Law and Order Read online

  “I don’t know about you,” Angela had replied, stabbing her finger at that very spot, “but I’m thinking of Los Angeles.”

  Los Angeles, the city of angels, and the home of Bolson’s old company, Rallan, Inc., a company engaged in bio-genetics research. The company background said they were into cross-breeding vegetables and fruits, making hardier and more colorful produce According to the bland, generic literature on their website, it contained nothing to indicate they’d ever gotten into the business of creating people.

  Of course the company wouldn’t publicize it. Why invite trouble? Things like this had to fly under the radar. The government would never sanction it, and the public certainly wouldn’t understand it.

  However, one man—Andres Peterson—had not only sanctioned it, but had also gone beyond what anyone had ever dreamed of. The founder of Rallan, Inc. was a shadowy figure, and Paul and company had gone to Los Angeles in order to try to find him. Tracing him had proved to be impossible, though.

  They had a name, but no face. The background on Peterson—born in Omaha, Nebraska, received doctorates in bio-chemistry and applied sciences from UCLA at the age of twenty-four—gave the basics, but provided no pictures, nothing after he graduated university save his founding of Rallan—nothing.

  “We’re not going to find any information on him,” Ooze had said, after an exhaustive search on the Internet. “Number one, the company shut down around three months ago. They sold their stock to a few other companies, and those places check out, so cross off looking for him there.”

  “Is it possible they hid the information somewhere else?” Paul had asked, wondering how someone could simply disappear. Checking his thoughts, he’d realized he and his friends had also gone undercover.

  Ooze had waved his oversized hands in frustration. “If they have, then it’s on someone’s personal disk at home. I’ve looked everywhere. I’ve even gone to the Darknet. A lot of scientists and military personnel hide stuff there to keep their secrets off the grid. I got nothing so far…but I’ll keep looking.”

  While Ooze continued his search, practicality intruded. They needed somewhere to live. Finding a home had proved to be a problem at first, but after scouting around, Angela had flown in to inform them of some good news. “I’ve found the perfect place. It’s in Sierra Madre, near the mountains,” she’d said. “The spot I found is pretty inaccessible, even to the hitchhikers.”

  “How far is it from Los Angeles?”

  Angela had beamed. “That’s the great part about it. It’s about seventy-five miles away from downtown L.A., and by car, it should take about an hour. I can get there in twenty minutes when I fly at top speed.”

  Paul had already been thinking of how long it would take if he ran. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like flying with his girlfriend, but he enjoyed the freedom of running. Angela had continued with her list. “It offers access to the city and a lot of privacy. No one’s going to look for us there.”

  It had seemed like a plan at the time. They had money, courtesy of Bolson’s inheritance. Actually, it had been money he’d siphoned from his old company. The authorities never came looking. If anyone at Rallan knew about it, they’d said nothing, as they hadn’t wanted to bring undue exposure to what kind of experiments they were performing.

  Thinking of that last part, he wondered if Andres Peterson would ever try a repeat performance of hunting them down. He’d tried it before. Initially, he’d sent his security team to bring Bolson’s creations back. They hadn’t succeeded, and in a vicious battle of winner takes all, Paul and Angela had prevailed, along with help from their element-controlling friends.

  Now here they were, ready to take on the baddest of the bad. After working on their techniques of smash, trap and snare, they’d decided to offer their services to the world. Knocking out purse snatchers, cat burglars and punks was fine, and it had been good practice. The crooks usually gave up after seeing one of their nightmares come to life, and it became a simple matter to take them down. However, after their initial successes, they’d decided to up their game.

  “It’s time to take on the gangs,” Paul had said. His companions had agreed, and they’d gone after anyone of that persuasion with a vengeance.

  Soon, the whole town had been talking. In the daytime, the Nightmare Crew watched the recaps of their antics from their work the night before. Citizens reported seeing vampires, zombies and moving sand taking down the scum.

  “Zombies! Man, we got zombies,” a wild-eyed denizen of the street had said when the local news crews came nosing around for eyewitnesses. “I saw them!”

  The onlookers had cheered. “Halloween is coming early!”

  They could look forward to the holiday. As for the scum, they’d pleaded the fifth. However, while no one had actually said anything concrete, everyone knew who was doing the dirty work.

  And while the scum of the earth didn’t appreciate being deprived of their livelihood, the citizens certainly appreciated what the Nightmare Crew was doing.

  “I feel safer at night,” one young woman had reported, staring wide-eyed at the camera. A reporter had cornered her and other grateful citizens to ask them their opinion on the new crew in town. “I can walk around, knowing someone cares.”

  “The zombie guy saved me from muggers,” a middle-aged man had added.

  “And a sand thing helped me out when a fire started in my car,” another man had said. “If it hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here telling you this…”

  So all in all, things had been looking up, Paul had thought, but not every cloud had its silver lining. While perusing the Internet, he’d also seen reports of other supernatural creatures of the night. If the online reports and news recaps were to be believed, those people—if they were, indeed, people—acted in a wholly different manner. They often beat their foes to a pulp, and many unlucky lawbreakers had ended up in the hospital. The Nightmare Crew didn’t work that way.

  “Do you think we have competition?” he’d asked Ooze one day.

  “I’ll check,” the answer had come. “Anyway, the citizens out there seem to like what we’re doing. Crime’s down twenty percent.”

  Seemed had been the operative word…but not everyone appreciated what the Nightmare Crew was up to. “We are actively checking on the doings of this so-called vigilante group,” Commissioner Morgan Masters had said at a press conference.

  Tall, silver-haired, in his mid-fifties with a lean physique and a ringing voice that held the aura of command, he’d laid down the law, “While we appreciate the crime fighting efforts of these individuals, our police are here to serve and protect…”

  “Serve and protect whom?” Paul muttered, coming back to the present and checking his watch. Two minutes to go, and he took another glance at the target. Situation unchanged, but then a limousine pulled up and stopped just outside the gate.

  This was it. A large man wearing a ratty suit got out of the driver’s side of the car with a pistol in his hand. He whipped out a cell phone and spoke into it. Paul trained his ears on the source.

  “We’re clear here,” the guard was saying. “Azuras is ready to see the goods.”

  A second later, four other men with machine guns slung across their chests emerged from the back. Then an enormous man got out of the car to join them. Standing tall with a head full of long, thick and oily-looking hair that gleamed under the moonlight, he wore a dark suit and sunglasses. A beard and mustache completed the look. He spoke in a vaguely European accent. Where he came from didn’t matter. The mystery of this Azuras’ origins would have to remain a mystery for now.

  He nodded at the driver. “Let us see what we are selling to the masses.”

  Paul whispered into his com-link, “Get ready to rock.”

  After one of the guards inside the perimeter unlocked the gate, Azuras walked inside, but motioned for his men to wait. Paul heard the click of the lock being fastened into place. The guards went about their patrol duties, but another shadow flitted across
the sky—and it wasn’t Angela. This person was much larger and had wings. Even from this distance, he made out a face, white and ghastly looking.

  To his left, roughly a hundred yards away, another shadow stole out of the night—something large yet possessing a certain amount of grace. From the build he could tell it was a man, and he was wearing a suit. Who would wear a suit to a stakeout?

  Squinting, the man’s features came into focus then Paul let out a gasp. It looked to be a wolf-man moving into position near the warehouse. What in the hell…?

  For a second he thought he was dreaming. However, after taking another look, it was a wolf-man, and there was another vampire. So the stories were true, after all. Wanting to find out more but also knowing he didn’t have the time, he dithered for a moment until his watch gave a soft beep. It was show time and the other two creatures could wait. “Move out,” he ordered then ran to the warehouse.

  Predictably, CF went first and acted as a shield, slashing through the fence with his massive hands. Paul stayed behind him, heard the bullets whiz over his head and the thud as they slammed into the zombie’s flesh. CF grunted, but he kept going and smashed through the main doors.

  Angela flew in behind them and blasted the personnel inside the warehouse, perhaps thirty in all, back with a sheet of wind. Half of them dropped their weapons in sheer terror while the others opened fire. “Stay down!” she yelled.

  In a hail of dust, Sandstorm swirled around the hapless gang, blinding them. Go, he formed with his body, and Paul went into action, knocking out three of the men while CF and Angela took care of the others.

  Only Azuras remained on his feet. “What is this?” he demanded, brandishing a pistol. “Who are you people?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” warned Angela, as she stepped in front of him and waggled her finger. It came across as a mildly scolding gesture. “You know what you’re doing is wrong.”

  If that was intended to teach him a lesson, it didn’t work. The drug lord laughed. “You are a little girl. You will have to do better than that.”

  “Okay,” she said in an amiable tone, and her fangs came out a good two inches. The scolding, school-marmish demeanor disappeared. A look of cold determination stood in its place. “How’s this for an attitude change? Guess what? I bite. You never know where my mouth has been.”

  A look of fear spread across the big man’s face, but a second later a smirk emerged. “I do not know what you are or if this is some kind of elaborate stunt, but you must remember, I have the gun,” he said.

  Clicking off the safety, he fired at her once—then once more. When the bullets bounced off, he emptied the clip and stared at the weapon as if it were defective. His gaze slowly traveled up her body to her face, and the look of fear once more shone out. “What is this?”

  “What this is,” Paul began, as he walked over, grabbed the man by his shoulder and tightened his grip, which caused Azuras to tremble, “is you’re under arrest—not by us, but by the police. If you’re smart you won’t say anything.”

  Apparently, the message didn’t filter through as Azuras reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. Paul knocked it from his grasp and slugged the big man in the solar plexus, which caused him to sink to his knees, gasping in pain and surprise. Terror probably also factored into it. “What are you?” he asked, dazed and hurt by the assault. “If you let me go, I will pay you lots of money.”

  Paul also had fangs that he controlled at will, and he let them out for effect. “We don’t want your money. We’re not interested.”

  Rivulets of fear-sweat ran down Azuras’ face. Licking his lips, he drew in a deep, shuddering breath then screamed, “Do you know who I am? I control this area. I am a lord. Do you understand?”

  For her part, Angela looked unfazed. She knelt in front of him. While she wore a lazy smile, the rest of her features resembled a mask, uncompromising and unflinching. Her eyes, though, shone out ice blue, and Azuras recoiled from the sight. “Your reign is over.”

  Reaching inside his jacket, she pulled out a cell phone. Getting to her feet, she punched in a few numbers. “Hello, police,” she said, “we’re at 1515 Murdon Drive. If you want to find Azuras the drug-selling loser, come here now.” After tossing the phone aside, she turned to CF and added, “Do me a favor, please. Destroy the machines, but not the drugs. They’re evidence.”

  “Okay,” he said, and set to work ripping the machines apart like so much tissue paper.

  Azuras watched the action like a man whose entire world had crumbled before him in less than one night. In fact, it had happened, and he ground his teeth together. “You will pay for this,” he warned. His face flushed, which indicated rage and frustration. He screamed, “You will pay. Tell me your names! I demand you tell me your names!”

  “We’re the Nightmare Crew,” Paul answered, as he observed the frustrated hulk. “Now, are you going to behave, or do I have to tell my friend”—he indicated CF with a wave—“to crush you? He’s really good at cleaning up.”

  Azuras turned a whiter shade of pale. “I want my lawyer. And when he comes, I will be out of jail in no time.”

  “And we’ll be waiting.”

  Four little words, but they seemed to sink into the man’s gray matter, as Azuras bowed his head. “I will say nothing,” he muttered.

  “Good,” Paul answered. “No one would believe you, anyway.”

  After tying up the big man, Paul stole a look at the zombie, who was now cleaning things up. CF proceeded to right a few overturned tables, grabbed a broom that had somehow survived the conflict and began to sweep up the shattered glass and powder used to make the drugs. A zombie with a cleanliness fetish—at the moment, it was very hard for Paul not to laugh. He stifled it by turning his head away.

  Angela nodded at the general carnage as if to say job well done, we can go and party now. Turning around, she wore a beatific smile. “I’d call this a success,” she said with an air of satisfaction.

  It seemed to be more than a success, and why couldn’t all nights be like this? Checking his watch, Paul saw it was only twelve-thirty. They still had time to track down other crooks, but Angela was tapping her feet and motioning to the street. Sighing, he figured fighting crime could wait for another night. “Okay, we’ve done our civic duty. Where do you want to go?” he asked.

  “You promised to take me dancing,” she said.

  Dancing? What was up with that? He had two left feet, in addition to being left-handed, if that counted for anything. Grace on the dance floor was not an ability he could put on his résumé. Recalling the one time he’d danced with his girlfriend—at a rave club in New York roughly six months ago—his repertoire consisted of herky-jerky movements that simulated baling hay and digging ditches. “Dancing,” he repeated.

  Nodding, she grabbed his hand and uttered the two words he feared the most—Goth club. “There’s a Goth club not far from here,” she said as she pulled him into her embrace and took off through the air, holding him seemingly without effort. “It’ll be fun. Everyone’s pale, like me.”

  Uh-huh, he told himself. It would be fun. Mentally gearing up for looking like a fool, he grabbed onto her waist and they flew over to the roof of the club. No one ever came up there, but the music reverberated through the ceiling, so they spent the next two hours dancing and moving to the beat. In time, he found a certain sense of rhythm, but Angela pressed close to him and whispered, “Hold me. That’s enough.”

  Better than fighting crime, he thought as he held onto her. Angela’s body was warm, supple and he was more than into her, if such a thing was possible. Just before dawn, he’d had enough, and they flew home. Falling into bed after receiving a very deep and long kiss from Angela, he figured dancing wasn’t so bad. The kiss wasn’t bad, either.

  He could get used to this.

  Chapter Two

  A Matter of Priorities

  Kids had families. At every level of the animal kingdom from the lowest forms of life up to humans, pare
nts always factored into the equation. You were born, and you grew up knowing all the old, familiar faces. Chances were you had at least one parent… But some, call it bad luck, fate or something else, never got the chance to grow up in the bosom of a stable family.

  Paul happened to be one of the exceptions to the rule. As he lay in bed on the verge of sleep, visions flashed before his eyes, images of a childhood denied to him by an absentee father. He didn’t remember his mother. She’d died when he was very little, and his father? The mere thought of him in Paul’s subconscious made him twitch.

  His father, Paul Wiseman Senior, had given him up for adoption. Foster homes just hadn’t cut it. He’d been through some of the worst. Some of his foster parents had hit him, others were alcoholics who hit him, and most hadn’t provided proper food—or any food—for a couple of days at a time then hit him. It was only after a broken arm had alerted the authorities did Social Services take action. It had taken them long enough—almost seven years. He was lucky he’d survived.

  His luck had changed—or so he’d thought at the time—when the social worker had taken him to St. Joe’s, an orphanage in the Bronx.

  “You’ll like it here,” the social worker had said. She was a short, plump and pleasant-looking woman. Her face had worn a strained smile as they’d stood outside the gray and somewhat forbidding-looking doors. Some had said those doors led to knowledge. Paul had later learned to call those doors the gates of hell. “I’m sorry the foster homes didn’t work out.”

  At ten years old—short, skinny and beyond weak—Paul had looked at the façade of the building, the grayness of the walls and the sparse grass that grew in front of it. A sense of this place being even worse than his previous homes had swept over him like a tidal wave. He’d tried not to cry, and, by sheer force of will, succeeded. However, he hadn’t been able to keep his voice from quavering. “Can’t I stay with you or someone nice?” he’d blurted out.

  It had come out as a cross between a plea and a cry for help. The caseworker had looked at him then put her hand to her eyes and averted her gaze. When she’d turned back, her eyes had been wet.