The villain rolls his eyes. “Really? That’s the best you can do? We are building an empire here. Let’s have a little fervor.”
He stands up and walks over to the video monitors, checking the outer perimeter of the barn and farmhouse one last time. SUVs sit idle in empty fields. The sky is clear, a washed-out uniform blue. Streakless. “Six minutes till showtime,” he says, walking back to me and sitting down again. “Are you comfortable? Do you want some water or something? Number Seventeen could get you a straw—”
“Why are you doing this?” I say, interrupting. It’s the one part of his plan he hasn’t revealed. Not that I really care. Only that maybe if I knew why, I could come up with something, some reason to call it off, something I could say that would at least give him pause, buy me some more time. I’ve already tried convincing him it won’t work, that I’m not powerful enough, but he insists Dad’s contraption will make up for that.
“Let me ask you a question, Michael. What do you believe in?”
I flash back to that first conversation at St. Mary’s. My father asking me about God and me looking at him like he was insane. I stare now at the Dictator, who is insane. He takes my silence as an answer.
“Exactly.” He sighs. “Nobody really believes in anything anymore. They say they do, but it’s all for show. We are a nation of fence-sitters and teeter-totterers. Gone are the good old days when you could control men’s hearts and minds through a fiery speech and some well-placed propaganda. Now we’re too self-absorbed, caught up in our screens and pads, closed off from any real engagement with the world. I’m going to give everyone something to believe in again. Something to fight for. Something to die for. It’s actually quite admirable, if you stop to think about it.”
Admirable. Using a thirteen—hold up, fourteen-year-old boy to control the minds of hundreds of thousands of people, making them your slaves so that you can begin your takeover of the world. There are so many better words to describe that.
“You’re not giving them anything,” I snap back. “You’re taking away the only thing that makes them human.”
I get a flash of Dad standing at the top of the stairs, pictures in one hand, key in the other. You don’t get to choose the box that’s handed to you, but you at least choose whether you open it or not.
“It’s not right,” I add, though I realize how ridiculous that probably sounds coming from me.
“Who is to say that the world I create will not be better than the one we have now?” the Dictator says. “This isn’t about good or evil. It’s about winners and losers, and the winners get to be right.”
“Except you haven’t won yet,” I say spitefully, glancing toward the ceiling.
He follows my upward glance, bemused.
“Oh,” he says. “Him. I know. He’s been on my mind as well. But it’s too late even for him. He hasn’t found me yet, and there’s nothing to lead him here now.”
I wonder if we are thinking about the same guy.
The Dictator continues. “In less than ten minutes, the city’s savior will have his hands full trying to stop a mob marching under my control: ordinary citizens he can’t hurt but will still have to find some way to stop. Or better yet,” he adds, suddenly inspired, “maybe he will be watching too. Maybe you can convince the Comet to join the cause and I’ll get my very own superhero to play with. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Could that really happen? I have no idea how strong the device my father built will make me. Could I really convince the Comet to switch sides? He’d have to be watching, of course.
But if he is watching . . .
I start to improvise a plan.
“Two minutes,” the guard standing by the camera says. The Dictator dons his mask again, giving me a reprieve from his smug, irritating little grin, then presses another button on his chair. The giant screen in front of us is suddenly filled with his steely face. “Keep the camera on me until I give the signal,” he says. “I don’t want our comrade straying from his script.
“And you,” he says, pointing at the guard standing next to my father. “If the boy so much as gets one word out of place, shoot the professor. Somewhere nonfatal but excruciatingly painful.”
The masked henchman beside Dad nods. My father mumbles something behind his gag.
I need a better plan.
“I have to remember not to look at the screen while you’re talking,” the Dictator whispers in my ear. “I don’t want to brainwash myself.”
“One minute,” the mindless henchman operating the camera says.
The spotlights come on, bathing us in a fluorescent pool. Beside me, the Dictator shifts uncomfortably in his seat, then reaches up and adjusts his mask.
“How do I look?” he asks.
“Terrifying,” I mumble.
“Excellent,” he says.
The henchman behind the camera counts down from five. The red light on the camera clicks on, and I realize that millions of people could be watching us right now. They won’t be able to resist. It’s human nature to gaze upon spectacle, be it triumph or tragedy, car wrecks, home runs, kidnappings, celebrity weddings, terrorist bombings, battles in the night sky. Besides, he promised them a better world. He has their undivided attention.
I have their undivided attention.
“Greetings, citizens of New Liberty. Thank you for joining me on this historic evening. Tonight we embark on a new journey: to throw off the shackles of apathy that enslave us, and to forge a new civilization. One uniformly joined in common cause. I promise that I will lead us all to a glory that past empires have never known. But I will require your unconditional allegiance. And so, to that end, I would like you to listen very carefully to the following message.”
That’s my cue.
On the giant screen before me, I see the Dictator reach behind me to the little black box at the back of my skull. Three buttons: green, white, and red, just like Christmas. And I think about what it would be like if he pressed the wrong one and my head simply exploded.
There is a moment, before you open it, when a box can hold almost anything. It’s the best and worst moment, full of anticipation and possibility. The problem with me is I always open it. I can’t resist.
I steal one last glance at the man who has raised me for the past four years, then look at the cue card beside the camera.
I’ve made my choice.
The Dictator presses the little green button.
I know exactly what I’m going to say.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Because I’m suddenly not there anymore. The camera is pointed right at me, but I have disappeared. There is nothing but darkness. The giant screen in front of us has instantly zapped to black.
In fact, all the video screens have gone dark. I look over at the video camera itself. The red light has vanished too. We are no longer live. The Dictator’s would-be army isn’t watching us anymore. They’ve probably gone back to their regularly scheduled programming.
The Dictator pounds his fist on the chair, furious.
“What’s going on? What happened to the cameras? Was there a power surge? Number Seventeen?”
The henchman working the camera fidgets with the buttons. Another types frantically at a keyboard by the giant screen. “Everything else is up and running, sir. It’s the camera systems,” one of the henchmen says in his monotone. “They’ve all just stopped working.”
The camera systems. All shut down.
My professor can fit just about anything into one of those little black boxes. I glance over at Dad. I think he is smiling, or at least is trying to, behind that gag of his. There is no neural amplifier. Or if there is, my father didn’t hand it over. Or he tinkered with it to make it do this instead. On my head is another version of the Scrambler, scourge of bank security systems everywhere. It’s the oldest magic trick in the book. The false bottom. The old switcheroo. Marvelo would be proud.
The Dictator turns on me, voice quivering, livid with rage. I
can’t see his face behind the mask, but for once I wish I could. “You,” he hisses. “You . . . and him . . . What have you done?” I know he’s not looking at me. Not in the eyes, anyway. I know it won’t work, but I don’t care. I’m going to say it regardless.
“Go piss yourself.”
The Dictator reaches back with his one gloved fist, and I realize I’m about to have my nose broken. At least I can see it coming. Unlike Rudy. I close my eyes and then feel the whole world shake.
An explosion sends everyone not strapped to a chair stumbling. It comes from far away, but it’s sizeable enough to resonate clear through the walls. A dozen guns are suddenly at the ready.
“What was that?” the Dictator yells, forgetting me for the moment and holding himself against his chair, spinning and checking all the doors. I can hear shouting coming from one of the hallways. The man who would create an empire is suddenly all finger points and orders. “You—get those cameras back up and running. You—take three men and go to the surface. Check all three entrances, put guards at the staircases. And get at least fifteen more men down in this room now! And you,” he says, pointing to the guard standing beside my father. “Start removing fingers from that man until he tells you what he has done with my amplifier!”
The henchman guarding my father shoulders his rifle, rolls up his sleeves, and pulls out a wicked-looking knife, lined with jagged teeth. I can’t help it—I think about Mickey Maloney. Leave the middle one, I think, so he can let everyone know just how he feels.
But the guard doesn’t even get to the pinky.
It comes out of nowhere, just like the night outside the warehouse—a black ribbon, darting out of the shadows like a whip snake. The cord wraps around the goon’s legs and drops him to the ground, chin first, hard enough to send his knife skittering from his grip and across the floor. I wince a little, watching. I know how much that hurts.
I catch a glimpse of gold stripes on a black body, the reflection off a pair of infrared goggles, those big red bug eyes, the shadow dancing along the wall. The sidekick nobody’s heard of. The one who nobody else seems to know about. Except me.
I know.
The shadow moves quickly to my father and, in flash of steel that I just catch a glint of, frees his hands. He stands on wavering legs, leaning against the workbench for support. The five guards who are still in the main chamber immediately train their rifles on the two of them. My father’s flaming caterpillar eyebrows crowd together in a look of defiance, but the Comet’s partner steps in front of him, shielding him. I glance at the ceiling again, waiting, breathless. Totally figures. The one time I want him to show.
The guns stand ready. The Dictator growls beside me, looking back and forth from me to my father. “Oh, well,” he says, throwing his hands up. “I have the boy. I can always find another inventor. Kill them.”
I scream. In a blur my father’s rescuer manages to kick over the workbench and push him behind it, collapsing on top of him as the masked men open fire. Bullets start to turn the bench to kindling. I strain at my restraints, pulling with every muscle. Then I see one of the Dictator’s henchmen go down, struck by a shot to the leg. Then another. There is gunfire coming from somewhere else.
I twist my head as far as I can, with that stupid crown still wrapped around it, and see a dozen men charging through one set of big metal doors. Tony leads the pack, cane in hand, belching fire. Zach follows close behind, all thorns and holding a metal pipe for good measure. I twist all the way to the other side to see the men the Dictator had called for running through the opposite door. Fifteen metal faces and fifteen machine guns. Two waves cresting through the corridors, about to crash.
And me smack-dab in the middle. Again.
“Don’t shoot the boy!” the Dictator screams as the room erupts. He reaches down to the injured guard on the floor beside him and pulls a knife from a boot, quickly slicing through the tape on my legs, muttering curses. I feel every muscle tense as my legs are freed. I clench my teeth and take a deep breath as he cuts the rope around my waist. I’ve been waiting for this.
When he saws through the leather band binding my left hand, I take my shot. I’m not a southpaw, and to be perfectly honest, I’ve never really been in a fight. Never had the need. But I am ticked. I just want to hit him. Hard.
“Geeeyyyaaaahhhh!”
It’s a perfect punch. Nestled in that sweet pocket right beneath his eye. Unfortunately, the steel of his mask is much harder than my fist. My soft fingers smash into the unforgiving metal, and I can almost hear them break, knuckles aflame. I quickly stuff them in my mouth to try and suck away the pain.
The Dictator just cocks his head to the side as if to say “Really?” Then he ducks and maneuvers behind me, wrapping an arm around my neck, cutting off the air. I start to struggle but soon find the tip of the knife tickling my chin.
“Time to go,” he says. I start to say something in protest, something that would get me into loads of trouble at St. Mary’s, but the ten-inch blade pressed against my Adam’s apple discourages any response. The whole room is quickly filled with smoke and bodies. Bodies flying, firing, tackling, punching, kicking, biting. I don’t know where they all came from. More masked men pour into the room. Numbers Forty through Fifty. Or Sixty. An endless supply, cranked out by some henchman-making machine, I suppose. Another knife sails past us, and I look to see Blades crouched behind a bank of computers, emptying his jacket with his one good arm. Tony’s giant frame looms large in one corner, like a bald-headed dragon, cane outstretched, wreathed in smoke. In the confusion I can’t seem to find my father. Or his rescuer. I look toward the bench, no more than shards and splinters, but they aren’t there anymore. I struggle as much as I can against the man who holds me, but every move causes the point of the knife to dig even deeper into my skin. The Dictator drags me backward, toward the only doorway that doesn’t seem to be vomiting men with guns.
We make it all the way to the corridor before the whole room finally turns blue.
The sound of gunfire is nothing compared to the sonic boom of his arrival. I’m not sure how he got there. All I know is he is standing right in front of us, blocking the entry, so close I could touch him if I wanted to. I look into his eyes, wreathed by wrinkled spandex. I didn’t think I would ever be so happy to see a superhero in all my life.
“Unggh,” the Dictator groans, as if he’s just stepped in something rank. I think I see the suggestion of a smile cross the Comet’s face. The Super looks over at me.
“It’s your lucky day,” he says in that grizzly voice of his.
That’s one way to look at it, I guess.
I feel the knife go slack, only for an instant, but it is just enough. I drive my elbow as hard as I can into the Dictator’s gut, causing both of us to stumble backward; then I duck out of the way just as the Comet’s fist flies.
I watch from the ground. It’s a direct hit, a jackhammer, a pile driver, just like mine, right in the chin. Except this time the Dictator flies six feet, landing in a heap and skidding along the stone floor. When he raises his head, I can actually see the imprint of the Comet’s fist emblazoned in the villain’s steel mask, can actually count the knuckle marks pressed into the metal. Underneath, I’m certain the man’s jaw is shattered.
“Of course, when you do it,” I say.
Suddenly the entire room seems alerted to the Comet’s presence. It’s as if the whole melee is put on pause. The gunfire stops. All eyes turn to us. Then both the Dictator’s zombies and Tony’s men turn their weapons toward the superhero. The new threat, bigger than any of the rest of them.
Only the Dictator’s men open fire, though. Tony’s know better. They’ve been through this once already. I spot Zach in the chaos, fleeing through one of the tunnels, his boss huffing it right behind him.
The Comet stands in front of me, deflecting bullets from the henchmen’s rifles with ease, shielding me from the attack. Then, in a flash, he is on the offensive, darting into the swarm of brainwash
ed thugs, bending steel and breaking bones, delivering punch after punch, sending the Dictator’s numbered brutes airborne, piling them up behind him unconscious. I get the same feeling as before. At once terrified and mesmerized and impressed.
I feel a pair of hands under my shoulders, pulling me up. They are hands I recognize. Slightly hairy with nimble, blistered fingers. I look up at my father. Beside him is the Comet’s sidekick.
“Come on,” the husky voice says from behind the mask. “We have to get you two out of here.” My father grabs my hand and drags me along as we follow the black-and-gold suit down the hall. Dad has the bag from the workbench slung over his shoulder, his shirt flapping open, his feet bare. He is grinning like an idiot.
As I look back into the central chamber, the last thing I see is the Comet standing in the middle of the room, lifting the Dictator up off the ground by his mashed metal face, the hero’s free hand curled into a hammer, a five-fingered bomb, ready to explode.
A grunt startles me, and I turn to see a numbered henchman materializing out of one of the rooms along the tunnel, finger on the trigger of his gun. But a swift kick from the black-suited sidekick sends the weapon flying, and another planted square between the henchman’s thighs drops him to his knees.
“Wow,” I say, breathless. “You are totally awesome.”
It’s a stupid thing to say, I know, but it’s the best I can come up with under the circumstances. The figure shrugs, then points down the hall. I can see a ladder at the end of it, only a dozen feet away.
“Climb!” the mask growls. My father doesn’t wait, running to the end of the corridor, practically leaping up the rungs, bag slapping against his side. Down the hall the other way, you can still hear gunfire and shouting. I look up to see my father disappearing into the darkness above me, bare feet slipping on the slick steel, scrambling to the surface, not looking back.
Minion Page 20