Even the pavement beneath his feet lost its solid feel and seemed to take on a sort of brittleness.
“I’m turning to walk away,” he said. “Pull the trigger if you want to.”
Jake turned, and the gun went off. He felt the bullet slam into his back and bounce away. He might have a small bruise from that, he realized, so he powered-up some more as he turned to face them.
He said, “Is that all you have?”
“I hit him,” the agent said. “I hit him dead on, but he’s still standing.”
The other drew his pistol and said, “Fire at will.”
They emptied their clips at Jake, the bullets tearing into his shirt and jean jacket, and bouncing away. A couple struck his cheekbones, one his forehead. Powered-up to this new level, the bullets felt like little more than pebbles being tossed harmlessly at him.
The agents stood staring at him.
“Had enough?” Jake said. “Keep in mind, if I wanted to I could just shout and blow out your eardrums. However,” he noticed the car parked at the curb, a nondescript Chevy Impala with Federal plates. “This must be your car.”
Without waiting for a reply from them, he walked toward the car, and with one hand he gripped the underside of the car behind the front wheel and lifted, rolling the vehicle upward. With a final toss, he flipped the car over onto its roof. The metal creaked and groaned as car roof caved inward.
Jake then looked to them. They had dropped out their clips, and slapped in fresh ones.
One thing Jake had found was, powered-up like this he could move with incredible speed. He darted forward and snatched each pistol from their grip before they could even react.
“You keep shooting like that, you won’t hurt me but you might hit someone passing by.”
He squeezed, crushing the guns as though they were made of clay, and dropped them to the sidewalk.
“Have I made my point?” he asked.
The agent who seemed to be in charge said, without expression, “You have, sir.”
“Leave me the hell alone.”
He turned and walked away, leaving the two agents standing by their upside-down car and the debris that was their pistols.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
April Hollister was in her senior year at the University of Mass. She was almost twenty-one, with sandy brown hair that was gently highlighted. She was five-four, and had what she considered to be an average figure maybe made a little more curvy because she maintained her muscle tone running every morning. She reported to a running track and did laps, each lap being a half mile. She ran maybe ten laps every morning.
She didn’t consider herself a brain, and had to work hard to maintain her three-point-one GPA. She considered herself lucky enough to have found a part-time job on campus, sweeping up and washing test tubes and answering the phone at the University Science Center, usually working for Doctor Tempest.
She envied the way he could simply visualize mathematical formulas, when it was all she could do to understand college-level calculus. She could always ask Doctor Tempest to tutor her, but he did not generally work with students. His functions seemed to be only to run experiments and develop new theories. He might make an exception for her, but she would be too embarrassed to ask him for help with something that was probably as rudimentary to him as simple addition was to her.
April was majoring in early education, hoping to one day teach kindergarten. She had a few friends on campus, but little social life because most of her time was spent either in class, in the library doing the pounds and pounds of homework that came with college studies, or hanging out at the lab assisting the doctor.
And, she admitted to herself, she was in love with Doctor Tempest.
He was barely twenty-five, five years older than she. A little bit of an age difference, but nothing she couldn’t live with. He had a beard that was neatly trimmed, and had a strong and commanding way of speaking. He strode across the floor of
“I’m turning to walk away,” he said. “Pull the trigger if you want to.”
Jake turned, and the gun went off. He felt the bullet slam into his back and bounce away. He might have a small bruise from that, he realized, so he powered-up some more as he turned to face them.
He said, “Is that all you have?”
“I hit him,” the agent said. “I hit him dead on, but he’s still standing.”
The other drew his pistol and said, “Fire at will.”
They emptied their clips at Jake, the bullets tearing into his shirt and jean jacket, and bouncing away. A couple struck his cheekbones, one his forehead. Powered-up to this new level, the bullets felt like little more than pebbles being tossed harmlessly at him.
The agents stood staring at him.
“Had enough?” Jake said. “Keep in mind, if I wanted to I could just shout and blow out your eardrums. However,” he noticed the car parked at the curb, a nondescript Chevy Impala with Federal plates. “This must be your car.”
Without waiting for a reply from them, he walked toward the car, and with one hand he gripped the underside of the car behind the front wheel and lifted, rolling the vehicle upward. With a final toss, he flipped the car over onto its roof. The metal creaked and groaned as car roof caved inward.
Jake then looked to them. They had dropped out their clips, and slapped in fresh ones.
One thing Jake had found was, powered-up like this he could move with incredible speed. He darted forward and snatched each pistol from their grip before they could even react.
“You keep shooting like that, you won’t hurt me but you might hit someone passing by.”
He squeezed, crushing the guns as though they were made of clay, and dropped them to the sidewalk.
“Have I made my point?” he asked.
The agent who seemed to be in charge said, without expression, “You have, sir.”
“Leave me the hell alone.”
He turned and walked away, leaving the two agents standing by their upside-down car and the debris that was their pistols.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
April Hollister was in her senior year at the University of Mass. She was almost twenty-one, with sandy brown hair that was gently highlighted. She was five-four, and had what she considered to be an average figure maybe made a little more curvy because she maintained her muscle tone running every morning. She reported to a running track and did laps, each lap being a half mile. She ran maybe ten laps every morning.
She didn’t consider herself a brain, and had to work hard to maintain her three-point-one GPA. She considered herself lucky enough to have found a part-time job on campus, sweeping up and washing test tubes and answering the phone at the University Science Center, usually working for Doctor Tempest.
She envied the way he could simply visualize mathematical formulas, when it was all she could do to understand college-level calculus. She could always ask Doctor Tempest to tutor her, but he did not generally work with students. His functions seemed to be only to run experiments and develop new theories. He might make an exception for her, but she would be too embarrassed to ask him for help with something that was probably as rudimentary to him as simple addition was to her.
April was majoring in early education, hoping to one day teach kindergarten. She had a few friends on campus, but little social life because most of her time was spent either in class, in the library doing the pounds and pounds of homework that came with college studies, or hanging out at the lab assisting the doctor.
And, she admitted to herself, she was in love with Doctor Tempest.
He was barely twenty-five, five years older than she. A little bit of an age difference, but nothing she couldn’t live with. He had a beard that was neatly trimmed, and had a strong and commanding way of speaking. He strode across the floor of
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