Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

Harlequin reached into a trouser leg pocket and produced a pair of plastic zip cuffs. “She radioed, Oscar. I know you called. That’s the only reason you’re still alive. You Manifested in a prohibited school. You ran. You killed your father. Act like a soldier and man up to it.”

Britton knew he wouldn’t get three steps in any direction before Cheatham put a bullet in his back. “You’re going to kill me,” he said. “Maybe not here, but you’ll do it.”

Harlequin shrugged. “That’s for a court-martial to decide. For now, you go to the stockade. Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

“Freeze!” Two of the cops burst through the door, pistols leveled at Britton’s back. “Hands in the air!”

“Damn it, wave off!” Harlequin shouted. “I’m army Supernatural Ops! I’m taking this man in!”

“He injured a police officer,” one cop said. The other lowered his pistol, confused.

Surprised, Cheatham pointed his carbine at the cops. The one with the raised pistol reacted instinctively, pointing his weapon at Cheatham.

If you go with him, you’re dead, Britton thought. He spelled it out for you — you Manifested in a prohibited school, you ran, you killed your father. No court-martial in the country would let you off for that. He thought of Cheatham’s grip on his elbow, his father’s flailing fists, Rob slapping two shiny quarters on the counter, the girl’s corpse on the roof. The army had been the only home he’d had outside the house in Shelburne. It’s all gone. Move, and quickly.

Britton took a step back alongside the cop with the raised gun and chopped down with both hands, striking the policeman’s wrists, sending the weapon spinning. Then he ducked around the corner of the building.

Harlequin cursed, conjuring up the dust devil. Britton felt the magical current surge back into him as the Suppression dropped away. Britton heard the crack of a bullet tearing into the building’s corner. Britton knew that Dan was a better shot than that.

Britton raced into the front parking lot, surprising the other two cops. One was leaning over the other among the flattened azaleas, bandaging the prone man’s bleeding ears.

His partner spotted Britton and shouted. The other cop turned, dropped the medical tape, and fumbled with his holstered sidearm. The magical tide responded and opened a gate between them as the cop drew and fired, the bullet passing harmlessly into the other world. From behind, the gate was a shimmering rectangle of air. Britton couldn’t see the television static surface or the landscape beyond. The gates apparently had a facing — front and back.

He ran for a cruiser, lights still flashing, engine running, and passenger door open. A computer keyboard and screen covered the center console. An empty shotgun sheath stood beside it, blocking Britton’s plan to throw himself across and reach the driver’s seat. He turned to run around the vehicle.

A crack of thunder stopped him.

“And you told me that you turned yourself in,” Harlequin said. The captain floated above the store’s russet-shingled roof. The wind whipped around him, stripping leaves from the trees. Above Harlequin’s head was a black cloud, out of place in the placid sky. Light churned in its dark recesses.

A sheet of rain shot from the cloud to lash Britton’s face, leaving dry ground just a foot beyond him. The cops stood below Harlequin’s polished boots, looking up in awe.

“Believe me, I’d far rather bring you in,” Harlequin shouted over the gusting wind, “but if you take one more step, I will cook your sorry Probe ass. It’s over, Oscar. Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

Britton backed away from the cruiser, lining up with the driver’s-side door.

The cloud opened like a locket. Boiling light swept out with a deafening crack, shaking the ground. Britton shielded his eyes against the flash and spray of shattered asphalt. When he opened his eyes, the hair on his shins was smoldering. A two-foot crater had rent the parking lot. The smell of ozone lingered in the air.

“Get away from the car, or I won’t miss next time,” Harlequin said. “Knees, damn it. I’m tired of this.”

Britton measured the distance. He couldn’t get to the car, open the door, and get inside in time.

He sank to his knees.

“Smartest thing you’ve done all damn day,” Harlequin said, descending toward him, the cloud trailing. “Hands over your head, Oscar.”

As Britton raised his hands, he caught a flash of black and red in his peripheral vision. He stood and raced for it, clapping his hands and calling. The giant bird-thing froze, its sword beak pointing toward him.

“Damn it, Oscar!” Harlequin yelled. Britton felt the hairs all over his body stand on end as electricity arced around him. He froze, wincing, waiting for his skin to burst into flame.

But the strike never came.

Harlequin blazed in the sky, wreathed in crackling electricity. The cloud expanded, haloing him in gray. “The thing that burns me is that you think I’m the bad guy. You’re the walking time bomb who has already killed one person and now wants a chance to spread more of it around. I’m not the bad guy, Oscar. You are. And I’m not going to let you hurt anyone else.” He spread his hands, electricity shooting from the storm cloud up his arms to buzz along his fingertips.

He dove.

Britton raced toward the bird, motionless on a single purple leg. Its long neck lowered menacingly, the throat puffing out in warning.

Harlequin’s shadow overtook him, the conjured cloud covering the sun. The Aeromancer shot past him, spinning in the air and touching down on the tarmac between Britton and the bird, one hand and knee on the ground, his body coiled to spring, bristling with blue lightning.

Britton stopped short, scraping his feet, flinging himself toward the cruiser. He heard the electric sizzle as Harlequin sprang airborne behind him, closing the distance like a dive-bomber.

A boom sounded. Britton felt as if a giant hand swatted him. He turned in the air, his back slamming against the car door, shattering the window. The rippling air caught Harlequin, spiraling him into the store’s roof, sending shingles flying. The storm cloud dissipated, drifting apart on a suddenly calm breeze.

The bird took a lurching step, its throat smooth once again, stabbing the air with its huge beak.

Britton scrambled to his feet, ears ringing. He fumbled for the door handle, wincing at the pain in his shoulders as he threw himself into the seat and put the car in gear. Harlequin stirred weakly on the store’s roof. One of the cops helped Cheatham scramble up the air-conditioning unit to reach him. The other ran toward Britton, shouting.

He stopped short as a gate opened in front of him, closed, then reappeared a few feet to one side of the cruiser.

Britton gunned the engine, leaving patches of smoking rubber as he drove the car through the gate, the static light washing over the hood.

The convenience store, cops, and soldiers all vanished behind him as the world beyond bumped beneath his tires.

That’s the thing with you leftists. You shed copious tears for the Apache. You bemoan the crushing of “native ways” that have more to do with drinking and gambling than whatever you’re imagining. You want an exemption to the McGauer-Linden Act for them, but you don’t get it. I’ve kicked through barricades of burning tires in Mescalero. I’ve run and gunned against Selfers and their “Mountain Gods” in the Chiricahua passes. You think Apache magic is all horses, scenic vistas, and flowing black hair. It’s not — it’s fire and blood and rending teeth. You want to preserve it, but you wouldn’t last thirty seconds within a mile of it. You’re like people admiring a caged tiger. You ooh and ah over a pretty thing that wants to kill you.