Sinister Designs: Chapter 4
Though Hank had been meeting both Moira and Nathaniel on a daily basis, they met for dinner as if they hadn't seen each other in months. For once, their discussions wouldn't be recorded, nor would they be so obviously guarded by the finest marines Washington had to offer. Right now, the only visible presence was Gloria, seated with them at their table.
Hank was by far the youngest of the group, a large, vibrant man in his late 20s, with wrists as big around as most men's elbows. By contrast, Nathaniel Essex was a mere toothpick. If viewed separately, one could see that Nathan stood a bit over six feet, a distinguished British gentleman in his 40s, his raven hair cut short and just beginning to gray at the temples. He shone of refinement, his tuxedo pressed and unblemished, his manners formal, polite, and impeccable. He would be better cast as James Bond than a world-classed, Nobel-prize-winning scientist. It wasn't fair to line him up next to the gentle giant that was Hank McCoy.
And Moira... well, Moira seemed to be trying to make herself look older and more dour, and her body was stubbornly refusing to go along. Her reddish-brown hair was cut just above shoulder length, in a style that might be convenient, but did the rest of her no justice whatsoever. She wore a style of clothing more befitting a stereotypical librarian from the 60s. Her flat, black pumps had seen better days, along with the change of several fashion seasons. And she never wore makeup. Ever. A waste of time, it was, and a waste of money besides. Either they'd want her for her mind, or not at all. With the way she tended to frown in concentration, it was a wonder that her face stayed free of such creases. But free of wrinkles it remained, and free of age spots and other blemishes. Despite her best efforts, there was still a pretty woman under all that frump.
That beauty poked through, even if just for a moment, as her face lit up at Hank, Gloria, and Isidro's approach. She raised her hand and gave a quick ascending whistle, just loud enough to be heard over the hubbub of dinner conversation.
"Oh, good, you chose a table this time," Hank said as he sat himself down.
"With how ye've carped about booths, ye think I'd do anything else?" Moira asked.
"I'm simply not designed for close quarters, Moira. Surely that would be most evident by now."
"That explains the Hum Vee in the parking garage," Nathan observed.
"Why does everyone assume I have to drive such an inefficient monstrosity? There are other forms of transportation with head clearance."
Nathan gave a slight smile as he raised his wineglass. "I've been able to triple the fuel efficiency on mine."
Hank's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "You're serious?"
"I consider it a pet project." He sipped. "A pity it's too expensive to put into mass production."
Outside, the faint, but annoying, sound of a car alarm went off. Moira growled in irritation. "Can't I go anywhere in this damned country without hearin' one of those bloody things?"
"Once you hit the rural areas, yes, but I'm afraid it's a sad fact of urban life," Hank replied. "At least there are laws against them going off for more than a few minutes at a time--"
Gloria's left hand shot out to silence them. Her right pressed her earpiece closer. All stopped and stared at her. Out of the corner of his eye, Isidro caught movement on the table. He looked again, but it had stopped. Another car alarm went off, this one closer than the first. A few of the patrons were starting to look annoyed as well.
The movement happened again, and this time Isidro was watching for it: a subtle ripple in the wine of the half-filled glass. The hallmark of an earthquake... or....
"Is that an impact tremor?" he whispered.
Gloria's head whipped back over her shoulder, facing the rear of the restaurant.
"Shit," she hissed through clenched teeth.
Somewhere very close by, at least two cars collided. Then another, and another after that. The patrons looked around, confused and alarmed. At least one couple was watching the ripples in their glass. Isidro's chest tightened so much that it squeezed his heart up into his throat. His hands started trembling. They couldn't be here. They just couldn't.....
Agent Gloria Angstrom turned back to the rest of the table. "Run. Now."
In less than the time it took to stand away from the table, the reinforced kitchen wall exploded as if nothing more than a movie set of balsa wood and canvas. In its wake stood something out of Isidro and Hank's worst nightmares: an amplifier suit.
Gloria pulled her pistol as she leapt away from the table. "MOVE!"
She let off four shots in rapid succession as she ran to a less-occupied section of the restaurant. Come on you walking scrap heap, track me! The shots rang off of the suit's armor without so much as a scratch, burying themselves in the ceiling. But she had her wish. It turned to face her and extended an arm.
Before Hank even knew what he was doing, he picked up the heavy mahogany table and flung it at the suit's arm like an oversized discus. It contacted a split second before a deafening hail of shells erupted, generating a cloud of debris. Gloria fell and disappeared in the grayish cloud.
From then on it was insanity. Civilians ran everywhere. One "dining couple" pulled out weapons and gave cover fire while another tried to spirit their three charges away. The agents' actions were commendable, but ultimately futile. Anyone with a gun was cut down with a flick of the nightmare's metal wrist. Hank threw another table. This time it hit the suit in its "head", the housing for its sensor arrays. It spun and lurched for Hank, who barely managed to jump away in time. Was it out of shells?
Not unless it was released with less than half capacity, Hank thought as he dodged a second time. It wants me. And it probably wants Isidro as well. Scott was right: there's a mole here somewhere....
Now what would he do? If he lead it outside, God only knew how many cars and pedestrians would be crushed in the battle. But if they stayed in here, they'd bring the whole building down. Sooner or later, this thing was bound to hit a load bearing wall. And there was the little matter of a damaged kitchen....
As if some cruel god heard his thoughts, an explosion went up in the kitchen behind them. Leaking gas from the damaged ranges had finally caught, and the flames were spreading fast. From what he knew of the amplifier suit, not flames, nor smoke, nor even the complete collapse of the building would bother this robotic nightmare in the least. It was a shame no one else in the place was so lucky. Hank spared a moment to scan for his comrades, and caught sight of Nathaniel herding Moira and Isidro out the back way, perilously close to the flames. Close enough to confuse the suit's IR sensors, perhaps? The suit didn't even turn around. It must have worked.
Good move, Nathan, Hank thought. At least three of us are safe. Now I just need to extricate myself....
The ceiling groaned, and Hank's choice was made for him. He leapt through the window as a huge fist slammed down behind him. He'd misjudged his leap; forgotten how strong he was, or perhaps the thin nature of the glass. Something meant to put him on the sidewalk instead launched him halfway across the street, and into the path of a delivery truck. Hank hit the ground and sprung up again, a good twenty feet, and the truck sailed underneath him, the driver's panicky foot slamming on the brakes only after Hank had cleared the cab. Hank landed on top of the rear compartment and crouched low, watching the enemy for its next move.
Scott was right about this, too: once an X-man, always an X-man, he thought ruefully. I never thought I'd actually use this combat training again....
The amp suit was fighting to get clear of the timbers and pipes that rained down upon it. Apparently, that last blow was all the battered restaurant could stand, and it was coming down around the suit's metaphysical ears. But the debris was but an annoyance. Like a weightlifter kicking over trash cans, the suit muscled its way out of the burning wreckage. The place collapsed behind it, sending burning embers into the air.
Hank fought not to think of Gloria. She was probably already dead. He prayed Nathaniel had gotten Isidro and Moira clear in time.
And then he heard something that gave him hope. Above the crackling flames and creaking timbers, there rose the sound of helicopters, and they were flying very, very low. The armored suit looked up. In a strangely human move, it put its arm up to shield its head as an Apache attack helicopter unloaded thousands of rounds the size of railroad spikes. The walking tank staggered back, crouched against the chain gun's relentless assault, and didn't notice when another Apache came in from the other side and opened fire.
The UPS truck under Hank shuddered to life again. The driver had finally gotten it back into gear, and he was wasting no time in this war zone. Hank held onto the roof of the delivery van and crouched low, riding his ticket to freedom. Suddenly, a stray round hit Hank squarely in the shoulder, knocking him off the metal roof. He tried to twist, to land on all fours, and surprised himself by managing to land on both feet and his good arm. His left shoulder was completely numb, and bleeding badly. Bad. Very bad. Too many arteries to hit, too easy to bleed to death. If he passed out here....
Nathan was there beside him. His formerly black tuxedo was more of a charcoal gray, now, and ripped in several locations. He pulled Hank's right arm over his shoulder and helped him to his feet.
"They've got F-16s on the way, Henry!" Nathan shouted over the barrage. "We can't hang around ground zero like this!"
Once Hank got to his feet, he could walk. Even run. He found himself looking for Scott and Jean again, waiting for their commands, just like old times. This was turning into a mission again, something he swore he'd never repeat. They rounded the corner, and the noise cut down to the point that they could speak.
"Moira and Isidro?" Hank asked.
"Safe."
"Gloria?"
"I don't know. Keep moving, Henry. The whole block's going to go up when the Apaches unleash their missiles, if not when the fighters come. Of all the places for that thing to strike, Washington DC might not have been the wisest move."
Nathan had a point. Considering the speed with which the Apaches got there, they must have been very close indeed, just waiting for the possibility of an assault like this. And the fighter jets were ready around the clock. They were under the same tight security umbrella that the President himself enjoyed. Nothing like having the military there to protect you, for once.
Nathan looked up with trepidation. "Oh dear."
He pulled Hank into a side alley and pushed both of them flat against the wall, in anticipation of a shockwave. His hand was oddly cool against Hank's bare neck. Hank heard the piercing scream of an F-16 as it flew over somewhere above them, but there was no accompanying boom. Had they decided not to bomb it after all? Would there be too much damage to the surrounding block? The Apaches must be equipped with Hellfire missiles: surely their radius wasn't that large? Once the scream died down, Hank realized that he was only listening to his own ears ringing. Even the shooting had stopped. His body trembled with shock and exhaustion. He tried to lift his head away from the wall... and found himself paralyzed. No matter what, he couldn't make himself move.
A thousand things raced through his mind. Nerve damage? Hysterical paralysis? Had the suit let off some sort of neurotoxin? He found himself slipping to the ground, an uncomfortable, "sticky" sensation on his neck where Nathan had touched him. He couldn't even move his eyes: he was forced to stare straight ahead at a beige stucco wall.
He heard Nathan's voice behind him. "Move it, we don't have much time. It sounds like it was recalled early."
Hank was lifted up by his arms. The asphalt rushed by beneath him as two people dragged him along.
An unfamiliar male voice said, "Jesus, he's heavy. You sure you have enough to knock him out in that slap pack?"
"Yes," Nathan answered. "Mind the shoulder. I don't want him bleeding to death."
A fender came into view. They were loading him into some kind of truck.
"It'd save a lot of problems if he did," that same voice grumbled. "One less freak in the world, y'know? One less guy who knows too much."
More hands grabbed his legs, and he was lifted entirely off the ground.
"Christ, buddy, go on a diet, willya?" a different man grunted.
"Do you want test subjects or don't you?" Nathan asked, his voice cold. "Must I remind you of the 'big picture'?"
They weren't gentle. The hard plastic floor of the vehicle scraped Hank's face, drawing blood. Something brushed against the back of his neck, and he was now certain there was a skin-absorbed slap pack firmly attached there. No wonder Nathan's hand felt so odd. As they shoved him further into the vehicle, Hank saw Moira and Isidro as well. Both unconscious, both bound and gagged.
Hank had finally uncovered their well-placed mole... but it was far, far too late to tell anyone. Nathan knelt by Hank's side, impassively watching with the same interest given to an insect collection.
"Unexpected," he mused. "They should have closed immediately. Well, we can't have your eyes drying out on the way there, can we, Henry?"
He reached out and closed Hank's eyes, his action disturbingly reminiscent of a mortician preparing a corpse for burial.
TBC....