Villains Inc. (Wearing the Cape)

by Marion G. Harmon

  “Nope. One of our electronics boys recorded a wireless signal from the house, but didn’t break the encryption in time. She’d wired the place for sound, and tripped the C4 the moment she realized you’d noticed it. My guess? She’d been waiting for the entire team to go in, not just your lead element.”

  * * *

  Riptide got the fire out before the first fire-truck arrived, but five neighboring homes got singed a bit by flaming debris and the police units waiting in the wings evacuated the rest of the close neighbors, just in case. Once the danger was past and the street clear again, I called the Talbots and let them know their home was fine and it was safe to return. Scott thanked me, and let me know they’d gone to Scott’s sister’s house to stay the night.

  The police cordon kept the media out till after we left, which wasn’t going to help but at least meant we didn’t have to talk to them before getting cleaned up. Two costumes ruined in two nights; Andrew was going to kill me. Lei Zi announced a morning debriefing for 8:00 am, and sent everyone to bed for what few hours we had left. I tumbled into mine and was out in seconds.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “How can we tolerate these…people, who set themselves up as idols in our society? Who inspire our children to acts that maim or kill them in hopes of becoming idols as well? Who think nothing of bringing destruction into our neighborhoods, into our homes, into the places where our children play? Scratch a “superhero” and you’ll find a self-serving, vain, egotistical, monomaniacal, tin-plated god with feet of clay and bloody hands.”

  Mal Shankman campaign speech.

  * * *

  What kind of wicked witch uses C4? I mean, really? Did she run out of flying monkeys? Last night’s explosion hit the morning news, and you’d have thought we’d gone after Millibrand in the middle of Macy’s. On a Saturday. Footage of the burning McMansion filled the morning news, along with sound-bite interviews of neighbors (and only Mrs. Talbot seemed to have anything good to say). Second-guessing pundits offered armchair analysis (Lei Zi’s phrase); apparently we should have set up surveillance and jumped Millibrand when she got in her car to go to work—never mind that, after Dr. Cornelius took down her pet demon, she’d obviously known we were coming for her.

  Dr Cornelius suggested that she’d only had time for one Major Working, which she used to bug out before we got there. Good thing, too; if we’d had to face another demon instead of C4…

  At least nobody died. Besides the cat.

  The morning debriefing was thankfully brief—mainly a warning of the media firestorm from Al. Al attended by video-conference call from his offices, and he looked like he’d gotten up when we went to bed. I’d always thought he’d been a hanger-on, milking his brother’s fame for professional gain, and maybe he had been, but Atlas’ dying hit him hard. He didn’t come around the Dome anymore, and mostly only worked with Quin.

  The only word from Fisher was bad; his boss, Chief of Detectives Garfield, wasn’t happy with the sensational turn the investigation had taken. They still had Dr. Millibrand’s electronic and paper trails to chase, but we’d lost any hard evidence, beyond the early video-footage, in the explosion. The meeting broke up after that.

  Blackstone and Lei Zi whisked Doctor Cornelius away to learn everything he could tell them about Millibrand’s kind of breakthrough-magic and possible countermeasures. Jacky headed for bed—the Sandman started nailing her eyes shut before the meeting ended—and I had classes. The University of Chicago wasn’t a party school, I’d already missed Monday, and since the blast hadn’t left any lasting marks for me to explain and they didn’t anticipate imminent action, they “released” me for school.

  Greek thought and then statistics took up a morning that seemed to last forever, and Julie ambushed me as I left Eckhart Hall to drag me, protesting, across the street to Calvert House for coffee and cupcakes with the Bees. The unthinkable had happened; the New Jersey Red Bulls had offered Dane a rookie contract, and he was to join them as soon as spring semester ended. Annabeth tried to be untragic about it, but I could see naked panic in her eyes.

  It’s a bit of a drive to the campus every class-day, but I drive out of the Loop in the morning and come back in the afternoon, so I’m always headed opposite of traffic with clear lanes most of the way. As distracted as I was, with all the room around me the silver sedan behind me still got on my nerves. Lake Shore Drive had four lanes, none of them crowded, but it crept up behind me till I almost couldn’t see its front bumper, and stuck there as I sped up and slowed down. I tapped my brakes, flashing my brake lights, and the sedan driver flashed his high-beams. Then he pulled up beside me, and the guy in the passenger’s seat held up a notepad with Burnham Park written on it in thick black marker.

  “Shell?” I whispered, and she was there.

  “What’s going on?”

  I glanced at my shadowers so she could see them through my eyes. “I’ve been invited to stop in Burnham Park. There’s no way anyone would get Hope’s attention this way.”

  She didn’t panic. “Got it. What do you want me to do?”

  “Put on your Dispatch hat and get Lei Zi in the loop. I’m going to see who they are and what they want.” I didn’t have to say that they couldn’t be anybody who should know both my private and public identities. So not good.

  “Yell loud,” she said, and then disappeared. Not that she’d taken her focus off me, of course. I fished out my earbug, inserting it so Dispatch could listen in directly.

  I crossed three lanes to make the exit-ramp to the park, and kept going till I got to the furthest lot. The sedan followed, pulling into a parking spot a dozen spaces down. Getting out, I scanned the area; on an early afternoon with school still in session, the park had few civilians who could get caught in the action. Taking a deep breath I stepped away, heading up Lakefront Trail away from everyone else.

  Only one man got out of the sedan, and he casually strolled up the trail behind me. A hundred yards from the lot and in the cover of trees, I stopped and waited for him to catch up.

  A brisk wind off the lake flattened my skirt against my legs and ruffled my bob, blowing hairs across my face. My stalker was a blond boy, nice enough looking in his khaki pants and white shirt. He could be a junior broker out to meet his girlfriend and catch some sun. I smiled, tucking flying hair behind my ears. Why had I been worried? Maybe he’d seen me on campus and wanted to introduce himself.

  Then I caught another look at the car he’d stepped out of; the driver, a big man with the bulge of a gun under his jacket, leaned against it. Brokers don’t have bodyguards! my inner observer yelled as I froze, realizing what was happening. After our encounter with Psijack, Chakra had drilled us on how to recognize mental manipulation, even block it; I started humming Have No Fear’s latest hit Rescue Me.

  Focus, Hope, focus!

  The boy laughed at my expression, smiling and shaking his head, and I lost the song and smiled back at him. Two college boys threw a Frisbee down by the lake, while on the lawn a co-ed in a cute green bikini lay soaking up the sun and scowling at her textbooks. Joggers passed us on the trail, and nobody looked our way. And why should they?

  “Hope?” he asked. “May I say it’s a pleasure to meet you?”

  I blushed. “Sure. I mean—. Likewise.”

  “Could I introduce you to a friend?”

  I nodded again. Any friend of his had to be nice. He took my elbow and steered me around so we walked back up the trail to the parking lot. A second sedan pulled in beside the first, and another big guy got out, opening the car door for its passenger. He was a big guy too, and he straightened his tailored broadcloth summer suit, looking up at the sun.

  “Thank you, Don,” he said to my new friend. Don let go of my elbow and gave me a little nudge, stepping back. I smiled at the man, uncertain but willing.

  “Ms. Corrigan?” He held out a beefy hand and I shook it. “Robert Early. I apologize for introducing myself like this, but I thought we needed to talk before events prog
ressed in an unfortunate direction.” He looked around, frowning. “Let’s walk.”

  We headed up the path a second time, Mr. Early beside me and Don along behind. Mr. Early puffed alarmingly, but kept us moving.

  “First, Ms. Corrigan, let me say I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you since January. My daughter is a big fan, and I think the way the media has treated you is disgraceful.” He scowled. “No respect.”

  “Thank you? It hasn’t been too bad, really.”

  “You’re nice to say so. Moving on, I have become aware, from a friend of a friend, of your recent difficulties. My friend’s friend asked, as a favor, that I pass on a message. He wanted me to assure you and your associates that while he, at times, has employed the person giving you troubles now, he is in no way responsible for her recent behavior. He also wanted you to know that, regarding last week’s unfortunate event, she took instructions from a very foolish associate of his. Who is no longer an associate.”

  He stopped and mopped his brow. Looking back at Don, I felt I had to say something.

  “I’ll tell everyone,” I promised earnestly, hoping to make Mr. Early feel better. He was turning alarmingly red.

  “Good,” he said. “If you could also let your associates know that, however they choose to respond to that person’s actions, my friend’s friends have no intention of involving themselves in her future activities, or the activities of those associates who have joined her.”

  “I will.”

  “Good.” He stopped, nodded emphatically, and put his handkerchief away. “Don? Why don’t you and Ms. Corrigan continue your walk? Thank you again, Ms. Corrigan, it is a pleasure to meet you. Would you tell your mother to expect a nice donation? I’m sure your foundation can put it to good use.”

  I waved as he headed back to the cars, then forgot about him as Don took my arm and turned me around.

  “You know,” he said. “I haven’t been to Burnham Park in ages?” He smiled and I was suddenly breathless.

  * * *

  I pressed my face to the cool table, wrapping my arms around my head.

  “Damn it! You should have let me grab him,” Rush said. He’d been complaining for awhile, pacing up and down the Assembly Room.

  Lei Zi shut him down with a look.

  She’d sent him to the park the instant my warning came in. Following orders, he’d parked his cycle off the access road and watched until Don and his driver left, leaving me standing there like a love-struck loon. I’d just started to come out of it when he dropped out of hypertime beside me and told me to get on his bike, and we’d ridden through his time-frozen world all the way back to the Dome.

  Lei Zi and Blackstone had waited to debrief me until Chakra checked me out; not that I could add a lot—they’d heard everything through my earbug. Now I just wanted to go to my rooms, put a pillow over my head, and scream. Or find my family and never let them out of my sight again.

  Blackstone shook his head.

  “This is actually good news.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “Robert Early is a known mob associate, and he’s just told us that Dr. Millibrand has gone off the reservation. They want nothing to do with her now, and this isn’t going to widen into a war with the entire Chicago Outfit.”

  “Don’t forget the ones ‘who’ve joined her,’” Lei Zi said, her voice hard. “So we’ve got a rogue mob hitter, plus whoever has signed on with her, to deal with. And maybe a ‘foolish former associate’ and his people.”

  “They know who I am!” I wailed, looking up. Blackstone patted my shoulder.

  “The way they passed the message is more good news,” he said kindly. “First, that information is unlikely to have been shared with Millibrand and her people. Second, Mr. Early’s associates are assuring us the old deal is still in place.”

  “Deal?”

  He sighed, sitting in the chair beside me. “Hope, how secret do you think a private identity really is? Anyone with enough resources can eventually learn who any public superhero is unless extraordinary measures are taken. There are too many points of connection.

  “But the Outfit isn’t a monolithic organization—it’s more of a franchise with a humorless senior management. They probably paid to find out all about you within weeks of your public debut. Just in case. But I’m sure Millibrand doesn’t know or they’d have warned us, and by letting us know that they know, they’re telling us they won’t cross that line unless we cross it first.”

  “Huh?” I said. Lei Zi looked like she wanted to say the same thing, and Blackstone sighed.

  “Remember the Hammer?”

  Rush laughed. “Yeah, you’ve got a point.”

  “The Hammer,” Blackstone clarified for the rest of us, “was a vigilante in Boston. The Russian mob there went after some superheroes a couple of years ago. The hits were probably ordered by some lower-level boss who got burned, but someone killed Silversmith and his whole family. Car bomb.”

  “And?” Lei Zi asked.

  “And over the next month an unknown vigilante wiped out most of the Russian mob’s senior management. The media nicknamed him The Hammer because of the brutal style of his attacks. We all play by the rules, because the Bad Guys know what can happen if they cross the line. Even when they know who we are, if they come after us they come after us, in uniform, without involving our families. And when we go after them, we stick to the law and usually try and bring them in alive, even if a general warrant’s been issued. When both sides play by the rules, the bodies don’t start piling up.”

  Lei Zi nodded. “I understand. It’s like the Laws of War; civilians are kept out of it as much as possible.”

  “Right. And the Outfit has even shown its good faith in this by exposing one of its own assets.”

  “Don,” I said. I’d wanted him to kiss me, and now I gagged on it.

  “Don,” Blackstone agreed. “The DSA has a file on him. His agency-assigned name is Charming, and that’s what he does; people like him, even love him. They trust him, can’t possibly think ill of him and wouldn’t dream of harming him. It’s not as potent as it sounds—it wears off with distance and with lengthy exposure. He uses his gift to sell fancy cars to rich people, and he’s married to a girl he met online. He’s a step-dad.”

  “If he’s such a saint, why’s he working for the Outfit?” I asked.

  “My DSA contact didn’t know he was, but the file mentions a gambling problem. He’s probably working off a debt.” He sighed, nodded to Lei Zi, and she grabbed Rush, hustling him out. I barely noticed as she closed the door behind them, leaving Blackstone and me alone in the Assembly Room.

  Then I heard the worst words a teenager can hear from an adult.

  “Hope,” he said, “we need to talk.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  After more than half a century of comic-books before the Event and a decade after, American superhumans who fight crime are practically required to do it in costume. Not that they fight it much—a lot of superhumans share the same powers, and their costumes make them easily identifiable in the crunch when they need people to know who they are and take them seriously. The miracle of media programming is that we can take anyone in tights and a mask seriously.

  Dr. Mendell, Superhumans and Society.

  * * *

  “We’ll up our security measures for your family and friends,” Blackstone said. “Just in case. Panic buttons, that kind of thing. But there are a couple of things I’ve been putting off talking to you about, and we’re out of time.”

  I sat up straight, and he watched me take a breath.

  “First, we’re getting more power on the team. Lei Zi, Riptide, Seven, Vulcan, have all been a boost for us, but the Sentinels are Chicago’s heavy-hitters. We’re the CAI heroes called in when serious firepower is needed, and we lost all three of our strongest, two of our most mobile, in LA. And I’m out of the field now, too. I think you’ll agree, after what almost happened last night, we need to toughen the point
of our spear.”

  He waited until I nodded.

  “I’ve had feelers out for another Atlas-type hero since January, but it can’t be just any Atlas-type; we need someone at least up to your fighting weight, experienced, and able to continue your interrupted fight-training.” He raised a hand, stopping my protest. “You’re certified now, and John and Charles did a good job bringing you along fast, but you’re not finished and unless we find you serious sparring partners, you’ll lose what you’ve got.”

  “Rook—”

  “Offered, and that would help, but regular trips to LA won’t cut it; you need daily workouts, a hard-training program again.”