Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

She led him to the row of individual examination rooms, each kitted out with a long hospital gurney, complete with foam mattress, curtained off from the bustle of the main cash. As soon as she’d closed the curtain, he seized her elbows and drew her close.

“You’ve got to get this thing out of my chest, right now.”

“Are you crazy?” she whispered, shaking her head. “I don’t know if I can even do it, and I haven’t had a chance to get the meds I need yet. The pain could kill you!”

He shook his head. “I’m dead anyway, and so is Marty if you can’t get me free of this thing in the next few minutes.”

“Oh God, Oscar. What happened?”

“It’ll take too long to explain. Suffice to say that I fucked up big-time. This whole FOB is about to come down around our ears. They’ve got Marty, and they’re probably going to kill him as soon as they realize what the hell is going on. While I’m at it, I need to get us all out of here. I can’t do that if the SOC can track me. Therese, we don’t have any time.” He took her hand and placed it on his chest. “You have to try.”

She opened her mouth, and he caught her hands, hoping the intensity of his stare conveyed the urgency his words could not. “Please, Therese. I need you to do this.”

She was silent another moment, then nodded. “Get on the cot, hurry!”

She disappeared as he lay down, and returned again carrying a syringe. “All I can get are some Benzodiazepines. It’ll calm you down more than the Dampener, but it’s not going to do anything for the pain.”

Britton thought of Marty and bit down. He felt his heart racing. Still beating. That’s something. “Let’s get it over with.”

She looked at him, one hand on his forehead.

He held her eyes as he felt the syringe pierce his shoulder and the chemical wash into his bloodstream. It was followed by peace, a dizzy and relaxed euphoria. His heart slowed, the harsh sodium lights took on a halo of rainbows. Therese waxed more beautiful than ever.

“I love you,” he said before he knew he had spoken.

Therese smiled and leaned down, her lips brushing his forehead. He kept his eyes closed as she pulled away.

The doped fog washed over him, Britton’s mind cartwheeled, forming escape plans. Once the ATTD was out, and he could gate away, then what? Rescue Marty, bring Therese, somehow convince Umbra Coven to come with him, take them all somewhere the SOC could never follow.

But the SOC could always follow, couldn’t they? Britton wasn’t their only Portamancer. Billy’s drooling face swam into his drug-addled vision. Anywhere Britton could go, the SOC could follow.

“Hang on, Oscar.” Therese’s voice cut through his reverie. “I’ll do this as fast as I can.”

He felt something pressed against his mouth and opened to accept it. A small rubber ball. He bit down on it instinctively and heard a murmur of appreciation from Therese.

The warm ripples of her current intensified, dropping down into his chest, slipping behind his ribs and cradling his heart. They curled there, gripping the muscle. Britton could feel the tendrils moving through the valves and chambers. It tingled but didn’t hurt. They probed. Britton could feel the magic gather, pause.

“There it is,” Therese said. “Here we go.”

Agony. Pain like he had never known before. Scylla’s assault on him had been nothing compared to this. His breath vanished, his vision gone white for the second time in less than an hour. A vise gripped his heart, each beat hammered so hard he felt it would pound him to fragments. He could feel the ATTD migrating, the flesh spasming to push it upward. The muscle shuddered, threatened to stop, but the tendrils of magic kept it beating steadily. But Therese couldn’t keep the body’s natural rhythm. Waves of agony sounded across his body as every cell cried out in rage at the flow of oxygen suddenly interrupted.

He tried to scream, but he couldn’t move muscles completely locked in spite of the drugs coursing through him. His jaw clamped shut, teeth digging furrows in the rubber between them.

Pain became the whole of his universe, eternal, all-encompassing. Oscar Britton lay in it and prayed to die.

And then, mercifully, he did.

Stanley Britton stood naked, his wiry body strong as ironwood, the muscles mapping a rolling landscape beneath the skin. Only his face and silver-threaded hair betrayed his age. He hovered above the saw-edged grass, weird stars drifting overhead. Demon-horses cavorted around him, nuzzling his thighs, crooning affection. His fingertips touched lightly over their shaggy backs.

A huge stone resting on his chest, Oscar lay on his back and looked at his father. The weight crushed him. Blood lapped the edges.

“Dad,” he croaked. “Dad, get it off. It hurts.”

“Sir,” Stanley said in Fitzy’s voice. “Show some goddamned respect.”

“It’s killing me.”

“Funny how that works,” Stanley said. “Just deserts, I’d say.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar managed. “I didn’t want to…” The stone dug deeper, he felt his ribs give way beneath the weight, his lungs compressing. He could barely manage the air to speak.

“You always were a little slow on the uptake,” Stanley said. He gestured over his body. “Do I look hurt to you? If I were any better, I’d need rubber pants. No, no. I’m just fine. You’re the one who’s dead.”

Snow swept around him, the air suddenly chill. The fat flakes rained down around the stone, soaking the blood, burying him. The cold swept into his veins, freezing him, making him leaden. A black shape blossomed behind Stanley’s head, extending long slender limbs over his shoulders.

Oscar strained to make it out, but the blizzard picked up, obscuring his vision. Stanley vanished in the deluge until all Oscar could see was his head, leaning back into the crook of another’s neck. The shadow behind him nuzzled him affectionately, like a lover.

“See you soon, son,” his father said, then the snow took Oscar, leaving only the crushing weight on his chest, constriction and lingering agony.

“Oscar.” The snow began to clear. The cold and agony re-mained.

“Oscar.” Not his father’s voice. Someone else. Someone good.

“Oscar, come on.” Something battered his cheeks, he tried to move his head away from it, but the slaps continued.

The snow resolved into a canvas ceiling supported by metal poles. Harsh sodium lights.

The cash.

“Oscar, look at me.” Therese’s almond eyes, wet with concern, filled his vision. She waved a hand in front of him.

Balanced on her fingertips was a steel insect, its segmented carapace still glossed with his blood. One end dangled a long wire, stingerlike. The other housed a clear plastic dome, pulsing a gentle blue light. Black numbers had been stenciled on the side.

“We got it,” he croaked. His voice burned in his throat.

“We got it,” she said, biting back tears. “How are you?”

He began to sit up, the ball of pain in his chest expanded. His head swam with drugged bewilderment and nausea. He leaned over the table and dry-heaved, the spasm aggravating his agony.

“Oh, God,” he said.

Therese put her hands on his chest, whole and unscarred. “Oscar, lie down. You can’t move yet.”

He shook his head, the motion nearly made him pass out. “No time. We’ve gotta get Marty.” And after that? Later. Take it step by step.

He swung his feet over the edge of the cot. They slammed down on the ground, and he nearly vomited again, but the solidity of a hard surface made him feel somewhat steadier.

“Oh, Jesus, you’re crazy,” Therese said, putting her shoulder in his armpit to support him. The smell of her hair soothed him, then made him sick again. His vision faded and returned in time with the pulsing agony in his chest.