Weston Ochse - Age of Blood

Yank leaped atop him. Walker fought off the choke hold for a brief moment, then lost his grip on Yank’s wrist. Yank sank his forearm into Walker’s throat, but held off squeezing. Instead he said, “I do not get Happy Meals. I won’t stop and bring them to you. Understand?”

Walker breathed through his teeth a moment before he answered. “How about a burrito then? Maybe some of those delicious churr—ow!”

Yank shifted positions and isolated Walker’s right arm before Walker knew what was happening. Throwing over both of his legs, Yank pulled on the arm and arched his back.

Walker gave in. “Okay—okay!”

Yank let go and rolled to a sitting position.

Walker was slower getting to his feet. He alternated between rubbing his neck and his shoulder.

“Do we understand each other?” Yank asked.

Walker nodded. “Sure. No Happy Meals. No burritos. But look on the good side.”

“What good side?” Yank’s eyes narrowed.

“You didn’t say anything about a personal pan pizza.”

Yank was about to launch himself when Holmes commanded they stop.

Yank sat with fight still lingering in his eyes.

Laws walked over to Yank. “Will you hold the pepperoni?” He placed a hand on his stomach. “Gives me gas.”

Yank gave him a look, then finally broke into a grin.

Laws laughed, which at last made Yank laugh, too.

Holmes stood and helped Walker to his feet, making a show of dusting him off. “If you girls are done playing naked Twister, we got a mission brief in five mikes, then I want everyone to suit up and JMPI each other. I don’t want this to be a cock-up.” Holmes turned to Yank and gave him a stern look. “And do as Laws says, hold the pepperoni. It gives him gas.”

“But I’m going to jump with you,” Yank said, his brows coming together as he looked at the others.

“Is it okay?” Holmes asked. “Are you sure? I mean jumping out of airplanes is real scary.”

Yank nodded vigorously; then he shook his head, desperate to both please and communicate. “I want to jump. It’s no problem, sir.”

“Then you’ll be second in the stick. I think I have an old chute somewhere here that was packed for a jump into Vietnam.” He left Yank staring.

Laws stared as well, his mouth half open. He looked from Yank to Walker. “Was that a joke? Did the boss joke? Christ and a BB gun, but I just heard the boss crack a joke.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Holmes said, sitting back down, a private little smile alive beneath his blue eyes.

“Right, boss.” Laws smiled and leaned back. “Right.”

The door whispered to him. He closed his eyes to better hear, but it was as if someone was on the other side, trying desperately to communicate. Try as YaYa might, he couldn’t figure out what the other person was trying to impart. He leaned his head against the cool metal of the door and allowed his hand to drift toward the doorknob. When he touched it, the voice grew louder, but so did another voice.

“Hey!” He felt a hand on his shoulder as Alice whispered harshly. “What are you doing? We haven’t been given the signal.”

YaYa glanced around. He removed his ballistic glasses and wiped the sweat away from his eyes. Good question. What was he doing? He gritted his teeth and grinned. He replaced the glasses and reset his grip on his 9mm pistol.

During the premission briefing, he’d been introduced to all the other Naval Criminal Investigation Service agents, but there were just too many names to remember, except the one assigned to him and Alice—Rio Youers. The plan was for three police tactical unit teams with full body armor, ballistic shields, and M4 rifles to hit the front and side doors and loading dock. Each team was backed up by a pair of NCIS agents carrying pistols and wearing chest protection. YaYa waited with Alice and Special Agent Youers. The young agent seemed too eager. Too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He was even smiling.

Luckily, they didn’t have long to wait.

The tactical radios buzzed with action, and then YaYa heard a pop, then a bang, then the sound of M4 rounds firing into a big space. After fifteen seconds, Alice motioned for Youers to open the door. When he did, she braced against the doorjamb, peered into the interior, then began to move to the nearest barrier. Youers moved behind her and YaYa followed next.

Inside were hundreds of reclaimed refrigerators. Some were stacked five high and banded together to keep from falling, but most rested on the ground. A skylight that ran the length of the center of the ceiling let in daylight. A giant metal shelving unit against the far wall held several hundred more refrigerators with their doors removed. YaYa had no idea what all these various refrigerators were doing here. It could have been a madman’s collection or it could have been something more determined.

A scream suddenly split the temporary peace inside the structure. Gunfire followed, at first intermittent, the tactical unit’s concentrated fire. YaYa watched as a shadow moved almost faster than he could see, running toward the far wall. Bullets bit into the concrete and the refrigerators in a terrible hail of violence. What had been moving superhumanly fast stopped, twisted, and fell. It was a man. But how had he moved so fast?

YaYa moved toward the body in a crouch. Youers and Alice came behind. He knelt by the man and examined him. Mid-twenties, Hispanic. Several tattoos, which could probably be traced to one Mexican mafia organization or another. But no amulet or ring or item that YaYa could see that would provide the reason for the superhuman speed. Just a dozen bullet holes, including one through the jaw that had shattered teeth and bone.

Alice tapped him on the shoulder. “I think you need to come and see this.”

“Are we clear?”

“All clear. We’re bringing in dogs to make sure, but it looks like this guy was the only one.”

“Okay. But what was he doing?”

“I think you’ll find the answer over there,” she said, pointing to a place in the center of the room blocked by a line of refrigerators.

YaYa stood. He must have moved too quickly because he felt nauseous and began to tip. Alice caught him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Let’s just get this done,” he said. He pulled his arm roughly from her grasp. “Lead the way.”

She frowned but held her tongue and motioned for him to follow her. YaYa knew he shouldn’t have acted that way but he couldn’t help it. What did he care anyway? She’d get over it. He realized he was acting strangely, as if he were an observer outside his body. And like that observer, he had no power to correct it.

Youers passed him and gave him a dirty look.

YaYa followed. The sight that greeted him in the center of the room made his steps slow. Several tables were strewn with what had been a carefully constructed chemistry lab. Gunfire had destroyed part of it, but that’s not what drew his attention. Three monkey-like creatures hung eviscerated from a metal rod over one of the tables. With orange skin, wicked fangs, and impossibly long arms, they looked like a crazed melding of a Chucky doll and Stretch Armstrong. Only they weren’t. YaYa knew exactly what they were—homunculi. Golem-like creatures created through alchemical magic to serve the will of their creator. The last ones he’d seen belonged to the Chinese mafia known as the Snakeheads. He’d never heard of any of the Mexican mafias using them, but there was probably no reason they couldn’t. Another thought came to him. The Snakeheads could be working with the people who’d created this lab, but for what purposes he had no idea.