Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33658 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33658 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
The war continues…
Chapter one
Jensen
Fourteen years later…
Islip into the shadowy recesses of a dark Las Vegas alley, hot on the trail of what is one of the ever-elusive, nearly impossible-to-locate ICE dealers pedaling the newest variety of “sin” in the city. But then, I suppose that when you’re selling top-secret Area 51 military technology laced with alien DNA, you tend to be more careful than the average scumbag drug dealer. ICE being is Julian’s newest attempt to force the city into dependency and grow his “perfect race,” his evolution of humanity.
“Not on my watch,” I murmur, determined to locate the ICE warehouse.
The dealer halts up close and personal in front of his buyer—an ICE Junkie, or “Pledge,” as they’re called on the streets. Two burly dudes flank the dealer—his bodyguards—their attention hyper-focused in front of them.
It's the break I’ve been waiting for.
“Where’s the money, Charles?” the dealer demands.
“I won’t have it until tomorrow,” Charles replies, hugging himself, his teeth chattering. “But I’ll get you the money. I just need a hit. I’m begging you, David. Please. Give me a hit.” He wheezes, a loud, wet noise that sounds like death barely warmed over. Considering withdrawal from ICE has already produced six dead Pledges this month alone, all of which were found to have organs shriveled up like prunes, I’m pretty damn sure this dude really does need that hit.
If I know this, the dealer does as well, but he doesn’t care. “No money. No ICE.”
“Tomorrow,” Charles promises, his voice quavering. “Tomorrow I get paid. I’ll pay you double. Please, man. Please. I need…that hit.”
“Is this what you want?” the dealer taunts, producing a small vial of clear liquid from his pocket—ICE, which slides down the user’s throat with a subzero effect and creates temporary superhuman speed and powers. Our scientific team has determined it to be a synthetic version of the original GTECH serum, but with unidentifiable components. And identifying those components has proven critical to developing a method of safe withdrawal.
“Yes, please, David!” Charles shouts desperately. “Please! I have to have a hit.”
David pockets the vial, and Charles grabs for his arm. David flings him across the alley with the kind of ease that says he’s feeling the super strength of his own ICE addiction.
I curse, hitting the mic in my ear and speaking to my team. “Hot ICE on the move, and so am I.”
“Wait on backup,” Caleb orders.
“No time.”
“Jensen—”
I fade into the wind and reappear in front of the dealer and his bodyguards, blocking their exit from the alleyway. “Howdy there, fellas,” I say, motioning to the dealer. “I’ll be taking that vial of ICE you’ve got there in your pocket. Then you can mosey on along and take a nice long vacation. Go do whatever drug dealers do for fun. Play the casino tables. Watch SpongeBob for all I care. Just get the hell off of my streets.”
The dickhead dealer cackles. “Your streets? These streets belong to Julian Rain, as you’ll soon find out.” He gives my black fatigues a once-over and speaks to the man to his right. “Looks like we got us some Army wannabe who’s been ICE-ing too much. Thinks he’s superhuman or some shit like that. Thinks he can push us around.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” I say. “Once you go GTECH, you never go back. Unlike you Pledges, I don’t think I can push you around. I know I can.”
David waves his hand and the three men rush me, clearly uninformed on what GTECH means to them, which is nothing good. I could windwalk away, but what good would that be? Standing my ground, I kick one of my attackers in the chest and land a fist on the other’s jaw. The two bodyguards—or whatever the juiced-up bastards were—come back at me before I can make a move toward Charles and David, neither of the guards fazed by my attacks when they should have been.
I punch one of the men and send him stumbling backward, but the bastards right themselves and come right back at me. One of them grabs my baseball hat and a chunk of my newly-cut short, spiky blond hair.
“Now you’re fighting like a girl,” I mumble irritably, punching him in the face hard enough to knock him down. I do the same to the second man, and by the time he hits the ground, the dealer is making a run for the exit.
I windwalk and appear in front of David. At least, that’s what the dealer is calling himself today.
His eyes are wide with shock. “How did you—”
I grab him and jack him up against the wall, his feet dangling above the pavement.
“Give me the ICE.”
He’s gaping, still dumbfounded over my windwalking, which tells me just how sheltered the Zodius are from their own street operation. “Where’d you come from, man?”