Hero Engine

by Nader, Alexander

  Ann scoffs. I swear she might be about to throw up on Dumont’s shoes. The cold calculated business-woman is nauseating. She doesn’t seem to give much of a damn about what happens to whom as long as she profits from it. But fuck it, an informant is an informant. This is just turning over a dealer to get the distributer – on a much, much larger scale.

  “Tell us the whole thing and we might not kill you.” My hand slides down from my cheek to delicately touch the bruise that probably takes up half my neck. If it looks half as nice as Ann’s eye, I look like shit right now.

  Ann has the caged tiger aura going pretty strong. Dumont might make it out of tonight alive, maybe.

  Dumont gets up from her stool and walks into the next room. Ann and I follow to make sure she’s not going to get a rocket launcher or fifty-caliber rifle, you know, a nice, subtle weapon to kill us with. Instead of a weapon of mass destruction, she goes over to a filing cabinet and pulls out a handful of letters, and hands them to me.

  She takes a seat in an office chair behind a huge oak desk. A cigarette is in her hand and I’m not even sure where this one came from. Her hand searches the desk, but she can’t find what she’s looking for. “Do you have a light?”

  “No, don’t smoke,” Ann says.

  I rifle through the letters, checking for return addresses before paying any mind to the letters themselves.

  Dumont huffs. I look to see her twirling the stick between her fingers like the pen of an uninterested receptionist. “Those are letters I received from an anonymous party, starting close to a year ago.”

  I hand a couple envelopes over to Ann and open one of the letters, half-reading, half-listening to Dumont.

  “The correspondence stated they were from someone from within SHI who wanted to help me carry out an attack within their main headquarters.”

  “Did they say why?” I skim over a letter detailing the kind of explosive they wanted built.

  “The mystery person only said they hated the capes as much as the rest of AHA and wanted to help end the abominations, or whatever generic religious fervor those people use as excuses for their actions.”

  I scan another paper instructing Dumont—it uses her actual name, Ninon—to leave the bomb at a location in Italy with exact GPS coordinates. The author says they will pick up the bomb and have it delivered to DeLaCruz for placement.

  “These letters use your name. Do you know this person?”

  “No.”

  “How many people know who Andy Donovan really is?”

  “Other than the two guards you killed? None.”

  Ann looks up from the paper in her hands. “It didn’t strike you as odd that this mystery person happened to contact you and know your name?”

  “They had information and proved it by giving me the exact coordinates of SHI Headquarters. I was cautious at first, but I had an acquaintance sail far into the Atlantic where they happened to stumble across a landing strip floating in the ocean. His ship sank and he died, but not before getting me a message that he had found SHI.”

  I wonder how much Vince had to do with that ship sinking. That deep in the ocean, it would be simple to write something like that off as a rough weather accident.

  “So you followed the instructions? You commissioned McCarthy to make the bomb and this person got the bomb to DeLaCruz to sabotage the Engine?” Ann folds the note she’s reading and stuffs it back into the envelope.

  “Yes. And the mystery person also made a significant donation to The Cause.”

  “And The Cause is ridding the world of superheroes?” I give Dumont my full attention.

  “Yes.”

  “Is there more to the plan beyond destroying the Engine?” Ann resumes her pacing.

  Dumont snaps her unlit cigarette in half with the fingers of her left hand. I swear the tobacco is strong enough to catch a whiff from where I’m standing. The smell could just be the haze from the room. “If there is more to the plan, it hasn’t been shared with me.”

  Ann stops directly in front of Dumont’s chair. “If this person contacts you again, you will call me immediately.” Ann reaches across Dumont to write a phone number on a scrap of paper.

  “I might, but the mystery person pays more.” Dumont leans back in her chair, smug as a criminal who just beat the rap.

  Ann stands up straight and pulls the edges of her tank top down. She smiles, gently setting a hand on Dumont’s shoulder. The gesture looks every bit as intimidating as when the mob dons do it in the movies. If Dumont catches any of the malice in the action, she does a good job of hiding it.

  “You tried to kill me and my partner. I will look past that. Now, if you would be so kind as to call me if you get any more of those letters, that would save us a trip back out here. If we have to come back out here, no one will ever find the pieces of your body. No?” Ann puts on a French lilt at the end.

  Her hand slides up Dumont’s neck to the back of her head. With a vicious acceleration Ann’s hand slams Dumont’s face against the solid desk top. Poor Ninon’s head snaps backward and her body bounces back, slumping against the back rest of her office chair. Dumont covers her face and shouts what I’m sure aren’t lady-like words through her hands.

  Still calm, still scary as fuck, Ann pulls Dumont’s hands down. The entire side of her face is red and there is already a knot forming over her eye.

  “That was for your gift to me.” Ann points at her black eye. With another equally quick movement, Ann pivots her body and drives the point of her right elbow into Dumont’s throat.

  Dumont tumbles out of her chair and hits the ground, gagging, heaving, and crying. The entire tough-girl façade has given way as she lies on the floor convulsing.

  “And that is for the gift you gave my friend. Bon nuit, Madame Dumont.”

  Chapter 26

  WE LEAVE DUMONT on the floor in a puddle of tears and blood. I would feel bad for her, I want to feel bad for her. But she tried to have us killed and has orchestrated the killings of others for pure profit. Ninon is not a good person. The wrathful side of me thinks she got off easy.

  The sky outside is pitch black. No stars and still the sliver of a moon giving off bupkis as far as lighting is concerned. As far up in the mountains as we are, and as late at night as it is, running into traffic on the small road seems unlikely. We don’t bother with the shoulder and instead stroll down the road itself.

  Not far away, our unmarked black car waits for us. “Whose turn to drive?” I pull the key out of my pocket and hold it out.

  She grabs the keys and heads for the driver’s side. “My turn, I think.”

  That works for me. Swallowing still hurts like hell and my head feels a bit more empty than usual. At least the hangover vibrating sound in my ears has quit. I open the car door and drop down in the seat, immediately grabbing the handle to lean as far back as it will go.

  “You sure you’re good to drive?” I ask. “You took a pretty good header yourself back there.”

  “Yeah, I’m good. I was only out for a second, the rest was an act.”

  Ann starts the car and turns back down toward our ride out of this damn place. This is so not how I imagined my first Parisian adventure. Even if this isn’t Paris, it’s probably as close as I’ll ever get. I should have a T-shirt made: ‘I went to France and all I got was a stupid throat chop.’

  Ann huffs. “Aren’t you going to yell at me for excessive force against another person?” She tries to glance at me out of the side of her eye, but it’s too swollen so she turns her whole head.

  “Nope.” I close my eyes and relish in the glorious wave of whatever hormone triggers relaxation.

  “Nope?”

  “I honestly expected worse out of you after that one. She tried to have us killed. I’m not big on being executed. Thanks for the throat chop, by the way. That was sweet.”

  She turns her head to look at me again, probably checking my sarcasm. “Oh, well…”

  “So is a broken face and a throat chop all
she gets after all that?”

  “No. I figure when we get back we can alert Vince about her. I’m betting if he drops the dime that the head of the AHA is a woman, that will kick up quite an angry hornet’s nest of dipshits. Seems like racism and sexism generally go hand-in-hand.”

  She’s got a point. “What do you think they will do to her?”

  “I don’t know, but whatever it is, she deserves it.”

  With my eyes closed, I lean my head against the cool glass of the car.

  A hand shakes my chest. “Hey, hey, Quig, you with me?”

  “Yeah, yes,” I rub a palm in to my eyes. “Just fucking beat is all.”

  “Hey, that was quite the bluff you pulled with those axmen back there. You really do live up to the Cool in your name.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. So cool I had to warm up by pissing myself.” I wonder how much of this chat is to keep me conscious. Head trauma victims aren’t supposed to be napping, but sleep would feel so damn good right now.

  Ann laughs. “Hey, it worked. We made it out of there.”

  “Damn barely. Who knew after all this hero jazz it would be human goons that almost got the drop on us?”

  “No kidding.”

  The car slows and pulls to the side of the road. Are we here already? That seemed quick. Did I lose some time?

  Ann slaps me on the chest. “Come on, Champ. Time to hike our bums back to the plane.”

  Another long walk through the woods. Exactly what I need. I open my eyes, happy it’s dark outside. At least the damn sun isn’t blinding me or enraging the headache I have going right now. I get out of the car and stretch. My body feels like it’s about to snap. Every fiber of muscle and every centimeter of tissue in my joints threatens to quit working immediately. They are calling a strike: Too much work for too little wages. They require more sick leave and sustenance if they are to continue their job.

  Ann steps out of the car and slings her trusty bag of tricks over her shoulder. Something clicks and a beam of light shines directly in my face, enraging that goddamned headache. I put my hand up to shield my precious eyes.

  “Oh, sorry. You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Lead the way, Captain.”

  Ann heads down the trail. The return hike doesn’t seem as bad, but trying not to breathe hard only makes me breathe harder. Each inhalation burns my throat. I need to drink some honey or tea or whatever death-metal singers do to keep their voice.

  We get back to the plane and haul our beaten, broken asses up the staircase into the cabin.

  “Holy shit,” Ulrich says, “what happened to you guys?”

  “Ninjas,” I say. “At least fifteen of them were guarding the AHA Mage. It took a lot, but we made it through.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ulrich draws the phrase out. I don’t think he’s buying it.

  “Just take us back to SHI HQ, okay?” Ann’s voice is strained. I wonder if she’s getting the same adrenaline dump I am right now.

  Keeping my eyes open is becoming a real struggle. Breathing hurts. Standing is just shy of excruciating. I need a fucking nap like Dracula at sunrise at the equator on the longest day of the year. Yeah, that bad.

  I take my usual seat and Ann takes hers next to me. We both drop our envelopes of Ninon’s letters on the table. I run my hand over the papers. “Should we call this in to Vince?”

  “I don’t think so. We’ll be at SHI shortly and we can brief him on everything in person. Plus we can get these to a handwriting analyst and whatever else we need to try to track down where they came from.”

  “Do you really think that will help? I highly doubt this person mailed them from their house and there are post office boxes everywhere.”

  Ann shrugs. Picks up one of the letters and opens it. “At least we’ll be doing something. We’ve followed this trail too far for it to go cold now.”

  I unwrap a letter and skim over it, thinking. The letters are handwritten, not typed, which seems weird. I suppose printers or typewriters or whatever are just as easy to match up as handwriting, maybe easier if it came to it. The letter looks like the first one Dumont received. It explains about the mystery person who wrote it and why they are helping. The end of the note has coordinates to SHI Headquarters.

  How did they get that? This is obviously the work of someone from within SHI.

  “Hey, Ann, how many people work at SHI?”

  “All together or just in the Headquarters?”

  “Just in the Hive, or whatever you call it.”

  Ann looks up. “Exact number? I couldn’t say. Couple hundred, at least. Techs, scientists, communications, doctors, PR people, everything. SHI has about every job title imaginable. This could be anyone.”

  I keep my eyes on the paper, searching for clues. “Nah, not just anyone. Someone with enough clearance to move throughout SHI freely. I think. Someone in DeLaCruz’s department would be the best place to start.”

  “I agree. Hey, do your letters have this?” Ann holds the paper in her hands over to me.

  “What?”

  “Look. Every time there is a capital letter ‘E’ the person wrote two dots over it, I think. I’ve only got two ‘E’s on my page.”

  I scan over mine. One capital ‘E’ with two dots over the top. “Odd. What do you make of it?”

  “I’m not sure. Some kind of accent mark? It happens too often to be a mistake.”

  The door to the cockpit opens. “Guys, you need to see this.” Ulrich doesn’t look back and his shoulders bunch up like he has a death grip on the controls.

  Through the front windshield of the plane I can just barely make out lightning striking random places in the air. No storm or wind or rain, just random lightning bolts.

  “Lightshow,” Ann says from next to me.

  “But what’s Lightshow fighting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  As the plane gets closer, the platform that makes up the SHI landing pad becomes clear. The deck is bright as daytime with giant lights and the pad is full of people. Blasts of gunfire light up the night. The soldiers shoot in the same direction as the lightning.

  A red, white, and blue streak blurs in front of the windshield, missing by inches.

  “Was that The Patriot?” I lean closer to the glass following the streak.

  “Jim, look.” Ann grabs my shoulder and points down to the deck of the floating Hive.

  The deck is shaking. People fall from the edges down to the water below. Some throw life rafts, others keep firing into the sky. The deck shakes harder and seems to lift.

  “Hold on,” Ulrich says. He turns his control and the plane banks.

  A blast of lightning lights up the sky. For a brief second, I catch a glimpse of a figure floating, arms held out like she’s raising an imaginary object…Or a floating Hive out of the water.

  “Ann, she’s lifting it out of the water. What will happen if Tess picks it up and drops it?”

  “It’s built to withstand the storms of the sea, but not the power of gravity itself. We have to stop her.” Ann points the direction of the floating figure that has to be Tess. “Ulrich get us as close as you can. Maybe we can get close enough to mute her powers.

  Ulrich pulls on his controls and the plane banks harder.

  I glance back at the deck. It’s lifted at least ten feet higher out of the water than it was when we took off from here the other day. Some people are still firing guns, but most of the humans have given up the attack. Tiny figures scramble to get below deck while others—probably the smarter ones—throw themselves into the water. If she breaks the Hive in half, everyone inside will die.

  Ulrich flips switches and punches buttons. The plane’s momentum slows until we are almost hovering over Tess.

  Lightning crashes close to the plane. Miles appears out of thin air, bringing Icestro with him. Icestro forms a solid-looking icicle in his hand and launches it at Tess. The icicle changes course halfway there and flies toward Icestro. He dives to the side, but it’s too late
. The frozen spike impales him through the back.

  Thirty feet away from Tess. Ann leans close enough to put her face against the glass, willing her powers to work, I’m sure.

  Lady Atlas picks up Granite Fist—a solid ball of stone—and throws him at Tess. Tess swipes her hand across the air. Granite Fist changes trajectory in an instant. His arms and legs flail as he crashes in to the windshield of the plane. The glass of the cockpit gives way to his solid form. The front of the plane dips from the added weight.

  Ulrich hammers his hand on the dash. “Let go! Get down!” he yells at Granite Fist, but the little rock man is wedged into the front of the plane and can’t get free. “WE’RE GOING DOWN, I CAN’T SAVE IT. EVERYBODY OU—”

  He doesn’t get the words out before the plane slams into the Atlantic Ocean. The impact throws me and Ann against the front of the plane.

  Water.

  Too.

  Much.

  Water.

  It’s all I see. There’s no time to think, no time to grab a last gulp of oxygen.

  Chapter 27

  WATER.

  Salt burns my eyes. Carbon dioxide burns my lungs.

  I turn to the side. Ulrich is unconscious, strapped to his seat. Ann is working furiously to get him free. She catches me watching and points down at Granite Fist. He’s out cold too. He’s also taking up the majority of our escape route. I push my way up to the cabin door and pull on it. Too much water pressure; it won’t budge.

  I work my way back down to the windshield. I put my feet on the glass and my hands against the empty seat and try to push the glass free. No such luck. There isn’t enough force in my body for that kind of thing. Sorry Granite. I adjust my feet so they are against his head and push again. The movement takes every ounce of effort I can muster, but I get the unconscious hero free of the glass.

  I dive out the glass after Granite Fist, but he’s as heavy as, well, granite and sinks faster than I can swim. Within five feet of leaving the cockpit, he’s out of my view. The blackness of the water swallows him whole and there’s no way I can catch him. Pressure burns my chest. How long have I been holding my breath? Seconds? Minutes? Years?