MJ-12: Shadows

34

Maggie walked across the grasslands a step or two behind Danny, surveying everything she could and bringing all her training to bear. There were at least thirty people surrounding that derrick — which Danny had said likely contained a goddamn A-bomb — and six jeeps speeding down the road toward them, so anywhere from twelve to twenty-four more bodies in the mix. That would be too many for one go-round. She’d have to work in batches, and work fast, to incapacitate that many people. And the odds were good that at least two, maybe as many as four, would chose the fight option of “fight or flight” and make things even harder.

“If this deal goes south, this is gonna get ugly. There’s too many,” she said quietly.

“They’re not gonna deal,” Danny replied. “And I got a bead on… six other Variants besides our people. Confirming one of them appears to be Lavrentiy Beria.”

“Super,” Maggie replied. “Any idea how they’ll affect the plan?”

“Nope. ‘Best-laid plans’ never accounted for new Variants.”

The Russian troops spread out across the field, rifles aimed, but at a considerable distance. At least half were beyond the reach of Maggie’s abilities, which was a pretty smart move, she had to admit. Of course, the more they walked, the more it looked like the Russians might catch themselves in a crossfire. Were they that dumb? Possibly. Or perhaps Beria didn’t care how many people died, so long as the Variants were killed or captured.

Maggie felt her anger rise. This wouldn’t end well for them.

“Maggie, ease up on the rage,” Danny hissed. “I… I can’t afford to just punch Beria in the face when I see him.”

Maggie closed her eyes and made a conscious effort to rein in her emotions. After all this time, shit like that still happened. Frustrating. “Sorry.”

“Not to worry,” Danny said. “I’m seeing movement at the tower. Looks like Sorensen is doing his job. If we make it out of here alive, we gotta figure out how to extend his camouflage to others.”

“Shut up,” Maggie whispered as Beria began walking toward them, surrounded by at least six armed guards and officers. “It’s show time.”

The two stopped about fifty yards from their helicopter — and a good hundred yards away from the tower and the Soviet scientists. The Red Army guys were taking positions about thirty yards away, with at least a dozen rifles aimed at them. Soon, Beria and his people were only about ten feet away. Danny held up four fingers — there were four Variants in total in front of them. Maggie instantly recognized the Illyanov siblings from their encounter in Czechoslovakia, but the abilities of the other two, including Beria, were a mystery.

“You must be my mystery caller,” Beria said simply.

Danny nodded. “That’s right. Your people are in our helicopter. Where are ours?”

“Secured. I’m sure you know what’s going on here today.”

“About time you guys caught up to us,” Danny replied.

Beria frowned and looked down at his shoes a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. “Your people are stubborn,” he said finally. “I would make the same offer to you I made to them, but I feel as though this would be a waste of time.”

“Let me guess,” Maggie chimed in. “Join up? Rule the world in the name of communism?”

“Something like that,” Beria said, a half-smile appearing. “And I assume you have a plan to rescue them and leave, given that I have no intention of releasing them or you.”

“Goes without saying,” Danny said as he evened out his stance. Maggie did the same, appreciating Beria’s lack of bullshit, if nothing else.

“Many Empowered people could die because of this,” Beria cautioned. “There are too few of us to be wasted in such a way. We are stronger together than fighting each other.”

Danny shrugged. “You and yours are more than welcome to come with us if that makes you feel any better.”

“No, thank you,” Beria said. “Teper!”

Beria raised his arms and a giant gout of pure yellow flame exploded out of his hands toward Maggie and Danny. Both of them hit the ground immediately and Maggie let loose with both proverbial barrels, sending abject fear out from her in waves of pure red terror. Danny moaned next to her — she was going more for brute power than accuracy, and no doubt he’d caught a whiff.

Then the screaming started, and Maggie smiled, even as shots began zinging past overhead. The flames sputtered and died, and she looked up to see Beria running away as fast as he could.

Maggie grabbed Danny and moved forward, away from the grass now completely engulfed in flames, diving to the right to use the remaining tall grass, the stuff that wasn’t yet on fire, as cover. The Russians that had been in front of them moments earlier were nowhere to be found.

“Let’s go,” she said, letting the fear slough away.

Frank saw the flames erupt about a hundred yards off and knew that whatever Danny had planned, it had either just been shot to shit or it was going perfectly. He hoped for the latter.

Weapons, then sabotage. Move.

His hands free, Frank grabbed one of the distracted guards from behind and snapped his neck in one fluid motion — an incredibly hard move that he wouldn’t have been able to pull off without the instruction in his head. Frank grabbed the poor soldier’s rifle before he hit the ground, and turned to find Cal gently laying another boy on the ground, looking a little bit younger for it. Cal handed the rifle to the blur — only to realize that this new Variant’s camouflage didn’t actually hide whatever he was carrying.

“Zip, grab the rifle,” Frank said, quietly as he could. “Everybody down.” Frank hit the deck along with everyone else, then looked around. “New guy, where are you?”

“Right next to you,” came a voice to Frank’s left. “Sorensen.”

He’s good. “What’s the plan?”

“The deal was to trade a couple other Variants for you three, but Danny always figured the Reds wouldn’t play according to the rules. So, it’s a rescue now.”

When did we get two tradable Variants? “Who else you got?”

“Yamato, who controls electricity, is working it from the left side there. Christina’s a leaper — she’s working her way around on the right to help us from behind. We also have null grenades.”

“Come again?”

“Null grenades. That crazy housewife managed to create grenades that’ll create those null zones on impact. Each one lasts about a minute.”

Frank smiled, then gave a listen to the multitude of voices coursing through his head.

Even the odds.

Create distractions.

Sabotage.

Kill Beria if possible.

“OK. We need distractions. Blow up a jeep or two, send some others running free. Take out as many soldiers as you can. We meet at the helicopter you came in on. If that’s damaged, head for the Russian bird. Do not damage either ’copter. Got it?”

“Got it.” A moment later, Frank saw the faintest blur heading off toward one of the jeeps.

“Cal, how we feeling?”

The black man smiled at him. “A lot better than a few minutes ago.”

“I’m putting you on Variant duty. Find ’em, drain ’em, take ’em out.”

“Frank, I ain’t gonna—”

“I know, I know. Just take ’em out of the game. Move. Pick up as much juice as you can along the way.”

Cal nodded and hauled himself up and over to one of the legs of the tower, using it as cover. “Zip, you and I, we got trained for this. You can do it.”

The young woman nodded nervously.

Scared.

First combat.

Liability.

“Shut up,” Frank hissed, then glanced back at Zippy, who was looking at him strangely. “Sorry, not you. You stay behind me as we go forward. You cover the right flank and the back. I’ll take left and front. These are AK-47s, thirty rounds, don’t waste bullets. You see some ammo on the ground, grab it.”

Zippy held up a cartridge and managed a weak smile. “On it.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Frank crouch-ran toward another of the legs. Three Red soldiers were rushing toward the field where Beria had let loose; Frank stopped them in three shots, then swiveled and took out a scientist who’d been yelling, “They’re loose!” in Russian. Just what we didn’t need.

Quickly checking to see if Zippy was still following, Frank then dashed over to one of the bigger cargo trucks, laying down cover fire as he went. They managed to get behind the truck just as bullets pockmarked the ground behind them.

The truck.

“Get in,” Frank said, yanking open the passenger door and motioning for Zippy to lead. She dove for the driver’s seat with the good sense to keep her head down, and Frank jumped in after.

There was a shadow waiting for them inside.

“What the—”

A hand materialized and sent Zippy’s head into the steering wheel, knocking her senseless. Frank reflexively reached out to grab the arm it was attached to, only for it to dissolve into shadow once again. Then a fist caught him squarely in the jaw, sending him back out of the truck onto the grass.

“You can’t fight me,” the shadow’s voice hissed in Russian as it climbed out of the truck. “You can’t even lay a finger on me.”

Frank got up off his ass and, staggering slightly, began to throw punches at the shadow; all he got for his trouble was laughter.

He may not risk materializing if you keep at him.

Frank kept swinging, and the shadow kept laughing — but at least there were no more fists for the time being.

Now it was just a question of what to do next, before his arms got tired. All the voices were pretty silent on that point.

Danny followed Maggie as they dashed across the steppe, crouched low. Bullets continued to whiz past overhead, but an explosion from around the tower told him that Sorensen had freed Frank, Cal, and Zippy — and that they were doing as expected. Danny figured he didn’t need to tell Frank what to do, given that he had a bunch of top military minds already in his head.

A bolt of lightning grabbed Danny’s attention; Yamato had just fried several soldiers to their right. Immediately, Danny and Maggie took off at a dead run toward the light and met up with the young man just as he was gathering the dead Russians’ weapons. He tossed an AK-47 to Danny but hesitated when he came to Maggie. “You know how to use one of these?” Yamato asked incredulously.

Maggie grabbed the rifle out of his hands, checked the action, then raised it and fired toward a soldier a good seventy-five yards off. He went down. “I think I got this, kid,” she said impatiently.

Danny looked up quickly — there was a Variant coming toward them, and fast. “Down!”

Too late. Yamato cried as a gunshot rang out and a blood-red stain appeared in his gut. “Fuck! Oh, fuck!” The teenager fell, and Danny fired his weapon off in the general direction of the Variant, the rapidly parting steppe grass giving him a feeble target.

“He’s heading for the helicopter!” Danny yelled. “He’s going to get the others!’

He took off at a dead run, leaving Yamato behind in Maggie’s care. The gut shot would be painful as hell, but he’d linger long enough for Cal to reach him. Probably. Maybe.

As Danny ran, the rotors began turning. Boris Illyanov likely was in the pilot’s seat. If nothing else, at least that would keep the speedy bastard in one place.

Just as the runners left the ground, Danny made it to the door and jumped in. Suddenly, there in front of him, was Ekaterina, the little girl with the big goddamn muscles.

She smiled and threw a fist at his gut.

It barely registered.

Danny smiled back as her grin evaporated.

“Null-generators,” he said, not bothering to find the right words in Russian. “Otherwise, our friends here would be free to escape.”

Pushing her aside toward the still-bound captives in back — he kind of felt bad about that for a brief moment — he moved up to the cockpit and held his rifle to Boris’s head. “Take her up,” he said. “We have things to do.”

Cal moved through the shadows, relying on his Area 51 training and plain old luck to attack from the fringes of the chaos. He’d managed to lay six people low — just enough to age them a year or two and knock them out cold, while giving him the vigor of a healthy man in his thirties, give or take. Most of them were soldiers, though a scientist who turned around at the wrong time ended up aged a little more than Cal would’ve liked. But he’d live, and that was the most important thing.

The problem was Beria was nowhere in sight. That was someone Cal wouldn’t mind grabbing more than a few years from, but with all the people running about — and a few jeeps careening around the camp — Cal could barely identify anybody.

“Ne dvigat’sya!”

Cal turned to see another young soldier — why did the whole damn Red Army look like a bunch of high school kids? — about ten feet away, pointing his rifle at him, his hands trembling. He didn’t need a translation to get the gist: if the kid wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Instead, cursing himself for not paying attention, Cal slowly raised his hands. “OK, son. I got my hands up,” Cal said quietly and, he hoped, soothingly. “You got me dead to rights. Let’s just take it easy, now.”

The boy raised his rifle and started yelling in Russian — until a woman came out of nowhere and landed right on top of him, driving him into the grass. Hard.

“What in God’s name?” Cal blurted.

The woman — a petite young blonde wearing a flight jumpsuit and boots and carrying an assault rifle, just smiled. “I figure you’re one of us, yeah? Not many black men in the Russian Army.”

Cal ducked as bullets whizzed by. “Get down!”

Instead, the woman jumped high — about fifty goddamn feet high — and sprayed a nearby area with automatic fire. She was back on the ground in two seconds. “Sorry about that,” she said, finally crouching down next to Cal. “I’m Christina.”

“Cal Hooks,” he replied. “You see Beria from up there?”

“Hang on.” And up she went again, this time making it to the derrick holding the Soviets’ A-bomb. She grabbed hold about forty feet off the ground and looked around for several moments before leaping back down next to Cal once more. “Spotted him! Heading for the Russian helicopter!”

“We just gotta get him before he sets us on fire,” Cal said. “Lord help me, never thought I’d say that.”

Christina just smiled. “You just get over there, fast as you can,” she said, holding up an unusual-looking grenade. “I’ll take out his Enhancement.”

And then she jumped once more — so high and so fast, Cal lost sight of her.

Cal started running, dodging from cover to cover — behind trucks, tables, equipment. There was less gunfire now, for some reason. Maybe the others had put a nice big dent in the Russian numbers. Of course, somebody would have a radio, so they couldn’t bet on having the advantage for long. No doubt there was already backup on the way.

Finally, Cal saw the helicopter and Beria’s balding head as he ducked and ran toward it. Swearing slightly under his breath — he knew he’d feel bad about it later, if there even was a later — Cal took off at a dead run.

Bullets skittered ahead and behind him, and Cal did his best to zigzag across the steppe, trying to cover the thirty or so yards quick as he could. He looked up just as Christina fell from the sky, landing right in front of Beria and dropping her grenade. There was a flash — and his power was gone.

Then Cal saw the Russian pull a pistol and shoot Christina in the head.

“NO!”

Cal ran faster, fast as he could, and came up behind Beria just as he began heading into the helicopter, tackling the man to the ground. Cal put his hands on Beria’s face and willed his Enhancement to the fore with a prayer for justice…

… and nothing happened. The grenade was still active.

Beria lashed out with a fist, catching Cal squarely on the jaw, sending him reeling backward onto his ass.

“You… you killed that girl!” Cal stammered as he struggled to get to his feet, his head swimming.

Beria laughed and reached for his holster — but his gun had been jarred loose by Cal’s tackle. Turning, the Russian jumped into the helicopter. It began to rise into the air, leaving Cal no choice but to duck for cover as the gunners opened fire on him. Pain lanced through his leg — a stray bullet had caught him, sending him crumpling to the ground in agony.

Cal crawled over to Christina’s body, hoping beyond hope that she’d survived, but the bullet hole in her forehead left no debate about it. Whispering a quick prayer for her soul, he drained her of what life he could — and felt the wound on his leg close up somewhat. The grenade’s effects must’ve worn off. He’d be limping, but he’d be mobile.

He looked around to see much of the area deserted. There were bodies everywhere, mostly those Russian Army boys and a few scientists. And off about thirty yards, Cal could see Frank Lodge getting the living crap beat out of him by what looked like a demonic shadow from hell.

Cal looked back at Christina, saw the pouch at her belt, reached inside, and found another of those queer grenades. He flipped a little thing on the side — it was the only button or switch he could find — and it gave off a shrill beep. Getting up on his knees, he flung it toward Frank as hard as he could.

A moment later, the shadow coalesced into a very surprised-looking white man in his thirties. Frank wiped the look off his face with a right hook that looked like it could’ve downed a horse.

Staggering to his feet, Cal limped over as quick as he could, watching as Frank sank to his knees, utterly spent. When he finally reached him, he could see Frank’s face was a welt of cuts, bumps, and bruises. He looked like he’d been fifteen rounds with Joe Louis.

“Come on, Frank,” Cal said. “We gotta get up, get moving.”

Dazed, Frank nonetheless managed to rise. “The others?” he mumbled.

“We lost that girl, Christina. Where’s Zippy?”

Frank nodded over to one of the trucks. “Inside there. Knocked out.”

Cal rushed over to the truck, trying to ignore the pain in his leg, and found Zippy in the driver’s seat, woozy and sporting a cut on her forehead. “OK, Miss Zippy. Time to get you out of there. Gimme your hand.”

With some effort — including having to weather a great deal of pain from his leg — Cal managed to get the girl out and on her feet. Frank joined them at the truck; he’d even managed to pick up a stray AK-47 off the ground.

“Now what?” Cal asked.

Frank looked at the Russian ’copter heading off toward the horizon. “We need our ride. Let’s go.”

It didn’t take long. Once they got out from under cover, they saw the American bird about forty yards off, Maggie and a now-visible Sorensen covering the door with rifles. Maggie spotted them and started waving and shouting.

“Cherez dve minuty i podscheta golosov.”

The Russian voice came from loudspeakers mounted on the tower.

“Frank?” Cal asked.

“Two minutes and counting,” Frank said, the color receding from his face. “Move!”

Cal grabbed Zippy’s hand and ran — harder than he’d ever run in his life.