So much for safehouses.
Frostburn dropped us at one of the safehouses his government maintains while he went to get the data uploaded and decrypted. We were only there a few hours when Raptor sensed the others close by—as if they had appeared out of thin air. And not just Dominion and Melvin, but the four-armed demon and the tattooed Goth-looking guy from the roof too.
I think the Goth-guy fancies himself some kind of sorcerer—he floated through the wall, insubstantial as a ghost, and fired some kind of green bolts from his hands that knocked the hell out of Cole but didn’t leave a mark on the walls. That, and the demon called him “wizard.” I had assumed that the demon teleported to attack Graham and Raptor on the GWB, but maybe this guy was able to teleport them? Can he really do magic, or does he just have paranormal abilities that he calls magic?
Anyway, these guys blasted clear through the wall and came at us. The Norwegians didn’t stand a chance against them, but I have to hand it to them: they tried. Now they’re all dead. More tallies on the butcher’s bill for Wired Alchemy to answer for.
We were outnumbered and outgunned. Raptor flew out the window, trying to draw them away from us. It kinda worked, except that demon managed to coldcock me again and the Goth guy took Cole out of the picture. When I woke up, they and Raptor were gone, Cole was unconscious, the Norwegians were dead, and the house was on fire from Cole’s plasma form. Not the best showing for the good guys. We barely got a chance to celebrate bloodying their noses in Peekskill.
Now we’re waiting for Frostburn to come back with the intel. I hope his techs have managed to figure out where they’ve taken Raptor, because otherwise our only lead is the Jersey facility.
Before those whackjobs came at us, I did manage to make a couple of calls. I spoke to Elliott briefly. Thank God, Graham made it out of surgery. He’s still in critical condition, though. Elliott said there were government agents at the hospital—they wanted to resuscitate Graham so they could ask him some questions. I’m glad Elliott’s there—he put a stop to it. No one’s ever been able to bulldoze that guy. He was pissed at me for not being able to tell him what’s going on (can’t say I blame him), but the Feds were right there—one of them grabbed the phone away from him. Not sure if I can risk calling him again until my name’s cleared—don’t need to make the situation worse for the Tyson boys than it already is.
The only spot of good news is that I spoke with Gerald, and he’s agreed to help clear my name. I think he might be on board with the Foundation, too. I went through this whole spiel about making a difference, fighting the good fight, all the good the Foundation can do—it even sounded a bit corny to my ears, but Raptor said it had a good ring to it. Turns out, all I needed to do was say “Dassenbrenner”. Gerald was willing to help once he heard that name. He tells me that Dassenbrenner has ties to the Nazis, that Charles Yarger is actually the descendant of one of Hitler’s right hand men. I can’t say I’m surprised—there are those rumors about how the Nazis were seeking sources of occult power. Gerald says that, assuming I am actually not a terrorist, he should be able to clear my name in 48 hours. I’ll be checking in with him a couple times a day until then.
While he’s doing that, and Elliott’s making sure Graham’s OK, we have our own business to take care of. As soon as Frostburn gets back, we have to rescue our friend.
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