Friction

Chapter 1-1

1

“And I do my little turn on the catwalk,” Jack said.

The proverbial catwalk that overlooked a warehouse full of stolen goods, up high near the ceiling. On the floor below, metal crates were spread out in a haphazard pattern, and unless he missed his guess, each one was filled with loot.

Venturing a glance over the railing offered him a glimpse of men in dark flannel shirts moving among the crates. He counted half a dozen, and at least three of them were carrying pistols.

Biting his lower lip, Jack looked around. He felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Well, the décor needs some work,” he whispered. “But it's doable. Throw up a few paintings and call it home.”

He crouched low on the catwalk with a pistol in hand, creeping along until he was nearly halfway across. “Still with me back there?” he asked in a soft voice. “You're not thinking of backing out, are you?”

Ben Loranai was crouched behind him, head bowed to reveal a forest of thin black spikes that he called hair. “Still with you,” he said, looking up. The man had a round face with features that would have been called 'Asian' if he had been born on Earth. Of course, he had not been born on Earth. He was Leyrian. “What's the plan?”

Jack pressed his back to the metal wall that bordered the catwalk. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he formulated a plan. They had come in through the large window in the second-floor office. One of the advantages to Bending gravity was a very long list of interesting ways to crash a party.

Of course, that left him with a tingling sensation in his skin. The talent for Bending gravity was a gift that came from bonding a Nassai, one of the aliens that had evolved on Leyria's primary moon. Summer – his symbiont – had been a devoted friend for almost three years now.

Jack smiled, glancing over his shoulder. He blinked. “We've got about half a dozen goons,” he said, jerking his head toward the railing. “What say you make with the boom boom and I do a clean sweep?”

Ben offered a tiny smile, a faint curling of his lips. He looked down into his lap and sighed. “Gonna be dangerous,” he said softly. “Are you sure it's smart for you to go down there alone?”

“I don't go anywhere alone.” Jack lifted the pistol in his gloved hand, pointing the barrel up to the ceiling. No matter where he went, Summer was there with him. The best friend a guy could ask for. “Stun rounds.”

The LEDs on his pistol's barrel turned blue. He carefully slid the gun back into its holster. He would need both hands for what came next. At his nod, Ben began Operation Distract the Baddies.

Raising the multi-tool strapped to the gauntlet on his right wrist, he began tapping away at the screen with his left. “Okay, I'm ready,” Ben said, nodding. “Just give me the word when you want to start.”

“Now.”

Ben thrust his right arm over the railing, the multi-tool spitting out a cone of blue light that resolved into the image of a figure in black. It was transparent – not all that useful if you wanted to distract someone with skill – but more than enough to spook a bunch of low-lives.

The multi-tool made a sound like gunfire.

Jack took a gander over the railing to find men in flannel shirts and hoodies making their way through aisles between crates. Two lifted pistols in both hands and began firing at the hologram.

The transparent man landed on the top of a metal crate and began running across its surface. He turned to fire imaginary pistols at the criminals. If any of their bullets hit him, they passed right through. With any luck, they all assumed the transparency was another side effect of using Keeper abilities. Keepers generated more rumors than Bieber, Gomez and Cyrus put together.

A new guy emerged from a door on the far wall, this one carrying a Kalashnikov of all things. He dropped to one knee, raising the assault rifle, and let loose with a storm of gunfire.

A hulking bouncer wannabe in faded jeans and a black t-shirt was standing alone in an aisle that ran from left to right from Jack's perspective. Trapped between two crates, he stared up at the phantom. This guy had no weapon. We'll start with him.

Jack twisted gravity.

He leaped over the railing and flew with his arms outstretched, slowly descending toward his target. Bent gravity made it feel as though he were falling forward, his belly twisted in knots.

The man spun around at the last second.

Jack seized him by the shoulders and forced him down onto his back, rising into a handstand over the man's body. He flipped upright to find himself staring at the side of one very large crate.

Bending his knees, Jack leaped. He landed on the crate, drawing the pistol from his belt. He dashed across the metal surface, then dropped to the floor on the other side. Now he was in another aisle, this one blessedly free of enemies.

A man in a hoodie came around the corner.

Jack turned to his left, raising the pistol in both hands. He fired by sheer instinct. An electrically-charged round sped down the aisle and struck the hooded man square in the chest, causing him to flail about.

He fell forward, landing face-down on the concrete floor. Stun rounds only hit hard enough to leave a nasty bruise, but the charge they carried was as bad as the jolt from any taser. Even with clothes for insulation.

Jack stepped around a crate.

Pressing his back to its surface, he let his head hang. Sweat washed over his face, matting dark hair to his brow. “Stay in the game, Hunter,” he said, shaking his head. “Do not lose your focus.”

He spun around the corner.

The man with the assault rifle was down on one knee, turned so that Jack saw him in profile and firing up at the catwalk. Apparently the guy had figured out that Ben was the true threat here.

Jack fired, releasing a bullet that sped down the aisle and hit Mr. Kalashnikov in the side of the head. Current surged through his body, and he spasmed, dropping the rifle and falling to the floor.

“Over there!” someone shouted.

A large man in a Nirvana t-shirt with a beard that fell to his chest came around the corner and froze when he saw Jack. He raised a pistol in both hands.

A bullet took him square in the forehead, bouncing off and leaving a nice red spot on his skin. Nirvana-guy threw his head back, then tumbled backward to land hard on his fallen comrade.

More guys appeared at the end of the aisle.

Jack ducked behind the crate, pressing his back to the metal. In that moment, he was very much aware of the pounding of his heart. No matter how many times you faced death, it never got any easier.

Gunfire rushed past him, bullets speeding through the space where he had just been standing. Many of them hit the concrete wall at the end of the aisle with sharp little pings.

Baring his teeth, Jack closed his eyes. He tilted his head back with a hiss that sent saliva flying. “We're still in the game, Summer,” he whispered. “Three mooks down, and we haven't even broken out the fancy stuff.”

In the corner of his eye, he noticed something. A screen of white static flickering up on the catwalk. Ben had put up a force-field to deflect the gunfire. So, of course, several of the goons kept shooting at it.

In the three years since the Leyrian arrival, Earth's criminal element had learned a thing or two about the new alien technology. Force-fields lasted for only half a minute at best. They were hoping to catch Ben when his protection failed.

The force-field winked out.

Bullets hit the wall.

Ben popped up on the exact opposite side of the catwalk, pointing a small rifle over the railing. A look of concentration passed over his face as he fired down at the gangsters. The force-field had been a distraction.

Jack grinned.

He moved around the side of the crate, into the aisle where the man in the hoodie was passed out on the floor. If he was still down, it was a good sign. You never knew just how long the effects of a stun round would last. Half an hour was common, but there had been cases of people getting back on their feet in less than a minute.

Jack moved forward with the pistol held in both hands, pressing his shoulder up against the side of the crate. He looked around for adversaries.

One popped out from behind a crate.

A tall man in a leather jacket with greasy black hair stepped out so that Jack saw him in profile. He noticed his predicament, turned on his heel and thrust a hand out to aim a small pistol.

Jack reached up and seized the barrel in his gloved fist, pushing it aside before the gun went off with a CRACK! He ripped the weapon from the other man's hand, the metal hot against his skin.

Lifting the pistol by its barrel, Jack brought the grip down on the other man's skull. The sharp blow to the head left his opponent dazed. Moments later, yet another body was lying on the ground.

Jack slipped the other man's pistol into his belt holster, keeping his own weapon in hand. Unfortunately, it was impossible to enlist Summer's aid in finding the stragglers – there were too many crates in the way – but he could use his ears.

Not a peep echoed through the entire warehouse, not one scuff of shoes on concrete or one sharp intake of breath. If Ben had done his job, the last of the Petrov's muscle might well be down for the count.

Jack frowned, turning his head to stare up at the catwalk. “Do you think that's all of them?” he asked, creases forming in his brow. “Because, you know, if anyone else wants to come out and play…”

Ben's head popped up over the railing, a big smile on his face. He nodded once in confirmation. “I think that's all of them,” he said. “I took down four from up here while you were doing your thing.”

Grinning down at the floor, Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He reached up to run his fingers through sweat-slick hair. “Well, you know, if you want to be all coy about it,” he teased. “I prefer to get up-close and personal.”

“Justice Keepers,” Ben muttered.

“Damn straight.”

Now all they had to do was inspect the contents of the crates, no small task given their size. Each one was large enough to merit the use of a forklift. If his suspicions were correct and these bastards had weapons, then they sure had a lot of them. And those stun rounds would wear off.

Jack paced down the aisle.

Crossing his arms, he shuffled through the narrow space with his head down. “So, how should we begin?” he asked with a shrug. “Count up the boxes and then decide who takes the odds and-”

The sound of a door opening gave him pause, and he stretched. Nassai could detect solid objects in all directions, but they could not see through solid objects. Whoever had come in had done so several aisles away.

He heard footsteps and readied his pistol. “Okay, let's stop and assess the situation,” he called out to the newcomer. “All of your buddies are down, and you're coming at us alone. You might want to reconsider.”

Several paces down the aisle, a man stepped out from between two crates. This one was dressed in some kind of glossy green jumpsuit that reflected the light, his black hair slicked back.

Jack fired.

Stun rounds bounced off the fabric of his jumpsuit, blue sparks spreading out in ripples over the glossy material. They seemed to have no effect on him. Dismay left a sick sensation in Jack's chest. For every weapon, there was a defense.

The man turned and snarled at Jack, a scar stretching across his fair-skinned face from brow to cheek. “Perhaps not,” he said in a thick Russian accent. “Perhaps I just kill you where you stand.”

He thrust a hand out.

A screen of white static flashed into existence in front of the guy, crackling with deadly energy. At his gesture, it sped down the aisle with all the momentum of a freight train.