In closing, just want to say we’ve been through a lot—more than most fathers and sons. Like any family, we didn’t always get along, but I want you to know I always cared about you. I still do.

  My only regret is that I couldn’t protect you better.

  Reginald leaned against the back of the bench and inhaled deeply. He’d planned on visiting Halstead once his hip healed, telling his old boss that he had nothing to regret, that he’d done the best job he could. He planned to give Halstead a big hug, like Hal had given him at their final meeting. But liver cancer had beaten Reginald to it. He spotted Halstead’s obituary one morning while perusing a copy of the Washington Post at the public library.

  On his bench in the sun, Reginald removed his wallet from inside his coat and studied his new photo identification. The picture showed a middle-aged black man with smile lines around rich brown eyes. Reginald had already mastered the look. He was wearing it at that moment, concentrating to prevent his irises from shifting to blue. That was going to take some getting used to.

  He mouthed the man’s name, which was going to take getting used to, as well, before closing the wallet on the laminated ID—Halstead’s final gift to him.

  Remember this, Reginald. Nothing is lost.

  He remembered the night in the motel when Madelyn had appeared to him and held his hand to her ethereal stomach. That deep, sacred motion he’d felt beneath his palm continued to move through him.

  It’s our love, she had told him.

  And in the name of that love, he meant to keep the promise he had made to her that night. A promise to find the next generation of Champions, to help them however he could. But how to locate them? Assistant Director Kilmer’s talk of a “model neighborhood” could prove to be a start—after all, who better to lead a revived Champions Program than him?

  Reginald closed his eyes. The search he would one day undertake remained a ways down the road. He would age, what, twenty years? After all, those future Champions he’d glimpsed—the girl with the red hair, the boy with the glasses—wouldn’t be born for another decade. In the meantime, he would need to piece together why the Champions had become targets.

  President Kennedy was briefed on the Program and passed. He campaigned on a missile gap with the Soviets, and that’s where he plans to focus spending—on new missiles and missile systems.

  Had Halstead been trying to tell him something?

  A group of shouting children scrambled past, one of them inadvertently kicking over his cane. When Reginald stooped to retrieve it, he noticed a young boy trailing far behind the others, the laces of one shoe flopping helplessly. Unable to catch up, the boy stuttered to a stop, tears threatening his round eyes.

  “Hey there,” Reginald called. “Why you looking so long in the face?”

  The boy sniffled and pointed to where the boys had reached the far end of the playground and begun wrestling. His face was the color of caramel, his hair dark and feathery.

  “They leaving you out? Come on over here a second.”

  The boy obeyed. Reginald stooped forward and tied the boy’s shoe, drawing the laces taut and fixing them into a double knot. When he finished, he leaned away, cocking his head to one side. The boy stared back.

  “How old are you?” Reginald asked.

  The boy mouthed something inaudible and held out four fingers.

  “Four years old and you already that big?” Reginald acted incredulous. “Shoot, in two years you’re gonna be faster than any of them boys. Stronger, too. You’ll run and jump circles around them.”

  The boy seemed to consider that. He wiped his nose.

  “And hey, what’s this?” Reginald reached forward and produced a quarter from behind one of the boy’s large ears. “How about that. You so rich you got money falling off you!”

  He held the coin toward the boy, made it disappear, then reappeared it in his other hand.

  The boy’s eyes glowed with wonder as he accepted the quarter in his cupped palms.

  Reginald’s love for the boy felt huge. “Go on now,” he said with a chuckle, “and don’t let me catch you moping around here anymore, hear?” He watched the boy dash across the park toward a bench where a black man and light-skinned woman were sitting. The boy climbed up onto the seat between them and showed them the coin, indicating his left ear.

  “Nothing is lost,” Reginald whispered to himself as the late-day sun slipped from view. “Nothing’s lost.”

  He was pulled from his thoughts of Madelyn and his son by a girl who separated from the crowded jungle gym and joined the family on the bench. She was the same size as the boy, had the same twisted, feathery hair, but her round eyes glinted with mischief. The man and woman scooted apart to make room for her. Her brother giggled when she began to tickle him.

  Twin sister, Reginald thought with mixed emotions.

  He stood with his cane and threw a long limping shadow toward the chain-link fence that ran alongside Amsterdam Avenue.

  Maybe one day he would find his.

  Available Now!

  Pressure Drop

  (XGeneration, Book 4)

  Preview of Pressure Drop

  XGENERATION BOOK 4

  Gainesville, Florida

  Monday, August 26, 1985

  7:55 a.m.

  Dammit.

  Director Kilmer had been hugging a green ceramic bowl to his stomach, whisking the egg yolks inside to a froth, when he smelled something burning. Black smoke curled from the toaster.

  “Walter?” Mrs. Montgomery croaked from a table beyond the counter. “Is something on fire?”

  “No, Mother.”

  He rushed across the kitchen, the small whisk sliding and disappearing beneath the orange-yellow yolks. From the toaster, two pieces of wheat bread popped up, both charred. Kilmer set the bowl on the counter. His black tie, which he’d been careful to throw over his shoulder, fell and landed in the eggs.

  “You know, I think I’ll call and invite Ruby over for a game of canasta.”

  “Ruby’s no longer with us, Mother.” Kilmer wet a sponge and began scrubbing the phlegmy yolk from his tie. In his peripheral vision, he could see his mother’s head of orange hair tilting in question.

  “Did she go back to New Jersey?”

  He sighed and closed his eyes. “Ruby passed away twelve years ago, remember?”

  “Oh my.”

  Something on the stovetop behind him began to click. The frying pan was overheating. When Kilmer spun to turn the stove down, his elbow collided into a carton of orange juice. Minute Maid splashed onto his trousers. Oh, for chrissake. He righted the carton with dripping fingers.

  “Let me take care of that.”

  Director Kilmer looked up to find Agent Steel appraising the situation with cool blue eyes. She snapped the burner to low, then took a dish rag and wiped up the spilled juice.

  “Have a seat, sir,” Steel said, removing the burnt bread from the toaster.

  Kilmer rinsed and dried his hands, then paced to the table and sat beside his mother. “Thanks for coming. Her caretaker called in sick, and her replacement won’t be here for another hour. We’ll need to conduct our morning business up here.” He frowned at the pulpy spots on his trousers.

  Sizzling sounded from the kitchen as Steel poured the eggs into the pan.

  “You called this an Orange meeting,” she said.

  “I received a report from the president this morning. It seems our opening with the Soviets over the situation at the Sterling Launch Facility last week has slammed shut. General Dementyev is refusing to talk. U.S. intelligence suggests he’s planning something big.”

  “How big?”

  “Invading Western Europe big. He’s rabid about the recent deployment of the Viper II missiles, so it could be with the aim of taking them out. But he’s also hungry for territory. Either motive would challenge the U.S.’s and NATO’s resolve. No one believes Dementyev is above using tactical nuclear weapons.”

  “So we use them back.” Agent Steel took two plates from a cupboard and set them beside the stove.

  Kilmer shook his head. “That has the opening salvo of World War Three written all over it. The president doesn’t want an escalation if he can help it. He even considered pulling the Viper IIs out unilaterally, but European leaders feared the move would leave them more vulnerable, not less.”

  “You know,” Mrs. Montgomery croaked, gazing around the legs of the table. “I haven’t seen Boots lately.”

  “Neither have I,” Kilmer answered distractedly. Boots had been his childhood cat.

  “So the president wants to capitulate?” Agent Steel asked above Mrs. Montgomery’s murmured “Oh my.”

  “Not capitulate. But he’s concerned that the second we commit U.S. troops, the Soviets are going to cry aggression and strike U.S. soil. Our missile detection system went screwy again a few days ago. Whether the Soviets are using Artificials or some new technology, they’re getting closer and closer to knocking out our retaliatory strike capability. By the time we notice a hail of intercontinental ballistic missiles incoming, it could be too late to do anything.”

  Utensils clinked and scraped as Agent Steel moved back and forth in the kitchen. “What does that leave as far as options?”

  “For now, bolstering the armies of Western Europe. The president is already sending military supplies. He believes that, properly outfitted, our allies can repel a conventional Soviet invasion. But there are still those damn tactical weapons. In his megalomania, Dementyev is prepared to go to the brink. The West isn’t. That’s why the president contacted us.”

  “He wants to use the Champions.” Steel carried the two plates to the table, setting one in front of Kilmer and the other in front of his mother. Steam rose from scrambled eggs and freshly buttered toast.

  “He was impressed by what they were able to achieve in Missouri—aren’t you eating?”

  “I already did.” Steel returned with two glasses of orange juice, placing them beside the plates before sitting across from him. The light through the sliding glass door turned her staring eyes white.

  Kilmer had little doubt he had hired the most capable head of security, but did she always have to be so damned intense? He heaped egg onto his toast, took a bite, and sat back. Good cook, though. “He wants the Champions on standby,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “in the event of war.”

  “To disable their medium range launch capabilities,” Steel concluded correctly.

  “How long would it take to get them ready?”

  “Three months. Sooner if we pull them from school.”

  “No, no, that would draw unneeded attention,” Kilmer said. “It’s the illusion of normalcy that keeps them safe. I don’t want to jeopardize that. We’ll just have to hope the Soviets can be forestalled that long.”

  “I’m not sure anything’s coming out,” Mrs. Montgomery croaked.

  Kilmer looked over to find his mother’s plate coated in black pepper. He took the shaker from her trembling hand and dashed some pepper over his own eggs. “Here.” He switched plates with her.

  “Ooh.” Mrs. Montgomery bent low. “I can see the little specks now.”

  “Speaking of unneeded attention,” Kilmer said. “Any security updates?”

  “We’ve stepped up our vigilance, per your request,” Agent Steel replied.

  “No sign of the Scale?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Good. Were they ever to discover where we’re based…” His head ached at the thought of all the money, technology, and planning that had been dumped into Oakwood, the model neighborhood he’d first conceived of in 1961. “Look, I’m confident our jet’s stealth features kept them from tracking us to and from Missouri, but we can’t assume anything. They’ve already observed our team’s capabilities. Filmed them. And three of our kids lost helmets, so they got a good look at some faces, too. If there’s a weak link, they’ll exploit it. That’s what they did with the last team.”

  “There’s been no breach, sir,” Agent Steel assured him. “The neighborhood is as secure as ever.”

  Kilmer carried his plate to the kitchen sink. With the deteriorating situation with the Soviets, they couldn’t afford any missteps. The president, the United States—hell, the entire free world—were depending on them. And this shadowy group, the Scale, could upend everything. Again.

  And for what?

  Kilmer scraped his mother’s ruined eggs and toast into the trash and set the plate in the sink. In the years between programs, Kilmer had often told himself that if he had been at the helm instead of Director Halstead, things would have gone differently. He would have taken better care of those Champions, lobbied for more money and resources, upped the security.

  And though he’d done those things this go round, the exact same dangers seemed to be gathering.

  “Have you told them who the Scale are?” Agent Steel asked.

  “No.” He blew out his breath. “There’s no immediate danger, and we need to keep the kids focused on Soviet aggression. We start chasing non-Cold War threats, and the president could decide his executive fund is better allocated elsewhere. And look, the kids believe they deterred a direct nuclear strike last week. The real story would steal wind from their sails at a time when their commitment—not to mention their enthusiasm—is sky high.”

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Montgomery said. “It feels like I’ve spilled something liquid on my lap. It’s warm.”

  Arms bracing the counter, Director Kilmer stared out the back window. “Agent, would it be asking too much…”

  “Not a problem, sir.”

  “There are some adult diapers in her dresser.”

  He watched Agent Steel guide Mrs. Montgomery from the table and toward the staircase to the second floor. The irony wasn’t lost on him. If he couldn’t even take care of his own doddering mother, how in the hell could he do the same for six super-powered teenagers?

  He surveyed the tidy kitchen, where the warm smell of their breakfast lingered.

  He was going to have to trust Agent Steel’s security assessment. With time and training, the six would become better able to care for themselves. They weren’t there yet, though. And there were three Kilmer worried about in particular—the “Troubled Trio,” he’d come to think of them—maybe because they reminded him of Henry Tillman from the last team. The Champions could ill afford to have another one of their own turn on them.

  Especially…

  Pressure Drop (XGeneration, Book 4)

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  XGeneration Catalogue

  You Don’t Know Me

  The Watchers

  Silent Generation

  Pressure Drop

  Cry Little Sister

  Greatest Good

  Dead Hand

  Author’s Amazon Page

 

 

  Brad Magnarella, Silent Generation

 

 

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