by Various
Sam self-consciously clasped her hands behind her back, an action to hide the brunette wig, but it was too quick, too obvious, doing nothing but making her embarrassment even more apparent. Sam felt her partner tense beside her and out of the corner of her eye saw him shake his head. It wasn’t his fault, and not for the first time, Sam felt ashamed at the way she dragged Joe into her… obsession.
Gillespie took a long drag on his cigarette. The end flared as he pulled air through the burning tobacco, taking a long, deep lungful. He was making a point, and Sam knew it. He was in charge, and they would just have to wait until he was good and ready. End of story.
“No one dead, at least.” When Gillespie finally did speak, it was quiet, calm, polite even. Sam and Joe looked at each other, unsure who should speak or what the response to the chief’s inaccurate observation should actually be. While they fumbled for an answer, Gillespie dragged again, finishing the cigarette and tossing it to the tarmac where it lazily smoked like a spent shell. He held his breath for a moment and Sam watched, imagining the rush of nicotine and wishing she hadn’t quit the habit six months ago. Then Gillespie exhaled over Sam’s head and smiled.
“Oh wait, two civilians dead. One missing half her head, the other with brains turned to scrambled egg by the Freak. God knows how many fuck-ups are sitting in that shitty bus.” He gesticulated at the glowing yellow transport. “Marriage break-ups. Suicides. Who can tell. Seeing someone’s brains blown out at close range can do that to the average Joe. Did you know that? Shock. Post-traumatic stress, that kind of thing.” He paused, eyes flicking to meet Joe’s but quickly focusing back on Sam. “And for… what, exactly?”
Gillespie’s voice remained low, quiet. The chief wasn’t one to rule his department with loud voices and popping blood vessels. In fact, the quieter he got, the worse the situation. Right now it was looking pretty ugly.
Gillespie sighed. “I don’t want to see you guys in the precinct today. Consider it an unofficial half-day suspension.” He looked the pair over again, head to toe, then took a step closer to Sam and turned so his back was to Joe.
“Go stew in your own juices and come back tomorrow with a damn good explanation as to why you made this poor sucker—” Gillespie jerked a thumb over his shoulder “—complete your reports and alter the department work plan for the last three months to fit this little party in.”
Oh, shit. The chief knew. He knew all along. Sam glanced at Joe and saw him looking down at his feet, covering his eyes with a hand.
The chief knew about the swapping of work, about the screwy timesheets, about Sam neglecting her regular duties to pursue the “Freak”, the chief’s name for San Ventura’s public enemy numero uno, the Cowl.
“Sir, I’m sorry,” Sam began, “but this was a watertight operation. Our intel was right on the money, the Cowl was right there, and we had him. Dammit, almost had him.” Sam’s eyes joined Joe’s on the tarmac. She gave up. “I’m sorry, sir, Joe was just helping a friend. I take full responsibility.”
“Really?” To say the chief’s tone was unsympathetic was one hell of an understatement. “You know how much this jazz all costs?” He waved his arms around, not really looking, but his point was clear. “The SuperCrime department’s budget isn’t unlimited. I might just have to start taking some deductions from your pay check, officer. Now, before you get out of my sight for the rest of this miserable day, tell me what happened. Why do I have a damn school bus full of terrorized civilians and not a single suspect in powercuffs?” The chief was already reaching for another cigarette. Joe folded his arms, sat back on the hood, and left it all to Sam.
She took a short, shallow breath, clearing the events in her mind before assembling them into some kind of order.
“Sir. 10.30am, two black SUVs pulled up and twelve combatants we assume are in the Cowl’s employ entered the bank. Detective Milano and his teams were positioned in the area. I was embedded in the branch as a customer.”
The chief snorted at her use of the term “embedded”.
“With the raid in progress, Detective Milano established the police cordon as though it were any other armed robbery call-out. As expected, they required information from the branch manager, Mr Ballard…”
Gillespie held up a hand, and Sam stopped short, quickly, lips pursed in the formation of her next words. The chief made a show of dragging on his cigarette. This time he was less careful where he blew the smoke. Sam’s eyes narrowed as the irritant cloud wafted around her face.
“What you didn’t expect, detective, is that they’d start killing hostages almost immediately.” He shook his head. “You, you of all people, should have known better. The Cowl is an evil, insane little man, and his hired help are usually the lowest form of sadist. Sure, they’re trained, they’re resourced, they’ve got the latest and the greatest, but they’re lowlife, Detective Millar. You know this. So what the hell were you doing?”
In the bright sunshine, Sam’s face was a flat gray. The chief was right. Joe knew it. Sam knew it. She’d known three months ago that people were going to die, but part of her shut it out. She wanted to take the Cowl down herself, and damn the consequences.
No, that wasn’t true. Sam knew what would happen but was actually quite relieved that the bloodbath hadn’t been even worse. But whenever it came to the problem of the Cowl, some cognitive center in her brain started to skip unpleasant but necessary details. She had known people would die, but she went ahead anyway.
She felt sick. The chief was right. But more than that, she had no right, no right at all, to serve the city making judgment calls like this one.
Sam reached into her seconds-store suit jacket and took out a small black rectangle of leather. Sewn into the stiff material was the badge of the San Ventura Police Department. On the reverse, a laminated photo ID card. Sam offered it to her boss.
Gillespie looked at the badge, shaking his head. “What do you think this is, detective? The Wire? You don’t get out of it that easily. Stop making meaningless gestures because you feel bad, and tell me what happened.”
Sam retracted the badge, glancing sideways, not at her partner but to see if any uniforms had been watching. She felt her face grow hot in embarrassment, but nobody was paying the trio any attention. She quickly pocketed the ID and cleared her throat.
“The Cowl entered the bank by unknown means, through our cordon. Probably some kind of teleportation. He killed the first hostage remotely—psychokinesis we assume. He then made threats against Mr Ballard, and ordered one of his men to shoot a hostage. Mr Ballard refused to cooperate and the Cowl was going to kill a third civilian himself when…”
Sam paused, hesitating.
“When what, detective?”
“When the Cowl was attacked by one of the civilians. It was impossible to see clearly, sir, it happened so fast. But the man charged the Cowl and carried him straight through the doors, and out into the city.”
“And the mercenaries?”
“They must have been acting on standing orders. They immediately abandoned their hostages and their leader used some device. There was a flash… and I woke up on the floor. They were gone, along with Mr Ballard, the manager.”
“Uh-huh.” The chief turned his back on Sam and Joe, and walked a few steps around the front of the car, towards the bank. Almost the entire stretch of the plate-glass frontage had been shattered by the impact of the Cowl and whoever it was who ran him out of the building. On the right and left, in almost perfect symmetry, were the abandoned black SUVs. Police tape had been stretched around them, but they had been left otherwise untouched for the forensic team which was on its way.
Sam knew from past experience that the vehicles would not be booby-trapped, but she also knew that they wouldn’t provide any data. The Cowl rarely left anything behind, but when he did, it was scrubbed clean. Just another couple of pieces of expensive non-evidence to take up space in a police storage warehouse.
Gillespie walked over to the first SUV, peere
d into the windows, then beckoned Sam and Joe over, away from the other police.
“If they had some kind of teleport facility, why did they make such a show of arriving in these things, waving guns around? Why didn’t they just zap straight into the vault, take what they wanted, and zap out again. Why the theatrics?”
Detective Joe Milano considered for a moment. “Because the Cowl is an asshole, sir?” Sam sighed, but amazingly the chief allowed himself a small chuckle. Joe folded his arms and continued.
“It’s part of his modus operandi; it’s how he controls this city—with fear.”
Gillespie’s reflection loomed large in the SUV’s tinted window.
“So what did the Cowl want here anyway? What’s in the vault?”
But Sam was already shaking her head before the chief even finished. “Nothing of interest, sir. Cash, customer records, nothing else. But the Cowl didn’t want the vault, he wanted Mr Ballard. The Seven Wonders had entrusted him with something. That’s why they took him.”
Gillespie turned from the vehicle and popped another cigarette into his mouth. “The Seven Assholes.”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, the Seven Wonders. Since when do they go undercover? Their identities are secret, they make damn sure of that. We’ve got CCTV angles covering the whole branch, so we should have a good record of the guy that took out the Cowl and dumped him in the ocean. But… could it really have been Linear, on his day off, or something? We’ll have his face on the tape, but he would have known his actions would reveal his identity. I don’t see a member of the Seven Wonders pulling a stunt like that. They’d just sit tight and let people die before revealing their real faces. They’ve never acted like this before.”
Sam laid a hand on Joe’s arm, a dangerous thought sparking in her mind. “What, you’re saying we have another superhero in San Ventura?”
Joe nodded. “Could be. The secrecy of their identities is paramount. Linear wouldn’t perform on camera, even in the middle of one of the Cowl’s schemes.”
The chief sighed, a deep, hollow sound like wind rushing through an underground cave. “That, detectives, is all we need. Now, go. Ponder on what you are going to put on your reports. I don’t want to see you until tomorrow. Let uniforms clear this mess up. I’ll get them to send you the bill.”
Dumping his unfinished cigarette to the sidewalk, Gillespie scuffed his shoes as he turned and headed back to his car. Joe unfolded his arms and walked off, leaving Sam alone by the SUV.
She felt her heart race. To come so close, to plan everything so perfectly, only to be foiled by something they could never have foreseen.
San Ventura had a new superhero.
Then she smiled, just a little. Because if there was one thing guaranteed to piss the Seven Wonders off, it was a new hero on their turf.
CHAPTER 3
TONY HAD ALWAYS been frightened.
A Friday, a couple of months back, and San Ventura at night was just as hot and muggy as San Ventura during the day, the only obvious difference being that it was dark. At 11pm the city was just hitting its stride, getting as busy as it was at midday with the surge of diners and drinkers, partygoers and clubbers, people hitting the night shift and people late leaving the office. At 11pm the night was young for a lot of folk.
Tony was not one of them. Retail was hardly a bountiful career choice and he was resigned to taking as many extra shifts as he could to make ends meet. Friday night was no exception. As the city came to nocturnal life, just the same as every other city in the country, Tony’s only thought was to get home as quickly as possible. Attract no attention, speak to no one, get on the bus, the subway, then home. Safe.
Park Boulevard was illuminated as bright as day, the weird monochrome of the yellow sodium lamps on the main street outshone by the more natural white glow emanating from restaurants and bars. Added to this was the orange and red of neon signs, the blue from a few all-night internet cafes—there were three of them here, all in a row. Tony knew that they were all owned by a large Mexican who liked to be called Leroy in one shop, Jesus in the second, and Arnold in the third; Tony was half-convinced the man was a retired superhero with a quick-change closet between each of the premises. This part of town was practically floodlit.
This was no comfort for Tony. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he buried himself deeper into the shadowed corner of the bus shelter, unconsciously sucking his stomach in to reduce his profile as much as possible. It was a token effort, but Tony felt better, convinced that perhaps if he slowed his breathing he’d practically vanish. What a superpower that would be.
In reality, the way he folded himself into the corner of the bus shelter just made him look like a crackhead on a comedown, but the effect was much the same. The three other people waiting at the shelter for the 300 to Maryville were judiciously gathered at the other send of the shelter, away from Tony, ignoring him completely.
For just a moment, Tony allowed himself to relax, and focus inward. He tried to cut himself off from the hustle of the street, find his center, and let his brain switch off after a particularly numbing day at the Big Deal megastore.
He sighed quietly. Even the name of the store was appropriate. Big Deal. Sure, he was working with computers—selling the damn things. He’d had such ambition once. Computers, programming, IT, a trendy dotcom company and a lot of neatly stacked bundles of cash next to the bed he shared with a Californian beauty queen.
But Tony knew that some dreams were never meant to come true. Six months into computer science at UCSV and his math gave out on him. Switching to an arts major, he lasted another two months before quitting altogether and deciding to focus on the important things in life: eating, sleeping, avoiding the dangers of San Ventura. And Big Deal was the state’s largest electronics and home entertainment chain, so theoretically he was still in computers. So really, what he told his mom wasn’t entirely untrue.
Big Deal. Oh, how the name of the store mocked him. Tony never thought he’d be bothered by his lack of ambition. He really had no interest in career progression or business development or working any longer than the end of his ten-hour shift. But four years selling cheap bloatware PCs to unknowing soccer moms and their eager seven-year-old sons was becoming a real drag and the pay was lousy. And the lack of money presented issue number two.
Tony pondered on this with just a hint of resentment as the 300 pulled up. He let the other waiting pedestrians board first, keeping a distance between himself and the young suit in front just slightly too wide to be natural. Even the bus driver seemed to see it, squinting slightly at Tony as he climbed the three steps, presented his pass, and slipped down the vehicle’s aisle to find a seat on his own. He was in luck—back third, right-hand side. Tony swung onto the bench seat quickly, and sank into the corner. As soon as the doors of the bus clacked shut, the interior light automatically dimmed. Tony felt better already, off the street.
Money. If Tony had money he could buy a car and not have to take first the bus then the subway and if he had money he wouldn’t have to work in Big Deal but more than that he wouldn’t have to live in San Ventura the most dangerous fucking city in the world and you think Mexico City is a piece of work or fucking Skid Row but neither of those places have their own fucking supervillain and…
Breathe, Tony, breathe. He closed his eyes and exhaled, and decided that he was tired and brain-dead after his shift. Sure, San Ventura was a dangerous place, but if a couple million other people could survive it, so could he. He wondered if he needed to see a doctor, maybe get something for anxiety, but as the bus rolled gently around the city center he couldn’t help but smirk at his own paranoia. Sleep was the solution. Everything would be better in the morning.
Tony was jolted forward, the bus rocking on too-soft suspension as it came to an abrupt halt. Heart attempting to drill out of his chest cavity, Tony gripped the top of the seat in front and half-stood to get a better look out of the front window. A car beeped, and another responded, and somewhere outside a man
was swearing. Then the bus jerked again and coasted forward, journey resumed.
Tony flopped back into his seat heavily. Holy fuck. Getting freaked by someone cutting in? Maybe it wasn’t a doctor he needed, maybe it was a shrink. No, OK, sleep soon, no problem, then tomorrow is Saturday and the sun will be shining and maybe I can even go down to the beach.
Tony opened one eye. He knew it, he goddamn knew it. At the front of the bus, on a backwards-facing seat, was an old black man in a black suit underneath an overcoat. There was an old-fashioned hat, a Homburg maybe, perched on his head, and his hands rested on the black handle of a thick walking stick.
The old man was looking at him. It wasn’t a glance, it was a look. The man held it for maybe three seconds, then blinked and turned his attention to the rainbow fuzz of city lights that flickered through the window.
OK, he didn’t look dangerous, but looks were deceiving in San Ventura. He looked odd, which was reason enough to fear. Tony had never seen him before; he wasn’t a regular on the bus and he hadn’t noticed whether the man had been waiting at the bus shelter with him or had been on the bus already.
San Ventura was not a city you took risks in. Tony thumbed the bell and immediately stood, awkwardly walking down to the doors by the driver as the bus lurched around a corner. Tony stood in the short stairwell and closed his eyes, nose practically touching the rubber flap that sealed the two halves of the door together. His stop wasn’t for a while, but he had to get off the damn bus and lose the old man. Had to.
Tony snapped his eyes open as the bus doors slid apart, cooler air suddenly rolling over his face. He took a second to check where he actually was, then hopped off the second-to-last step and stood, hands in pockets, until he heard the bus doors close and the vehicle hum off down the street.