Paranormals (Book 1) (27 page)

"Or maybe even take another shot at the Davison kid," Mark threw in.

That definitely made Russell uneasy. "Really? I mean, we’ve been
hoping
that Richard was after Joseph himself, and the rest of them were just unfortunate to have been there. Do you really think he’s after
Steve
now?"

"No way to know for sure, sir," Michael admitted, "but I wouldn’t discount the strong possibility." He made a show of glancing around. "Is Steve here tonight?"

Russell swallowed and made a little half-grunt as he cleared his throat. "He was here going over some paperwork earlier — trying to learn the ins-and-outs of the business, you know — but I think he already turned in."

"Is he residing here, then? I understand that his family home was destroyed."

Russell bowed his head. "Sadly, yes. I had an efficiency apartment next to the main office, left over from the days when Joseph and I were trying to get this ‘little company’ off the ground. Steve is using it."

Mark glanced at Michael, unsure of where all this verbal tap-dancing was leading. He was trying to jump in where he could, but subtlety wasn’t exactly his style — he didn’t want to inadvertently screw up his partner’s plans.

Michael gestured with his head towards the last of the departing ambulances. "By the way, congratulations on securing the intruders so successfully."

Now Russell was really squirming, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The night air was quite cool, but a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. He also kept grunting his throat clear. "Thank you, Ensign, but we, uh, we didn’t secure them."

"Really?" Michael feigned surprise. "Oh, then the
police
must have shown up in time. How lucky that they were equipped to handle the three rogues. The women will be labeled Class One, I’m sure."

Russell grunted, looking to the ground. "Well ... um, I don’t believe it was the
police
, either."

"Not you, and not the police? I’m sorry, Mister Russell, I’m a bit confused."

The man suddenly perked up, all but leaping onto Michael’s words. "Yes, it
is
confusing. Very confusing. You see, by the time we got here, the three rogues had already been incapacitated. We’re not really sure
what
happened. Very confusing."

"That’s very odd, and very interesting." Michael turned to his partner, wide-eyed. "Maybe she was telling us the
truth
after all, Shockwave, do you think?"

"Looks like it," Mark mused so thoughtfully that Michael had to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid smiling.

"I’m sorry?" Russell probed.

Michael turned back to him. "The woman with the blindfold tried selling us some tall-tale about a vigilante. A
costumed
vigilante, no less, like something out of a movie. Apparently went by the codename ‘Vortex,’ or some such. Well, we didn’t
believe
her, of course — Shockwave figured that she was inventing a smokescreen to distract us from her breaking-and-entering. But now, if you say that
your
security team didn’t stop them ... well, we’ll just have to look into the matter with more scrutiny than we first thought. We can’t have some paranormal loose cannon coming and going as he pleases, now can we?"

Russell stood there, not speaking, just occasionally grunting.

Michael placed a hand on his shoulder. "I’ll tell you what, Mister Russell. We don’t want anything else to happen here, or to Steve. I mean, we’re not even sure what exactly the rogues were after tonight. One of your men told me this building is just a storage facility?"

"Yes," Russell affirmed softly.

"Hmm. Seems a little pointless, to risk trespassing on such a well-guarded property as this just to steal a few supplies. It might have even been a reconnaissance mission gone bad, thanks to our mysterious vigilante." He gripped Russell’s shoulder again, very friendly like. "I will speak to our captain personally. With any luck, I’ll be able to get some P C Agents assigned to Steve for protection, preferably some agents who previously worked for the Secret Service." Now he offered his most charming smile. "I’ll make sure they stay by Steve’s side at all times. For all we know, this vigilante could be involved with the Davison family’s deaths as well. If anything illicit is going on, we’ll know about it right away."

Russell looked as though he were in very dire need of a trip to the bathroom. Which was just the reaction Michael was going for.

"Take care, Mister Russell. We’ll be in touch right away. If you think of anything that you want or need to tell us, you can reach us through the PCA. Good night, sir."

PCA

As soon as they got into the car, Shockwave began howling with laughter.

"Oh, man, kid! Jarrah is right about you! You would’ve made a helluva cop!"

Mike grinned as he started the car and pulled away from the scene. "Really? What makes you say that?"

"Don’t play dumbass with me, young’n!" Westmore chided, playfully punching Michael in the shoulder. "You did everything but read that guy his Miranda Rights! ‘If anything illicit is going on, we’ll know about it right away.’ I
love
it! I take it you think Russell’s involved in whatever the hell is going on?"

Michael half-shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. If he is — and he
did
seem untowardly nervous, especially once this ‘Vortex’ was brought up — then I want to give him something to think about. If not, I’m sure our conversation will at least get passed on to Davison himself, and then
he
 can sweat over it."

Westmore reclined his seat back a couple of notches. "
You’re
the brains of this duo, young’n. Just let me know when we have a target and I’ll shove a shockwave right up his ass."

POWERHOUSE

Lincoln never knew he was capable of
Hate
.

This wasn’t to be confused with small-time
"hate." Lincoln hated his father. He hated the apathetic foster system that left him in such an emotional void for so many years. He hated his new paranormal strength and the social stigma it brought down upon him.

But he
Hated
Richard McLane.

With every thought, with every breath, with every ounce of his total being, he Hated McLane. He dreamed about killing him — about crushing his throat, about breaking his spine, about tearing his cold heart right out of his chest. He fantasized about seizing his face and slowly — oh, so
slowly
— squeezing his skull as the evil man, the
Evil
man, screamed and cried and pleaded for mercy. On one lonely afternoon, as he ate a tasteless TV dinner, he even toyed with reworking a poem he’d learned in school so that it would perhaps give proper expression of his Hatred for the Evil man: "How do I Hate thee? Let me count the ways ..." But he got no further than that before realizing that it could never hope to truly capture his feelings on the matter.

All this and more, he
Hated
Richard McLane ...

... and there was not a damned thing that he could do about it.

He had received two letters from Tommy and Sarah since their belied abduction. As near as he could tell, they seemed all right — they missed him, but they were having fun on some ranch where they were allowed to ride horses every day. They didn’t even seem to know that they were hostages.

Since his initial "assignment," Lincoln had only been forced to sit in on one more of McLane’s meetings, but a phone call earlier today informed him that he was to report once again to the faux recording studio at nine o’clock. As he collected his ski mask and jogging suit — and
gloves
— he found his hands shaking. He would have to see the Evil man again, and he wasn’t looking forward to another battle with his own self-control. Sooner or later, he might slip ... and then God only knew what would happen to his brother and sister.

PCA

"Ah, Powerhouse, come in and sit down."

Lincoln did as he was told.

There were more rogues in attendance tonight than Lincoln had seen before. Everyone he already knew was present, with the notable exception of Ms. Waid, and there were a dozen more men and women. One man had leathery skin; another man had enlarged, piranha-like teeth. Other than that, everyone
appeared
as normal as Lincoln, but he knew they wouldn’t be here if that were truly the case — the only norm in the room was the Evil man himself. In addition to the larger number of attendees, it took Lincoln a few minutes to realize that something else was different as well: Everyone was being unusually quiet. It was almost an awed hush, like a church congregation waiting for the minister to arrive. He was tempted to ask what was going on, but the only other rogues he knew by name were the loud-mouth asshole, Graham, and the leeching doctor, Philip Seymour. So, instead, he contented himself to merely sit and stare death at McLane, passing the next few quiet minutes fantasizing about jamming his fingers into McLane’s skull like a bowling ball.

If Lincoln’s glare bothered McLane in the slightest, he betrayed no sign of it. Instead, he merely sat, conferring with the acne-scarred man as usual. When he finally perked up, smiled, and stood, it was by no cue that Lincoln had seen.

"Ladies and gentlemen," McLane spoke, as though he needed to get the silent group’s attention. "We’re privileged this evening to host a very special guest. I’m sure that you’ve all heard of Isaiah Khalkha..."

A nervous ripple washed over the listeners. At first, Lincoln had no idea who this "Isaiah Khalkha" person was, or why he would cause such a stir. Then he recalled a conversation he’d overheard at the last meeting he’d been roped into. If it was this "Khalkha" that Graham and the other man had been talking about ...

"... appreciate his efforts on our common behalf," McLane was still oozing with uncharacteristic relish. "He has been very pleased with our accomplishments, and has therefore agreed to meet with us." He turned toward the front of the studio. "Isaiah?"

Lincoln blinked in surprise — what, had one of the leaders of their little rogue mafia been waiting outside this whole time?

Sure enough, the door opened, and a magnetic, dark-complected man entered. He appeared to be of Mongolian descent, but his features were mellowed by equally-apparent European heritage. There were no obvious paranormal traits to him, but if this
was
the same man that Graham had been blathering about, then Lincoln knew that was the most deceptive illusion of all.

Most paranormals tended to have only one ability, or one
set
of abilities — a paranormal who developed, say, canine powers might grow large teeth to go along with their improved sense of smell and hearing ... if not a snout and entire body of fur. More often than not, these "groupings" made sense. Lincoln’s strength would have done him little good without the accompanying invulnerability — otherwise he would have broken his own body to pieces.

But
Isaiah Khalkha
was apparently among the rarest of the rare: A paranormal with an amalgamation of seemingly unrelated abilities. According to Graham, rumor had it that he was strong
and
fast
and
telekinetic, superhuman attributes that would normally be spread over three paranormals rather than contained within this one innocuous-looking rogue. It was no surprise that he engendered such tension among people whose natural impulse had been to use their own abilities to dominate others.

Lincoln, on the other hand, could not have cared less. Khalkha meant nothing to him, the other rogues meant nothing to him. The
only
thing that mattered was finding some chance, some way, to locate and free Tommy and Sarah, and then seek his revenge on ...

Lincoln glanced back to McLane and was surprised to notice a vacant glaze over the man’s eyes. It wasn’t anything so extreme as catatonia, but the man’s mind did suddenly appear to be miles away. Having spent so much time scrutinizing McLane recently, Lincoln found that very interesting. The man was, after all, Evil, and always struck Lincoln as extremely focused ... all the better to plot his next callous deed, no doubt. Now this infamous rogue had joined them ... and McLane was daydreaming?