Edger Lives by David Beem
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Edger is falling for Mary, his bodyguard, kick-ass spy, and cover wife. But she’s so hopelessly out of his league, it’s clear someone’s going to get hurt. Less clear? That someone may be the Prime Minister of Australia.
When Mary confesses her desire to kill the world leader whose assassination Edger’s supposed to prevent, Edger’s superpowers pick the worst time to stop working. Without a fully functional psychic superhero, their team of spies can no longer order him to probe Mary’s mind for ill intent. The stage is set for a confrontation that threatens to strip a defenseless Edger of his loyal protector just when he needs her most.
Return to the Collective Unconscious, this time with Listerine-chugging stoners, Hollyweirdos, commie-alien-kung fu robots, one space gorilla-unicorn, and an exceedingly lovesick Vladimir Putin.
Mind your fingers and toes on page 270. Those skydiving mind-control monkeys have been known to bite!
All the trucks are in the air.
“Run!” Dad yells, peering upward, one leg bent, hands raised toward the airborne fleet rocketing toward space.
My knees buckle, and the action serves to reboot my body mechanics. I hobble off as fast as I can manage, making it three steps before the shock force of an explosion slams me from behind. My ears pop. My feet leave the ground. Shoulder raking across concrete, I skid to stop. More explosions ring out behind me. I cover my head.
Something wet drops from my brow. I prop myself up on one elbow, wince, collapse onto my side. My arm is a mass of gravel and scrapes. I touch my finger to the inside of my cheek—blood. A spike-like blast erupts, so loud it glows in my ears, a pure white sound. The movie reel of life sputters and jams. The air is incinerator hot. Someone’s moaning. It takes me a second before I realize it’s me. I’m on my side.
The air shimmers. Another explosion erupts from the far side of the parking lot, the flash briefly outlining Dad and Nostradamus. Dad falls backward. Nostradamus faces me, his head cocked sideways. His arm makes another throwing motion. High above, a tiny Peterbilt is bearing down on me like a meteorite. I struggle to get to my feet, twist my ankle, fall. The rising trill of the incoming missile hollows my throat. This is it. I’m going to die.
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