The Killing House

75

Special Agent Robert Ortega was back on watch patrol inside Ali Karim’s garage, but at least he had something interesting to occupy his attention this time around: a firm, heart-shaped ass. It belonged to Miranda Wolfe, and right now she was bent over the Ford Expedition’s engine block, her tight-fitting black trousers hugging every perfect curve. A bald guy with a noticeable beer gut hanging over his belt and — surprise, surprise, no wedding ring on his finger — stood next to her, holding a flashlight.

‘Miranda,’ the bald guy said, ‘do you feel that?’

‘Feel what?’ she asked.

‘The heat. I think it’s coming from the Jaguar.’

She moved to the car and pressed her hand against the side.

‘What the hell is causing this?’ she said, more to herself. She moved her hand away.

‘Your hand,’ the fat guy said. ‘It’s covered… it looks like black dust.’

The overhead rows of fluorescent lights hanging from the garage ceiling started to flicker.

The fat guy and Miranda Wolfe looked up, wide-eyed. Ortega’s attention was locked on the radio clipped to the woman’s belt. Smoke was rising from the loudspeaker. He was about to speak when the garage door started to rise.

Ortega flinched at the sound. He was standing near the elevator, only a few feet away from the wall controls for the garage; no one had pressed the button and yet the garage door was rising. He was still staring at it when the fat man said ‘Holy shit ’, and Ortega turned to see the guy and the woman backing away from the Ford, plumes of grey smoke drifting up from its engine block.

The overhead lights kept flickering.

Ortega called upstairs on his wrist-mike; didn’t get an answer. He grabbed his radio, pressed the push-to-talk button, got nothing but static.

He tried it again. The static grew louder. He looked at his radio, wondering why it -

Plumes of grey and white smoke rose from his radio loudspeaker; the LED panel was dead. He tossed the phone, the smell of burning plastic and fried circuitry filling his nostrils. The fat guy had his radio in hand and it was smoking. Wolfe had tossed hers to the floor; she had her cell in her hand and it was smoking.

A set of overhead fluorescents exploded. The woman screamed, glass shards raining down on her and tinkling across the garage floor. Smoke billowed from the security camera positioned in the corner and scattered in the wind blowing inside the garage.

Another set of overhead lights exploded as the Jaguar’s engine roared to life. It backed up, tyres peeling across the garage floor. Ortega pulled his weapon. He was looking down the target sight, advancing to the car, when the car turned around and faced him.

More lights exploded and he screamed at the driver to stand down. The car’s headlights were turned off but eerie green orbs of light glowed and pulsated from the centre of the car’s front grille.

The green lights exploded in blinding flashes of light. The colour burned his eyes and he heard the fat guy screaming ‘ Run, Miranda, get the hell out of the way ’ and Ortega couldn’t see, oh, God no, he had been blinded by that green light and he couldn’t see. He heard tyres squealing and he staggered around aimlessly as the Jaguar raced out of the garage.