Wearing the Cape 4: Small Town Heroes

by Marion G. Harmon

  “I trusted you not to distract Miss Hardt! Her reports to the team are down fifty percent after just two days and now you’ve got Paul—Sheriff Deitz conducting drills that are shutting down research! Just what do you think is going to happen?”

  I sucked in my breath at the sudden attack, and then my mouth took over.

  “Do I look like I know?” I swallowed rising bile but the words poured out. “If I knew what, I’d know who! If I knew who, then Blackstone, the DSA, Director Kayle and probably the freaking Joint Chiefs of Staff would know! Holy hell would be raining down on somebody right now!”

  She opened her mouth, looking stunned. I rolled right over her.

  “But I don’t even know when! So I’m stuck here while everything goes to crap back home because something is coming and I have to be here!”

  I heard clapping, turned as Jacky came in the door behind me.

  “Ali.” Deitz finished reading the board. “It was my call, and we needed to include the Institute. Also, your people’s response time stinks; barely half of them bothered to check their cells for instructions.”

  “Because the alarm wasn’t internal!”

  “I’m still summoning everyone who didn’t check in for a mandatory meeting. If they don’t come, I’m evicting them. That’s my call, too.”

  Ali’s short face-fur hid her cheeks, but I was pretty sure she’d gone apoplectic-red underneath it. Her whiskers stood out stiff and her ears laid back in classic fight-mode, but she didn’t actually spit. I watched her count breaths, and it obviously worked for her, too; her ears and whiskers relaxed though her eye still shot sparks.

  “Fine. Fine. I’ll be there, and I’m calling this upstairs.”

  “Looking forward to it. We still on for dinner?”

  She blanked her screen.

  “That went well.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “Can you promise at least a small fire in town? Soon? If it’s before Sunday night then I think she’ll forgive me.”

  Angel snorted and I couldn’t repress a shaky laugh. My own crisis-adrenaline high fading, I felt queasily sick. Did I really just have a shouting match with Shelly’s boss?

  “I’ll try?” I took a deep breath of my own, sighed. “And what kind of apology does she like?”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” His smile disappeared. “You’re my deputy and you had nothing to do with this. If anything it should go the other way, and it will when she’s had a chance to calm down.” He rubbed his brow, looked at the blanked screen. “She’s been off since her trip to Washington. Probably the upcoming conference. So, let’s review the drill.”

  * * *

  “Well, that was interesting.” It seemed to be a day for saying that.

  Jacky laughed, and not for the first time I decided it wasn’t fair. When Jacky laughed it was a deep contralto, with undertones; I sounded like a giggly schoolgirl. I’d never heard her sing, but she probably had a beautiful smoky singing voice and mine could charitably be called “thin.” Pedestrians returning from the drill waved as we proceeded along, me nursing dark thoughts to keep from thinking about yelling at Director Shaw, Jacky thinking about who-knew-what.

  “Do you feel better about the town, now?” she asked.

  “I suppose. No, I really do. I thought Chicago was pretty well organized, but Littleton could teach us a few things.”

  “You’d feel even better if you’d seen the inside of the shelters. They’re not just fully loaded emergency response centers—bio, radiation, wrath of God, take your pick—they’re arsenals. And from the way the locals were loading up I’d say one in four of them is a proud member of the Littleton Militia.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “Really?”

  “That, or all adults who aren’t researchers or refugees are retired military. Or not so retired.”

  I started walking again. “So, the alarms go off, and the shelters open to unlock the armories?”

  “Something like that. Let’s just say that I don’t think anybody is going to be robbing the municipal bank. Aaand now you’re wondering if you really should be here at all.”

  “Wouldn’t you? I’m not sure this place needs Awesome Girl.”

  “Like that’ll make you go away. We’re here, and we have an interesting evening ahead. You can reconsider everything in the morning.”

  As much as I wanted to stay unreasonable, she had a point; we had a job Brick thought might be fun. Knowing Jacky, she would probably agree with him. Or call it therapy, which much as I wished it wasn’t so was totally normal for her. I shook it off and hooked her arm in mine as we turned down the street to the B&B.

  “How are you going to hide all your guns under that skirt? Think we can find a really big purse?”

  She snickered. “And how are you going to keep from getting recognized by half the Americans in town? They’ll be watching for you after yesterday. With cameras.”

  “Easy. I’m going to cheat.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “There are three basic reactions to mortal combat, all very human: revulsion, acceptance, and pleasure. The first is most common—most people are profoundly shaken by physical conflict and a majority of police officers or superheroes who kill someone in the line of duty resign or ensure they are not in a position to do it again. The second reaction is less common but many people take no lasting trauma from fighting or even killing if they believe it is necessary. The third reaction to mortal combat, intense pleasure, is fortunately comparatively rare. But a higher percentage of breakthroughs in the third category are dangerous breakthroughs indeed.

  Dr. Alice Mendel, Breakthroughs and the Crisis of Being

  * * *

  Jacky’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline when I pulled the Anonymity Specs out of their box. If they would let Grendel eat in peace in the middle of a crowded restaurant, they’d keep me below the radar of a town full of would-be filmmakers. At least as long as nothing serious started to make them pay attention.

  “So did Ozma loan you any more of her toys?”

  “Just this.” I held up my hand, showing her the still-pristine lace ring. “And no, I have no idea what it is—just that I’m not supposed to take it off till I have to. Whatever that means.”

  Told that we had to rain-check dinner, Shelly had come over to help us dress. She turned my hand to look at the ring, wrinkled her brow. “Couldn’t she have been any clearer? I hate magic. Every variety out there has its own set of rules.”

  “And Verne-tech is any different?” Jacky tossed a hair scrunchy at her. “A Hand of Glory is the same as a somnolence field.”

  I grabbed an Alice band for my hair. “A hand of what? Do I want to know?”

  “No!” Shelly threw the scrunchy back. “It’s disgusting.”

  Shelly had brought a couple boxes of accessories with her, and the three of us made a crowd in the little bedroom with wide-eyed Atifa and her bear sitting cross-legged on the bed as a happy audience. Which officially made this the weirdest mission-prep I’d ever experienced.

  And one of the most frustrating; we couldn’t figure out a way to hide Jacky’s guns.

  Then I spotted the brilliant rainbow-colored beret. Dropping the Alice band, I set the jaunty cap on my head, rifled through Shelly’s biggest box for the wide shades I’d seen. They matched perfectly.

  “Here.” I handed Jacky the Anonymity Specs. “We can put you in full costume, body armor, all your guns, nobody will notice a thing until you start shooting.” I frowned. “They might not fit over your mask.”

  Jacky’s scowl went away. I wasn’t sure which made her happier: being able to strap on her full arsenal, or getting out of dress-up. That left me for Shelly to focus on while Jacky changed back, and by the time she was through I looked like a teen Hollywood star trying to go incognito. Thinking about the possible festivities ahead, the short, light skirt didn’t make me happy but if it did come to a serious and wardrobe-destroying fight at least I had my modest indestructibles.

  Shelly changed her mind on
my necklace three times, finally choosing a cheap but sparkly crystal. “So you won’t feel bad if it gets, you know, scratched.” Her smile wavered, and suddenly I understood what was bothering her. I was going into battle and she wasn’t going with me, not even in my head.

  “Hey, Shell will be there when I get to Guantánamo City,” I said, and winced. That wasn’t the point, and I fumbled for a distraction. “Not that she’s been too ‘present’ today, not even texting, really. What’s going on back home? What’s everybody doing?”

  That got a smile, a weak one but I’d take it. “They’re ignoring everything and training. They went to the open range outside of town the last two days, and Tsuris is practicing making water-spouts out on Lake Michigan—you know, small tornadoes over water. Shell says he’s the only one the newsies are getting any sight of at all.”

  “Well, tell Shell to keep you in the loop tonight. In case.”

  She bit her cheek and nodded, looking around. We were done, out of excuses.

  Jacky and I left Shelly with Atifa and I flew Jacky to the Garage, where the enlisted on watch set off alarms and locked down the bay until Jacky took the glasses off so he could see that we were both the arrivals he’d been told to expect. A perfect, if heart-stopping, field test. Corporal Balini—who volunteered—waited for us in the exit bay with a not new but well-kept sedan, smile wide and dressed in civvies appropriate for a hookup-hunting bar crawl. A cheerful chauffer, he drove us to the checkpoint that marked the border between US and Cuban sovereignty, talking all the way about how good it was to get out of the tin can.

  And there we got a surprise.

  The American and Cuban soldiers at the gate both checked the papers the Garage had given us, and then gave way to a Man in Black.

  Really.

  “Young ladies, I am Mister Black. I will be joining you this evening.” He touched his black Panama hat.

  He spoke with a thick accent but perfect diction and, looking up at him, my eyes slid away from his face with no memory of a feature I could name. Magic? Mental powers? Corporal Balini’s return salute shut down my objection. “He’s an Upright Man,” Jacky whispered. “Go with it.” The strange man slid into the passenger’s seat beside Balini.

  “It is a beautiful evening, ladies,” he addressed us over his shoulder as the corporal drove. “Since you are guests, it is my task tonight to ensure that your night in Guantánamo involves only those whom you have come for, and is not an unfortunate night for anyone else.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” I replied without thinking. “What, exactly, can you do?”

  “What I need to do. So long as I do not need to, I wish you the best of luck tonight.”

  Okay… This just got weirder and weirder. Did Veritas know any more about the Upright Men than what he’d told me? Or didn’t our own people know? Could our babysitter really “vanish” us if we stepped over the line he wasn’t drawing very clearly?

  It was a beautiful evening, shading into night as we drove into Guantánamo City. The main street, renewed and colorful during the day, turned festive as the light died. Lit colored lamps outside cafés and coffee shops dressed the street for a party. Music, electroacoustic guitar and piano mixed with drums and even steel drums in bright Creole fusion. When Jacky started to give Corporal Balini directions to a hotel, I stopped her.

  “Darren told you White Hat was camped out at the Café Cubano? Let me borrow the specs—if I eyeball him then Shell might be able to tell us more than we know already.” Which was exactly nothing in the few hours we’d had since Brick let us know about them. “Can you tell me anything, Mister Black?”

  “I am sorry, but no. You understand, our own intelligence agencies do not receive much international cooperation even now. We only know they are men of power up to no good.”

  I blinked. “They?”

  Mr. Black looked improbably innocent. “Your own sources didn’t tell you? There are three of them together.”

  That didn’t help my Zen, and I almost turned us around on instinct; Blackstone’s first response would have been to put everything on hold and Get More Information. But there was really only one way to get it.

  “Right. Okay then. Stop here and wait. I shouldn’t be long.”

  Jacky passed me the specs and Mr. Black actually jumped—suddenly noticing so much more about my friend. It made me feel better somehow. Trading her my shades, I slipped the specs on and got out of the car.

  The music and laughter from bright-lit establishments enticed, floating out to mingle in the street as I made my way up the sidewalk through the growing crowds. Yesterday the street had been empty by comparison in the heat of the day.

  “Shell?” I whispered.

  “About time! I’ve been listening since the guard post.”

  “Shelly caught you up?”

  “Oh yeah. And while waiting I learned a bit about Darren. You’re going to love him…”

  Her voice carried the unmistakable note of wicked glee familiar to anyone who knew the many voices of Shell, and I barely resisted the urge to ask. Jacky hadn’t said much of anything about Darren and the backup she’d left in Guantánamo City when she came into town to get me, and I was beginning to feel set up.

  Priorities, Hope—you’re not fifteen. “Well now it looks like there are three of them. I’m legal drinking age in Cuba, I’m going to go in, look around, order a drink at the bar and take it out to the sidewalk tables. Tell me when I get a good enough look for you?”

  “Right! Let’s see these guys!”

  I made it down the street and to the open doors of the Café Cubano with minimal jostling, only to get slammed with barely time to instinctively brace by a happy drunk exiting with his friends. He bounced off me and sat shaking his head while they laughed and I cringed and tried not to look around for our targets. They had to have seen that.

  I let out my breath when nobody moved in the sudden, purposeful way that signaled threat. Even the traveling drinking party forgot about me, helping their friend up without a second glance.

  “It’s official,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “I love Ozma’s glasses. I’m going to marry them.”

  “Cool. Could you move to the middle of the bar?”

  Good choice. The bar stretched along one long wall and gave an open view of nearly all the tables around the small dance floor. My height was a serious problem, but with the sun just down the place wasn’t so crowded yet that I’d be staring at a wall of people. I made my way to the best open spot I could find—no chairs, you either stood at the bar or took a table. The American bartender gave me his attention with a once-over and a wink.

  “He thinks you’re way too young…” Shell teased as I watched him mix drinks. Seriously tall and skinny, with short curly hair, he reached and tossed with easy hands. Of course he didn’t think I met Cuba’s lower drinking age, but when he finished with the patron in front of him and came over he didn’t card me.

  “What can I get for you?” he asked. I blanked.

  “Cuba Libre,” Shell supplied.

  “A Cuba Libre, please?”

  “One rum and coke, coming up.” He mixed the coke and white rum with two shakes, poured it over ice in a tall, thin glass, and added a squeezed lime. He traded it for my folded bill, but stopped with his hand over mine on the bar and looked me in the eyes. “Pace yourself. Yell if you need help, I can call a cab for your hotel.”

  “I— Sure.”

  “Awww,” Shell teased some more as I turned away. “A Galahad. So sweet.” Which was totally unfair now that I couldn’t answer back.

  I took a sip, tried not to wrinkle my nose at the rum and the clouds of cigar smoke, and looked around. If someone penetrated the Anonymity Specs, hopefully they’d just see a silly American girl drinking because it was legal and looking for a Cuban adventure.

  “Nothing…nothing…nothing…there!” Shell flashed a virtual targeting icon on a white man, American or European, sitting in the
corner with two compatriots. No hat, but he wore a blue carnation and his balding head glistened with sweat under the slow-turning ceiling fans; it looked like he’d taken the hat off. White Hatless sat reading a newspaper. The other two at his table, a beefy guy and a skinny one (I labeled them Big and Tall), just sat. I’d have had a hard time getting a look at their faces in the already crowded club, but all three sat so that they faced into the room with wide sight-lines. Professional paranoids; I let my eyes rest on them for only a second, focused on the table full of young and loud movie techies beside them while I thought about what I carefully wasn’t looking at.

  “Hope,” Shell whispered needlessly. “Turn around now. Don’t look again, finish your drink, ask Galahad for that cab, and get out of there. Now.”

  I managed not to freeze, turned back to the bar but stood stumped. “Now” and “Finish your drink,” didn’t go together. Shell made a rude noise and my cellphone chimed.

  “This is your excuse calling…” She chanted in my ear when I answered. “Hang up and get. Out. Of. There!”

  Yes, that would work. I took a deep gulp of my drink—my hand didn’t quite shake, but my racing blood would burn it faster than it could possibly work its way with me. Holding up my cell for Galahad to see, I mouthed “Cab?” He nodded and reached under the bar for a phone.

  I kept sipping while watching the door, and maybe two minutes later a man with a cap and vest that screamed “driver” walked through the doors and looked for my bartender. I slipped another bill under my nearly finished glass, waved, and walked out fast. On the street I let the cabby drive me two blocks, pretended to see someone, and got out with a “Sorry!” and a nice tip.

  I pulled out my phone again to have an excuse to talk. “Okay, what was that?” Shell appeared by my elbow, making me jump.

  “That was you walking very carefully out of a room filled with Canned Atrocity Wanting to Happen. Look.” She pointed at a wall between shop windows, used it as a virtual screen while I pretended to read the flyers posted on it.