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

  Chapter 11

  When the four Exceptionals, leading The Artist, reached the training room door, Lastshot turned to Skorpion. “Take our friend here and keep him quiet. I want Sniper to think the gas will still go off when she gets here."

  "Got it.” Skorpion stepped up to The Artist and put an arm around him in mock affection.

  The Exceptionals and their prisoner entered the training room and were surprised when Sniper, standing at the far end of the floor, started shooting.

  "Hit the deck!” Lastshot yelled and dove for cover behind a simulator's computer console. The rest of the team scattered behind various pieces of training equipment. Lastshot combat crawled across the floor to Goldstrike who was huddled down behind a weight rack.

  "This lady is really starting to tick me off,” Goldstrike said. “I may not ask her out after this."

  "Never mind; I screwed the pooch on this one,” the Exceptional team leader said. “What's she using?"

  "Sounds like a General Dynamics 10mm,” Matthew said after listening to another bullet ping into the wall over their heads. “Not much call for subs these days; they have to justify their government contract, somehow."

  "So do we, Matthew. What else?” Bullets continued to batter the wall above their heads.

  "That was a 50mm Colt Thruster. Recoilless.” He smiled. “That can drop a rhino at twenty yards with one shot.” He considered for a moment then added, “Hey, can I requisition one of—"

  "Matthew!” Temper cut him off with a hiss from a nearby kicking bag stand.

  "Sorry."

  "Abe always did his homework; everything she has can go through one of these.” Lastshot tapped his bulletproof vest. “He made sure we couldn't protect ourselves."

  From across the room, Sniper laughed with real joy. “I'm really patient, Shiny. I brought lots of ammo!"

  "I think I hate her,” Matthew said. Without looking, Goldstrike raised his gun and fired several rounds in Sniper's direction. There was a moment of silence followed by:

  "Hey! Where'd you get that?” she said. “We didn't leave you squat!"

  "That's what you think!” Goldstrike gloated. “And by the way—those pants make you look fat!” This brought several shots in rapid succession.

  Lastshot rolled his eyes at Matthew. “Your dialogue might make her angry, you know.” He hand signaled Temper and pointed at the wall. “Air duct."

  It was her turn to roll her eyes and she mouthed, “Again?” Lastshot just glared at her.

  "I'm going,” she whispered and slithered out of her ballistic vest and away behind some piled gym mats and target dummies.

  "Hey, guys,” Sniper yelled. “You guys didn't leave, did you? A girl gets lonely."

  The air was filled with gunshots as bullets shredded the consoles, gear and weight racks shielding the team. Then silence filled the room.

  "You better come and get me, Shiny! You don't have much time!"

  "That's what you thin—” Goldstrike started to say, but a look from Lastshot cut him off.

  "No! If she knows, she may freak. I want her alive; and fast—we still have to get Abe.” He pointed to Goldstrike, indicating his Speed Cannon. “How many shots left in that thing?"

  Goldstrike pulled the clip and checked. “I started with a full clip—eighteen rounds; I've got fifteen left."

  "Bless Temper's heart."

  "Among other things,” Matthew added with a leer. “But even I'm not crazy enough to rush boobs and bullets over there."

  "Her stuff can go clean through one of these,” Lastshot said, tapping his vest. “Right?"

  "Right."

  "How about five of them?” Lastshot said.

  Goldstrike looked at him as if he'd grown an extra head.

  "Oh, no, you're not—” he said. Lastshot looked at his three teammates.

  "Okay, Jason, Red, let's give ‘em up!” Firststrike and Skorpion removed their vests while The Artist giggled, delighted with the live show he was getting. They threw their and Temper's discarded vests to Lastshot.

  "All right, Shiny—"

  "Hey, Conner—"

  "Sorry, Matthew,” he started to help Goldstrike to put the vests on, “put these on. Maybe five can stop her stuff long enough for you to get a good shot in."

  "What if she shoots at my head?"

  "We all know there's nothing in there,” Firststrike said quietly. His brother shot him a killer look and Firststrike just smiled.

  "Regen won't mend holes in my skull!"

  Lastshot ignored the exchange. “Mine's the biggest, so it goes on last."

  "Aw, Con,” Matthew whined. “We're on TV; I'll look silly!"

  Lastshot finished snapping the vest shut.

  "Lovely!” Skorpion said, “You look like a demented gold snowman!"

  "Dad?” Matthew said. “Can I go out and play, now?” Goldstrike looked up at the security camera. He noticed the active light had gone out.

  "Thank God! We're not being broadcast anymore."

  Lastshot looked along his eye line to see the darkened ‘on light’ and a chill ran through him.

  "Take care of this, guys,” he said in an even voice. “I have to get to an external com link.” In his mind's eye, Lastshot could see what must have happened when the Tri v picture went out in the oval office: the President would have picked up a phone on her desk and said, “Start clearing the area, General, looks like we will have to activate option Damocles."

  Lastshot dashed out as Sniper unleashed a new fusillade of lead.

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  Chapter 12

  The air duct over the center of the training room started to shake from Temper's movements. Sniper looked up sharply and smiled.

  "Oh, cute!” She raised her weapon, and opened fire on the air duct.

  Bullets slammed into the thin metal of the air duct at high velocity, ripping huge chunks of the duraluminum sheeting.

  Inside, Temper rolled away from their points of impact, making the whole air duct start to tremble and shake like a living thing.

  * * * *

  Lastshot made the choice that it would be faster to make the contact with the President directly from the main computer room, so it was there that he raced. When he burst into the computer center, he came face to face with The Mercenary.

  Retlow was seated in one of the console's chairs, feet propped up on the terminal, and was smiling. He was also pointing a gun at his old comrade.

  "You got through to someone from some communication console, didn't you?” Retlow smiled with a grudging admiration for his old comrade.

  "Abe, it's over. Stop this; nobody has to die this time."

  The Mercenary laughed a cold and bitter laugh. “The definition of a winner,” the black said, rising from the chair, “is not how much damage he's willing to inflict to win, but how much he's willing to endure. Now it's just about you and me, Cousin; no audience."

  The Mercenary removed the magazine from his sidearm and tossed both away.

  "Now,” he said, cracking his knuckles for dramatic effect, “we do this like a bad John Wayne movie."

  Lastshot nodded his head and stepped into the room fully, closing the door behind him with deliberation. He locked eyes with his former colleague and then launched himself forward like a human missile.

  The two collided like titans in conflict. Lastshot was shorter than The Mercenary and was outweighed by his old comrade by thirty pounds of solid muscle. They had both trained their whole life as warriors, studied Hwa Rang Do, Defendu, Ju Jitsu and every other practical, killing martial art in the world, yet they fought like two drunken waterfront brawlers, throwing punches with abandon. The sound of fists on flesh and bone on bone blocks were like explosions in the silent control center. They were evenly matched and might actually have seemed to be enjoying themselves if there had not been a blood fury in their locked and focused glances.

  All the while, Lastshot knew there was a clock ticking down to the annihilation of the buildi
ng and all within it.

  * * * *

  The conflict in the subway tunnel was still underway and was a nightmare scene occurring in complete silence. Echo and Void continued to fight, now reduced to Caligarian fisticuffs, where the sound of fist on flesh did not exist. Echo's swift and skillful kicks were swatted away by Void's equally skillful defensive moves. They seemed also equally matched. Echo, unaware of the new deadline for action, was still fighting to get to his teammates and be of use before the gas was released.

  Echo was slammed against a metal girder after a particularly hard elbow to the head when he looked up to see a light far down the tunnel. He shook his head to clear his vision, but the light persisted. Void did not see it. And, of course, could not hear it.

  Echo maneuvered Void so that his back stayed to the light, as the pinpoint of illumination grew larger. They continued to throw punches but now, with Echo conscious to keep Void positioned so that he couldn't see the train that was coming full speed down the tracks.

  Stepping away from his opponent, and using American Sign Language, Echo signed: There's a train behind you.

  Void was gasping from the unaccustomed physical activity of the fight and took a second to comprehend the sign language. {What?}

  Echo mouthed the words: There's a train behind you!

  {Nice try.} Void's talk screen flashed. The white clad killer even ventured a sneer. Then his expression changed as he began to feel the vibration of the rails from the approaching train's weight.

  Echo pointed behind the killer, then he dodged away, racing off the tracks.

  Void turned too late. His voice screen displayed his silent scream as he was splattered all to hell by the onrushing, computer controlled subway. The instant he was hit, his power was cut off, and the sound came back to the scene like a tidal wave of chaos:

  The roar of the train, the dim echoes of Void's death scream and the sound of his mangled body parts exploding to strike the walls and floor of the underground passage.

  Echo watched the train disappear as the gore of his opponent rained on him.

  "I guess it's true,” he said aloud, enjoying the rich tones of his own voice in a way he had never imagined he would. “You never hear the one that gets you."

  He did his best to straighten his grease, dirt and gore smeared tunic before he staggered to the formerly secret entrance to the headquarters and went in.

  * * * *

  Goldstrike looked up at the air duct shaking from the impact of the bullets. A look of horror passed across his face and then he got angry.

  "Temper!” Then he yelled at Sniper: “You Bitch!"

  Goldstrike rose from behind the equipment he had been using to hide behind and charged Sniper. Sniper changed her aim point and focused on the gold-clad Exceptional.

  Shells slammed into Goldstrike's body armor so that he looked like he was doing Saint Vitas’ Dance, but he didn't slow down.

  It took Sniper a second to realize he wasn't stopping from the body hits she was inflicting and to re-aim at Matthew's head. In that time, Goldstrike took two instinctively aimed shots, hitting Sniper in the legs and shoulder, knocking her off her feet.

  Coming right up to her, Goldstrike slammed the butt of his weapon into Sniper's chin, sending her sprawling backwards.

  "Tori!” Matthew whined, looking up at the punctured ductwork.

  * * * *

  The Mercenary hit like a pile driver, his fists hardened by a lifetime of combat. Lastshot may have been thirty pounds lighter and half an inch shorter than Retlow, but The Exceptional used his longer reach to give as good as he got. Neither man would give an inch or show an ounce of mercy, using all their weapons: fists, knees, elbows, feet and teeth in as violent a fight as either had ever been in. There was no pleading, no threats, no empty bravado; this was a fight between men, not posing boys. It would end only when one could no longer continue or was dead.

  Retlow threw a spinning heel kick that Lastshot was able to step in on, absorbing the crushing force of the kick on his left arm and shoulder. He managed to kick The Mercenary's standing leg out from under him, sending him flying over a console, and crashing to the floor.

  Lastshot jumped the console and slammed a fist repeatedly into The Mercenary's jaw. The man's eyes rolled up in his head and he was out; very cold.

  Lastshot raced to the computer, realized that as a last ‘screw you’ Retlow had damaged the main voice communication lines and he could not make direct contact from the room. Time was running out, so he began tapping keys frantically. He looked down at the unconscious Mercenary, spit out a tooth and proclaimed, “There are no bad John Wayne movies."

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  Chapter 13

  In the Oval Office, the President's finger was poised metaphorically on the button. The Vice President, Senator Stryker, several military commanders and her civilian defense coordinator were in attendance.

  "The area for ten blocks around has been cleared, Madame President, using a gas leak as a cover story,” the coordinator, Fulton, said.” The Hellfire missile is smart tech and we feel assured we can limit civilian casualties to acceptable levels."

  "Acceptable,” she said. “How acceptable?"

  "Less than five thousand, ma'am,” General Hutchison said. “Far less than the gas would affect. There is just no way to evacuate enough of the island to matter."

  "Ah, the far lesser of two evils.” She looked at Stryker who had more personally to lose than any in the room. He just nodded.

  "All right,” she said. “Consider the order—"

  The phone rang. The President picked it up. It was a colonel from the Pentagon in charge of satellite intercepts.

  "Madame President,” he said. “Lastshot has communicated by code the following phrase: the gas is neutralized; repeat, the gas is neutralized. We have verified his call signal as genuine."

  The President looked up at the expectant faces around the room, particularly at Stryker, and smiled. “Gentlemen, stand down and light up the cigars; they did it again."

  * * * *

  Lastshot tapped a last a key and bent to tie Retlow's hands behind him. He made a point of taking the man's laughing wolf head mask and pocketing it. “Who's the Big Wolf now, Abe?” he said to the unconscious man. “Eddie would be sick to his stomach that it's come to this.” He had stuffed a piece of torn cloth into the gap of his missing tooth and the blood flow from his mouth had started to abate. He headed for the door.

  Unseen by Lastshot, a secret panel in the far wall of the room opened.

  The Exceptional team leader felt the change in air pressure in the room and reacted instinctively. He dove for The Mercenary's discarded gun, came up aiming and firing the single bullet-in-the-chamber which he knew Abe would have kept—at the panel.

  Lastshot's gun jumped upward of its own accord, as if it had been pushed up and his shot went into the ceiling.

  Echo, covered in Void's blood, stepped out of the passageway. “Am I too late to join the party?"

  "Train trauma make you late again?” Lastshot said with a rush of relief in his tone.

  "I just couldn't get a local for spit."

  Lastshot looked at him oddly and they regarded each other's appearance. They exited the room together to rejoin the others.

  "Okay Caesar, I'll bite: why are you covered in blood?” Lastshot said.

  * * * *

  "Matt! Above you! Look out!” Firststrike yelled.

  There was a rending, metallic shriek; the overhead air duct ripped loose, and came crashing to the floor, missing Goldstrike by mere feet. A body tumbled partway out.

  "Temper...” Matthew said quietly. “No.” The Bodyguard stared, dumbstruck, for a second. Then suddenly Matthew screamed, “Temper!"

  Goldstrike frantically started to tear at the wreckage of the air duct, pulling the sheets of metal apart with his gloved hands, trying to free the body.

  Suddenly, a muffled, small voice from above drew everyone's attention.


  "Matthew, why are you making so much noise?"

  Everyone looked up to see Temper, peering out from the part of the air duct that was still hanging from the ceiling. Goldstrike looked down at the revealed “body.” Firststrike came up to him. He looked down at the body and laughed.

  "A training dummy!” Firstrike announced. “She pushed one of the training dummies ahead of her to draw fire!"

  "Now you know why I love that girl!” Matthew said in relief and with pride.

  The doors opened at that moment and Lastshot and Echo entered.

  Lastshot was cut, bleeding from the nose, one eye was starting to blacken, and his neural glasses were broken, clutched in his hand. Echo was covered in blood, gore and grease. Goldstrike looked back and forth to each man, then addressed himself to his team leader.

  "Is there something you want to tell us?"

  "What?” Lastshot drawled nonchalantly. “I had to make a phone call and he was trying to catch a train."

  * * * *

  The Bodyguard stood around their enemies, now bound by their own electronic binders. Sniper's wounds, which were superficial, had been tended to by Firstrike—who was also the team's EMT. Lastshot looked at The Artist, then at Skorpion.

  "How did you figure it out?” he asked her.

  "His singing."

  "Very astute.” The Artist giggled. He would have clapped his hands, had they not been cuffed.

  "I don't understand,” Temper said. She had, in fact, been nicked slightly by one of Sniper's shots, and had had a hard time keeping Matthew from trying to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  Goldstrike laboriously removed the flexarmor vests.

  "Hey!” he said poking a finger through a hole that had made it through four vests. “This one almost got through!"

  "Stop whining, Matthew,” Temper said.

  "I am not whining!"

  Skorpion explained her rationale: “This clown wouldn't stop singing Gilbert and Sullivan songs, but every other one was from Pirates of Penzance."

  When Matthew looked more confused than usual, she added, “The lead character was born on February twenty ninth, in a leap year; so I thought, a calendar, and I took a chance that it was in my quarters. When I found it, I knew I was right and erased it."