Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

Harlequin conjured a gust of air that toggled the radio off. “Fucking forget it!”

Britton sighed and listened briefly to the radio static. “Sir, my orders come directly from the colonel, and last time I checked, he outranks you.”

Harlequin paused, his anger palpable. Britton gripped the controls tightly to keep his hands from shaking. He felt the tremble in the rudder pedals as the rotors spun up, slicing through the summoned clouds.

“We’re moving, sir,” Britton said. “Are you riding with us or with your own team?”

Harlequin cursed, dropped backward off the skid, righted himself, and flew off, outpacing the helicopter easily. The cloud cover around the Kiowa instantly wafted apart.

“Holy crap, sir,” Master Sergeant Young leaned in to shout over the Kiowa’s engine. “I’ve never seen anyone talk to a Sorcerer like that.”

“Seriously, sir,” Sergeant Goodman added. “The SOC don’t give a fuck if they get court-martialed. They’ll just zap you.”

“The army’s the army,” Britton said with a conviction he didn’t feel. “Latent or not, we all follow orders.”

“Thank you, sir. Seriously,” Cheatham said, “I wouldn’t want anyone talking to my people that way.”

Britton nodded, uncomfortable with the praise.

The Supernatural Operations Corps bird, another Kiowa, sleek and black, came into view as they descended. Its side was blazoned with the SOC arms — the Stars and Stripes fluttering behind the eye in the pyramid. Symbols of the four elements hovered in the corners representing legal magical schools: Pyromancy, Hydromancy, Aeromancy, and Terramancy. The red cross crowned the display, symbolizing Physiomancy, the most prized of the permitted schools. The banner beneath read: OUR GIFTS, FOR OUR NATION.

The high-school roof materialized below them, a pitted atoll of raised brick sides stretched with black tar paper. A single, brick-housed metal door led into the building.

Britton set the Kiowa hovering and nodded to Cheatham to take the controls. He turned to the assaulters.

“Okay. You all got the brief,” he shouted. “Two targets barricaded inside. Keep the perimeter secure and the fires under control. Remember, one Pyromancer and one Probe Elementalist.”

“They’re Selfers, sir,” Goodman said. “Why can’t we just bomb the building? Why’s it worth risking our lives?”

“Our orders are to take them down and bring them in for justice,” Britton replied. “If the rules of engagement change, and we have to kill them, then we will. Until then, we’re on a capture mission. Everybody square?”

It’s a damned lie, he thought. Those kids are dead. Harlequin has no intention of capturing anybody.

He made eye contact with each member of his team. None looked away.

Satisfied, he nodded. “Okay, double-check your gear and let’s do this.”

He barely had time to retake the Kiowa’s controls before the commlink crackled to life with Major Reynolds’s voice in the TOC trailer on the ground below. “Full element heads up! Support element, this is TOC. Go hot. I say again, go hot and prep for entry on target.”

“Acknowledged. Support element is hot,” Britton said into the commlink. “You heard the man!” he called to his team. “Weapons free and eyes on target!” He heard the click of safeties coming off on Dawes’s carbine and Goodman’s machine gun. Hertzog and Young hefted their flame suppressors. A quick glance confirmed the assaulters’ sighting down their barrels at the roof.

Oh God, he thought. I didn’t sign up to fight children. He tried to push his doubts away. The law was the law. You didn’t negotiate with unregulated magic users.

“SOC Element,” came Reynolds’s voice over the commlink. “This is TOC. Aero-1, sweep perimeter. Pyro-1, go hot.”

Harlequin dove from the SOC helicopter and rocketed around the school. A figure leaned out of the SOC Kiowa, pumping his fist. His arm erupted in bright orange fire.

Harlequin’s voice came over the commlink, “Aero-1 pass complete. All’s quiet. South Burlington police have the perimeter secure.” A pause, then, “Pyro-1 is hot and ready. SOC Assault-1 and -2 are good to go.”

“Roger that,” Reynolds said. “South Burlington SWAT has been kind enough to provide perimeter and entry from the ground. I’m patching them through now.”

A short crackle was followed by a thick New-England-accented voice. “This is Captain Rutledge with South Burlington PD tactical. Perimeter is secure. Students and faculty are clear, fires are out, and we’ve got the first two floors locked down. Your Selfers are above there somewhere. My men are withdrawn under sniper cover. You’re good to go when ready.”

“Roger that,” said Reynolds. “Okay, Aero-1. Your show. Call ’em out.”

Harlequin streaked over the roof and lit gracefully on the SOC helicopter’s skid. He reached inside and produced a microphone.

“This is Captain Thorsson of the US Army Supernatural Operations Corps,” his voice blared over a bullhorn mounted beneath the Kiowa. “You are accused of unlawful magic use in violation of the McGauer-Linden Act. You have thirty seconds to surrender yourselves. This is your first and only warning.”

The only sounds that followed were the roaring engines of the Kiowas.

“Christ,” Cheatham whispered. He had two high-school-aged girls of his own.

“We have to do this,” Britton said, his voice hollow in his own ears. “They’re walking bombs.”

Cheatham set his jaw, “They’re probably hiding down there, scared as hell.”

Dawes was scared as hell, too. Britton put his hand on Cheatham’s shoulder. “Dan. I need you focused.”

Cheatham didn’t look at Britton. “I’ll do my job, sir.”

“‘You’re only a Selfer if you run,’ Dan,” Britton parroted Harlequin’s words. “They could have turned themselves in. They had a choice.”

Cheatham framed a reply, but was cut off by Reynolds’s voice blazing over the commlink. “All right! That’s it! Element! Go dynamic!”

“To arms, Pyro-1. Let’s smoke ’em out,” Harlequin’s voice crackled over the channel. “Spare the good Captain Rutledge’s men and light her up, stories three and higher.”

The Pyromancer stepped onto the helicopter’s skid, the bright fire extending to engulf his entire body. He raised his arms, and the flames curled in on themselves, shifting from red to orange to white. The air shimmered around them, then folded in on itself as the Pyromancer thrust his arms forward. The flames rocketed outward with a roar that competed with the helicopter engines.

The fire struck the building just above the second floor, punching through the windows. A moment later, the remaining glass burst outward. Flames arced upward to paint the night sky. The SOC Kiowa circled the building as the Pyromancer continued his strike until the entire floor burned brightly.

Britton shuddered. If the kids weren’t burned alive, they’d have the choice of fleeing downstairs, under the guns of the police snipers, or out to the roof, where the Kiowas waited.

“Reel her back a bit,” Harlequin’s voice came over the commlink, amused. “We want to give them a chance to surrender. Okay, Support! It’s your big day! Let’s get on that roof. There’s one egress. Think you can cover that?”

Britton pushed the rotors as hard as he dared. He cleared the roof sides with inches to spare and felt his bones jar as the helicopter made a textbook hard landing. The four assaulters leapt off — Goodman and Dawes covering the entrance. Young and Hertzog were already coating the roof with foam to keep the fire from spreading. The rotor wash peeled the tar paper back, sending the thick gravel beneath skittering across the rooftop.