Free Control Point by Myke Cole

shaking the ground. Britton shielded his eyes against the flash and spray of shattered asphalt. When he opened his eyes, the hair on his shins was smoldering. A two-foot crater had rent the parking lot. The smell of ozone lingered in the air.
    “Get away from the car, or I won’t miss next time,” Harlequin said. “Knees, damn it. I’m tired of this.”
    Britton measured the distance. He couldn’t get to the car, open the door, and get inside in time.
    He sank to his knees.
    “Smartest thing you’ve done all damn day,” Harlequin said, descending toward him, the cloud trailing. “Hands over your head, Oscar.”
    As Britton raised his hands, he caught a flash of black and red in his peripheral vision. He stood and raced for it, clapping his hands and calling. The giant bird-thing froze, its sword beak pointing toward him.
    “Damn it, Oscar!” Harlequin yelled. Britton felt the hairs all over his body stand on end as electricity arced around him. He froze, wincing, waiting for his skin to burst into flame.
    But the strike never came.
    Harlequin blazed in the sky, wreathed in crackling electricity. The cloud expanded, haloing him in gray. “The thing that burns me is that you think I’m the bad guy. You’re the walking time bomb who has already killed one person and now wants a chance to spread more of it around. I’m not the bad guy,Oscar. You are. And I’m not going to let you hurt anyone else.” He spread his hands, electricity shooting from the storm cloud up his arms to buzz along his fingertips.
    He dove.
    Britton raced toward the bird, motionless on a single purple leg. Its long neck lowered menacingly, the throat puffing out in warning.
    Harlequin’s shadow overtook him, the conjured cloud covering the sun. The Aeromancer shot past him, spinning in the air and touching down on the tarmac between Britton and the bird, one hand and knee on the ground, his body coiled to spring, bristling with blue lightning.
    Britton stopped short, scraping his feet, flinging himself toward the cruiser. He heard the electric sizzle as Harlequin sprang airborne behind him, closing the distance like a dive-bomber.
    A boom sounded. Britton felt as if a giant hand swatted him. He turned in the air, his back slamming against the car door, shattering the window. The rippling air caught Harlequin, spiraling him into the store’s roof, sending shingles flying. The storm cloud dissipated, drifting apart on a suddenly calm breeze.
    The bird took a lurching step, its throat smooth once again, stabbing the air with its huge beak.
    Britton scrambled to his feet, ears ringing. He fumbled for the door handle, wincing at the pain in his shoulders as he threw himself into the seat and put the car in gear. Harlequin stirred weakly on the store’s roof. One of the cops helped Cheatham scramble up the air-conditioning unit to reach him. The other ran toward Britton, shouting.
    He stopped short as a gate opened in front of him, closed, then reappeared a few feet to one side of the cruiser.
    Britton gunned the engine, leaving patches of smoking rubber as he drove the car through the gate, the static light washing over the hood.
    The convenience store, cops, and soldiers all vanished behind him as the world beyond bumped beneath his tires.

CHAPTER VII
GONE TO GROUND
    That’s the thing with you leftists. You shed copious tears for the Apache. You bemoan the crushing of “native ways” that have more to do with drinking and gambling than whatever you’re imagining. You want an exemption to the McGauer-Linden Act for them, but you don’t get it. I’ve kicked through barricades of burning tires in Mescalero. I’ve run and gunned against Selfers and their “Mountain Gods” in the Chiricahua passes. You think Apache magic is all horses, scenic vistas, and flowing black hair. It’s not—it’s fire and blood and rending teeth. You want to preserve it, but you wouldn’t last thirty seconds within a mile of it. You’re like people