Judgment Night [BUREAU 13 Book One] (10 page)

"Yes,” Jessica said, loosening a knot.

"Stop reading my mind,” I snarled.

"Old habit,” she replied casually. “And I accept your earlier proposal of marriage."

I dropped a crate of canned goods on my foot. “Now wait a damn minute..."

"Alert!” Donaher shouted, his HK 10mm pistol doing a steady pattern of barking discharges. “Incoming, three o'clock!"

Everybody turned to the right with a weapon in hand. I did also, but then nearly dropped mine. The water tower on top of the garage had broken free and was presently climbing down off the building to walk our way.

"A water tower?” Jessica squeaked. “What the hell can that do?"

Richard frowned. “You wanna find out?"

"Ignore the water tower and load the plane!” I commanded in my patented top sergeant voice. “Don't bother to stack the stuff anymore, just sling it in fast.” Personally, I hoped nothing broke and blew us out of the water before we even left the dock.

"George?” I barked.

"Ed?” he replied calmly.

"Kill that thing!"

Coolly, the chubby soldier spun about on the balls of his feet, the squat rifle in his hands spitting flame in a stuttering series of soft chugs, nowhere near as loud as his old M60. But the metal pipe legs of the water tank were torn apart in a near continuous series of sharp explosions and it collapsed sideways into an alley. Not satisfied, George kept up the barrage, the discharge of his weapon ripping the structure to pieces until it fell apart in a great gush of water.

"Anything else you want killed?” he asked smugly, the flow of liquid from the tank stretching out towards the dock, but only succeeding in drowning a rat or two.

I thought fast. “My IRS agent."

George took a firing stance. “Name the bastard."

"Hey!” Donaher snapped from the cargo hatch. “Help load the plane, ya bums."

We joined the busy work force. In a matter of minutes, the carts were empty and the hatch closed. Hassan cast off the mooring lines from inside the plane. The huge prop motors started with a growl and we pulled away from the dock, taxiing for take-off.

In the style of a troop transport, the seats lined the walls, leaving the center clear. Sitting down, I put my feet up on crate of canned goods and breathed a sigh of relief. “Time for a ten minute break."

"Guess again, chief,” George contradicted, his face pressed against the glass of a window.

Joining him, I could see half a dozen transparent blue speedboats behind us. Apparently made of ice, the boats were rising from the water of the bay. Steering each craft was a robed figure clutching the wheel with bony blue hands. Checking them with my replacement sunglasses, these guys registered so black that I couldn't even discern details.

"Lock and load, people,” I announced, grabbing an assault rifle from a stack and rummaging for ammunition.

"Whatever happened to the good old days of talk first, shoot later?” Richard asked petulantly, sliding a copper bracelet onto his wrist. “When we were more of an investigation unit, than a SWAT team?"

Slamming a clip into my M16, I pulled the bolt. “Its the way of the world, my friend. Some people make garbage, some cart it away."

"Want me to take care of them?” George asked, hefting his bizarre rifle cannon.

I shook my head. “Naw, shouldn't need any heavy artillery to take out a couple of speedboats. Auras are black, but don't look very powerful."

He shrugged. “If you say so."

Forcing the hatch open against the wind, I hooked an arm around a stanchion and let the lead boat have a full clip, putting a line of holes along the craft at the water line. But the vessel neither sank, nor slowed.

"Interesting. Do you think its too late to try diplomacy?” Mindy asked, extending the tube on a LAW as a preparation for launch.

Before I could answer, she leaned out the hatch and fired. Smoke erupted from the aft end of the tube and a finger of flame stretched from the front to impact directly on a robed figure. In a thunderclap, it disappeared in a ball of rolling flame. But as the smoke cleared, the pilotless boat was still plowing on towards us, steadily increasing in speed.

Both of the wing motors of the DC-3 roared with power and the plane skimmed along the water, hopping from wave crest to wave crest, but never truly becoming airborne.

Father Donaher was praying. Richard and Mindy were head to head conferring. Jessica was sitting cross-legged on the floor, knuckles to her temples. George waited for orders and I thought like crazy while the water boats zoomed ever closer.

"Hassan!” I yelled up the aisle of the plane.

"What?” he answered from the cockpit.

"Take off, now!"

"Can't!"

"Why?"

"Too heavily loaded,” Abduhl cried. “I can't get enough speed!"

I moved to the hatch. “Okay, what can we throw out?"

"Wait,” Richard cried, blocking my way. “Captain Hassan, would lightening the plane by a couple of hundred pounds be sufficient?"

"Maybe,” he relented. “Whacha got in mind?"

Richard scrunched his face in that secret wizard way and nodded. Pulling his wand, the mage got a good grip, muttered something and he floated off the deck into the air. Instantly, the engines increased their noise and the plane left the water rising smoothly into the sky.

Watching from a window, porthole, or whatever the hell it is they call the thing, I saw the six boats converge on our last position, to collide and violently explode, a geyser of water reaching towards the sky and just missing our tail section.

"Whew,” Mindy exhaled, wiping imaginary sweat off her brow. “Close one."

Smiling broadly, Richard agreed. “Safe, at last."

Furious, George turned on them. “Bullshit!” he bellowed, spittle spraying from his mouth. “They found us again! After all the security precautions of headquarters itself. They found us again!"

The mage looked chastised, but Mindy rallied. “Yeah, well—"

George interrupted. “Yeah, well, if it isn't science, magic, psyonics or plain old fashioned tracking. Then what does that leave, eh? What? You damn well know what!"

What remained was something almost too unpleasant to contemplate.

"A traitor?” Father Donaher asked softly, his Irish green eyes round with disbelief.

Jessica dismissed the idea with a haughty hrumph. “There are no traitors in our group,” she announced.

"That you know of,” George countered grimly.

"I know,” Jess said, poking herself in the chest with a finger, the tone of voice daring anybody to challenge her statement.

Graciously, George relented. “Okay, then tell me how. How?"

Unfortunately, that was a question nobody could answer. Yet.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Breaking the debate, I got the group hustling. We had thirty minutes before entering the cloud and a lot of work to get done. Question & Answer time could come later.

Reluctantly, the team members busied themselves sorting and doing inventory on the equipment. Had to move fast, as Richard was determined to stay afloat wasting power until we thinned down the cargo and tossed enough overboard to guarantee flight. I damn well knew that we couldn't heave anything away after reaching the cloud, because opening a window would probably reduce us to smoking skeletons. Which would seriously hinder our fighting abilities.

The culling went smoothly, with only a few oddball items needing a group vote or an executive override, like the electric wok—which went, and the pocket encyclopedia—which stayed, until I encountered a prize.

"What the hell are these?” I asked, raising the molded metal casting into view. “Silver-plated brass knuckles in case we have to punch a werewolf to death?"

Sheepishly, George replied yes.

I tossed them into the discard pile. “Get real."

Soon enough the group was pared down to six back packs, seven jumpsuits with sidearms and four trunks holding our secondary equipment. Everything else was jettisoned without ceremony. I roughly figured that over a million bucks of stuff fed the fish that day. Good thing we're covert, or Congress would have shit kittens over the waste.

As Mindy dogged the hatch shut, Richard tentatively rejoined us on the deck, ready for instant flight. But the plane maintained a level keel and he stood in relief.

"Flying while flying is a weird sensation,” the mage, said, quickly changing into fatigues. “Sort of like ... um—"

"Getting drunk while you're stoned?” Jessica offered.

"Close."

"Swimming up a waterfall?” Father Donaher suggested.

"Closer."

George squinted. “Dancing in an earthquake?"

"Bingo!” Richard cried, and shook the man's hand.

I whistled. “Now that is weird."

Sealing the velcro seam on his Army fatigues, Richard wrapped a white silk ascot about his neck and tucked a violet carnation into the stiff lapel of his uniform. Next, he requested the carved wooden box found in the armory and presented it to us with a flourish. We applauded and then asked what the hell the ugly copper bracelets did?

He happily explained. The bracelets were ethereal batteries, a brand new Bureau invention. The slim bands not only held enough matrixal power for a medium grade conjure, but also a kind of molecular circuit printed inside to cast the spell for you. Not just mages and wizards could use one of these, anybody could. Simply don the bracelet and when you thought the activation phrase, the spell would conjure.

In order, the six copper bracelets contained: a Lightning Bolt, Fire Blast, Meld, Invisibility, Flight and Jump Start. The last was our pet name for this healing spell which could snatch you from death's door and put you back on your feet ready, able and totally healed. The limitations were, it could not be done more than twice in your whole lifetime and only worked when you were at the very edge of life. A split second late in activation and you took the big dirt nap. As it says in the Bureau manual, nothing could actually bring the dead back to life. And believe me, Technical Services has really tried.

However, Meld was the real bizarre spell for we had been unaware that anybody had ever gotten the freak conjure to work correctly. In essence, Meld allowed a person to dematerialize and, ghost-like, phase through an object, wall, door, floor. Once you got to the other side, shazam, you were solid flesh again. Limitations were it only lasted for two minutes and god help you if it wore off while you were still inside something. Your molecular structure would then violently intermingle with that of the barrier, each molecule-in-a-molecule tearing itself apart into sub-atomic particles. Such a catastrophe had actually occurred once, but luckily at the nuclear bomb test site in White Sands, New Mexico, so nobody even noticed the blast. Except the Pentagon, and us.

Excluding Father Donaher, everybody got a bracelet. For perfectly understandable reasons, he did not care to have magical items on his person. Even though we only used white magic, the Catholic Church had decreed that magic was, at best, questionable in origin, and the priest disliked to ever go against the dictates of his religion. The team occasionally sneaked a Heal or Invisibility his way, but we kept it to a minimum, and Donaher would rather die than ask. Literally.

Sporting the Invisibility bracelet, I showed the wizard the box full of derringers. A modified version of the Belgium 9, the tiny gun possessed four short barrels and one trigger, which fired every barrel at once. Chambered for .22 rounds, the pocket pistol held: a silver bullet, a wooden bullet, a cold iron and a phosphorus tracer round as an incendiary. Sort of a general, stop-anything barrage. For a power-drained mage it would be a perfect last ditch weapon.

But more importantly, the pistol did not use gunpowder, or fulminating cotton, or any of the standard munition chemicals as a charge that normally refused to work near a mage. So the derringers would work in the hand of a full charged wizard. Richard demanded to know what was this marvelous substance. Having no idea, I told him it was need-to-know data. He accepted the fib, Jessica bit her tongue and everybody tucked the diminutive weapon into a boot holster designed for the pistol.

Testing the draw on the tiny gun, George glanced at it and his shiny new bracelet. FireBlast, of course. Nothing subtle about Sgt. Renault.

"Techno-mage,” he said with a grin. “I like it."

For some reason, Richard went still at those words.

"Techno-mage,” the wizard repeated, slowly straightening. “Technological magic ... could it ... maybe ... yes, that's it!"

The team gathered around, finding seats where we could on the deck and equipment trunks, his tone and stance informing us that the wizard was having a revelation.

"Its really crazy,” he said, cracking the knuckles on a hand and pacing within our circle. “But do you know what would happen if, say, somebody magical activated a radar scanner?"

"What?” Jess asked eagerly. “What would it do?"

"Such a construct would indicate the position, hell it would pinpoint the location, of any combined techno-magic devices. Whether they were electrical/alchemy, or chemical/ethereal."

"Like seeks like,” Mindy rationalized, her brow furrowed. “How very zen."

"Exactly! And that's a problem."

"Why?” George asked, not sounding very interested. Our jargon bored him as much as his did us.

Donaher slammed his bible shut. “Our Bureau ID cards!"

Now George was as interested as the rest of us.

Richard nodded. “Precisely. Our cards."

"Is such a detection device possible?” I demanded.

"Theoretically. Raul would have known more about such research than me. He was fascinated by obscure and esoteric conjures. Horta was one really weird mage."

A wizard calling another weird? Oh kettle, thou art black.

"Can you do it?” Jessica asked. “Let us find our mysterious enemy?"

"Or jam it?” George added. “So they can't find us?"

"No way. Take a diamond wizard, maybe better."

I blinked. “Better? I thought that was the top."

"That is the general belief,” Richard hedged. “But there are those who postulate that once you reach that high a level of proficiency, the wand will resemble anything you want."