Wings of Steele 4: Dark Cover, page 20
Lisa stopped and faced them, “Look for what it's worth, well, I'm just going to put this out there; whether it's just the two of you, or two-hundred of you, we'll find a way to make it happen.”
“How would...”
“You're going to have to trust me on this; I can make it happen. That task force up there is Jack's task force. And not only is he a Vice Admiral, he is also a King... Those people are devoted to him. They will get it done.”
“A King?”
“His wife had him coronated before he left Veloria in case something happened to her, her people would still have a leader.”
Kirk rubbed his forehead, “Does that make you a...”
“It makes me his sister,” interrupted Lisa, her mouth grinning crookedly. “That's it.” She turned and headed for the Reaper, the two of them in tow. “If you talk to him, don't mention you know that; he doesn't really like to discuss it.”
“Why not?” asked Tisha.
“He just doesn't...”
Lisa's earpiece chirped, “Is that you, boss? I hear voices coming this way.”
Lisa touched her comm button, “Yeah, it's me, Mac. Go ahead and warm her up.”
“Copy that.”
“What was that?”
“That was my REO, he's my back-seater...”
The shadows had lengthened and deepened, covering the Reaper completely, the sunlight quickly fading, making it nearly impossible for Lisa to see the outline of the fighter even though she knew what to look for. She paused at the edge of the trees with her cousins standing with her. “Mac, I can't see a damn thing, kill the ARC, will you? I don't feel like walking into the wingtip.”
Draza Mac waved from the cockpit, visible from his shoulders up, “Got it, boss, ARC off...”
Eyes wide, Kirk and Tisha stared at the figure floating in mid-air, “How...”
The Dark ship slowly materialized from thin air as the sensors and emitters drained their power, the fighter slowly solidifying into something visually complete. “Guys, this is the Reaper. And that,” she pointed to Mac as he stood up in the back half of the cockpit, “is Marine Sergeant Draza Mac, my friend and REO.”
Mac waved, “Hi folks.”
Pale and wide-eyed, Tisha teetered on her feet and Kirk held her steady, “You understand him?” he asked, glancing in Lisa's direction.
Giving a; holy crap, I totally forgot, wave of her hand, Lisa fished a temporary translation disc out of one of her flight-suit pockets. Leaving the peel-off backing intact, she held it against Kirk's neck with her gloved index finger. “Say something again, Mac.”
“Sure, boss - what do you want me to say?”
Kirks eyes narrowed, reaching up and pulling the disc from under her finger examining the nickle-sized flexible wafer. “What the heck? How does it do that?”
Lisa shook her head, “No idea how it works. That's a temporary translator that goes in our survival kit. You can keep it, I have more. Just peel off the backing and stick it on your neck behind your ear...”
Kirk realized her hair must be hiding it, “You're wearing one?”
“I have a permanent one under the skin,” she tapped her neck, “right here.”
Still standing, Draza Mac pulled his helmet on, “We really ought to be going, Skipper, we're going to light up the night sky like a comet...”
Lisa hugged her cousins. “Tell everybody I said hi. Mom and dad send their best...”
They watched her climb the ladder into the dark, angular fighter with the strange, twin upside down tails on the bottom of her fuselage. Helmet on, settled in, Lisa activated the antigravity system, the Reaper becoming buoyant, lifting off the ground on a strange blue glow.
An electric crackling hum made their mouths water as they retreated, giving Lisa room to maneuver the Reaper out of her hiding spot. She leaned out of the open cockpit to see the wingtips and clearance. Floating on ten inches of antigravity pressure the craft swung effortlessly around, crossing the green of the fairway without making so much as a mark on the grass. She waved to them as the canopy moved forward, locking closed with an audible ka-chick. They could see the two figures inside the cockpit bathed in the glow of their instruments as the craft rose straight up, the hum and light of the antigravity intensifying.
A deep thump they could both feel to their core, accompanied the lighting of the twin engines as the fighter drifted away. A quick waggle of the wings and it moved off, the glow of the antigravity disappearing as the fighter streaked across the evening sky. It disappeared over the trees with a rolling thunder of a sonic boom, reappearing again a moment later as it shot straight upward, a brilliant trail of light pushing it upward, thunder clapping as it suddenly accelerated and nearly instantly, disappeared.
“Reverend Jonas..!”
Startled, Kirk jumped, as did Tisha. “George!” grunted Kirk, “For crying out loud, you scared the heck outta me!”
“Sorry Reverend, Miss Tisha,” he tipped his ball cap. “Looking at the lights? I saw them too.”
“We were just taking a walk when we saw them...” Kirk said slowly, wondering how much the neighbor had seen.
George Hebert adjusted his hat, “Must be one of them alien things...”
“What makes you say that, George?”
“Well I don't think we have anything that can do that... And I don't expect the Ruskies or the Chinese do either.”
■ ■ ■
The red and blue strobes on the roof of the police cruiser reflected off the darkened buildings on both sides of the street as the car ahead pulled slowly to the curb. Sergeant Bobby Fortuno eased the Crown Victoria in behind it, adjusting the spotlight to hit the mirror on the car's door, blinding the driver's rearward view. “Remember Ski, I just want to run wants and warrants on these guys, I'm not interested in anything else...”
“Got it.” Officer Nick Omanski called the license plate number into dispatch as he exited the car on the passenger side. “Hold on Sarge...”
The four occupants sat motionless as Fortuno moved up to the rear fender, laying his hand on the back of the car, leaving his hand and fingerprints on the surface. Omanski stood at the front fender of the police cruiser, at an angle that allowed him to watch the passenger and back seat occupants, his hand on his sidearm.
Seeing the motion in the back seat, Omanski flicked on his flashlight, simultaneously drawing his firearm, a rifle barrel visible in the brilliant halo of the light in his hand, “Gun! Gun! Gun!”
Fortuno jumped away and back, the driver stomping on the accelerator, the tires squealing as it sped away, tire smoke and bits of gravel flying out across the asphalt. Omanski re-holstered his Glock as he leapt back towards the cruiser, “Dammit...”
Bobby Fortuno dashed back to the open driver's door, swinging into the driver's seat, “Which one?”
“Back seat, passenger side, looked like a rifle...”
The Sergeant threw it into gear and planted his foot into the pedal, “You sure?”
“Looked like an AK-47 to me...” he cocked his head and turned up the volume on his radio, the dispatcher chattering in the earpiece in his ear. “Car's stolen, Sarge.”
“If he's got an AK, that's the least of our worries. Call it...”
“2047 to dispatch; he rabbited, we're in pursuit. Occupied four times, at least one is armed, believed to be an AK-47 - requesting additional units...”
Fortuno muscled the cruiser around debris in the streets from burned-out buildings and demolished cars, most of the street lights out. Relaying information to dispatch to guide other units. Nick Omanski called out the streets and direction on the radio as they gained on the stolen vehicle. “He's going south on Cottage Grove...”
Fortuno stood on the brakes and steered into the corner, the cruiser's tires wailing as the big car slid. He planted his foot back into the accelerator, the tail lights of the stolen car farther away than they should be... “How'd he do tha...”
The windshield shattered, a concrete cinderblock punching halfway through, showering the interior with nuggets of glass and dust. Bobby Fortuno stomped on the brakes, the cruiser's tires screaming as the car skidded to a stop on an angle in the middle of the street. The front of the cruiser was taking hammer blows, jagged holes appearing in the hood, fenders and windshield. The mirror on the passenger door exploded, leaving just a stump and the door glass blew in like horizontal hail.
Trying to hide below the dash, Bobby threw the car in reverse and buried his foot in the accelerator as both front tires blew apart, the steering wheel yanking on his hands. The engine raced as the rear tires spun, pouring smoke, hopping on the pavement, trying to drag the heavy cruiser clear of the carnage.
Omanski was sideways in his seat, as low as he could get, glad for the armor in the doors as he screamed into his mic, “10-99! 10-99! Officer needs assistance! Shots fired! Shots fired! 2047 - we've been ambushed, we're under attack... 75th and Cottage Grove!”
The cruiser's tortured engine let go like a grenade, blowing the mangled hood upright, clouds of smoke and steam billowing, dribbles of flame running out and below the car from a ruptured fuel line, the electric fuel pump still trying to feed the dead engine. Bobby threw the driver's door open and rolled out onto the pavement, crawling toward the rear of the car, Omanski crawling out behind him over the console and computer. “I'm not getting anyone on the radio, Sarge!”
“Keep trying!” Behind the rear axle and most of the car, Bobby pushed Nick Omanski around behind him so he could get back to the interior and unlock the shotguns in the rack. A Molotov cocktail with a flaming tail sailed over the top of the car and smashed behind them in the middle of the street, a tower of fire erupting and spreading out. Rounds skipped off the pavement, zinging past, another thumped the top of the car shattering the light bar as he lay across the driver's seat fighting with locking mechanism of the shotgun rack.
Nick moved to the far corner of the cruiser, positioning himself behind the rear wheel and axle, gun drawn, peaking low around the corner of the fender, letting loose with a barrage of fire at the figures in the shadows, focusing on the muzzle flashes. A Mossberg 500 slid across the asphalt under the car coming to rest against his foot and he ducked to holster his Glock and scoop it up, racking a round into the chamber.
A shotgun of his own with a small pouch full of rounds slung over his shoulder, Bobby Fortuno racked a round, firing through the car's missing windows staying low and behind the rear wheel as best he could. The fuel fire was spreading under the car. “We gotta move Nick...” shouted Bobby, his ears ringing.
Nick pointed to a dark gangway between a couple of store fronts thirty feet away and Bobby nodded. Seeing a figure maneuvering around the parked cars along the curb, Bobby peered under the cruiser firing a round through the flames, the double-ought Buck bouncing off the pavement and taking the assailant's feet off above the ankle. Pulling extra rounds out of his pouch, he thumbed them through the Mossberg's loading port into the magazine tube, ignoring the man's screams.
Nick pitched backward, sprawling out on the pavement, his shotgun clattering to the ground behind him. “Nick! Nick get up!” Bobby grabbed his mic, “10-53, officer down, officer down!” There was nothing but dead air.
Bobby caught an attacker taking advantage of his downed partner, swiftly advancing on the sidewalk to the exposed flank, not expecting Bobby to be there. “Fuck you,” snarled Bobby, the Mossberg roaring. At that range, all eight of the steel double-ought Buck hit the thug square in the chest, taking him off his feet. Fortuno couldn't hear the feet running to his right, he only saw the blur as he attempted to swing the barrel of his shotgun. He went down like he'd been hit by a linebacker, a strong-arm across his chest.
The round-faced black man leaned into his line of vision, pulling him upright by his tactical vest, one-handed. “Don't be shootin' me boss...” The big man snatched up Nick's shotgun and lay it across his body as he began to scoop him up. “We gotta get you outta here, or dey gonna kill you fo sure.” Half off the ground he maneuvered the shotgun in his right hand underneath Nick's knees, pointing outward. He nodded to the gangway,”You go firs', I cover you, den you cover me. Got it?” Bobby nodded. “Go...”
Bobby bolted and the big man stood up cradling Nick in his arms, the shotgun on its side. He used the weight of Nick's legs to rack the Mossberg's pump, shooting as he moved to the gangway. Bobby fired from the cover of the building until the big man passed behind him, then ducked out of view, the police cruiser engulfed in flames, a pyre of black smoke rising into the night sky.
“Try to keep up,” called the big man in a forced whisper, jogging with Nick in his arms. “Dey gonna try to follow us.”
Bobby reloaded his shotgun as he trotted behind them, constantly checking behind him. “Where are we going?”
“Jus' keep up...”
They ran for three blocks between houses and through yards, finally cutting across a side street on an angle and passing between houses again, only to stop at the side door of a garage that faced an alley. The big man managed to turn the knob and pushed the door open with the toe of his boot, leading Bobby inside, the interior pitch dark. He felt the man brush against him and heard a wooden thunk behind him.
“We OK fo' now boss, but we gotta stay quiet.” A lamp sitting on an end table came on, illuminating the interior of the garage; old but clean furniture laid out neatly, a television, bed, sofa and refrigerator in a kitchenette off in one corner. Plywood covered the windows.
“You live here?” asked Bobby, noticing the horizontal 4x4 timber used as a bracer bar that secured the side door.
“Ain't much. But it's comfy...” He knelt over Nick where he had laid him on the floor and unbuttoned his shirt, “Don't see no blood. That's a good sign.”
Bobby set the shotgun against the wall and dropped to a knee next to the big man, who he realized had to be six-foot four, and in the neighborhood of three-hundred pounds. His khaki pants were worn but clean, his t-shirt had seen better days, his arms cluttered with tattoos that were difficult to see against his dark skin. But the Eagle, Globe and Anchor was clear enough. “Marine Corps?”
“Oorah, Sergeant.”
“That's Nick, I'm Bobby.”
“Denny.”
The two men worked to remove Omanski's ballistic vest without moving him more than they had to, “What you did out there...”
“Weren't no big thang,” grimaced Denny looking at the softball sized bruise over Omanski's heart. He checked for a pulse on the carotid. “At's a bad hit, boss. Bad spot. He needs a Doc...”
“What the hell did he get hit with?”
Denny flopped the ballistic panel over and pulled on the mangled slug imbedded in the puckered material with his fingernail, “.357 maybe. He dropped the panel and stood up moving to the refrigerator, opening the freezer door. “Never seen a .38 or 9 leave a bruise like dat.” He retrieved a frozen gel pack, mushing it up and wrapping it in a dish towel. “He ain't got a lot of time if he got sumpin' tore up in dere.” He stepped back over to Nick and gently laid the cold pack over the bruise.
Bobby Fortuno tried his radio again, “2047... 2047 to dispatch.” He tried several times with no response, alternately trying Nick's radio with the same results. “Dammit. You wouldn't have a land line, would you?”
Nope.”
“A car, so I can get us out of here?”
“No,” he whispered, bringing his finger to his lips, “sssshhh...” He reached over and turned off the lamp on the end table, leaving them in pitch darkness again. Running feet and urgent voices passed between the garages, stopping in the alley just beyond the overhead door, arguing and swearing for some time, before finally splitting up and moving off. “Think you stuck here fo' a while, boss. Dey ain't givin' up...” Denny reached over in the dark, snapping the light back on again. “Dem boys jus' plain evil. Causin' all sorts of trouble since de end of da World started. Course, dey always been bad, not one of 'em ever been any good. Animals. Robbin', beatin', stealin'...” Denny lifted the gel pack off of Nick, “Don't want it too cold... swellin's gone down some...”
Bobby Fortuno realized his hands were shaking, his body too, the monumental adrenalin dump falling away, his body reacting to the loss like a junky going through detox. He felt weak, nauseous.
Denny studied him for a moment, “You been hit?”
He looked at his arms and hands, “I don't think so...”
Denny stood up grabbing Bobby by his tactical vest and lifting him to his feet, turned him around to examine him. “I don't see nothin', must be adrenalin crash...” He moved him over to the old sofa, continuing to hold him upright before sitting him down. The big man moved over to the refrigerator, retrieving a cold soda and a chocolate candy bar. “Here, you need some sugar... helps take the edge off.” He popped the top of the soda and handed it to Fortuno, “First gunfight?” He set the candy bar on the arm of the sofa before returning to Nick on the floor.
“Yeah...” Bobby sipped the soda, its chill shocking him into focus. “Think I killed that guy on the sidewalk?” His face was a mixture of anguish and steady resolve.
“It'd be my guess. Ain't nothin' he didn't deserve though.” He was examining Nick, finding a goose-egg on the back of his head from the fall he took. “Dat explains why he's still out...” He slid the cold gel pack under his head. “Dat dude you took out under da car was a neat trick.”
“How much did you see?”
“I was on da sidewalk. Ducked between da buildings when da shootin' started. It was an ambush, plain and simple. You was set up. I couldn't do nothin till dat last dude went down.”
“I'm glad you did.”
“Ain't no big thang, boss. Right thing to do is all.”
“Why did you knock me down?”
“I was hollerin' at you, but you both was tunneled... If you turned at the wrong time you would'a shot me. I hadta' be fast.”
“I guess it was a good thing you weren't one of them,” replied Bobby, sipping the soda again.
“Wasn't your time yet, boss. Da man upstairs has a different plan fo' you.” He glanced down at Omanski, “Not sure 'bout this boy yet.”
