"That's good," Bo said. "Keep calling it names. That'll get us home early."
Yost mumbled something audible about MTacs being arrogant motherfu—
Yarborough: "Got him. Third floor, southeast corner."
"One?" Reese asked.
"That's all I'm reading. Hard to be sure with the fire."
"Thank God it ain't one of those mind readers." Yost was getting sweatier by the second.
Soledad: "Maybe it is." She hoped she sounded like she was just voicing a consideration and not bitch scared.
"Couldn't pay me to go in there, I'll tell you that." Yost said it, then said it again. "You couldn't pay me nothing to go in there."
Bo said: "Throw some light up top, make a little noise for cover. You'd take pay for that, right?" To his element: "Mike check. One."
"Two."
"Three."
Soledad: "Four."
Bo started to move, started for the warehouse. Soledad was ready to move with him. Something on her arm. Fear made every sensation feel like fire, like maybe she'd caught a little of what slagged those vehicles. A quick look: Reese giving a squeeze; reassuring. Saying stay close without saying a word.
Soledad eyed Reese's shoulder, her tattoo; the words etched there. Tough words. Downright BAMF words that told it like it was, like it should be. Soledad kept close to Reese as the four went for the warehouse.
As they did, behind them, Yost managed to get his act together enough to put spotlights on the building. Third floor.
Bo had point. He carried a Colt. 45 government modeclass="underline" more stopping power than the 9mms beat cops carried. A precision kill weapon. Reese and Yarborough toted HK MP5s, excellent for chopping freaks. Light, fast, and at full auto it could spray, baby, spray. Soledad had the Benelli, a semiauto shotgun loaded with one-ounce slugs. She was the fail-safe. If nothing else could stop what they were going after, the Benelli could put a hole in anything. Usually. All the weapons were Synthtech series, manufactured—like everything else they carried and wore—from synthetics and composite materials.
Inside.
The first thing they got hit with was the smell, the odor of perpetually burning flesh. And something else. The hint of another aroma that Soledad could just barely distinguish. The stink of smoked crack.
Oh, that's good, she thought. Not just a flamethrower. A hopped-up flamethrower. And this was her first call.
Stairway. Narrow. Not a good place to get caught. All four MTacs could go up like kindling. But it was the only approach.
Up the stairs.
First landing… nothing.
Second landing… more nothing, except the smells were strong and there was a voice. Strange, distorted like it was trying to make itself heard through the roar of a blast furnace.
All four MTacs had their weapons gripped hard and ready to do work. All four did a crab walk, step by step, inching upward for the third floor.
Bo's voice whispered into their earpieces: "Hold."
The air was hotter, thinner, some of its O2 gone. The thing was burning it off. Her uniform was suffocating her. All that, anxiety; they didn't help Soledad's breathing any. Her chest rose and fell in a rapid pace. Her hand pushed sweat off her forehead. It was rolling from her now. Rolling in sheets. Chestplate crushing her. Felt like it was. Should've listened to Yar; ditched the body armor. Should've…
Jesus Christ.
In her mind her own voice repeating: This is it this is it this is it. Stay cool. This is it this is it…
More of the blast furnace rant. Clearer now.
"Muthafuckas! Ya want sum? Huh? C'mon, bitches! Come taste summa dis!"
All Soledad could think was that he… it sounded like a crazy waving a Saturday night special around a liquor store. Everything they can do, all their abilities, but get down to it, end of the day, they're just street punks. Nothing more. Nothing better.
Bo peeked up to the third floor. A lot of space broken up by vertical supports.
In Soledad's earpiece, Bo clipped and to the point: "Sixty feet. Back to us. Me, Yarborough left. Reese, Soledad right."
That was all the more instruction they got. All they needed. Bo moved out low and quick with Yarborough right behind him. Reese and Soledad moved opposite, Soledad's heart slamming away inside her chest. They eased across the floor using the vertical supports, thankfully many of them, for cover.
The smells were thicker: the never-ending stench of roasting carcass swallowed with every breath to form a nauseating mixture in the stomach.
From hiding, Soledad peeked around a vertical. She could see the freak engulfed in its own flames. She had never seen one this close—a pyrokinetic or any other kind of M-norm. Its body shimmered with heat and fire but refused to burn itself. The flames just crackled and danced continually, feeding on the flesh of its host: an endless human wick.
This is it this is it this…
Soledad couldn't take deep breaths, couldn't get her breathing to slow down.
"Muthafuckas!" it screamed at the cops down on the street. "Think you got sumthin'? Bitches, come up here an' show me sumthin'!" It thrust its arm out a window. It shot a tendril of flame, the fire howling as it scorched the air it rode on.
Outside, three stories down, Soledad heard the wail of men. Maybe burning. Maybe dying.
"Muthafuckas! Better recognize!"
Bo, in the earpieces: "Ready?"
Down the line:
"Ready."
"Ready."
This is…"Ready."
Bo twisted from behind the vertical.
Soledad's heart clutched, then double-pumped.
Bo spoke, yelled with pure authority. "This is the police! You are in violation of an Executive Ord—"
That was all Bo got out, all the thing would let him get out before it turned from the window and sent a finger of flame burning in Bo's direction.
Bo sprang back, tumbled. Moved on instinct. Thought would've taken too long. Thought would've left him standing where fire now cooked the floor. He would have been dead.
"Bitches come ta play?" the pyro shrieked over the crackle of the burning wood. The thing shot fire again. From its skin, from its flesh, from itself it generated fire.
Instinct wasn't fast enough. Not this time. This time Bo got sent sailing, ridden into the dark of the warehouse along a river of flame. "Show me sumthin', bitch! Whatcha got ta show me?"
Yarborough, Reese and Soledad up and out and shooting. A continual chant of 9 mm fire interrupted by the low boom of Soledad's shells.
Why didn't, she wondered as her finger jerked the trigger, they just do this first off? You got a thing that can spit fire from its body, fuck warnings and police procedure. Kill 'em! They all deserved to die anywa—
Bullets no good. Lead turned to slag from the aura of heat around the freak before the shells could even touch it.
"What da fuck?" the thing snapped. "Was you 'bout ta shoot my ass?" A hand arched before it. Just like that, empty space burned hot. A wave of flame ran for Yarborough, Reese and Soledad in a violent ripple.
Soledad moved, tried to dodge the flames. Too slow. They picked her up, kicked her back. They slammed her down hard on the wood floor. She had sense enough to roll with the landing. Kept her from getting hurt. Badly hurt. The bits of pain that came with lightly singed flesh let her know she'd survived the assault.
She came up looking around: Yarborough down. Leg engulfed. He rolled, snuffed it out. He didn't scream. Bad as the burn was, bad as it looked even at a distance, he didn't scream.
Reese was clear. At least, Soledad didn't see her. So she was clear. Maybe. Maybe Reese'd just been turned to ash and there was nothing of her left to see.
The thing, the monster, stepped up, stretched a hand for Yarborough.
Soledad: "Yar!" She took aim. Fired. The shells, useless as ever, turning to molten lead as they sped for the burning man.