Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three] (16 page)

I understood that. A mental shield is 100% effective or it's not there at all.

We passed a favorite Chinese restaurant, the rich smells completely masking the pungent aromas of the alley. Not a single beam of light reached the dark alleyway from the boisterous establishment.

Hey, since when do restaurants paint their rear windows over?

"Alert,” I said.

Danger
, Jess sent.

"Incoming,” Mindy warned.

In a practiced move, we took refuge behind garbage cans and dumpsters. A tiny pinprick of light appeared in the distant blackness, which rapidly swelled in size until a glaring ring of exhaust painfully washed over us as a HAFLA missile streaked close by overhead.

Bracing for the blast, I counted to three and a strident explosion illuminated the alley behind us, burning garbage spewed into the sky like trashy fireworks! However, the brief flash showed a dozen more werewolves ahead of us entrenched atop a law office.

Okay, so it was a trap. My gun swung on the memory of the brief vision and I pumped a few rounds that way, with Jessica's Uzi also saying hello. A chattering barrage of machine gun bullets answered our question.

Suddenly, the door to the Chinese restaurant opened a crack, bathing us in brilliant light. Jessica barked something in Mandarin. The door slammed shut, was bolted, and I heard scraping noises as if a piece of furniture was being shoved against the portal.

"What the hell did you say?” I asked, reloading again.

Tong war
.

Ah. Good choice. That would scare the crap out of anybody.

There sounded a twang alongside me, and something on the dark roof ahead exploded into flame and fur. I emptied both pistols at that locale and got a death howl as a reward.

Another rocket came streaking in to impact slightly in front of us. The blast knocked me off my feet and I couldn't feel my left arm. That meant a bad wound.

Ed, I don't think taking them as prisoners is an option anymore.

"Why?” I demanded, struggling to my knees and holding a Magnum in my armpit so I could slip in the last speedloader of silver bullets. “Not that I disagree, but why do you say so?"

There is a helicopter parked on the roof. I have already killed the pilot, but the co-pilot is one of them
. There was a short pause as she slammed a fresh clip into the Uzi and pulled the bolt.
Plus it has a 40mm Vulcan mini-cannon.

Oh fudge.

There was a scattering of reddish light from the missile hits ahead and behind our dumpster. Darkness had lured us to this location and we were bracketed with deadly illumination. Already it was possible to faintly discern us. The next rocket would be the last.

"Saigon bug out!” I ordered, getting ready to make a run for safety. What the heck, we can't win ‘em all.

"No frigging way,” Mindy grimly announced loud and clear.

As she stepped into the middle of the alleyway, the distant fires bathed her in flickering illumination. Bullets starting to chew the alley apart, filling the air with flying lead, but Mindy just stood there, bow in hand. With a revving whine, I heard the helicopter gunship start to spin its rotor blades preparing for takeoff and a strafing run. Oh hell. Then my Bureau sunglasses came alive, the whole edge of the roof of the law office plainly highlighted in the infrared spectrum by the massive thermal outpouring from the big helicopter engines.

Indomitable, Mindy notched an arrow in her bow and waited. The black outlines of two werewolves started angling their machine guns in an overlapping figure-eight pattern, while another outline blatantly stood with a squat tube in its paws. He flipped the sights, zeroed the port and aimed the gaping end of the tube in our direction.

Calmly as a summer breeze, Mindy released her shaft. There was a double explosion as the wristwatch on the arrow detonated the LAW still in its launching tube. The results of the combination were spectacular. A thundering fireball engulfed the howling werewolves, blowing body pieces off the building in a grisly rain. As the chopper tried for a take off it blew apart, adding the destructive power of its fuel and ammunition to the brewing hellstorm on the roof. Yeah, who wanted prisoners? Too much paperwork anyway.

Watching the mushroom cloud of smoke rise into the starry sky, I felt the normally high level of my confidence slip a notch. Werewolves with flak jackets and military weapons. This was beyond serious. Perhaps these bozos actually were going to try and destroy Chicago, and maybe they might succeed.

"Ed, we need help,” Mindy said, hobbling close.

Accepting a wristwatch, I heartily agreed.

"An who ya gonna call?” Jess asked, with a weak grin.

Sheathing her sword, Mindy started to speak, then stopped. Nyah. Besides, they only worked the East Coast.

Activating my watch, I began the procedure to relay a priority one call to Bureau HQ. Who was I going to summon for assistance?

Everybody.

[Back to Table of Contents]

"Who the hell are you?” the grizzled police captain demanded, as I entered the conference room of City Hall.

"In charge,” I retorted, settling the matter at once.

Grimly resolute, I strode up the center aisle between a sea of folding chairs filled with law enforcement personnel from a dozen federal, state and city organizations. Tucked in my shirt pocket was written permission from the President to tell these people anything necessary. Including, the awful truth.

When we arrived at the Sears Tower, Horace Gordon himself was waiting for us. Doc Robertson and his field forensic team analyzed the remains of the people who attacked us on State Street, and the results were most interesting. The humans who died so easily from our bullets were local gangsters who dealt in stolen munitions and military weapons. No shit. The pilot in the illegally armed helicopter was Jim ‘Mad Dog’ Kerigan, a professional mercenary. News that cheered nobody. The Scion was hitting us with everything they had. I debated on requesting the Chicago PD to keep an extra special watch on the import or sales of any kitchen sinks.

The most disturbing news was that the alarms on the synchronized digital wristwatches of everybody, human and in-, had been set for exactly five minutes till midnight. Giving them just enough time to do what, leave town? Ominous.

Most of my team stayed to brief the other Bureau 13 teams called in on this emergency, and I was given the honor of lying to six thousand trained observers. Whee, what fun.

Taking the podium on the raised speaker's platform, I opened my attaché case and glanced at the wall clock; 9:10. Two hours and fifty minutes to doomsday.

Before me was a resolute battalion of grim faces. There was a neatly pressed platoon of suits with flesh-colored wires snaking out of their ears and down into the stiff shirt collars: US Secret Service. Smart and tough, although slightly fanatical about America, they were the best pistol marksmen in the world.

Nearby was a gang of FBI agents wearing our official blue suit and matching tie. I even had the regulation sidearm in a regulation holster. We nodded at each other. I had dealt with Stan and his people before. Their only knowledge of me was as the-guy-who-showed-up-when-the-shit-hit-the-fan. How true.

Filling the front of each quarter area of chairs were the representatives of the military: the stiffly formal operatives in full dress uniforms; Army Intelligence, Air Force Intelligence and Naval Intelligence.

Sitting alone were the field commanders of the Green Berets, Navy SEALS, Delta Force and Air Force Rangers. The three men and woman seemed entirely at ease, but that was normal. These folk were trained never to get nervous or frightened. Nothing could rattle them. In a crashing plane full of dynamite, they would finish their card game and then jump naked into enemy territory. Ice. They were made of solid ice.

By the window was a lone woman in a plain dress and wearing a governmental pass identifying her as CIA. Legally the Company was not allowed to operate within the continental boundaries of the Unites States, but that had never stopped them before.

A half dozen NSA field agents sat nearby and stared at me is if trying to crack a suspect. Nice try.

The rest of the attendees were mostly composed of the top echelon from the State Police, Chicago city police, Sheriff's office and Federal Sky Marshals. Although, I do believe there was a smattering of National Guard officers and Coast Guard captains.

Lounging in a corner was as disreputable a collection of scum and assorted miscreants as it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. Bums, bag ladies, whores and pimps, they even had a small runny-nose child with them to complete that nice Amish family ensemble. I could almost smell the filth on their bodies, and started to scratch at imaginary fleas.

Of course, the impression was totally wrong. Half of them were undercover DEA agents and the rest were volunteer members of the CTA's elite transit police: code-named: CATs—Criminal Attack Team. These folk loitered about in sewers and alleyways, and the instant they saw a crime starting to be committed they jumped the perp. CATs were more interested in stopping the occurrence of a crime than bagging collars and looking good to the chief so they get promoted out of the CAT squad. Hell, you had to wait on a list and pass tests to get into it! And the child was actually a midget who held black belts in enough different styles of the martial arts to give Mindy a good fight.

That's when I noticed ... him.

Standing along by the door was a solitary figure in a rumpled blue outfit. He was unshaven, smoking a cigar and radiated power and authority. This guy probably was carrying enough weapons to level a small town, but I was damned if I could identify what branch of the Justice Department he came from. TLF? Treasury Department? Another covert agency like our own? I went for the gold.

"Who are you?” I demanded.

The big man removed the cigar from his mouth and gazed at the glowing tip before answering, obviously marshalling his collection of responses for the correct reply.

"Janitor,” he said at last. “Youse giot nuff cha'rs?"

I nodded yes and shooed him away. Mentally, I made a personal note to burn my private investigation license when I got home. Oops, too late.

Finished shuffling my papers into the correct order, I turned around. On the wall behind me was a huge pull-down map of Chicago and its suburbs. Yanking on the bottom bar, I eased the map upwards to expose the words ‘four million’ which Mindy carved into the cinderblocks with her amazing sword. Involuntarily, I glanced at my hands. Boy was that thing sharp.

"Four million,” I boomed over the loudspeaker system, “That number is precisely why we are here. The four million residents of greater Chicagoland.” Which is what we locals called the whole damn shebang of our mighty metropolis. Had to let the gang know I was not some 30-day-wonder from DC here to steal the glory. I was a Looper, with family and friends only blocks away.

A small hand was raised for a question. I hate such formality, but in this situation it seemed the only way to control the possible pandemonium. I gestured at the child.

"How come you're in disguise,” the CAT officer asked, squinting suspiciously.

Whew, these cops were good. Time for evasive maneuvers.

"Now that's a damn fool question, don't you think?” I growled at him in my best impersonation of Horace Gordon.

Chuckles sounded from everybody but the military.

"Yeah, I guess,” he relented.

Close one. Buying time, I cleared my throat. “Firstly, as of twenty one hundred this day, the President of the United States, in conjunction with Congress and the governor of Illinois, has placed the city of Chicago under martial law."

Shocked murmurs even came from the military with that announcement. Except for the Special Forces gang. Ice.

"However,” I recanted, “this ploy is only a political move to legally save our butts if we screw-up big time. Should this deal come off as planned, nobody is the wiser and the media never finds out."

Pensive faces. Hushed conversations. Grudging acceptance.

From the attaché case, I slid a piece of paper into a slot on the podium. “The enemy calls itself the SSD,” I began. The Scion of the Silver Dagger, I thought was a bit too far out for even this veteran group to handle in a single dose.

"Okay, we call’ em Sid,” a DEA agent stated.

I nodded. Give the enemy a silly name and you remove half of their power to frighten. God, I love professionals. “Sid has sworn to destroy Chicago at midnight tonight."

A State Police captain raised her hand.

"Yes, they're serious,” I cut her off. “And competent enough to do it. They have already annihilated a small town in West Virginia just to test their equipment!” What's a lie among friends?

"Any survivors?” a Secret Service agent asked.

I gave them a full eight-second dramatic pause. “No."

The room filled with furrowed brows and grimly set jaws. I could see the thought process in their faces. First blood went to the enemy. The Scion was just elevated to a real threat. But that wasn't enough. Time to drive the stake home.

"In point of fact,” I continued. “Sid is so competent that the military has already invaded Chi with hundreds of plainclothes soldiers, plus, the President of the Untied States has ordered the Pentagon to activate the North America defense grid, placing NORAD and SAC on DefCon Three.” That sobered the lot of them.

A beefy US Marshal whistled. “One step from war."

"Now you're starting to get the picture,” I informed them. “Sid is as dangerous as terrorists come. Smart, ruthless and very well trained. With more equipment than we like to think about."

"Where did they get it?” a Coast Guard commander asked.

"Handled already,” I snapped. Didn't want them trying to ferret out the Scion by backtracking their equipment. They might discover the Bureau!

"How do they plan to destroy Chicago?” an Air Force Intelligence operative asked. “A nuclear device?"

Device. Didn't anybody say bomb anymore? “Unknown,” I replied honestly. “But if they've got one, they will use it. Even if a hundred of their own people are within the main fireball."