Read Monster Hunter Nemesis Online
Authors: Larry Correia
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Contemporary, #Urban
Monster Hunter Nemesis (13 page)
Franks snarled as he brought it out of the slide. Tire smoke floated in the cabin. Something had cut him on the forehead and he was bleeding into one eye, but he could see that the ambulance wasn’t that far away. Its brake lights came on. They were stopping. Franks mashed the accelerator to the floor, intending to ram them. Kurst’s new body was tough, but it probably wouldn’t survive being turned into a red pavement smear. The ambulance doors opened. They were bailing out. Franks calmly reached over and put his seat belt on. He got it up to nearly fifty before the impact.
Only it wasn’t the ambulance.
His first clue that something was wrong was when the air quivered and the ambulance disappeared.
It was an illusion.
Franks stomped on the brakes, but the second clue came half a second later when the front end of the stolen police car smashed into a brick wall.
* * *
“It’s Foster.”
Stricken had been eagerly awaiting this call. The secure bands were all talking about a massacre at MCB headquarters and most of them were implicating Franks as the perp. There was so much to do. So many plans hinged on Franks being eliminated. This was like Christmas morning. He took the phone from his subordinate and hit the answer button. “Yes, Mr. Foster?”
“Foster’s dead, man! There are cops everywhere!”
“Renfroe?” It was one of his people but he was no operative. Renfroe was a glorified sys-admin who’d been marked by Fey and been lucky enough to end up with useful abilities rather than the normal Fey-related outcome of
dead
. It was always a roll of the dice what you’d end up with when you pissed off a witch queen. “What happened?”
“Franks shot him in the face. He gut-shot the Spider and she’s squirting green stuff everywhere. I guess he killed some of your other guys inside, maybe, I don’t know. And he messed up two of your weirdos. I didn’t sign up for this. They were killing innocent people!”
“Calm down, Mr. Renfroe . . .” People with functioning moral compasses were such crybabies, but his ability to communicate directly with electronics was invaluable. “This is very important. Did you alter the security footage in the manner I directed?”
“Sure. That was a piece of cake. With the Spider’s magic, I didn’t even have to tweak too much around your killer weirdos. I moved some events in the timeline and—”
“Wonderful. Are my weirdos—as you so eloquently call them—still alive?”
“I don’t see how, but yeah . . .” Renfroe was starting to hyperventilate. “I’m looking at one missing half his face and the other one is picking big chunks of broken glass out of his stomach right now.”
“Then please give the phone to the large white one.”
There was the sound of shaking and rustling from the other end of the line. “Yes?” the First Prototype answered.
“Status?”
He was emotionless in his report. “Our handlers are dead. We are wounded. The primary target’s status is unknown. He was in a car wreck. Local authorities were converging on him when we lost sight.”
Even busted up, it was doubtful that some regular DC cops would be able to take down Franks unless he went willingly, and if Franks went quietly that meant he had plans of his own. “Fuck!” Stricken kicked a wastepaper basket across the room. Everyone in the command center glanced his way in fear. That was an unusual display of emotion from their leader. Stricken took a deep breath and counted to ten. He could hear sirens as background noise on Kurst’s side. “Are you in danger of being spotted?”
“Negative. We are secure.”
He had a pickup team in place. “Don’t move. I’m sending a unit.”
“Requesting permission to pursue the primary, I am still ninety percent combat effective.”
Of course he was. The Nemesis assets were designed to be hard as nails. “Denied. Hold for extraction.” Stricken handed the phone back. That subordinate took their location while Stricken walked over to the nearest monitor. He’d hoped to have Franks nice and dead, not on the run.
However, this was still manageable. There were pros and cons to every outcome. This temporary disappointment was hardly insurmountable. Stricken folded his arms and thought it over while reading the intercepts scrolling across the screen. It made his people uncomfortable when he’d just stand there and watch over their shoulders, but he wasn’t exactly the type of leader who employees invited to their summer barbeques and he was in no danger of ever being gifted a Boss of the Year coffee mug. Stricken considered himself more
results oriented.
“Anything?”
“Metro police found the car but no sign of Franks,” said the man Stricken was looming over. “They’ve set up a perimeter and have called in a chopper and a dog team to search for him.”
“MCB?”
“They’re calling the shots with the locals. The Washington SAC just got woken up. They’ve got the NSA monitoring all comms in the area in case he tries to contact anyone,” answered a different office minion. “Franks placed one call to Dwayne Myers during his escape. No transcript of that one yet.”
It would probably be pushing his luck to have Myers picked up as an accessory, though it was sorely tempting. “The minute you get that transcript I want to see it. MCB will be shell-shocked, but the explosives were all left in nonvital areas.” He wanted Franks gone, he didn’t want to permanently damage his other assets in the war against the supernatural, just wake them up. “They’ll get their shit together in short order.”
“FBI and DHS are on their way in,” reported the first one. “That’s a lot of outsiders on the case.”
He could tell that his inner circle was scared. They were volunteers. Everyone here knew the real score. They understood that even dirty wars were worth winning. All of them were in deep. If they got caught, every last one of them was looking at prison time. If Franks flipped this and somehow exposed STFU’s actions, Stricken wouldn’t hang alone.
Fear was an excellent motivator.
One of his men approached cautiously. “Orders, sir?”
“First off, the Task Force will offer our assistance to our sister agency in their time of need. We’ll coordinate as we normally would with the MCB. This is just another case involving a monster. Second, we debrief our team and figure out if we’ve left any loose threads that need cutting. Anything that doesn’t lead straight to Franks, we squash it.”
The entire command center staff was staring at him, waiting. Word of Foster’s death had already spread around the office. Foster was a bit of a sociopath, and hadn’t exactly been beloved, but he’d been one of their own.
“Don’t worry. This isn’t a setback at all. Franks escaping actually works to our benefit.”
He could tell they didn’t believe him. A few men were studying their shoes.
It was time to rally the troops.
“You know, this whole thing reminds me of a story. When I was a kid, I lived in a really small town. Poor place. I’m talking a real shit town. We even had a problem with stray dogs. They’d hang out at the landfill and form packs. They started breaking through our fences and attacking our pigs. We shot a few of them, but you’ve got to sleep sometime. A dirty job like protecting pigs from wild dogs sucks when you’re on your own and nobody in charge gives a shit.”
A few men chuckled. It sounded a lot like their thankless job.
“My dad complained to the town council. He said it was only a matter of time before somebody got hurt bad, but oh no, they said they didn’t have the budget to deal with animal control . . . I guess that really pissed my dad off, because he drove to a city a few counties over, went to the pound, and picked out the biggest, most vicious dog he could find. I’m talking nasty mean. They’d pulled it out of a fighting ring where they’d been beating it with bloody ropes, that sort of thing. That dog was a real piece of work. I don’t know who he bribed to keep them from putting that monster down.”
Stricken surveyed his kingdom. It was very silent. The few smiles had died. He kept his voice cold and hard. “So my dad snuck this god-awful beast over to the elementary school and let it loose right before recess . . . One little boy got mauled and had to get reconstructive surgery for his face. Sure . . . Dad was kind of an asshole like that, but you know what? After that very public incident the town council found their balls and their budget. The rest of those wild dogs got taken care of right quick and the town was safe.”
The command center was
very
quiet.
Franks was dangerous on the loose, but that danger would make for a great selling point for his next pitch to the POTUS. After all, it was Stricken who had warned everyone about Franks’ volatile nature, while his rival Myers had gone to bat for the freak. So a murderous Franks rampaging across the capital was actually a good thing . . .
briefly.
“Call up the Flierls. Mad dogs can be useful sometimes, but you’ve still got to put them down.”
CHAPTER 6
This new empty body was so miraculous that it attracted my kind like flies. We’d never seen anything like it before. Necromancers and wizards had been creating bodies for a long time, but none of them had been very good, worthy only for lesser demons. The weaklings like the succubi and the imps had found ways, but there was rarely a body fit for a warrior or a prince to be found.
In their attempt to figure out the mysteries, humans had created a new trade, a blend of scientist and wizard they called alchemists. The greatest among them was Johann Konrad Dippel. He had invented a potent formula called the Elixir of Life, except every attempt to utilize its healing powers upon the living ended in death. So he decided to work backwards, using the dead to test his potions. Dippel believed only a perfect body could utilize his perfect Elixir. He became a sculptor of flesh and bone. He was an artist, and his masterpiece was a body like nothing any of the Fallen had seen before.
Dippel was not the first to attempt to imitate the Creator. He was just the first who was good at it. Possessing a body like that meant that it would be almost impossible to send one of the Fallen back to the Void.
Many of us watched from the shadows as Dippel worked. He understood the flesh, but he did not understand the spirit. He was unaware that he had created a beacon for the damned. He worked under a cloud of covetous demons. We were jealous of man’s creativity and imagination, but that was nothing compared to the hatred we had for each other. We fought amongst ourselves, each of the Fallen demanding rights to the body.
Then the strongest of the host who had escaped into the mortal world claimed the body for himself. He had been a prince in heaven and a general in the war. He declared that once complete this perfect body would be his, and he would use it to thwart the Creator’s work in the mortal world once and for all.
He had a name once, but since we had been cast out, we only knew him by the title branded upon him when the Creator had hurled us into the Void.
The weak spirits fled from Cursed.
I had other ideas.
* * *
Washington, DC, was a bipolar city. One portion was big buildings, monuments, government lackeys, and tourists. The other was impoverished slums, bad neighborhoods, drug dealers, and gang warfare. Franks went directly to the one that had fewer cameras.
He knew how the search would go because he’d been involved in creating the MCB’s contingency plans. They would make up a terrible but mundane crime, send it to the media, and then splash his picture and description everywhere. Every cop in the region would be on the lookout. It was times like this that he wished he’d built his current body out of average-sized pieces. Being bigger than most NFL linebackers was inconvenient when you were a fugitive. He could swap out body parts, but that required corpses and a place for surgery. Franks could change many of his limbs and organs on his own, but stitching a new face on—and having it actually fit and not look like a bad Halloween mask—was beyond what he could accomplish on his own.
The police had been all over the wreck a minute after he’d crashed through the side of a convenience store, but he’d already been long gone before they’d set up their perimeter. He’d ditched his damaged suit coat and found a black raincoat hanging on a peg by the back door. It was far too tight on his shoulders and he couldn’t even button it, but it had a hood to hide his face. Franks had fled on foot, sticking to the shadows for a few blocks before he’d found a car to hot-wire.
Once he was out of the immediate vicinity of the crime scene, Franks had pulled over and removed a flask from his pocket. He did not want to be driving when he took a swig of the potent, glowing liquid inside. Drinking the Elixir of Life caused a sensation like inhaling ignited napalm, but he was injured, and if he wanted to continue at this pace, he’d need to be in top shape.
He took a drink, and then carefully screwed the cap back on before swallowing. The single dose of the potent alchemical mixture rolled down his throat like molten lava.
Every pain receptor in Franks’ body fired at once. His muscles locked up tight. It was like running hot sandpaper over every tissue in his body. He ground his teeth together and didn’t let out a sound. Several seconds of his supercharged nervous system electrocuting itself later, Franks came back to reality. His grip had bent the steering wheel. Blood ran freely from his nostrils and eyes, but he just wiped it away with some tissues he’d found in the glove box and got back on the road.
That was the stuff.
It still hurt, but now it was the tolerable pain of bone splinters dragging themselves back into place. The sensation would drive most humans mad, but for Franks it just required a bit more concentration to drive safely. He didn’t like the term
pain threshold.
That implied there was an upper limit to the suffering he could withstand. If there was such a thing in the mortal world, he’d not found it yet. Franks took an inventory of each injury. Anything that would eventually heal on its own could be drastically sped up by the Elixir. Nothing felt irreparably damaged. There were still bullet fragments lodged in his muscle tissue. He’d have to cut those out when he had a chance.
There would be no quarter from the MCB. Even if some of them suspected that he was innocent, they would still do their duty and track him down until ordered off the case. He’d trained them so he’d expect nothing less than their best. They’d have checkpoints at every route out of the city. His credit cards would be monitored, but he always kept a couple thousand in cash on his person, so that wouldn’t be an immediate problem. The stolen 9mm had gone out the window in the crash, so all he had was the Glock he’d snagged at headquarters and half a single partially expended magazine of silver 10mm. His apartment would be watched. He had a very short list of associates and acquaintances, and the MCB would put someone on each of them as well.
Yet he was not without resources. He had stashes the MCB didn’t know about. Once again, three hundred years of hard-earned paranoia would pay off. Franks drove the stolen Honda Civic to the worst neighborhood in DC. The narrow street he was looking for was on the back side of a housing project. Even if security cameras had ever been installed here, they would not have lasted long before one of the locals would have used them for target practice.
Most of the streetlights were dead. There were broken bottles in the gutters. If his stolen car got a flat tire, he was going to be pissed. Franks found the house he was looking for. It was rundown, even by this neighborhood’s standards. There was a cinder block wall around the backyard. The graffiti on the wall was similar to the signs at his apartment. The local human thugs knew not to mess with the secret horrible supernatural terrors that lived here. Only a fool would intrude on gnome turf.
The car’s interior light came on when he opened the door. Not wanting to be spotted, and not bothering to look for the off switch, he just punched the light and broke it. It took a minute for Franks to maneuver himself out of the Honda. He’d barely fit inside to begin with and got one leg stuck under the bent steering wheel. He’d steal something roomier as soon as he had a chance. Franks didn’t appreciate
economy.
He appreciated horsepower, ramming capability, and legroom, in that order.
Franks approached the building. Most passersby would assume it was a crack house, but that would probably be a step up. Several dogs started barking. It was after two in the morning and speakers in the backyard were still playing loud rap music. The bass was a constant distorted rumble. He knew that there were already eyes and probably guns on him, so he kept his hands where they could be seen. He skipped the front door and went to the side gate, which had a skull and crossbones painted on it. Not bothering to knock, he just pushed the gate open and went inside.
It wasn’t several dogs, it was just one, but it had three heads so it made three times the noise. Each head was barking and snarling at him and the animal was the size of a calf. There was a leather leash attached to its spiked collar and a foot and a half of gnome muscle was hauling back on the beast, keeping it from attacking Franks. “Hold up, homie . . . Damn, you tall!” the gnome shouted over the noise.
The barking was getting on his nerves and he still had a headache from the Elixir. “Down!” Franks snapped at the superdog. All three heads stopped barking. Franks scowled at it, and the dog began to whimper. It rolled over submissively.
The gnome handler was shocked by his normally vicious animal’s immediate surrender. “Who you be?” he asked nervously.
“Franks.”
There were other sentries approaching. Gnomes seemed to appear out of the woodwork. Every one of them was packing heat, but none of them were stupid enough to pull. Normally they’d be flashing gang signs and talking smack, but most of them either knew who he was, or could sense that he wasn’t to be trifled with. “What you want, tall man?” one demanded.
“Tell Olaf I want my stuff.”
“Old Olaf done got his ass capped.” A younger gnome, his beard barely halfway down his chest, approached with a swagger. “Looks like you came into the wrong yard, motherfucker!”
The one with the dog tried to warn the punk off. “Yo,
tomte
. That’s
the
Franks. He’s likely to shoelace your face just to learn you better.”
“I don’t know no Franks.” Other gnomes tried to shush the young upstart, but it was too late. He lifted his shirt and flashed the cheap piece-of-shit .25 automatic shoved in his waistband. “You’d best step off fo’ I bust a cap in yo—”
Franks kicked him over the fence.
The gnome disappeared into the night. He’d left behind a gold chain and one shoe. There was a collective gasp as the other gnomes took a few nervous steps back.
“The rest of you know who I am?”
Most of them nodded.
“Then get my stash . . . Now.”
A bunch of them took off running.
“Turn that shit off.” The gangster rap fell silent. Franks folded his arms and waited while the rest of the gnomes watched him hesitantly. A few turned invisible, hoping he wouldn’t notice them. Gnome culture was big on bluster; they’d been pushy in the old country, and they’d naturally taken to the thug life here, but Franks had been dealing with gnomes since he’d wandered across northern Europe hundreds of years ago, and some things never changed. The best way to deal with punks was by establishing dominance, and luckily for Franks, establishing dominance came naturally. There was a lot of whispering about him being the
tallest
. “What are you looking at?” Franks asked one of the gnomes.
“Nothing, Mr. Franks!” The gnome averted his eyes.
They dragged up two big plastic hard cases from their underground tunnels. It took six gnomes on each to carry them. They dropped the suitcases at Franks’ feet and then scurried away. He checked to make sure the locks hadn’t been tampered with. Olaf might have been a criminal scumbag, but he’d kept his word in exchange for Franks not stomping the life out of his little PUFF-applicable gang. He put in the combination and opened one to make certain it was as he’d left it.
“What’s in them boxes?” asked one of the gnomes. Several of them scooted forward, hopelessly curious. When they saw what was inside there was a chorus of
oohs
and
aaahs.
“You mean to fuck somebody’s shit up real good, G!”
“Yes.” Satisfied, he closed the case, then picked them both up. They weighed over two hundred pounds each. Gnomes got into everything, everywhere, so it couldn’t hurt to ask. “His name is Stricken. He’s with a group called Special Task Force Unicorn.”
“Everybody knows there ain’t no such thing as unicorns,” said one of the gnomes. “Yeah, we know that tall white scary motherfucker and his
deals
. His crew is monsters and shit. Even badass straight-up
tomte
killas don’t play that game. PUFF exemption is for chumps.”
“I got my PUFF exemption right here,” one of the gnomes grabbed his crotch. The other ones hooted and fist-bumped.
“Find him for me.”
“Sounds like work. How much green you talking about, G?” asked another gnome suspiciously.
“The next time one of you makes me mad, I’ll remember the favor and not kill you all,” Franks stated. He scanned the short crowd as that sank in. The gnomes knew he wasn’t lying. “I was never here.”
The gnomes breathed a collective sigh of relief as Franks left their yard.
* * *
The phone woke her. She fumbled around, knocking things off the nightstand looking for it. That was the problem with sleeping in a different hotel almost every night. Sure, she had heightened senses and could see in the dark, but she needed to actually open her eyes for that to work, and she was too tired to do that.
She found the phone. The number was unknown. “What?”
“You’re on, Red.” It was Stricken. “There’s been a situation.”
“There’s always a situation . . .” Of the many complaints she had about being forced to work for STFU, boredom wasn’t one of them. Heather Kerkonen rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s time to get your ass out of bed, go downstairs, and meet your new team.”
“The only reason I need a new team is because you got my old one killed.”
“Those are the breaks . . . So how much time do you have left before you earn your PUFF exemption?”
She resisted the urge to chuck the cell phone across the room.
“Come on, Heather. I know you know it off the top of your head.”
She felt like a prisoner making hash marks on the wall of a cell. “Three hundred and seventy-two days.”
“Aw, you’re almost halfway there! Too bad for those three hundred and seventy-two days I own you.”
“There’s an Amendment about that,” she grumbled.
“Funny. I don’t remember the Emancipation Proclamation saying anything about werewolves. Be downstairs in twenty minutes.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, before realizing that Stricken had already hung up.
I hate that guy.
Heather had far better control of her werewolf urges than anyone else of her kind, but sometimes it was fun to imagine chasing a terrified Stricken through a forest like he was a deer, but since she was still a good person, she didn’t like to think about the parts where she caught up and ripped him to pieces . . .
much.