The Bigtime Series (Bigtime superhero series, e-bundle)

by Jennifer Estep

  Fiona arched an eyebrow. “And you know this how?”

  I held up the papers. “From these. Listen. When Malefica kidnapped me, she was wearing a new pair of Bulluci shoes.”

  “So what? She has good taste. Bella Bulluci is a great designer. Even I’ll admit that,” Fiona said.

  “But that’s not all. She took me to her office and drank Brighton’s Best whiskey from a Hilustar crystal tumbler. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

  “Those are pretty expensive items,” Henry said, picking up on my train of thought. “Not a lot of people could afford one of them, let alone all three.”

  “Exactly,” I beamed. “Everyone knows how much ubervillains love to flaunt their wealth. I cross-referenced the names on the list Henry compiled for me of the richest men and women in Bigtime with people who had purchased these items in the past six months. Morgana Madison is the only name that’s on all of the lists.”

  Henry’s fingers slid over the keyboard like he was playing a piano. “Let me pull up some photos of the two of them.”

  Seconds later, the three of us stared at pictures of Malefica that Henry had recorded at the park and a photo of Morgana Madison that had appeared in the society section of The Exposé. Side by side, the resemblance was obvious.

  I could have smacked myself for not seeing it earlier. For making a rookie mistake and not digging deeper into Morgana from the very beginning. I’d told Sam it was all about karma, that Malefica was in his life somewhere. It made perfect sense. Sam and Morgana hated each other in real life just as much as their alter egos did. Their business battles were just as brutal as the superhero-ubervillain duels they staged on a weekly basis.

  “Bloody hell,” Fiona said. “She’s been right under our noses the whole time. I even made a dress for her earlier this year. She was rather bitchy about the price too.”

  “I never even suspected it might be her,” Henry said. “And I’ve worked at The Exposé for years.”

  “But it is her.” I pumped my fist. “Gotcha!”

  * * *

  Henry and I pored over the records, trying to determine exactly where the goods had been shipped to in hopes of locating Sam. Fiona ran off to tell Chief Newman we’d uncovered Malefica’s true identity. This time, the slap of her shoes on the floor didn’t bother me in the slightest. My headache had vanished as well.

  “She’s got shell company after shell company.” I flipped through a stack of papers. “Look at all these corporations. She’s got more branches than McDonald’s.”

  Henry sat at the computer. His fingers glowed. “You’ve only got the parts I’ve printed out. The woman has her fingers into everything. Oil, natural gas, communications, construction. The list is endless.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I muttered. “I’ve got the shoes. She had them shipped to her apartment in the city to start with. From there, a courier service picked them up. They went to her office at The Exposé and then out to her country home. Eventually, they arrived at the Snowdom Ice Cream Factory on the outskirts of Bigtime. You know what? She put the courier service on her credit card.”

  Stupid move. Ubervillains thought they were so smart. But all it took was one little receipt to blow their cover wide open.

  “The ice cream factory? That place has been closed for more than a year now,” Henry said. “The company couldn’t compete with the other big chains, all the workers were laid off, and the plant was shut down. Tracy, the business reporter at The Exposé, did a story on it. The building’s been empty ever since.”

  I remembered the story. I closed my eyes and thought back to my first meeting with Malefica. I tried to recall every single detail of the building I’d been taken to. Concrete floors and walls, enormous steel vats, lots of catwalks, bitter cold. I frowned. Had there been any words on the giant metal vats? Any markings or letters on the doors or floors or walls? I couldn’t remember. At the time, I’d been more concerned with being dropped into the radioactive goo than my surroundings. But it could have been an ice cream factory. It had all the necessary equipment. Plus, that might explain how Frost had been able to turn it into his own personal playground.

  “I think that’s it,” I said. “It makes sense.”

  “Let me pull up the deed and blueprints,” Henry said.

  The glow from his fingertips brightened. I peered over his shoulder at the computer screen. A series of images flashed across it.

  “Okay, these are the blueprints. It’s a pretty big place and covers a couple of acres. Lots of entrances and exits. There don’t seem to be any buildings near it. It would be the perfect place for the Triad to hide. Now, on to the deed and other paperwork.”

  A document popped up on the monitor. I ran my finger down the screen. “Bill of sale, estimated worth, acreage, utility hookups, blah, blah, blah. Wait. Here is it. The current owner of record of the Snowdom Ice Cream Factory is one Morgana Madison. That’s it, Henry. That’s where she’s got him. I can feel it.”

  * * *

  “I want to go with you,” I protested. “You can’t just leave me behind.”

  “We can and we will,” Chief Newman said. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

  “I’m fine now. Do you want me to run a marathon to prove it? I will.”

  Chief Newman gave me a disbelieving look.

  “Okay, so I couldn’t run a marathon on my best day. But I do feel much better now.” I really did. My headache was gone, and my vision hadn’t gotten fuzzy since the chief had dumped those RID pills down my throat.

  Chief Newman ignored me. The four of us stood in the equipment room. Fiona was ablaze in reddish-orange, while the chief was clad in Irish green with white accents. Now, they were Fiera and Mr. Sage, and they were ready to do battle with the Terrible Triad. Henry emerged from behind a row of lockers. A checkered, black-and-white costume covered his tall frame, and a mask complete with prescription eye goggles wrapped around his head.

  “Nice costume,” I said. “I didn’t think that you actually wore one.”

  Henry shrugged. “I do. But nobody ever sees it since I’m in the van most of the time. Tonight, though, I’m going in with Fiera and Mr. Sage.”

  I itched to get in on the act. I grabbed one of Striker’s swords from a nearby rack.

  “I could really be of use to you guys—”

  I didn’t get a very good grip on the sword, and it plummeted downward. The metal weapon clanged off the floor, narrowly missing Fiera’s booted foot.

  Fiera grabbed the sword. “Give me that before you cut yourself.” She put the weapon back in its proper place on the rack.

  “You have to let me do something. I’ll go crazy just sitting here waiting for you guys to come back,” I whined.

  “That’s why I set up the big screen in the library so you can see, hear, and talk to us,” Hermit said. “That way you’ll know the moment we rescue Striker. The other computers have background information on Malefica, photos, stuff like that in case you wanted to dig a little deeper into her once we’ve gotten Striker back.”

  Sometimes, Hermit’s efficiency was so annoying. I opened my mouth to protest, but Mr. Sage cut me off.

  “We need to focus on finding Striker. We don’t need any distractions. You want us to bring him back safely, don’t you? We don’t need to worry about the Triad capturing you, Carmen.”

  He had me, and he knew it. There was nothing more in the entire world I wanted than to see Sam safe and sound again.

  “Fine. I’ll stay here like a good little girl and play nice. Just bring him back. Please.” My heart squeezed tight. I couldn’t handle having another superhero’s death on my hands. Especially Striker’s.

  “We will, Carmen.” Mr. Sage put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We will.”

  Mr. Sage and Hermit went to the library to grab a few more pieces of equipment, leaving me alone with Fiera.

  “Well, good luck,” I said.

  “Thanks.” Fiera turned
toward the door. She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

  “I’ve never liked you, Carmen. You know that, and you know why. I thought this was all part of some plan of Malefica’s, some scheme the two of you had cooked up to trick us. And when I found you with Sam, I wasn’t happy about that either. But you came through for us when it really counted. You found Striker. We couldn’t have done it without you. I’m sorry I thought that you were working with Malefica.”

  “Apology accepted.” I grinned. “Now, get out there and go get the man back.”

  * * *

  The group roared out of the underground garage a few minutes later. I settled myself in the library to wait. I wasn’t happy they’d left me behind, but I understood their reasons. They didn’t need to worry about someone else, especially someone without superpowers. Their sole focus should be on rescuing Striker before it was too late.

  The minutes dragged by. It was after seven now. Malefica had kidnapped Striker a little over six hours ago. I tried not to think of what she might be doing to Striker at this very moment, the vicious ways she might be torturing him. But the images played over and over and over again in my mind like a CD stuck on one really bad song.

  I buried my head in my hands. If anything happened to Sam, I’d never forgive myself. Never. He’d been kind to me when no one else had, when I didn’t deserve it. He’d saved me from those would-be rapists. Held me when I cried. Taken me in when I had no place else to go. Those were just a few of the reasons I’d come to care for Sam. Just a few of the reasons I’d come to love him.

  Oh, how I loved him.

  “Carmen, can you hear me?” Mr. Sage’s voice crackled and echoed through the library.

  I leaned forward and spoke into the microphone Hermit had rigged up next to one of his computers for me. “Loud and clear.”

  “We’re here,” Mr. Sage said. “We’ve hidden the van in the woods outside the ice cream factory. We’re going in now.”

  “Be careful. There’s no telling what Malefica might have in store for you.” I swallowed. “Or what she’s done to Striker.” With the superhero’s ability to regenerate, Malefica could torture him for hours on end.

  “We will, don’t worry. I’m turning on the camera in my suit. Over and out.”

  A moment later, a large bush came into view on the screen. A green, gloved hand pushed the thick limbs aside. A tall building lay about three hundred yards ahead. I perched on the edge of my seat. I was seeing exactly what Mr. Sage and the others were.

  The superheroes crept toward the building. Nothing stirred. As they drew closer to the factory, I could tell that it had seen better days. Debris, mostly rocks and broken bits of rubble, littered the cracked, uneven parking lot. Graffiti and gang signs crawled over the walls, and all the windows on the bottom floors had been busted out. The setting sun caught on the delicate spider webs that spanned the empty windows, making them glisten like silver. The superheroes reached a metal door tucked away in one corner of the building. An exit sign swung in the breeze, creaking over their heads.

  Through the microphone, I heard Hermit tap a few buttons on his handheld supercomputer.

  “I’m not detecting any outer alarms or electrical devices,” he whispered. “I’ve got no thermal images. Nothing within two hundred feet. The walls are too thick for my sensors to penetrate any deeper.”

  “Then, let’s go in. But keep your eyes open,” Mr. Sage replied.

  “Always,” Fiera chimed in. “Always.”

  Mr. Sage opened the door. Nothing but darkness lay inside.

  “Here we go,” Mr. Sage whispered.

  “Good luck,” I whispered back.

  * * *

  The superheroes stepped inside, and the door snickered shut. The camera on Mr. Sage’s suit automatically adjusted to the faint light, allowing me to see just as clearly as if I had Striker’s supersenses. Hermit took point, and the three superheroes eased into the factory.

  They worked their way through a series of long hallways that turned and twisted back on each other. Finally, the superheroes reached a large, open space. On the far side of the room, a few thousand feet away, an assembly line led deeper into the factory. A metal catwalk ringed the entire area.

  “This is it,” I said into the microphone. “This is definitely the place Malefica took me the night her goons kidnapped me. Everything looks just the way I remember it.”

  “Good,” Mr. Sage whispered. “Let’s find Striker and get out of here.”

  The three superheroes moved deeper into the abandoned factory.

  My inner voice muttered. It all seemed too easy. If I were an ubervillain who had just kidnapped one of the world’s greatest superheroes, I’d know his friends would come after him. I would have more security and guards around my supersecret lair than Fort Knox. At the very least, I would have set up alarms on all of the outer doors to let me know if somebody was trying to break in. But there were no alarms; no loud, squealing sirens; no red, flashing danger signs. Nothing but eerie silence and the labored breathing of Fiera, Hermit, and Mr. Sage.

  “That’s funny,” Hermit said. “There’s a wall in front of us. That wasn’t on the blueprints I found online.”

  “The Triad’s probably done some remodeling,” Fiera said. “You know how Scorpion likes to exercise—by smashing through walls.”

  They continued on. My uneasy feeling ballooned with every step the group took. They met no resistance, not even a couple of token, throwaway goons like the two who’d kidnapped me. The factory seemed to be deserted. There weren’t even any rats or bugs crawling around in the rubble and broken pipes. Of course, Frost had probably used them all in his experiments. Still, something wasn’t right.

  I could feel it.

  The group kept going. They reached the assembly line and crouched under it. I turned my attention to another computer, the one with all of the information on Malefica. I pulled up files and photos of the ubervillain. Document after document, photo after photo zipped by.

  I stopped when I came to an article that analyzed Malefica’s fashion sense. It was the same story I’d read so many weeks ago in the comfort of my apartment. My eyes traced over the pictures that chronicled the changing looks of Malefica. There was something odd about the pictures, something I was missing. What was it?

  I got closer to the screen, so close my nose almost touched the monitor, and looked at the sequence of photos. Over the years, Malefica had changed the color of her suit from bright crimson to a darker blood-red. She’d ditched the glittering rhinestones and sparkling rubies on her catsuit for a simpler, classier design. On the flip side, there was one constant. Her shoes were exactly the same in every picture—

  It hit me. I knew what was wrong. In every single one of the pictures, Malefica was wearing boots. Red, thigh-high boots.

  Boots—not sandals.

  I chewed my lip and picked up one of my Rubik’s Cubes. I turned the puzzle round and round in my hands. It was probably nothing. Perhaps the ubervillain had grown tired of her boots, as women were so wont to do with their footwear and other accessories. Perhaps she was now into sandals. Perhaps she had just wanted to show off her pedicure.

  Still...

  But maybe...

  What if...

  My inner voice nagged me. I thought back to the night in the park when I’d gone to meet the Terrible Triad. Malefica had been wearing boots then, because I remembered the way the enormous shoes had flattened the grass. My frown deepened. But Malefica had sported sandals when she’d kidnapped Striker earlier in the day. Why would she switch from sandals to boots and then back to sandals? Superheroes and ubervillains rarely changed anything about their costumes once they got used to them. They might tweak them a little bit, as Malefica had done by removing the gaudy rhinestones from her catsuit, but they wouldn’t change anything major. It made it too hard for the public to recognize and identify them, not to mention all the subsequent marketing headaches it created. So why would Malefica change her look now
? Why now when she was hot on the trail of the Fearless Five?

  I slid a row of colors into place on the Rubik’s Cube. The answer was that Malefica wouldn’t. Not unless she had specifically wanted me to notice her sandals. But why? Why would Malefica want that? What would that get her? What could she possible gain from that?

  I paced around the room and clutched the Rubik’s Cube in my icy hands. The only reason I’d even recognized Malefica’s shoes was because of my time on the society beat. A month before Malefica had kidnapped me, I had done a lengthy feature story on Bella Bulluci and her fall shoe collection. Bella had shown me a pair of sandals exactly like the ones Malefica had been wearing. The photo had run a good four columns wide across the top of one of the society pages.

  I put the cube down, sat in front of Henry’s computer, and went to The Exposé’s website. I entered my password and searched through the archives until I found the story on the Bulluci sandals. It was your usual fluffy, society piece, but my eyes snagged on a sentence near the bottom. The sandals are only available in sizes 6 through 9… I riffled through the papers until I found the order form Malefica, er, Morgana had used to purchase the sandals. Her shoe size was 10 ½. Bigfoot, indeed. She’d had to pay another five thousand dollars to special-order the shoes, and she’d added another three grand to the total to have them delivered by September 1—two weeks before the Triad had kidnapped me.

  I grabbed my cube and started pacing again. Other pieces of the puzzle snapped into place inside my head. The week before the Bulluci cover, I’d done a piece on fine liquor, including Brighton’s Best whiskey. I remembered whistling when the salesman had told me how expensive it was. A week earlier, I’d written a glowing story about crystal, specifically Hilustar tumblers.

  What if...

  Could it be...

  Was it possible...

  The society page editor had assigned me all of those stories. The society editor, like all the others, had to get her story ideas approved through the managing editor, who reported to Morgana Madison, aka Malefica. It would have been easy for Morgana to whisper into the managing editor’s ear and get me assigned to certain stories. Everyone in the newsroom knew what a good memory I had. I could still recall names, dates, and places from stories I’d written in college. Like all journalists, I was a compendium of useless facts I’d picked up during my years on the job. A cold, iron fist wrapped itself around my heart and squeezed tight.