Turnabout

collected about us. Besides, we have plenty of media resources of our own.» Max's heart sank, though he hadn't really expected these guys to cave in easily. He realized what he was feeling was more sadness than defeat. It's no go, Kyle, he thought glumly as he switched tactical gears. Langley's «secret weapon» now appeared to be the only arrow in Max's quiver. I need you and Isabel and Langley to be ready to pull the trigger, he thought to Kyle. He could feel both Kyle's and Isabel's reluctance to take such a radical step, however necessary. They weren't killers, and neither was he. «Looks like your bluff has been called, Mr. Evans,' said the other man, who began grinning a predator's grin. «What do you propose to do about it?» Max tried to match the man's grin with one of his own. Unbidden, a memory arose of his recent and disastrous television acting audition. He doubted his current performance was any more convincing. But he also knew the time for persuasion had passed. «It's already done,' Max said quietly. Scarface motioned to the pair of black-suited agents who still flanked Max. «Take him to the medics so they can drug him. If his hands so much as twitch on the way, you are authorized to use deadly force.» The man with the predatory smile asked, «Slice and dice? Like the girl?» The g}rl, Max thought, fear clutching at his heart as he recalled the light that had faded from the ken-teef back at Langley's. Lonnie's light, which had evidently been snuffed out on a Special Unit dissection table, in fulfillment of Liz's grisly prophecy. «Invasive procedures,' Scarface confirmed. Then the agents silently marched Max out into a corridor. Michael had just burned open an air duct in the ceiling and dropped adroitly to the floor he was still following the mental map Kyle and Isabel were telepathically supplying him all the way from Langley's place in the Hollywood Hills when he noticed he wasn't alone in the corridor. Kyle and Isabel were suddenly standing right beside him. Or, at least, that's the way his brain perceived it. «Yeesh!» Michael whispered, turning his head to make sure nobody else was present in the corridor. «Is there any way we can keep our little psychic hot line on audio only? This Kyle-o-Vision thing is a little too much reaching-outand-touching for my taste.» «Sorry,' said Kyle. «Professor X and I are still working on controlling my nifty new mutant powers.» «The Special Unit isn't going for the deal, Michael,' Isabel said, ignoring the banter. She was very near tears. «And they're taking Max away they're going to cut him open, just like they did with the other… with Lonnie.» Michael wondered why Liz hadn't foreseen this eventuality. Then the reason came to him, along with a burst of renewed confidence. «I'm all over it, Iz. But I'm already in the detention area. Once I bust the parental units free, I'll go after Max.» «But he's going into some sort of operating room now It looks like the only way to prevent it is to link my powers to Kyle and Langley and start frying the brains of everybody here.» Of course, Michael already knew that; he'd been halfaware of everything Max had seen, heard, and said ever since Kyle had used his new power to set up a link between him, Max, and Langley during the brief flight from the Hollywood Hills. «Isabel, think about it. Haven't you wondered why Liz hasn't had a future flash about Max getting sliced up?» «Guess 1 haven't thought about it much. I've been too busy worrying about them actually doing it.» Michael pressed on. «The reason Liz didn't see it in her Magic 8 Ball is because it's not going to happen. She didn't have that particular future flash because something is going to prevent it.» «You're counting on luck, General Rath?» said Kyle. «Doesn't sound like a very sound military stratagem to me.» Just like Langley is counting on being lucky enough not to fry the Evanses and the Parkers with this brain-blast thingie, Michael thought. A harsh, painfully loud alarm began sounding, reverberating up and down the empty corridor. He heard the sharp staccato of gunfire in the distance, punctuated by alarmed shouts. The smell of cordite stung his nose. Michael grinned at Kyle and Isabel. «Sometimes luck is the only weapon you can really count on,' he said. Then he turned and ran toward the area where his mental map told him the detention cells were located. Over Valenti's no doubt well-intentioned and chivalrous objections, Duff took the point as they forced the lock to a basement-level door and entered the building. Valenti and Liz Evans followed close behind her, while Langley brought up the rear. Despite Max's earlier assurances that the alien producer wouldn't bolt and run, she remained prepared to shoot him nonlethaily, she hoped should he try it. With a stealth born of long years of training and fieldwork, Duff led the group through a maze of narrow rooms, and finally into a well-lit corridor. Fortunately, the long hallway seemed to be empty. Then she heard footfalls coming from behind her. Turning her masked face toward the sound, she realized it was already too late to hide the group. Three black-suited federal agents had just rounded a corner, and the group turned to face them, responding to Duff's shouted warning. Great. Now Langley's our front man. Bullets zinged past Duff's ear. Before she could get off a shot of her own, the producer had raised both his hands, releasing a sheet of pure energy that knocked the federal agents off their feet, sending their weapons flying. The men slid as they hit the polished floor, then came to rest, apparently unconscious. Duff motioned the group forward again. «Let's move, people. They're all probably gonna know we're here by now.» As she trotted down the corridor, in the lead again, she said to Liz, «How 'bout it, psi-girl? What's coming up in our near future?» Liz said, «I think we're about to set off ' Suddenly a Klaxon, like a choir of fifty angry car alarms, began shrilling and reverberating loudly up and down the corridor. ' an alarm,' Liz finished weakly. Duff swore under her breath and kept leading the group forward, her weapon at the ready. None too gently, the two black- suited guards hustled Max into a large, empty room. Compared with the office and the hallway from which he'd just emerged, this place was like an airplane hangar a high-domed ceiling, with a balcony that held a couple dozen chairs, each of which looked down upon the table at the room's center and focal point. The table was surrounded by lights all turned off at the moment and medical apparatus of every description. Max's eyes went from the balcony down to the table, and he realized with a horrified start that the room hadn't been empty. At least, not entirely. On the table lay a motionless, blood-spattered body. Or most of a motionless, blood-spattered body. The corpse had been disassembled, methodically and competently. Max felt his gorge rise when he looked at the corpse's face and saw his sister's eyes, now dull and sightless. That's not Isabel, he reminded himself, shutting his own eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to force the horrific vision away. But the image of the dead girl, her expression frozen in a rictus of mute terror, seemed to have been burned across his retinas. His tightly closed eyes were suddenly awash in tears. He felt someone shove him from behind. «You're next, Martian,' said a rough voice. «Once we clean up the mess here, that is.» He heard a weapon being cocked behind him. In front of him, he heard footfalls as someone, or perhaps several someones, entered through another door. Must be the «medics» who sliced Lonnie open like a high school biology lab project. «Get him sedated,' Max heard someone say. «Before he has a chance to ' Suddenly the room was filled with a cacophonous, sirenlike sound. Max thought he heard one of his escorts say «Intruders.» Though still blinded by tears, Max wasted no time. Galvanized by rage and fear, he spun toward his momentarily distracted guards, raised his hands, and released some of that emotion in the form of a solid wall of force. Through his tears, he dimly saw both Men in Black fly backward into the walls at extreme speed, striking the chrome surfaces like a pair of crash-test dummies. He turned and saw several masked, white- coated people. A pair of them were lunging toward him, one of them carrying a nasty-looking hypodermic needle. He allowed some of his anger to flow outward, and he felt raw power surge through him. Less than two seconds later, Max Evans was the only conscious being in the room. This ends now, he thought, moving back toward the door through which he had entered after pausing briefly to vomit on the blood-flecked floor. Wiping his mouth and blinking away his tears, he stepped back out into the corridor. A half-dozen armed men were already there, crouching in anticipation of imminent combat, their heavy pistols and rifles drawn and ready. They fired as one, even as Max started to raise his hands. The Klaxons were still blaring, but Michael tried not to let that rattle him as he ran down the corridor. This is almost too easy, he thought as he mowed down four more MiBs with another focused blast of energy. Or maybe my control is just getting better the more I get to practice on these guys. As he made his way around the final corner toward the detention cells, he considered the weird headgear all the MiBs he'd encountered so far had been wearing. Those tinfoil hats don't seem to be any great shakes in the protection department. Wonder what they're for. Michael came to a stop in front of a locked door, in a spot that matched the mental map Kyle was sending. Extending a glowing hand, he made short work of the lock, pushed gently, and cautiously entered the room beyond. Phillip Evans turned toward him from the corner in which he stood. He looked bruised, frightened, and tired, but far from defeated. Diane Evans sat cross-legged nearby in the bare white room, as did Jeff and Nancy Parker. Their expressions were dull, guarded. They all looked as though they hadn't slept in a month. Was this what Liz just saw? he wondered. Or was it something else? They all instantly began looking better. «Michael?» each of them said in unison, as those who were sitting on the floor rose awkwardly to their feet. «How?» said Max's dad, confusion and suspicion both evident on his face. He must have suspected that Michael's unexpected appearance was really some sort of psychological dirty trick hatched by the Special Unit, a move calculated to break their spirits by raising their hopes and then cruelly dashing them. Michael wondered briefly whether the Special Unit had placed their prisoners in the same cell for similar reasons, intending to separate them soon in order to stress them further. Or maybe the Feds just want to see what conversations they'll overhear by bringing all the parental units together. «Explanations later,' Michael said. «Escape now.» And with that, he led them out into the apparently empty hallway, his fist crackling with gathering force. He was determined