Nighthawks (Children of Nostradamus Book 1) (9 page)

Twenty-Seven turned to the stairs and began the ascent upward, toward the study. The numbers made no sense, but she knew where she would find the answer. As she approached the door, she hesitated. On the other side was a room she had been scolded for entering even to clean. Her husband treated it as his escape from the world. Here he would drink brandy until he was intoxicated enough to tolerate holding her down and raping her.

She opened the door. She trembled with the first step. As her foot touched the carpet she continued to think of her grandmother. The woman would have fought back. She would have cursed as he smacked her. She would have swung back in defiance. She would have killed him.

Twenty-Seven paused at the thought as if it was the first time it crossed her mind. She was sitting at the desk now. She had the combination to the safe sitting in the bottom right drawer of his desk. With a shaking hand, she spun the numbers until it opened and revealed the firearm inside. With the weight of it in her hand, her heart began to race.

It is a memory, Twenty-Seven. This is not happening now.

The downstairs door slammed shut. Her muscles tensed. She had been here before. He would stand at the threshold to the office. He would bait her. He would tell her she was nothing without him. He would ask her how she would live without his money. He would end the insults with asking what man would want her now that she was used goods.

She pulled the trigger once.

Her husband reached for his chest. He didn’t utter a word as he grabbed onto the doorway and fell to his knees. She watched as he died. She stared at the body, numb to emotions telling her she must save him. His body stopped moving and she continued to stare at the demon lying on the ground.

The nightmare had ended.

She reached across the desk and took the phone. She dialed and raised the phone to her ear.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I just killed my husband.”

As she looked up from the rust-colored desk, standing between her and the man she murdered was a woman in a robe. She blinked several times before she remembered the woman rescuing her in the Outlands. Her memories poured into her mind as she recounted the trial, the prison, the execution at the wall.

This will not be pleasant.

The angel stepped forward, her form floating through the desk. She reached out and touched the trembling woman’s shoulders. Between blinks she went from the chaos in her husband’s office to standing on the mezzanine of an old hotel. Her hands trembled as she gripped the railing.

I am sorry, Samantha.

She shook her head. The memories started to settle back into place. She let the sensation of cold metal under her hand ground her. “Samantha died.”

Or perhaps Twenty-Seven was born.

She leaned over the railing while she pondered the philosophical point of view. It had been just over a day since she was placed in the Outlands. She had befriended an angel and joined a rogue group of humans and now she was waiting to see what came next. In a conference room on the floor below, she could see the angel talking with Victor and several of the other Outlanders.

She walked down the grand staircase, marveling at the splendor. Even years past its prime she could imagine the many people who walked down the stairs and pictured themselves as princesses. She stood at the doorway to the conference room and listened.

“You want us to attack the facility?” Victor asked.

The angel nodded. “They are coming for you. It houses the largest collection of Children on the globe. Inside are people of power, people whose only crime is an astronomical anomaly. Those Children of Nostradamus are allies waiting to be acquired.”

A man next to Victor shook his head, obviously displeased with the idea. “You want us to die to save them?”

“When did your heart become so closed off you began to think of your fellow man as ‘them,’ Rodrick?”

“We have had our run-ins with the government. You know we have no love for them. But what about my people? They’re going to die.”

“You’re dying now,” the angel said.

Twenty-Seven knew what she meant. The moment they entered the Danger Zone their exposure to radiation began to increase. They were living close enough to hot zones now that it would slowly cause burns similar to Victor’s and eventually it would kill them. Her freedom came with a doomsday clock, and each minute it ticked down.

“What are you offering, angel?”

“Your home is killing you. We will take you north, into Canada. We can make you new identities. We can give you a chance to survive.”

“We will not give up what’s ours.”

Victor held up his hand, silencing the man. “What do you want from us?”

“We will need your vehicles, weapons, and anybody who can fight.”

Rodrick pushed away Victor’s hand. “What are you going to do to help us fight your fight?”

Twenty-Seven eyed a man and two girls walking into the meeting. She stayed hidden just out of sight of the room. She didn’t dare interrupt their meeting. While the angel had assured her they would take her in, so far they had treated her like an outsider.

The man looked as if he was from a science fiction movie, his torso covered in leather straps that ended in shoulder pads. The leather didn’t leave much to the imagination, showing his build, that of a football player who had seen a few too many beers. His hair was closely shaved to his head, leaving just enough of a shadow to show he had any. The rest of his body showed no body hair at all, leaving him almost glistening in the neon lights. His face was hardened, not mean looking, but showing that he had a story to tell and not much of it would be happy.

One of the girls must have been his sister. Twenty-Seven could tell by the chiseled jaw they were siblings. Half her head was shaved while the rest of her magenta hair fell onto the side, covering one eye. Similar to her brother, she wore little clothing. A simple band of cloth hid her breasts and her short spandex shorts seemed to elongate legs leading into black chunky boots. Of the three, she looked the most ready to kick ass.

The last girl seemed reserved compared to the others. She wore a skirt that reached past her knees, slit up to the waist on each side giving her full range of motion. Her sleeveless blouse hugged her body, giving her a modest appearance. A hijab covering her head, mixed with her dark complexion made Twenty-Seven think she must be Middle Eastern.

“Who are they?” asked Victor.

The angel turned to her companions. “God has provided us with emissaries.”

Twenty-Seven gasped as a bright light filled the room. The man caused lightning to jump from his body to his arms. One of the girl’s arms started to glow a bold blue.

“Children,” Twenty-Seven whispered in awe.

***

“
You’re
just another freak,” said a large black man. “Your stint with the Paladins is over.”

A group of young military men began whooping and hollering at the statement. Jasmine stood in the middle of the group and turned to stare at her provoker. “Got the balls to back that up, Vlad?”

He stood, pulled off his utility vest, and peeled his black t-shirt over his head. “More balls than you can handle,” he said, walking closer to her.

The common room, not large, was mostly empty except for a couch on one end and several crates they used as seating. They didn’t spend much time in their bunk area. Her team was known for going to the field every opportunity they could; what little downtime they had, they spent at the bar. They were the best and they drank like they were the best.

Jasmine stood in the middle of her six-man squad. She had been addressing rookie when Vlad had interrupted her. The man was dangerously thick, his muscles flexing without effort. “Stand down, soldier.”

“Ain’t even fucking human,” Vlad spit back at her. He had been her second in command for nearly six months. She didn’t like him. He was less a soldier and more of a bloodthirsty killer. His reason for being in the field had no honor; he simply wanted to add to his body count.

The crowd got quiet at the statement. “Only reason you outrank us is because we need you in front to take bullets for us,” he said. It always came back to this. She’d had arguments with him before about being a Child of Nostradamus. He saw her as weak. She saw him as jealous.

Before he could open his mouth again she brought her fist up and clocked him across the jaw. His head barely moved from the impact. He reached up and wiped blood from his lip. He spit on the floor and clenched his fists tightly. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

He brought up his knee. She jumped back before it made contact. His muscles were beginning to bulge more than normal. She had no doubt he was activating his enhancements. There was no way he could match her physically without the technology making him more than human.

She snarled at him. “I’m not human? I’ve got more original parts than you.”

He lunged, trying to strike her in the nose. She knocked his fist out wide, amazed at how quickly his enhancements were increasing his strength. She could feel the tension in his arm, the muscles beginning to speed up. She reached behind his neck and brought him down onto her knee as hard as she could. It was only a matter of seconds before his response time outmatched hers.

He staggered backward. “What? No powers? Think you can take me any other way?” She had respected him despite his bloodthirsty tendencies. He had listened to orders like a good soldier, but she knew this day was inevitable. She had no sympathies and certainly no respect for a soldier creating dissent amongst the ranks.

She didn’t need to activate her powers for a typical fight. Thankfully being a Child of Nostradamus came with natural boosts to her abilities. Her speed, her reflexes, and her stamina were twice that of any man, and her resiliency to pain and damage far exceeded that of any human.

She focused as her assailant lunged with another fist. She grabbed it and sidestepped him until they were back to back. She reached over her shoulder, clasping her hands around his head. Leaning forward, she launched him onto the ground. She thrust her fist down at the man’s skull. He rolled out of the way, and her knuckles smashed the pavement, leaving small cracks. She hissed from the impact of the blow as the bone in her hand resisted turning to powder.

He spun around, using his legs to kick her feet out from under her. The crowd had begun to roar. It wasn’t abnormal for sparring matches to take place in the common area. There were more dried puddles of blood on the floor than could be counted. The crowd didn’t understand the unsaid tension being hashed out between the two powerhouses.

He was on top of her, reaching around her neck, squeezing down on her windpipe. “No powers, huh? Want to die a martyr?”

She punched him in the throat, causing him to lean backward while straddling her torso. She reached up with her legs and hooking them around his neck, pulling him back to the ground. She punched hard at his groin and felt his entire body tense up from the blow.

Jasmine untangled herself from Vlad and stood up. She didn’t flinch, staring down the rest of her squad. It was bad enough she wasn’t human in their eyes, but occasionally that was overshadowed by the fact she had breasts. She had grown accustomed to being one of the guys and reminding them she was in charge. “Anybody else want to give it a try?”

The man on the floor swung at her, connecting with her stomach. The air rushed out of her lungs. She pushed him back onto the ground and stood behind him with her hands on his neck. She locked eyes with the new kid as she tightened her grip on Vlad. “The punishment for insubordination?”

Sims stood up, realizing this was more than a friendly sparring match. He held out his hand, trying to talk her down. “Don’t do it, sir.”

She didn’t blink as the fear began to register on the fresh meat’s face. “I will not have it on my team.” She spun Vlad’s neck. The crack echoed throughout the room as his body jerked one last time. She panted as it fell to the ground. It was him or her, and with each battle against her captors, she felt her humanity slip away.

Sims pulled out a gun from his hip and pointed it at Jasmine. She held Vlad’s dog tags in her hand as she stared down the barrel. The metal felt inviting, calling to her abilities. As the soldier pulled the trigger she focused on the steel of the dog tags.

Pain rippled through her body, almost forcing her to scream aloud. She felt the bullet touch her skin and impale on itself, never penetrating her hide.

She didn’t hesitate as she walked over to Sims and put her hand around his neck. “Insubordination is puni—”

An electric current coursed through her skull, searing her insides. It felt as if a red-hot poker was burning behind her eyes. Her stomach began to turn at the agony. She puked on the ground while curling up in a ball.

“Jasmine,” came another man’s voice. “What is the reason for a dead soldier in my facility?”

Sims looked at the man in a business suit. “Vlad challenged her. She took him down.”

“I see,” said the man. “And you felt the need to fire upon a superior officer?”

“She killed him,” he said. “Of course I’m going to defend one of my own. She snapped his neck like it was nothing.”