The Dark Academy (Supervillain High Book 4)

by Gerhard Gehrke

  After a moment a call came in on video chat. The ringer was off but the phone vibrated. Agent Walters perked up. He must have heard it. Brendan went inside the mobile home to answer the call and saw his father’s face. It could have been Myron Reece from Not-Earth, but something about the tired eyes that looked back at him told Brendan it was actually his dad.

  “Yeah, I am,” his dad said. “There’s been some trouble. I had to keep low. And I’m sorry if any of it blew your direction. Where are you?”

  “It’s a long story, and I don’t think now is the time to tell it. I need you to tell me everything you know about Agent Walters of the FBI.”

  “Walters? Is he there?”

  “Yeah, he’s here.”

  “He’s dangerous. Brendan, you have to get out of there. Call the police if you can. Don’t trust him. Don’t turn your back on him.”

  “What does he want from you?”

  His dad leaned back and looked down off-camera. “It’s complicated.”

  “Tell me the short version. This isn’t about you anymore, it’s about us. And my friends are involved.”

  “Walters was one of my business associates. I led them to believe I had the design specs from the black drone they recovered and told them I had the encrypted program that would operate hundreds of the things. It’s a weapon platform worth a billion dollars. I told them I wanted twenty million up front.” Myron hesitated and shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “They paid.”

  “Dad, what did you do? Charlotte had the program on her tablet, and they’re both gone. You never had access.”

  “I lied. It was an easy paycheck, and I thought I could write a basic program to hold them off while I finished enough of it to make them happy. But I put it off, and they got mad. I wasn’t able to deliver.”

  “Then why didn’t you pay them back?”

  “I spent some of the money. And more of it wasn’t available.”

  “Twenty million?” Brendan asked, no longer trying to keep his voice low. “Pay them back.”

  “It’s not possible. What matters is that they got mad and sent Agent Walters to come bring me in. Or to kill me. He’s also supposed to recover as much of the drone programming as possible.”

  “So he’s a hit man.”

  “And an FBI agent. I checked. But I evaded him easy enough. Then my employers doubled down and hired more help.”

  “Who?”

  “Some new team. I have some contacts who are still speaking with me. They warned me. But I have a way out of this. You being with Walters complicates things, but I’ll figure it out.”

  “Dad, I’m trying to save you. And your double from Not-Earth…he’s out there and I thought he had you.”

  “He tried. We met. He made an offer, wanted to work together. Sounded like a good idea. But it turned out he doesn’t know anyone here, has no contacts, has only a passing skill at making drones. I let him know it wouldn’t work.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s part of the solution. I’m giving him to my employers. That will get them off my back and yours.”

  “By thinking you’re dead. You’d let them kill your twin.” Brendan felt sick.

  “It’s not like we’re actually related. And he attacked me when we first met, before I convinced him we could work together.”

  Brendan was shaking his head. “What’s wrong with you, dad?”

  Myron took a breath and looked away as if distracted by something. He got up and went out of sight.

  “Dad?”

  Brendan heard a racket and someone shouting. Several loud crashes followed. After a moment, a shadow fell across the camera. He briefly saw his father’s face, but this time Brendan instantly knew it was Myron Reece from Not-Earth. The feed went dead. Brendan picked up his phone and redialed, but it went to voicemail. He stared at the phone for a moment.

  Vlad leaned in through the kitchen door. “What’s wrong?”

  Brendan rose and went outside, heading straight for Agent Walters. The man snapped out of a listless stare and actually flinched as if he were about to be struck. Brendan took the keys from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. Vlad was saying something but Brendan ignored him. He took a step back as Agent Walters stood.

  “You’ve come to your senses,” Agent Walters said while rubbing his wrists.

  “Shut up and listen. I’m guessing right now you’re out of sorts with your employers, and I’m not talking about the FBI. They’ve hired a B-team to get my dad. He just told me everything, and right now it sounds like they’ve found him. But I have some information that might square you with them. I give you the drone, and Vlad here gives you his program. It’s not the complete program. That doesn’t exist on this world, but it’s a start. But you have to take me to wherever my dad is because I’m going to save his life. Call off the hit and he’ll pay back as much of the money as he can. In addition, we won’t report anything that happened today. I’ll do everything I can to keep the school from filing charges against you and your office. That’s the only deal I’m willing to make.”

  Agent Walters was rubbing his wrists. Brendan wasn’t sure what to expect. This was it. All his cards were down on the table. If any of Brendan’s assumptions were wrong, Walters could arrest him and squeeze Vlad some more for the key to the program. But something about the agent and his pursuit of Myron Reece led Brendan to believe that he wanted something else.

  Maybe it was the money. Or maybe he just wanted to complete his assignment. Brendan was offering him a way to do it, even though he suspected the agent would no doubt double-cross him somewhere along the way.

  The broad grin returned to Agent Walters’s face. “Kid, you got yourself a deal.”

  ***

  “Pull over here,” Brendan said.

  Agent Walters, Vlad, and Brendan were driving in the agent’s small car, having left a despondent Kemp stranded at the mobile home. Agent Walters hadn’t said why, but his distrustful glances told the story. Kemp had been compromised. Brendan couldn’t help but wonder what kind of weird emotions the older man would be feeling, having been charmed by a school-age minor. Those were the kind of thoughts that could get you on a list. Who knew, maybe the man had already deserved to be on one.

  Brendan had directed Agent Walters to a strip mall near Dutchman Springs Academy. They parked at a yellow curb. To Vlad he said, “Come on, get out.”

  Vlad did as he was told but looked surprised when Brendan got back into the car. He caught the door before Brendan could close it.

  “You’re not leaving me here,” Vlad said.

  “It’s a short walk back to school.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. I’m part of this. I’m going to help.”

  “You’ve done enough. I never meant for you to get hurt or any of this to go this far. Part of this deal means you go back to school. This way if anything happens to me, there’s someone who knows what happened. I’m asking you to do this. As a friend.”

  Vlad clenched his fist and bit his lip. He was holding back from saying something.

  “I know, it sucks,” Brendan said. “But you know it’s the right move. Tell Tina and Poser. Tell them I’m sorry.”

  Agent Walters gunned the tiny electric engine. It whined petulantly.

  Vlad shut the door. Agent Walters didn’t wait around. He accelerated onto the street and headed for the highway. “That was touching,” he said.

  Brendan watched the last of Dutchman Springs pass by as they drove. It was getting dark. “So who is this guy coming for my dad?”

  Agent Walters’s face clouded. “He’s a hitman that dresses up like a clown.”

  Brendan’s chest tightened. When Agent Walters saw his expression, he seemed to misread it. “Don’t believe me?”

  He handed Brendan the phone that was attached to the dashboard, showing him a picture of the inside of the FBI van that had crashed. In another photo, the van’s center inside console was flipped open. A hand-
sized gift-wrapped box with a black bow was inside.

  “He leaves these for people,” Agent Walters said. “They might have a mechanical fist or laughing gas or colored glitter that gets on everything. It’s his calling card.”

  “That crashed the van?” Brendan asked. The box in the photo was intact.

  “No. The bomb he placed on the engine did. A message, loud and clear. He could have killed us, but instead he wanted us to know he was on the Myron Reece hunt and we were to stay out of the way.”

  “The God of Clowns?”

  “You’ve been doing your homework. Make no mistake; he’s no rookie and no night manager of a Chick-fil-A who dresses up when his shift’s done to play supers and villains. The bomb was real, and one of my agents is in the hospital. He’s a pro crazy enough to work a rather elaborate MO that borderlines on deviancy. He has a team. And for whatever reason, he likes the publicity and has been doing a few free promos to get the word out.”

  “The videos of him killing supers.”

  “Free advertising. Brilliant, really. Most people think it’s a new, edgy YouTube sensation, and they share it with their friends. A viral assassination marketing campaign.”

  Brendan heard genuine respect in the agent’s voice. Now that he had confirmation that they were real, he felt shame at having watched any of the God of Clowns videos.

  They drove on. Agent Walters put an earpiece in and made a couple of phone calls. During one, he threatened someone. Soon enough he had a destination plugged into his phone’s map app.

  “You know where to go?” Brendan asked.

  “I have my own team,” Agent Walters said without further explanation.

  Brendan knew he had no plan of his own except to accompany the agent and hope to interrupt whatever his dad’s double or the God of Clowns might be planning. Any notion that he could trust Agent Walters faded more with each passing moment. The rewards Brendan offered in exchange for the agent’s cooperation were paltry compared to returning to his employer’s good graces. Brendan believed the drone technology was no longer the man’s prime directive; helping his employers save face by eliminating a contract-breaking thief was, with recouping even a portion of the twenty million a nice bonus.

  Agent Walters hadn’t recovered his firearm, but Brendan assumed he had a backup stashed somewhere in the car. Brendan’s own assets were a single drone and a skeleton beta version of the program that ran it. His head hurt. He wanted nothing more right at that moment than a cup of Champ’s coffee from the Bean. After the conversation with his dad, he knew Not-Earth Myron was loose again, but did the God of Clowns even know his dad’s double existed? Did Agent Walters? Brendan had told him about the man, but perhaps the agent had dismissed it as some poorly conceived ruse. With so many elements at play, Brendan felt helpless. It was all too big. The featureless desert made him feel disoriented as they sped down the highway. It was an alien world to which he didn’t belong. The last traces of orange-and-blue light vanished behind the hills to the west.

  The agent’s phone screen showed an approaching navigation point. He slowed the car and turned onto a shared driveway with a dozen mailboxes set next to an open electric gate. A call box sat under a weak light, but its face was cracked and the screen clouded. None of the names on the mailboxes were legible.

  “It’s about a half kilometer in,” Agent Walters said. He parked the car by the gate and got out. Brendan followed. He took the drone out of his pocket.

  From the trunk, the agent produced a shotgun. “If you’re going to insist on handling that irreplaceable piece of technology, let’s put it to use. Scout out the house just southeast of us.”

  Brendan powered up his phone and launched the drone. Agent Walters watched it fly up and looked interested in how Brendan controlled it. Brendan shielded the phone screen as if the agent were trying to cheat on a test. But the interface was simple. It was the program behind it that was special.

  “A responsible law enforcement agent would have a minor like you wait here. I’m not going to do that. The phone tracker I’ve activated on one of the clown’s men says he’s already here, and I’m guessing this isn’t their hideout. They’ve followed your dad here, and we might be too late.”

  “Then let’s hurry,” Brendan said.

  “After you.”

  26. God of Clowns, Inc.

  The long ranch-style house was nestled under a small hill where a few thin trees grew among the desert weeds. The main road was now out of sight and no other homes could be seen. The house had no lights on. Only a few stars shined through high hazy clouds and Brendan had to watch his step, as the gravel and dirt road had numerous ruts and bumps. As they got closer, he saw the house was larger than expected.

  The drone did a quick circle around the property. “I don’t think anyone’s here,” Brendan whispered. “You sure this is the right house?” He began to doubt the information Agent Walters had been given.

  “I’m sure,” Agent Walters said. He pointed to a row of low bushes lining the edge of the paved driveway. “Hide there. And you better stay there. The last thing I need is for you to activate any security lights and expose me. No funny business. And keep my drone out of harm’s way.”

  Brendan did as he was told. He crouched low and watched Agent Walters move along the edge of the driveway and vanish into the dark landscaping. He was going around the side. Brendan targeted him and had the drone follow from on high.

  Through a skylight he saw there were lights on, but only dim ones in the middle of the house. Faint. Flickering. Like candles. How far behind were they? It had been over three hours since the call with his father had been interrupted. Had the God of Clowns finished the job already?

  He lost sight of the agent when he went underneath a raised deck with a hot tub. Brendan had the drone swing down.

  Light shined in his direction. A vehicle was approaching, its electric engine barely audible even though it was right in front of him. Brendan was momentarily blinded. He got as low as he could on the rocks and dirt behind the bushes.

  The van drove onto the driveway and parked. It was a UPS delivery truck. Brendan could see there was indeed a large security light above the twin garage doors, but it didn’t come on. The side door of the van slid open. Two men in what appeared to be white painter’s suits came out. Both held objects in their hands that had green and red LEDs. They were making adjustments to their headsets and speaking, either to someone on the radio or to each other.

  The agent was still out of sight. Brendan flew the drone back up and over the van and brought it down for a closer look. Not too close. The drone was quiet but not completely silent. With delicate taps, he babied it in. There was a third man, the driver, still behind the steering wheel. He had a baseball cap on, or maybe it was part of his UPS uniform. Then a fourth figure got out, a large man in costume. Even in the dark, Brendan could make out the silhouette of the God of Clowns. The man adjusted his wig and crown and straightened the crucifix that hung like a pendulum around his neck. He pulled a bag out of the van and slung it over his shoulder. It looked like he was wearing several knives on his waist.

  If the agent didn’t know they were there, he was about to be surprised. If the men were armed with guns it would be a bloodbath. The agent’s tracker had indicated someone from the team was already on site. If this was where his dad and Myron the imposter were hiding, he had only moments before chaos.

  Brendan crept forward. The two men in the painter’s outfits turned on their cameras. Each had a light array that shined like a spotlight. In the most matter-of-fact manner, the clown spoke to his men. His voice was strained and high-pitched.

  “Jimmy, you’re on me. Ben, get out on the balcony for some wide shots. You’ll be the stalking cam until I show up. How’s the new camera working? Got my feed? Parker, are the audio and lights in place?”

  There was a pause. The clown nodded.

  “All set,” one of the cameramen said.

  “All right. Let’s be sa
fe, remember our cues, and have fun.” The pep talk reminded Brendan of his P.E. teacher before a volleyball game.

  One of the camera operators went along the side of the house in the same direction the agent had gone, but he remained on the deck. He pointed his camera’s lights inside. Then the God of Clowns headed for the front door, the second camera operator on his heels.

  “Worship, pray, repent,” came the booming voice. The sound came from inside the house from speakers with a deep bass.

  Brendan felt a chill come over him. He was paralyzed at hearing the voice from the videos so loud, so real. He knew he could remain hiding, that no one besides the agent even knew he was there. Or he could run. But his dad was inside. He targeted himself with the drone and set it to close follow. Then he called 911 and stuck the phone in his back pocket. As he broke cover and approached the van, he heard the driver speaking.

  “Audio good, video good. Ben, getting some glare from the window. Turn your lights down. No sign of target yet.”

  Brendan stuck his head inside the side sliding door. The van was packed with equipment, all neatly stored and secured in black cargo webbing. Most of it was audio and video gear, but there was one bundle of what appeared to be bows, ribbons, and wrapping paper. It reminded Brendan of his grandmother’s closet.

  The driver was sitting sideways in his seat, but he wore a VR headset wired to a laptop attached to the console. His fingers clicked on the keys.

  “Copy that,” the driver said. “Bringing up the blue lights and increasing bass on voice. Sorry, nothing I can do about that echo.”

  Brendan understood then the God of Clowns hit team was also a video production crew. Blinking lights drew his attention. A box with labeled channels was plugged into a power inverter. Other devices with antennas were also connected. This was their communication link, and maybe everything else not on a battery hooked up here. Brendan reached in and switched it off.

  “Hello?” the driver said. “I’ve lost visual. Ben? Jimbo? Do we have audio? Audio check.” As Brendan backed out of the van, the driver pulled off the VR set and looked straight at him. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?”