Free Rescue From Planet Pleasure by Mario Acevedo Page B

the side of her cup where it said: Key West.
    “We go to Pacoima,” I grumbled to Coyote, “for a quick lunch. And you take Jolie for happy hour in Key West?”
    Coyote replied through a mouthful of sandwich. “ Vato , what can I say? She looks better than you in a bikini.”
    Jolie shucked her flip-flops and pulled her jeans, t-shirt, and jacket from the tote bag. She yanked them over her bikini and sat on the ground to tie her cross trainers.
    The throb of an approaching helicopter echoed toward us.
    Coyote straightened and swiveled his head to locate the sound. “We can’t let them find us up here.” He pointed to the side of the butte. “Go. Go. Get off this hill.”
    My thoughts zinged to the towers and their psychotronic diviners. Our jumps through the psychic world must have triggered an alarm.
    With me in the lead, we dashed off the top of the butte and slid down a chute between the stone columns along its face. When we reached the bottom, we’d have to scramble for a hiding place as far from the butte as we could get.
    A Blackhawk appeared, cruising below us, prowling low and slow.
    I braced my arms and legs against the sides of the chute. Jolie and Coyote piled on top of me.
    The helicopter landed at the edge of the butte’s rocky skirt, a hundred meters from us, blocking our escape. Armed men hopped out and fanned from the machine.
    These goons were as well equipped as Navy SEALs but I couldn’t say if they were military, or special police, or contractors. But whoever they were, I was sure they either worked directly for or answered to Cress Tech International.
    The Blackhawk lifted into the air and flew off. The men shouted to each other and hustled along the slope, moving past in a loose formation that told me they didn’t realize we were here.
    “Back up,” I whispered. We had passed a deep groove that we could retreat into. The drumming of the helicopter blades masked the sounds of rocks crumbling from the sandstone as we inched back up. The groove was about five feet deep and ten feet high, and we packed ourselves into it. Luckily, our side of the butte was in shadow that grew darker by the minute.
    Another helicopter circled above.
    “Shit,” Jolie whispered. “I left my stuff up there.”
    “You Coyote?” I asked. “What about the beer can?”
    “I crushed it and put it in my pocket. It’s worth money.”
    A whole nickel. Perhaps.
    For their troubles, the helicopter crews would find a tote bag, ladies flip-flops, and a plastic hurricane cup from Key West. Let Cress Tech try to make sense about how that stuff got up there.
    The Blackhawks made pass after pass as twilight gathered. Laser beams from their chin turrets traced the ground. They landed repeatedly, dropped off ground teams, circled, landed at another spot, and picked them up to repeat the procedure along the ground surrounding the butte. For all the noise and excitement, the effect was very much Keystone Cops.
    Since it looked like we might be stuck here for the night, we slowed our metabolisms to conserve energy. This would also cool our bodies to near ambient temperatures and reduce the likelihood that we’d be discovered by thermal viewers. We kept our sunglasses on to hide our reflective eyes at the expense of losing our night vision and the ability to see auras.
    Another two helicopters arrived and doubled the chaos. One of the men in SWAT gear wandered along the bottom of the butte in front of us. He had slung his carbine under one arm and walked like he’d lost much of his enthusiasm. He halted before us and shined a flashlight along the stone columns. I tensed. We were maybe fifty feet above him, but should he spot us, I’d dive on him, hopefully before he could cry for help.
    He swept the beam left and right, up and down. He turned it off, unzipped his pants, and took a whiz that was a bit too aromatic. He gave himself a shake, zipped up and strode away.
    The helicopters kept orbiting. A half dozen Humvees arrived.