by Andy Briggs
Council of Evil
VILLAIN.NET
ANDY BRIGGS
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Storming the Beach
Spam
A Meeting in the Dark
The First Steps
Grand Designs
Kidnapped
Just Another Day
A Plan Unveiled
Reality Strikes
Revelations
The Assault
A Race to the End
A Note on the Author
Also by Andy Briggs
Imprint
For Mum
Always being there …
From: Andy Briggs
To: VILLAIN.NET readers everywhere
Subject: Careful on the Web!
As you know, the Internet is a brilliant invention, but you need to be careful when using it in your plans for world domination … or just doing homework.
In this book, the villains (and heroes!) stumble across the different Web sites accidentally. But VILLAIN.NET and HERO.COM don’t really exist. :-(I thought them up when I was dreaming about how cool laser vision would be. The idea for VILLAIN.NET suddenly came to me——especially the scene when Jake shoots the … Oh, wait! You haven’t read it yet, so I’d better not spoil it! :-) Anyway, I began writing and before I knew it, the idea had spiraled into HERO.COM as well. But I had made up all of the Internet stuff. None of it is really out there on the Web, unfortunately.
Here are my cool tips for safe surfing on the Web: keep your identity secret (like all heroes do); stick to safe Web sites; make sure a parent, teacher, or guardian knows that you’re online; don’t bully anyone else——that’s seriously not good——and if anyone ever sends you anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, don’t reply, and tell an adult you trust.
I do have my own Web site, and it’s totally safe: www.heroorvillainbooks.com
Be safe out there!
:-)
Storming the Beach
The assault force emerged from the ocean as silent as ghosts.
Jake Hunter watched them from his craggy vantage point. With the distinctive crunch of leather, Jake clenched his gloved fist. His confusion and anger seemed to enhance his superpowers. And after all the betrayal, lying, and violence that had surrounded him recently, the powers felt stronger than ever. It felt as though pins were stabbing his fingertips.
“Darn it … there go my gloves,” he muttered under his breath as his fingernails extended like cats’ claws, thickening as they ripped through the tips of his gloves. They formed long, razor-sharp talons that shone like black marble in the moonlight.
A week ago he had been just an ordinary kid. Now he was a superpowered global fugitive wanted for theft, kidnapping, blackmail; and he was instrumental in the pending destruction of the planet.
Not bad for a fourteen-year-old.
The spear of rock he was standing on poked out of the surrounding jungle and allowed him to see across the island. It was bathed in the silver light of a full moon, which highlighted the white-sand beach. It could almost be paradise—if not for the fact that Jake’s actions had cost him everything: his family, friends, and security.
Cost him his whole life.
Knowing that it was all his own fault did not lessen the anger he felt inside. Anger was the only thing keeping him going right now.
The line of black amphibious Sea Crawlers that emerged from the ocean spoiled the view for him. The Crawlers were the size of buses and rode on a set of caterpillar tracks like tanks. Once they had safely landed ashore, hydraulic ramps powered down at the rear of each vehicle and soldiers emerged in military formation. Jake could just distinguish that they were all armed with rifles and wearing bulky combat jackets as they raced toward the tree line.
They were Enforcers—an elite force of soldiers created by the United Nations specifically to control super-powered misfits such as Jake.
“They must be warm with all that gear on,” thought Jake. He was sweating profusely and wiped beads of sweat from his brow, taking care not to poke his eye out with his lethal talons. The tropical heat was relentless, even at night. His black jeans clung to his legs. Worse still, they rode up his backside but he couldn’t pull them loose for fear of slicing himself with his claws.
Jake rose into the air. It felt just like rapidly ascending in an elevator. He focused his mind, realizing that he was going to need a lot of firepower if he was going to take out the invading party. His fingers stretched painfully apart as an invisible power swelled in his palms. He closed his eyes and it felt as though he was holding a pair of bowling balls at arm’s length. When he flicked his eyes back open, they burned like fiery coals. His vision was bathed in red, enhancing living creatures from the general background clutter by showing the electrical pulses through their bodies. He now saw them as shimmering figures, almost like angels. There was nowhere for them to hide.
Jake tilted forward and was suddenly rocketing over the palm trees. Within thirty seconds he was at the beach before any of the advancing army could reach cover.
To the men on the ground it looked as if a huge black vulture was descending on them. They all raised their rifles to fire as he swooped overhead, arms extended toward the ground.
Jake felt twin cones of force erupt from his hands and punch into the Enforcers. Some of the men were hurled through the air. The troopers left standing had the presence of mind to squeeze their triggers and shoot.
Most of the bullets missed Jake and combed through the air in the wake of his flight path. But some of the Enforcers remembered enough from their training to “lead” the target—shooting ahead of Jake’s trajectory. These bullets struck him.
To Jake, the impact of the bullets felt like he was being tickled. They struck an invisible shield inches from his body—and the air sparkled with fine blue crackles as his translucent force field absorbed them.
Jake brought himself upright, hovering just a few feet off the ground, and spun around, firing another cone of energy. To anybody watching, the cone looked like the heat haze that danced above the surface of a road on a hot day. His blast hit one of the Sea Crawlers just as the last Enforcer jumped out. The Crawler buckled like a can and flipped sidelong, rolling a dozen times across the sand before splashing into the water.
Jake shot up vertically as another volley of gunfire shredded the palm trees behind him. The soldiers took the opportunity to sprint for their lives across the beach, dragging fallen comrades to their feet and into the shelter offered by the trees.
Jake was so high up that he was beyond the range of the weapons. He paused to take in the impressive view of the island, which sprawled around the smoldering opening of a gigantic volcano.
He stared beyond his feet, and far below he could easily see the electric outlines of the troops who thought they were safely concealed in the jungle. He let out a heavy sigh, knowing he had better finish this.
Jake dived straight down, arms outstretched, and willed another burst of energy from his hands. It zeroed straight for the second Sea Crawler.
The Enforcers cowering in the trees watched as an invisible hammer smashed the Crawler’s cab three feet under the sand—the tail of the vehicle was left poking at an angle into the air.
“Sarge!” wailed a terrified young soldier.
“Pipe down!” growled a muscular sergeant with a British accent.
Jake landed with a thump on the beach, facing the men. He allowed his long claws to tap rhythmically against his leg, in what he hoped was a menacing manner. His clothes absorbed the moonlight, and his glowing eyes gave him a fearsome appearance.
“Um … yeah …,” he mumbled. He cou
ldn’t think of anything suitably threatening to say. His head was still swimming with recent revelations.
Then the ground shook, making every bone in his body vibrate and his teeth rattle. The braver of the troopers risked a glance behind, through the foliage, at the volcano. A massive plume of smoke spewed from the volcano’s cone, lit by flaming debris.
It had begun.
Jake’s actions over the last week had been truly awful, even by his own standards. But they were nothing compared to the erupting volcano and what it signified. Jake knew that the Core Probe had been launched and was now burrowing to the center of the earth.
After the backstabbing treachery of the past few days, it looked as if he’d either be dead or in a cell on Diablo Island before he learned the consequences of his actions.
Spam
The alarm clock’s beep was unceremoniously loud, forcing Jake’s eyes open from a dreamless sleep. His hand snaked out and thumped the clock silent, but it had started a chain reaction that would ultimately lead to school.
His mother’s muffled voice yelled from the kitchen. “Jacob! Time to get up! Come get some breakfast.”
The rest of his family was already up. His mother was eating a bowl of cereal as she peered through her glasses at the newspaper, while his father watched a small television set on the counter, running a twenty-four-hour news program. His sister, Beth, was in the crisp blue uniform of her private girls’ school, reading a letter. She waved it at him as he stumbled downstairs.
“From my pen pal in New Zealand!” she said excitedly.
“What, is she too poor to have e-mail?” That wiped the stupid grin from her smug face. Beth scowled at him, then turned back to her letter.
“Toast?” his father asked as he loosened his too-tight tie.
“Nah,” muttered Jake as he slumped into his chair.
“Sleep well?” asked his mother without taking her eyes from the paper.
Jake shrugged, and an affirmative “Mmm” rumbled from the back of his throat. He’d found this method of answering almost any question usually stopped his parents from asking anything else. Sure enough, his mother nodded and continued reading. Jake disliked these family moments together, but, try as he might, he couldn’t blame his parents. They worked hard, provided a comfortable home, were never short of money, and allowed their children to have a huge amount of independence. But somehow Jake had never felt comfortable. While the independence had made his sister a nerdy brain, Jake had gone down a different track—and he was beginning to regret it.
On his walk to school, girls threw him flirting, shy glances. He was a good-looking boy, with short, spiky blond hair. Even the school office secretary tended to be extra nice no matter how often he was sent to the principal’s office.
Boys, on the other hand, usually gave him a wide berth, and an appraising look. Jake Hunter was the school’s most formidable bully—not somebody to cross. But there was a vague aura of respect from his fellow classmates for the way he manipulated the adults, and on several occasions had defended students from being picked on by rival schoolkids infiltrating their territory.
But Jake was unaware of this side of his reputation. The other boys’ actions made him feel both angry and lonely. Not an emotion he’d share with anyone, of course. He’d always stood up for himself, and this had naturally seemed to lead into bullying others. Now “bully” was a tag he was forced to wear, a preemptive act that actually prevented him from being bullied by the more unscrupulous characters in school.
Those losers had become his friends.
He made it most of the way to school alone before he ran into his crew. They might be his friends, but he didn’t really trust any of them, and he knew the feeling was mutual.
Anthony Culkin, or Big Tony, was huge. He claimed he had big bones, but even as Jake approached, Big Tony was already polishing off his packed lunch.
“Hunter!” he said by way of greeting, chunks of half-chewed sandwich falling from his mouth. The others turned to acknowledge their unofficial leader.
Knuckles, aka Raymond Olson, was a little taller than Jake, and much stronger. His face was pale and greasy, and his small squinting eyes made him resemble some kind of rodent. He flicked his head to one side, then the other, like he’d seen boxers do before a fight. The result was a hideous crack from somewhere in his neck. Jake was sure that wasn’t healthy, but he tried not to react.
Scuffer was a small kid, who made up for his stature with a bad attitude. Warren Feddle was his real name, and he took time to punch anyone who dared to use it. Scuffer was the worst of the bunch. He had a real criminal mind and enjoyed inflicting pain.
Jake never did that. He beat up some of the kids who irritated him, but it wasn’t personal. Jake merely saw it as the order of things, a food chain with the cunning predators at the top and the dumber animals underneath. But Scuffer, he was a nasty piece of work. Everything he did was personal.
“Look! It’s the Professor!” Scuffer yelled with delight. They all followed his pointing finger. Sure enough the lone figure of the “Professor” was slouching as he walked to school, looking as miserable as Jake felt. His back was to them, and he hadn’t sensed the sudden danger he was in.
“Let’s grab his backpack!” Knuckles suggested with his irritating shrill voice that didn’t fit his muscular frame.
And do what with it? thought Jake. But already the gang was charging recklessly across the street, yelling at the top of their lungs:
“Hey! Professor!”
“Gonna pound you, geek!”
The kid turned, looking terrified, and fled as fast as he could. Jake dimly remembered his name was Pete. He was as harmless as a fly; but then again, flies never punched back.
Despite himself, Jake cheered up a little and beamed as he joined in the pursuit. “The thrill of the chase,” he thought.
During classes Jake entertained himself by flicking pieces of soggy chewed paper at his victims across the class. The teachers shot him suspicious glances, but remaining undetected was an art form Jake had perfected over the years.
Jake and his gang prowled the yards at lunchtime, like sharks through a reef. But today people were avoiding them successfully, and there wasn’t much fun to be had. So they ended up kicking a soccer ball around on an empty field. Of course, one of the teachers took exception to this innocuous activity and yelled at them to get off the field.
“Typical,” thought Jake. Do something harmless and they get shouted at, but when they were deliberately starting a fight they always got away with it. That proved to Jake that justice was more of a concept than a reality.
One of the few classes that Jake and Scuffer were actually in together was computer class. Jake sneakily surfed the Internet, glancing at the Web site of his favorite rock band: Ironfist. He had been scrolling through the message board, where some fans were heaping praise on their new release, when Scuffer leaned over and tugged his sleeve.
“Look at this,” he whispered conspiratorially. He held up a USB memory stick.
“What is it?” said Jake.
“My uncle’s computer got a virus. It’s so new his virus software didn’t pick it up. It trashed everythin’ he had, all his documents, music, and photos. All gone. ’Cept he didn’t realize that when he’d tried to back up his stuff, he copied the virus onto this. Wanna see what happens when we stick it into the school’s network?”
Despite himself, Jake laughed out loud. The teacher threw a glance his way but was too involved in helping another student with a problem on her screen. Crashing the school network would be a terrible offense; and therefore carry great bragging rights if they could get away with it.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Put it on your computer,” Scuffer said, forcing the memory stick into Jake’s hand.
“No way! If they trace it to me I’ll get expelled!”
“So?”
Jake knew he would never hear the end of that from his parents. He glanced at the boy next
to him, who was staring between a problem sheet and his answer on the screen. Jake didn’t pause for thought. He reached out and scrunched the boy’s question sheet into a ball, then threw it across the room. The boy looked at him with a mixture of fear and astonishment. He hesitated, then without breathing a word, climbed from his chair to retrieve his discarded sheet.
The moment the boy’s back was turned Jake thumbed the USB drive into the computer port. He gave it a few seconds and hoped the virus was copying itself, before yanking it out just as the boy picked up the paper and spun back around, apprehensively returning to his seat.
Jake and Scuffer swapped grins, then looked enthusiastically at their own screens. From the corner of his eye, Jake saw the boy was straightening out his answer sheet, unaware that the virus was infiltrating his machine. Jake decided to check his e-mails as he waited.
The boy frowned when he looked at his screen, where a spinning hourglass had replaced the cursor, indicating his computer was busy. He experimentally jiggled the mouse. Nothing happened.
Jake typed in his password and accessed his e-mail. He had a few pieces from the Ironfist Web site, and one from Big Tony: a photo of a chimp riding a motorcycle. Jake shook his head; Big Tony was always forwarding junk to people on the assumption that if he found it funny, they would too.
“Miss Campbell,” the boy said in a timid voice.
Jake glanced at the boy’s screen: the computer pointer was moving across the screen unaided, opening any file or folder it came across. This resulted in a mass opening of programs, all executing in a torrent of separate windows that flooded the screen. It was as though an angry poltergeist had taken over.
Jake hid his delight and checked another e-mail. This one was peculiar; the sender’s name was the same as his own. The name “JAKE HUNTER” burned on the screen with the subject message:
“JAKE, JOIN ME AND RULE!”
He moved the mouse across.
“Miss Campbell!” screamed the boy so loudly that everybody turned to look at him. “I think my computer’s got a virus!” His screen was thick with windows opening so fast that it flickered.