Council of Evil (13 page)

“It's like being in a James Bond film!” whispered Big Tony.

“One with a cheap budget,” muttered Jake.

“We have two tasks to achieve this afternoon if we are to launch our main operation,” said Basilisk.

“What's the main operation, then?” whispered Scuffer.

“I'll tell you later,” replied Jake.

Basilisk punched up a satellite view of the world. “The first is in the Persian Gulf. We will rendezvous with an expert on deep-core drilling who has offered his services; at a price, of course.” The map changed to an aerial view of an oil platform off the coast of the United Arab Emirates. “It is a simple extraction operation.” He turned to glance at Jake. “Or it would have been before you roused the attention of the Enforcers. Now there is the risk that an assault team could be lying in wait.”

Jake glowered, embarrassed that Basilisk was showing him up in front of his friends for the second time. “Maybe if I'd been given a little more warning, that wouldn't have happened.” He forced himself to relax. “So what do we do?”

“I will deal with them. You and your lackeys have a much more important assignment.”

That didn't sound right. After his constant whining about how careless Jake had been, why did Basilisk now trust him with something important? Unless it was another lie, just like the Scott Baker pseudonym.
Perhaps it was perilous and Basilisk didn't want to risk his own neck? Jake's distrust for the villain increased, and he couldn't shake the feeling that events were well and truly spinning beyond his control.

“You will travel to Moscow, Russia. Red Square, to be precise, and meet this man.”

He scrolled the satellite map north, centering on Moscow. A number of photographs appeared on the side of the screen. They were of the same man, taken in different locations. He was middle-aged and bald. A thin pair of tinted designer glasses was balanced on his nose, and a collection of ornate jewelry hung around his neck.

“Who is he?”

“His name is not important, especially as he changes it every couple of weeks. Just remember that face, that's his current one. He changes that too. He'll be expecting you. When you meet him, hand him this case.”

Basilisk beckoned and a technician came over with a slim black briefcase. Basilisk flicked it open and all the boys gasped. The case was filled with bricks of cash.

“The ransom?” asked Jake.

“Most of it. What the blood-sucking drilling technician didn't, ha,
drill
out of me. One point five million exactly.” Basilisk shot a glance at Scuffer, whose hand was reaching toward the cash. “Don't get any ideas. Give him the case and he will give you the explosive. Then simply teleport back here.”

Scuffer rubbed his sweaty palms against his jeans. An idea occurred to him. “If we're going with Hunter, does that mean we get superpowers too?”

Basilisk barked a laugh. “Powers are for those we deem worthy. You're now his henchmen, so you get to have fun with these.” The supervillain walked across to a stack of long plastic military-green trunks with numbers stenciled on the side. He flipped one open, revealing a cache of rifles.

“Guns!” squeaked Knuckles, his voice breaking again.

“Very special guns,” Basilisk said, lifting one out. “A little invention of my own. I call them resin-rifles.”

The villain aimed the rifle at Big Tony and fired, almost point-blank.

Snow drifted down, obliterating any defining line between the ground and the horizon. Already it was a good eight inches deep around Jake's boots, and he had to stomp to keep warm. None of the guys had been dressed to travel somewhere so cold. Basilisk had given them all gloves, plain black uniforms, and matching long coats that stretched to their knees and concealed the resin-rifles perfectly. But they were not exactly warm.

Big Tony rubbed his ribs. They were still sore from where Basilisk had shot him with the rifle. It had fired a
thick gluey blob that had expanded across his chest, seeping around his wide frame and pinning him to the floor like a fly trapped in amber. A demonstration of the potent nonlethal weapon, Basilisk had said.

Then he had taken Jake to a computer terminal so he could select his powers, and instructed Jake on how to use the teleportation ability.

If Jake touched the others, they would be teleported with him. All he had to do was clear his mind and think of the location he wanted to travel to. Not just the name, he had to have a clear concept of where the place was in the world, and an accurate idea of what it looked like. Basilisk had shown him pictures of quiet side roads that ran close to Red Square. It was dangerous to suddenly appear in the middle of the famous plaza, as there were sure to be police, pedestrians, and tourists with cameras.

And now here they were in Russia. Big Tony was having a rough time, and threw up again the moment they appeared in the snowy street. But Scuffer and Knuckles swapped a high five.

“Awesome!” shouted Knuckles.

“That rocks, Hunter!” Scuffer laughed in delight. Jake had to silence them. Luckily they had arrived unseen, and it was a short walk to Red Square.

It was starting to get dark and streetlights had begun to flick on, but the square was still busy with people.
The sheer scale of the place surprised them, stretching almost a thousand feet long and almost two hundred feet wide. It was
vast
. At one end, to the south-east, stood the magnificent multicolored onion domes of Saint Basil's Cathedral. Even bathed in floodlights and masked by driving snow, he had to admit it looked impressive.

The cathedral allowed him to get his bearings. Basilisk's instructions meant that the illuminated, tiered square building close by was Lenin's Mausoleum, the resting place of one of Russia's most famous leaders. Lines of people were waiting to go into the tomb and look upon the embalmed body on display.

On the opposite side of the square a lone figure stood waiting for them. Dressed in a thick black coat, and with the physique of an elephant, the man remained impassive as Jake and his crew strolled over.

Jake's fingers tightened around the case handle. He was carrying an awful lot of money, and people would do silly things for such amounts. Since they had tele-ported, Scuffer and Knuckles had talked constantly about taking the money and running.

“Typical Scuffer,” thought Jake. “Forget the marvels of being transported to a tropical island and then on to Moscow in the blink of an eye.” All that drama was lost the moment Scuffer had seen the cash.

They were halfway across the square when Jake
realized his friends had lapsed into silence. Then he felt the hard prod of a rifle barrel in the back of his spine. Scuffer whispered close to his ear. “Sorry, dude. Nothin' personal.”

Jake hissed under his breath. “That's a nonlethal weapon, you dope.”

“It'll stick you to the spot, superboy, and three of 'em will hurt like hell.”

Jake stopped and gave that some silent thought. Scuffer became impatient and pressed the barrel into his back for emphasis. “Just keep walkin' past Frankenstein there, like we're not the ones he's lookin' for.”

Jake was forced to change course away from the large man as though they were just another bunch of tourists. Scuffer guided him along the side of the vast building in front, walking northwest toward the floodlit Historical Museum. Pure white snow clung to the side of the museum; a single golden dome poked upward and made the whole thing look like a wedding cake.

“Steady now, and don't try an' use those powers of yours?”

Jake considered teleporting away, but remembered Basilisk telling him that it would take a while for that power to recharge itself before he could use it again. Plus he didn't want to lose face by returning to Basilisk empty-handed.

“I thought we were friends?” Jake said through gritted
teeth. He looked around for an opportunity to escape, but there were too many tourists for him to use his powers.

“Friendship's a weird thing, ain't it? I mean, what kind of friend would hide the fact he had superpowers? A pretty bad one's the answer. You're just not the friend type, are ya?”

Jake felt his temples throb. He couldn't believe a pal was robbing him. Ex-pal, he corrected himself.

Several mean-looking armed policemen stood in front of the museum, joking together and rubbing their hands against the cold. Scuffer looked for a way to avoid them and shoved Jake down a wide street that was lined with cars, but devoid of tourists.

“Now stop. Let go of the case and we'll leave you here with Fat Tony.”

“
Big
Tony—and why me? I should have a share!”

“Scuff, turn around and walk away. I'll forget you're trying to rob me,” Jake said in a voice that trembled with the hatred he suddenly felt for his former friend.

“Give it to me.” Scuffer pulled the case, but Jake held it firmly. “I'm warnin' you, Hunter.”

Jake slowly turned around, his vision becoming red-tinged, as if somebody had put a colored filter over his eyes. His perception had changed; the faintest of electrical currents flowing through Scuffer's body were clearly visible, through his clothing and collecting in his
brain, which looked like an anthill. Jake didn't have time to wonder what was happening.

Scuffer's mouth hung open at Jake's demonic appearance—his skin was as pale as the snow and his eyes glowed red. Scuffer's arm swung limp, now aiming the rifle at the floor. He became aware of a terrified voice at his shoulder and a corner of his mind realized that it was Knuckles.

“Shoot him! Quick!”

Scuffer's brain started working again and he brought the gun level—just as Jake lashed out.

Concentric silver circles extended from Jake's hand and expanded around Scuffer, freezing him to the spot. It looked as if multiple pulsing hula hoops surrounded him from head to foot. Scuffer screamed; the intensity of the pulsing increased until there was a violent implosion of air—even the falling snow was momentarily sucked toward the spot where Scuffer
used
to be.

Jake was shell-shocked as the red mist faded. He stared at his own hands.

“What've you done to Scuff?” bleated Knuckles, stepping back a pace. “Did you kill him?”

Jake had no idea if he had, but he suddenly recalled that Knuckles had been encouraging Scuffer's betrayal of him. Jake raised his hands menacingly toward him.

“Why don't you find out?” growled Jake.

Knuckles's eyes were as wide as saucers. He threw
his rifle down, turned, slipped on the icy snow, and ran off as fast as he could. Jake exhaled deeply; it would be interesting to find out how Knuckles would manage in Russia with no money or passport and zero knowledge of the language.

Jake became aware that Big Tony was standing at his shoulder, laughing as he watched Knuckles slip and slide as he fled. “Ha-ha! Look at him! Loser!” Jake turned to face him, his eyes turning back to normal. Big Tony's laughter faded and he raised his hands in surrender when he saw Jake's black look. “I didn't know what they were going to do. I swear! They were going to leave me with you, remember? They even called me fat!”

“Let's go,
now
,” Jake snarled.

They marched back into Red Square, toward the hulking man who hadn't moved a muscle. Jake barely came up to the man's broad shoulders. He indicated the case.

“I have the money.”

The bouncer nodded slightly and walked away. With no indication what to do, Jake and Big Tony followed him toward the cathedral. As they got closer, Jake could see a road alongside the cathedral where a black limousine was waiting, engine running. Their escort rapped on the window, which rolled down with an electric whine. Inside sat the man from Basilisk's photographs. He eyed
Jake up and down, and when he spoke it was with a heavy Russian accent.

“You types are getting younger each time. You have the money?”

The man took Jake's offered case with hands that had sovereign gold rings on every finger. He flipped the catch open and casually flicked through the neatly stacked bills, before nodding in satisfaction. He looked back at Jake.

“Tell your master it was a pleasure doing business as usual. Your merchandise is in the trunk. Don't worry, I practically own the police force here. Nobody will pay you any attention.”

Jake had flinched at the word “master,” and decided he needed to clarify things with Basilisk when he returned. Jake gave a curt nod to the man, then walked around to the limo's trunk as it automatically clicked open.

Inside was a black backpack. Jake carefully opened the zipper, and he and Big Tony stared inside for what seemed like an eternity. The bomb was the size and shape of a football, with several spars running from it to keep it from rolling around. There was a single slot in the side where the detonator would presumably plug. It had no display screen for a fancy countdown like he'd seen in films. Only one thing was clear; on the side of the device was a familiar yellow warning triangle,
emblazoned with three triangular black lines projecting from a small circle: a radiation symbol.

Jake had just bought a nuclear bomb.

Then a familiar whispering voice from behind sent a feeling of dread through him.

“Hands up, Hunter. Or this time you won't be walking away!”

The orange sun balanced on the horizon like an overripe apricot. The desert had a magnifying effect as it dipped over the sand dunes of the United Arab Emirates and far-off Saudi Arabia. Basilisk was not looking at the celestial display but at the towering oil rig that stood in the tranquil waters of the Persian Gulf. A fiery plume flickered continuously from a chimney, burning waste gas and acting as a beacon.

Basilisk flew low over the water. He had to approach the platform with stealth, since armed naval vessels constantly patrolled the water on the lookout for pirates and terrorists. At this stage in the operation he couldn't risk any problems, and that's why he had taken the most potentially dangerous part of the plan himself. If Doc Tempest had betrayed him, then it would be here the Enforcers would pounce. All Hunter had to do was pay the Russian contact and return to the base with the warhead. That was tantamount to walking to the store to buy milk.