Doomsday Exam [BUREAU 13 Book Two] (29 page)

"Routine four!” I shouted, dropping the spent M-203 and unlimbering my heavy HAFLA four-shot.

The team separated and attacked from different directions.

Contemptously, LaRue threw a lighting bolt and it missed Jessica by a yard. He seemed as surprised as she. Stupid librarian didn't yet realize it took practice, and lots of it, to control the higher magiks. LaRue may have the power of a god, but not the skill. Like a baby with a bazooka, he was more dangerous to himself than to others. So we still had a fighting chance, but it was decreasing with every passing moment.

A HAFLA rocket impacted on the ceiling above LaRue raining napalm down upon him. His clothes and hair caught fire, but he did not seem particularly disturbed by the event.

Shouting his war cry, Ken sprinted off into the distance. Trying to get behind our foe, I thought, but then he circled completely about and rejoined us. That was when I noticed his spray gun was pointed at the ceiling. I glanced up and saw a sizzling ring in the steel deck above LaRue. Obviously, we both liked to fight dirty.

With a loud metallic crack, twenty tons of metallic plating plummeted onto the nasty nitwit, crushing him flatter than a bug under a shoe heel. We shouted in victory.

Then the steel disc levitated into the air and the ceiling coalesced into a homogeneous whole. Smiling in a cocky manner, Wilson LaRue stood as before completely undamaged. His kimono and battle suit weren't even rumpled.

On a coded command, my team threw the satchel charges and as they hurtled towards the mage, the canvas packs became smaller and smaller until button-size, the bags landed at his black boots and went snap-snap-snap loud as firecrackers.

Uncaring if anybody was standing behind, I let fly the three remaining HAFLA rockets, tossed the launcher and cut loose with the .44 AutoMag, spent shells the size of cigar butts jerking from the injector port.

During this, Jessica was steadily firing her Uzi at the madman, the 9mm Parabellums flattening against his body and staying there like little gray polka dots.

Holstering the empty .44 AutoMag, I shrugged and started triggering my twin Magnums at the walls, angling for a ricochet. Maybe his shield, or whatever, only operated in the front. But the heavy duty combat slugs merely hit his back as roses, the harmless bouquet falling limply to the deck in the manner of some pagan offering.

In a tumbling roll, Mindy sliced the man in half along the waist with her sword and then rolled away again. Blood spurted for only a moment, but mages were always quick healers. As the only mage alive, I guess his repair factor was magnified geometrically. What we need was a full body death blow, or a Brain Blast. Yeah.

Turning and sneering, LaRue gestured and twin saber-tooth tigers leapt from his palms. Suddenly fur and fists were flying as Mindy became embroiled in her own private war.

Now in his right hand there appeared a crystal staff. No, a diamond staff, with a crystal ball atop, the illuminated globe pulsating with shimmering radiance. Eek!

"Jessica to me!” I cried, and she came a running, firing every step of the way.

Hydrofluoric acid tanks empty, Ken slapped the chest release button and threw the entire assembly at LaRue. Leveling his wand, the mage gestured and the tanks, hose and spray gun stopped in flight and streaked backwards at Sanders. He ducked and they lowered in trajectory. Kneeling motionless, at the very last second he jumped straight up and the equipment impacted into the deck indenting the thick metal floor in a meteoric strike.

Our shotgun and pistols maintained a steady discharge. In the background, the tiger growls where down to meows and in bloody sword slashes they soon ceased. LaRue cast a Flame Lance, an Ice Storm, Flesh-to-Stone, and a couple of modified Death spells. But missing us and only hitting the bulkheads, the lethal conjures dispersed in the standard gay pyrotechnics of a failed spell. But the armored walls were discolored from the raw brute force of the powerful magic.

"Mine is the only voice you can hear,” I said softly, pulling my small wife close. “Mine the only voice which commands."

Succumbing to my will, Jessica's face softened as she entered the primary stage of the trance.

Grenades raining around him, LaRue erected a prismatic dome. Mike rolled a bottle of Holy Oil under the bottom lip of the dome, LaRue stomped on it and slipped, nearly falling. With his bare fists, Sanders pummeled the dome with triphammer blows, making the magic green barrier ring deafening. A transdimensional portal appeared in the air and out charged a huge roaring hydra! Standing bigger than LaRue, the wild snakes nest of the legendary dragon's seven heads writhed and hissed. Some drooled acid or poison, others breathed frost or belched flame, one screamed with sonic fury, another stared at us hypnotically and the biggest launched a salvo of thorny spines from its brow! Crouching low, Mindy stabbed Wilson in the boot with a poisoned dagger. With a yelp, the portal winked out and the horrid beast faded away. Whew. Thankfully, this was a private party. Attendance by invitation only.

Shouting vitriolic curses, Father Donaher slid his wristwatch to Mindy who stuffed it along with hers under the dome. Then Ken added his, and bodily grabbed the prismatic shield to slam it flat against the deck. There was a loud whump, the dome bulged and jumped.

Then the curved shield vanished and an angry smoking LaRue exploded himself in a Body Boom. With only tatters of cloth clinging to their combat armor, my friends went flying. In a wild frenzy, LaRue fired an uncoordinated barrage of red laser beams and golden disrupter rays. The lasers melted holes in deck and walls everywhere. The touch of the disrupters made the metal implode with violent fury. The alchemist didn't hit anybody, but the federal agents landed with sickening thuds. My .44 AutoMag and holster were disintegrated, and my helmet was blown off my head with stunning force. As recommended by George, I had left the chin strap dangling, just for this type of situation. Too many soldiers in the past had lost their heads in battle trying to look prim and proper, instead of being comfortable and functional.

"The command phrase is Armageddon,” I spoke fast and low, using my aching jaw as little as possible. “The activation word is Apocalypse."

Sitting upright, Katrina fired her Bureau special derringer into LaRue's stomach. The composite mage staggered and then Raul stood. Swinging his drained staff in the manner of a baseball bat, he bent the steel shaft over the alchemist's head. Blood and hair spraying from the impact, Wilson fell trembling to his knees, but then a thorny thicket sprang into existence around Raul. Instantly trapped, I heard Raul trying to start a motorized hedge trimmer. Then a garish light encased Katrina and she slumped to the deck.

This was going to be close. “Jessica, the go code is—” But I stopped as my mind went blank and searing agony hit me in hands and feet. I lost any sense of time as incredible pain filled the universe for an untold period.
Pain!

Slowly through the red fog of hellish sensations, I eventually began to become dimly aware that I was stark naked and flat against the cold metal wall of the hangar with steel spikes driven through my wrists and ankles. More were positioned under my armpits, groin and knees to support my helpless body. There was no way I was going to fall free. The rest of my team was pinned spread-eagled along the wall, hanging hapless as animal skins on display.

"Surprise,” LaRue wheezed, a trickle of red blood oozing down his pale cheek. “I win."

Panting for breath, his staff pulsed and Wilson stood whole and healed. His battlesuit spotless, the kimono pressed and crisp.

"And none of you will be allowed to die!” he screamed, spittle spraying from his mouth. “Ever! Ever-ever-ever!"

Then he took a few deep breaths to try and control his fury. “Until I know more, all, about this Aztec Book and the Bureau 13 which once captured it."

Struggling against the wracking throbs in my limbs, I tried to tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine, but fainted instead.

Ice cold water splashed onto me and I came abruptly awake shivering, trembling and still nailed to the wall. No, it had not been a terrible nightmare. We were his prisoners.

Human size once more, Wilson LaRue eyed us dispassionately. “You have given me a great deal of trouble,” he said with deceptive calm. “But a god has no need for revenge. Tell me what I want to know about this possible danger and I will kill you painlessly. This I solemnly promise. Where is the Bureau located? Who is in charge? What resources do they possess?"

Somehow drawing upon untapped reserves of strength, this time I did manage to give him the proper directions for insertion and George added a fillip about his mother and a diseased camel.

Shaking his head in disdain, Wilson only laughed in amusement. “Ah, I see the loss of blood has made you irritable. Well, let's cauterize those nasty wounds."

As with those words the spikes glowed white hot. I writhed from the unbearable agony, then choked and vomited from the stink of my own roasting flesh. Somewhere in the distance, I heard other members of my team screaming and crying, but I was lost in my private world of pain and could think of nothing else.

A hundred million years later, the spikes cooled and I weakly returned to panting, sweaty consciousness. LaRue had us trapped and was trying to wring out information we couldn't give him even if we wanted. Only our Bureau implanted mind-blocks prevented him from reading our thoughts, and not even the dreaded Mind Rape could get the data he wanted. We did not know where our headquarters was located. All he could do was kill us. Eventually.

"Perhaps you do not fully realize the situation,” LaRue stated dramatically, thumping his staff on the deck. “With but a gesture, I have countered every bit of the damage done in our little altercation and repaired my loyal fleet of war planes. Also, they are now armed with forceshields and lasers, an oversight I will not repeat. Any rescue attempt will be met with massive resistance. If necessary, I will take part in the battle. I learn from my mistakes."

Talkative bastard, but then amateurs always were.

Summoning her resolve, Katrina growled something in Russian then spit at LaRue, and Donaher hit him with one of those damn-your-soul-to-perdition curses that only a fighting mad Catholic Irish priest ever seems to be able to do correctly. Whew, this one was a doozy. Could have boiled water at twenty paces.

Frowning in annoyance, Wilson glared and the priest became bumpy from head to toes, then the freckled skin burst as thousands of barbed quills slowly grew out of his skin. The priest screamed for an eternity. Then LaRue blinked and Donaher was as before. Only much paler.

"I was hoping you would become my first priest convert. Perhaps even my pope!” the sly mage offered. “Your false lord will not save you. Worship me, and you may have Ireland for your very own! Mayhap England as well! I am generous to those who are loyal."

Drooling blood, Father Donaher got so furious he couldn't speak for a moment, so Mindy pinch-hit for her friend and rattled off a long phrase in Japanese. Whatever she said, it must have been good, because LaRue gasped and bathed her naked form with a flickering cone of purple light from his staff. In silent torment, Mindy began to split apart like rotten fruit, her smoking bones rising to the surface.

Shutting my ears to the noise, I turned my head to avoid watching. The finest fighting team the Bureau had and we were only toys for him to play with. There was no rescue coming, no hope of escape. Death would not be quick, not matter what he said. We had failed. Totally and utterly.

Often I had done it jokingly, but now I silently offered my soul to anybody, anybody at all; good, evil, or indifferent, if they would only give us one last fighting chance. As always, silence was the only response.

The howls stopped and Mindy hung limp from her spikes, great festering wounds lining her twisted body. Corpse? No, body, the remains of her chest still rose and fell with breath.

"Answer me!” LaRue yelled in childish impatience. “Haven't you had enough? You have no more magic! You are only normal humans now!” His brows furrowed. “Or are you?"

Gliding closer, his wand played a spectrum of lights over our tortured forms. “Ah, this man is a human, but his wife is a telepath! The muscular bitch with the big mouth is a martial artist of some kind. Fatso is a professional soldier and the big redhead is a cleric!"

Inhaling sharply, LaRue placed a hand akimbo. “What a strange band you are! This man is a royal prince of the blood and a medium level wizard. The blonde with the nice tits is a beginner mage, previously with the power of three full wizards! Yet the giant,” his voice trailed away, then came back strong. “And what are you doing with these people?” For some reason the mage stressed the last word.

Recoiling in terror, Ken's face went dead white and he trembled, but not from the pain of the spikes.

Coming even closer, Wilson leered in delight. “So,” he hissed. “They don't know, do they? How amusing! How pitiful."

Lowering his head as if in battle, Ken growled a response too soft for me to hear.

"So you say,” LaRue acknowledged, with a chuckle. “But that does not make it true. Tell me what I want to know and I shall continue the process! You shall be a demi-god!” Then he beamed an evil smirk. “Or perhaps I should reverse the process and let them see the real you!"

Absolutely everybody gasped in shock as Ken Sanders tore himself free from the spikes in a hideous ripping noise and dropped to the deck, his four limbs gushing blood. Even Wilson was caught totally by surprise. Screaming that jungle roar of his, Ken bared his teeth and sprang for the alchemist's throat.

By god, the student agent almost succeeded. But just in time, LaRue recovered and frantically gestured. A lightning bolt, laser beam, disrupter ray, Death Spell, Flesh-to-Stone crackled from his gloved fingertips and blasted Sanders into a charred husk while still in mid-flight.

But the remaining two hundred pounds of dead cooked flesh continued on by sheer inertia and slammed into Wilson's chest, cracking his ribs. Off balance, the bastard mage stumbled backwards and tripped over one of the dead guards in the pentagram. Falling to the deck, the would-be world conqueror smacked his head on the metal with a resounding crack and went still.