Firedrake Chapter 19

The ionic blasts from Gunsmoke’s palm issued forth as twin brilliant neon-blue streaks of energy that ripped space apart with a thunderclap of sound. Drake was in motion even as the pulse began. He threw himself backward and to his left, tucking his wings in tightly against his body and rolling as he hit the ground. Behind him, the dual pulses shredded the remainder of the limousine, scattering its smoking remains and showering Drake with bits of jagged, smoking metal.

A high, keening scream sounded, and from the corner of his left eye Drake saw the cowering figure of Marty Shaw as the agent curled himself into a fetal ball against the wall of the BoosterScene studio. A quick reaction by Drake had forced the agent from the limousine as it had shuddered to a stop once Gunsmoke had wiped out the engine. Given the piercing nature of the scream, a part of him wondered if he had made the right choice.

As his shoulder hit the ground and he began a headlong roll, Drake slapped a hand to the grip of the pistol under his left arm and jerked it free of the holster that held it. He shouted the words, “Federal Agent! You’re under arrest!” even as he continued the roll. It was meaningless when dealing with a booster who had Gunsmoke’s history, but Drake intended to observe every possible formality. This close to a television studio, there was no way of knowing how many cameras might already be capturing this encounter.

Regaining his footing, Drake threw himself to the ground behind the front wheel of an abandoned taxi, and then leaped up to brace his pistol across the hood as his arm swept the weapon across the street in search of a target. The pistol roared twice as the sights settled on the shadowy figure. Each impact was marked with a blossom of orange flame as the low-yield explosive charge in the tip of the bullet detonated. The successive concussions were enough to knock Gunsmoke off his feet. The flat-brimmed hat fell away, exposing the gaunt features of his face. Pale, deep-set eyes narrowed to mere slits as he slowly stood.

“Stay down!” Drake ordered. His peripheral vision showed images of running civilians, and ears tortured by the ionic pulses and the cannonade of his own pistol made out the sounds of sirens in the distance. Marty Shaw was still screaming.

“Can’t,” Gunsmoke said simply. His hands glowed with sudden light and the world around Drake erupted into smoke and flame with a deafening roar. The front third of the taxi slammed backward and bowled Drake over, smashing him painfully into the concrete wall behind him. The twisted frame of the vehicle pinned him to the wall of the studio.

Drake triggered three rounds from his pistol, more to keep Gunsmoke at bay than to strike him. With his left hand, he gripped the body of the cab and heaved, throwing his weight as well as his considerable strength behind the move. With a screech of tearing metal, the taxi slid free. Another shot from the pistol for good measure, and Drake leaped into the air, unfurling his wings and beating them furiously against the air.

“Big ol’ skeet, ain’t ya?” Gunsmoke drawled, thrusting his right hand forward. As the first hint of a glow erupted around it, Drake curled his wings in and dropped to the ground, letting the shot pass over his head without connecting. It struck the side of the BoosterScene studio, blasting free a quantity of brick and concrete that showered to the ground with a crunching sound nearly lost in the echo of the ionic pulse.

“So you can hit the broad side of a barn,” Drake taunted, firing twice more as he slipped free the pistol beneath his right arm. One shot clipped Gunsmoke in the left arm, the explosion jerking his hand to the side even as his follow-up blast spat from the palm. It impacted down the block, shattering the front windows of a jewelry store. A glittering field of broken glass, precious stones and gold cascaded onto the sidewalk. Despite the danger, several citizens darted forth to try to recover the valuables.

“And then some,” Gunsmoke replied, twisting his shoulder as though testing the joint following the explosive round.

“Not giving you a chance,” Drake growled, raising both pistols in a fluid motion. His thumbs slipped a selector switch as the weapons rose to eye level. The twin barrels spat flame and casings flew from the ejection ports in what looked like solid columns of brass as the pistols roared on automatic fire mode. Though the magazines lasted only a couple of brief seconds of fire, the attack was enough to send Gunsmoke sprawling. The Kevlar woven into his outfit absorbed considerable energy from the impact, even tempering the explosive damage of the red-tipped rounds loaded into Drake’s right-hand pistol, but it was the blue-tipped slugs of the left weapon that caused him true distress. Tungsten penetrators protected by plastic sabots that fell away as they left the barrel, the blue slugs punched through the armor as if it were no more than paper. Gouts of blood spewed from the back of Gunsmoke’s duster and the sudden shock of the assault stunned him for longer than the initial fusillade lasted. His hollow eyes looked up in time to see Drake simply release the weapons as he leaped into the air and dived toward the armored booster. Streetlights gleamed off the edges of his claws.

Grunting in pain, Gunsmoke raised a hand and fired off a shot that clipped Drake in the right shoulder. Scales vanished into powder as the meat beneath them peeled back in a bloody spray. The white of bone showed through.

Howling in sudden agony, Drake fell short of his intended prey, driving the claws of his toes into the pavement to arrest his momentum. Left-handed, he lashed out and carved a quartet of deep gashes across the chest of the downed booster.

The early evening gloom was split with the strobing red-and-blue lights of several police cruisers arriving. Their sirens were louder than the cries of pain from the combatants and for a moment nothing else could be heard. A voice on a public address system cut through the cacophony.

“Sheriff’s Office!” yelled the voice, echoing off the neighboring buildings. “Hands up!”

“Not a good idea,” Drake warned as Gunsmoke slowly brought his hands in line with the cruisers.

“Gotta go,” Gunsmoke rasped, drawing in a breath. “See you around.”

A pulse from each hand exploded the front of two separate Sheriffs’ vehicles, sending roiling fireballs of gasoline-fueled flame into the sky. For a moment, the street was lit as brightly as noon. Deputies were sent sailing through the air like rag dolls. Without hesitation, Gunsmoke grabbed one of the unconscious officers by the head and clutched the man tightly to his bloody chest. He pressed a palm to the man’s head. Drake shouted in protest, but the grey-clad booster just grinned in response. What officers still had their footing turned their weapons onto Gunsmoke, screaming orders in a wild mix of sounds.

“You hurt him and you’ll never see the end of me,” Drake swore. His vision was beginning to swim, and he knew that he had lost a considerable quantity of blood. Despite the tingling in his right arm, he could feel it running, sticky and warm, down across his scales.

“Chainsaw Dave thought so, too,” Gunsmoke managed to say as he retreated around the corner of a liquor store and vanished from sight. A second later, the deputy was thrown from behind the building to land in a heap in the street. A powerful engine screamed to life and the sound of tires screeching filled the evening air.

“Little bitch got himself a motorcycle,” Drake grumbled before falling to the ground himself. A half-dozen deputies surrounded him, weapons drawn and aimed. They seemed to shimmer in his vision for a moment, and then all went black.

*****

The light was brilliant when his eyes opened and for a brief second his vision clouded as membranes slid into place as a protective measure. Blinking to clear them, he saw that he was staring into an overhead light. His shoulder throbbed. Scales scraped across metal as he rolled his head to the side in hopes of seeing what had happened. He could see a chair and a couple of diagnostic machines with fluctuating readouts that made no sense to him.

“You’re awake,” declared a man’s voice.

“Looks that way,” Drake replied. He struggled to sit up. The throbbing pain became a flare of white-hot agony and he grunted in surprise.

“Easy, now, Agent Drake,” urged the voice. “You’re healing, but it’ll be a bit before you’re a hundred percent.”

Head swiveling slowly, Drake turned toward the voice. A man with ebony skin in a laboratory coat stood beside him. He was smiling in a friendly manner, though it appeared a bit forced.

“You a doc?” he asked.

“I am. You’re in Saint Michael’s Hospital. What can you remember about what happened?”

“Had a fight with Gunsmoke. Took a shot in the arm. Woke up here. That about cover it?”

“Pretty much. You had a massive avulsive injury to your right shoulder. What that means is -”

“I know what it means, slick. Chunk of my arm got blown off. I was there, remember?” Drake turned and looked down at the shoulder. It was wrapped in bandages, but long metal frames stuck out above the wound. The bars of the frames were threaded like giant screws.

“We clamped it shut,” the doctor explained in a soft voice. “We had nothing that would pierce your scales to suture the wounds, but your employer advised us that construction-grade clamp devices would hold the wound closed until such time as your healing factor could deal with it.”

“So you guys just ran down to the Home Depot and snagged a couple of C-clamps? Great. I bought some a couple weeks back and I know what they cost. These better not show up on my bill for a hundred bucks each,” Drake joked, grimacing as another flash of pain ran down the arm. He clenched the fist and repeated the expression.

“Yes, it is going to hurt if you do that,” the doctor said, shaking his head slightly. He sketched a quick note on a clipboard and slid it back into a holder attached to the foot of the bed, which was, Drake was unsurprised to see, a metal morgue table. He had encountered similar difficulties in Austin when it was determined that a normal hospital bed would be insufficient to support his considerable mass.

“How’s what’s-his-name?” Drake asked. He spun his left hand lazily as he fought to remember the name of the media consultant who had been in the limousine. “Ummm, Shaw?”

“Mister Shaw is doing fine. Some minor lacerations and a light burn.”

“Did it shut him up?”

“Not in the least,” the doctor said with a quiet chuckle. Before he could continue, the door opened to frame a woman in a Navy blue business suit.

“Aww, shit. Who invited you?” Drake groaned.

“Wonderful to see you as well, Agent,” Colleen Hart said, rolling her eyes. She glanced at the doctor. “We have men coming to secure the patient for transport.”

“Lovely. Don’t let me stand in your way,” the doctor replied in a sour tone. “Wouldn’t want to actually heal him or anything.”

“Agent Drake will best be served by one of our clinics where he can be tended to by those with …let’s just say more knowledge of his particular needs.”

“He is not the first genebooster I have treated, madam,” snapped the doctor.

“He is, however, in my employ, and as such will be taken where I deem appropriate.”

“Umm, guys?” Drake interrupted, waving to get their attention. “You two want to go get a room or something, feel free. Meantime, the next one of you who talks about me like I ain’t sitting right here gets a foot in the ass.”

“I am sorry, Agent Drake,” the doctor quickly said. “It’s just that I’m not used to this sort of… heavy-handedness, I guess one would call it?”

Hart gritted her teeth. “Listen carefully, doctor,” she said in a low, slow voice. “Your efforts are not unappreciated. You have done an excellent job here, but we have people who specialize in treating our Agents.”

“Yeah, and you’ve got tech that you don’t bother to share with the medical community at large, too. I know all about it. Miracle machines. Chemical bonesetters, chromosomal restructuring tools, genetic anagathic therapies, am I on the right track?”

“Those are some interesting ideas, doctor,” Hart said, waving away his comments. “Wish we did have things like that.”

“We call ‘em ‘magic healing rays’,” Drake said with a snort. “Most of ‘em are on level three, in the lab behind the janitor’s closet. They’re not as cool as you’d think, though. Most of ‘em are about as reliable as a politician.”

“Agent,” Hart growled through clenched teeth.

“What? Not like everyone isn’t thinking they’re out there somewhere. Might as well tell him. It’d be nice if they worked all the time,” he continued, turning back to the doctor. “Thing with boostertech, though, is the guy that made it is usually the only one who can make it work. It’s like it’s connected or something. And since most of the guys who make these little toys aren’t really skilled in medical matters, you’re more likely to wind up getting a new set of hubcaps to replace that broken knee.”

“Thank you for the report. I sincerely hope your condition improves,” said the man before he stormed out of the room, muttering under his breath.

“Were you struck in the head, Agent?” Hart asked, accompanying her question with a frosty glare. “Did you forget about the Secrets Act?”

“Naw, just blew it off. Thing is, he thinks I was just being an asshole and mocking him. He won’t mention any of his ‘miracle machines’ for a while. Now, can you snag my gear while I get out of this bed?”

“We have a truck coming,” Hart said as she gathered up the plastic bags containing Drake’s clothing and equipment.

Drake stepped down from the bed, unconcerned about his own state of undress. He swung his tail from side to side to ease a cramp that had settled in at the base while he had been lying atop it.

“We’re taking you down to Nellis for a while - at least until this can blow over.”

“What? The reward thing? Ain’t gonna blow over,” Drake replied, trying unsuccessfully to wiggle his shoulder back and forth. The move nearly dropped him to his knees. “You pricks couldn’t pay for some painkillers or something?”

“That is with the painkillers, Agent,” Hart said. “Can you function?”

“I can move, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said. He reached to one of the bags and drew out his pants. Holding them with his left hand, he worked his feet through the tiger-striped fabric with some difficulty, threading his tail through the hole in the back with a little less trouble. His face fell as he tried to button the fly closed and realized he needed both hands to perform the operation. He half-turned, seeing the raised eyebrow he was getting from Hart in response to his unasked question.

“You…you want me to…” she began.

“If you would,” Drake said. His mouth closed and opened once. “Please,” he added in a strained voice.

A sigh of air escaped her as she stood and stared at him for a moment. Her jaw clenched briefly.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered, kneeling down and grasping the trousers. She began to close the buttons as quickly as her fingers could move.

“If this was a sitcom, this is where someone would walk in,” Drake quipped, keeping his gaze directed upward.

“Naw. If it was a sitcom, I’d have a camera,” answered a voice from the door. Hart jerked her hands away as if scalded as she and Drake both spun to regard the new arrival. The woman wore an elaborate set of body armor, designed to resemble the ornate samurai armor of ancient Japan, but incorporating modern technology to arrive at a lightweight and highly efficient means of self-protection. There was a pair of long swords strapped to her hips. Sparkling green eyes watched the pair from above a freckled nose. Hair of a flaming red hue was cut and pulled back into a topknot. The woman called Samurai Sally had made a name for herself battling the Yakuza on the streets of Tokyo before moving to the United States. Her record earned her a visit from the Department of Metahuman Affairs - by a recruiter.

“Perhaps next time you will knock before entering,” Hart said with an exaggerated sigh.

“Sally,” Drake greeted with a nod. “I’d wave, but…” he said, trailing off as he glanced down to where he was holding his pants up.

“Don’t let me interrupt anything,” Sally teased, grinning as she flicked her hands at both of them. “You just keep on with what you were doing.”

“Always knew you was a watcher,” Drake said, thrusting his hips forward to meet Hart’s hands. The Director quickly finished buttoning the trousers, then buckled his belt and stood. She brushed imaginary dirt from the knees of her own pants before turning an intimidating glare on Sally.

“I trust you will be discreet in regards to what you have seen here,” she said. “I would not like to hear about it from anyone, in any form whatsoever.”

“Buzzkill,” Sally said with a giggle.

“Yes, but certainly that is better than your next assignment involving the retrieval of debris from the bottom of a sewer?”

Sally tilted her head to one side for a moment as if thinking. “It might be worth it,” she said.

“Trust me. It would not.”

“How you feeling, Drake?” Sally asked, changing the subject.

“Think my golf game’ll be off for a while.”

“Yeah? You’ll be happy to know I picked off a couple of idiots outside that thought they could come in here and collect the reward while you were out.”

“Happy? I don‘t know about that,” Drake said, shrugging his shoulders and instantly wishing he had not. “I didn‘t get a chance to try out the local talent,” he added with a groan.

“Not much talent,” she said, waving off the comment. “Two norms with pistols. Couple good kicks and they just folded.”

“You sound disappointed,” he said.

“Kinda was. Got a new Glock out of it, though,” she said, reaching to a pocket and withdrawing a matte-black pistol long enough for Drake to see it before slipping it back into hiding.

“That would be evidence,” Hart prompted, her eyebrow rising once again.

“It would be if I’d made an arrest,” Sally corrected, sounding infinitely pleased with herself. “As it was, I just smacked ‘em around and took their guns.”

“You didn’t bother to arrest -”

“Nope. You said keep a watch until the truck showed up then come up here. Well, the truck’s here and I was headed this way. Figured telling you about the ride was more important.”

“And yet it took you this long.”

“Let her be, Hart,” Drake said, taking one of his pistols from the bag and slipping it into his waistband. “I swear, you’re about as much fun as sex with a light socket. I mean, could I maybe get a second helping of ‘by the book‘?”

“Do you believe you will need…?” Hart began, gesturing to the pistol, but her words trailed off. She shook her head. “Forget it.”

Drake pointed at the bag. “You might want the other one,” he said. “No telling how many more folks might want to try and collect.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Sally interjected, resting one hand on the hilt of her katana.

“To collect?” Drake asked with a chuckle.

“No, to make sure no one gets close enough,” she answered. “Hell, if I wanted to collect, you’d never have got up out of that bed.”

“I’d chop you into sushi first,” Drake shot back, wiggling the heavy claws on his left hand for emphasis.

“Children, please,” Hart urged before they could get out of hand. “Let’s just get to the truck and head out.”

“I don’t wanna go,” Drake protested. “First off, Nellis sucks. Nothing to do, and I ain’t exactly in shape to use their airstrips. Second, I don’t need this Onslaught dumbass thinking he’s won.”

“It’s not a matter of -”

“It is, and you know it!” Drake said, cutting her off. “I go into hiding and he’s won. He’s put me out of the game before I could even get on the field. Everybody will know it, ‘cause he’ll go out of his way to make sure they do.”

“Yes, but he wants you in condition to fight him. Well, the footage from the fight with Gunsmoke has already aired. BoosterScene had cameras rolling for most of it,” Hart explained. “And they showed how badly you were injured. He will not expect to see you for some time.”

“All the better reason for him to make an appearance now,” Sally said as she held open the door for the two of them. “By showing his opponent that not even this level of injury will stop him, he strengthens his own position and makes Onslaught wonder just how powerful Drake really is. Think of it. The Ancients said that once in China there was a man fascinated with dragons, and he had his clothing, furnishings, everything, designed accordingly. One day, a real dragon showed up and the man died of fright. It was said that he was a man who probably spoke big words but acted differently when facing the real thing.”

“Nice,” Hart said, leading the way out of the room. “How does it apply?”

“Same philosophy. He’s throwing out all the threats, but you’ll notice he’s not actually appearing to make good on them. Showing him that Drake is ready to meet any challenge will leave him wondering if he’s bitten off more than he can chew. You honestly think that he wants to fight Drake up close? I mean, look at him. Huge, scales everywhere, big teeth, claws, the whole nine yards. If he ever does meet the guy up close, he’ll scare him to death.”

“Gee, thanks,” Drake muttered. “Nice to know I’m so cuddly.”

“Call ’em like I see ‘em,” Sally said with a wink.

“Listen, your theory is one thing, but reality is another,” Hart said. The trio was walking through a long hall toward a back exit from the hospital. Drake’s claws clicking on the tile floor were the only sounds other than their voices. “The fact is, Gunsmoke tried for him. That’s like having a destroyer take a shot at you. How long until the battleships come out?”

“Why exactly did he do it?” Drake asked, stopping short. The others turned to regard him as he scratched behind his left ear with a talon. “I mean, really? What the hell does Gunsmoke need that he can’t just reach out and take? It’s the fact that he never bothers trying to take anything any more that kept us from targeting him a long time ago, right? So why now?”

“He’s crazy,” Sally said with a shrug. “Not like you can predict the behavior of a crazy man.”

“Actually, you can, but that is beside the point,” Hart said. She folded her arms across her chest, the action bringing up Drake’s bags of possessions to dangle at her sides. “You have a point, Agent. No one thought to ask what he hoped to gain from the confrontation.”

“I was a little busy,” he said, shaking his head at her.

“Not an accusation,” she replied. “Just an observation. We don’t know what it is he wants. Normals, most often, will want money. Plain and simple. Even a lot of boosters would ask for the same thing and never care where it came from. But Gunsmoke?”

“Come on,” Sally prompted, starting back toward the exit again. “We can talk about it in the truck. Let’s just get out of here before someone like Manifest or FlashFire decides they want to get their hands in.”

“They’re not gonna -” Drake began, but the samurai silenced him with a look.

“Nobody would have figured Gunsmoke for it either,” she said. She slipped the katana from its scabbard with a hiss of metal. The fluorescent lights overhead gleamed off the length of polished osmium. Though not as strong or resilient as durite, the swords Sally carried could cut through nearly anything in their path. In her hands, they were among the deadliest tools on the planet. As she readied the weapon, she glanced down at the pistol in Drake’s waistband.

“You might want to be prepared. No telling who’s on the other side of the door,” she said. Drake started to respond with a joke, but noted that the woman had slipped into her working persona, and that the jest would fall on deaf ears. She had become focused on the tasks at hand, and nothing else would penetrate her thoughts. Nodding, he gripped the butt of the weapon.

Depressing the button on the door, Sally pushed it open and stepped into the breach, scanning the surroundings before allowing either Drake or Hart to exit. Only when she felt the scene was clear did she move forward.

Parked in the street, flanked by four US Marshals armed with submachineguns, was a heavy panel truck. The back doors were open and there was a driver in the front seat. The engine was running, its diesel rattling clearly audible. Behind it was a Chrysler sedan, also idling.

“Look. A parade, just for me. Short one, though,” Drake quipped.

“Move,” Sally ordered, advancing at a quick march as her eyes swept back and forth. The katana was held low and loose in her right hand, while her left gripped the hilt of the still-sheathed wakizashi on her hip. Drake motioned Hart forward and stepped out behind her, moving to her side in a pair of his long strides.

One of the Marshals looked up at them, blanching slightly at the sight of the reptilian booster, and waved them onward. He clutched the Uzi tightly, as if it was some sort of magic talisman. He turned to say something to one of his partners and then simply collapsed to the ground in a heap.

“It’s a hit!” Sally shouted, though her warning was unnecessary. Drake had already pushed Hart to the ground and dropped down beside her, stretching his left wing out to provide her with a slight measure of concealment.

A second Marshal fell backward, clutching at his neck. Blood spurted from behind his hand.

“Sniper,” Hart said, easing out from under Drake’s wing to crane her head up and behind them. “He’s on the roof. Silenced Heckler and Koch rifle.”

“Good eyes,” Drake remarked, gripping the Director and pulling her in tight to his massive frame. She writhed in his grip. “Stay still,” he ordered, using his right hand to grip the butt of his pistol and draw it from his waistband.

“You are the target, not me,” she said.

“Yeah, and more’s the pity,” Drake said with a laugh. “This is gonna hurt me more than it will you, pal,” he muttered, raising the pistol. His world became a whirling flash of pain, and he knew, as his vision swam, that he had next to no chance of hitting the sniper accurately. Still, he switched the pistol over to full-auto and depressed the trigger. The stuttering roar of the weapon shattered the otherwise unearthly quiet of the kill-zone, though it was nearly overpowered by Drake as he screamed out his agony.

The roofline of the hospital shattered as the micro-explosive rounds struck home. Clouds of concrete and rock dust filled the air, joining with a layer of thin smoke from the explosions. Together, they created a light smokescreen that was more helpful than even the near-miss that sent the sniper sprawling away from the edge.

“Move, move, move, move, move!” Sally was shouting. She had appropriated the Uzi from the fallen Marshal and - using the target point provided by Drake’s wild fire - was putting it to work from her shoulder, providing suppressive fire as were the remaining Marshals. “Get to the damned truck!”

“What’s she think? We’re doing the tango?” Drake asked, letting the arm drop to his side. He barely managed to hold onto the pistol. Still holding Hart against his side, he sprinted for the image of the truck that appeared most solid of three he was currently seeing. As they neared it, he thrust the Director forward and swung her, pivoting from the hip to throw the woman into the back of the truck, hooking his claws into the pavement to arrest his own momentum, then gripped the frame of the truck and prepared to leap inside.

“Step on up, Lizard-boy,” greeted a gravelly voice. Drake looked up to see Gunsmoke standing inside the trailer, his hand pressed to the head of Colleen Hart. “Come in easy or the bitch gets it.”