First Team Page 15

  “The boy escaped,” Xodus said simply. He was not a man to twist words or seek deflection.

  “Apparently,” said the visitor. “How?”

  “He was aided by the Institute. We believe he has returned there.”

  “That is unfortunate. What of his parents?”

  “His mother evaded us,” Xodus said. “But we have his father.”

  “Your failure to take the boy despite the fact that I located and tracked him for you was less than ideal,” the visitor said. “But his father will allow you to make amends. Make sure the boy finds him and bring them both to me.”

  “If the divine wills it,” Xodus intoned. He could feel blood from the wound at his scalp beginning to drip down his face again, inside his mask.

  “I will it,” the visitor said, his honeyed words turning bitter. “And if you wish my funding to continue then you will see it done. Do not contact me until you have the chameleon.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At first Vic thought it was thunder that had woken him. It roared and clattered the stanchions around him, a great booming crash that triggered an instinctive desire in him to shiver and cringe. The metal he was perched upon shuddered beneath him, sending vibrations throbbing through his body.

  He realized it wasn’t thunder. It was a train.

  He’d been perched in the metal-shod underbelly of the Hudson Yards Rail Bridge for the better part of a day, waiting. The tedium was killing him. Without meaning to, he’d dozed off, laid out and stuck to one of the support beams. The passage of the train overhead had startled him so much he’d have lost his balance without his reptilian grip.

  He drew his feet up, changing his stance to a crouch and grimacing at the grime that covered the front of his X-uniform. He’d need to clean that. He could probably wash it by hanging it off the side of the bridge, though. It had been raining for the past three or four hours, a blustery summer’s downpour that was cascading heavily from the edges of the great metal span and churning up the Hudson River ahead of him. He watched as a freighter from the docks opposite forged its way through the choppy waters, its laden prow framed by the soaring, clustered majesty of Manhattan Island.

  It had been three days since he had made it to New York City, and a week since he’d escaped the Institute. After touching down at Eastville he’d managed to find the highway and catch a bus ride across the border, albeit with an excessive search and more than a few unpleasant looks at the checkpoint. Security seemed to be clamping down everywhere, though whether it was aimed at curtailing mutants or the Purifiers wasn’t exactly clear. He’d stopped in Shelby, Montana, and drawn out almost all his savings in cash, then caught a series of trains and Greyhounds to Minneapolis, Chicago, and finally New York. He had a distant aunt on Long Island, but he hadn’t seen her for years, and it seemed like a mistake to put more family members at risk. He’d spent the first night and much of the first day sleeping beside a log in Central Park, his rucksack stuffed inside it. He’d been woken by a curious golden retriever, and had melted away before its owners discovered him, much to the dog’s confusion. In the past forty-eight hours he’d been living rough, running surveillance on the locations stored in his communicator.

  Cipher had come up trumps, as usual. When she’d broken into the Institute’s data vault she’d been able to pull information related to the rising Purifier campaign and transfer it to Vic’s communicator. It turned out the files being kept by the X-Men on the latest vitriolic crusade were far from comprehensive, but they offered him a starting point. There was insider info on future rallies and possible targets, most of them mutants who were now enjoying the direct protection of the X-Men. There was also surveillance data from both known and suspected Purifier recruitment and meet-up points. The highest concentration of these, five in all, were in New York City. Vic had decided that would be the best place to start.

  The dead ground beneath the Hudson Yard Rail Bridge was one of the locations believed to be a Purifier pickup spot. Just what was being picked up, Vic couldn’t say. This was the second location he’d chosen from the list of five. He’d spent a day and the better part of two nights in an alley off West Park, perpetually chameleon except for when he slept concealed between two dumpsters. He’d seen nothing untoward, and he’d felt as though the monotony of surveillance was beginning to threaten his sanity. The space beneath the bridge, damp, dank and grimy though it was, had initially offered a change of perspective, but that was beginning to wear thin now as well.

  He checked his communicator. It was a risk taking it. He suspected having it would potentially give the Institute the ability to track him. Yet at the same time, it was a risk he would have to take, especially if he was going to maintain any degree of contact with Gray or Ci. There was still no word from either of them. That was to be expected, but it didn’t really make it any easier. He wondered what had happened to them both. How hard had Cyclops come down on them? Had they been suspended? Confined to their dorms? He didn’t imagine the latter punishment troubling either too deeply.

  Another train passed overhead, seeming to shake the whole world, the shriek of the rails piercing Vic’s ears. Evening was settling in, and the distant, rain-shrouded spires of Manhattan became ten thousand tiny studs of twinkling light in the wet gloom. He sat back on the stanchion, dangled his legs over its edge and sighed. What the hell was he doing here? Hiding under a bridge in the rain and the dark, half the country away from home.

  He didn’t have a home any more, he told himself. That was why he was here. Every time he felt his resolve slip, he reminded himself of the sight of his father on his knees, or his home in flames, or his mother’s tears. He thought of his father being taken, and how he might be somewhere in the city before him. It rekindled the anger inside him, gave him the fire to temper his resolve.

  The growl of an engine interrupted his melancholy. He peered over the edge of his stanchion and down at the hard-packed dirt directly below, a span of about fifty yards. An unmarked black cargo van was rolling into view. It parked beside the bridge’s support arch, the engine cutting out. Vic repositioned himself on the strut as he heard a sliding door open. He felt the boredom-induced evening gloom burn away.

  Two men clambered out of the front of the van, another from the side. They were dressed in nondescript black suits and ties, wearing shades in defiance of the weather. Total government types. Vic’s tongue flicked the air instinctively, tasting danger. He stayed still, watching.

  One of the men paced around the space beneath the bridge, walking as far as the riverbank and back again. Vic heard him calling out to the others but couldn’t make out what was said. One glanced up at him, idly. He didn’t move a muscle. Even if he hadn’t been using his color-changing abilities, he trusted the shadows of the upper struts to be dense enough to keep him concealed.

  Was this a pickup? One thing was for sure, the trio below didn’t look like Purifiers. He’d never known any that went about in suits and ties, even without their robes. These three were gunning so hard for anonymity it hurt.

  The excitement Vic had felt at their arrival gradually began to give way. The three remained outside their vehicle, chatting in low voices. The minutes turned to an hour. More trains clattered by, shrieking and rattling.

  What was in the vehicle? Vic shifted carefully along his perch so he could get a look at the registration plate. He ran the number over his communicator, but didn’t get any solid returns.

  Just over an hour had gone by before a second vehicle joined the first. This one was more familiar – a clapped-out old truck, its bodywork scratched and rusted, its hood sprayed with a crude white cross-and-circle. Vic tensed up again. Enter the Purifiers, stage right.

  A pair of figures in black robes and silver masks dismounted from the battered truck and approached the black van across the mud. The three suits went to meet them. There were no handshakes, and whatever they were saying appeare
d to be terse. The lead suit gestured at the Purifier truck, then back at his own vehicle. One of the Purifiers responded by pointing across the river at Manhattan’s glittering thicket of towers.

  That appeared to settle it. Two of the suits returned to their van and opened the rear doors. One reemerged with a hefty-looking metal suitcase.

  “Showtime,” Vic murmured to himself, snapping a rapid succession of photos with his communicator. The suit with the case handed it over to one of the Purifiers. The pair retreated to the back of their own truck to open it. Vic slunk along the stanchion so he could get a view of it from above. The Purifier flipped the clasps and opened it – as Vic had expected, the interior of the suitcase was stacked with thick wads of cash. As one of the Purifiers leafed through it, the other turned back to the suits.

  More words were exchanged. The suit who had climbed into the van reemerged with a duffel bag slung over his back and another carried in both arms. These were deposited on the trailer next to the suitcase. The second Purifier unzipped the bags and pulled something out – an assault rifle, which he appeared to turn over and check deftly.

  More weapons followed, including sidearms. Several of the weapons were particularly unusual-looking, short and bulky. They looked like some sort of energy rifle. That really was some serious hardware. Two of the suits ferried six more sacks out onto the trailer. The Purifiers checked every one. Vic felt a dangerous mix of fear and anger rising within him. There was enough gear down there to start a war. The Purifiers weren’t a religious sect or a band of devoted, concerned citizens. They were a paramilitary cult.

  All the bags appeared to have been deposited into the rear of the truck. One of the Purifiers secured a heavy tarpaulin over the trailer while the second spoke with the remaining spook. With the covering secured, the first Purifier got into the cab with the suitcase. Vic realized his time was up. He had to act, or it’d be too late.

  He crawled across the stanchion and latched onto the flank of the concrete support pillar, following it round to the side so he could descend to the ground while staying out of sight of the exchange. As he went his colors shifted flawlessly, blending with the dirty, encroaching darkness.

  He reached the ground and slunk back round the pillar just as the suits got back into their van. He had a few seconds to act. The question was, who to follow?

  There was no real time to make his mind up. The Purifier truck was already pulling out of the underpass. He stayed still as they drove by barely a dozen paces to his left. The suits started up their engine. The vehicle was facing away from him. Go now, or all this would have been for nothing.

  He sprinted for the back of the black van. It began to pull away and he managed to plant and twist his hands against the rear door, praying as he did so that those within didn’t feel the thump of his impact.

  He was on. He shifted up, got his feet above the bumper, and scaled onto the roof just in time to get hit by the deluge as the van passed out from under the bridge’s protective awning.

  The rain soaked him through. He shifted his grip so he was splayed on the roof as the van joined the road up onto the highway. As it did so, doubts harried him. Days spent preparing for something like this, and now that he had committed to it he realized he didn’t have a plan that went beyond tracking the bad guys. What if he’d chosen wrong? Surely the Purifiers would be a better option than the goons arming them?

  He readjusted his grip. He’d clung onto more daunting targets than a rain-slick vehicle picking up speed on the road, but it was still up there as a challenge. He had to keep re-sticking himself a limb at a time, and the rain and the wind in his face made it more difficult. He rode it out, trusting in himself.

  The decision to stick with the suits had been a difficult one – his instincts cried out at him to chase down the Purifiers. He’d forced himself to use his head, and the strategic lessons taught to him by the Institute. It was clear enough that the Purifiers had to be operating with friends in high places. He was convinced that if he could locate a mysterious backer, he’d also find his father. Plus, there were practical considerations to following the supplier rather than the ones being supplied. If he’d ridden in the back of the Purifier truck, he could only assume he’d have arrived in the midst of a cult den, with a lot of fanatics looking to take hold of, and test, their newly acquired firearms. On the other hand, whoever the suits were, they must be thinking their job was done. Their guard would be down.

  That’s what he told himself as the vehicle took a left off the highway, then a right along increasingly crowded, narrow streets. Vic tried to follow where he was going and map it out in his head, but the elements forced him to keep his eyes closed, and much of his concentration was taken up trying to avoid sliding off the van roof. He got the impression that the buildings were crowding closer and looming taller in the encroaching night, streetlamps blinking on in the gloom, whipping past one after another in regimented rows. He felt as though he’d been stuck there for ages, his limbs beginning to burn with the effort of remaining tensed up and clamped to the vehicle.

  At last, he felt the vicious forward motion begin to ease off. The van took another right turn, slowing. He managed to raise his head as the van eased to a complete stop and got a glimpse of their destination. What appeared to be an office block loomed overhead, while the shutters to an underground carpark slowly rose up in front of the van, exposing a steep concrete ramp beyond. He snatched a glance left and right, taking in a street of nondescript, shuttered shops and high-rise apartments weathering the evening’s summer storm. He had no idea where he was any more, besides the fact he was sure they were still on the west bank of the river.

  The van descended into the darkness of the carpark, bright industrial lighting blinking on automatically and making Vic cringe. The vehicle rolled along into an empty slot, the engine echoing around the space – the carpark must have taken up more than a whole block, but there didn’t look to be more than half a dozen other vehicles sharing it. The sound of the van’s brakes echoed through the deserted, man-made cavern.

  Vic unfastened his limbs from the roof and rolled onto his side, clenching his knees up to his chest – he no longer had to worry about being spotted from above, and the vehicle had high enough sides for him to be confident they wouldn’t see him if he kept central and away from the edges. He heard more doors bang open, the framework shivering under him. There was a jangle of keys, and a gruff voice spoke from just below him.

  “Glad that’s over. I swear one day those freakshows are going to turn the guns on us.”

  “Be thankful,” grumbled a second voice. “I’d rather be dealing with the cult nutjobs than the guy the boss has to answer to. The Purifiers I can outsmart, but that corp guy? Gives me the shivers.”

  “First and last time you’ll hear Rylan talk about outsmarting anyone,” joked a voice Vic assumed belonged to the third spook. There was laughter, and a lot of cussing from the one he took to be Rylan.

  He heard the sound of the van locking, and a trio of footsteps that began to ring away through the carpark as the group set off. Vic peered cautiously over the vehicle’s edge to check the direction they were going, and slipped off after them, treading as lightly as possible for fear of setting off the van’s alarms. He crouched on all fours on the concrete, his skin shimmering and changing flawlessly, his suit mirroring it. He became a faint distortion of blurred movement that vanished when still.

  As he had hoped, the three suits were now leaving the empty van apparently without a care, two of them locked in a terse little argument while the third walked ahead. They were making for a stairwell next to an elevator shaft, stamped with exit signs. Vic quickened his pace as much as he dared, closing the gap behind them. Not for the first time he found himself thinking jealously about Cipher’s ability to become both truly invisible and soundless.

  The first spook had reached the stair doors. They were locked, but he punched s
omething into an access code and held the doors open for the other two. Vic was forced to freeze as the man glanced back and ordered his companions to can it and hurry up. By the time they were both through there was still well over a dozen yards to cover. Slowly, the door began to close.

  He flung himself forward and let fly with his tongue. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. It lashed around the door handle and stuck there, wedging it open as Vic covered the distance with all the silence he could muster. The taste was metallic and cold, and he didn’t dare give himself time to think about how disgusting it was licking a literal door handle. He did what he had to do.

  He reached the door and placed a hand on it, as lightly as possible, carefully arresting his forward motion. It paused a hair’s breadth from locking back in place. Shuddering slightly, he unlatched his tongue, the handle dripping with saliva, and slipped through the gap.

  It was a pure gamble. The suits might have heard his oncoming footsteps or noticed that the door hadn’t closed. They could be waiting on the other side, weapons drawn. But he hadn’t been close enough to see the code they’d used on the stairwell, and spending a night locked in a parking garage wasn’t ideal. Act now, worry later.

  The gamble paid off. The trio had already made their way up the first flight of stairs, a complaint about the time it took to clock out echoing back down to Vic. He let out a slow, relieved breath and set off after them, his scales and suit shifting to mirror the interior of the dimly lit stairwell.

  He passed the first landing, then the second. Each was signposted with a different company name and brand. Parker Insurance. Dwight and Hanlon Sales. Tomorrow Industries. Clearly, they’d passed from the parking lot up into the shared office block above.

  The voices of the suits, which had been drifting steadily down to him as he followed, abruptly cut off. He realized they must have passed through a door on the next landing. He darted up to it, praying for the sake of his taste buds that it wasn’t another self-locking one.