John Ridley - What Fire Cannot Burn

Next up: Harry Winston's.

The four MTacs went for it, eyes moving. Always moving, sweeping, looking…

Enhanced strength. That's what they were dealing with. The perp fused the vie with a wall from two hundred feet away. That takes some kind of muscle. With freaks, what you were going up against was never certain. But, yeah, probably it was a freak with enhanced strength. That meant not just looking for somebody. That meant keeping an eye out for a truck or a generator or a mainframe computer… whatever the thing might feel like picking up same as a kid's toy and tossing your way. That possibility was obvious. But the thing could just as easily flick a paper clip at you with enough force, even with a vest it'd tear through the Kevlar and hit like a Teflon bullet. Ana should you be lucky or unlucky enough to dodge what it was thrown, get close to it, if it got you in its paws, it could crush you. Rip clean your limbs. Snap you in two. Dealer's choice. The freak being the dealer.

Sirens. Getting closer.

Raddatz: "West LA. We've got sirens?"

In his earpiece, the OIC: "Car fire on Wilshire. Fire responding. Unrelated,"

Raddatz let a breath slip from his mouth.

Keep on your toes, keep your eyes roiling. Raddatz whispered as much over his throat mike to the rest of the element as they slipped into Harry Winston's.

The House of Winston.

The King of Diamonds.

Jeweler to the Stars.

There was, there had to be, fifty mill in rocks in the place easy. Necklaces, rings, earrings, pendants, gold settings, white gold, platinum… The actual market value of the gems was maybe half that fifty mill. The cheapest… the least expensive piece went in the neighborhood of forty grand. But if you bought at Harry's, you were paying for the name, the legend, the zip code, if you were a tourist, you paid. If you were a Hollywood wife, a kept girl, your sugar daddy paid for you. On that business model Harry's had been in operation a lot of years.

Raddatz's element paid zero mind to the bling. Getting caught up in it could get 'em killed. At any price was there a rock in the joint worth losing your life over?

A lot of glass. Display cases filled the center of the boutique, ringed the edge. Should've been an easy look-see, but the sunlight pouring in refracting of; the glass and the diamonds did tricks with the eyes. Dazzled. Was like doing recon in a kaleidoscope.

Raddatz: "Tice, hold back. Cover us from the door.'

Tice was schlepping the Benelli.

Raddatz put Carmichael and McCrae on the edges of the boutique. The pair toted HKs. Sexy in black.

Out front was Raddatz carrying just his Colt .45. Just the .45. A precision kill weapon that hit harder than a Glock. For most cops in most situations it'd be more gun than they needed. Against a freak, at best it was adequate.

Raddatz inched his way forward, every step feeling same as bait on a hook, if the thing was present, he was making himself available for it. Hope was he'd get it first. If not. the hope was one of the other operators could put it down.

On the walls: shimmers of light like sunshine kicked back from a pool. Constant movement. An optical distraction. In all Ms years Raddatz had never squeezed off a jumpy round by mistake. Today might be the day.

Forward, peeking, peeking around a display case.

Nothing. Jewels, riches. No freak. Forward. Forward some more. Eyes fluttering from dripping sweat. The heavy breathing of three other MTacs in his ear.

He should clear his sweat. Raddatz thought he should.

Light on the walls.

Thought he should. Probably not a good move.

His choices had come down to that: Take Ms hand off his gun to clear his vision. Have his vision cut by the sweat, but keep up a solid two-handed grip.

Breathing in his ear.

He hated self-debating; what to do or not. Just do it or forget it.

The light, the light dancing.

A door up ahead A storage room? Back office?

Raddatz, into his throat mike: "Going for the door."

Behind him the.sound of shifting bodies. Red dots slipped over die wall. Guns taking up new aim points.

And the sound of breathing.

Left hand out, reaching for the door. For the knob.

Raddatz took hold. Tested it. Unlocked. He opened it slightly Opened it…

There was a single scream split in two, both parts heard simultaneously. The vocalized one behind Raddatz. T h e transmitted one in his ear and stabbing into his heart.

Raddatz whipped around.

Tice was off the ground. Elevated inches above it by the thing. The freak. Elevated inches off the ground by the freak's hand jammed wrist-deep into Tice's chest.

Tice: squirming, screaming. Blood gushing.

Dying.

Raddatz didn't need to give the go. Carmichael, McCrae already doing work with the HKs. Thirteen rounds a second X 2. Flying hot. Scorching air with a ffft , ffft, ffft as the slugs sourced for the target. Missed the target. Both MTacs missed. The freak was already moving. The bullets it dodged rapid-punched walls. Little as they were, they dug out fist-sized divots. Bricks chipped. Powdered. Clouded the air.

All that was behind the freak.

The freak was leaping, hauling Tice-or Tice's body-with it. The freak landed on a display case. Shattered glass sent gems flying, scattered sunlight through the diffused space.

Pretty.

Then the freak leaped again, leaped for McCrae. Moving too fast for Raddatz to keep a bead.

Then it was bloody hell

Bare-handed, the freak tore, literally tore into McCrae. Fingers like hooks. Arms spinning like blades. Old-school Warner Bros, cartoon

Tasmanian. Without the fanny. Tore up McCrae, tore up what was left of Tice at the same time.

Fountains of crimson.

Chunks of meat.

Walls got painted.

Slaughterhouses were more genteel.

Screams coming, seeming to come from everywhere. Screams of death, of rage. Wails that begged God and woke the devil.

The freak was strong, was fast. Impossible. Freaks didn't own multiple abilities. One. All they had was one. If they had more than one… straight fear talking to Raddatz: If freaks had more than one ability, how was a cop supposed to have a chance in hell of going against it and living?

Carmichael held fire, didn't want to hit Tice or McCrae. Bad-cop fidelity. What was left of the cops was dead.

Raddatz jerked his trigger two, three times. The bullets took the target. Raddatz saw the hits, saw flesh rent, blood spurt.

To the freak three bullet wounds were nothing. Interfered with his continued violence none.

Carmichael got over his concerns, got to shooting. The low boom, the deep roar of his

Benelli. Hell coming for the hellion. Came too slow. By the time his slugs got to the freak, the freak was gone. The slugs beat the shit out of a wall. The freak was taking air, arching for Carmichael. A whoosh, a streak as it slashed an arm forward. Then Carmichael's head, separated from his body, was shattering through a glass display case. Coming to rest among a collection of eighty-plus-carat diamond pendants. Carmichael's body did about five seconds of a headless-chicken dance. Dropped to the floor. Danced a little more. Purged some more blood from the top of its empty neck. Joined Tice and McCrae in being dead.

Strength, speed. Nearly invulnerable. Freaks didn't have multiple abilities, Raddatz told himself. How was a cop supposed to have a chance in hell of going against it and-

The thing put feet to a wall, sprang off. Arching again. Arching for Raddatz.

Raddatz's finger jerking the Colt's trigger. Three more bullets for the freak. Two more hits. Same as before. No difference. The freak was not stopped.

The freak landed. The freak was right in front of Raddatz. Looking human, but so far removed from humanity. Chest blowing, eyes burning, bleeding but not dying. Hell-born, but a thing hell wouldn't want.