The Claim

PROLOGUE

He materialized as fire.

It was not uncertainty or fear preventing him from taking a more definite shape. He had copied the identities of so many of the human animals over the years that it took a matter of seconds to create a flawless reproduction. Tonight was no different. His lord had been specific on the animal he was to impersonate. No, it was the Hand of the Enemy giving him pause this evening.

The substance of his flame trembled in anger. After all these millennia he chafed at the restrictions placed on him. Once he had been a being who soared through the Universe at will. Seemingly nothing was beyond the range of his capabilities. Yet the One who created him insisted on placing restrictions on his powers. That was the reason why he had sworn allegiance to his lord during the Rebellion. What was the point of being god-like if one wasn’t allowed to play God?

He noticed his rage was expanding his fiery body to the point of arousing the interest of the animals occupying the nearby buildings. He willed himself to be calm. His fire lessened. He was unconcerned about being discovered by the animals. He agreed with his lord that the creatures were merely pawns to use against the Enemy. He was on a mission, however. He did not wish to frighten his target away.

The mortal under his scrutiny was sitting in a Ford Contour parked next to one of the abandoned buildings. This particular area of the city was off the main highway and out of sight of all curious eyes. There wasn’t a single traffic camera here, which was why the target regularly drove here to consume alcohol. He believed no one had discovered his secret drinking place.

The pillar of fire formed an evil grin. Nothing was beyond the eyes of the lord Satan. Right now the target was behind the wheel of the Contour, blissfully unaware of the fiery being not far from it. Satan had indeed selected well when he chose this animal. Its mind was sufficiently addled by alcohol that subduing it would be easy.

The fire quivered with laughter. The animal was more than just addled. It was nearly comatose!

While he possessed infinite patience, he did not have all of eternity to wait for the target to awaken. He glowed brighter to attract the target’s attention.

# # #

FBI Special Agent Gerald Thompson yawned hugely and rubbed his gummy eyes. His brain registered the reddish-orange light bobbing in front of his car. Thompson squinted at his watch. Was the sun coming up already? It didn’t seem possible. Since he knew he was going to be on duty tomorrow Thompson tried to keep his drinking to a minimum. The last thing he needed was to come in late and hung over. He was already in the doghouse with his supervisor. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Ferris made it clear one more slip up and Thompson was gone.

His eyes managed to focus on his watch. 12:17 AM. Thompson groaned. He planned home over an hour ago. He fervently hoped the Bureau didn’t spring a random drug test today. There was no way the booze would be out of his system in a few hours.

Not for the first time, Gerald Thompson wondered how his life had come to this, drinking his sorrows away on this God-forsaken street. He had been a good agent. Perhaps not one of the best agents in the Bureau, but his work reviews was fairly good. Yet Thompson had not advanced in rank in five years. He blamed his superiors for his stagnation. They kept giving him low-priority cases or assigning him to assist other agents on their cases. He was given nothing that showed off his talents and abilities. It began to stress him to the point of insomnia. Thompson would lay awake at night, wracking his brain for ways to convince his superiors to assign him a really meaty case, like tracking down a serial killer or busting up an international drug ring.

The sleepless nights translated into irritability at work. Thompson began snapping at people for minor errors. His work reviews slipped. To take the edge off, he started having a drink or two after work so he could get some sleep. It worked for a while. His work improved. He got along with his superiors and the support staff.

It was when Thompson felt the need to have a drink work did he really get into trouble. He didn’t think it was anything major. He’d have a shot of vodka or whiskey before leaving home in order to brace himself for another day of mediocrity. He was in control of the booze, not the other way around.

He had to reconsider that opinion when he failed a random test.

Because it was his first offense and he was below the legal limit, Thompson was placed on medical leave and ordered to attend rehab. He obeyed, although he did not believe he needed counseling. It was simply a mistake, one he wouldn’t repeat. Not that he said this to his supervisor. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Ferris was already looking for an excuse to fire him. Thompson didn’t wish to give her one.

So he attended the rehab sessions. He said what the counselors wanted to hear. He kept off the booze for two weeks. It was tough, but he did it. Thompson honestly believed he had nipped the problem for good.

Two weeks after returning to work, Thompson was drinking again. It wasn’t his fault. The other agents and staff looked at him differently, with derision and barely concealed contempt. He knew they were talking about him behind his back. As for his supervisor, Ferris treated Thompson as if he was a new recruit. If he thought his cases were lame before, the cases he was assigned were positively inane. He had become nothing more than a glorified secretary, running paperwork between staff members. The stress was more than he could bear, and to relieve it, Thompson drank more than ever.

He was smart this time, however. He would frequent a liquor store well away from the Bureau and his home. He would buy a single pint of whiskey and consume it in this run-down section of Cleveland inhabited by rats, drug addicts and homeless bums. The city hadn’t even bothered to install traffic cameras here. Thompson doubted anyone from the Bureau was following him, yet if he was caught with the whiskey, Thompson could kiss his ten years with the FBI goodbye.

Yawning again, Thompson reached for the keys in the ignition. It was then he noticed the fire blazing twenty feet from his car.

He squinted through the windshield. Who the heck builds a fire in the middle of the street? It was warm out tonight. The bums who lived here were usually passed out inside the crumbling buildings by now. Thompson vigorously rubbed his eyes, forced his brain to think clearly. What was fueling the fire, anyway? It looked like it was directly coming up from the pavement.

It must be a gas leak, he decided. Thompson hastily fumbled his cell phone out of his pocket. Better call 911, he thought. If a gas fire broke out here it might torch several surrounding neighborhoods before the fire departments were able to respond.

His finger stopped short of dialing the phone. Yeah, right, genius, a little voice whispered sarcastically in his ear. You’d have to stick around to give your statement to the local police. Think that bottle of Jack Daniels in the next seat is going to go unnoticed? The cops would congratulate you as they throw you in the drunk tank. The next thing they would do is make a phone call to Ferris. You want to be a hero? Call it in anonymously from a pay phone on your way home.

Thompson put the cell phone back in his pocket. No, the best thing to do is go home. He’d read about the fire in tomorrow’s paper.

He did not start the Contour. The more Thompson stared at the pillar of fire, the more he was mesmerized by it. He was not going to leave. Not until he got a closer look.

He opened the door and got out of his car.

The fire blazed silently. Thompson did not hear so much as a hiss. Thompson did not feel any heat from it, either. As he approached his nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench emanating from the fire. It was not natural gas. It smelled more like sulfur mixed in with burning flesh. It reminded him of the time when he was a kid, when Thompson had been on a Boy Scout camping trip. One of his buddies accidentally stuck his hand in the campfire when he stumbled over a rock. Thompson had forgotten the kid’s name but he would never forget the smell of burnt human flesh.

He hesitated. While he had drunk nearly a pint of whiskey, a part of his brain was still functioning. He sensed something was here. Something unnatural. One hand instinctively went to his handgun.

He snorted a laugh at his reaction. What are you going to do? Shoot a pillar of fire?

Reluctantly, with some effort, Thompson removed his hand from his pistol. He stared at the blaze, fascinated by it. The weird part was, he swore he could see eyes staring back at him. Glowing, hypnotic eyes.

He relaxed even more. Thompson now saw the figure of a man inside the swirling blaze. A smiling man who was beckoning Thompson to come closer. Enraptured, oblivious to the danger of being burned, Thompson shuffled towards the fire.

At two feet apart from each other, the flame leaped forward and enveloped Agent Gerald Thompson.

# # #

He breathed deeply. The purr of the Ford Contour’s engine filled his ears. He opened his new set of eyes.

As usual, it took him a moment to adjust to the physical world. Taking human form was always disorientating. It required getting used to things like breathing, seeing, hearing, and other physical sensations. His powers were slightly diminished. Those were the rules and, no matter how much he despised them, this was how the game was to be played. As long as he was more powerful than any human animal, he could live with it.

He examined his new body.

It was a perfect match to the one lying at his feet. He had duplicated Gerald Thompson perfectly, right down to the stubble on his chin. He had also recreated Thompson’s clothes. For some reason he had not made Thompson’s ID and weapon, however. He shrugged. Only his master was perfect.

He bent down to examine the unconscious human. There was a handgun clipped to Thompson’s belt. He unclipped the weapon and removed it from its holster to inspect it. It was a Glock 21 chambered for .45-caliber ammunition. The weapon was a little dirty yet serviceable. He searched Thompson and found only one spare magazine of ammunition. He frowned in disapproval, although he expected this kind of sloppiness. Thompson hadn’t anticipated firing the Glock any time soon.

Rolling the body over, he removed Thompson’s wallet and keys. The human’s Bureau ID badge must still be in the car, he guessed.

Hey, buddy! You okay?

He rose abruptly at the sound of the unexpected voice. Looking to his left, he saw another one of the animals standing in front of a rundown building. This one was dressed in dirty clothes. Even with it across half the street, he could smell the animal’s stench.

The animal’s eyes were wide in astonishment. You walked right into that fire! Walked right in it! You okay?

It noticed the human lying at his feet. It’s faced twisted in confusion. Is that your twin or something?

His new face grimaced in annoyance. This animal was an alcoholic, yet its brain was still in halfway decent shape. It clearly would spread the story of how one man had walked into a fire and emerged as two. He doubted the animal would be believed. Still, he preferred not to draw any more attention to himself than necessary.

He changed his grimace to a warm smile. We’re fine, my friend.

He raised a hand.

The animal burst into flame.

Satisfied the drunken creature wouldn’t be telling any stories about tonight, he effortlessly hauled Thompson’s unconscious body up and carried it back to the Ford Contour. It was time he began his real mission.

CHAPTER 1

Alex Bolton woke with a start, his hands reaching for his handgun. He yanked the dresser drawer open so hard he nearly threw the drawer across the room. His handgun wasn’t there. All of Alex’s police weapons had been surrendered to Lieutenant Byrd three months ago when Alex was suspended.

Taking two deep breaths to calm his racing heart, Alex sat up on the edge of his bed. He wiped sweat from his eyes and checked the time on the Sony clock radio. It was 5:56 in the morning. He turned off the alarm. Alex knew from experience he was not going back to sleep. He discovered over the last three months that a hard workout was the best way to shake off the effects of the nightmare.

The dream was the same one he’d dreamed since his suspension, except for the ending. He was in the dead-end alley as usual; only this time he was the one being chased. Not by the kid or an angry mob but by a fire-breathing dragon. Alex had fled into the alley hoping to escape it. The dragon found him and grinned, revealing red-hot teeth. Alex was paralyzed with terror as the dragon lunged towards him to eat him.

Alex rubbed his eyes, hoping to wipe away the memory of the nightmare. I’d better not tell the department’s shrink about this one. He’s liable to put me in a straight jacket instead of clearing me for duty.

Rising from bed, Alex began his warm-up stretches. Ever since his suspension Alex forced himself to maintain his usual physical regimen. It started with a four-mile run, followed by a half an hour of weightlifting and another thirty minutes of martial arts practice. He’d been doing a similar routine ever since leaving the Army. His wife, Jeanette, once jokingly accused him of trying to stay twenty years old. Alex laughed with her, but keeping in top shape was no joke to him. He was a forty-two year old homicide detective. The criminals he pursued were becoming bigger, faster, and more aggressive. Thanks to a legal system that Alex genuinely believed coddled lawbreakers, these same thugs had zero respect for the law and for the police officers that enforced the law.

Alex unconsciously glanced over to Jeanette’s side of the bed. She’d left along with their daughter, Anna, two months ago. He didn’t blame Jeanette for her decision, then or now. Alex might not like it, but he was forced to agree with her reasoning. His rage over what happened in the alley made him next to impossible to live with, and he and Jeannette were arguing almost daily. Her leaving was definitely best for Anna. Alex refused to allow his daughter to suffer for something he’d done.

Naturally news the shooting had gotten out. His name had been accidentally released to the media thanks to a civil liberties lawyer representing the kid’s family. Once that happened, Anna was teased mercilessly at school. She was a strong kid, but Alex could tell the strain was getting to her. Her skin broke out with pimples. She stopped eating. Thankfully the school year ended not long after his name was released. Anna’s friends from church helped her through as well. They would come over and do their little Bible studies. Anna seemed to draw strength from them, so Alex said nothing to discourage her.

Alex finished his warm-up and put on his running clothes. He hadn’t liked the idea of Anna going to church. Jeanette, who had come from a religious family, agreed with Alex that Anna had to find her own path. Still, Jeanette said Anna had to have some exposure to the Bible in order to make her own decisions. To keep peace in the family, Alex allowed Jeanette to take their daughter to church. He still wasn’t too keen on the idea, as Anna seemed to go deeper in the religious thing than her mother. Yet he had to admit he preferred Anna to hang out with church kids rather than some of the seedier teens attending her high school. These were the kids Alex was willing to bet a week’s pay he’d be busting in a few years. He’d been a cop long enough to spot potential criminals. It seemed every one of Anna’s new friends made Alex’s gut twitch in recognition.

Alex stepped out the front door and ran with a little more energy than usual. The memory of that night resurfaced as he thought of Anna and her classmates.

Alex and his partner had been waiting to arrest a triple-murder suspect who was second-in-command of a methamphetamine ring. According to several informants and undercover operatives, the leaders of the drug ring were meeting in a rented house to split their profits and throw a party to celebrate their successes. The police were warned the people inside the house were users as well as dealers, and most were reportedly armed to the teeth. The brass downtown agreed with Homicide and Narcotics that this would be the ideal time to launch a raid to shut down the operation.

The bust had been designed and set-up by the book. Alex and the lead Narcotics detective had secured all the warrants they needed to raid the house and arrest all suspected persons. Coordinating with two SWAT teams, the police cautiously surrounded the house. The police commissioners wanted no bloodshed, yet experience told Alex and the other senior officers on the raid that ringleaders this high in command refused to go down without emptying their guns first.

Somebody had tipped the ring, however. Alex had been told later one of the informants had called one of the leaders just before the raid was supposed to go down. One of the officers watching the informant left him alone long enough for the young man to use his cell phone. Seconds before the order to launch the raid was to be issued, men and women began pouring out of the house like frightened rats, firing their handguns at anything or anyone in their path.

Alex held his fire even as two bullets ricocheted inches from his head. As he told Internal Affairs later, he could have shot three of the gunmen without exposing himself or his partner to danger. Alex held back because the gunmen weren’t firing at any civilians.

A young man jumped out of an open window. He was wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket with a fluorescent red dragon painted on the back. The man perfectly matched the triple-murder suspect’s description. Alex took a quick second to make sure the other shooters were neutralized, and then tapped his partner on the shoulder. There he is!

His partner, Vic Hamner, nodded eagerly. I got your back. Let’s nail him!

They chased him for nearly fifteen minutes. The suspect knew he was being pursued. The young man was incredibly fast and agile. He led them on a wild chase through the neighborhood. He vaulted over fences, ran across backyards, and down side streets. Alex managed to keep him sight and maintain pursuit. Vic fell behind when he radioed for backup.

Finally, the suspect turned down into a dead-end street. Alex could barely see him, thanks to a flickering streetlight. The young man’s sole way out was over a pile of trash and a fifteen-foot high chain link fence. He might have made it over the fence if the garbage hadn’t collapsed when he was halfway up it.

Alex skidded to a halt and leveled his Springfield XDM .45 handgun at the young man. Freeze!

The suspect clambered to his feet. His head whipped back and forth between Alex and the fence. He was obviously considering making another attempt at escape.

It’s over! Alex shouted at him. Give it up! You’re not going anywhere!

The young man thrust a hand into his leather jacket and drew something out. Something that looked like a gun.

Alex put two rounds into him.

Vic Hamner arrived as the young man was falling backward, the handgun dropping to the pavement. He came up beside Alex, assessed the situation, and let out a heavy sigh. Stay right here, Vic instructed Alex. I’ll check him out.

Cautiously, weapon aimed at the fallen man, Vic approached. He gave the suspect a couple of nudges with his boot. The suspect didn’t respond. Satisfied the man wasn’t faking unconsciousness; Vic holstered his weapon and checked the man’s pulse, first by the wrist, then by the neck.

Vic slowly rose. He grimaced at his partner. He’s dead, Alex.

Alex slowly lowered his handgun. Bad lighting or not, he’d already guessed as much.

Vic then went to retrieve the man’s weapon. A frown creased his broad face as he examined it.

It’s a toy, Alex, Vic said. He sounded nauseous. It’s a plastic gun. Here, look.

Alex’s stomach churned as he stared at the gun. It looked like a real Beretta 92F handgun; only it was a replica of the pistol, something you’d buy in a novelty shop or from the back of a magazine.

I couldn’t tell, Alex mumbled. He gestured at the dimly lit cul-de-sac. I swear, I thought he was going to shoot me!

I believe you, Alex, Vic assured him.

Flashing lights appeared. Squad cars were finally arriving. Vic held out one of his big hands. You know the drill, buddy. Hand over your gun.

Numbly, Alex surrendered his Springfield handgun.

When Alex left the precinct house later in the morning, he was certain his career was over. Vic and the other police officers at the raid adamantly stood by Alex. The TV and newspapers weren’t interested in their version of the events. All they reported was a white city police detective had gunned down a fifteen-year-old Hispanic boy. And not just any fifteen-year-old Hispanic boy, either. Jose Velasquez was a star baseball player and a straight A student at his school. Three major universities were courting Velasquez for his ball playing abilities. And Velasquez had never been in trouble with the law in his life.

These were the facts being splashed across the newspapers and television. Nobody but a few police officers wondered why such a good boy was doing at a meth house.

The local chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union, several prominent Hispanic politicians and civic leaders began calling for an immediate investigation of the police department and the detective involved in the shooting be prosecuted for a hate crime. To quell the rising tide of outrage, the Mayor stepped in and ordered Internal Affairs to take over the investigation. Alex’s lieutenant suspended Alex indefinitely from the force.

That was three months ago. Alex had little to do in that time except dodge journalists and photographers and second-guess his actions that night. Did he do everything by the book? Could he have done anything different? He wracked his brains trying to find answers to any of those questions.

The more he questioned himself, the more irritable he grew. Alex flew off the handle over petty matters, such as not being able to find his socks. He yelled at Jeanette for buying an extra box of dishwasher cleaner. Worse, he was reminded of the Velasquez boy every time he saw Anna. She was a year younger than Alex’s victim, and it was easy for Alex how he’d feel if someone accidentally gunned her down in the street. Anna tried her best to ease her father’s pain. When she asked if Alex wanted to pray for God’s guidance, Alex lost it. He didn’t remember exactly what he said, but he was sure there were a few four-letter words mixed into his raving. He quit when Anna burst out in sobs.

That was the day Jeanette declared she’d had enough.

I understand you’re going through a rough time, Alex, she said as she threw clothes into a suitcase, "but you’ve got it in your head you can work this out on your own. So when you decide to open up and actually want us around, call me at my sister’s. That’s where Anna and I will be staying."

Alex paused in his run. He wasn’t winded or tired. He’d only gone two miles. He took out his cell phone and prepared to dial a number he’d memorized months ago.

He hesitated. Alex tried calling several times earlier. He never did. He didn’t have a clue as to what to say. I’m sorry seemed hugely inappropriate. And the last time he went down on his knees was when he asked Jeanette to marry him. Alexander Bolton wasn’t a beggar.

Truth be told, Alex was not sure if he wanted his family around. If Internal Affairs ruled this was a bad shooting, Alex could find himself being prosecuted. He preferred to spare his family from what he knew was going to be a