Read Judgment Night [BUREAU 13 Book One] Online
Authors: Nick Pollotta
Drawing a mark on the door, I stepped to the broken window and cocked the hammer on the .357 Magnum.
"This is gonna be tight, people!” I shouted over the groaning of the rafter beams. A crack appeared in the slate roof and a clutter of stones fell from the fireplace. “Ready? Three. Two. One, go!"
Crossing my fingers in a primitive luck ceremony, I emptied my Magnum at the snake body which was bending and cracking the woodwork on the window. The bullets merely ricocheted off the scales. But the muscular lengths instinctively tightened to block any escape attempt. Which meant the rest of its body would be shifting a bit to allow the contraction. Exactly what I was counting on.
"Now!” I cried, pointing at Donaher.
His shotgun booming a gaping hole appeared in the wooden door.
"Jess, go!"
As if reading my thoughts, the telepath hopped on the couch, lowered the two cans through the hole and placed them atop the coil just below the jagged opening.
"Scat!” I commanded, and they ran for the imagined safety of the living room. Soon as they were clear, I crouched behind the upturned table and hit George on the leg. In a stuttering roar, the M60 cut loose, tracing a line of holes through the sofa, the door and the cans beyond.
For almost a full second I thought the trick wouldn't work. Then the world exploded in flame as those twin ten-gallon Molotov cocktails outside did their favorite thing. The sofa, door and table offered us some protection from the blast, but the heat flash bellowed into the kitchen to cook the air from our lungs and we fell to our knees coughing. Lord, I would never be mean to a French fry again.
Above the noise of the detonation, we could hear a hideous screaming that wassailed and wailed. Violently, the cabin shook to its foundation, a roof beam cracked, the fireplace collapsed and then everything went terribly still.
Smoke was pouring into the kitchen, making it impossible to breathe. But that was no problem. We simply scampered through the gaping ruin of the porch and onto the lawn. The sight of the giant thing flapping into the horizon was more beautiful than any sunset I could remember.
"Well look at that,” Richard muttered, crossing his arms. “I wonder why the kerosene is sticking to it so well?"
Sword in hand, Mindy smiled. “I added a tube of epoxy glue to the Molotovs as an added bonus."
Shifting position, George shouldered his ungainly machine gun to rest the stock on a hip. “Where the heck did you get epoxy from?"
"My purse,” she replied, “Its perfect for repairing broken fingernails."
"Its secret girl stuff,” Jessica explained.
We had a shaky laugh at that, and started slapping shoulders in triumphant. But the victory celebration was unexpectedly cut short when our Bureau wristwatches began beeping the emergency recall signal.
Everybody glanced at a wrist, even Jessica, who had been swimming. Our watches were standard Bureau issue. The nifty devices were a combination watch and cell phone, 56k modem, VCR remote control and calculator that were proofed against shock, water, magnetism, fire, ethereal bombardment hard radiation, and toxic chemical chocolate fudge. Don't ask. Plus, they could be set to explode. Switzerland would have given a fortune for the design. Seiko tried once a year to steal them.
With a flip of my wrist, I turned the thing off. Okay, so there was an important message from headquarters waiting for us in the van. First we had a fire to extinguish. Luckily, the majority of the flames had departed along with our uninvited guest so it only took some brief work with garden hose to extinguish the blaze. None of our camping gear was damaged, just smelly with smoke. However, there was another problem. The garage had been reduced to a pile of smashed timbers and our jeep was gone.
Nudging an empty window frame with a tan toe, Richard sighed. “Apparently the creature ate it as an appetizer."
"Good thing it was a rental,” Mindy noted, turning over a section of plywood to expose the cement flooring. “Ed, you get full coverage?"
"Of course."
"Whew."
George hitched his belt. “Guess we walk to town."
"Fifty miles?” Raul asked incredulously. “Get real."
"Faith, it's just a healthy stretch of the legs,” Donaher said, primly stroking his bushy moustache.
The mage scowled. “You walk, I'll fly."
As I glanced over the battlefield of our vacation home, ideas came and went like riffling cards. Then finally, a winner. Yeah, that ought to do fine.
"Perhaps there is an alternative,” I announced, thoughtfully rubbing my chin.
"Yes,” Jessica said, her palms flat against her temples, eyes tightly closed. “They are not home, but it is there."
Expectantly, the team turned to look at the telepath. They had seen this routine many times before.
"Explain, please,” Richard asked politely.
"Down the road about twenty miles is the Hayes place,” I stated, sounding annoyed. Wish she would stop answering my questions before I ask them. “Bill and Louisa. They own a couple of four-by-four trucks and a cargo jeep."
"Sounds perfect. Want me to go steal the jeep?” Mindy asked, standing and dusting off her hands.
In silent fury, Father Donaher stared at the woman and her smile wilted fast.
"Er ... that is, should I commandeer the vehicle as is my legal right as a federal law enforcement agent for the United States of America?"
The priest nodded. “Better."
"Don't go naked,” I warned.
She winked. “Never."
Disappearing into the cabin, Mindy returned in a minute sporting camouflage-pattern pants and shirt, with a belt slung over her shoulder, a dozen kitchen knives of various lengths shoved through the leather, making a crude bandoleer.
"Holler if you need help,” George said, checking the feed on his M60. The ammunition belt was pitifully short, only a handful of rounds still dangling in view.
"Check,” she announced settling the glittering strap about her shoulders. “On my way."
Dashing across the road, Mindy stepped into the bushes and was gone. Stoically, we returned to the salvage operation. Searching through the wreckage, Richard found a pile of tools and appropriated a crowbar. He then sharpened the end to a razor point on a small grinding wheel. Raul chose a double-headed axe, carefully wrapping sticky electrical tape about the handle for a sure grip. Jessica cobbled together a few more Molotov cocktails, in glass bottles this time. Donaher still had his shotgun with a pocketful of shells, and I had my trusty S&W .357 Magnum containing four mixed rounds. There had once been a chain saw in a toolbox near the woodpile, but that disappeared along with the porch. Too bad.
With a few spare minutes on our hands, the swimmers took the opportunity to get dressed while the rest of us stood guard. Jessica returned in a short black-and-pink flower print dress, which she filled delightfully. The telepath blushed at my thoughts. Richard appeared in tight leather pants and a sleeveless T-shirt that read “
It's not a job, it's an adventure
!” Immune to this nonsense, we ignored him. Why do mages have to be so damn weird?
Time ticked by slowly, and it was a nervous three hours before a green cargo jeep rolled silently down the dirt road and came to a stop before the cabin. There was nobody behind the wheel.
"Mexican Holiday!” I shouted through cupped hands, announcing that the area was safe.
There was a rustle of leaves behind us, and Mindy stepped from the bushes on the other side of the cabin, a knife in each hand.
"Hi guys,” she called out merrily, sheathing the blades and strolling closer. “Sorry I took so long, but I stopped for a nap."
"No problem,” Richard answered, visibly relaxing his grip on the crowbar. “We were just waiting for the bus."
"Well, here it is. Come and see."
Hardly more than a box on wheels, the open-back vehicle was quite large enough to carry the whole gang. What's more, the CB radio was in working order, gas tanks full, with a spare ten-gallon gas can strapped to the rear bumper, courtesy of the diligent Ms. Jennings, and a compass in the glove compartment. As a standard precaution, we pasted some mud onto the license plate and peeled off a window sticker to hinder identification. When satisfied, I had the team pile into the jeep with our meager possessions and took off for the village. Once again, I wished that we had been able to drive our van to this cabin, but the heavy armored vehicle never would have made it over some of the dinky bridges spanning the river that fed the mountain lake. Its imposing weight was the only flaw in our mobile command center.
The designated cook for this trip, I took the passenger seat, and dutifully started assembling sandwiches from a hamper on my lap. As each was finished, I passed them about. Everybody ate quickly, the food merely fuel, as they scanned the skies for trouble. It was a gorgeous morning, despite the faint smell of smoke tinting the atmosphere. The lush trees lining the road were emerald green and the sky the kind of blue you never see in a city. The road could have used some work though, being little more than a dirt path with rain gullies. But soon we bounced our way to a much smoother gravel road and started making decent time.
Between bites, we discussed the obvious security leak that had occurred for an enemy to find us, and exactly whose butt was going to get kicked about the matter. Suddenly, with a squeal of brakes the jeep jerked to a halt. Standing in the middle of the road, was a huge furry creature sharpening its claws on the rough surface.
In a practiced motion, Mindy pulled a butcher knife from her shoulder belt and expertly weighed the weapon in a palm. “Okay, what is it?” she asked. “Resembles a bear."
"Just a grizzly bear,” I said, adjusting my Bureau sunglasses.
Relief was almost palpable. “Just a bear? Nothing more?"
"Just a bear."
Richard nodded. “Fine.” With a gesture, a duplicate of the mage stepped through the jeep and advanced upon the animal, the image growing in size with every step.
"Scram!” the illusion bellowed, and the bear did a splendid impersonation of a hairy express train, plowing straight through a clump of bushes in its haste to leave the vicinity.
Continuing onward, we encountered the main road, a modern marvel of cracked concrete and really put the pedal to the metal. Alongside the highway, the trees seemed particularly thick, their gnarled branches almost appearing to reach out towards us with malevolent intent. Hopefully, that was just my imagination.
An hour later we passed the sign saying “Pineville—5 miles” and started to relax. Populated cities were pretty much a safe zone. Nobody fought in the middle of downtown anyplace. Too many bystanders with cameras, police with guns, stupid dogs, traffic, eager-beaver vigilantes and a thousand things that can turn a clockwork scheme into a total fiasco. We know that for a fact, it was a perfect description of our last mission.
Crossing the town line, Raul started scratching at his neck, so I checked out the horizon with my glasses. Even at this range, the reason he was itching was plainly apparent. Overshadowing the normal aura of a small town was a malignant cloud of pulsating ethereal vibrations. It almost dripped with slime.
"Magic up ahead,” I announced coolly. “Big time and evil."
Jessica cursed and George worked the bolt on his M60. To everybody but us, the weapon appeared to be a banjo. The effect was a permanent illusion that had taken Raul and Richard working together a full week to accomplish. Sure scared the hell out of airport security guards.
"How dark an aura?” Father Donaher asked, fumbling in his coat pocket for shells.
"Purple, with splotches of black."
That was bad, sure enough, but nowhere near as vile as the monstrosity we had vanquished at the lake. This was starting to have the feel of a concentrated effort by somebody seriously to eliminate us. Which wasn't an entirely bad thing. Saved us the trouble of having to hunt down the monsters. Also, definitely removed the question of whether they were friendly or not.
If George had been driving, we would have charged straight into town and announced our presence on a bullhorn. But wisely Jessica was at the wheel, so instead we parked by a bait'n'tackle store and proceeded on foot.
Pineville was laid out in square strips, the center of a town a traffic circle and small park with the obligatory bronze statue of some pioneer guy holding a rusty musket. Only now the statue was gone, and in its place was a small tornado, a twenty-foot-tall whirlwind dancing on the pedestal. Nearby were several people lying on the sidewalk, their heads a pulpy mass of brains and blood. Two of the corpses were police officers.
Through my sunglasses, I could see the cause for their deaths. Inside the twister was a four-armed demon brandishing the bronze statue like a club. The hellspawn would be invisible to ordinary vision: the poor townsfolk died without even knowing what hit them.
The streets were clear of traffic and the creature hadn't spotted us yet, so we could probably swing round the creature and get to our van without incident. But the still bodies on the ground asked for better than that and I knew my team would agree. It was payback time.
Unable to shout above the wind, I beeped my watch four times. In response, the team spread out in attack pattern number four, pulling handkerchiefs over the lower halves of their faces. We hated to work in public.
Spearheading the assault, George went straight in with the M60, the big blaster chugging away on its last belt of ammo. We knew standard AP rounds would do no good against this sort of creature. This was a feint, to allow the dangerous people to get close. In a series of banging impacts, the armor-piercing rounds tore the bronze statue to shreds. The snarling demon dropped the ruined club and stepped off the pedestal.
Father Donaher approached from the west, shotgun under one arm, the other holding a Bible, ready to administer a withering blast or a deadly blessing. I had always admired the man's raw courage. Moving to the sidewalk, the whirlwind ripped free a bench and hurled it at the priest. Donaher dodged and the bench hit George sideways with a sickening crunch. He dropped the M60 and hit the ground staying very still.