The Jewels of Cyttorak Page 8

  That applied to most of the buildings and most of the streets in the district, but not all of them. One warehouse complex had been saved by Toole.

  Remy’s first sign of a guard was half a block away from Toole’s building. Two men walked along the street, almost as if they were tourists, very lost, walking slowly in one of the most dangerous areas of town.

  Not hardly.

  They both wore trenchcoats, even though the night was warm and humid. Remy knew for a fact that machine guns were hung in slings under those coats, armed and ready to be swung up at a moment’s notice.

  Remy held his hand on two playing cards in the pocket of his duster, ready to charge them with energy at any moment as he moved silently across the street. He ducked into a small alcove and waited for the two guards to pass.

  Then, moving from shadow to alcove, then back to shadow, he made his way closer to Toole’s buildings. The two guards would have been easy to take out, but why announce his presence just yet? Better to get inside before doing that.

  A quarter of a block from Toole’s buildings, the guards got even thicker. Two by two, they walked the streets around the old warehouse. More guards were posted in windows of buildings nearby, machine gun barrels sticking out of the windows like popsicle sticks out of children’s mouths.

  Remy stopped and studied what lay ahead. He could count at least fifty armed men just around the front. No doubt at all that there were many more inside, and maybe even a few he hadn’t spotted.

  The army’s here, he thought. This guy is one scared sucker.

  Remy moved back down the street and circled around a few blocks until he was down on the dike that held the river out of most of New Orleans. One thing a thief learned real early in life was that if you couldn’t get in the front door, more than likely the back door was wide open.

  Remy moved up and over the dike, then climbed down the rocks into the lukewarm water. It smelled slightly like dead fish and motor oil, but nothing as bad as the thick swamp water of Cajun country where Remy had grown up. And this river supposedly didn’t have any alligators in it.

  He let the gentle current drift him down along the levy until he was even with the back of Toole’s building complex. There had once been a dock there, but it was long rotted away to a few timbers sticking out of the water.

  Using one of the old dock timbers for cover, he slowly climbed out of the water, stopping for a few minutes to let most of the water finish dripping off his waterproof costume and duster. Then he headed up the side of the dike toward a power pole located thirty yards from the back of the warehouse.

  There, using the power pole for cover, he studied the back of Toole’s building.

  A half-dozen guards were stationed at various locations along the warehouse side of the dike and Remy could see another dozen in positions along the tops of the warehouses. In all his years he had never seen a location with so many armed guards. It was as if all the gold of Fort Knox was inside there.

  What was this Toole so afraid of? This level of protection made no sense at all.

  Of course, the number of men made no difference at all to Remy. They just made getting in a little more of a challenge, that was all. And getting to Toole would, more than likely, take a little more time. But at this point Remy was in no hurry.

  None at all.

  He studied the guard positions, the power lines running into the building, the locations of the windows and the back doors, the large, old loading dock that covered a third of one side of the building. Spotlights flooded the area around the building and along the land side of the dike. The area under those spotlights would be a killing field. So the trick was first to shut them down.

  He moved slowly and silently back down the rock-covered dike toward the water and the shelter of old dock timbers. Along the way he picked up baseball-sized stones, dropping a few into the pockets of his duster, holding the others in the crook of his arm.

  At the timber he stopped, gathered up a few more

  stones, then smiled to himself. “Mon ami," he said softly to Toole inside the building, “here I come, ready or not.”

  Using his mutant power, he charged one of the rocks in his fist with a full charge of kinetic energy, then, with the accuracy of a professional baseball player, he threw it at the base of the power pole.

  Direct hit.

  The explosion shook the night and echoed over the black water, shaking the drinks in the bars on Bourbon Street.

  The lower half of the power pole evaporated into splinters, dropping the top half down, pulling the wires tight.

  There was a loud snapping and popping, then the lights of the warehouse flickered and went out. Remy had no doubt that the place would have backup power systems, but this would give him a good start.

  Moving to the right along the waterline, Remy charged one rock after another, stopping to throw each one back up over the dike toward the left comer of the warehouse complex.

  Each rock hit and exploded like a huge bomb, sending bits of rock, concrete, and wood flying into the air in a concussion of orange light.

  A few of the guards started firing, and others picked up the pace. What they were firing at Remy had no idea, since he was nowhere near the area. But the entire warehouse district of New Orleans now sounded like a war zone.

  He picked up a few smaller rocks that he felt he could throw farther, charged them, and tossed them even harder

  at the left side of Toole’s building. Then right behind them he tossed a few larger ones.

  Explosion mixed with explosion.

  The roar of gunfire became like an explosion in and of itself.

  Remy moved down the dike, away from the fight, toward the right side of the warehouse where an old loading dock used to let tracks in from a small side alley.

  He was going in there, while everyone else focused on the other side of the complex.

  He neared the top of the dike and stopped just long enough to pick up three more rocks. One right after another he charged them and tossed them as far as he could toward different parts of the left side of the building.

  After the three blinding flashes and explosions intensified the gunfire and blinded anyone looking in that direction, he went over the top of the dike and down across the darkened open area to the loading dock, moving in under it like a shadow of the night, unseen by the hundreds of guards.

  The river tumbled down over the rocks, filling the steep-walled valley with a low rumbling sound. On most evenings over the many years that Albert Jonathan had lived in this secluded mountain valley, the sounds of the river had comforted him, soothed him to sleep.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight there would be no sleep for him. Tonight the river sounded like a wounded mountain lion, roaring its warning to anyone who would listen.

  ue

  Every shadow around the log cabin now held danger. Every rock seemed to shift, as if forming into creatures that would tear him apart.

  And during it all, the echoing laughter inside his head.

  Albert sat on the front porch of his log cabin, his Springfield rifle across his lap, extra shells in his pocket, waiting. Someone or something was coming for him, and for his emerald. He knew that without a doubt.

  And he was going to fight to the last, he also knew that without a doubt.

  Far over the valley, the slight rumble of a passing jet temporarily overshadowed the sounds of the tumbling river. Albert glanced up at the star-filled sky and the blinking light of the jet. For a fleeting moment he thought about running, staying ahead of what was coming after him.

  Then the thought passed, as did the jet.

  The sounds of the river again dominated his beautiful valley. There would be no running for Albert Jonathan. He had moved into this valley before anyone living had been bom. He wouldn’t leave it now. At least not without a fight.

  And if he did leave, it would be most likely in a pine box. And that was just fine with him, too.

  After leaving th
e Service estate, Scott had turned the Blackbird south to the Xavier Institute. All three desperately felt the need for a shower. Gary Service had warned them about the smell of his father, but none of them, accustomed to fighting and death in all forms, had been

  prepared for a living man simply rotting away.

  To their credit, they had managed to remain in the room with Robert Service Sr. while he told the story of finding the emerald, and what the monk had told him. There was really nothing new he added beyond what his son had already told them.

  They had thanked Gary Service and his father and immediately left, heading back for the mansion, a brief trip given the short distance and the Blackbird's supersonic engines.

  Professor Xavier was waiting for them in his office.

  “What did you discover?” he asked.

  “A number of things,” Scott said. “First, there seems to be a second gem, an emerald, resembling the crimson ruby of Cyttorak that Cain touched.”

  The Professor said nothing, so Jean continued.

  “Robert Service Jr. was the first to touch the gem after its discovery thirty years ago by his father,” Jean said.

  “And by touching the gem,” Hank said, “the younger Service was changed in a fashion similar to how Cain was changed.”

  “But there are differences?” the Professor said, phrasing the statement like a question.

  “Clear ones,” Hank said. “Robert is not as large as Cain yet. He’s about a half-foot shorter, and the gem did not attach itself to him.”

  The Professor raised one eyebrow at that.

  ‘ ‘What puzzles me,’ ’ Jean said, “is why would someone who had just gone through such a transformation immediately jump on a plane and head to Idaho?”

  “A very good question,” the Professor said. “One I have been asking also.”

  “And did Cain know where Robert Service and the emerald was?” Scott said. “From his path and sudden turn around, it would seem that somehow Cain was, and is, after that emerald also.”

  ‘ ‘Cain has never shown the slightest hint of telepathic powers,” the Professor said. “If he does feel the new gem for some reason or another, it is through the stones themselves, and the power bands of Cyttorak.”

  “Triggered when Robert Service picked up the stone for the first time?” Jean said.

  “Considering the timing,” the Professor said, “that would be the most logical conclusion.”

  “So what do we do now?” Scott asked. “Clear a path for Cain all the way to Idaho?’ ’

  “No,” the Professor said. “Offer him a ride.” “What?” Scott said.

  Beside him, Hank laughed and said, “Of course.”

  Wingate Toole watched on a half-dozen monitors the explosions and fight going on outside his headquarters. Kyle, his thin frame leaning against a chair, stood beside him, saying nothing.

  Another explosion rocked the building and jiggled the glassware on the bar.

  The monitors and most of the electronic security system of the building was being run on backup power. There was enough to keep the security up, as well as all the computers and office areas, but not enough to light the outside of the building. And whoever attacked must somehow have known that. Or gotten very lucky.

  Was this the attack Toole had been worried about? It didn’t feel right. The person or thing he felt inside his head that was coming after him, was distant. Even more distant than the first time he’d had the feeling the night before.

  Now, outside, it looked like there was a full assault going on against his headquarters. Yet he could pick up no intruders on the monitors. Just his own men firing into the dark night, hitting who knew what.

  In the distance, police sirens were wailing as a dozen cop cars headed in this direction.

  Then suddenly it dawned on Toole what was going on and his stomach clamped up tight in fear.

  Toole spun around and faced Kyle. “Tell those idiots to stop firing and retreat into the building before the cops get here. This was only a diversion.”

  Kyle nodded. Quickly he headed for the door.

  Toole turned back to face the security monitors. Then he had another thought. “Kyle, make sure if we have wounded or dead, to get them inside. We don’t want to give the cops any reason to come inside. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kyle said as he ducked out the door.

  Ten seconds later all the firing stopped. Toole could see dozens of men crawling up from cover and heading for the entrances to the building. A few of them carried wounded men.

  “Idiots,” Toole said to the monitors.

  Two blocks away, the first cop car came to a stop, blocking the street. Another slid into place beside it.

  By the time all his men were inside and the doors locked down, Toole could see on the monitors that all the streets leading out of the area were blocked.

  “Going to be a long night,” he said aloud, laughing at the cops. “Because you’re not going to find anything on those streets at all.”

  Behind him, Kyle entered and moved up behind Toole to watch the security monitors.

  “Everyone inside and accounted for?” Toole asked.

  “Doing a head count now,” Kyle said.

  Toole nodded, then had another thought that almost froze him in his chair. Slowly he turned and faced his second in command. ‘ ‘Go back down there and make sure we don’t have an extra guard or two. There was a reason for that diversion and that might just have been it.”

  Kyle nodded. Without a word he spun and headed back outside.

  Behind him Toole automatically locked the doors, then turned back to the security monitors.

  Remy paused in the dark under the old loading dock, then continued in farther under the dock toward the building. Every so often a cobweb covered his face, but he ignored them, feeling his way forward in the almost total darkness over the rough, damp ground.

  The smell of mold filled his mouth and nose. He could hear the faint scurrying of rats even over the gunfire going on outside. He had no real idea where this area under the dock would lead, but most likely he’d find a rotted floorboard on this old dock he could come up through somewhere near the building.

  And from there it would be easy to get inside.

  He reached the wall of the building where the old wooden loading dock was attached. There he got luckier than he had even hoped.

  A broken and boarded-over narrow service entrance. This warehouse obviously had something other than concrete floors inside. He knew it wasn’t a basement, because they didn’t have basements in New Orleans. Most of the town was below sea level, and early on the French discovered they couldn’t even put coffins in the ground. They simply floated back to the surface.

  But this warehouse had an area under part of the interior flooring, more than likely to run heat and electrical ducts. And that would be perfect for Remy.

  As the gunfire suddenly stopped, he pulled off one old, rotted board and leaned it gently against the wall under the opening. A moment later he had the other off and the opening clear.

  He went through feetfirst, then pulled the wood with him back up, lodging it into place as best he could so that a quick inspection would show no one had been through there.

  The darkness was now total.

  He slowly pulled out a playing card and held it up, charging it with just enough kinetic energy so it glowed slightly.

  He had guessed correctly. He was in a maintenance and flood drainage tunnel, long forgotten. He walked a hundred feet along the tunnel, noting the places where access chutes lead upward into the building.

  Then he laughed to himself softly. No point in going on at this time. Toole would have his men on full alert, knowing the explosions were nothing more than a diversion. So the best plan for this thief would be to sit down and wait until morning, when all the guards were tired, and the heat had been turned down a notch or two. Then he’d give Toole a surprise the man wouldn’t soon forget.

  And maybe Remy would e
ven give him a lesson in respect for the old ways of doing things.

  Remy looked around for a dry spot, then sat down with his back against a concrete wall.

  Ten minutes later he was asleep.

  Cyclops brought the Blackbird into a soft landing in a freshly plowed field north of Williamsport, Pennsylvania, sending swirling clouds of dust up into the black night air.

  Standing in the open field, waiting for him, the Beast, and Phoenix, were the other X-Men on the Juggernaut watch: Storm, Rogue, Wolverine, and Bishop. Behind them was a small, black jet transport, a sleek plane that had been given to them by the Shi’ar at the same time the Shi’ar had upgraded the X-Men’s Danger Room. It had a swept-back hawkish look and at night it seemed almost invisible against the dark sky.

  The small transport could hold only four X-Men comfortably but, like the Blackbird, it had jet speed combined with vertical lift-off and landing capabilities. The only problem was that they still couldn’t decide on a name for it. The argument had been going on for weeks, with Scott’s favorite being Raven, which nicely complemented Blackbird.

  No one else much agreed with him, but he still called it the Raven anyway. Maybe if he repeated it enough, the name would just catch on.

  “Well,” Logan said as they walked over the loose dirt toward their team members. “Are we finally done babysittin’?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Scott said, smiling at Logan. Wolverine had an attitude most of the time, and had been having some problems keeping his animal side

  in check lately, but he was as good as they came. Scott had fought many a battle beside Logan, and there wasn’t an X-Man he’d rather have beside him in a fight.

  “Great,” Logan said. “Let’s teach that big lunk once-an-fer-all to not go stompin’ around.”

  “Well, not exactly,” Scott said. “Sorry, Wolverine.”

  Logan snorted. “Figures there’d be a catch.”