Paranormals (Book 1) (36 page)

"Feeling better?"

"Gettin’ there." Then he added with sincerity, "Thanks again for hauling my butt out of there."

"No problem." He started to add something along the lines of
too bad I couldn’t save Graham
, but he didn’t want to push his luck. McLane seemed to buy the explanation that Vortex had done Graham in, but everyone knew there was no love lost between the two men. "Do you know what was going on just now?"

"You mean the cheering?"

Lincoln nodded.

"Remember when I told you that we had a lot more C-4? Well, not anymore. We
used
it —
all
of it — this morning."

"For what?"

"Blew the regional PCA headquarters all to hell."

Lincoln barely contained a gasp. "You’re
joking
!"

"Nope. Don’t know which of us got it in there — that place had the best security against paranormals in existence — but it’s nothing but a smoking ruin now ..."

Lincoln faded out for a moment, realizing the depth of what he’d just learned. No more PCA, at least locally, for now. There were only three PCA regional headquarters in the nation! Khalkha and McLane could run
rampant
now. If it weren’t for Vortex, there wouldn’t be any capable resistance left at all! And surely even Vortex wasn’t up to ...

Then Edmond said something that snapped his attention back.

"... forward to spending time out at the ranch.
I
think I deserve it, you know? I’ll ask McLane if maybe—"

"Did you say ‘ranch?’ What ranch?"

"Hmm? Oh. McLane owns a ranch out in Riverside."

"Riverside, California?"

"Yeah. It’s a neat little place. Got its own stream, lots of horses. It’d be a nice get-away. Once things slow down, maybe you could join me?"

Lincoln grinned beneath his mask. "Count on it..."

TAKAYASU, SHOCKWAVE, VORTEX, AND POWERHOUSE

The entire PCA building was gone.

The surrounding buildings either collapsed or were left in shambles. People were killed by flying debris almost a quarter-mile away. Far more were injured by flying glass. The only saving grace was that the explosion had been so powerful, it had also blown out most of the fires as they tried to start.

I should have died today
, Michael thought.
From this point forward, I am on borrowed time.

He surveyed the annihilation with surprising calm. He supposed that much of it was from shock — if it weren’t for Mark, there might not be enough left of him to identify with dental records. That sort of information took a while to sink in, he supposed. Then again, if he could survive watching a close friend burn to death inside paranormal napalm ...

"Get away from me ..."

"Sir, you need treatment—"

"I said get
away
from me!"

Michael turned to see Mark shoving a medic away. He sat on the edge of the ambulance’s open rear, but that was as close as he’d come to accepting medical assistance. The horrible gash on his cheek had begun to bleed again, but he seemed oblivious to this fact.

Michael took one step closer and called over, "Let him help you, Shockwave."

"I’m fine," Mark glowered.

"No, you’re not. Now let him help you. That’s an order."

Mark looked up sharply. However, upon meeting Michael’s eyes, he relaxed just a bit. "Aye-aye, Ensign. Or is that ‘acting-Captain?’"

Michael did not respond, but he knew what Mark meant. Captain Jarrah was gone; Commander Brase was gone. Hell,
every
ranking P C Agent for a hundred miles or more was gone. Even though the synod itself had only catered to thirty-some-odd agents, there had been a number of other important meetings going on this morning.

For all intents and purposes, Ensign Takayasu was in charge.

Police activity was thick, and they were expecting the National Guard any time now. But the real work was being performed by the fire department, medics, and paramedics ("paramedic" taking on a whole new meaning these days). The death estimate had already surpassed six-hundred, casualties were guessed over one-thousand, and Michael expected both numbers to go much higher before the day was over.

I’m not the only one on borrowed time
, he thought.
McLane.
McLane
is also on borrowed time. He just doesn’t know it yet ...

A
bark
pulled his attention to the left. An old Labrador was carefully making its way through the rubble of yet another building, with his controller — an agent by the codename of
Canine
— not far behind. Incredibly, the woman was also accompanied by a Boston Terrier and a Pug.

When the woman was closer, Michael gestured to the two little dogs. "Wouldn’t bloodhounds be more ... appropriate for this kind of work?"

Canine shrugged. "I’m in contact with fourteen other dogs at the moment. All kinds of breeds. But these here are my kids, so ..." She shrugged again.

Michael accepted that. "Anything?"

The tall, plump woman sighed and shook her head. "Not a thing. No survivors in these ruins, either. The only bright spot is that most of the employees were away on a company retreat. Fate was on their side." She shuddered. "And if Winston here hadn’t been slow-going this morning,
I
wouldn’t be around to help you look. I was supposed to be at that meeting, too, Ensign."

Michael nodded.

"If ..." she hesitated.

"Yes?"

"If I may ask: How did
you
survive, Ensign? Are you paranormal?"

"No, but my partner is." He gestured over his shoulder.

She glanced that direction. "Shockwave, right?"

"Right. He showed up just in time to save me."

"But ... how exactly did he—?"

Michael was already turning. "It’s about time I asked that question myself." He headed for the ambulance. Canine and her kids followed.

The medic saw Michael coming and stepped away from Mark, who now wore a simple bandage on his face. "Sir," the medic said, "he needs to be taken to a hospital. He needs stitches in several areas, and that facial laceration will require staples. And the chances of infection are—"

"Understood," Michael cut him off. "If you could please give us some privacy?"

The medic swallowed his obvious frustration and stomped away. Hell, there were plenty of other people in need — Michael let him go.

"Feeling any better?" he asked his partner.

Mark started to nod, but it morphed into a shrug instead. "I’m alive. And so are you. That’s all I cared about."

"And I appreciate that, Mark. I really do. But ..." He touched Mark’s shoulder, careful to avoid the ugly bruise showing through his dirty, torn T-shirt. "I have to know
how
in the world you saved me. Since when can you
fly
, man?"

Mark shrugged again, but this time it seemed put on. A smile, however slight, curled the edges of his swollen lips. "I didn’t know that I could. It never occurred to me before ..."

"Tell me," Michael urged. Even Canine edged forward to hear better.

"I had a visit from some rogues of our acquaintance last night."

"Silver Eyes?"

Mark nodded. "Her. A putty woman. And the clawed dude from the bank."

"The claw— oh, my god!" The gash on Mark’s face suddenly made sense.

"The bitch froze me, Mike. I couldn’t move a muscle, even when the sick bastard started playing with me." That ghost of a grin returned. "Then I realized that I wasn’t
completely
paralyzed — I could
breathe
. So when the dumbass leaned in real close to enjoy his handiwork, I exhaled a shockwave out through my mouth and shoved one of his eyeballs right up into his skull."

Steering clear of the image involved, Michael observed, "I didn’t know you could do that, either."

"Never have before. Haven’t felt anything like it since my first days of going paranormal. I just suddenly ... knew I could do it. Eventually the bitch’s hold on me began to weaken, and she wasn’t around to renew it. I was all alone with my clawed friend ..." He shook his head. "I gotta admit, Mike, if I hadn’t taken him out with that first shot,
I
might’ve enjoyed some playtime, you know what I’m sayin’?"

Michael thought about Richard McLane, and all the destruction, pain, and death around him. "Yeah, I know what you’re sayin’ — damn straight I do."

"Anyway, Silver Eyes took pleasure in hinting about something goin’ down here this morning. I knew I had to get here, get to you, and fast. I’d never thought about throwin’ a kinetic bolt with my lungs ... so why not the bottoms of my feet? Took me a while to get goin’..."

"But you did, and you got here in time. You saved me."

Mark sighed. "If I’d been a little faster, recovered a little quicker—"

But Michael shook his head firmly. "No. We
still
have no idea where the bomb was located, or what it was even made of. We’d never have found it in time. Hell, you didn’t even know for sure that there
was
a bomb, right?"

Grudgingly, Mark nodded.

"Sir," Canine stepped in tentatively, "if you have no objections, the kids and I’ll be getting back to the search now."

"Absolutely, Canine. Good luck."

She blinked back tears as she returned, "God willing," and moved away with her dogs.

"So ..." Mark straightened, stretching his back with obvious discomfort. "I miss anything at the meeting?"

Michael snorted. "Yeah. We confirmed that one of McLane’s hideouts is a recording studio after all. But the bitch of it is that things all went
ka-blam
before I read the location. I know it’s somewhere in the metro area, but that’s it. It’s under surveillance, but with all the chaos from this, I have no idea how to go about—"

"Mister! Hey, Mister!"

Michael glanced over his shoulder. A young boy, no older than ten, was making his way toward them. It was yet another sign of how disorganized the whole situation was that a civilian, let alone a civilian
child
, had made his way this close to Ground Zero. "You really shouldn’t be here, son," Michael heard himself saying, but he couldn’t quite find the right tone of voice to make it a scolding.

"Are you Michael ... Takewasu?"

Michael resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Behind him, Mark trickled out a good-natured chuckle. "Sure, that’s me. Can I help you?"

"This is for you."

The little boy held out a folded piece of paper. Mark rose shakily to his feet, moving over to join his partner as he took the note in confusion. He eyed the innocent-looking boy a moment longer, then unfolded it.

We need to talk, now more than ever. Just you and your partner, alone. I am in the alley behind the Salvation Army building. Be careful of all the glass.

That was it. Written in a hurried, simple print, no signature.

Michael glanced toward the indicated building — he could just make out the Salvation Army logo from where he was standing. "Who gave you this, son?"

The boy’s face lit up. "Your friend."

" ‘My friend?’ "

"Yeah. You know, the guy in the black-and-gold Halloween costume ..."

Michael crumpled the note into a tightly clenched fist ...