Firedrake

It was raining when the plane landed in Seattle. The pilot had already been on the intercom a half dozen times, explaining the local weather conditions in a strained voice. Drake knew the weather was not the cause of the man’s concern, as evidenced by the pilot’s eyes when Drake walked across the tarmac to the craft. There was an actual fear in the eyes of the pilot, and that bothered Drake more than a little. This was a pilot who was on assignment to the Metahuman Response Division, and the last thing he should have done was show any kind of fear or revulsion at the sight of a booster.

“Hey! It’s raining out here, ya dink!” Drake yelled toward the cabin. Since the pilot had angered him, Drake figured he might as well amuse himself at the man’s expense. He stepped forward and pounded hard on the reinforced door. “Ain’t one of you slick-skinned monkeys gonna come hold an umbrella for me?”

The intercom buzzed and Drake laughed aloud as he heard the pilot and copilot both babbling about that particular task not being part of their assigned job duties. Leaving them to their frantic scramble for self-preservation, Drake stepped from the plane and down the set of stairs that had been rolled up to the door. The men at the bottom stared at him for a second, then shrugged and went back to their jobs. The triple pay granted to them for working the government flights was more than enough to offset any personal feelings one way or the other concerning what kind of creature might step off a plane.

A nondescript brown panel van sat idling barely a hundred feet from the plane. Drake made his way directly toward it, ignoring the cool rain that pelted him as his claws clacked along the paved surface. As he neared it, a dark-suited man in sunglasses stepped out. He was covered by a long black coat that shed the rain almost as soon as it hit.

“Agent Drake,” he said in greeting. It was not a question. “Welcome to Seattle. I’m John Williams FBI. I’ll be your liaison here in town. Information you gave said we were headed for the Sun God motel, so I mapped out a route and took the liberty of contacting Seattle PD’s booster crew as backup. They’ll be waiting for us there.”

“You had them meet us there?” Drake asked, a chill running down his spine.

“Yeah. It’s only about a thirty minute drive to the motel. They should be staging any time now. Once we get there, they’ll follow your lead,” Williams said, opening the side door to the van. Drake climbed inside, wondering for a moment why he had not been offered the front seat. His unspoken question was answered once he was inside. That seat was occupied by a suit-clad woman with soft café-au-lait skin. She turned to face him as he settled himself into the bench seat. He used his tail to hook the door and slide it closed..

“Good afternoon, Agent Drake,” she said. Her voice was deep and husky, with a trace of a Cajun accent. “Annalise DeMarceau. Call me Annie. Everyone does.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m just Drake,” he replied as Williams returned to his seat and closed the driver door. “Both of y’all drop the Agent thing. So who are you, Annie? FBI? CIA? NSA? Some other useless alphabet agency no one’s supposed to know exists?”

Annie laughed quietly. “I’m a sales rep,” she said, reaching a hand into her jacket and a moment later extending a business card. “Armscorp Omega. We’re field-testing some new products with the FBI, and I’m here to play show-and-tell.”

As Williams accelerated sharply away from the landed plane, Drake took the card and tucked it away with the one he had received from the telepath back at the office. “New products? What could you guys come up with that you haven’t marketed already? Orbital Mind Control Lasers?”

“Certainly not,” Annie replied, a bit sharply. She reined in her emotions, pasted on the smile, and continued. “We are currently testing a neural disruption beam weapon. We call it the Scrambler. This item will revolutionize law enforcement. Any hostile target struck by the Scrambler will have their entire nervous system subjected to a violent overload. Imagine a Taser with nearly limitless range and the capability to stop a rampaging booster in their tracks…no offense, of course. Once it has been brought into play, the target will be subdued within seconds, saving lives and averting further property damage while simultaneously allowing for restraint and removal from the scene.”

Drake made a slight snorting noise. “Wow,” he said dryly. “That’s some sales pitch. So you guys come up with some new wonder toy, the Bureau puts it through its paces, and you net a billion-dollar contract with the government so they can stop boosters. That about right?”

“You need not make me sound quite so mercenary, Ag… Drake,” Annie began, but Drake cut her off.

“Yeah, well, I’m just naturally surly,” he shot back. “It’s been a long flight, I ain’t had my coffee, and I’m in a hurry to get this job done so I can go home. No offense to you, either, but having you along makes this feel a lot like babysitting.”

“I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable,” Annie said, the sharp tone noticeable once more. Her resentment of the big booster was evident in the way she spoke, and Drake hid a smile. It was always nice to start the day by irritating someone.

“Just stay out of the way when we get there and everything’ll be just fine,” he said, making certain he sounded as angry as she did. “And, by the way, that ain’t a request. Consider it an order.”

They rode for the next twenty minutes in silence. As they neared the point of rendezvous with the Seattle PD team, Williams switched on a radio chosen from the stack beside his right knee. Static crackled for a brief instant, then was gone. Williams handed the microphone back to Drake.

“Your callsign is Broken Heart,” he said, trying desperately not to grin. His eyes flicked up to see the dirty look Drake was giving him. “Sorry. Your boss said you had to use it. She also said you‘d hate it.”

Drake gripped the mike tightly enough to make the plastic frame squeak. Slowly, he raised it to his face, murmuring curses directed toward Colleen Hart the entire time. He depressed the talk switch.

“Broken Heart to city units,” he began, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he spoke the words. A tiny snicker from Williams was rewarded with yet another dirty look. “We are inbound, five minutes. Have your Number One ready to meet with me.”

“Blue One actual, Broken Heart. Subject residence established, subject is contained. Sweep team stacked and prepared for entry,” came the crackling response. The voice of ‘Blue One’ was strong and confident. Drake sucked at a tooth.

“Hold them there unless subject moves.,” he said, dropping the mike onto the front seat. “Pick it up a bit,” he told Williams.

“You got it.” Williams jammed the accelerator to the floor. The van rocked suddenly as their speed shot up by twenty miles per hour. He weaved through traffic with ease, even at the advanced speed. Rain hammered the windshield with increased force.

“Some reason we need to go this fast?” Annie asked, checking the tension on her seat belt.

“Entry team is stacked. They’ll jump at the first sound,” explained Drake. “I’ve worked with local teams before, and their main goal is to make the arrest; get their names in the papers and keep their funding for another year.”

“Surely they’re more professional than that.”

“Yeah. I thought the same about the guys in Phoenix. They moved in on a YMCA to root out the skank that was inside, and she nearly killed them all. If they’d waited for five minutes like I asked, I could have put her down.”

“Hang on,” Williams warned, making a sharp turn that brought the right side of the van off the ground by a few inches. The vehicle fishtailed slightly when it came back down. He began applying the brakes in a gradual move, then made one final turn into the parking lot of a small motel. The sign overhead proclaimed it to be the Sun God. Williams drove slowly through the parking lot and around behind the main building, bumping the wheels up over a curb and driving across a grassy area to approach a pair of long, dark vans that were parked in the shadow of the building. Beside the van, a trio of officers wearing heavy armor and carrying automatic rifles stood talking among themselves. One of the officers raised a hand toward the van as they neared.

“That’ll be Blue One,” Williams said as he brought the van to a halt and threw it into Park. Drake stepped out with Williams, ignoring the sharp intake of breath he could easily hear from one of the officers. He leaned against the passenger door of the van, stiff-arming it to keep it closed. His head slowly swiveled to look at Annie through eyes that narrowed with a dark intent.

“You get out of this van and I’ll put you under it,” he said simply before walking away to meet with the local police.

“You Broken Heart?” asked the officer who had waved to them. Drake winced at the name. Inwardly, he once again vowed to exact a long and painful vengeance on Hart.

“Francis Drake,” he said, extending a hand to grasp that of the cop.

“Julian Thiebold. My guys are ready when you give the word.”

“Which room?”

“He’s in 132. We ran a thermal scan of the room from the parking lot. No movement since we arrived. It looks like he might be sleeping.”

“Good. Let’s try and make this easy.” Drake turned to Williams. “Got the papers?”

“Right here,” came the reply as Williams handed over a folded arrest warrant. The Bureau Agent had strapped on a suit of body armor over his suit coat, leaving the rain jacket in the van. He carried a cut-down twelve gauge shotgun to complement the automatic pistol on his hip.

“We obtained a passkey from the manager,” Thiebold said, displaying a brass key on a ring attached to a large plastic oval.

“Got my own,” Drake countered, flexing his hands meaningfully.

“I was under the impression that you wanted my team to make entry.”

“Somebody lied to you. I go in first. You’re here to support me.”

Thiebold looked shocked at the suggestion. “We aren’t in the habit of ‘supporting’ anyone,” he said with a sneer. “We have made several arrests of some of the most dangerous boosters -”

Drake cut him off, raising a hand and staring down at the man. “Listen up, slick, ‘cause I’m only saying it once. You guys got a rough job and I respect you for the way you do it. Today, though, your job is to maintain the perimeter and tag that prick if he gets past me. I’m the big monster, I take the risks. You and your boys get your pictures in the paper without having to visit part of the crew in Intensive Care. Easy enough?”

“Okay,” Thiebold said with a slow nod of his head. “You go in first, and we’ll lock the place down for you. Leroy, tell the boys to hold position. No one is to move unless they hear it from me directly.”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the others, pressing a finger to a throat mike and relaying the message to the strike team.

“Good man,” praised Drake. He turned to regard Williams. The Agent stood with his shotgun at port arms as though awaiting orders. “You come to the door with me. After I go in, you see if you can get a clear line of fire. I go down, you hit him hard and fast ‘til that shotgun runs dry. Then you fall back and let the local boys take over. Got it?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Williams said.

“Good. Let’s do this.”

Drake and Williams approached the door to room 132, nodding a greeting to the five-man entry team that crouched, ready for immediate response, on the left side of the door. Drake appreciated their presence, but his past experience with elements of local law enforcement was still enough to leave a sour taste in his mouth. He paused for a second at the door, taking a moment to imagine his brother at home, playing with his trucks or laughing in his loud manner at the antics of the Muppets. The images rolled through his mind in the span of time it took to inhale deeply and tense his muscles. He tapped with a claw on the frame of the door, the sound swallowed by the pattering of the falling rain, and whispered in a voice that even he could not hear.

“Federal Agents.”

Shrugging his shoulders after a heartbeat of waiting, Drake turned and looked at Williams. “Looks like he doesn’t want to comply,” he said with mock sadness in his voice. He braced his weight on his left leg, bringing the right one up and back, then pistoning it out to impact mightily against the door just above the knob. The door shattered inward in a flurry of wood splinters.

“FEDERAL AGENT! GET ON THE FLOOR!” he shouted as he stepped into the room. The brief moment of time spent delivering the required warning was far too long. Retribution was already off the bed and hovering in the air when Drake entered, and his eyes were glowing with an ominous light.

The impact of the bolt of energy was enough to send Drake tumbling backward out of the room. He landed on his back and slid across the pavement. His chest was smoking where the bolt had struck him. Colors spun crazily in his field of vision, and he was dimly aware of the sound of Agent Williams discharging his shotgun in a rapid series of barks.

“Williams! Down!” Drake shouted as he staggered to his feet and threw himself back at the door. His body passed over Williams as the Bureau Agent dropped instinctively to the ground. The lead man from the entry team snaked out a hand and snagged Williams by the straps of his armor, dragging him clear of the doorway.

Drake intercepted a hard right cross, countering by driving a stiffened hand into the muscles of his opponent’s biceps. His claws tore through flesh and Retribution let out a pained shout. A boot snapped up in response, catching Drake in the groin with a loud thump as the steel-capped leather impacted on his armor plates. Ignoring the attack, Drake snapped his head forward into Retribution’s nose, hearing the crunching sound as it broke under the assault of his scaled head.

Another bolt of energy, so brilliant it burned tracks across Drake’s retinas, erupted from Retribution’s watering eyes and took Drake in the upper left thigh with steam-hammer force. Bits of scale blasted free and thick blood welled up for a fraction of a second before the heat of the blast cauterized the wound. Drake screamed, his voice enough to rattle the walls, and half dropped in place, hands going automatically to the injured thigh. A leg sweep from his foe put Drake onto the ground a second later. Grabbing the arm that shot down in an attempt to punch him, Drake opened his mouth and bit down hard on the appendage. He was rewarded with a cry of agony from Retribution. Forcing his long teeth deeper into the forearm, he shook his head back and forth like a dog worrying at a bone. Blood filled his mouth for a moment until he curled back his lips even further, allowing it to run unhindered from the sides of his face.

Shouting defiant curses, Retribution jumped into the air, taking a surprised Drake with him. The pair crashed through the roof of the hotel in a spray of plaster and wood. A high-pitched, warbling whine began in the parking area, followed by a wide beam of bright yellow light. Inside the beam, blue and red sparks danced. The source of the attack, one Annalise DeMarceau, sat inside the van, remaining in her seat as instructed, but utilizing the weapon she so readily advertised. The beam caught Retribution in the left shoulder for the briefest stretch of time and he screamed again. The violent ascent of the two boosters was arrested instantly, and they tumbled toward the ground.

Snarling in pain at the impact, Drake lost his grip on the arm, and Retribution wasted no time in jerking it free of the sharp-toothed maw in which it had been imprisoned. Standing, although a little wobbly on his feet, he snapped another kick into Drake’s face and launched himself once more into the sky. The guns of the Seattle Police opened up, filling the area with the staccato chatter of small arms fire. Bullets pecked against his rising frame, ricocheting off into the distance.

Drake staggered to his feet, trying his best to ignore the burning pain in his left leg. A glance upward told him that Retribution flew faster than he could pursue, and he avenged his bruised ego by drawing a pistol and firing at the rapidly-shrinking image of the man, though his shot went far off target.

“Son of a bitch!” he roared, each word louder and more forceful than the one before it. With a huffing sound, he slammed the pistol back into its holster, then stomped his foot in anger, only to fall once more to the pavement as the pain caused by that simple gesture made the leg give way.

“Agent Drake?” asked Williams, rushing to his side. Drake waved the man away and, forcing himself to his feet, made his way to the van. DeMarceau sat in her chair, eyes fixed on the angrily stalking booster. She was trying her best not to show the fear that she felt.

“Ya done good,” Drake muttered before turning away to speak with the police.

“He’s hurt,” Drake said, spitting out some of the blood that still sat in his mouth. “Both arms. He’ll probably need medical. Get the word out.”

Thiebold waved to one of his men, who hurried to comply, then turned his attention back to Drake. “You’re hurt, too,” he noted. Drake shook his head.

“Ain’t nothing a week in the Bahamas won’t cure,” he said, though his tone gave the comment away as a joke. Seeing the mixture of knowing smile and disapproving gaze from Thiebold, he chuckled. “Ain’t no big thing. I heal quick.”

“What next?” asked Williams. The Agent was still stuffing replacement shells into the shotgun’s tubular magazine.

Drake sniffed loudly, then shrugged his broad shoulders, making his wings dance. “Next, I call the boss, get yelled at for letting the moron escape, and then I start looking for him again. You guys do your paperwork and go on with your lives.”

The giant booster looked at Thiebold, holding up a hand. “And if your boss’s got any problems with the way things went out here, tell him to come to me with it. I’m, well, let’s just say I have a talent for dealing with people,” he said, unable to suppress a laugh.

Limping slightly on his injured leg, Drake made his way back to the van and to the call that he needed to make. Hart was not going to be pleased, and Drake knew his meeting with Monster would have to wait a little longer.