Super Human Page 6

  “Up to a distance of about five or six miles, yeah, usually. But right now there’s too much noise from the cops and the army and the helicopters for me to hear what’s going on inside the power plant. So . . . What’s your plan?”

  “Don’t really have one. I just wanted to see if I could help. They said that Max Dalton got captured. I was sort of thinking of offering my services to the police.”

  Thunder rubbed his chin. “Yeah, same here. But now I’m not so sure. They don’t know who we are.”

  “We should sneak closer and maybe you can hear the guys inside the plant. Then we could tell the cops and they’d know we’re on their side.”

  “And what’ll you do?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Thunder sneered. “Oh, good plan! You really are a newbie, aren’t you? First time out, is it?”

  Abby ignored that. “We’re not helping anyone by sniping at each other. Let’s just get closer and see what happens.”

  With Thunder leading the way, they crept forward through the long grass. After a few minutes, he said, “OK. . . . I can hear the army guy in charge—Colonel Morgan. He’s saying that Dalton’s helicopter pilot told them that Dalton’s sister is in there too. She went in after the others were captured, and got captured herself. Idiot.”

  “Keep the noise down,” Abby said.

  “They won’t hear us. We could set off a bomb here and they wouldn’t know unless they were looking. I’m stopping our sounds from reaching them.”

  Abby wasn’t about to admit that that was a very useful ability. “So what are they planning?”

  “I think they don’t know what to do. There’s supposed to be sixteen hostages. Eleven workers and Dalton and his crew.”

  “Can you stop any sounds?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “So you could, like, block out every sound inside the power plant?”

  “I could, but then they’d know something was up. We’re going to have to do something, though. Sounds like half of the cops and most of the army guys are coming down with the flu. Come on, we’ll see if we can get closer.”

  It’s the perfect time to attack something, Abby thought. Seems like nearly everyone has the flu these days. She froze. Unless it’s not the flu. Maybe it’s something else.

  She ran to catch up with Thunder. “Hey!”

  “What?”

  “Anyone you know got the flu?”

  “Sure. Most of the teachers at school, my folks, most of my neighbors. Why?”

  “Same here. My mother, my aunts. Four of the guys from work. Lots of the regular customers. The guy who lives in the apartment next door to mine was up all night coughing his guts up. . . . I don’t think this is the ordinary flu. There’s always some epidemic or other going around, but they take time to spread. This one is happening all over the world at the same time. That’s just not possible, unless it was done deliberately. Someone has created a plague.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “I swear I left it right here,” the man with the deeper voice said. Lance swallowed. Please don’t let them find me! He peeled off the latex gloves and tried once more to open the jetpack’s clasps, but couldn’t find a catch or a button.

  The other man said, “You musta already loaded it inta the truck with the other one.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well, check anyway. It’s not like anyone woulda took it. Hey, you don’t think that Marcus had it on him when he got arrested, do ya?”

  “We would have heard.”

  Seconds later, the man’s muffled voice came from outside. “I toldja, it ain’t in the truck.”

  I’m outta here! Lance darted out from under the workbench and made a dive for the door.

  One of the men said, “What . . . Hey!”

  Lance slammed the door behind him, ran through the musty office and out to the front. He jumped onto his bike, slung the backpack onto the handlebars, and began pedaling like crazy. He couldn’t help grinning. I did it! I got away!

  He zoomed around the corner and onto the main road, shifted up a gear, and increased his speed. It was tough going with the heavy jetpack on his back, but he wasn’t going to stop for anything.

  Then he heard the roar of an engine coming up fast behind.

  He risked a glance back: A large white panel truck was bearing down on him. Two black-suited men were in the cab, the passenger gesturing wildly while the driver sat with a grim, determined look on his face.

  Lance took a sudden right into another narrow side road, almost coming off the bike. The driver had to hit the brakes to make the turn.

  The road was closed off at the end, with only a narrow pedestrian passage leading through the gap between two buildings. They’ll never be able to follow me through! He mentally pictured his route home. If I cut through the church grounds I can . . . He stopped himself. No, can’t go home. Not with all this stuff. I have to hide it somewhere.

  As he was considering the best place to stash his stolen goods where they wouldn’t be found, he cycled out of the business park and onto the street. The rush-hour traffic was long gone, but the street was still busy.

  He slowed a little as he approached the crossroads, weaved in and out of the waiting cars, then turned right, heading toward the mall. There was a dense clump of bushes at one end of the eastern parking lot—he’d often hidden stuff there before, and it had never been discovered.

  At the next junction he jumped the red light and almost collided with a white truck that was turning the corner. He pulled hard on the brakes, put his foot down to steady himself, and glared at the driver. His face fell. Oh no. . . .

  The two black-suited men looked as surprised as Lance did. The passenger shouted, “That’s him! An’ he’s the same kid from the accident! He musta got Marcus’s briefcase!”

  Lance jumped back onto the bike, darted around the truck and down the road, knowing that they’d have to make a U-turn to follow him.

  He heard a loud bang and something shattered a mailbox as he passed. “They’ve got guns? Oh, this just gets better and better!”

  Another bang, and Lance felt like something had thumped him in the back. They hit the jetpack! OK, that’s it. I quit. He slowed a little, steered the bike onto the pavement. I’ll say I’m sorry and hand it all back and when their hands are full I’ll run like mad. A hundred yards ahead was the pedestrian entrance to a housing estate. Perfect. Stop there and—

  There was a third gunshot. Lance changed his mind about stopping. He hunched forward, keeping his head low, and pushed as hard on the pedals as he could. There were two more shots, and before he even heard the second Lance found himself racing forward, as though he had just crested a steep hill.

  But the road was almost flat, and still his speed was increasing. It felt like someone was pushing him from behind. Then a familiar whine reached his ears, and he knew what had happened: The last gunshot had somehow activated the jetpack.

  He zoomed out onto the road, his knuckles white on the juddering handlebars. I’m gonna die!

  He knew that he couldn’t slow down or jump off the bike. With the jetpack still thrusting him forward he’d have no way of stopping. He couldn’t even lift his head more than a couple of inches.

  Lance rocketed across an intersection, overtook a guy on a motorbike, narrowly missed a deep pothole. He could steer the bike, but it wasn’t easy—at this speed, the slightest nudge on the handlebars sent him weaving all over the road. The fuel in this thing has to run out sometime. Need a good long stretch of road . . .

  Ahead, the road branched to the right: the on-ramp for the freeway. He knew that bicycles weren’t allowed on the freeway, but figured that in this case the traffic cops might make an exception. Besides, he didn’t have any other option.

  There was a line of cars at the end of the ramp waiting to pull out into the busy traffic. Lance zoomed past the surprised drivers and cut in ahead of a white Toyota.

  The speed limit on the freeway was sixty-five m
iles per hour. Lance knew from being in the car with his dad that most drivers regarded sixty-five as the minimum speed, not the maximum. He didn’t know how fast he was going now, but he was overtaking everything else on the freeway. The bike shuddered and rattled over the asphalt and he prayed to the god of cycling that he didn’t blow a tire.

  He tried to remember exactly what the newspaper article on Paragon’s jetpack had said about its range. He had a horrible feeling that there had been something about Paragon being able to make it all the way from New York to Chicago without the need to refuel. And he’s a lot bigger than me too. Plus he’s got all that armor. This thing might not run out before I reach the end of the freeway!

  Lance’s back and shoulders were aching from the strain, and he desperately wanted to sit back. He knew that if he did, the jetpack would launch him into the air, bike and all.

  Paragon had spent years developing his jetpack. He knew how to control it, how to land safely.

  Lance didn’t even know how to undo the clasps.

  “I can hear breathing,” Thunder said. “Lots of it. A couple of dozen people. Most of them are struggling—their breath is all wheezy and bubbly.”

  Special Agent Lloyd Rosenfield—a gruff middle-aged man with thinning hair and little patience—turned to the military officer. “Colonel, explain to me again why we’re taking advice from a couple of kids who think it’s Halloween.”

  “Because we’re superhuman,” Abby said. “We can do stuff your soldiers can’t.” She’d disliked this man from the moment his shiny rented car had screeched to a stop and he’d bounded out brandishing his FBI badge.

  They were half a mile downhill from the power plant, surrounded by armed police officers, soldiers, and FBI agents, standing on the narrow road next to the FBI’s operations truck. The power plant was now completely encircled by soldiers, but none closer than five hundred yards.

  Rosenfield looked at Abby. “What? You want to say that again with the visor up so we can actually hear you?”

  Colonel Morgan said, “They seem to be the real deal, Agent Rosenfield. At least, the boy does. He can hear stuff from miles away, block sounds, project his voice, all that sort of thing.” Morgan was a short, squat man in his forties with buzz-cut white hair.

  Abby and Thunder looked at each other. It had been her idea to talk to the police—Thunder had wanted to find a way into the power plant without their help.

  Rosenfield considered them for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” He extended his hand to Thunder. “Welcome aboard.” As Thunder reached out to shake it, Rosenfield said, “Whoa, wait a second. Where I come from we believe it’s disrespectful to shake hands wearing gloves.”

  Thunder started to pull off his right glove but Abby put her hand on his arm. “Don’t. Then he’ll have your DNA on his hand and he’ll be able to find out your secret identity.”

  The agent rolled his eyes. “Secret identity? Are you kidding me? This isn’t a game, kids. Go on home before your mommies miss you.”

  The colonel said, “We’re wasting time here.” He looked to the west. “And we’re losing light. Sun’s almost down. These guys haven’t made any demands that we know of. So what do they want? Thunder?”

  Thunder closed his eyes for a moment. “There’s a woman, sounds like she could be in charge. She’s talking to one of the men. . . . Telling him that they have to keep waiting.” He opened his eyes. “They’re getting restless. Hungry too.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Rosenfield said. “Colonel, we need to take charge of this situation. You’ve got half the able-bodied cops in the state hanging around here scratching their butts. We can’t even get hold of any grown-up superheroes because Max Dalton is our only point of contact. I say we storm the place.”

  “And risk the hostages? No. If we knew exactly where they were, we might be able to take a chance on that. But we’re operating blind here.”

  Thunder asked, “You’ve got blueprints for the power plant, right?”

  The colonel nodded. “Of course. Our analysts are going over them in the truck. We’ve got several possible access points, but like I said, we’d need to know exactly where they’re keeping the hostages.”

  “I can help you with that. I can tell by the echoes where everyone is. I might not be able to tell the difference between the terrorists and the hostages, though.”

  Colonel Morgan looked to Rosenfield, who grudgingly nodded and said, “Worth a shot.”

  Thunder followed the colonel into the truck, leaving Abby facing the FBI agent. After a moment’s awkward silence, he said, “And what good are you?”

  “I’m strong and fast,” Abby said.

  “So’s Tylenol. Difference is Tylenol takes headaches away; it doesn’t create them.”

  Abby glared at him, then reached over her shoulder and withdrew her sword. “And I’ve got this.”

  “You have a sword. Great. I’ll definitely call you if it turns out that the bad guys are Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”

  Abby didn’t know what those names meant, but she wasn’t about to admit that. “You want a demonstration, is that it?”

  He smirked. “Be my guest.”

  “All right. The demo comes in two parts.” Holding the sword by its blade, she offered him the hilt. “Take this.”

  He grabbed hold of the hilt, and Abby let go.

  The sword slammed to the ground, almost pulling Rosenfield over with it.

  “Heavy, isn’t it?” She reached down and took it from his hand, then slowly walked over to his rented car. “The FBI is insured, right?”

  Before he could answer, Abby swung the sword single-handed straight down on the hood of the car. The blade moved faster than anyone could see, but everyone jumped at the earsplitting bang. Rosenfield stared. His mouth dropped open. “My car! You dented the hood!”

  Inside her helmet, Abby was grinning. “Dented the hood? Oh please! Is that all the credit I get?” She reached out to the hood and peeled it back as though it was nothing more rigid than a cotton bedsheet. The metal creaked and snapped. The FBI agent’s mouth dropped even farther.

  The sword had sliced straight through the engine block.

  “Yeah. . . . You might want to get that patched up before you bring it back to the rental place,” Abby said.

  “Willful destruction of government property,” Rosenfield muttered, his eyes still on the ruined car. “That’s a federal offense.”

  “Sue me.”

  Colonel Morgan climbed out of the truck, followed by Thunder. They slowed as they reached the car. The colonel whistled. “Bit of an oil leak there, Agent Rosenfield.”

  The agent pointed to Abby. “She—”

  “Never mind that. Thunder here has given us our first break. We know where every hostage and every perp is. And we can get in without them realizing. We need your explosives guys with us to blow the main doors.”

  Rosenfield shook his head. “The hostiles would see you coming.”

  “Not if we come from above, drop down onto the roof from a chopper.”

  “Then they’d hear you coming.”

  Thunder smiled. “That’s where I come in.”

  Roz lifted her head. Something’s changed. . . .

  The sun had set and the room was in almost total darkness now, but that wasn’t what felt different. She slowly looked around the cavernous room. The gray men were still watching her from the shadows. Max and the Rangers were still on the floor. Max was curled up into a ball, quietly shivering. Ox was almost motionless, the only sign of life the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Ollie and Lash were both flat on their backs. Ollie’s eyes were open, flicking rapidly back and forth, his breath rasping and uneven.

  How long have we been here now? Three hours? Four? Why hasn’t anyone come for us?

  That was when she realized what was different: The constant sound of the helicopters was gone.

  They can’t have abandoned us. . . . They must be planning something.

  Roz stretched
out her legs and arms as much as the cuffs would allow her. With some difficulty, she got onto her knees, then pushed herself back onto her feet.

  The gray men immediately raised their weapons.

  “Just stretching,” Roz said, rolling her head from side to side. If something is going to happen, I have to be ready to go into action. She began to shift from one foot to the other. “I need to use the bathroom. Badly.”

  If Titan is out there working on a way to get to us, he might be listening in. He’s supposed to have really good hearing. “Look, what harm can it do? There’s five of you guarding five of us, and I’m the only one conscious. Two of you can take me to the bathroom and the rest will be more than capable of guarding Max and the others.”

  One of the gray men took out a radio and muttered something into it. A minute later, she heard footsteps in the corridor outside the room.

  “Do not turn around,” the woman’s voice said. “Eyes closed, head down.”

  Roz did as she was told, and a leather bag was dropped over her head. But it wasn’t pulled tight: Looking down, she could see a woman’s hand unlocking the cuffs around her ankles.

  “Try anything and we’ll kill your brother.”

  “I understand,” Roz said.

  She felt a hand grab her arm and she was led toward the door. She couldn’t see much as she walked, other than her feet. She was brought into a bathroom and led to a stall.

  “Go, and be quick about it,” the woman said.

  “I need my hands free to get out of my uniform.”

  There was a pause, then the woman reached for the handcuffs. Roz took a chance: She telekinetically lifted the bottom of the leather bag enough to see that the woman stored the handcuff key on a loop on her belt.

  After Roz was done, she was handcuffed once more and led back to the center of the large room. She was ordered to sit down, and then the cuffs were placed on her ankles. Roz used her power to raise the bag again, just in time to see the woman clipping the key on to her belt.