The Pantheon Saga | Book 4 | Gods of Wrath

by Ekeke, C. C.

  No way would Hugo get discovered like this. He clumsily struggled to all fours, every muscle screaming, and found six pairs of boots surrounding him.

  “What have we here?” an unfriendly voice inquired.

  Hugo looked up and swore under his breath.

  A pillar of brawny Viking muscle towered over him, scratching his bushy red beard while twirling his hammer. Thor, leader of The Elite. He wasn’t alone.

  Apollo hovered off the ground on Thor’s left. His eyes burned like twin stars. He truly resembled a sun god with his chiseled frame and golden costume, long blond hair wild and untamed. Nike in bronzed armor stood in battle stance, short swords drawn. Morrigan, deliciously curvy in her skimpy costume, appeared eager to pounce. Vishnu, bald and blue-skinned, brandished his chakram discs with deadly fluency. Looming behind everyone was Samson. This powerhouse among powerhouses was larger than any man had a right to be. His beady eyes glittered with the intent to wound.

  The Elite was here. Hugo was alone and injured. Cold fear flooded his wounded body.

  “Breaking and entering?” Apollo made a judgy tsk-tsk noise. “Wrong move, whoever you are.”

  They think I’m a criminal. Hugo’s throat went dry as Vishnu reached for him with all four arms.

  He sprang up and ran at superspeed….and a wave of vertigo sapped his strength.

  Hugo collided into the side of a building, shuddering its foundations. He collapsed to his knees to stop everything from spinning. That lightning had messed him up badly. Seeing The angered Elite still so close, Hugo realized in panic that he’d run a measly two yards away.

  “A speedster,” Thor spat.

  “I hate speedsters.” Samson’s deep voice was a thunderous rumble. “Besides you, Nike.”

  Apollo glanced at the armored woman and then Hugo. “Seize him.”

  “Gladly, my love,” Nike replied, beyond pleased. She crouched in runner’s stance.

  Hugo gaped and ran. The world kept spinning, his stomach threatening to rebel.

  Hugo sucked it up, driven by panic, and raced as fast as possible through streams of lights and buildings.

  Glimpsing back, he saw the aptly-named War Goddess in pursuit—hunting him. In fact, Nike was steadily closing the distance.

  Yet Hugo didn’t have the energy to run faster. And nausea threatened to overwhelm him. I’m screwed…

  Now Nike ran side by side with Hugo. A casually cruel smile adorned her sharp features.

  “Submit,” she sneered at him. “Wherever you run, we’ll find you.” She hauled an arm back to strike.

  “Good point.” Hugo ducked her vicious swing and stuck a leg out.

  Nike tripped head over heels. Her tumbling form collided into the rear of a massive truck with shivering, clanging impact.

  “…the hell,” the driver exclaimed inside his truck.

  Hugo realized they were in an industrial part of Nipomo, packed with warehouses.

  The damaged truck slowed. A dazed Nike lay facedown as she stirred.

  He didn’t wait for her to recover, zooming off again.

  Despite unbearable nausea and waning strength, Hugo didn’t stop until he reached his backyard in Paso Robles. There, he fell to his knees and vomited.

  Then he sagged onto his back, staring at the sky. The weakness plaguing him from that energy attack was new and terrifying. Hugo prayed he’d heal like from other injuries.

  Then a more annoying thought surfaced. “Why does every hero I meet attack me?”

  Chapter 10

  “You’re joking?” Greyson demanded to his burner cellphone. An angry haze blanketed his brain as he paced outside his downtown Nuevo motel. The muggy streets teemed with rowdy youths celebrating today’s end. Greyson ignored them, dialed into his aggravating conversation. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Wish I was,” said the man known as Magellan, who’d secured his latest gig. “Offers have dried up.”

  Greyson wanted to explode at Magellan for his uselessness. But he sucked in steadying breaths. Greyson had been working on his temper. Mainly at Connie’s request—even though that didn’t matter anymore. Greyson sighed. “Fine.” He wiped the sweat beading his scalp. “And the other matter?”

  “Still no word from my Stateside contact.” Magellan sounded remorseful. “There’s plenty of hurdles to navigate when crafting a new identity.”

  It was the final straw. Greyson almost tossed the phone. “No new jobs! No avenue to reenter America!” He no longer cared to curb his temper. Greyson wanted results. “What the hell are you good for?”

  A lengthy silence passed before Magellan’s calm reply. “Who got you mercenary work when you had zero experience?” he asked. “Who kept you one step ahead of bounty hunters hunting you and Connie?”

  That doused ice water on Greyson’s fury. If not for Magellan, Greyson might have never left Amarantha or hooked up with his first mercenary group in Paraguay. He let his shoulders slump in embarrassment. “Sorry…” He rubbed his face, collecting his thoughts. His hand came away sweaty. Jesus, Greyson was over this humidity. “I need to get back to America and start my mission.” Magellan was one of few that knew about his goals. Magellan and Connie. Greyson swallowed a dry sob.

  “I know, kid,” Magellan’s voice softened. “These last few jobs increased your new profile. And the cost of living in Central America is cheap. Enjoy yourself and lie low. The jobs will start coming soon.”

  Greyson sank to a crouch, nodding in resigned agreement. “Fine.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” Magellan hung up.

  Greyson pocketed his cell. Looked like he was stuck in Central America a few more weeks. The atmosphere was festive, catchy music serenading the streets. Beautiful, brown-skinned locals were dancing and singing and drinking without care. Would a simple, obscure life down here be so bad?

  “There’s still work to do, Grey,” a familiar voice caressed his ear.

  Greyson closed his eyes in muted irritation. The ghost or hallucination of Lauren Gerard, his former love, still haunted him after all these months. Not as frequently now, but still a constant passenger. “I know that,” he whispered so none overheard. Greyson had accepted that his purpose would lead to one of two endings.

  He wandered through the festive streets of Nueva, pondering what to do with his unplanned vacation. After an hour, he was back at the bar that Vertebreaker associates had frequented during their stay. Locals packed the dingy bar, cheering and conversing in Spanish. Some sporting event on TV. Greyson saw what had caused the commotion. And his mood darkened.

  Blur from those moneygrubbing Extreme Teens was onscreen, puffing out his nonexistent chest. His tacky, purple bodysuit was covered in endorsement logos, that dark shock of hair pushed back by goggles sitting atop his head. Greyson didn't know or care why Blur was being interviewed. Then he remembered. The Blur vs. Velocidad race from Cancun to Mexico City was today.

  “Congratulations, Blur,” the cute, slender reporter said, “On retaining your World’s Fastest Teen—”

  “World’s fastest Man title,” Blur interrupted, gesturing at himself smugly. “I’m eighteen, beautiful.”

  A blush stained the interviewer’s face. Disgust filled Greyson’s innards.

  “World’s Fastest Man, sorry,” the interviewer corrected. “You and Velocidad were dead-even most of the race, until you pulled ahead toward the end.” A clip showed what amounted to two colorful streaks racing about Mexico City’s sprawling cityscape. A freeze frame showed Blur dashing through the tape alone, grinning cheekily. “Was Velocidad your toughest race?”

  Blur scoffed, rubbing his windblown mane. “The kid’s fast. But he’s not me.” Blur posed and flexed, a walking tribute to himself. “I’d like to thank a few people, though. First, the fans who knew I’d win. Your faith was never misplaced.” Blur raised a finger as he reached his next point, drunk off his own awesomeness. “Second, to the haters. TOLD YA! Third…” Blur softened, almost looking humble. “To my lady L.U.N.A. fo
r all her support. She couldn’t be here due to her tour. And lastly,” Blur got cocky again. “I’d like to thank me. Because how else would Velocidad get the chance to lose to the reigning, defending World’s Fastest Man?”

  Greyson was done, turning to leave the bar. “I hate nine-to-five, corporate heroes.” He might target those idiot Extreme Teens first for being so goddamn annoying.

  “—a job with a Northern Mexico cartel.”

  Saed’s voice came from a nearby side room, cutting through raucous cheers and Blur’s bloviation. Greyson stopped. The conversation seeped from a closed door barely a foot away. Interested, Greyson slinked close enough to listen.

  “No thanks,” Alonzo stated. “I worked with a cartel years ago. Nearly got killed.”

  “Too bad.” Saed sounded disappointed. “Some vigilante is ruining their drug transports. They’re paying good dinero to kill this motherfucker.”

  Greyson was confused. From what he’d heard some cartels were capable of, one bleeding-heart vigilante should be an easy kill.

  Alonzo asked the question himself. “Can’t they handle this?”

  Rikki spoke now, less hostile addressing someone beside Greyson. “The vigilante is a super,” she explained. “Saed and I are already on board. Since you’re not interested, can we borrow someone from the crew who’s a super?”

  Greyson perked up. Oh, good lord.

  “Take Hirsch,” Alonzo replied evenly. “He’s powerful and has a hard-on for murdering vigilantes.” His voice sounded creeped out.

  “No,” Rikki vetoed empathetically. “Hirsch makes my skin crawl.”

  “We’re using Berto,” Saed added more diplomatically.

  Greyson recoiled. Of course, they chose one super who rivaled him. He stayed quiet and kept listening.

  “Berto?” Alonzo snorted contemptuously. “Love the kid, but he’s a selfish, small-minded doofus. Not the guy for this kind of op.”

  That reached Greyson, despite Rikki’s disrespect.

  “He’ll come through when shit gets real,” Saed assured. “We just need to motivate him with something besides women.”

  The trio continued talking, while Greyson wandered outside. The rejection stung. It should be me on this mission. Yet they were going with that unmotivated man-child.

  "Shoulda been nicer to Ms. Leung,” Lauren’s mild taunt turned him around. The hallucination of his ex-fiancée stood before him in some frilly salsa dress. Ghost-Lauren's flat stomach was exposed, hair falling in beachy, ash-blonde waves. “But you kept antagonizing her.”

  “Shaddup,” Greyson hissed quietly to not draw attention. “Rikki's a miserable bitch who never liked me.”

  Phantom fingers held his waist like Lauren once had. “Will you let Berto take what’s yours?”

  Greyson rolled his eyes. “I know what needs to happen.” A plan already began forming.

  Later, Greyson tracked Humberto “Berto” Gutiérrez at another dive bar in downtown Nuevo. The young man with his bronzed skin, strapping physique, and cropped curls was the definition of pretty. And wherever the Vertebreakers reached a new locale, Berto took full advantage of all the local flavor.

  The handsome mercenary was strolling down a less busy side street with a curvy stunner, crooning seductively in Spanish. Berto, in his own words, only cared about ‘Ms. Right Now’ instead of Mrs. Right.

  Greyson cautiously floated onto an apartment complex roof so Berto wouldn’t catch his tail. He knelt down, waiting for the moment to strike, heart racing.

  “Wanna see something awesome?” Berto asked in a velvety tone.

  His date beamed, squeezing his arm. “Like what?”

  “This.” Berto raised a glowing hand. Suddenly, beams of light shot through the clouds. Berto used his other hand to make Bat-signal shadow puppets in the sky.

  The street filled with oohs and aaahs. Berto’s date stared in awe and clapped.

  Greyson chuckled. It took no time to figure Berto out. He was a punk kid who never cared to master his powers beyond impressing girls.

  With Berto distracted, Greyson saw his chance. An old, rusted car parked on the side of the road was close enough to Berto and his lady. Greyson waved a hand, altering its gravity. Making an ugly rusted rattle, the vehicle shifted sideways toward an oblivious Berto.

  His date noticed first, glancing up the street. “What’s that noise?”

  Greyson made a swiping motion, yanking the car below in a clockwise sweep. Berto finally noticed the impending danger as the car careened at him.

  The sound of metal and crunching bone cut through the festive night, followed by shrieks. Greyson quickly restored the car’s gravitational pull and peeked over the ledge.

  Crowds were gathering around a prone Berto beside the car that had struck him. He sobbed like a toddler, clutching his crushed right leg. “My fucking leeeeg!” His ugly crying contorted that handsome face.

  His attractive date was a study in confusion and horror. “Wha…what should I do?”

  Berto gaped at her in pained disbelief. “Get help, idiota!”

  “Sorry, kid,” Greyson murmured, not sorry. With a satisfied smirk, Greyson edged away and negated his own gravity, soaring back to his hotel.

  The next morning, he awoke to a solid knocking. Throwing on a robe, Greyson found Saed and Rikki at his door. The latter looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

  “Have something we need to ask,” Saed said after he and Rikki were invited inside.

  Greyson remained cool on the outside…barely. “Okay.” He sat on his bed, feigning cluelessness.

  Saed scratched his beard before continuing. “Rikki and I are heading to Mexico for a cartel job.”

  Greyson leaned away from the pair standing in front of him. “Cartel?” He put on a show of fake trepidation. “We’re not running drugs, are we?”

  Rikki rolled her eyes. Saed coughed out a laugh. “We’re handling a security problem. Our third man somehow got himself injured. Badly.” He didn’t hide his frustration. “Trying to impress a girl.”

  Greyson fought to keep a straight face while making concerned noises.

  “His spot’s open if you want it,” Rikki added unenthusiastically. She refused to meet Greyson’s gaze. “Good money. Should be quick and easy.”

  Only then did Greyson smile. “When do we leave?”

  Chapter 11

  Quinn rejoiced once she arrived at San Miguel International. New England would always be her happy place, but the City of Wonder was home. Even with Annie gone.

  Annie’s Instagram feed confirmed she and Johnny had arrived in Italy. Quinn, while mournful, refocused on work. She spent an hour in her apartment unpacking, showering, and changing before leaving again. No time for rest with the Spotlight team meeting tonight.

  The early evening displayed a bronzed sun sinking into the sea when Quinn pulled into Helena’s Morro Bay estate. She had stayed in the guestroom twice a week for a month, caring for her mentor during the Jono breakup.

  While exiting her car, Quinn recalled Helena’s drunken rants about Jono’s awfulness or sobbing hysterics over how she missed him. This house had been a sanctuary for Helena's raw anguish, which few had seen besides Quinn.

  The front door opened before Quinn could knock. A young, heavyset girl appeared with big hazel eyes, bouncy red curls, and light-brown skin. “Welcome back, Ms. Bauer,” Rachel Doyle beamed.

  “Doyle, Its Quinn,” Quinn chuckled. “I’m not your teacher.” She stepped inside the house’s well-lit interior, sliding off her jean jacket.

  Doyle came from SLOCO Daily’s latest intern pool of college grads. Helena, impressed with her above-and-beyond efforts, had made Doyle her personal intern. This included personal errands and notetaking at meetings.

  Quinn was a huge fan, eager to offer advice whenever Doyle had asked.

  “What’s the word?” she questioned as they approached the common room.

  “Most everyone’s here,” Doyle confirmed. Voices babbled ahead. �
��Grapefruit juice and water?”

  Quinn smiled. This kid always remembered. “Thanks.” She walked into a large war room--shifted couches, five open laptops, food wrappers cluttered everywhere. Quinn’s attention went to a long flatscreen on the opposing wall laying out Paxton-Brandt’s labyrinthine organization.

  Quinn studied the screen and her coworkers.

  Boyd Comfort, bald and bearded, led the team. The veteran investigative reporter held court in front of the flatscreen. Maureen Zhang, an elfish firecracker from the Politics department, sat cross-legged in a hoodie and jeans typing on her laptop. Pablo Diaz, the curly-haired and broad-shouldered from World News, debated with Maureen and Boyd.

  Helena watched the proceedings from her lounge chair. The editor-in-chief’s curly blondish hair was long enough to tie back in a ponytail. Her off-the-shoulder sweater and sweatpants revealed how lean she’d gotten in two weeks, especially around the face. Quinn’s concern flared. She’d mother her once everyone left.

  Boyd noticed her first. “Welcome back to the mayhem, Bauer!” He gave a pearly-white smile.

  The others offered similar greetings. Helena waved briskly.

  Quinn greeted everyone, enjoying the boisterous reception. She sat on the empty couch opposite Helena and pulled out her laptop. These investigative veterans weren't as friendly at first when she’d joined the team. But Quinn's hard work soon won them over.

  Doyle returned with Quinn’s water and grapefruit juice, giving her a brief yet thorough download on the meeting. That girl was a data sponge.

  Spotlight met weekly at Helena’s place to give updates on the exposé. The editor-in-chief, while very hands-on, let Boyd run the meetings.

  Doyle huddled in a corner jotting notes on her tablet, a fly on the wall.

  “We’ll cover three points.” Boyd pointed at three boxes on the TV. “Using disaster relief as cover to kidnap superhumans.” He jabbed the next box. “Illegal experimenting on supers.” He thumbed the final box. “Superhuman trafficking to private militaries and rogue nations.”