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Read Online Judgment Night [BUREAU 13 Book One] by Nick Pollotta - Free Book Online
Authors: Nick Pollotta
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ourselves once. Pretended to be a TV news team to gain entrance to a ghoul infested yacht race in Malibu Beach. Nasty job. Crack addict ghouls, that was about as bad as it got.
At the barricade, our disreputable dress caused a commotion among the soldiers until we showed our FBI cards to a corporal. As she inspected them, the rifles of her companions never wavered from our direction. It was nice to see professionals at work.
Finally, the corporal summoned a sergeant, who ignored our identification cards and asked what our favorite food was. I leaned close and whispered into his ear, “Tunafish."
Grudgingly, he accepted that and walked us past the multiple defense rings to the front revolving door of the building. We couldn't see through the glass panels as heavy cloth had been taped over the windows. One at a time, we were placed inside a section of the door. It would revolve halfway, stop, and a brilliant yellow light flooded the area, seeming to illuminate us from the bones out.
"I've heard about those,” Richard said on the sly. “Its a molecular scanner. They now know everything we're carrying, what we had for lunch and probably the color of our underwear."
Jess started to toss off a snappy remark, but stopped and frowned. I understood. We could all feel the emptiness in our midst. That terrible vacant space between Richard and Mindy. Lord knows humor has its place, but a joke now would have been more than inappropriate. It would have been vulgar.
Once inside, we were frisked and our weapons taken. A lieutenant informed us the assorted devices would be returned later. The unspoken message being they didn't quite trust us yet. If these people had any working knowledge of Bureau agents, they'd never trust us. In our hands, paperclips and napkins are deadly weapons.
The foyer was a zigzag maze of sandbags topped with concertina wire. The next generation of barbed wire, it was nothing more than an endless coiled razor blade. The steel band could slice through leather gloves as if they were made of toilet tissue.
Walking slowly, we reached the receptionist desk—which was now a machine gun nest, boasting a huge electric driven .50 Vulcan Mini-Gun. Our Bureau cards were asked for this time, and we complied. The blank plastic rectangles were a mixture of technology and magic. Only in our willing presence would they show our picture, thumb print, ID number and real name. Very rarely did we ever have to use them. The lieutenant in charge placed them on a glowing sheet of glass set in a black metal box.
As we waited, I casually checked the place over. So this was our HQ, eh? Steel bars lined with electrical conductors closed off the side corridors. A pair of siege arbalists, giant six foot wide crossbows carrying ten foot long, 200 lb. arrows, protected the main corridor from unauthorized passage. Surreptitiously, I did a quick check through my one lens, and spotted an invisible something holding a bazooka over by the broom closet. Whew. If I ever got an assignment to invade this place, I'd quit.
Finally, the box beeped and the expression on her face said we could live. For awhile, anyway. We were given our cards back and under armed guard the team was escorted to an elevator with a small machine gun nest filling the rear and taken to the fifth floor. The elevator doors separated with a musical ding to display a squad of people in radiation suits holding something that resembled a common leaf blower. I had no desire to ask what it was. They might show me.
Flashing something in her palm to the squad, they saluted as we passed and the lieutenant directed us to a door marked Conference Room
***1. My team entered and the doors closed, then automatically locked behind us. As the lights came on, we glanced around. It was a curved room, with three sections of theatre-style seats facing in towards the center stage. A lecture podium was there, behind which stood a beefy, white haired man. He was dressed in combat fatigues,
At the barricade, our disreputable dress caused a commotion among the soldiers until we showed our FBI cards to a corporal. As she inspected them, the rifles of her companions never wavered from our direction. It was nice to see professionals at work.
Finally, the corporal summoned a sergeant, who ignored our identification cards and asked what our favorite food was. I leaned close and whispered into his ear, “Tunafish."
Grudgingly, he accepted that and walked us past the multiple defense rings to the front revolving door of the building. We couldn't see through the glass panels as heavy cloth had been taped over the windows. One at a time, we were placed inside a section of the door. It would revolve halfway, stop, and a brilliant yellow light flooded the area, seeming to illuminate us from the bones out.
"I've heard about those,” Richard said on the sly. “Its a molecular scanner. They now know everything we're carrying, what we had for lunch and probably the color of our underwear."
Jess started to toss off a snappy remark, but stopped and frowned. I understood. We could all feel the emptiness in our midst. That terrible vacant space between Richard and Mindy. Lord knows humor has its place, but a joke now would have been more than inappropriate. It would have been vulgar.
Once inside, we were frisked and our weapons taken. A lieutenant informed us the assorted devices would be returned later. The unspoken message being they didn't quite trust us yet. If these people had any working knowledge of Bureau agents, they'd never trust us. In our hands, paperclips and napkins are deadly weapons.
The foyer was a zigzag maze of sandbags topped with concertina wire. The next generation of barbed wire, it was nothing more than an endless coiled razor blade. The steel band could slice through leather gloves as if they were made of toilet tissue.
Walking slowly, we reached the receptionist desk—which was now a machine gun nest, boasting a huge electric driven .50 Vulcan Mini-Gun. Our Bureau cards were asked for this time, and we complied. The blank plastic rectangles were a mixture of technology and magic. Only in our willing presence would they show our picture, thumb print, ID number and real name. Very rarely did we ever have to use them. The lieutenant in charge placed them on a glowing sheet of glass set in a black metal box.
As we waited, I casually checked the place over. So this was our HQ, eh? Steel bars lined with electrical conductors closed off the side corridors. A pair of siege arbalists, giant six foot wide crossbows carrying ten foot long, 200 lb. arrows, protected the main corridor from unauthorized passage. Surreptitiously, I did a quick check through my one lens, and spotted an invisible something holding a bazooka over by the broom closet. Whew. If I ever got an assignment to invade this place, I'd quit.
Finally, the box beeped and the expression on her face said we could live. For awhile, anyway. We were given our cards back and under armed guard the team was escorted to an elevator with a small machine gun nest filling the rear and taken to the fifth floor. The elevator doors separated with a musical ding to display a squad of people in radiation suits holding something that resembled a common leaf blower. I had no desire to ask what it was. They might show me.
Flashing something in her palm to the squad, they saluted as we passed and the lieutenant directed us to a door marked Conference Room
***1. My team entered and the doors closed, then automatically locked behind us. As the lights came on, we glanced around. It was a curved room, with three sections of theatre-style seats facing in towards the center stage. A lecture podium was there, behind which stood a beefy, white haired man. He was dressed in combat fatigues,
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