THE 4400® WELCOME TO PROMISE CITY (10 page)

The girl’s face grew pale as she hung on his every word. Watching her trembling grip on the water pitcher, Calabria began to fear for the safety of his spaghetti.

“But do not despair, my child. This evil cannot triumph, not if we strengthen our souls against the godless temptations of promicin. As long as the Church can rely on the prayers and actions of good people like you, this profane movement shall not lure God’s children away from salvation.”

His words seemed to comfort the waitress. She nodded eagerly, and bent to kiss his ring. “Thank you, Your Eminence. I know I’ll sleep better now.”

He rose clumsily from his seat and bestowed a blessing upon her. “Now then, perhaps I can see a dessert menu?”

“Yes, Father, of course!”

Covertly admiring the girl’s backside as she scurried away, he returned to his meal with a definite sense of accomplishment. His encounter with the credulous waitress encouraged him to think that, despite their recent reverses, he and his fellow operatives still had a chance to turn back the tide and prevent Jordan Collier from changing the future. His elevated position at the Vatican gave him influence over literally millions of gullible twenty-first-century primitives, and he aspired to even greater power. Cardinal Emanuel Calabria had come in third in the last papal election, after all, and the current pontiff would not be around forever. If all went according to plan, Jordan Collier’s dangerous ambitions might well disappear in a puff of white smoke …

In the meantime, though, best to be on guard. He nodded at his attentive bodyguards, grateful to have them watching over him. Promise City was many thousands of miles away, but he could not afford to get overconfident. Three of his fellow operatives had already been exterminated, and Collier’s reach was growing by the day. Glancing around the teeming piazza, he suddenly felt uncomfortably exposed. Perhaps he should not have left the tight security of the Vatican?

His guards had actually argued against this outing, in light of the recent threats, but Calabria had overruled their caution. Sometimes he just had to escape the suffocating sanctimony of Vatican City and breathe a little fresh air. Besides, this particular
ristorante
was one of his favorites.

The enticing aroma of the spaghetti reminded him
of his appetite. Stabbing a fat piece of mussel with his fork, he lifted it to his lips. As he started to bite down on it, however, his eyes widened at the sight of a tall black man emerging from the Metro station across the street. Something about the man’s brooding features jogged his memory, but it took him a second to put a name to the face.
I know that man. He’s …

Richard Tyler!

His heart skipped a beat. Tyler’s daughter, Isabelle, had been intended to be the Marked’s ultimate weapon against the 4400, before that operation went badly awry. His contacts in the States had informed Calabria of Tyler’s recent escape from prison, but Rome was the last place he had expected the fugitive American to show up. The cardinal realized at once that this could not be a coincidence.

Their eyes met across the busy street. Tyler’s face was grim and unforgiving. Calabria opened his mouth to alert the guardsmen, but, before he could get a word out, the greasy mussel leapt from his fork and, like a thing alive, jammed itself into his windpipe. Choking, he coughed and clutched his throat, but his convulsive efforts failed to dislodge the meaty obstruction, which seemed to be held in place by an invisible force.
Tyler’s doing this,
the cardinal realized.
He’s out to avenge his daughter’s death!

One of the guards, a strapping blond private named Buchs, raced to Calabria’s aid. Yanking the thrashing victim off his seat, Buchs applied the Heimlich maneuver to no avail; the murderous mussel refused to budge. His face
turning purple, Calabria pointed frantically at Tyler. “It’s him!” he managed to gasp. “With his mind …”

The other guardsman, Roest, got the message. Drawing a SIG P225 automatic pistol from beneath his jacket, he took aim at Tyler. An unseen force yanked his arm upward and he fired uselessly into the sky. A second later, the gun was ripped from his fingers. It arced over the Spanish Steps before splashing down in the Baroque fountain at the base of the steps. The startled soldier yelped in surprise.

Pandemonium erupted along the street and upon the nearby steps. Terrified diners dived under their tables. Panicked tourists and artists ran for cover. Screams disturbed the tranquil winter evening. Only Richard Tyler remained immobile, standing motionlessly across the street. His dark eyes remained fixed on his suffocating target. His stony expression held no hint of mercy.

It’s not fair,
Calabria thought. Unfortunately, the process of implanting a mind into another body left the Marked unable to acquire preternatural abilities of their own. Darkness began to encroach on the cardinal’s vision. His jowly face took on a bluish tint.
I can’t fight back!

Abandoning his futile efforts to perform the Heimlich, Buchs snatched a knife from Calabria’s table setting. The choking cardinal realized in dismay that the desperate bodyguard intended to perform an emergency tracheotomy, minus anesthesia. Calabria braced himself for the pain, but he needn’t have bothered; like the other soldier’s gun, the knife flew from Buchs’s fingers.
The man reached for his gun, only to lose that as well. Gasping for breath, the cardinal couldn’t help being impressed by how many objects Tyler was able to manipulate at once. The man had obviously mastered his telekinetic abilities.

“Get him!” Buchs shouted at Roest. Taking the fight directly to the enemy, the unarmed guards charged across the street at Tyler. Horns honked and brakes squealed as the soldiers fearlessly braved the traffic. An artsy-looking student on a green Vespa scooter swerved frantically to avoid the men, and came skidding to a halt only a few meters away from Calabria’s table. The youth’s eyes bugged out at the chaos in front of him.

Tyler waved his arm and the attacking guards were swept off their feet, as though by a powerful wind. Flailing helplessly, they tumbled down 138 flights of steps before crashing onto the piazza below. Calabria abruptly found himself without defenders.

Or maybe not. Unexpectedly, the pretty waitress from before came dashing from out of nowhere. “Demon!” she hissed as she flung a glass of red wine into Tyler’s face. She hurled herself at the startled 4400, kicking and scratching. “Leave the holy father alone!”

The attack broke Tyler’s concentration. The stubborn mussel burst from Calabria’s lips and he found he could breathe again. Hungrily sucking up huge mouthfuls of air, he lurched away from the table, knocking it over in his haste. China and glassware crashed down onto the sidewalk. Pasta and seafood spilled across the pavement.

The fleeing cardinal couldn’t care less about the mess. He needed to get away while he still had a chance!

But time was already running out. Tyler quickly recovered from the girl’s assault. Showing admirable restraint, he telekinetically lifted her off her feet and tossed her onto the canvas awning over the restaurant’s entrance. A bright red stain soaked the front of his shirt. Scratch marks streaked his face. He wiped the wine from his eyes and looked for Calabria.

The cardinal drew a gun of his own from beneath his cassock. He carried the Beretta with him everywhere, even to Mass. Shaky fingers fumbled too long with the safety. The pistol was painfully wrenched from his hands. It flew straight into Tyler’s waiting grip.

Mannaggia!
Calabria swore. What he wouldn’t give right now for a palm-sized neural disruptor! Just his luck they wouldn’t be invented for another hundred years, and had proved impossible to replicate with mere twenty-first-century materials.

Deprived of a weapon, escape was his only recourse.

Unlike the rest of the crowd, who were fleeing the area in droves, the student with the scooter lingered to take in the action. Desperate to get away, Calabria dragged the youth off the Vespa and claimed the scooter for himself. His black cassock tangled about his legs as he hastily climbed onto the seat. White knuckles gripped the handlebars. He hit the gas.

If I can just put enough distance between myself and Tyler, get out of range of his ability … !

The scooter’s rear wheel spun furiously, but the vehicle
didn’t go anywhere. Calabria fumbled with the controls, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong, then realized that the problem wasn’t with the Vespa. He glanced back over his shoulder to Tyler glaring at him. The vengeful 4400 held on to the scooter with his mind.

Calabria understood that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“No,” he pleaded. “You’ve got the wrong person.” He saw his life as Emanuel Calabria coming to a rapid end. He could only hope that his allies from the future would find him a new host after they recovered the nanites containing his personality. “I had nothing to do with your daughter’s death …”

Richard just stared at the other man. Calabria wondered what he was waiting for.

“You’re looking the wrong way,” a voice called out, speaking Italian with an American accent. Calabria spun his head around to see another black man step out from beneath the awning of a nearby café. He was younger and stockier than Tyler, but had the same grim expression. He furrowed his brow. His eyes narrowed in concentration. “Say your prayers.”

The scooter’s handlebars suddenly grew hot to the touch. The temperature gauge on the dashboard flashed red. Steam rose from the engine mounted behind Calabria. He crossed himself out of sheer force of habit.

The Vespa exploded beneath him.

Richard watched the fireball engulf the Marked cardinal and his hijacked vehicle. He threw up his hands to protect his face from the heat and glare
while simultaneously enclosing the explosion in an invisible bubble to keep any bystanders from being injured by flying shrapnel. Bright orange flames shifted to white-hot as his partner, Yul Lacey, used his thermokinesis to make sure every last inch of Calabria’s body was consumed. It was vital to make sure all the microscopic machines in the cardinal’s brain were destroyed; otherwise the Marked could just implant his consciousness in another innocent host.

Or so it had been explained to him.

A twinge of guilt pricked his conscience. Although he had piloted bombers in Korea, he’d never killed anyone in cold blood before.

This was for Isabelle,
he reminded himself.

Sirens blared from all directions, growing louder by the second. A police car squealed to a halt a few yards back from the burning scooter. Officers in blue uniforms poured out of the car. Shielding themselves behind their vehicle, they drew their guns on Richard and Yul.
“Fermate!”
a tense-looking cop ordered.

Richard flexed his mental muscles. There had been a time, when he was first discovering his abilities, that he could only lift a few small objects at a time, but that was a long time ago. He effortlessly threw the men backward. They scattered like bowling pins as they went rolling down the street. Up on the awning, the heroic waitress wailed in despair.

Enough,
Richard thought. They had done what they had come to do. Now he just wanted to get out of here.
Where’s our ride?

As if on cue, a sleek black Porsche came speeding onto the scene from the opposite direction of the cops. The sports car pulled up to the curb. The passenger side door swung open. The young Goth chick, Evee Borland, called out to the two men. “You guys done here?”

Richard questioned Yul with a look.

“He’s toast,” the other man said, referring to Calabria.

“And the nanites?” Richard asked.

“Nothing but slag.”

That was good enough for Richard. They piled into the Porsche, which drove up onto the sidewalk to execute a tight U-turn before accelerating back toward their safe house in Trastevere. Police cars and fire trucks, their emergency lights flashing, raced past them as they left the cardinal’s scorched ashes behind. Richard slumped back into the passenger seat while Nicole and Yul congratulated themselves on the success of their mission. They had been shadowing Calabria for hours, with the help, ironically enough, of a clairvoyant nun who was one of the original 4400, just waiting for their designated target to leave the safety of the Vatican. Tonight all their efforts had paid off.

So why don’t I feel more euphoric?
Richard wondered. His face stung where the Italian girl had scratched him. Unlike his new comrades, he felt more deflated than elated by tonight’s events. Vengeance turned out to have a bitter aftertaste. He couldn’t help remembering that the real Emanuel Calabria had perished along with the insidious invader occupying his body. He wished there was some way to free the innocent victims of the
Marked instead of simply killing them, but, according to Collier, that was not the case. The only way to eliminate the threat of the Marked was killing them along with their hosts. Richard sighed at the bloody road ahead of him.

One down. Six more to go.

M
ARCO POPPED INTO
the morgue—literally.

One minute the tardy genius was nowhere to be seen. The next, he suddenly appeared between Tom and Diana as they waited for him in NTAC’s private medical facility. Floppy brown hair needed combing. Intelligent brown eyes peered out from behind a pair of horn-rimmed black glasses. He wore a tweedy jacket over a faded concert T-shirt. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Marco!” Diana blurted, startled by his abrupt manifestation. She clutched her chest to quiet the racing of her heart. “You know you’re not supposed to do that. Especially not at work.”

The endearingly nerdy analyst had gained the ability to teleport after surviving fifty/fifty. Pretty much everyone at NTAC knew what he could do, but public displays of promicin abilities were strongly discouraged. Diana shook her head in disapproval. Marco knew better than to ’port around like that. What if some higher-up from D.C. was visiting?

“I know,” he admitted. “But it’s just so convenient. And I didn’t want to keep you folks waiting.” He glanced around the sterile, stainless-steel morgue. “So what did I miss?”