Thirst No. 3 (23 page)

I don’t know the extent of their mental powers. It’s possible
they have none, and the only way they will be able to get by the guards will be to use force. Yet with two hundred agents focused on protecting this room and its occupants, it would be a desperate strategy. All agents are equipped with handguns, but a small number will have Uzis—handheld machine guns.

Two of the four reach the door. To my surprise, I discover they’re women. I listen as they try to bluff their way inside. Their technique is a virtual replay of my own. It’s a fact then—whoever they are, they possess at least basic telepathic abilities. I watch as the women slip past the guards, and I feel depressed. I had hoped to have shelter for a while, time to plan my next move.

The women are tall, sleek, with copper skin and dark brown hair so thick it would intimidate any modern stylist. They look like figures lifted from an ancient Egyptian pyramid wall. Their dress, however, is plain, and I understand why. They wear coats like mine, but they’ve made a mistake by bringing guns into the president’s ballroom. In the bulges of their pockets, I see signs of their arrogance. However, I’m surprised they were able to get the weapons past the metal detectors.

I hear two men at the door persuading the agents that they, too, are invited guests. It won’t be long before all four are inside. I have to move fast. Acting scared, I approach three female agents.

“Excuse me, but I think you have a problem,” I say.

The shortest of the agents studies me. “What’s wrong, ma’am?”

I nod to the two females, who stare at me from the other side of the room. If looks could kill . . . Their eyes are so cold I think of them as witches. Between them, they make rapid hand gestures, employing a subtle form of sign language no one else would notice. They’re smart—they know if they speak, I’ll hear them. Of course, they can hear what I’m saying, there’s no point in being too coy.

“You have a security breach. Those two women standing over there got in here without presenting any form of ID. They’re armed.”

The short agent is amused. “I hardly think that’s likely, ma’am.”

“You have no reason to believe me, but please, check them out and you’ll see what I mean.” I catch the woman’s eye and light a fuse between her synapses. I raise my voice. “For God’s sake, look at them. Their coat pockets are bulging. They look like goddamn terrorists. Do you want to be the first secret service agents to be directly responsible for the death of a president?”

Shorty turns to her partners. “Janice, Debbie—approach the women from the front. Ask for ID and try to establish what door they came through. Be polite. I’ll be behind them, ready to take action if necessary.” Shorty glances at me. “Satisfied?”

“Thank you. Be careful, those witches are the real thing. They’ll start shooting the instant they feel cornered. I’d bring more backup.”

“We know what we’re doing,” Shorty says.

The agents move off, and I silently wish them good luck. It’s against my nature to send humans after monsters. But I don’t know what else to do. I can’t die, I can’t surrender, not when I don’t know what these strangers are capable of.

The male half of the foursome makes it past the agents at the door and heads directly for me. They’ve seen me point out their partners. Before they reach my part of the room, I cower behind two agents, one tall and well built, a guy in his thirties, the other thin and close to retirement. I gesture to the men who are after me.

“Those guys have guns,” I say quickly, in a panicked voice.

The older of the two agents frowns. “How do you know that?”

“I was behind them when I arrived here. They weren’t frisked. They weren’t required to go through a metal detector. The guard at the gate did whatever they told him. Are they part of the secret service?”

The old guy glances at his partner, then at me. “No, they’re not. May I ask what your name is and why you’re here?”

“Lindy Addage. You’ll find my name on the guest list. I’m here with the
Los Angeles Times
. I was hoping to get a quote from the president about his feeling about the games. But I got here early and got stuck in the line with those two goons. I’m telling you, there’s something creepy about them.”

I notice the two males have stopped and are watching me.

The old guy is undecided. “Did you actually see their guns?”

“Definitely. They’re carrying them inside their coats.” I can see the weapons bulging through their jackets from where I stand. “Please, talk to them at least, check their IDs. What harm can it do?”

The old guy nods. “What do you think, Ted?”

“Like the lady says, Mike, it can’t hurt.”

“Let me go with you,” I add.

“What?” Mike exclaims.

“I’m the one accusing them. Let me do it to their faces.”

“She has a point,” Ted says. “It’s not like we can’t protect her.”

Ted is making a joke, but the irony of his remark weighs on me as we head toward the assassins. I fear to leave the agents alone, afraid they’ll be killed. I wish I could have accompanied the women agents, but I had to alert the secret service to both groups of killers.

I have no idea how the assassins are going to react.

“Prepare for a fight,” I say to Mike and Ted as we near the males, adding power to my voice. “They’ve come to kill, and they’re not afraid to die. Put a hand on your guns now.”

Mike and Ted jump at my command. They obey.

I note they’re wearing bulletproof vests. Good.

I glance in the direction of the female agents and the witches. The group is having a casual conversation, and I worry the latter have already used their mental powers on the women. There’s nothing I can do about it at the moment.

“Gentlemen. How are you doing this evening?” Mike says as we stop before the assassins. They bear no resemblance to their female counterparts. Both are tall, blond, and blue-eyed, with clearly marked Nordic bloodlines. They wear the same type of watch that Claudious Ember did, the one that worked as a communication device. I notice they both angle the watches so they’re pointed at me. More people are watching this party than meets the eye.

The male on the right frowns. His partner forces a smile. It’s curious how clumsy both expressions are. These two don’t get out much; they have no social graces. Smiley speaks first.

“We are having very good time, thank you,” he says.

“May I ask your names, please?” Mike asks.

“Why?” the sullen male responds.

His happy buddy smiles some more. “My name is Edward Simmons. This is my partner, Thomas Freeman. We are with the press, the
Times
. We have identification. Would you like to see it?”

“Love to,” Mike replies, concerned. “You say you work for the
Times
, but you’re obviously not Brits. What’s that accent I hear?”

“I’m from Norway. Thomas is from Holland. Perhaps I confuse issue. My English not so good. We both employed by
Amsterdam Times
.” Mike hands over two ID badges, adding, “We here to cover Olympics.”

Mike studies their identification, still keeping a grip on the
gun on his hip. “This looks legit,” he says, handing back the badges.

“Thank you, sir,” Edward says.

“Now may I see your invitation for tonight’s event?” Mike says.

“Pardon?” Edward mutters.

“As I’m sure you know, this is a presidential event. Only those who have been personally invited by the White House are allowed here tonight. You must have shown your invitation at the door. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have let you inside.”

Edward glances at his partner, loses most of his smile. He gestures in my direction. “Excuse please, does this woman have an invitation?”

“He’s trying to distract you,” I say. “Don’t let him. They’re pros. Look at the bulges in their coats.”

“Are you carrying weapons?” Mike demands.

Edward tries to catch his eye. “No, sir. We are unarmed.”

I wave my hand in front of Mike’s face. “He’s using hypnosis on you. Don’t look into his eyes. Frisk them, force them to surrender their guns.”

Mike shakes his head as if feeling a sudden pain. Seeing his distress, Ted moves closer to Edward and draws his gun. “I’m going to ask you two to step to the corner of the room,” Ted says.

Edward stares at the gun, smiles, then tries to catch Ted’s eye.

“There is no need for the gun,” he says softly.

Ted blinks, sways slightly on his feet. “No?” he mumbles.

“Don’t listen! They’ll kill you!” I shout.

Mike recovers his wits swiftly. He draws his gun and points it at Edward. “Raise your hands! Now!”

Edward spreads his hands as his smile turns cold. Once more he gestures to me. “We are not your enemy. She is your enemy.”

“Get your arms up!” Mike orders.

Edward refuses to raise his arms. So does his partner. They stare at Mike and Ted, who has shaken off the psychic attack at least enough to keep his weapon pointed at them. Yet Ted is struggling. He’s pale and his hand is shaky. Mike is more in control.

Still, I dislike the direction things are going. There are too many variables I can’t control. On my far right, the women agents have not surrendered to the witches, but the agents have yet to draw their guns. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already under the spell of the evil women.

I see now why the four didn’t hesitate to enter the ballroom. The secret service don’t intimidate them. They still see this contest as four against one. The surrounding humans don’t factor into their thinking. Edward makes this clear when he responds to Mike.

“I do not take orders from you,” Edward says flatly.

“Call for backup,” I say firmly.

Mike speaks into a pin on his lapel. “This is G49. We have
a code red. I repeat, a code red. Request immediate backup.” He shakes his gun at Edward. “Put your goddamn hands in the air or I’m going to put a cap in your head. I’ll count to three. One . . .”

Edward is amused. “Count to a hundred. Call a hundred men. It will not change a thing.”

Mike cocks his gun. “Two . . .”

Edward and Thomas simultaneously lash out with their feet, kicking away Mike’s and Ted’s handguns. In their position, I would have done the same. But I’ve anticipated their move and respond in turn.

Switching into hyper mode, crouching down, I sweep under Thomas’s and Edward’s legs as they kick away the agent’s guns. Caught on only one leg, my foes are especially vulnerable, and they hit the floor on their backs. But they’re well trained. Even as they fall, they reach for their weapons.

After my sweep, I end up standing beside Thomas and kick away the handgun he draws. Unfortunately, Edward has also drawn a gun, and even though he’s lying on his back, he has it pointed at my head.

“Stay,” he says with authority.

It’s difficult, even for me, to dodge a bullet at such a short distance. Also, I suspect Edward isn’t carrying ordinary ammunition. Chances are his bullets are enhanced with gunpowder sprinkled with nitroglycerin, if not something more exotic. Plus his reflexes are above normal. If by some miracle I manage
to escape his first shot, I know his second will find me.

Five thousand years. Thousands of encounters with death.

And I cannot for the life of me figure out what to do next.

But maybe Krishna’s cloak of protection still holds.

I hear a shot. Red blossoms in the center of Edward’s chest.

He drops his gun and lies back on the floor.

Everything happens so fast, in a dimension where mortals are not usually of any help. In the brief moments I’ve spent with Mike and Ted, I have come to admire their professionalism, but I didn’t expect them to be able to protect me. Certainly Thomas didn’t believe Mike had a backup weapon. I never noticed it. I suspect the agent didn’t see my move. His instincts just took over and he fired. Good for him.

But I’m far from safe. It’s still three against one, and I’m not armed. The death of Edward doesn’t slow Thomas. So I’ve kicked away his gun. He pulls out another and aims it at my head. I only have to look in his eyes to know he’s not interested in my surrender.

If he’s as fast as Claudious, I don’t have time to kick his gun out of his hand. Fortunately, his shoulder is only a third of the distance from the tip of my boots. I strike there, with all my strength, and jerk my head to the side. The blow is brutal. It causes the muscles in his upper arm to explode, even as his passing bullet flips my hair from my ear. Blood pours through his coat. The nerves to his hand must be severely damaged. Yet he manages to hold on to his gun. He fights to get off a second shot.

I use the slight delay to my advantage. Going briefly airborne, I slash out with my left foot and knock away his gun. As my left leg recoils, I do a scissor kick and strike his temple—the thinnest part of the skull—with my right foot. I hear multiple cracks and know splinters of bone have fragmented into his brain. His eyes fall shut, and I don’t believe they will ever reopen.

All this transpires in a matter of seconds. Nevertheless, other secret service agents are beginning to look over. Nothing like a couple of gunshots to catch someone’s attention. The agents focus on the two guys on the floor but not on me, not yet. I estimate I have a narrow window of ten seconds to stop the others. Then I’ll probably be arrested.

My eyes seek the witches. Like their male partners, they’re well trained. They shifted position while I struggled with Edward and Thomas. I don’t see them immediately, but I note that all three of the female agents they were talking to are on the floor. Since I didn’t hear any gunshots from their direction, I assume the witches simply knocked the women out.

My scan reveals nothing. But when I kneel to collect Edward’s gun—the one gun I haven’t kicked away—I hear a gunshot and feel a bullet split the air where my head was an instant before. What blind luck, to dodge a round I didn’t even see coming. I know more are on their way.

I leap straight into the air, rising high, ten feet off the floor. I’m trying to dodge the next bullet, but I have another
reason for going airborne. While in the air, I present an easy target, however, I also have a better view of the crowd. I can spot the witches even if they have taken cover behind a group of people.