The Measure of a Man [The Exceptionals Book 1] Read online

  The Artist quickly closed up his handheld, and the five figures walked swiftly across the park towards Exceptionals’ Headquarters. The group moved to a large steel door disguised as a garage loading dock on the side of a corporate building. It suddenly opened when they stood in front of it. There were no alarms; no lights flashed. The Mercenary entered, followed by the other four. They quickly moved down a long corridor to an inner door that admitted them into the headquarters. Along the wall, all the sensors registered blank, all lights were green.

  The Artist went straight to the main terminal, touched the control surfaces lightly with his fingers in half a dozen places and booted up the system. He turned to Sniper. “My dear, if you would be so kind as to—"

  "Yeah, yeah,” Sniper said, “I connect.” Sniper took the gas canister from a small duffel bag, and affixed it to a ventilation shaft with a special ‘piggyback harness’ that The Artist had designed for it.

  "Masks,” The Mercenary ordered. All five put on small gas masks. When they were all suited up The Artist tapped a few keys. All at once there was a hissing sound.

  "What about the broadcast?” The Mercenary asked.

  "CNN, Cubenet and Al Jezzeria will be receiving everything.” The goateed man smiled. “It will be dictated as we decide, so we can do selective blackouts."

  "The entire world will know we're the best,” Sniper said. “We'll out do those pussy Horsemen and make some real money."

  "You know,” The Artist said, “I could feed the internal images down here, and we could watch them—"

  "No,” The Mercenary said. “We'll prove ourselves without cheating."

  "As you wish,” The Artist said with cloying tones. “Ethics are such a crippling vice"

  "Okay, boys and girls,” The Mercenary said, “let's get our playmates: teams of two, Wind with me. Boss stays here to kiss the keys, then meet us in the training room."

  They went first to the med lab where they secured gurneys and then to Lastshot and Skorpion's rooms because they were closest. Each of the Exceptionals was unconscious and placed on the rolling stretchers, strapped on, then wheeled out. They went to each of the others, bringing the entire Bodyguard except Skorpion back to the large gym/training room at the center of the headquarters complex.

  Lastshot, Firststrike, Goldstrike, and Temper were left lying on the floor in the middle of the training room. They were all fitted with strange silvery collars around their necks; their hands and feet were bound by metal clasps. The Artist, The Mercenary, Wind, The Eel, and Sniper stood around them, smiling with glee.

  "Wake them up,” The Mercenary ordered.

  The Eel walked over and took a small spray can from his pocket. He sprayed a small amount of colorless gas into the face of each Exceptional. After a few seconds, the team awoke.

  Matthew Stryker was still groggy when he came to. “Honest officer, I thought she was eighteen..."

  Lastshot came awake instantly and looked up to see The Mercenary. “I know those shoulders; been a while Abe..."

  The Mercenary looked down at Lastshot unemotionally. “Connor, nice new face."

  "What's going on?"

  "We're here to prove something,” The Mercenary said.

  "What are you talking about?” Lastshot said. “And who's the menagerie with you?"

  "You know me, but the others may—"

  Firststrike smiled without emotion and looked directly at The Eel. “Nice tights, but I know that posture. Small world, Wu."

  Beneath his hood The Eel's Chinese features scrunched up with displeasure. “I had a feeling you'd remember."

  "Children, Children,” The Artist said, clapping his hands with joy. “For those who came in late, allow me to make the necessary introductions; I am Rodney Van Wyck, but you may address me as The Artist.” He bowed with a flourish.

  "Pleased to meet'cha,” Lastshot said. “Now, what do you want?

  "Just a little exercise.” The Mercenary smiled. He looked directly at Lastshot when he did.

  The Artist continued as if no one had the audacity to interrupt him. “It's quite simple. All of us missed being Exceptionals at one of the international tournaments by a hair's breadth. Our lady Sniper finished fourth last year by one shot. The lithe and lovely Wind was beaten in the last second of her match two years ago by a fluke. Mercenary missed one mine in a training exercise. The Eel pulled a muscle before his finals, and I ... I over-looked one line of code, one stupid, Goddamned line of—” He stopped himself with an effort and took a deep breath. “Anyway, we're here to prove that we're just as good as you are."

  "You had your chance,” Matthew said. “You blew it. You're losers."

  Sniper pulled a pistol and stepped forward to backhand Matthew. “Shut up, Goldilocks!” The Mercenary stopped her.

  Matthew glared up at her and sneered. “Oooo, who writes your lines?"

  "Gentle lady, please,” The Artist said. “You will all be paired up. Goldstrike, you and the lovely but lethal Sniper will be dancing partners."

  "Oh joy,” Matthew said. The Artist looked at him with an expression that showed he was thinking twice about letting Sniper split open the twin's head for the interruption.

  "Lastshot and The Mercenary, and Firststrike and The Eel will be playmates: let's hear it for auld langsyne.” He giggled like a schoolgirl at his cleverness. “Next are the ladies, Temper and Wind a most alluring combination."

  Goldstrike noticed Temper's blue mudpack for the first time and made a frightened noise. “That a scary clan mask or something?"

  If Temper had laser vision, she would have incinerated her teammate at that moment. She raised an azure eyebrow and stared at his pajamas. He shrugged.

  "Where have you taken Skorpion?” Lastshot asked.

  "Ahh, yes,” The Artist said as he pressed a button on his handheld computer. “She will be my date for the evening. She is in the computer center where we'll be spending our time. We woke her up already so she can watch and listen on the monitors. Oh, and by the way; there's a virus in your SAM system that will release Saviton Eleven, a deadly nerve gas in exactly one hour. We have all been given an anti-toxin. You haven't."

  The Artist walked around the training room running his hands along a target dummy set up by the firing range, toying with a heavy punching bag, miming an attack on it. “If Skorpion can't eradicate the virus, your, ah, test results won't matter. And don't rely on your Regen injections; to level the playing field you have been given an injection that will temporality neutralize the speeded up healing factor they provide."

  "And these,” Firststrike asked, indicating his collar.

  "Proximity sensors,” The Mercenary said. “If you attempt to leave the building, or remove them, they will explode, decapitating you as well as setting off the gas."

  "Just why I hate jewelry,” Matthew commented.

  "Oh,” The Artist added as if an afterthought. “Did I forget to mention? We're being broadcast, live and globally.” He pointed to the security cameras.

  "We're on TV?” Matthew perked up. “Cool!"

  "Matthew!” Temper scolded. To The Artist, she said, “What if we simply don't wish to play?"

  The Artist turned to the security camera and smiled. “We'll take a short break to allow our local stations to identify themselves.” He punched a button on his mini-computer then turned back to look Temper directly in the face. “If you do not cooperate and ‘play', the nerve gas will also be released into the city.” He delighted in the shock on the girl's face.

  "You're insane,” Temper said.

  "The line between madness and genius is so very, very slim, my dear, as to be indistinguishable. Now, if you want to tell our viewing audience, when we go back on the air, all the dirty details, go ahead; just remember that the resulting panic will kill almost as many as the gas would.” He let his words hang in the air for emphasis, then clapped his hands. “Showtime!"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 5

  The Trench was
minutes from closing down when the Tri v image flickered to the live feed from The Bodyguard headquarters. The bar had its usual compliment of late night customers. The two teen girls who had clamored for Lastshot's autograph, some friends of theirs, and four or five solo barflies. Trudy, the waitress that Lastshot had saved earlier was taking some glasses off a tray behind the bar when she looked up and gasped.

  The Tri v image sputtered out as The Artist said, “We'll take a short station break...” and a moment of snow before an anchor came on screen to announce: “We are interrupting regularly scheduled programming. CNN is receiving an untraceable signal that we are told is coming from the secret headquarters of The Bodyguard, New York's Exceptional squad. We will broadcast it to you on a five second delay because of the extreme and unpleasant images that may occur."

  * * * *

  In his apartment in Harlem Caesar Brassfield had not been watching Tri v and it was an alert in his implanted transponder that summoned him from sleep to full awareness. He dressed quickly and was out of his door in seconds.

  Echo threw on a trench coat over his battledress uniform and tossed his helmet into a side pack. He moved quickly down the street, his boots clicking on the sidewalk and moved to his car that was parked on the street.

  * * * *

  The corridors of the White House were active at all hours of the day and night on a normal day, but on the day The Bodyguard headquarters was taken over, they became an anthill of chaos. Military officers raced up and down on vital errands; Secret Service agents stood stoically along the hall, earpieced, sunglassed and looking like some pagan statues from a bygone age.

  Down the center of the main corridor leading to the oval office walked Senator Warren Kenneth Stryker, mid sixties, grey-haired, athletic of build and purposeful of stride. He walked past the two security men standing at the double doors and moved into the middle of the room directly to the shoulder of a heavily decorated Army general that was watching a large screen Tri v. The President was seated behind her desk, alert but at ease. Beside the desk was Vice President Redstone.

  "Damn—” Redstone said. “They're using SAM's security cameras to broadcast this insanity."

  "Can we do anything?” the President asked.

  "Madame President,” General Hutchinson said. “Our computer people are working on it ... but, that madman The Artist is good, very good."

  "Should we try to get into the headquarters to give them aid?"

  "That might set off the gas, and would definitely reveal their location. No; they're going to have to get out of this by themselves. The Veteran and Liberty Squad are on their way to New York, in case they're needed."

  The President stood and walked to Senator Stryker's side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Your sons will be all right, Warren.” They smiled gently at each other as only old friends could.

  "I know,” he said. “Jason and Matthew are professionals; they knew what they were getting into when they joined the program."

  Stryker turned back to the set watching the news coverage intently, waiting for the live feed to resume.

  * * * *

  Lastshot sat on his bed dressed in his battle leathers which resembled an admix of Hells Angel, motocross rider and one of Roy Rogers old outfits, complete with high red boots. His hands and feet had been rebound in the electronic cuffs.

  The Mercenary stood before him, his head inclined to one side, looking intently at his former teammate as if he were an animal in the zoo.

  "Long time to get to this point, Conner. Lots of turns and twists in life, Cousin.” He smiled. Lastshot just looked at him with an expressionless face. The Mercenary said, “Now I'm the Big Laughing Wolf.” He pointed to the wolf on his bandana.

  "What the hell is this crap really about, Abe?"

  "Just what the little man in the velvet coat said,” The Mercenary replied. “We need to make a name for ourselves, something that will move us up to the level of the Horsemen's pay scale. This is the shortcut."

  "You know this is a shortcut to a bullet in the head,” the Exceptional team leader said. “You can't commit a crime on the Tri-v and expect to turn a profit.” Lastshot tested his bonds while he spoke, playing for time.

  "Wrong again, buddy. There are a lot of crime syndicates and outlaw countries out there who will want us when we prove we can beat the shining stars of the American Exceptional program; and personally,” he smiled an evil smile,” I'm gonna enjoy wiping your face in it."

  "Still pissed about Argentina?"

  When Lastshot actually voiced it, both men flashed back five years when they had been on opposite sides in a dirty little war that never officially happened: Retlow had been head of security protecting a high ranking drug lord. Le'Schott had been working for the Federal Drug Interdiction Service on a black ops team. Le'Schott had left the Laughing Wolf bandana, their personal sign of one-upmanship, behind after he had put a bullet through the drug lord's head. It had been the last in a long string of back and forth victories the two had scored on each other over the years.

  "No,” The Mercenary said with little conviction in his voice, “I just got tired of hearing your cheery, professional voice on every damned magazine vid show, knowing I'm the better soldier, the better man."

  "You have a very highly developed sense of fantasy, Abe."

  "Shut up!” Retlow slapped Lastshot across the face, knocking the man onto his side on the bed. “When that Tri v feed resumes, the world is gonna see what a punk loser you are; Conner and you are gonna know who is the real Big Wolf."

  Lastshot smiled and said nothing.

  The monitor in Lastshot's room sputtered to life at that moment with a close-up of The Artist's smiling face.

  "Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen,” The Artist said, smiling into the camera lens. “We return to your heroes after a modest camera aversion: they are now dressed in their combat finest, minus weapons, and ready to play.” The giggling criminal waved in an expansive gesture to the open door of the training room.” You network bozos have some choices to make as I am sending all the multiple feeds out live to you. The hour time clock starts now! Enjoy folks.” He tapped a button on his hand held computer and suddenly the world was given a multifaceted view of The Bodyguard's Headquarters.

  "So just what is our little dance to consist of, Cousin?” Lastshot said.

  "Fog of war, Clausewitz said, Cousin.” The Mercenary sneered and made a point of letting the camera catch his expression. “Intelligence will mean little, once the shooting starts. Your binders open in about a minute. Your people are scattered around the building. You have to locate and coordinate; if you can't, my strategy and tactics will prove superior."

  "Shouldn't be all that hard,” Lastshot said in a calm voice,” you couldn't even read a compass worth spit in the old days.” The Mercenary looked as if he was going to strike Lastshot again but checked himself, conscious of the audience.

  "See you on the flip side, Cousin,” he said and left the Exceptional team leader to wait for his bonds to release.

  * * * *

  The roof of the Exceptionals’ New York headquarters was actually four stories below the level of the taller buildings around it, creating the effect of a canyon surrounded by chrome and concrete walls—none of which had windows to assure privacy. The rooftop itself was a reinforced helipad with a hanger structure at one end.

  It was the field of engagement chosen for Sniper and Goldstrike. Matthew was now wearing his bright gold bodysuit, minus his armament and the clear impact armor chest piece he normally wore with the weapons. He still was bound with his electronic bracelets, but stood with as relaxed a posture as they permitted. He did his best to turn on the charm.

  "So, babe, can't we talk this out?"

  She smirked and shook her head. “Sorry, Shiny."

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, let's get on with it: What are we gonna shoot at?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "I guess it'll be pistols up here; nothing at a distance wor
th a rifle.” He looked around for a target or a gun rack, genuinely puzzled that he couldn't find any.

  "Run,” she ordered.

  "What?” As he spoke his bracelets hummed to life and dropped with a thud to the gravel of the roof.

  "Your objective is to survive the hour, Goldilocks.” She raised her hand gun in a casual point at him. “Run!"

  Goldstrike dashed across the rooftop toward a doorway as he heard the woman counting aloud,” One Mississippi, Two Mississippi..."

  He just made the door as bullets smashed the ground near him. He ducked into the doorway, followed closely by Sniper's laughter.

  Goldstrike raced out of the stairwell onto the sixth floor of the headquarters building and sped down the hallway. He skidded around a corner and came to a stop, listening for pursuit. He mumbled to himself, “My big TV break, and all I gotta do is survive ... that's all Artboy could think of?” He noticed one of the hall security cameras at the junction of the corridors and waved. “Hello, America; Hi, Dad! Say hello to the President for me!"

  * * * *

  At the same time that Goldstrike was enjoying his newfound celebrity, Temper and Wind were one level below the street. Temper's hands and feet were still secured by the metal clasps, but she was wearing her snug black and blue combat clothing, minus the usual array of hidden weapons. Wind had courteously applied Temper's facial makeup that, with the refractive qualities of the Regen formula would distort her image to all the electronic and video cameras.

  "The binders will open in one minute,” Wind said. “I will be gone. You must find me.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “That should be quite easy for an Exceptional with Iga ninpo training."

  "Why are you doing this?” Temper asked. Wind, barely half a head taller than her prisoner, ignored the question.

  "Remember the one hour time limit,” Wind whispered as she stepped around a corner and was gone like her namesake.

  Temper closed her eyes, calmed her breathing, and chanted quietly under her breath. After a few moments, the binders clicked open. Temper rose and moved silently towards the door.

  * * * *