Firedrake Chapter 5

As the occupants of the agricultural community scrambled for cover, Drake walked beside Shane and Lara across the hot sand to the road that led onto the farm. He loosened his pistols in their holsters and, with a flick of one taloned finger, opened the snap holding his handcuffs.

“Just getting ready,” he said in response to the puzzled looks from his companions. “I’m here to make an arrest if possible, remember?”

The first vehicle to come into view was a converted Ford F150. It had been painted in a desert camouflage scheme by unsteady hands working with cheap spray paints. In the back were half-a-dozen rowdy-looking men, all whooping and shouting a mix of threats and obscene oaths. Many of them clutched rifles or shotguns, though a couple carried crowbars.

Behind it were two others, both Dodge pickups, though one was weatherbeaten and worn. The bed of that one contained another handful of soldiers to support the first. Its mate was a gleaming silver in color, and it was that one that drew the lion’s share of Drake’s attention. In the back, left hand gripping a roll bar in classic Rat Patrol fashion, stood a man who was the only occupant of the truck bed. He wore what appeared to be, even at the distance it was viewed, a suit of some dull metal. In his right hand, raised high as a rallying point, was a long, wide-bladed sword. His head was covered by a full medieval-style helmet that looked to be made of the same metal as the armor and the sword. The matte metal of the helm was disrupted by a wide black slit for the man’s eyes and a small triangular grate over the mouth and nose.

“That’s him,” Shane said, pointing to the man. “He’s the booster that’s tearing everything up.”

“Gee, you think?” Drake replied with a snort.

“We can hold the others back while you deal with him,” offered Lara, reaching for the pistol on her hip.

“Not yet, kid,” Drake told her as he held out a restraining hand. “Give me a minute to talk to them.”

“But talking doesn’t work!” she protested.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, “but if I don’t at least try, then they’ll say I attacked without provocation and they’ll walk in court. I’m a cop, not an assassin. You asked for my help, so back off and let me do my job.”

The withering look he turned on her was enough to silence any further outbursts. As the vehicles neared, Drake sighed and, still favoring his injured left leg, walked toward them. He held up a hand, displaying his badge for the benefit of the approaching men.

“Federal Agent. Stop your cars and drop your weapons,” he said. His voice sounded tired and bored, but the volume carried above even the shouts of the men aboard the trucks. Drake watched as the advance slowed and then came to a gradual halt.

“You see?” he said over his shoulder. “They can be reasonable too.”

“Foul beast of the pit!” shouted the armored man. He leaped over the cab of the pickup, turning a graceful somersault in midair, and landed with a heavy thump in the soft yellow sand. His eyes were a blaze of fanatic hate from within the helmet as he stalked forward, sword raised high. At this range, what had been a blurry mass revealed itself to indeed be chain mail that covered the man’s torso and upper arms, with a skirt of the same rings that fell to conceal most of his thighs. Greaves of the same metal covered his lower legs. It was then, looking at the sword and armor, that Drake realized what metal the man’s equipment was made from, and just how he had so easily carved apart the agricultural equipment. It was comprised of durite, the same metal that made up the reinforced handcuffs Drake himself carried. How this man had managed to get so much of it, let alone found anyone capable of or willing to forge it into the forms he had, was beyond Drake.

“Yours is the filth of which we were warned!” the armored man continued, pointing his sword at Drake as though it were an accusatory finger. He turned for a moment to look at the men who had come along and who were even now staring at Drake in horror. “Beware, brothers! The Devil walks among us every day, and here is his emissary in the guise of the vile serpent himself! Look upon him with no fear, lest he drag you screaming with him back to the fiery depths from whence he has come!”

“Oh, you did not just say that to me,” Drake replied, mouth falling open in surprise. “I was gonna be nice to you and everything. ”

“You have no hold over me, beast!” the man shouted, breezing past the flippant response. “I am Broadsword, and I am armored with the vestments of righteousness! You and this monstrosity,” he added, gesturing with the tip of his weapon at Shane, “shall not stand between me and my duty.”

“All right, slick, before we start this thing, I’ve got a question for you,” Drake said, pointing a talon-tipped finger at the man. “What the hell is your problem, anyway?”

“This foul abomination is tampering with the works of God Himself,” sneered Broadsword. He did not bother to indicate Shane this time, though no one present had any doubts as to the target of his words. “My brethren and I have come to see to it that he fails.”

His words were delivered with a certainty that made Drake grit his teeth. He knew there was little or no chance of a peaceful conclusion to the day’s events, yet he was compelled to at least try, both from legal duty and a desire to protect the inhabitants of the agricultural community. He knew he would be lying to himself if he did not consider the risk to his own somewhat battered form, as well, but he was willing to jeopardize that if necessary.

“Here’s the catch,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt and adopting a pose of feigned relaxation. “The boys in Washington have given this project the green light. They think it’s a good idea for him and his crew to do what they’re doing. Now I ain’t here to argue with you about philosophy or debate what could be or might be or blah, blah, blah. That ain’t my deal. I’ve been sent here as a representative of the Department of Justice to make sure you and yours leave him and his alone, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Now you people go home,” he added, looking toward the men in the trucks. “Or you can all spend some time in a jail cell.”

Broadsword laughed, a hollow sound that echoed from within his helmet. “These men are soldiers of His word, foul creature, and you are a mere puppet of Satan.”

“I mean what I say, gentlemen. I will take the whole lot of you into custody right this minute,” Drake countered, still looking at the trucks. A couple of the men in those vehicles lowered their weapons and raised their hands. There was a fearful look in their eyes, and Drake dared hope they might actually listen and do as he had instructed.

“Brothers!” Broadsword chastised them. “How dare you defy -”

“You people defy me, and I’ll have your asses in a sling!” Drake shouted, easily interrupting the armored booster with the nearly-deafening volume of his voice. He advanced a few steps, purposefully flaring his wings and allowing smoke to drift from his mouth and nose. It never hurt to put a little fear into those who were resistant, and Drake was an expert at making the most un-subtle hints on the planet. “You are failing to cooperate with a Federal Agent in the course of his duties and failing to accede to a lawful order! You have had your only warnings! Now disperse or you’ll go down with Sir Lancelot!”

Broadsword whirled on the men, fury in his tone. “Do not listen to the words of this…this thing!”

“And I’ve about had it up to here with you,” Drake told him, tapping himself on the top of the head. “Your ass is under arrest,” he said as he used his other hand to draw one of the massive slab-sided pistols from under his arm. He leveled the weapon at Broadsword and slipped back the hammer with an ominous ratcheting sound. “Now drop the knife and put your hands on top of your head.”

The air filled with a high-pitched whistling sound and Drake realized that Broadsword had moved. The move had been so quick that it had almost failed to register to his senses. The long blade of the durite sword was returning to an en garde position when the front half of Drake’s pistol fell free from the rear, neatly severed just before the trigger guard. The barrel hit the ground with a soft thumping sound, clearly audible in the silence that had so suddenly descended. Drake looked down at the ruined pistol, eyes going wide with the realization of what had just occurred.

“Do not think to put me at your mercy, beast,” Broadsword said with a haughty tone. Drake was still staring at his hand, though his teeth ground loudly enough for the sound to carry. He stammered out a reply, though his mind was racing far too quickly and too many comments and questions jammed his thoughts for the string of words to make any sense.

“What the... you... did you just... Do you know how much that gun cost?” he suddenly shouted, throwing the remaining portion of the weapon to the ground. He saw the shift of Broadsword’s shoulders as the next swing began and dropped to the ground, using his hands as feet and running on all fours beneath the spinning attack. He slapped out with his tail in an attempt to bring his foe to the ground, but missed his target entirely as Broadsword leaped upward and cleared the flailing limb. Once past the armored man, Drake came up on his feet again. He gave thought to drawing the other pistol, but dismissed it as quickly as the thought had come. The durite blade could shear it as cleanly as it had the weapon’s mate.

“Crawling on your belly, I see,” Broadsword taunted, bringing the sword up before his face with the grace of a fencer saluting his opponent. He took a couple of shuffling steps to his side. “You truly are a serpent.”

“Actually, I’m more of a lizard, if you want to get technical,” Drake replied, watching the man and slowly circling with him.

A shot rang out, followed by the whining sound of a bullet ricocheting into the distance. Drake glanced aside for a second to see Lara standing with her hands before her, pistol braced in a two-handed grip. Broadsword barely broke stride, his eyes flicking downward to see the coppery streak where the woman’s bullet had impacted and partially disintegrated before it bounced away into the distance.

“Stop it!” Drake yelled at the woman, sidestepping a casual thrust by Broadsword. He slapped his hand against the flat of the blade, but the armored man simply spun in place to face Drake once again. A maniacal laughter drifted from within the helmet.

From the trucks, nearly a dozen men responded to Lara’s attack by standing and aiming their weapons at the small woman. She scrambled to get out of their way as the first barking report sounded. A heavy grey hand gripped the shoulder of her leather jacket, and Lara found herself suddenly and securely tucked behind the blocky figure of Shane Baxter. It was as if she had been miraculously sheltered from a blizzard. Even the wind seemed unable to reach her, protected as she was by the nearly-invulnerable form of her friend. Bullets scattered into the distance with whines and sharp tones as they skipped off Shane’s rocky flesh.

Drake could not spare the woman any more of his attention. Broadsword had pressed his attack, making lightning-quick passes with his sword and forcing the reptilian booster into a purely defensive mode. Ducking and weaving to avoid the assaults, Drake was left with few options for attacks of his own. He leaned backward as the whistling blade cut the air above him, then hugged the ground as Broadsword slashed back. Slipping left to avoid a downward strike, Drake cursed as he recognized the feint for what it was. The blade cut instantly to the side, as though it had no weight at all, and Drake felt a cold sensation that turned rapidly to a blazing fire as the sword carved a gash nearly a foot long in his chest plate. It was not a deep cut, but Broadsword delighted in the sudden flow from the wound.

“First blood to the righteous!” he cheered, taking a step backward to examine his handiwork.

Drake pressed the palm of his right hand to his chest, making a growling sound at the pain of the contact. He had to separate the man from the weapon before something like that happened again. His mind whirled with ideas even as he dropped a shoulder to escape a potentially crippling blow. Broadsword fell back one step and raised the sword up. Maintaining eye contact with his opponent, Drake used the barbed tip of his tail to scoop sand from the ground and throw it forward in a blinding cloud as his left hand slipped behind him and dragged a pair of cuffs from the carrier on his belt. As Broadsword recovered from the immediate problem of the dust and sand and moved forward to attack again, Drake raised his hand to block the swing. Seeing the arm come up, Broadsword threw his body weight behind the swing with the intention of slicing the hand from Drake’s arm.

A ring of metal on metal sounded, audible above even the occasional gunfire that still echoed through the desert air, and Broadsword stopped short, looking at his sword in disbelief.

“The cuffs are durite too, dumbass,” Drake explained, displaying his left hand for the booster to view. The handcuffs were locked in place around Drake’s enormous scaled fist. Before more than a brief image had registered, Drake snapped out a short left jab that impacted the still-extended blade. He succeeded in knocking it to the side long enough to allow him to jump close to Broadsword. The long claws of his right hand wrapped around the heavy helmet and he pulled the man in to him. Drake knew his only hope was to remain in tight quarters that eliminated Broadsword’s chances to use his blade.

Shane Baxter had grown tired of the men shooting at Lara. As he had explained to Drake, he would not fight simply to protect property that could be replaced. The gunfire, however, posed an imminent threat to the safety of all parties concerned with the possible exception of his own. His eyes narrowed and he marched forward, shaking his head all the way, until he reached the first of the trucks. Bunching his fists, he swung both of them overhead and then down in a ferocious chopping motion that shattered the thin metal of the truck’s hood and tore the engine free from its mountings. Metal collapsed like tissue around his powerful strike, but he did not stop there. He pounded again and again at the truck, reducing the contents of the engine compartment to little more than pieces of scrap. Bending at the waist, he gripped the frame of the vehicle and lifted, twisting his shoulders and turning the Ford onto its side. As the men from the bed of the vehicle shouted and tumbled across the ground, Shane turned his attention to the Dodge. Even before he reached it, the occupants had jumped free and started running. Shane attacked the truck anyway, his anger having taken hold of his senses.

Drake gripped Broadsword tightly around the waist, hugging the man to his own bleeding chest. The pommel of the sword, tipped with a ball of raw durite, slammed repeatedly into Drake’s head as the armored booster tried to break free. Each strike was like a bolt of lightning ripping through his brain. Drake responded by driving his knee into the man’s groin, and was immediately sorry he had done so. Not only was Broadsword wearing a codpiece of the same metal as the rest of his armor, Drake had used his left leg for the strike. The impact sent fresh waves of pain through the wound left by Retribution’s energy blast outside the hotel in Seattle, and Drake fell to the ground, hands wrapping protectively around the leg.

Standing above the rolling dragon, Broadsword laughed and raised his weapon over his head in preparation for a devastating downward stroke. Behind him, Shane Baxter broke into a lumbering run that shook the ground, desperate to reach the struggling pair before the fatal blow could land.

“Your time is at hand, demon!” Broadsword declared, unable to resist a moment of gloating over the downed booster.

Still grimacing from the agony of his leg, Drake snarled from deep within his chest and spat a streak of flame directly into the face of his opponent. Fire licked through the eyeslit and the grated opening through which the occupant could speak and breathe. The armored man screamed and stumbled back, dropping his precious sword as he reached for his helmet.

“Baxter!” Drake shouted, staggering to his feet. His tail wrapped around the hilt of the sword and he lifted it into his waiting grasp. The weapon arced around in a swing that was far more force than grace. Shane saw it coming and lowered his shoulder like a linebacker to intercept it, grey eyes widening with fear of what Drake might be doing, and what it might mean to his own safety.

The weapon caught Shane on the stony surface of his shoulder, striking with the flat of the blade and swung with all the strength Drake could muster. A shower of sparks filled the space between the two boosters as the clanging tone of the sword breaking echoed from the walls of the Quonset huts. Shane managed to keep his footing despite the horrific power of the blow, and he stared at the six inches of blade which still protruded from the hilt as it swept on past him. Drake released it and let it hit the ground, turning his attention back to the screaming figure of Broadsword. The man was on his knees in the sand, still struggling to remove the helmet he wore.

“Leave it,” Drake ordered. Broadsword ignored him, still tugging on the helm and crying out in pain. Drake reached out with hands that were now as gentle as they had once been fierce. He gripped the man’s wrists in his own powerful hands and knelt in front of him.

“It’s seared to your face. Take it off and your face goes with it, understand?” he asked softly. A wail came from within the helmet, the tone of despair sending shivers down the spines of everyone present. Releasing the wrists he held, Drake slipped the cuffs free from his hand and used them to secure the crying booster’s hands behind his back. Grunting with effort and suppressed pain, Drake stood and looked toward the handful of men who remained even after Shane’s devastating assault on the pickup trucks. He raised a hand, pointing at the men with a finger that quivered with tension, rage and adrenaline.

“Every damned one of you get down on the ground!” he commanded, voice carrying in a wave across the hot sand. As a group, the men fell to their knees without comment. They had seen their leader bested and none of them wanted to take a chance dealing with the one who had done it. Weapons fell alongside them, discarded as if they were writhing snakes. Drake waved a hand at the men and ordered Lara to tie them up. The woman happily complied, running to a nearby hut and returning with a coil of galvanized fence wire with which she bound them. As she did, Drake leaned close to Broadsword and explained the man’s rights under the Miranda ruling, then moved away. The stench of burned flesh wafted through the air, seeming to follow him as he stepped clear of the injured man.

“You are injured,” Shane said as he turned from the image of Lara restraining the attackers. “We have a first aid kit in the administration building.”

“Yeah. Get it for me, would you? And water, lots of water. We need to irrigate his face.” Drake’s voice was hoarse and tired, and he had to project it enough to carry over the sound of Broadsword’s agony.

Shane nodded, then jogged away in the direction of one of the Quonset huts, his feet making loud thumping noises as he moved. Drake reached into his pocket and retrieved the tiny cell phone he had been issued. He snapped it open and used the tip of a talon to push a speed dial button, then held the device to his head. He listened to the sound of the line ringing. After the eighth tone, it was answered.

“Hart.” The word was spoken quietly.

“It’s Drake,” he said, though he knew her caller ID system showed her that, else the Director would not have answered. “Send a wagon and a MedEvac chopper to my location.”

“The situation?”

“Got a man with facial burns and a dozen or so prisoners.”

“Understood. Again I say, the situation?”

Drake clenched a fist and swallowed before answering in an angry shout. “Yeah, everything’s fine out here, all right? The job’s done. Now send me the damned chopper so I can get this guy to a hospital!”

“En route.” Hart said. Her voice changed tone and Drake could hear that she was happy that the assignment was complete. He, on the other hand, could not help but look with pity at the crying prisoner that still knelt on the ground before him. The mewling sounds that issued from the man’s tortured throat were certain to haunt Drake’s dreams for some time to come.

“He’ll be lucky to live,” he murmured aloud.

“He’ll serve his time,” Hart countered, her voice going cold once more. “You did good, Drake. Ride out on the chopper and go see your brother. I’ll call you in a few days.”

“A few days. Right,” replied the booster, snapping shut the phone. He glared at it for a moment, wanting nothing so much as to destroy it. If severing his relationship with Hart were that easy, though, he knew that he would have done so long ago. He settled for dropping the phone back into his pocket. The hot desert wind caressed his scaled features and he looked into the distance, his eyes flat and dull. A deep thudding sound preceded Shane Baxter, announcing his return with the medical supplies, and Drake sighed.

“Pretty sure a few days won’t help,” he whispered.