CHAPTER  1

 

The helicopter soared across the pitch-black New York City sky, its rotors making a faint whipping as the lights from traffic and buildings populated the ground below. 

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"Alright, touchdown in three." The tactical squad leader barked. "We want them alive for questioning and easy clean up, stun rounds only. Take out the target, take the truck, and we’ll go from there." 

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A motorcycle weaved through the New York City traffic, the rider wearing a black helmet with a black visor, an all-black leather jacket, and black cargo pants. He revved the motorcycle as he made a yellow light. The heads-up display in the helmet plotted his route for him. He skidded to a stop in front of a warehouse and took off his helmet, placing it on the motorcycle. 

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The helicopter landed, and the agents jumped off. One grabbed a large black duffel bag and hustled after the other agents. They moved through the back of the warehouse. Three men stood near a truck, smoking cigarettes while another scrolled through his social media. Others stood with guns, surveying the empty warehouse where harsh yellow lights watched from above. A stun bullet shot out of the dark, hitting the man on his phone in his neck. He convulsed, dropping his phone, which cracked before he hit the ground himself. The men smoking threw their cigarettes and reached for the guns slung over their shoulders. Stun bullets cut them down while tasers from behind took down the men who had their weapons ready.

 

"Get the keys," the team leader yelled. 

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Another agent tapped his ear, "Asset secure," he said. 

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"Providence Centurions," a voice said. 

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The agents turned to the voice, guns raised.

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"Who the hell are you?" One asked.

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"Whoa, whoa, no need to yell. I’m a huge fan of your work. Great job cleaning up these boys. I think I’ll take it from her, and by the way, I love your matching outfits." 

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The man had black hair, brown eyes, and a well-built, muscular figure. His all-black outfit held compartments housing gear and a holster.

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 "Hands up, get on the ground, now." The lead agent screamed. "Who do you think you are?" 

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"Have you ever heard the story of Perseus, the Greek hero? The man who slew Medusa. He defeated her because of his cunning and her pride. Every man to enter her presence turned to stone, and she thought he would be no different. Until she was relieved of her head. I’m Perseus, and the Red Cyan is Medusa." 

"Get on the ground now, base, we have a…"

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The man’s cinnamon brown irises didn’t flinch as he whipped a gun from his side at inhuman speed, shooting two bullets. He ducked under the gunfire of another man and uppercutted him with the gun. He threw his elbow back, hitting another agent in the face. He spun the man around him as another agent shot at him, hitting his teammate. The man in black shoved the agent off him, turned around, and shot both of them. He dropped the clip from his gun and reloaded it, killing the other agents in the warehouse. He holstered his gun and snatched the radio off a downed agent. 

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"All clear here, asset secured. We’ll be on the move soon, over."

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"Copy, good work," an agent on the other end said. 

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The man unzipped the duffel bag on the ground. 

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"Well, what are you doing here?" He said.

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Inside rested a large black metal cylinder with red energy flowing through clear sections of it. The man in black pulled out a device and scanned the cylinder. The screen on the device read ‘Psychanium.’ The man smiled, zipped the bag, and placed it in the back of the box truck. Four motorcycles pulled up behind him, and the men riding them dismounted. 

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"What do you want us to do with the bodies, sir?" The man on his right asked. 

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"Nothing, I want Providence to find them," the man said as he closed the doors of the truck. 

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"Sir, are you sure that’s advisable?" 

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"Did I ask you to question me?" The man in black shouted.

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"No, sir, sorry, sir."

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"No, I shouldn’t have yelled."

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He pulled a white envelope from his breast pocket and placed it on a body beside the truck. The envelope had the words "Red Cyan" written on the front in cursive. 

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"What’s next?" Another agent asked. 

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The man in black handed him the keys.

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"The Psychics have taken too much from us. What is life if not the struggle against principalities, against wickedness in high places? You know the plan. 117 Moody Street."

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"Yes, sir," 

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The box truck turned on Moody Street in New York City as the gloomy morning sky lingered over the city. The truck made another turn into an alleyway beside a glass and metal spire. Inside, men and women in suits ran around, papers flying out of their hands, phones pressed to their ears, and others typing as they walked while talking into earpieces. 

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The back of the box truck opened, and a woman in a smart black and white business suit grabbed the duffel bag. She looked inside, seeing the same metal cylinder as the man in black. She zipped the bag and walked towards the door. She swiped a keycard and entered the building from the alleyway, walking to the elevator and arriving at the 40th floor. She walked into an office and dropped the duffel bag in a corner before making her way back to the elevator and into the passenger seat of the box truck. 

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"This is Fay, bomb planted," the woman said into her earpiece as she pushed her lengthy, caramel brown hair out of her green-flecked hazel eyes. She sent an ‘all agents on deck, meet at the usual location’ message through the tablet.

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"Great work, get out of the blast radius," the man in black said as he paced on a distant rooftop. 

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People walked Moody Street, heads locked downwards and looks of apathy on their faces as they stared into their phones or held high, showing off their luxury sunglasses as they took calls from their investment bank employers. Birds chirped in Central Park as the spire-like oaks glowed a brilliant green, ignoring the gray, depressing gloom of the overcast sky. 

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The man in black tapped a button on his phone screen. A crashing sound ripped through the city as the top of the building exploded. Another loud hum tore through the air as everyone stared at the building enveloped in a red bubble of energy while a red shockwave exploded from it, stretching across the sky, casting the glow of death as it washed over the city. Debris fell from the crumbling building, crushing bystanders as it collapsed. 

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The man in black ducked without thought as the bomb painted the sky red, and the shockwave pushed him back.

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Through the rubble, blood, and scar-covered people searched for their friends and relatives, engulfed in dust. Lifeless hands and legs stuck out from under large pieces of debris while pools and puddles of blood leaked out. First responders arrived on the scene, sirens and flashing red and blue lights filled the dust-choked sky while screams enveloped the air, echoing for miles.

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Explosions rocked boats flying Providence flags in the New York harbor. The sound of alarms tore through the city as the ships began to dip below the waves. 

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The man in black dialed a number on his phone.

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"This is Fletcher. Get ready to sell our short positions of the stock of every corporation a Psychic family owns." 

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The person on the other end acknowledged the request, and Fletcher hung up. He pressed another button on his phone, and worldwide, billions of devices received a single text. "WE ARE THE CIRCLE." With an image of New York City on fire. 

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CHAPTER 2

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Versia Ikakala sat in front of the dual TV screens underneath his Palo Alto house. 

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"Breaking News from New York City, where a bomb has detonated on Moody Street," a voice on his TV said. 

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Versia’s ebony brown eyes locked onto the two cable news channels covering the same story. "Terrorist Attack in New York '' flashed over the screen of both channels. His phone buzzed as the notification from his news app came through. Videos from people around the world showed them in shock. Celebrities' social media accounts became littered with posts standing in solidarity with the victims and making hefty donations. 

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       Politicians and World Leaders made statements condemning the cowards who perpetrated such a heinous attack. Versia buried his dark brown hands in his face as they showed footage of them pulling children out of the rubble. The news cameras panned, showing crushed cars, cracks, and shudders of buildings around the primary target. Firefighters sprayed water onto the crumbling sections of the flaming building while police on the scene pulled people out of the rubble, and an EMT wrapped a bandage around the blood-red arm of a survivor they’d found. A thick layer of gray dust coated everything in the vicinity as smoke choked the air. On the TV, Versia watched firefighters and other emergency personnel coughing as others put on gas masks. Versia shuddered as an icy sweat ran over his body. He took deep breaths as he composed himself, easing the thudding in his heart.       

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Versia’s phone vibrated as hundreds of texts from world leaders, politicians, and celebrities gushed in. He turned off his phone and laid it face down. He leaned back in his chair, his hands covering his face. He ran them down his features before taking out his second private phone. His hands shook as he typed in the number. He raked his hand through his curly, short, midnight-black hair.

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"Marissa, could I have a list of people potentially in the building?"

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His hologram screen dinged as the list came through. He swiped at it, looking through the names and ages of the potential victims, at least three dozen children in the building. He buried his face in his hands again as tears flowed from his eyes, and a chilling shiver ran up his spine. He looked up through teary eyes and turned to his satellite feeds. They spied over the Providence Headquarters as their naval fleet moved into open water, as fighter jets, helicopters, and drones gathered on the runways. He turned his main phone on, and the hundreds of texts flooded in. He flipped it to silent and let them rain in. He dialed a number on his private phone as he composed himself, wiping away the tears. He sauntered upstairs and looked out the blinds as he put the phone to his ear.

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A few dozen new vans had already gathered outside his gate. He looked at a bouquet of cyan-colored roses on a table nearby and picked up a flower.

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"We have a situation," Versia said. 

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 **********

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Inside Providence’s base, Isazisi Irving’s coffee-brown eyes locked onto his screens. His sienna brown hands folded in front of his mouth, the scent of metal from the black and red ring on his finger making its way up his nose with each breath. His left eye twitched as he watched the dozen news channels showing in greater detail than the last the carnage the bomb had caused. Two red armor-clad Praetorian Guards stood behind him as his generals and commanders coordinated their response at another table. His Navy moved into open waters while his air force and ground infantry stood by. He ran his hand through his jet-black, curly, short hair and muted the other new stations as one reporter spoke.

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"Preliminary evidence suggests this attack is the work of an organization called The Circle. They claim to have stolen and used the Psychic organization Providence’s weapons to commit this terrible crime," the reporter on site said. 

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The channel played new footage they’d obtained of a surviving piece of the bomb. The Psychanium scrap had the serial number ‘DRRC1712224’ and the words ‘PROPERTY OF PROVIDENCE’ carved beneath it in case any of the dozen other indicators appeared too subtle. 

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"Viewers may not know, but the Psychic Act stipulates any weapon belonging to Providence must contain the serial code DRRC. We can also see the signature of the Psychic known as The Red Cyan, the director of Providence, above the serial number, confirming this is a Psychanium weapon owned by Providence. This results in thousands of questions…"

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He muted the broadcast as his eyes flicked over to firefighters pulling ash and blood-covered victims from the rubble, three of the bodies too small to be adults. Solid black splotches inhabited the concrete debris while fires raged. Isazisi leaned back in his seat, running his hands down his face. His head thumped while a glacial sweat ran down his back, and a ringing hit his ears. 

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Isazisi looked at his phone as the texts rang in, "POTUS", "Secretary of State", "President", and "Prime Minister" flooded his device. His phone levitated to his hand as he exercised his psychic powers, the texts blurring together on the screen. He turned off the ringer and set the phone face down as he leaned back in his chair.

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"Well, this is going to be a long Tuesday," he said. 

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*******

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An Asian woman with flowing, ebony black hair sat up in her bed, rubbing her bleary eyes as she glanced at the TV displaying the news of the attack on New York. She cocked her head to the right as she read the words on the screen and let out an audible gasp. Her phone vibrated on her nightstand while a man with umber brown hair and white skin slept beside her. 

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She looked over at her clock. It read ‘10:00’ while the location read ‘Palo Alto, California.’ She patted around under her bed, grabbing a black case. She opened it, revealing a sealed glass bottle of alcohol, the price tag still intact, and a rose-embossed crystal glass cup. She poured the alcohol into the glass and took a sip as tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them away as the man beside her woke up. He sat in the bed, rubbed his gold-flecked hazel eyes, and pushed a piece of hair out of his face. He stared at the glass in her hand. 

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"What?" She asked, looking around and shrugging her shoulders.

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"Caitlyn, at ten in the morning?"

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A blue bolt of electricity flashed across her chocolate brown eyes as she squinted at him. 

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"Why do all of you sound like my mother, especially you, Jake?"

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"Maybe because we care about you, because I care about you?"

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He looked at her faint red eyes. 

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"What happened?" Jake asked. 

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She pointed to the TV, and Jake read the headline "Hundreds dead in ‘Circle’ attack on New York City. Evidence points to Psychanium weaponry. How would they have those kinds of weapons?"

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"It's called they stole them," Caitlyn said.

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"We need Isazisi on this."

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"I’ll assume he’s already mobilizing."

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Jake looked at her phone, attempting to shake its way off the nightstand.

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"Are you going to answer that?"

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"Take a look at yours."

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Jake’s phone vibrated on the floor. He picked it up and watched as hundreds of texts flooded in while dozens of calls rang. 

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Caitlyn took a last swig of her glass and put it down before filling it again. 

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"Could you please not day drink?" Jake asked.

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"What I do is none of your concern," she yelled. 

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Jake shifted his lips to the left and rubbed the back of his neck.

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"I’m sorry," Caitlyn said. 

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"It’s fine, um, yeah, we should mobilize too, this won’t be the last attack," Jake said as he slid out of bed. 

"Yeah, let’s move," she said. 

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Caitlyn slid out of bed and saw a bouquet of midnight blue roses on a table in the room. She walked over and ran her fingers over the petals. She said nothing, walked into the bathroom, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her pupils flashed blue as lightning bolts crested them, and the mirror shattered, dropping pieces onto the marble sink below. She stared at her face in the mirror, split down the middle by the cracked pieces. Jake rushed into the bathroom. 

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"Are you ok?" He asked.

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"Yeah, just," tears formed in her eyes, "what have we done?" 

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"You didn’t do anything."

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She reached for her glass. 

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"I might sound like your mother, but maybe you shouldn’t," he suggested. 

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"I know I shouldn’t," she said as she pushed the glass off the counter. It shattered. 

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Jake leaned on her, wrapping his toned arms around her, and rubbed her stomach. 

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"I’m not pregnant if it's the baby you're worried about," she said.

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"Would you like to be?" He asked.

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She chuckled, baring her ivory teeth. 

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"Your powers, my powers, we could have little storm babies," Jake said. 

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He made a finger-sized tornado and clouds in his palm and let them onto the counter. Caitlyn touched the clouds, and lightning shot from them. 

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"Now my mom would love that, little Psychic babies, for her to mold into assassins," Caitlyn said. 

"We can raise them our way, no outside interference." 

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"There’s an idea," she said as she spun, pecked him on his lips, and pushed him out of the bathroom. 

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"You’re cute, but this house has thirteen bathrooms. I think you can find your own," she said, her teeth still showing as she closed the door. 

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Jake grinned and left the bedroom. 

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*********

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"Thank you," a woman with long, dark hair and olive brown skin said, flashing a pearl-white smile as her blonde-haired flight attendant handed her a milk-white mug with a brown liquid.    

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She took a sip as a man with rustic brown hair, earthy hazel eyes, and a frown, wearing a tan suit, walked into her section of the jet.

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"Ma’am, you should turn on the TV," he said as he played with his fingers. 

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She swiped her hand, turning on a holographic TV. Her hand covered her mouth as her smile fell. She patted the seat beside her without taking her eyes off the screen, feeling for her phone, and dialed a number. 

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"What do you mean Isazisi is indisposed?" She asked. 

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She put the phone against her chest. 

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"Have the pilot reroute to New York, I want eyes on," she whispered. 

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The man in the tan suit gave her a thumbs-up.

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"Tell him it’s Reese, and I’m watching a Psychanium bomb go off in New York City at one in the afternoon on a weekday." 

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She paused as the person on the other end spoke.

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"What do you mean he’s handling it? Circle agents infiltrated Providence? Ok, uh, mobilize our forces across the eastern seaboard. I’m rerouting to New York now. Seal off the site. I want nobody in or out. This will not be the last attack." Reese said. "Where are the Praetorians on this? They’re in reserve? And the Renarri? Also, in reserve? Why? This attack is global. Send word to our agents everywhere. I want a lid on this, now."

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She hung up, stood, and paced around the cabin before throwing her phone into a tray of drinks and yelling something explicit.  She picked it up and shook off the liquid. 

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"How long till we’re in New York?" She asked her agent as she rubbed her forehead.

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"One hour, Quick Response Forces are already moving on Circle cells whose locations we’ve known. The Circle hasn’t been a problem till now. Why such a bold move?" He asked.

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She popped the lid off a crystal bottle of transparent liquid and filled her glass before taking a long swig. She looked right, where a bouquet of red roses sat on a table. She picked up a rose and stared at it. 

"It’s a message showing the world they can touch a Psychic." 

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"And what will our response be?"

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Reese glanced at him. "In kind." 

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********

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The Indian woman’s scope panned across the landscape. Her extensive, jet-black hair fluttered in the soft wind while sunbeams pierced the palm tree cover and glowed off her almond-brown skin. 

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Her target exited his high-rise apartment and walked towards a row of black SUVs. He looked side to side as his security stayed attached to his hip. Her earpiece beeped as a message came through.

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"I’m working," she said. 

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"It’s important, Jasmine," the man on the other end said.

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"Everything is important. Nothing is special," Jasmine responded.

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"A bomb was detonated in New York City."

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"Tragic, but there are attacks on third-world countries every day, and no one cares. Sounds a bit below our pay grade?" 

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"Evidence says it’s a weapon stolen from Providence."

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Jasmine’s breathing halted as her earthy brown eyes squinted. 

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"A Psychanium bomb exploded in New York City?" 

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"Yes, an estimated 700 plus dead,"

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"What?" Jasmine said as she put her target in the crosshairs. 

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"Every Psychic is mobilizing. This is the worst terror attack on American soil in decades. The White House wants answers, the CIA wants answers, the FBI, NSA, politicians, everybody is losing it right now. They want to know how the deadliest weapons since nukes made their way into the hands of terrorists."

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"Sounds like a question for Isazisi, not me." 

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"You're a consultant for Providence. They’ll want answers from you, too." 

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"Give me eight hours."

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"Whatever you say."

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Jasmine slid the bullet into the chamber and pulled the trigger, splattering her target. She slinked into the shadows as frantic yelling and screaming from the man's security followed her action. 

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********

 

Isazisi turned away from the TVs and looked over to the left corner of his desk, where a blank white envelope rested. 

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"What is this?" He asked his head of security, who stood in the office. 

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"I don’t know, sir."

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Isazisi opened the envelope to cursive handwriting.

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"Think upon the sins of your ancestors."

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Isazisi threw the envelope and letter onto the ground. Red lasers shot from his eyes, turning the paper to ash. His eyes still glowed red as he looked up. 

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"They delivered a handwritten note to my office?" Isazisi yelled. "How?" 

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His head of security tapped his ear. 

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"We don’t know. My people are telling me the footage is gone."

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"Gone?" Isazisi asked as his eyes settled. "How many security failures can we fit in one day? How did they even get in here?" 

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"We believe The Circle may have turned agents or perhaps inserted them." 

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"They left a note in my office," Isazisi said. "A handwritten note delivered to your office. That’s personal, a touch a Psychic would bring." 

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Isazisi composed himself and double-tapped his chest, building his Psychic Suit without the helmet. An all-black armor with red lines of Psychic Energy flowing through it, and a flowing black cape with a red line running down it ending in a circle. At the center of the palms and soles were red glass pieces for the suit’s energy dispersion. He left his office, flanked by his red armored Praetorian. 

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"What else is new?" He asked as he walked down the hall where Providence agents ran past him to the staging areas. 

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"Seven agents were killed in New York City, and of course, the stolen weapon," his head of security said.

 

"They also attacked the fourth fleet, which was in Brooklyn Navy Yard at the time. We don’t know the extent of the damage or the cost to human lives yet, but our people are on site. Reporters and politicians are asking what the bomb was even doing in New York. Do we have a response?"

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"Tell them the reasons are classified. What can we do for the agents' families?"

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"They’ll be taken care of by Providence per your past precedents.

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Agents found this addressed to you at the scene of the crime. It’s sterile, not even a speck of dust, let alone prints."

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His head of security handed him a plastic bag containing an envelope. The envelope had ‘Red Cyan’ written on it in red cursive ink. He took the envelope out of the bag and opened it. 

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"How many will die for your traditions?"

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"What does it mean, sir?" His head of security asked. 

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"I don’t know. What else?"

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"A brokerage account, we can’t trace shorted stocks of every corporation owned by your family and other Psychics. They made billions. We suspected it’s a Circle-related account."

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"What are my family's stocks down?" 

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"Thirty-seven percent."

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Isazisi shifted his lips to the right as the letter and envelope turned to ash in his hand and blew away. He gave a hand signal to his Praetorians, and they stood at the door as he entered his holographic command center. He stood at the center and looked at the hologram projector around him. A bouquet of red roses sat on a table in the corner of the room. He stretched his hands towards them, and one floated to him.

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"Anything else?"

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"Strategic Central Command is mobilizing. Terror groups and criminal organizations have released statements praising the Circle’s attack."

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"Tell SCC I want drone strikes on these groups, let them know any supporter of the Circle is an enemy of us."

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"I’ll have them relay it to Africa Regional Command and Asia Regional Command." 

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General Grount entered the office, flanked by two troops under his command. 

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"Sir, our forces are mobilizing, and intelligence is already working on gaining access to Circle servers. I suggest we perform a multipronged attack, and we may cripple their forces before they can launch another attack." Grount said. 

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"Thank you, general," Isazisi said as he stared at the man, his psychokinesis peering into Grount's mind. 

Grount left his command center and made his way to the military staging area of the base. Isazisi set the flower down and followed him out minutes later. Grount stood giving orders to a group of agents under his command. Isazisi walked towards him, flanked by four of his Praetorians. 

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"You're not good at hiding your thoughts, General," Isazisi said. 

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Grount turned around, and the agents behind him pulled guns, pointing them at Isazisi. From around the staging area, Providence agents pointed guns at Grount and his agents. 

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"Who else defiled our family?" Isazisi asked.

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"Why don’t you find out?" Grount called back, arms spread.

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Five of the Providence agents pointing guns at Grount turned their weapons onto others beside them, causing loyal agents to turn their guns onto them. Looks of shock rippled through the group.

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The Praetorians activated their blades, the trademark sound ringing through the staging area. The air tensed as Circle agents looked from side to side while beads of sweat formed on their foreheads. Isazisi signed to them, and they eased. 

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Isazisi stood in silence before speaking. "You’ve wounded us. I give you props for that, but I have a proposition. The fifty of you hunt me on Prismatic Island. The first side to yield is the winner. If you win, you're free. If I win, well, you’ll already be dead." Isazisi announced.

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His generals, who watched from a balcony, shared looks. Isazisi looked at his twitching hand and halted it.

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"And if we refuse?" Grount asked. 

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The Praetorians flanking Isazisi activated their weapons. 

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"You could fight the Praetorians if you like." 

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"The island sounds fair to me," Grount said. 

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The eyebrows of Isazisi’s generals rose as horizontal wrinkles appeared on their foreheads, as they each hid the widening of their eyes.

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"Hail the Circle," Grount’s troops yelled.

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"I would've picked the Praetorians," Isazisi said as he smiled.

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​​WANT TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

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