Free Ship of the Damned by James F. David Page A

agents,” Jett shouted, but still the men held him, pulling him away. The men were reluctant to handle Compton as roughly, and she made them pay, kicking one full in the groin. He collapsed, hands in his crotch. With an elbow she broke the nose of the man behind her, then turned and drove a fist into the solar plexus of another.
    The men holding Jett were distracted by Compton’s assault. Twisting, Jett broke the grip of one man, then shoved him back, getting space for his free arm. Swiftly he turned and smashed the nose of another—no fancy karate moves, just a rock-hard fist to the face. The man collapsed to his knees, hands to his face, the blood already flowing. Jett caught another man on the jaw, knocking him to the ground; the others backed away. A gunshot into the air ended the melee, Sloan advancing, ordering the crowd away. They had no time to leave before the Special struck again.
    A soundless hurricane blew through the crowd, bodies tumbling away from the Special. Pressed against the ambulance, Sloan tried in vain to aim his gun. Jett lay flat, his bulk giving him some resistance. The Special was moving again, slowly, still clutching his arm. The hurricane ended, leaving a confused mob scattering in all directions. Jett got up to follow the Special, not looking for Compton, knowing she would be right behind.
    The Special crossed the road to a parked car, leaning against it and then turning back toward Jett. Jett dove behind the ambulance, Compton following him. An invisible blow from the escapee rocked the ambulance up onto two wheels; it briefly threatened to fall over on them before crashing back down. Jett counted to three, then popped himself up, risking a quick look. The Special was running; he was already halfway across the parking lot on the other side of the street. Jett trotted after him, Compton veering right so that they wouldn’t be a single target. Sloan came thumping up behind, running next to Jett, who shouted for him to spread out.
    When the Special rounded the corner of the next building, Jett sprinted to follow, Sloan pounding along behind. As he paused at the corner, a blast of air roared past, sending two men rolling out from behind the building. The workmen wore stained blue overalls; one lay still, the other grabbed his leg where a piece of steel protruded. Staring at the injured man, Jett shook his head.
    Containment’s going to be a bitch, he thought.
    Peeking around the corner he could see along the length of the warehouse to a storage yard behind. The Special was nowhere in sight. Cautiously, he jogged along the side of the building, trying to balance speed with caution. The Special was running, but once exhausted he would put his back to a wall and fight.
    Jett paused at the end of the building, Sloan still following. The storage yard was filled with stacks of pallets, fencing made of cement, and mounds of sand and gravel. A scoop loader was working the gravel pile, hauling it inside the building. No sign of the Special. An eight-foot chain link fence cut off escape to the left and ran the length of the property—no way out.
    “He’s gone,” Sloan said. “Just disappeared.”
    “Shut up,” Jett said.
    Jett studied the pallets and stacked fencing, looking for hiding places. There were nooks and crannies, but nothing that would immediately draw someone to it as a place to hide. Then he looked closely at the sand pile, seeing foot-sized depressions running to the top. Without a word he ran to the sand, following the trail to the top where the fence was only three feet high. Jett jumped the fence, Sloan landing right behind. Police sirens sounded in the distance—they would have to terminate the Special soon.
    There was an old house on the other side. Jett squatted next to the fence, studying it. Sloan started forward, but Jett pulled him down.
    “Wait,” Jett said.
    Then he saw Compton appear at the corner of the house, pointing at the back window. Boards covered most of the