Council of Evil (14 page)

Ahead he could make out the helicopter landing pad
poking from the side of the rig. He swooped close to the massive steel legs of the structure, then pulled vertically up, approaching the landing pad directly underneath.

Ruben Carlisse was a tall Dutch scientist and an expert on deep-core drilling. He had planned and led many successful drilling operations for major oil companies around the world, and had a reputation for being able to dig for anything. He had been approached by a mysterious contact who had agreed to pay an obscene amount of money for his services, with the only condition that the nature of the job remained a secret. He had been fine with that: most of Ruben's deals were made under the cloak of secrecy. Drilling for oil and gas deposits was a multi-billion-dollar, cutthroat business.

He paced nervously back and forth next to a closed elevator doorway that led to the main decks of the oil rig. The heat was suffocating, and he only wore a short-sleeved shirt and shorts that ran to his bony knees. He clutched a leather satchel to his chest and searched the sky. He couldn't see any sign of the helicopter that was supposed to pick him up. He lowered his gaze—and was shocked to see Basilisk rise from the side of the rig like an angel of death, arms folded and cape dramatically billowing. The twilight assisted in obscuring Basilisk's features, and Ruben could only see a pair of blazing electric-blue eyes.

Ruben's logical mind tried to figure out how the man in front of him appeared to be flying. There was no question of using wires, and human flight was simply not possible. It must be some elaborate illusion. But why go to all that trouble?

“Ruben Carlisse, come with me.”

Ruben looked around in confusion. Where was he supposed to go? He was instantly suspicious that this was a ruse.

“First of all, my fee?”

“Paid directly to your Swiss account as instructed. Check if you must, but hurry.”

Ruben's eyes never left the figure that drifted impossibly across the landing pad. He reached into his case and pulled out his mobile phone. He dialed one of the preset buttons and was put through to his bank's automated system. He thumbed in his account number and access code, and a synthesized voice confirmed that his bank balance had just substantially increased. He hung up and faced Basilisk with newfound respect.

“So, a legitimate deal then? Thank you. How are we to leave?”

A chorus of solid
click-clacks
got their attention. It was the sound of twenty high-powered Enforcer rifles being chambered. A swarm of red dots appeared all over Basilisk—laser sights from Enforcers who materialized around the landing pad. Five had taken sniper
positions in the gantry of the drilling shaft that towered above them.

Ruben's hands shot up and he looked around in terror. “Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I had no idea who he was!”

An amplified voice echoed across the pad. “Basilisk, descend to the platform and put your hands behind your head.”

Basilisk was surrounded. He landed on his knees. The Enforcers, dressed head to toe in black body armor, stepped closer, weapons never straying from their target.

“It's over, Basilisk,” growled a muscular Chinese man with black sergeant stripes on his sleeve. “Betrayed by your own people. Must be the first time the Council has called us up with some good news. You must have done something real crazy to annoy them. Diablo Island for you. Got a nice comfy cell just waiting for you.”

Basilisk lowered his head, facing Ruben, who was looking around like a trapped animal.

“You better hit the deck,” whispered Basilisk. Ruben looked questioningly at him. “Do it … NOW!”

The terror of the situation had turned Ruben's legs to jelly, so falling flat on his face required no effort at all. The moment he was down Basilisk leaped to his feet.

“I'm not coming with you today, gentlemen. I have a prior engagement.” As he had anticipated, the Enforcers hesitated to fire. They had circled him and so risked shooting their colleagues opposite.

“Shoot him!” bellowed the sergeant as Basilisk spread his arms.

Gunfire erupted from the snipers first. The bullets passed right through the supervillain as if he were a phantom, and pinged from the landing pad. The Enforcers around him carefully took aim and fired. Again the shots passed harmlessly through—one soldier's bullet clipped his opposite companion's arm, drawing blood.

A blinding glow shone from within Basilisk; his skin cracked as if he were made of plaster. The troops shielded their eyes; Ruben covered his head with both arms …

… as Basilisk exploded.

Flechettes went in every direction, hitting every Enforcer around him. The darts gouged into some of the soldiers' legs, dropping them to the deck in agony before the poisoned tips took effect. Others staggered off the edge and fell the hundred feet into the Gulf. The darts even hit the snipers perched on the gantry, and they fell, thudding hard onto the deck.

It was over in seconds.

Ruben peeked from behind his arms. Everybody around him was down. He heard a couple of groans, but he was sure most were dead.

The real Basilisk soared from where he had been hiding under the pad and landed on the deck with a
thump. He picked up a small circular device that was lying in front of Ruben. He pressed a button and a ghostly three-dimensional image of himself flickered, then died.

“Holographic decoy,” Basilisk said with a hint of pride. “Not bad at all.” He had hidden beneath the pad and let the decoy take his place as a contingency in case he had been betrayed. It had been a smart move. He would deal with Tempest in due time, but right now he had bigger plans.

Ruben's voice quivered. “You … you killed them?”

“Poison-tipped darts. I was going to arm it with explosives but this whole oil rig would have been blown sky-high. That would have attracted too much attention.” Ruben felt a strong grip around his wrist and was pulled to his feet. “You've been paid for your services. They start now. We're leaving.”

Ruben was still confused. He looked around for an approaching helicopter. “How?”

“We teleport out. This is going to feel very unpleasant,” Basilisk said with a trace of mirth.

Jake's entire body tensed and he slowly turned around. Big Tony already had his hands in the air and was shaking from both the cold and fear. A young man in his early twenties, with a pale face and jet-black hair,
was regarding them impassively. While he looked unfamiliar, there was no mistaking the voice of Chameleon.

“Couldn't you have picked a face that was less ugly?” said Jake, his voice sounding harder than he felt.

“Quite the wit, Hunter. And to think your mother actually finds you charming.”

“My mother? You better not have—”

“You're hardly in the position to be threatening me. I paid a visit to your family. Oh, don't worry, they are very well. In fact, better than ever now that they don't have a thoughtless, arrogant son to worry about.”

Jake bit his tongue. Dragging the parents into an argument was an old schoolyard psychological game that always got kids angry. He knew better than to believe a single word. “How have you been following me?”

“Between you, the Council of Evil, and this nuke, I've been quite busy. Shame I don't get air miles. I've been on the trail of this stolen warhead for some time, and the moment an informer had told us that Basilisk was planning a big explosion … well, I knew where he'd be buying the bomb for
that
. So I came straight here—after I'd got out of the pool of blood and glass you left me in back at your school. You're not the only one who can teleport, you know.”

The large Russian minder who was waiting patiently
at the front of the limo turned and irritably snapped at Jake.

“Hurry up. Take your package.”

Jake frowned. “He can't see you?”

“Or hear me. Another of my
many
skills. I'm afraid that the game is up. I'm taking you in.”

“What? Into supervillain prison?” Jake scoffed.

“You haven't heard of Diablo Island Penitentiary?” Jake must have looked startled because Chameleon smiled like a predator. “It appears you haven't! Perhaps Basilisk neglected to mention that, like he evidently failed to tell you
lots
of other important facts. Well then, you are in for a treat. They don't have lenient sentences for the likes of you.”

“He forced me to come along!” blubbered Big Tony.

Prison was a new concept for Jake. He had never really considered the consequences of his actions. Although he'd been in trouble before he'd never actually seen prison as an outcome, especially now that he was a supervillain. Even when he found himself embroiled in the kidnapping, the thought of what might happen to him if he was caught never really crossed his mind. He had been more worried about what Basilisk might say than anything else.

With superpowers at his disposal, he knew for sure that there was no way he was going to spend any time in a cell. He didn't hesitate. He snatched the backpack
from the trunk and took off—flying toward the storm clouds at such a speed that there wasn't even time to register Chameleon's expression.

At this pace the snow felt like stones striking his face, but the weight of the backpack was slowing Jake down. The dense nuclear material was far heavier than the dead weight of the Ukrainian had been when he'd had to lug him onto the roof.

He briefly thought about the wrongness of leaving Big Tony behind, but then again his “friend” had been quick to abandon him in a moment of fear. Jake was feeling callous enough to forget all about him. In fact, the speed with which his only three friends had turned on him from the lure of money or the threat of danger had surprised him.

Worse still, that left the unscrupulous villain Basilisk as the only person who hadn't betrayed him. He had done nothing more harmful than lie.

A plume of fire shot past Jake. He spiraled around to loop both arms through the pack's straps and risked a glance down. It was a giddying experience as the ground rotated; he could see Big Tony staring up at him. Chameleon was already flying in pursuit and had covered half the distance toward him. The superhero discharged another tongue of flame from his leading hand, but that went wide.

The higher Jake climbed the slower he moved with the
added weight. That meant racing Chameleon into the clouds was not an option. Instead Jake banked sharply back toward the ground, aiming for the Moskva River. The maneuver threw off his pursuer, who then followed in a yawning curve that helped increase Jake's lead.

Jake swept low over the river, and was thankful for the veil of snow and twilight that hung over the water. He hoped no one on the river could see him—he didn't need yet another police chase on top of everything else. He increased his speed with the simple act of stretching forward. Now he was moving so fast that, as he took the bend in the river, it felt more like one of his car-racing games on his console. A glance behind revealed that Chameleon was slowly gaining. They were both so low to the water that their displaced air pressure formed wakes across its surface, like passing speedboats.

Jake weaved around ships and shot under a bridge. He had the odd sensation that his teleportation powers were almost recharged. He just needed to last a few more seconds. He navigated through a tight S-bend. As he pulled out of the sharp curve, a large cargo container ship filled his view. Jake tensed and threw himself violently sideways—but only succeeded in corkscrewing himself through the air. He narrowly missed the hull of the boat, and was so close that his belt buckle raked the side of the ship and kicked up a spray of sparks. Jake could feel the friction heat against his belly.

He'd lost his tail, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Chameleon reappeared. He wished he'd downloaded some aquatic powers to avoid this chase.

The river turned sharply again to his left and swept under another bridge. As he tried to ready himself to teleport, envisioning Basilisk's subterranean hangar, he felt a sudden weight tug his leg, and his airspeed dropped. He looked round to see Chameleon clutching his boot and grinning at him.

“Not so fast, Hunter! If you go, I go!”

How did Chameleon know he was going to teleport? Was he telepathic? Jake knew he couldn't teleport with the hero touching him, as that would lead him right back to their secret headquarters.

“Give yourself up, Hunter,” said Chameleon. “I'm not letting go!”

Jake brought the heel of his other foot down on his enemy's fingers, but it was like hitting rubber. Chameleon didn't betray a single flicker of pain.

Another bridge loomed, heavy with traffic, and Jake had an idea. He changed direction. Chameleon tried to get a better grip on Jake with his other hand. The hero was so intent on staying attached to Jake that he didn't notice they had abruptly ascended.

Jake roared
over
the bridge with Chameleon hanging on behind—and narrowly missing being splattered against the parapet. Chameleon's grunt of relief quickly
turned to astonishment when he realized Jake was flying low over the heavy traffic on the bridge itself. Chameleon heard the deep honk of a truck horn and turned in time to see an eighteen-wheeler fill his world.

Jake felt Chameleon release his grip and at the same instant he heard a colossal smash of a windshield shattering. Chameleon hit the truck like a bug. Jake could see no sign of the hero, only a shower of glass peppering the vehicles on either side. The truck slammed on its brakes in a hiss of compressed air and a screech of burning rubber. Pedestrians on the bridge watched as the truck broadsided half a dozen cars and the rear trailer threatened to jackknife.

Fortunately, people were so riveted to the crash they didn't look up. Nobody noticed Jake powering directly toward the clouds. The clamor of traffic and car horns drowned out the faintest thunderclap as Jake Hunter teleported away, without his friends, but with a nuclear warhead.