Free The Marijuana Chronicles by Jonathan Santlofer Page A

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    The Thermospecs made a weird whirring sound. Killy scanned the apartment. “I’m seeing four people,” he said as he pulled the small gun from an inner pocket. He set the laser sight, and fired. Sounded like sand through a straw. The sonic bomb is about the size of a small kiwi. The term “sonic” is a misnomer, since the blast is not loud, but the effect on the nervous system is severe and instant. There was a bright flash, a muffled thump. More thumps. Glass breaking, something falling.
    Kelly checked with his Thermospecs. “They’re all down.” He pulled out a small gun of his own, and loaded it with a glass ball. He sighted with the laserscope and fired the ball through the same window. They could hear it clatter against a wall, roll along the floor.
    “Okay,” Killy said. He pulled out a small mirrored disc from a small leather case.
    “Portal,” Kelly said. “Follow the bouncing ball.”
    There was a flash and a whoosh of some considerable violence. Killy and Kelly found themselves in the living room. Killy first thing picked up the glass ball at his feet and pocketed it.
    “Portal recovered,” he said.
    The living room: a couch, some cushions, a pair of mattresses on the floor. A couple of tables loaded with scales, plastic baggies, packed weed. One guy was sitting on the couch when the sonic bomb hit, and there he fell, a bent heap, face tranquil with unconsciousness. Another one collapsed by the table in the kitchen, the broken glass around him from the coffee cup that fell with him.
    “Fuck! We’ll have to take Mendoza with us,” Kelly said. “We don’t have time for a chat!”
    Killy found Jose “Crash” Mendoza in bed. He had fallen onto it, still clutching a smoking bong. The water stained the maroon bedsheet.
    “Shit, he was smoking it,” Kelly said, examining the dark residue in the bong.
    He searched around for Moon Dust, looking through the thick cakes of weed, the bags of buds and leaves. Killy found a briefcase full of the stuff in the bedroom, Kelly a small leather pouch. Kelly time-jumped with it all back to the safehouse while Killy went back to the bedroom to check on Crash Mendoza. There was still time before these stoners would come to. Killy scanned all of them, checked their vital signs, and had just reached the bed when he noticed he could see the maroon sheet right through the guy. Crash was fading right before his eyes. He quickly scanned what was happening, getting footage of the irresistible moment when he put his hand right through the fading image of Crash. After a few seconds, just a ruffled sheet, an empty bed, the stink of bongwater.
    “What happened?” It was Kelly, having returned from the safehouse. Killy showed him on the mini-screen. “Oh crap,” Kelly said. And he rushed out to check on the others.
    “I don’t think they smoked it,” Killy said, examining one of the bongs. “Only him.”
    “We’ve got to set up a trace and find him,” Kelly said.
    “Won’t he eventually come back?”
    Kelly was heading to the kitchen when he heard the sound. Killy heard it too. It was a buzzing, familiar. Growing to a flaming sizzle.
    “I don’t think …” Kelly said as they gathered up their equipment, “that we’ll have time to find out.”
    There was a bright flash. The far wall in the living room glowed as five figures rushed in. Time Control Enforcement Troopers stormed into the room. A number of loud cracks—flashes from particle guns already drawn. Killy fell sideways in mid-dive, folded up like a snail on a stick. More cracks, as Kelly flipped a table over. Troopers tumbled in all directions. Kelly crawled over to Killy, who was twitching, his body glowing strangely.
    “Hold it right there!” one of the troopers yelled.
    The firing stopped.
    Kelly grabbed the twitching Killy in a tight embrace. “Consuelo,” he said.
    There was a brief flash. It was a quick blink. The two of them were gone.
    “Fuck! They portal’d out!”
    “How they do