Recurve saw a faint pink glow emanating from Genevieve’s back and shoulders. It’s go time. He slipped a hand into his pocket, retrieving one of the loose throwing spikes, preparing to punch a hole into anyone in his way.
A thick, powerful circus strongwoman, built like an Amazon and wearing a pink leopard print unitard, replaced the thin waif of a girl. Her whole body shone bright from her telepathically projected musculature, painting everything in the underpass with a pink light. She slipped a hand behind the fanatic’s back, grabbing a handful of gel-slicked hair, and planting him, face first, into a pile of wet garbage and mud. The arm he had draped around her shoulders was now pulled back, pinned against her neck. With her free hand, she pulled his elbow, locking it out on the verge of dislocation. His muffled screams bubbled out from the muck.
Recurve held the steel spike in his fist, just as one of the other Brotherhood pledges ran up to take out Genevieve. He tugged the attacker back by his collar and spinning him around. The confused young man looked at his new opponent and threw a wild punch. Recurve took a half step backward to escape the punch’s range. He moved back in and delivered a solid jab-cross combo, still holding the spike. His loaded right fist dropped the fanatic.
The bald BoA representative shouted for the rest to attack before turning to flee. One stepped up to face Recurve. Three moved to take on Genevieve. The last man stumbled away, tripping over his heels trying to get clear of the brawl.
“Let’s go!” Boost snatched Recurve’s bow and quiver the moment he saw Genevieve take down one of the primary targets.
Manerpillar stuck to his human form to cover the distance.
“Moving in,” Speetah said.
“Wait, Beat Boxer and Speetah hang back,” Patrick said. “It’s a little tight under there. We should give Genevieve and Recurve some room to work.”
“Yeah, besides, Manny and I will be there to handle the clean up,” Boost said. He made his way to the underpass.
Manny reached the melee first, opting to “suit up”, shifting into his combat ready form, the Mighty Manerpillar. Boost was only seconds behind. He called to Recurve, who had just thrust a knee to the stomach of a Brotherhood pledge, dropping the skinny man to his hands and knees, causing him to puke up his latest meal.
Boost gave the bow and quiver to the archer and made his way to help Genevieve. She had now taken the form of a burly woman, wearing a fancy floral print dress. She looked to be a foot taller, and a glowing pink beard covered the lower half of her face, hanging down to her collarbones. Her three opponents were pounding away with fists and feet to no avail. The bearded woman, Genevieve, took a step forward and belly-bumped two of the men away. The third she swatted to the side with a backhand slap.
Boost stutter stepped in their direction, deciding if he wanted to participate, or sit back and enjoy the show. Not wanting to take any unnecessary risks, he grabbed one of the men from behind, wrapping both arms around his waist. Gritting his teeth, and straining with the same effort it took him to lift three times the weight, Boost’s neck bulged, striations tracing grooves into his collar. He arched his back and drove the fanatic backward onto his neck and shoulders, knocking the fight right out of him.
Genevieve used the space, created by bumping the two men back, to switch forms once again, wearing the black and pink leather outfit adorned with straps and buckles. Her juggler shape. She crossed her arms in front of her as a bowling pin materialized in each hand. She whipped her hands outward, flinging the two heavy objects at the approaching men. They darted forward like bullets. One struck the intended target hard in the chin with a sickening crack. The other man flinched as the glowing pinkish bowling pin slammed into his ear. His hand clasped the side of his head as he fell back onto his butt.
Boost stood up, trying to brush some mud and debris from his pants. “I think that dude is crying,” he said, pointing to the man holding his ear.
Manerpillar reached the cowering recruit, doing his best to avoid the conflict. Choosing to be cautious, he bound the man’s hands and feet with silk, apologizing as he did so. “It’s just that we can’t take any chances.”
Boost radioed back to the others, his foot planted on the back of the Brotherhood rep with the slicked back hair. “We’ve got one for the interrogation room.”
“You can’t let the other one get away,” Patrick said. “He’s going to warn the rest.”
“I got him,” Speetah said.
“I got him,” Recurve said at the same time, drawing back an arrow, aiming high to account for the distance.
As his arrow took flight, Speetah passed by kicking up a spray of filthy water and mud that peppered the group.
The bald Brotherhood fanatic was almost 100 yards away when Recurve’s carbon fiber arrow came in high from the left, sinking into the outside of the man’s left calf muscle, poking out the other side, tripping him in mid stride. He slid on the rough asphalt for several feet, screaming in pain from a combination of the signals coming from the arrow sticking out of his leg, and the skin on his face scraped away by the fall.
Speetah dug her feet into the ground, sliding sideways to a stop, looking back at the group. She held her hands held out in anger, saying something they couldn’t hear.
“Whoa! What do you think you’re doing?” Manerpillar grabbed the bow, keeping Recurve from using it, but not pulling it from his grasp.
“He was getting away,” Recurve said. “We couldn’t let him turn that corner.”
“Speetah had him, bro,” Boost said.
“Maybe.” Recurve shrugged and looked at Genevieve for some support.
She paused before answering. “You did go a bit far.”
“Whatever. It was a nice shot, though, right? I mean, I was aiming for his knee, but still.”
Recurve smiled, looking around at the incredulous faces before continuing. “You know…to end his adventuring career.”
“You should have seen her in action,” Boost said, standing up while Patrick and Striker sat at the table. “When things take off she turns into a circus strongman, er, woman, as she flattens a dude. Next, she’s the bearded lady, absorbing punishment from three guys before flinging them away.” He swiped his arm to the side. “Finally she’s the juggler, knocking a couple of fools out with some bowling pins. I swear one of those dudes was crying.”
“Sounds like a regular ringmaster,” Striker said.
“Yes, that’s it! We’re calling her Ringmaster!” Boost was even more animated than before. “I wish I came up with it, but everybody needs their chance to shine.”
Speetah stepped into the room with heavy footsteps, slamming Recurve’s bow and quiver onto the hardwood conference table.
“Don’t scratch the finish,” Striker said. He shrank back when she stared at him.
Speetah looked back at Patrick. “That man is a wild card. We can’t have him out there.”
“I’m guessing you’re talking about Recurve,” Patrick said. “We should speak to him before—”
“Before he kills someone? He’s a menace.”
“We’ll bench him for now, but it’s not a good idea to send him packing,” Patrick said. “I think we can reason with him. It’s not a good idea to send someone with his skill over to the Brotherhood.”
She sat in the chair across from Patrick and took several deep breaths. “Fair enough. But next time he crosses the line while I’m down range, you better believe I’ll take care of the problem. If he pulls a stunt like that again, he won’t be able to draw an arrow on a piece of paper.” She stood up and looked at Striker with hard eyes. “Sorry about the table.”
Boost watched her storm out of the room. “She’s right. That man is a bit off his rocker.”
Patrick pulled an arrow, examining the razor sharp broadhead point. “His methods are a bit…” he tapped the point with his finger, “extreme.” He returned it to the quiver and stood up. “I’ll go talk to him now, so it doesn’t come off as some afterthought. I want him to know
we’re serious.”
“Before you go, we’ve got some intel from those two Brotherhood recruiters,” Boost said.
“That was fast,” Patrick said.
“Yeah, they were a couple of canaries.”
“Word probably got back to the rest of the Brotherhood by now,” Striker said.
“At least we squeezed some juice out of them first,” Patrick responded. “How’d you guys get it done so quick?”
“Genevieve, I mean Ringmaster, summoned her lion to keep one of them company. She kept hinting that it was feeding time.”
“What about the bald guy, the leader?” Striker asked.
“Noah wanted to do his part,” Boost said. “He had the guy locked up in the bathroom with him, while he was a hulking 7-foot water golem. I’m not sure if the dude was more afraid of H2Grow or the fact that Noah used water from the toilet to transform, though.”
CHAPTER
15
Warhead sat back on the tattered couch in their warehouse. His feet were propped up on a stack of pallets. The wood groaned and creaked under the weight of his massive legs with every movement. Leaning his head back, he drained another beer and draped his arm over the side to deposit the empty bottle on the pile of spent beer containers next to him.
“Alright, tell me again,” he barked.
“Uh, the, uh, capes ambushed one of our meetings.” One wouldn’t think a six-foot wall of muscle, covered in tattoos and scars, could cower like a mouse. This fanatic, an intimidating force out on the streets, averted his eyes and kept his voice quiet and even.
Warhead stood up and wiped his mustache and beard with the back of his wrist as he approached. The nervous man took an involuntary step back as his boss moved into his personal space. He didn’t get far before bumping into the powerhouse, Ground Zero, standing right behind him. The other wrestler shoved him forward, more out of frustration than anger. He stumbled ahead before Warhead stopped him with a hand planted firmly on his throat.
The brute eased his grip, drooping his shoulders to come down to his level. Hours, days, months passed in the young man’s mind as he saw his life flash before his eyes. And then a smile pulled across Warhead’s face.
“When did this happen?” the wrestler asked.
“Last night.” Again he looked at the floor, avoiding the uncomfortable eye contact. “They got Gary and Jermaine.”
Warhead grabbed the back of the man’s head, his large hand also covering his neck, and pulled him forward, forehead to forehead before speaking. “Relax, kid. You did the right thing. Now go let your friends know to cancel the gatherings until further notice.”
He turned the young man around and shoved him away. As he staggered by, Ground Zero slapped his back with a firm hand. “Stop lookin’ so scared, kid. You’re makin’ us look bad.”
Warhead watched the man leave, as fast as he could, without breaking out into a full sprint. Ground Zero sat on the couch and pulled a beer from the 55-gallon drum, now only half full of ice water and generic brand bottles. “Who are Gary and Jermaine?”
“I don’t know. Couple of ours I guess.”
“They’re hitting our guys before they even earn their place in the crew.” Ground Zero crushed the bottle cap in one hand while chugging the entire contents of the bottle in one pull.
“Spineless wimps.” Warhead was still looking out at the street through the opened rolling steel door. He turned back to face his partner. “Call the Battlelord. We’re changing the game plan.”
“Are we really stopping our recruiting?”
“Only for a minute. We need to push back at these cowards, so they’re too scared to get nosey.”
“We lost a lot of fans in that last show at city hall,” Ground Zero said. “We need to ramp up our numbers.”
“We will, brother.” Warhead walked to the stack of cardboard boxes behind the trucks parked in the warehouse. He pulled one of the XGH inhalers out and took a quick puff. “It’s also time to get the supply out to our loyal maniacs.”
CHAPTER
16
Bryson turned up the audio book playing on his car stereo. His drive home was a 25-minute commute, mostly sitting at traffic lights since he always seemed to be traveling down the smaller roads, with the longer wait times. He liked watching the people walking down the sidewalk this late at night. It made him feel like what the team was doing made a difference to help the city feel safe.
The light turned green, and he let his car ease out into the intersection. The hood passed into the crosswalk when a hollow thump shocked Bryson out of autopilot. Someone had just vaulted over the hood. He looked out the passenger side window to get a better look when a second figure followed suit, planting a hand on the air scoop and sliding over the other half to continue his chase.
Bryson yanked the wheel to the right and gunned his engine, taking the corner fast enough to see the first figure duck into a convenience store. He parked his car and got out, watching as the second figure, dressed in a trench coat, followed the first. He wore what looked like a bandana over the top half of his head, covering his eyes. The man carried a pair of nunchucks. Both handles in the same hand as the chain rattled in time with his movement.
Bryson reached behind his seat and grabbed his composite bokken, leaving the scabbard behind. He wore a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, with a pair of well-worn canvas Converse All Stars. Most days he would blend right in as the typical mid-30s dad, but running after two shady characters while carrying a blunted replica of a katana, used for practicing Japanese sword techniques, was an excellent way to stand out.
He shoved the door open, looking the stunned clerk in the eye as he entered the store, careful not to knock over the shelves of knick knacks and souvenirs. “Which way?” No need to elaborate, if the guy didn’t know he was talking about the two men running full speed into his store, then no amount of explaining would help.
The clerk pointed to the back door, and stood away from the counter, trying to meld with the wall behind him.
Bryson flashed a reassuring grin, failed to soothe the man, and bolted for the rear entrance. He shouldered the crash bar on the exit, just before it latched shut, finding himself behind the shops. He followed the two men as they moved deeper into the alley. The sound of the door slamming shut behind him, echoed off of the cinder block walls and wet pavement.
The two figures stopped running and turned to face him. His gut feeling was wrong. The second man was not chasing the first. They were giving the appearance of a pursuit. Is this a trap? He could see now that one man wore a Brotherhood logo underneath the trench coat. The other had it embroidered onto his denim vest, opting for no shirt underneath.
Bryson turned as he heard footsteps behind him. He saw two more people approaching, also flying the BoA logo. One wore a crimson tank top, but as was typical of most men in a tank top, nothing about his physique needed to be that exposed. The other, a thick woman with the same build as the man in the tank, had a “fresh out of the package” black shirt.
Patrick pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. Troy was scrubbing through the footage from one of his drones, as it traced its automated path back to one of the rooftop charging stations installed around the city. Once he reached a series of black frames, he toggled the dial, easing the image back.
“Look at this,” Troy said. “This guy was waiting for the drone to fly overhead.” He pointed to an out of focus man in the lower corner of the shot.
“What’s that he’s holding?” Patrick asked.
“It looks like a bunch of PVC pipes angled out,” Abby said, leaning in to get a better view.
Troy brushed Abby’s hair to the side, trying to get her to back up. “I’ll step it forward one frame at a time,”
Each click showed a motion-blurred figure positioning what looked like a giant, plastic, four-pronged antenna. One frame obscured most of the corner in a puff of vapor, and the next series of frames showed a pixilated image of a rough rectangular
net with a weight attached to each corner. As it snared the drone, the feed was a garbled mess of boxy textures, half rendered frames, and then all black.
“Are they targeting all of our drones?” Patrick asked.
“I’m not sure if they are planning to, but that’s the only one so far,” Troy said.
Patrick bit his lip. “Maybe they just don’t know where to find the others. Just to be on the safe side, let’s adjust their return paths. And maybe fly them out less often.”
Abby leaned in again, looking at Troy’s second monitor. It showed a simple rendering of the city’s streets and buildings, with a red circle indicating where the drone was when it was taken down. “Isn’t that Bryson’s neighborhood?”
“Didn’t want to make an appointment, huh? Lucky for you guys, I accept walk-ins.” Striker tried to keep their minds focused on what he was saying, and not his movements. He faced four Brotherhood fanatics, all carrying blunt weapons.
Armed only with the bokken made of hardened composite plastics, he knew his strategy and positioning would be key. He took deliberate steps to put himself in a position to use a nearby dumpster to cover one flank and the wall to cover the other. Striker didn’t have as much room to move, but he limited their possible angles of attack, which was more important right now.
The man in the tank top and the woman with him made the first move. Bryson stepped to the woman’s left to keep her in the way of the other man. With a single continuous flowing path, he deflected the broom handle she swung and whipped his bokken down on her right trapezius muscle. She fell forward and dropped the stick, and clutching her shoulder.
Tank top maneuvered around as the one in the denim vest attempted a wide, horizontal swing with the short steel pipe in his hand. Bryson slid away feeling his heel hit the industrial caster of the dumpster behind him. The pipe whipped by as the man in the tank stepped in, winding up with his blackjack. Bryson slipped by the man’s overhand swing, using one hand to crack his attacker’s wrist with the bokken while grabbing a handful of shirt fabric with the other. He shoved the fanatic into the denim vest clad attacker. They collided and tripped.
Two Percent Power (Book 2): Spilled Milk Page 9