Read Judgment Night [BUREAU 13 Book One] Online
Authors: Nick Pollotta
"Shit, no,” I replied. “Must have hit my head on an overhang somewhere and I'm having one hell of a dream."
He seemed to accept that and dashed off. I kept laughing.
The two men managed to corner the cloud and let her have it. There was fire and water and lightning and screaming and explosions and gunshots. In the middle of all this, the cloud turned into a wolf, a giant rat, a bear, a beautiful nude blonde, a nightmarish thing with tentacles and finally a lump of oozing flesh. Then they set the mess on fire by sprinkling it with communion wafers.
It may have been nothing but a drug-induced illusion, but I rattled my chains at the victory and shouted wa-hoo, even though I don't like fantasy. If I had caught this show on cable, I would have turned to another channel. I prefer a good mystery, with plenty of conflicting clues and a hot seduction or two, that kind of stuff. But magic? I believe in hard facts, science, human dignity, cold beer and the Chicago Bears. Not mumbo-jumbo voodoo gumbo. That's crazy. Or at least it seemed crazy until tonight.
Meanwhile, Shorty had gotten into a bad way. She was flat against the wall with the Count moving in for the kill. A flurry of sword thrusts to his head missed, but instead of attacking, the nut just stood there and stared at her. His eyes started to glow a bright red. Hesitantly she began to lower her sword when an arrow took the ugly thing right in the ass. Where the arrow came from I have no idea.
He grabbed his butt and howled in pain. Coming awake, she charged forward, her sword slashing off a wing. Snarling, the bat raked her chest with his claws, the front of her uniform ripping away to expose molded body armor. Nice. These guys were definitely government.
From the sidelines, Chubby angled the M60 so he wouldn't shoot the woman. The big machine gun stuttered away, Lardo riding the weapon like a professional, spent shells forming a glittering golden arc in the air.
A net materialized above the one-armed bat and dropped onto him. But the Count ripped it apart without even trying. Across the room, Skinny cursed and started digging about in his shoulder pouch. I realized he was the source of the magic stunts.
In yammering fury, the machine gun finally blew away chunks of the Count's skull. The rainbow sword flashed and a clawed leg fell to the floor. That should have killed anybody, but the Count shimmered like bad TV reception and was a man again. Whole and undamaged. Instantly the three closed in as if this was what they had been waiting for. Now I was cheering them on wholeheartedly. Hallucination or not, the sonofabitch had killed my partner and I wanted him dead.
Laughing confidently, the Count unexpectedly doubled in size. His clothes too. A neat trick that. But the woman leapt into the air and thrust her rainbow sword straight through the guy's chest, as Skinny threw what resembled a wooden dagger into his throat and Chubby shoved a grenade down his pants. Then everybody but me took cover as the big guy fell face forward onto the stone floor and thunderously exploded.
In the enclosed space, the blast was so loud I couldn't hear it at first. Then sound painfully returned and the shock wave smacked me flat. Acrid smoke tore at my lungs. The ground quaked. The building shook. A rush of heat cooked me to the bone. The ceiling cracked, chunks of stone falling everywhere. I abruptly understood that this was no illusion and braced myself for death.
A short eternity later the rumbling world finally settled back into place. There was no sign of the Count except for a few smoking bones, and a melted cell phone. For the first time in three months I allowed myself to relax and said goodbye to my partner.
We got him, buddy. We got him
.
Rising from the rubble, Shorty, Chubby and Skinny dusted themselves off and came over carefully picking their way through the charred wreckage.
"I'm glad you survived, Mr. Alvarez,” the skinny fellow said, offering me a canteen. “We have been following you since O'Hare Airport, Chicago."
I gagged on the water. “Huh?” I asked brilliantly.
"As you seemed to be tracking the vampires much better than we ever had, I saw no reason to interfere with your progress until some intervention was needed. Actually a most impressive job, considering your lack of formal training."
My thanks consisted mostly of four-letter words.
Unperturbed, he opened a leather wallet, showing me a badge and ID card. “FBI,” he announced. “Special Agent Richard Anderson, on permanent assignment to Bureau 13. This is George Renault and Mindy Jennings."
So, they were feds. “Bureau 13?” I asked.
Wearily, George rested the stock of his machine gun on the floor. “We're a covert division of the Justice Department."
Covert my ass. But not entirely stupid, I was getting the general idea. “And you handle criminals like these guys,” I said, jerking a thumb at the smoking corpses.
"Yep,” Mindy said calmly, wiping her sword off with a bit of cloth before sheathing the rainbow blade. “But believe it or not, our biggest problem is personnel. Just can't find enough trained people who won't faint when facing vampire bank robbers, werewolf motorcycle gangs or toxic waste mutant assassins."
They waited. The next move was mine. Oh, what the hell. A short life, but a merry one.
"Okay, deal me in,” I sighed.
Smiling, Richard flipped open another commission booklet. The ID card inside this had my driver's license picture and read: “Special Agent Edwardo Alvarez, FBI". It was dated two months ago.
Smooth. I was going to like these guys. However, there was still one very important question that had to be answered immediately.
"Can I get down now?” I asked, rattling my chains.
TOPSECRETTOPSECRET
Good morning sir:
Following procedure, this report will appear on your desk within two days of your inauguration. Read it carefully, then place aside. The paper will self-destruct automatically when you finish. Please do not worry about starting a fire: we have done this many times and no damage yet.
FYI: Early in the nineteenth century, it was discovered that supernatural phenomenon were a reality and occurring with some frequency within the continental boundaries of the United States. Most of the phenomenon are harmless, some only annoying or inconvenient. However, a few are lethal in nature and required fast action.
As the FBI is charged with the internal defense of America, a subdivision was created specifically to handle these problems. Unique agents were armed and trained to neutralize any possible supernatural, dimensional or unearthly menace to the United States. Ever since the infamous Lincoln/werewolf incident, Bureau 13 has faithfully fulfilled the duties with which they were charged.
Because public knowledge of this organization would cause tremendous unrest, the Bureau is totally covert. Even their own agents do not know the location of Bureau headquarters. Rather, the personnel work as independent field teams roaming the country, checking known trouble spots and maintaining the peace.
In deference, sir, you have little control over the Bureau, as contact with its agents is extremely difficult and they have their own sources of income. The Bureau actually contributes its excess funds yearly to help balance the national budget.
However, if a special situation should arise which you believe could best be handled by the Bureau, simply outline the pertinent details to the portrait of George Washington in the White House foyer. We'll get the message.
In conclusion: please remember that while monsters are not always the enemy, the weirdos are always Bureau personnel.
Godspeed and good luck.
Horace Gordon
Division Chief, Bureau 13
P.S.: Nice try, but this document will not photocopy.
TOPSECRETTOPSECRET
burn.
” ... and a wall of men surrounded the campfire, guarding the women and children through the chilly darkness until the dawn. So shall it ever be. Soldiers standing bold against the creatures of the night...” Marcus Aurellius
Roman Emperor, 140 AD
"Got one!” Mindy Jennings shouted, pulling back on the rod and reeling in the line, the ratchet whizzing away loudly.
Net in hand, Raul Horta crawled forward in the boat and soon another rainbow trout was added to the growing collection of edible prisoners in the old tin washtub in the middle of the rowboat.
I watched the whole thing with an air of resignation. It had been my idea for the team to come up here to the Catskill for our vacation and everybody was catching the limit, but me. Ah, what the hell. Didn't like fish. Not really. I was a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. Thank god there was a freezer full of barbecued ribs waiting in the cabin.
Congratulations for the catch were tossed about from the rest of my crew, and in a polite array of plonks, the lines hit the water again in a neatly staged series.
Once more, the war twixt man and fish commenced. We had been out on the lake for half the morning, doing it up royal, each of us grimly determined to have fun. Mindy was in the rear of the rowboat battling the fish for supremacy. Next to her, Raul Horta was experimenting with some goofball mail-order electric fish catcher. Damn things never worked, but still he tried. Balancing the front of the boat, Father Michael Xavier Donaher and I were just drinking beer, swapping lies and occasionally summoning fat trout to their deaths. Alone as usual, Jessica Taylor was in a skimpy bikini and practicing dives off a floating wood platform. In an even skimpier red speedo, Richard Anderson was lying on the beach working on his always perfect tan. Dressed in Army fatigues, George Renault was reclining in a lawn chair on the dock, happily field stripping his M60 machine gun. For George, that was as close to fun as he got. The man simply liked our line of work too damn much. He was also paranoid. But for someone in the Bureau, that was a very healthy attitude.
The yellow sun was shining in an azure sky dotted with puffy white clouds. Birds were twittering in the lush green forest lining the shore. The lake was smooth and clear. I kind of felt that we were living in a postcard. All in all, we were doing a fine job of forgetting Jimmy's death.
I shook my head and cast again, the line whizzing out to hit amid the weeds, sending a splash into the air. A month ago in Chicago, we had finally tracked down a mad scientist with a poor copy of Victor Von Frankenstein's medical journal he had downloaded off the Internet. Didn't sound like much, but the doc had joined forces with the local Nazi Party to pay for his experiments. Frankenstein Nazis. Lord, what a fight that had been. Ended with the downtown Chicago convention center in flames, the Sears Tower listing three degrees towards the lake, a helicopter chase above Lake Shore Drive and a multiple bazooka battle that left most of us wounded, the doc and journal burned to a crisp and Jimmy Winslow catching a shell right in the chest. We wanted to try a Resurrect, but there hadn't been enough of him to mop up with a sponge. Our section chief had ordered us on vacation and here we are. Having as good a time as possible after the recent death of a close friend.
Feeling something in my eye, I laid my rod aside and popped the top on a beer from the plastic cooler. I'd really miss the stupid little bastard. For an incubus, a sex vampire, Jimmy had been an okay guy. In salute, I took a healthy sip. Although, of course, I never would have let him date my kid sister.
Suddenly, a truly thunderous belch from Father Donaher shattered the peaceful silence of the lake. Heads turned, somebody laughed, and the big Irishman blushed crimson.
"Faith, I do apologize,” he said, that fake brogue of his dripping shamrocks off every syllable. “I fear Mr. Alvarez's lunchtime offering was a wee bit spicier than my delicate constitution can handle."
Raul offered sympathy, Mindy offered a beer and I told the lot of them to blow it out their ears. I had made that Chicken Ranchero mild enough for a newborn baby to eat, but to hear these sissies talk, you'd think I laced the thing with napalm. Geez, hadn't used more than three pounds of mutant habanero peppers.
Coming from the other side of the lake, a guy in a small dinghy continued rowing our way. Earlier, I had dismissed it as merely another fisherman heading for the deep water in the center of the lake. But I realized now that he was well past that point and coming towards us.
Automatically I stared at him through my sunglasses. When nothing happened, I muttered a curse and stuffed them into my shirt pocket. I'd forgotten that my Bureau sunglasses were in the luggage back at the cabin. These dopey things only blocked sunlight, nothing more.
"Anybody have their sunglasses with them?” Mindy asked in a very casual voice.
Everybody answered in the negative. George probably did, but he was a hundred feet away on the beach. Bureau sunglasses were good, but they do have limits. From that far away, anybody's Kirlian aura would be only a smeary blur.
Taking his sweet time, the guy rowed closer and closer. He was slim, about my height, wearing denims and a cotton work shirt. Back-rowing, he came to a halt about fifty feet away, well clear of our lines.
"Ahoy, there!” he called, through cupped hands. “Have any of you seen a woman and little boy swimming around here today?"
I relaxed. Just a father looking for his misplaced family.
"Sorry,” Raul shouted, casting again. “Been here since dawn and haven't seen a soul!"
"When did you last see them?” Father Donaher inquired.
The guy seemed to ignore that. “You sure?” he asked, sounding concerned, almost frightened. “Positive?"
"Absolutely,” I answered loudly. “Lake's been deserted all day."
Strangely, that seemed to cheer him and he gave a big smile. “Boy, that's great news."
"Why?” Raul asked, before I could.
In response, the guy insanely stood in his boat. But it didn't rock or tip. Almost as if the thing was nailed to the water. Instinctively, I scratched at my stomach only an inch away from the S&W .357 Magnum in my belly holster. I was also a Bureau paranoid.