Free Nighthawks (Children of Nostradamus Book 1) by Jeremy Flagg

spot form in front of him. The laser hit the dark spot and vanished into nothingness.
    He fell to his knees as time sped back up. He reached for his chest and realized that he was still whole.
    “Class I identified,” said the Corps soldier. “Immediate termination.”
    Conthan looked up, confused, and realized that the gun was pointing directly at his face. He watched as the soldier pulled the trigger and the pain surged through his brain.
    “Not today.” It was his voice, but he wasn’t speaking.
    He realized he wasn’t in control of his actions as he held up his hand and pushed the pain through his body to his palms. The black spot returned and he watched as the laser emerged from the gun and vanished into another dark hole. He could see a similar spot appear just to the side of the soldier. The laser projected outward from the darkness, searing through the soldier’s head.
    Conthan felt the pain release his body. He fell to the ground. He lay next to a gasping Jed Zappens. Conthan turned his head to see the man. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
    Jed sucked in a ragged breath and blinked several times, tears beginning to stream down his face. He reached into his breast pocket and dragged out an old folded envelope. “For you,” he said through clenched teeth.
    Conthan’s voice had left him. He wanted to scream for a medic but he couldn’t find air enough to fill his lungs. He started to reach for the envelope but hesitated before snatching it from the dead man’s hands. He crushed it in his grasp as he watched the light vanish from the artist’s eyes.
    “Run,” said a voice.
    Conthan rolled his head to see that there was nobody left standing in the alley. He sucked in air and tried to sit upright. “Hello?”
    “ Run!”
    He didn’t dare question the voice. In front of him was a dead Corps soldier and a dead artist. He moved through the alley and finally out into the street. His feet picked up speed, his stumbling turning to a fast run. There was no stopping him as fear set in.
    He had killed a Corps soldier. He was now marked for death. As he ran, he could hear the echo of the soldier’s words. “Class I,” he had said. Conthan couldn’t shake the feeling that life as he knew it was over.
     
    ***
     
    “ That’s our cue,” said a portly man. He stopped leaning against the wall and started turning up the cuffs on his dress shirt. He reached up and loosened the tie tightly wrapped around his neck.
    “And here I was beginning to think you looked handsome,” said a young female holding a flute of white wine.
    “Alyssa,” he said, “you flatterer.”
    “I take back all the comments about you needing sit-ups,” she said, giving his belly a rub.
    He chuckled. The room was descending into chaos as patrons tried to push their way past one another. Outside, the fight between the anti-powers coalition and the Children sympathizers became physical. Cops in riot gear were beginning to step over the broken glass and come into the gallery itself. As law enforcement blocked the exits, the crowd of fringe artists screamed, trying to get away from the confrontation.
    “What’s the plan, Dwayne?”
    The man tossed the tie onto the floor, stepping into the crowd. He turned to the exit Conthan charged toward. He watched the two artists escape through the door. He rubbed his thumb across the tips of his fingers. As he sped up the motion, small sparks began to form.
    “We keep them away from those doors.”
    She nodded. Without missing a beat she tapped the flute against the wall, the glass shattering to the ground, leaving the sharp stem. She walked closer to the policeman reaching for his weapon. A protester charged the policeman, using the wood of his sign as a spear.
    Dwayne began shaking his fists, the small sparks now leaping off his hands. He paused as Alyssa stepped between the officer and the protestor. She dropped quickly to one knee, jamming the flute stem into an officer’s leg. She used his