Team Omega (12 page)

Jackson looked over at him.  “Interrogation?”

“Wait and see,” David said.  “Wait and see.”

The drive to the FOB—as Jackson couldn't help but think of it—lasted only twenty minutes, but seemed to take forever.  He found himself starting at every little sound, wondering if the next thing he would see would be a superhuman tearing up the van to get at the prisoners inside.  Nova had a long IV line running from a bag a medic had set up, with enough sedative—they’d been assured—to put an elephant to sleep for hours.  Beside him, Siren didn't seem to have recovered from the blow that had knocked her out.  They kept their eyes on her anyway, just in case.  It was a relief when they reached the building and could hand their prisoners over to a specialised team from the local FBI office.

“One last thing to do before we get some sleep,” von Shrakenberg barked, once the prisoners had been taken away.  “We have to write a report of everything that happened, so get into the interrogation chambers and answer all the questions as fully and completely as you can.  Try not to hit any of them; their superiors make a terrible fuss.”

Jackson joined in the chuckles as he followed the others to the interrogation chambers.  He hadn't been in an FBI interrogation room before and he was surprised at how nice it looked, compared to the ones he’d seen in bad movies.  But those movies about the SOF soldiers had rarely been accurate either.  There was a coffee machine in one corner and a pair of FBI agents facing him, one a tall handsome male and the other a shorter red-headed woman.  By the way they leaned together, they were probably lovers.

“Thank you for coming,” the woman said.  She had a sharp voice that reminded Jackson of his mother, back when she’d systematically dissected any excuses Jackson had offered for bad behaviour.  “I must inform you that everything said in this room will be recorded and possibly entered in testimony should the case go to court.  As you are not actually a suspect, you do not have the right to a lawyer, but in the event of charges being brought against you this testimony may be struck from the record.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jackson said, shortly.  He was puzzled.  What was the
point
of this exercise?  “Why are we doing this?”

The FBI agents exchanged glances.  “Your...unit was involved in a criminal investigation that resulted in the deaths of seventeen DEA agents”—Jackson winced; some of the burned must have passed away before the medics could get them to hospital—“and the capture of two very prominent superhumans.  It is vitally important that we ensure that there are no weaknesses in the case that can be used against us by the defence lawyers—and believe me, the defence lawyers will pick away at everything until they find something that can be used to throw out the prosecution case.”

Jackson nodded.  That made a certain kind of sense.  He still couldn't see how the Young Stars could avoid some very bad publicity and jail terms for at least three of them, but he’d read about unscrupulous defence lawyers in the past.  Even if the case against them was watertight, they could stretch it out as long as possible and claim huge legal fees. 

“Right,” the man said.  “From the beginning, then.  How did you become involved in the operation against the Young Stars?”

Jackson studied him for a long moment, unsure of what to say.  No one had warned him that there would be an interrogation, even though in hindsight it was obvious.  And he wasn't sure just
what
he was cleared to say to them.  Team Omega was a cross between a military unit and a police SWAT team, but it had been made clear to him in no uncertain terms that Team Omega was intended to remain black.  If that meant a local SWAT unit or the FBI taking the credit for their operations, it was an acceptable price to pay.

“We
are
cleared for everything,” the woman said.  Jackson rather doubted it.  “But if you wish, we will start from the moment the operation began.  What happened when the Young Stars arrived at the rendezvous point?”

Jackson was still unsure of himself, but he started to outline everything that had happened since the moment the DEA agents had moved in for the arrest.  They
did
have a need to know, even if it reflected badly on the DEA.  And if it helped put three dangerous superhumans in jail, the story needed to be told.

Chapter Twelve

“There’s been no word from them?”

“Nothing at all,” Lane said.  “I believe that they
did
warn their tame reporters that their archenemies were going to attack their hangout, but nothing else.  Most of the bastards fled like cowards.”

“It’s easy to be brave when someone isn’t pointing a gun at you,” Chester said.  Having to leave Washington at such short notice was irritating, particularly with the mess in the Congo requiring his input, but
someone
fairly senior had to deal with the Young Stars—and their corporate backers.  “Did Youngster return to the hangout?”

He gazed over the road towards the hangout, the headquarters of the Young Stars.  According to Roark Design Incorporated, who had designed and built the building for the superhero team, it was meant to reflect the forward-thinking nature of the founding members.  It was a towering monstrosity of metal and glass, its surface glimmering brightly in the morning sun, surrounded by a sculptured garden that provided plenty of space for the Young Stars to exercise.  Roark, it was rumoured, was a superhuman himself; the designs his company had provided to the FBI looked suspiciously incomplete.  Lane had raised the issue that the interior design was actually modular and might be very different, if Team Omega had to storm the building.

“We believe so,” Lane admitted.  They exchanged a long look.  Chester was a civilian, gifted Team Omega by a President who hadn't wanted any fallout from their operations to fall on him personally, but he felt the loss of each and every soldier who died on active duty.  “The FBI had monitors watching their lawyers and they were...called in at 0500 this morning.”

“I bet they loved that,” Chester said.  He’d started life as a lawyer before becoming one of President Cheney’s more trusted aides.  President MacDougall had kept him on after the 2012 election, either because he had a good reputation or because he hadn't wanted to risk appointing one of his own nominees to the spot.  “But they’ve said nothing?”

“Nothing at all,” Lane said, patiently.  “But I’m afraid that the local coppers
have
been saying quite a bit.”

Chester nodded, tiredly.  The DEA had made the decision to refrain from informing the local police of their operation, suspecting that some of the policemen had been compromised and would warn the Young Stars of the operation if they realised that they were the targets.  They didn't even have to be corrupt to issue the warning, not when the Young Stars brought a great deal of money to the city.  Chicago simply didn't have the resources to cut the Young Stars loose without a fight.  By now, rumours would probably have reached the Senators in Washington.

Politically, it was already turning into a disaster.  A long public trial was in no one’s interests, but that was precisely what they'd get if the truth became public before they dealt with the Young Stars.  The two superhumans in jail had been questioned by the FBI, but they’d clammed up almost at once, demanding lawyers and their single phone call.  At Chester’s request, the FBI was stalling, yet it wouldn't be long before they had to either formally charge them or let them go.

“I’m not surprised,” he said.  “Are you ready to take them if necessary?”

Lane scowled.  “I have Team One and Team Three here, ready for action,” he said, “but there’s at least four superhumans in there, including Gamma Dude and Youngster.  If half of what we have been told about Gamma Dude is correct...  The SDI’s overt team has been placed on alert, but if we have to call them in we can say goodbye to keeping this manageable.”

“We’d better try to deal first, at least,” Chester agreed.  He glanced down at his suit, brushed a piece of dust off it, and picked up his briefcase.  “Standard procedure, Captain.  If you don’t hear from me in thirty minutes assume the worst and storm the building.”

“Good luck, sir,” Lane said.  “We’ll be ready.”

Chester walked across the road and up to the building’s gates, looking up at the futuristic design Roark had worked into the metal.  It was futuristic in more than one way; someone without an authorised DNA code would find it impossible to get in without permission.  There were other security measures built into the walls, Chester had been told, and several devices intended to stop flying superhumans from landing inside the grounds.  No one knew for sure if they worked or not.

He tapped the bell and smiled into the camera.  “My name is Chester,” he said, holding up an ID card from the SDI.  General Kratman would have been darkly amused to know that Chester was taking the SDI’s name in vain—but then, if matters got really out of control, his team would have to deal with the fallout.  “I think we should talk, don’t you?”

The gate clicked open at once, allowing him to walk inside.  Refusing to allow himself to rush, he strolled up the road towards the main doors, pausing to glance around at the swimming pool and other luxuries scattered throughout the gardens.  With so much wealth, most of which they received simply for being themselves, their involvement with drugs made no sense to him.  They didn't have any need to blot out an unhappy life doomed to eternal poverty, nothing that might have seemed a good excuse to take drugs.  But then, maybe they had so much that they just had to push the limits.

He tapped on the door and it opened, revealing a tall butler wearing a traditional black outfit and a supercilious sneer.  Chester had had enough experience in politics to tell that the man was deeply worried under the mask he wore for visitors.  He might not have been able to tell that Team Omega was preparing to storm the building he occupied—Lane and his men were good at avoiding attention—but he knew that
something
had gone badly wrong.  Chester gave him a smile and had the pleasure of seeing the man step backwards before he recovered himself.  The files on him suggested that he was loyal to his pay check, too loyal.  He couldn't be bribed into turning into a source for the SDI.

“Mr. Mallory and Mr. Prince will see you in the library,” he said, in an English accent too pronounced to be real.  Chester had heard that there was a fashion for English butlers, but he’d never believed it.  But if faking an accent was the difference between a good salary and an excellent salary, he saw no reason why people wouldn't try to fake it.  “They have been waiting for you.”

Waiting to see what hammer falls on their heads first
, Chester thought, as he allowed the butler to lead him through the building.  Inside, it was every teen’s paradise; there were electronic games, toys and pornography everywhere.  The files had stated that there were any number of girls who weren't superhuman, but were in semi-permanent residence as lovers for the male superheroes.  There was no sign of anyone, apart from a dark-skinned girl watching from a stairwell as he walked past.  Sparky, he identified her; one of the Young Stars.  She looked as if she didn't quite understand what was going on.

Unsurprisingly, the library proved to have very few actual books.  The shelves were crammed with video cassettes and DVDs, including a number that were outright pornography.  They ranged from simple pictures and videos of naked girls to Japanese videos that had shocked him the first time he’d seen them.  How could anyone find pleasure in watching a girl, willing or not, being raped and tortured by a man?  But superhumans pushed the limits in so many ways; there was no reason why they shouldn't indulge themselves with dark porn.  It just worried him to see teenagers exploring such material.

But if they have complete freedom to explore conventional pleasures,
he thought darkly,
they would soon grow bored and start looking for more extreme titillation.

Mr. Mallory was older than his son, with grey hair fighting valiantly to hide a growing bald spot on his head; Mr. Prince was younger, with a smile that was patiently insincere and a handshake that made Chester want to count his fingers after he’d shook hands with him.  No honest man had a handshake as honest as that; Mr. Prince had quite an FBI file, starting with his involvement in defending a Mafia boss who had been arrested five years ago.  He was the most expensive defence lawyer in Chicago.

“Thank you for coming,” Mallory said.  He sounded relieved; whatever he’d had in mind when he created the Young Stars—and Chester had no idea what that was—it probably hadn't included a trial that had his son as the star attraction.  “Can we get you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Chester said.  He noticed with some amusement that none of the superhumans were in the room.  The grown-ups were probably going to decide their fate without their input.  “With your permission, I will get right to the point.”

He opened his briefcase and dropped a packet of photographs onto the table.  They were actually still pictures from the sensors that had recorded the entire incident, but he saw no reason to mention that there was video footage as well.  Or, for that matter, the chain of evidence the DEA had painstakingly constructed to link the Young Stars to a drug pipeline that reached all the way to Columbia.

“There’s no evidence that those...people are the Young Stars,” Prince said, quickly.  “It is a well-known legal point that shape-shifters may cause someone to be accused, but...”

Chester
looked
at him.  How much had Youngster told them?  “We have Nova and Siren in custody,” he said, calmly.  “I’m afraid we took blood samples and compared them to the records taken when they registered as superheroes.  There is no way that a shape-shifter could have impersonated them.”

He smiled, mockingly.  Shape-shifters
had
caused the FBI some nasty moments in the past, but few could carry off an impersonation for very long.  They certainly couldn't fool the friends and family of the person they were trying to impersonate, if only because they lacked the background knowledge of their victim.  Besides, their blood chemistry didn't really change and a simple blood test would expose the impersonator, even if they didn't return to their mundane form upon being knocked out.  It really was a weak defence.

“We also have enough evidence to prove that Youngster was
also
at the scene, successfully managing to resist arrest,” he added, allowing his voice to harden.  “I have here”—he pulled it out of his briefcase—“a federal warrant for Youngster’s arrest, as well as any other of the Young Stars who prove to be involved in peddling drugs.  How much time do you want to waste denying the obvious?”

Prince changed tack without hesitation.  “While my clients are prepared to admit that they have been taking drugs that are, technically, illegal, you have a very weak case for prosecuting them on that charge.  Certainly, they haven’t acted like Slaughter...”

Chester had heard worse bullshit in Washington, but he judged it the right time to show some anger.  “The drug charge has become irrelevant,” he snapped.  “The charges facing Youngster—and Nova and Siren—have become resisting arrest and murdering law enforcement officials going about their business.  You may feel that in taking drugs they are no different from any other celebrities, and you may well be right, but how many other superstars have killed upwards of seventeen officers?”

He looked at Mallory, ignoring Prince.  “Let me place my cards on the table,” he said.  “Your son and at least two of his friends have committed murder.  There is enough solid evidence to link them to the scene to prevent your expensive friend here”—he nodded to Prince—“from managing to convince a tame judge that they are innocent.  We have pictures, DNA evidence and witness testimony.  There is no way they are getting off this charge.”

Mallory looked down at the pictures, shaking his head.  Chester could understand his opinion—
he
wouldn't have been too happy if his son had been charged with jaywalking, let alone murder—but in the end it didn't matter.  The only real questions were just how badly the Young Stars would be tarred with this brush, and how much of his fortune he could salvage from the disaster.  How long would the Young Stars be able to keep making money if half of their membership was in prison?

“It would seem so,” he agreed, finally.  “What do you want us to do?”

Chester made a show of checking his watch.  “I have authorisation to deal,” he said.  “If—and I say
if—
you cooperate, we can work to prevent a media circus that will destroy whatever remains of the Young Stars.  But if you don’t...”

“Threatening my client opens you up to all sorts of charges,” Prince said, quickly.  “I could have you charged with harassment and...”

“Of course you could,” Chester said, pleasantly.  “But tell me; would that make any difference to the outcome here?”