Firedrake - Volume 1 Read online

  Firedrake

  Volume One

  By

  T. Mike McCurley

  Firedrake and all material printed in this book is © 2008 by T. Mike McCurley.

  Cover design by author

  Cover Image by "idrawthings" https://www.fiverr.com/idrawthings

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities between characters in this book and persons/establishments/beings of any sort, living or dead, are entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under international law. No material in this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the expressed written permission of the author, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  With thanks to Frank, Hg, and Paul for all

  their help, and to Nick for showcasing Drake.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Firedrake Volume One

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  More books by T. Mike McCurley

  Preview of Firedrake Volume Two

  INTRODUCTION

  In 1963, human beings began to Emerge - to develop abilities far beyond the human norm. Some were born twisted or in shapes once thought fantastic. Born in the form of a dragon, Francis Drake was the living embodiment of his father’s worst nightmare. Years after leaving that abusive parent behind, Drake is now in the employ of the Department of Justice - though not by his own choice. Forced to work for the good of a public who hates the very sight of him, Drake will do what he must in order to see the one person who means anything to him. Every job undertaken means more time with his brother. Now something big looms on the horizon, and Drake finds himself in the middle of it. Those in power have abused their authority to place this powerful creature in their employ, but who will regret it more when he is unleashed?

  Chapter One

  The papers had taken to calling her “Aquatica”, a reference to her ability to control water, and she had not bothered to correct them. She was beginning to make quite a name for herself in criminal circles as freelance muscle - albeit not cheaply obtained. Her talent for devastating an area with fire-hose force was not undesirable, and she had shown a distinct knack for applying that force where it would have the greatest effect.

  Presently, Aquatica was working in the docks district, breaking a Dockworkers’ union strike in a new version of the old fashioned way. Several of the longshoremen had already been blasted into the open water, and their picket signs were of no help in keeping them afloat. Foot-wide jets of water streamed from her hands, knocking one after another of the men screaming from the line.

  Aquatica fairly danced along the dock, rivulets of water rising from the lake to course along the curves of her body before shooting from her hands. A high-pitched tinkling laugh came from her mouth, playing an eerie counterpoint to the cries of pain and fear from her targets.

  “This a private party, or can anyone kick some ass?” came a voice from behind her. Aquatica began to turn, bringing one hand with her to blast the unseen intruder. She made it halfway through when the fist took her in her jaw, knocking free three teeth and sending her sliding helplessly down the dock for thirty feet. Her skin tore on the rough surface until she came to a stop.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you that gentlemen don’t hit ladies?” she asked, voice slurring, as she began to rise.

  “Check the scorecard, Princess. I ain’t no man,” replied her attacker.

  Aquatica’s eyes went wide.

  The attacker was enormous. He topped the charts at just under seven feet in height, weighing in at around three hundred fifty pounds of raw muscle. He stood on feet that must have been a size eighteen, each tipped with yellowed claws that left divots in the dock where they touched. His body was covered in glittering scales of dark green, except for the area of his torso, where the scales merged into long, wide pectoral plates of a sickly yellow hue. His arms bulged with power; hands the size of steering wheels flexed claws that matched those on his feet. A wide, triangular head looked down at Aquatica, and his lips peeled back to display rows of long, shining fangs. Behind him, widespread to emphasize his bulk, leathery wings rustled in the morning breeze. A long, sinuous tail danced behind him, its tip a foot-long barb. He wore a pair of military-issue tiger-stripe BDU pants, and in lieu of a shirt, the straps of twin shoulder holsters snaked down across his chest, each supporting a massive handgun. Clipped to his waistband, in front of his right hip, was a gleaming golden badge.

  “Department of Justice, Metahuman Response,” he announced in a drawl. “I’m supposed to ask you to surrender, but that’s just a pain in the ass.”

  “I have your surrender here!” Aquatica spat in reply, dribbles of blood-stained water running from her mouth. She raised her hands and twin streams of water erupted, slamming the giant creature backward when they struck his chest. She poured more energy into the attack, intent on forcing him from the dock entirely.

  Claws dug into the weathered wood of the dock, locking the booster in place. His wings swept up and forward, forming a shield in front of his head. The water jets struck his wings and deflected to the side. Grunting in pain from the torture his wings were undergoing, he simply opened his mouth. A roiling streak of flame spat forth to splash across Aquatica’s waist and torso, climbing upward as he flexed his neck. With a scream, she stopped the attack on him and focused her attentions on dousing herself with water to extinguish the flames that chewed at her costume and flesh together.

  “Had your chance,” she heard. Her eyes flicked up to see him standing before her, and then a ham-sized fist struck her in the jaw for the second time. Blackness descended.

  Reaching to a back pocket, the reptilian booster extracted a set of handcuffs. The metal was matte in shade, seeming to reflect little if any light. He snapped them around the wrists of the unconscious Aquatica, pressing them tightly into her flesh. A tattered bandanna, dragged from another of his pockets, became a blindfold.

  “That’ll hold her ’til we can put her in a cage,” he announced to the few workers brave or foolish enough to have remained. He nodded politely to them.

  “Y’all go on with your little strike. Your government is looking out for you,” he said, sarcasm fairly dripping from every word.

  “Who the hell are you? Aren’t you going to help us?” asked one of the dockworkers, gesturing angrily to the floating members of his picket crew.

  “Name’s Firedrake. Department of Justice,” the booster replied, looking into the water. He threw the unconscious woman over a shoulder, showing no effort at all, and walked to the side of one of the warehouses. He tore a life preserver free of its moorings and tossed it over the side of the dock. Shrugging his shoulders, he glanced back at the demanding worker.

  “And, uh, that ought ta help, don’t you think?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Firedrake shifted the woman into his arms and spread his wings once more. Thrusting with his legs, he took to the air. He ignored t
he angry shouts behind him.

  Let ’em file a complaint, he thought, climbing slowly higher and higher.

  His flight took him two miles from the scene at the docks, and he spiraled down to a not-so-gentle landing beside a dark blue van. Opening the back door, he placed Aquatica into a Plexiglas box, securing her hands over her head. He flicked a switch with a claw, opening a window above her. If she decided to use her abilities upon awakening, she would do little more than create a fountain from the roof of the van. He snapped shut the seals on the box, connecting the durite clasps in a series of snapping noises.

  “Sleep tight,” he said, patting the box gingerly. He closed the rear door of the van and paced to the front. In the cab, a dark-suited man in sunglasses sat calmly smoking a cigarette.

  “Are we ready?” the man asked.

  “Yeah. Take her back to HeartBreak. Tell her I’ll be there in a couple of hours. I’ve got to go run an errand first.”

  “Enjoy your visit,” replied the agent. “She’s in one of those moods.” He dropped the van into drive and accelerated away from the scene.

  “Isn’t she always,” Firedrake said to the cloud of dust left behind.

  Chapter Two

  Colleen Hart sat behind her desk in the office of Metahuman Response, reviewing yet another in a seemingly endless series of folders. There was a stack of a dozen more sitting in the box marked ’IN’. She took a long, deep drag from her cigarette as she flipped through a few pages, determining who was best suited to deal with the criminal they described, then idly scribbled the name “Apollo” on the exterior of the folder. Blowing out a stream of smoke, she tapped ash from the cigarette into a gleaming metal ashtray that stood beside the desk, then set the folder aside. She was reaching for the next when the door slammed open, shaking the entire office with its force.

  “Come on in, Drake,” she said, never bothering to look up. “Nice work on the Aquatica thing.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Drake grumbled. “No smoking in government buildings,” he chastised. He kicked out at a chair, spinning it around and sitting without being asked. The reinforced metal of the chair, a custom design for boosters with enhanced size or weight, creaked when he threw himself onto it. He folded his scaled arms across the back of it and set his head on them, fixing the woman with a baleful stare. The slit pupils of his eyes contracted as he glared, and the ridges of scaled armor that surrounded them narrowed.

  Hart was content to let him sit there, knowing he could not simply be silent for long. True to her thoughts, within the span of a minute, the booster fairly exploded. He leaped up from the seat, towering over her desk and staring down at her. The sight of him in anger had been enough to cow even some very powerful boosters, but it seemed to have no effect on Hart.

  “What the hell is this crap? Strike-breakers?” he shouted, tiny puffs of smoke jetting from his mouth along with the words. He slammed his fists on the desk, leaving dents in the metal surface, where they joined several others from the past.

  “Aquatica was a genebooster, yes?” Hart asked in a quiet, bored voice. She leaned back in her seat and looked up at Drake without a trace of fear. She was not happy at his proximity, but it did not register in her expression. As though she did not have a care in the world, she crushed out her cigarette and crossed her arms. Mentally, she counted the new dents he had left, adding them to the already impressive collection, and reminded herself to requisition another desk before this one fell apart.

  “Well, yeah, but -”

  “And she was acting in a criminal manner, yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then she falls within the mandate of the Metahuman Response Division. You work for that division. You were given an assignment. It’s that simple. If you would prefer something a little less taxing…” Hart let the sentence hang, raising an eyebrow. Drake gripped the edge of the desk, lips trembling and pulling back to expose his fangs.

  “Hey, lady, you can take your ’less taxing’ and shove -”

  “I have your next assignment,” Hart interrupted curtly. She unfolded her arms and slid a thick manila folder across the desk toward Drake. Papers and photographs spilled from within it, showing the image of a powerfully-built Caucasian man with long back black hair that was slicked back against his head. He was dressed in a black leather jacket and blue jeans that would have been called ’distressed’ were they purchased in the condition in which the man wore them. Drake flicked through the pictures with a claw, flicking them aside one by one as he examined the images. One showed the man standing beside a bright yellow Ferrari, leaning in to talk to the occupant, the back of whose head was to the camera. In the next shot, the man was lifting from the ground in what was obviously flight. The third, taken at a distance, was a grainy image of the same man shooting a bolt of energy from his eyes. The target of that purple bolt was an armored car.

  “Calls himself Retribution,” Hart declared, trying to cut down the time that Drake would spend standing in her office. “We don’t know why. He’s hit half a dozen armored transports in the past couple of weeks. All in Washington State. All very violent. ”

  “Who’s the mook in the Ferrari?”

  “Concurrent surveillance from Organized Crime shows it to be Lee Tang from the Iron Lords Triad. Unknown relation to the armored car heists. Or to Retribution, for that matter.”

  “Any idea what he’s doing with the cash?” Drake asked. “Does he work for the Lords, too?”

  “No idea on either question,” she admitted, a tone of irritation creeping into her voice. “I believe I said we have no connections established between them aside from this picture.”

  Drake snorted in derision. “So you ain’t got any connections. Don’t mean they ain’t there,” he pointed out.

  “You could be right, but as I said, we have nothing concrete.”

  “So just that one meeting?”

  “Unknown,” Hart said with a shrug. “The surveillance team was unable to keep up with him after he did that.” Her outstretched finger pointed to another long-range photograph of Retribution. The booster, arms laden with bags of money, was leaping into the air, heading away from the wrecked armored car. The vehicle was on its side in the street, rear door torn away. The slumped body of a security officer could be seen hanging half-in, half-out of the doorway.

  “Two guards in critical condition. Seven bystanders with various minor cuts and bruises. A few that aren’t so minor. One hundred twenty thousand dollars taken,” Hart reported, ticking off the items on her fingers. She flicked a hand in the direction of the folder. “And that was just for that particular hit.”

  “And they lost track of him when he flew off?” asked Drake, shuffling through the pages of the surveillance report. Hart sneered.

  “They thought it was important to respond to the scene and render aid. Trust me, they won’t make that mistake again.”

  “I bet,” Drake remarked wryly, glossing over the way she had referred to helping the injured as a ’mistake’. It was not as if he had any special regard for people, but even he would not have considered it an error to help them when they were injured. He continued scanning the documents, playing his own version of the game Hart had played when he stared at her. He knew that she wanted him out of her office; knew that she detested being this close to anyone, let alone someone as abrasive as he was. Just as she seemed ready to break, he spoke again.

  “So I’m supposed to start where? Tailing someone ain’t exactly my strong point. And don’t say it,” he added, noting the way her eyes snapped automatically to his tail.

  “His known places of residence are in the files, as are his acquaintances of note. You figure it out. Go down to psi-branch if you need a telepath to try to read him for you. Now, if there’s nothing else?” Her tone left no doubt that despite the phrasing, it was not a question.

  “There is,” Drake said. He dug in a cargo pocket of his trousers, emerging with a pair of DVD movies, which he placed carefully onto the des
ktop. “I picked these up on the way over. See to it that they get delivered.”

  Hart looked at them closely, though she did not touch them. “Elmo?” she asked, a grin stretching her face. Her body rocked as she struggled to keep from laughing.

  “His preference, not mine,” Drake shot back. “I lean more toward old Eastwood. Dirty Harry, Josey Wales, things like that. You know, in case you’re looking to get me a birthday present. Anyway, just get them to him.”

  “I’ll notify someone.”

  “You do that. When I’m done with this guy,” he said, tapping one long claw on the folder, “I figure on going to see him. It’d be a right shame if he didn’t have these nice new shows to watch.”

  Hart made a show of yawning to indicate just how little she thought of his style. “Threat noted and received. Gee, are you proud of yourself? Get out.”

  Drake picked up the folder and left, making certain to slam the door closed with more force than he had used to open it. “Bitch,” he growled. He glared at the assistant behind her desk, stomping his way out of the office space and into the halls of the building.

  “Asshole,” Hart muttered. She opened another file.

  Weaving his way through the crowded corridors of the building, and more than once using his size and strength to simply move people who did not get out of his way quickly enough, a very angry Drake finally jerked open a glass door marked ’DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE METAHUMAN RESPONSE -PSIONICS DIVISION’ and marched inside.

  The offices of the psi-branch were cold and sterile. Each of the offices was identical in layout, and the only difference between each one was the nameplate on the door and the few personal items that found their way onto the desks. The lighting was dim, evoking a feel of twilight. The conditions allegedly allowed an easier transition to a meditative state. All Drake knew was that they annoyed him greatly. He chose an office at random and barged straight inside, not even bothering to knock.