This is it
, he’d thought.
Payback time!
But did he go out and rob a bank? Or hold some tall building ransom? Or even find his old CO and crush him to a pulp?
No. He’d just sat there in his dirty little room and wondered if perhaps the best revenge was
not
bloodshed ... but
success
.
Since his father first spat in his face, everyone in his life had been telling him, in one way or another, that he was
worthless
. Wouldn’t it just
kill
them if he suddenly became an individual of unquestionable value? Rogues were already a dime-a-dozen by then, but the PCA was just getting rolling and in
desperate
need of paranormal help.
So Mark Westmore became one of the first, and definitely the most physically powerful, freaks to throw in with the Agency.
But he
did
make them pay for it, all right. They needed him, and he
knew
it. So, if anything, he began playing up the obnoxious-asshole bit for all it was worth. Oh, he’d never exactly been overflowing with class, that was for sure ... but now he took perverse pleasure in
really
laying it on nice and thick. And it was like Fate had finally decided to take his side, because even as there were a few occasions when he’d almost pushed his luck too far, his paranormal gifts also increased over time, both in power and finesse. It quickly got to the point where the PCA not only couldn’t afford to
lose
him, but they
really
didn’t want him switching over to the opposing team. Basically, he had them over the barrel.
Then Ensign Takayasu came along, and everything changed again. Mike clearly saw through his hard-shell act right from the start ... and yet he
still
treated him with decency. He’d even taken up for him right to Brase’s face, and to Mark that was no small gesture. Going head-to-head with the district commander wasn’t the best way to start a career in the agency, but Mike had done it anyway. Done it for
him
...
A deep yawn suddenly rushed through Mark, surprising him and making him realize just how tired he really was. He glanced at his watch and figured that he just might go to bed a little earlier than usual. There wasn’t anything interesting on TV, which is how he ended up watching Showtime’s latest T-&-A flick, "Red Panty Diaries 20," or whatever the hell it was called. Then again, he
could
keep it on a little while longer and put himself to sleep—
The window burst inward, showering him with glass. Startled, he staggered to his feet just as a roughly-humanoid figure bounded through the opening and snapped him in the face. And it
was
a snap, not a hit or a kick — it felt for all the world as though he’d been popped with the world’s largest rubberband. The skin on his cheek split at the point of contact and the surrounding tissue instantly began to welt.
Rolling with the bizarre blow as best he could, he gritted his teeth against the pain and struck back, drilling a double-fisted shockwave into his assailant’s midsection. His attacker contorted and elongated where the wave hit home, affected by the assault but clearly able to endure it far better than a solid recipient. Mark concentrated, planning to catch the — man? woman? who cares? — in a cross-wave. Then he’d see just how far his little friend could stretch before reaching the limit of—
A flash of light pulsed through the room. Mark caught a reflection of it in the television screen, and his limbs stiffened.
Oh, shit!
He tried to throw his arms up to cover his eyes, but even
closing
them was taking a frightening effort. He prepared to fire off a shockwave at random, to take out the whole apartment if that’s what he had to do ...
The second flash came, brighter and stronger than the first, and Mark virtually crystalized into a statue.
"Hey, kiddo," came a muffled voice. "Remember me?"
How could I forget?
he tried to quip, but he couldn’t speak.
The woman from that night at
Davison Electronics
climbed the rest of the way through the window, and this time there was no blindfold in sight. He caught a glimpse of metal in her sarcastic smile, and he figured that her jaw had been wired shut from her run-in with the vigilante.
Too bad he didn’t finish the job
.
Silver Eyes’ elastic partner reformed into a more recognizable shape, revealing herself as a
woman
after all. Not an attractive one, to be sure — she looked like a fairly detailed sculpture that had nevertheless been fashioned from Silly Putty. Ugly as she was, she was the perfect choice to take on a paranormal with Mark’s abilities. This wasn’t just some random ambush of revenge — it was well planned.
In the meantime, Silver Eyes sauntered over to where Mark stood frozen in a half-crouch. She made a show of rubbing her sore jaw. "I know, I know.
You
weren’t the one who did this to me. Believe me,
I
was aching for the chance to go after my gold-and-black clad friend, but ... someone figured I’d be of more use here." She glanced over at the television and rolled her eyes. "Sorry if I interrupted your Me-Time, kiddo. It would have been your last round, too." She took his face in both hands, pulling the skin below his eyes down with her thumbs. She then flash-froze him once more. "Just for good measure," she explained, then stepped back. "Anyway, I want you to know that this is nothing personal for me. I doubt you could have done anything to stop us tomorrow, but we can’t take any chances with a paranormal of your caliber. So just know that I don’t take any pleasure from this.
I
don’t, anyway ..." She smirked, glanced toward his apartment door, and forced a whistle.
Mark couldn’t see what happened next, but he heard an ungodly tearing noise, like the splitting of wood on a tree that’s been nearly chopped through and finally gives up the ghost. He then heard footsteps, but without being able to move his eyes, he couldn’t see his latest houseguest until the man was standing before him.
Ohhh ...
shit
...
"Shockwave," Silver Eyes announced, "I’m sure you remember my friend, Craig. From the bank?"
Craig, the clawed man, extended his left arm — his right was still in a cast — and curled it around to Mark’s welted cheek. One of his talons lightly stroked the tear at the center, poked into it about half-a-centimeter ... and then ripped downward, cleaving his flesh down to the hair on his chin. Mark couldn’t even give voice to the burning agony he felt.
"You’ll have to forgive Craig’s silence," Silver Eyes was saying, "you see, you broke
his
jaw far worse than Vortex did mine — he’s got wiring and screws that make my job here look like a kid’s retainer. I believe you broke it right before you crushed his arm." She smiled as best she could, then clapped and rubbed her hands together. "Well, I’ll leave you two to work this out. I’m a tough ol’ gal, but even I’m not big on vivisections. Especially live ones." Moving toward the remains of the door, she gestured for Ms. Latex to follow. "Enjoy!"
Breathing heavily, his eyes overflowing with seething rage, the clawed man moved closer ...
POWERHOUSE AND VORTEX
Lincoln waited apathetically for Edmond to give the thumbs-up. The night was even cooler than last time, and although he remained unaffected by climate, his respiration was collecting like sweat around the nose and mouth of his ski mask, irritating him. He rubbed absently at the area, sighing heavily.
Conversely, Graham — who kept his distance from Lincoln, as was usual of late — was rearing to go, anxious to flex his paranormal might once again. At one point, his attitude would have disgusted Lincoln, but he had little time for the lightning man anymore. These days, he reserved his Hatred for McLane, and McLane alone.
It was a few minutes after two o’clock in the morning, and the three rogues, dressed in black and mindful of the oscillating security cameras, were crouched in a thicket across from one of
Davison Electronics’
side fences. The fence pulsed with so much electricity that Lincoln could hear it humming clearly, even though they were several yards away. He was sure that it posed no threat to Graham or himself — he had no idea yet what Edmond’s abilities were — but if it were shorted, blown out, or ripped away, he knew that it would set off any number of alarms that the perimeter had been compromised. Waid’s team had underestimated
Davison’s
security measures. Even though it was this
vigilante
who turned out to be the real problem, McLane and Khalkha didn’t want to chance another failure. So here they sat, hunkered down, waiting for some kind of—
A massive explosion rattled the very air and shook the ground. Lincoln saw a huge fireball rolling into the night sky on the far side of
Davison’s
property. A second, smaller explosion followed moments later, this time not far from the main gate.
"Did one of our people do that?" Lincoln asked Edmond. "I thought it was just us tonight."
Edmond — a fifty-ish, somewhat overweight man with thinning hair and prominent ears — glanced at his watch. "Just because we’ve gone paranormal, Powerhouse," he commented in a deep voice, and without any sarcasm when he used Lincoln’s codename, "doesn’t mean we have to abandon norm firepower. We appropriated a shipment of C-4 last year. Believe me, there’s a
lot
more where that came from." He checked his watch again.
"Are we ready to move or what?" Graham groused impatiently.
"Just a few seconds longer," Edmond told him. An alarm had sounded immediately following the first explosion, and now a second droning followed. In the darkness, they could see headlights as
Davison
security scrambled toward the two burning areas. "
Now
."
They moved forward, Lincoln and Graham flanking Edmond as they raced for the fence. In spite of the increased noise, Lincoln could still hear the fence’s charge. "Didn’t work. It’s still got power."
"We knew it would," Edmond assured him, stopping short of the fence by a good ten feet. "They run on separate generators, to prevent just such an occurrence from bringing down all bastions."
"No problem," Graham shrugged, raising his hand toward the nearest fence post.
Edmond quickly cut him short. "
No
. We don’t want to draw their attention any sooner than we have to — the commotion won’t last long." He extended his own pudgy hands towards the dirt and gravel at his feet. "Stand back, please."
Graham hastily retreated. Lincoln took a single step backward, curious as to what Edmond could do. Within seconds, an acrid stench filled the air, faintly stinging even his invulnerable eyes. He withdrew further as the ground in front of Edmond began to crackle and smoke, eroding like Styrofoam under a flame. Edmond shifted his stance and his aim, working the corroding earth into a rough underpass that would allow them to move beneath the barrier with room to spare.
Lincoln thought,
Wonder if he could burn
me
, too.
"Come on," Edmond urged them as he finished. "I’ve pulled it back in. You’ll be fine."
They moved on, traversing the underside of the fence. The abraded ground stank like hell, but — true to Edmond’s word — it didn’t burn Graham, let alone Lincoln. The entire property was in chaos, and their silent entry didn’t capture anyone’s attention.
Edmond broke into a trot. "This way," he stage-whispered, waving them onward.
Lincoln had looked over the map of the grounds, but he was quickly turned around and confused, and grateful that Edmond was leading the way. The older man didn’t move very fast, but he seemed to know exactly where he was going. He led them to a large warehouse that did not appear to Lincoln any different from all the others around them. He almost asked whether Edmond was sure of their destination, but again took in the unfamiliar surroundings and withheld his inquiry. When they reached the building, Edmond swiftly melted them a small entrance.