. A silvery toupee lay pinned to the tiles under a layer of shattered glass.

  The interviewer’s mouth fell open.

  Who was this imposter? Brad closed in for a better look. With slicked-back remnants of dark hair, the man clearly was not the famous televangelist that the country had come to know and trust.

  Brad spun him around. It was someone altogether different. Brad was staring straight into the cold eyes of his stepfather.

  “Professor Richter!” the woman said, recognizing the reputedly dead national figure. “You’re not Terry Smith at all!”

  The television lens stared unblinkingly into the sunken face of a man who tried desperately to conceal the obvious. The transformation from presidential candidate to debunked scientist was complete. He was a fraud.

  Okay, what was Professor Richter, his stepfather, up to? Brad was just about to pose the question when he felt something crack against the back of the head. Was the house falling down? Had Liang attacked him?

  Brad crumpled forward. He could survive this one. No he couldn’t. The television lights wobbled at crazy angles as he reeled into the crew.

  He ended up on all fours. Splinters of glass punctured the palms of his hands. He struggled to his feet. Strangely, the blow to his head seemed to have eliminated the pounding headache and replaced it with a stunned vacuum. Now he could focus on the smaller pains. Like the individual prickles in his hands. He began to pull glass out of his skin.

  Now that he could think and see more clearly, he looked around the room. And what he saw made his blood run cold.

  Television lights turned toward Liang. His eyes were buggy and furtive, an image transmitted around the world.

  “The tsunami will bring me to power!” Liang proclaimed, “and eliminate false heroes!” Then he raised a weapon. He was holding a primitive bow and arrow. The razor-sharp tip was aimed directly at Brad.

  It’s your turn to save yourself.

  Brad should have panicked, but something inside him told him to hold his ground. The fingers of Liang’s right hand slowly released the arrow. The stone tip drilled through the air straight at his head.

  He dropped slowly as the arrow approached. Reaching up, he grabbed the shaft of the arrow mid flight. Then he hit the ground. He rolled forward over more glass and ended up jabbing at Liang with the tip of the arrow.

  But he was poking at thin air.

  Liang had turned on his heels and fled at top speed. Brad sprinted after him into a veil of smoke. He zigzagged around armchairs, a pool table, and the swimming pool. He emerged outside, only to be blinded by rain.

  Liang ran with both hands holding his head. He seemed delirious.

  Brad pursued him, arrow tip forward.

  Liang swung around and faced him on the lanai. His hands desperately searched for an object to wield.

  But Brad didn’t allow him time, and Liang fled once more.

  Brad pursued him to the rim of the ocean. He aimed the arrow right for Liang’s heart and prepared to ram it home.

  Liang gasped. Then the horrified, anguished look passed from his face. He arched his back and launched his feet into the air.

  Brad came to a full stop. Didn’t Liang know he was jumping off a cliff?

  Liang kicked out, but struck nothing. His throaty scream grew faint in the thunderous waves. There was no escaping his fate in the hungry jaws of the water god.

  Brad couldn’t bear to watch. His archrival’s demise was too gruesome to witness. Instead, he took a deep breath and turned his back on the sea. A lighter shade of clouds rolled over the volcano, and the last sheets of rain were putting out the flames on the roof.


  He squeezed his eyes shut and turned around. When he finally opened them, there was no horribly mangled body on the rocks. The last big wave had swept the evidence away.

  Pele had won.

  Brad inhaled the fresh, rain-cleansed world.

  There was no glory in killing another man. In fact, it felt curiously hollow. He turned his thoughts to Dr. Yu, who had worked his magic on some remote island and unknown gods to save his life. “Xie xie nin.” Thank you, sir.

  Maybe the old guy was even listening.

  Brad tossed the arrow over the cliff. He found a marble column upon which to lean. He used the moment to recall how he had caught the arrow mid-flight.

  Who was he? Superman? Where had he gotten the poise and the guts to do that?

  Some CIA man you know.

  Brad grabbed his head. Was Sullivan that higher self?

  Think again.

  He searched his memory. How many CIA men did he know? Then the image of a peaceful park in the center of an angry Beijing came to mind. They had sat on the same stone boat, and it had moved.

  Mick Pierce?

  He smiled. Without saying as much, Mick had taught him another rule: Remain calm in the eye of a storm.

  He looked up the slope of the impressive volcano. He had launched himself off it like a bird, and the volcano had shaken the ground when he needed help most. He had someone else to thank for that, a certain Hawaiian goddess.

  He reached for his forehead and tried to tap into higher thoughts. But Pele’s voice had grown silent. Instead, the sun broke through a cloud and cast a warm glow upon him.

  Looks like she cleared out.

  “Whew,” Brad said. “That was some dame.”

  You’re telling me.

  He turned his attention to Richter. Through the foyer doorway, he could make out flashing red lights. Police had entered the estate and were leading Richter away. The camera continued to roll and capture the last moments of the would-be president’s ignominious end.