Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three] (9 page)

As this was plainly no time for trick cameras, I loaded Jess an Uzi machine pistol from the small arsenal in the glove compartment. Maintaining speed, she accepted the weapon, along with four additional clips of mixed ammo. The open carton of grenades I put on the couch for easy access for both of us.

"Mindy, what does radar say?” Katrina asked, the big blonde sliding tiers of copper bracelets from her wizard's kit on her slim tan arms.

Glancing over my shoulder at the dashboard, the short woman consulted the beeping screen. “That there are two of them,” Mindy announced, curling a lip.

Ah, modern technology. Ain't it grand? That was when I noticed that both wizards were now magically dressed for war in combat sneakers, denim pants, T-shirts and short vests with zillion tiny pockets bulging with occult items. Of course, Raul's T-shirt was adorned with a giant bullseye target surrounded by the international ‘NO’ symbol, and Katrina's was skin tight showing a wealth of cleavage, with a picture of her wearing a T-shirt with a picture of her wearing a T-shirt with a picture of her wearing a T-shirt, ad infinitum, but that was only to be expected. Then I noticed her butterfly tattoo was on her cheek and wearing a flakjacket. Cool. I just had to get me one of those someday.

In grim satisfaction, Father Donaher stroked his Remington shotgun into readiness. “And what's the magical report,” the big priest asked, watching the big Macks through the rear window.

"Magical probes show clear,” Raul reported, fondling the empty air. “No cargo, one driver per truck."

That caught everybody's attention. The Scion sent two guys riding empty trucks after us when we escaped from their secret headquarters? Bullshit.

With renewed interest, Mindy located her binoculars on the spinning tires. “Riding too damn low for empties,” she observed. “Could be bad suspension on one, but both?"

Adjusting my sunglasses, I dialed for computer enhancement and the view fragmented, the middle section magnifying the lead white cab. Everything seemed normal. They appeared to be just a bunch of tired looking asphalt jockeys, typical ordinary long-distance truckers. Following Bureau procedure, I switched to ultraviolet on my sunglasses. Nothing of interest showed. However, on infrared there were strong indications of heat sources in both trucks. Both of the empty trucks. Including, the refrigeration rig.

"They're phonies,” I calmly announced, a single split second before the trucks exploded.

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Even as the blast ripped along the highway, the five big Mack trucks detonated again. The tiny metal squares that had formed the truck walls fluttered in a cloud to the ground, exposing an inner framework of metal struts. Fluted ramps extended from the sides of flatbeds, hovering inches above the rushing concrete and giants on motorcycles poured onto the turnpike, skillfully scattering to give their brethren room to descend.

The hairy riders had leather bandoleers of ammunition crisscrossing their Herculean chests, full-body military flak jackets and over-sized crash helmets. Each monster biker was armed with a MAC-10 spray-and-pray and a LAW rocket launcher. Those were big trouble. Enough of the anti-tank weapons just might prove effective against the armor of our Bureau 13 issue van. What was even worse, the lunatics weren't riding standard motorcycles, but ultrafast Harley Davidson racing bikes with V-nosed prows, stabilizer fins and studded tires. On or off the road they could easily outrun our lumbering RV. But what really caught our attention were the innocent appearing saddlebags draped over the rear fender of every bike. Bags protected by a defensive rune that visibly glowed with power. Made my eyes water just to stare at the things. My Kirlian sunglasses gave an aura reading so black with evil it was if the riders were in a coal-dust cloud.

On my request, Raul and Katrina concentrated their magical probes on those lumpy leather pouches. Each was jammed full of C3, the unstable and temperamental grandfather of modern day C4, high explosive military plastique. Uh-oh. Fast, I hit the controls for external microphones and video cameras. The back window frosted over to a magnified view of our surprise guests. Yep. It was the Scion.

"Yee-haw!” a grinning slab of muscles screamed, his long body hair flying in the wind. “About time we attacked!"

A heavily scarred werewolf brushed his whiskers with a clawed paw, “Our sorcerer had to finish these bikes first, fool."

Magical motorcycles? I didn't like the sound of that.

"Freaking, deacon,” a crewcut werewolf laughed, revving her supercharged Twin V88 engine to near overload. “On these those Bureau bastards will never escape us again!"

"What if they teleport?"

"Deudonic shields are up to stop them,” another smirked confidently.

"SOBs deserves to die!” a werewolf shouted, an ear dripping with feathers. “Everybody deserves to die!"

The crewcut agreed. “And if we're successful, soon the whole world will be dead!"

"Yowsa!” the muscle-boy howled, flipping back and balancing the Harley motorcycle on its rear wheel. “I'm gonna eat me some Pentagon porkchops! Washington white meat! Federal—"

"Nothing fancy,” a big werewolf barked, his fur having a slight touch of mange. “Let's hit-n-git!"

The slab wildly shook his head, lashing himself with his own mane. “No! I wanna eat some of them first!"

"Alive?"

"Of course!"

Another laughed. “You wanna eat everything!"

"Not if it looks like you, fuzzball!"

"Enough!” the front werewolf ordered, extending the launch tube on a LAW as a prelude to firing. “Time to get nasty!"

I glanced at Raul and he nodded glumly. We were trapped. Damn! The trucks dropped back and the motorcycle pack grouped into an attack formation. A shiny metal tidal wave, they surged forward.

"Trouble. We are in trouble,” Jessica muttered, holding the Uzi firmly between her thighs and yanking on the spring bolt to chamber the first automatic round.

"Battle stations,” I announced, and the Armorlite glass of the rear window became illuminated in a vector graphic of holographic squares as an aid to targeting.

As Jessica urged the huge RV on to even greater speeds, Father Donaher passed out flak jackets, George began activating the scientific defensives of the vehicle, Mindy laid out medical supplies and started sharpening her sword. Meanwhile, Raul and Katrina were throwing colored powders about the van and chanting as if our very lives depended on their spells.

Finished loading and priming my twin .357 Magnums, I worked the radar trying to get a more detailed reading of our unusual adversaries. They were proof to magic. Had the Scion considered shielding themselves against technology? Nope!

"We have eighty-five bogeys confirmed,” I announced in a crisp voice. “Range: three quarters of a klick and closing fast."

Shocked murmurs rose from the team. That many?

"Jess, any chance of outrunning those bikes off the highway?” Raul asked, mixing vials of bubbling chemicals.

"Zero,” my wife brusquely answered, concentrating on her driving.

"What about on the highway?"

"Almost zero."

"So stay on the highway."

"Thank you, Captain Tactics,” she said between clenched teeth, as we zigzagged through traffic.

The digital speedometer blinked 145-146-147 mph. Cars flashed past us at an increasing pace. Only then did it occur to me that we were butt deep in civilians. Crap!

"Saints above, we need some combat room,” Father Donaher said, obviously thinking along the same lines. “Ed, should I release the oil slick, or the nail-clusters?"

I vetoed that. “Too great a chance of the cars going out of control and crashing into each other. Where's the EMP pistol?"

"We left it in the station wagon,” Mindy reminded.

"Damn!"

Leveling her wand in a grip similar to playing billiards, Katrina pointed the steel staff out the window and jerked it forward a nudge. Instantly, the car alongside us faltered and began to slow as its engine conked out. Then the vehicle behind it started to swing around and Katrina got that one also.

"Good shooting, Tex,” Raul complimented, picking off a Subaru, Volvo and Pinto in a neat three-banked shot.

Closing an eye in concentration, she only grunted in acknowledgment. Another nudge and a station wagon full of nuns stalled. Father Donaher doffed an imaginary hat as the puzzled sisters rolled backwards past us.

Together, the mages neutralized engines until there was a solid wall of dead cars, vans and trucks coasting to a stop behind our RV. The silent line of coasting vehicles getting further behind with every second. Suddenly, some smartass tried to get by on the gravel berm, and another attempted the same on the grassy median. They also got the Big Stall. Sputter, shudder, wheeze,
clunk
!

Then the barrier of cars shook, windshields cracking, as a wave of motorcycles bounded over them in tight formation. The bikes with their heavy passengers hit the pavement hard, but stayed upright and now revved their massive engines to full throttle. The distance between us began to shorten with alarming speed.

Katrina and Raul tried the same trick with these guys, but nothing happened. I would have been very surprised to learn that the Scion hadn't magically protected their bikes from such an obvious ploy. The members of the Scion of the Silver Dagger were insane, but not stupid. Which was unfortunate, as that sure would have made our job easier.

Barely perceptible, the 16-cylinder motor under our hood lowered its screaming output.

"Jess, why the hell are you slowing?” I demanded.

Both hands tight on the wheel, she pointed with her chin. “The cars ahead of us are too damn close! We have got to get more room!"

Great. Swell. Wonderful. “George!” I barked.

His chair turned around. “Yeah, Ed?"

"Slow the Scion. Buy us some time."

He grinned. “Yes sir!” Swiveling to the Fire Control Board, he threw a few switches and shoved a gangbar to its furthest setting.

"On my mark, Jess,” he said, face tight against a hooded viewer. “Ready ... set ... go!"

Tortured tires, squealing and smoking, Jessica swerved the van to a strategic position midway on the road and enticingly slowed, bringing the oncoming motorcycle pack within optimum range of its weapons. Then the heavy RV began fishtailing and the aft .50 caliber machine guns hidden in our bumper cut loose, the big copper-jacketed bullets sweeping through the motorcycle pack. On and on, George poured hundreds, thousands, of rounds at our hairy enemies in a seemingly endless fusillade. Windshields shattered and several riders doubled over, clutching their stomachs. But as we had no silver bullets in the hopper, not a werewolf fell, not a bike slowed.

Finally, our reserves of ammo became exhausted and the guns fell silent. Although seriously rattled, the Scion bikers maintained formation and kept coming. But now, both the cars in front and behind us had enough of a lead to be relatively safe.

"It's showtime,” Mindy announced at a control board, and flipping the top of a joystick, she pressed the red button inside.

The phony pile of luggage atop the van dropped its rear flap and out whooshed a pair of Amsterdam heat-seeking missiles. Caught by surprise, the werewolves were too stunned to react. Zeroing in on the red-hot engines, the Amsterdams dipped and leveled smooth. Frantically, the motorcycles tried to scatter, but seconds later, a series of resounding explosions annihilated a goodly portion of the dogs of war. Pieces of hairy corpses flew everywhere. Our aft machine guns may not have had silver bullets in their load, but our missiles sure did!

Struggling to regroup, the remaining bikers retaliated with their machine pistols clumsily hosing the rear of the RV.

Mindy sent three more rustling firebirds from the nest to add their destructive bid to the flaming ruin on the road.

A score of badly aimed LAW rockets streaked past us to violently impact on the highway, towers of flame formed geysers throwing tons of concrete skyward.

Far ahead, the disappearing traffic was apparently trying to perform a mass audition for the Indy 500. Good for them.

After few more shots were exchanged with little additional damage done, a lucky shot from the Scion landed inside the missile pod on our roof. Instantly, the volatile cargo of spare missiles detonated in a blinding thunderclap. The baggage rack blew apart into a million pieces, denting the ceiling, cracking windows and the flame spread downward from tiny cracks in the ceiling armor to fill the inside of the RV. Automatic extinguishers in the walls and seats spewed fire retardant foam everywhere and the blazing carpet was quickly smothered. Coughing from the acrid fumes, I somehow managed to eject the missile launcher. It hit the road in a crash. With hot shrapnel zinging everywhere, the bikers expertly wheeled around the raging inferno on the highway.

Accepting a wiggling something from George, Father Donaher tossed it out the window. “Sick ‘em, me boyyo!” he cried.

Amigo?

Tumbling through the air, our pet lizard hit the pavement and bounced directly into the exploding missile pod. Half of the Scion had passed, when from out of the roaring flames there appeared a huge reptilian figure. Now metamorphosed into his true form, the baby dragon spread wide his iridescent wings and shrugged off the mass of burning metal. Cawing a war cry, the
enfant terrible
lumbered straight into the motorcycle pack and extended his splayed claws. Moving fast, Amigo managed to snatch six of the werewolves off their bikes and stuff them into his gaping maw.

Horrified, the rest of the Scion veered well past the dragonette, careful to stay far outside his deadly reach and continued on, leaving the frustrated juggernaut behind at 150 miles per hour. Filling his lungs, Amigo blasted them with a lance of brimstone flame then started after us in his infant's waddle. It had been a good try.

As the vents heroically struggled to cleanse the air, the Scion regrouped and fired a volley of rockets past us. The rockets exploded in front of the RV, issuing countless volumes of brackish smoke that clung to the hull of car as we sailed through.