The Pantheon Saga | Book 4 | Gods of Wrath

by Ekeke, C. C.

  Maureen huffed in contempt. “They’ve even done this during US hurricane season.”

  Pablo shuddered. “Jesus.”

  Quinn seethed, disgusted at the scope of Paxton-Brandt’s cruelty.

  Pablo walked up, poking the disaster relief box. This expanded into a world map with several red dots. “The Paxton-Brandt black sites we know of are in Puerto Rico, Philippines, Indonesia, Haiti, and Amarantha. All with histories of natural disasters.”

  Boyd studied the map with penetrating green eyes. “Let's remove Amarantha from that list.”

  Pablo nodded.

  Quinn was lost. “Why?”

  “Our onsite reporter has been covering Amarantha’s regime change.” Pablo ran jittery fingers through his hair. “Paxton-Brandt got expelled by the new superhuman-led government.”

  Boyd hopped in. “Nadia’s sources told her how the company paid the previous regime a fortune to be the Caribbean’s main research facility.” He poked at Amarantha on the map onscreen, enlarging the island nation. “From there, Paxton-Brandt weaponized supers and sold them to the highest bidder.”

  Maureen frowned. “How did they skirt US sanctions on Amarantha?”

  “Paxton-Brandt is a multinational company,” Pablo explained, shuffling back to his seat. “They could use any of their foreign subsidiaries to avoid sanctions.”

  Quinn drained her water, flabbergasted by how creatively greedy this megacorp was. She sensed Helena watching her.

  Got anything? the editor-in-chief’s blue-grey eyes asked.

  Quinn gave a confident nod, turning back to Boyd. “Here’s another way they’re grabbing unregistered supers,” she announced. “I’ve sent you my informant’s data dump.”

  “Wavering Walt finally blew his load,” Maureen teased.

  “Very funny.” Quinn rolled her eyes. “Boyd, open the attachment I emailed you.”

  Boyd switched from the map to his email, clicking the attachment. When it expanded into a United States map covered in red dots, Boyd’s eyes narrowed. “What are these?’

  “Paxton-Brandt free clinics,” Quinn explained, moving her legs as Doyle scurried about cleaning the common room.

  Everyone reacted in muted shock, save Helena.

  “They’ve built clinics in low-income neighborhoods,” Quinn continued.

  Pablo gaped. “Unregistered supers must be coming in droves to avoid getting tagged at hospitals.”

  Quinn nodded. “Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “How do we know they’re actually kidnapping patients?” Maureen questioned.

  Quinn expected that question and had come prepared, thanks to police contacts Geist had connected her with. “Thirty-nine missing person reports filed over six months from clinic patients. That’s just San Miguel,” she said. “One source saw a kidnapping last night in Nipomo.” Quinn was relieved Hugo hadn’t been seriously hurt from his recap of the encounter. “And while they weren’t involved, The Elite were present.”

  “That’s brazen,” Boyd remarked.

  “Paxton-Brandt’s been careful.” Quinn gestured to emphasize her points. “Spreading the kidnappings over months, knowing most family members might keep quiet to stay off OSA’s radar. But with the Amarantha site closing, the kidnappings have increased.”

  “Speaking of the government...” Maureen raised a hand like an eager student. “Shouldn’t we report this? An international conglomerate is kidnapping American citizens.”

  Quinn wondered the same thing. All eyes turned to Helena.

  “We’ll hand over evidence to the feds once the exposé is published,” she replied, speaking for the first time since Quinn’s arrival. “We want the world learning the truth about Paxton-Brandt before they try to squash or redact anything.”

  Pablo looked deflated hearing this. Quinn was equally displeased. She gave Helena a pointed stare. The editor-in-chief’s warning expression discouraged pushing further.

  Helena rose from her lounge chair. “There's a mountain of evidence. Once we get more ironclad sourcing, we’ll be ready. Why?”

  “Because it has to be a kill shot,” her subordinates repeated together.

  Helena grinned. “Damn straight.”

  Half an hour later, Boyd, Maureen, Pablo, and Doyle had departed. Helena and Quinn sat on opposite ends of one couch, each nursing a glass of wine.

  “You’ll know about the government angle once the exposé publishes,” Helena countered cagily when Quinn pressed. “Walk me through the kidnapping.”

  Since her mentor wouldn’t budge, Quinn acquiesced. “My contact tried stopping Paxton-Brandt from kidnapping a super. Nearly got killed, but they escaped.”

  Helena arched an eyebrow. “A superhero.” Her tone was stiff.

  “Yep,” Quinn said. “Geist is casing Paxton-Brandt’s Shandon facilities tonight. I’ll hear back tomorrow.”

  “Hmmm.” Helena had a strange look. “You and your superfriends.” Despite an illustrious career, Helena always got prickly over Quinn’s closer ties to the superhero community. This sentiment had worsened after Geist had become known to the general public.

  “Anywho…” Quinn placed her glass on the coffee table. “How's the other big story?”

  Helena sipped her wine, eyes locked on Quinn. “Ready. I just need to get Cross alone.” She'd built a case against Ad Sales VP Dave Packer overcharging sponsors and skimming off a percentage.

  “Can’t wait!” Quinn rubbed her hands. She didn’t consider herself vindictive. But Packer and his group of hyenas always acted untouchable because of the big sponsors they acquired. Some schadenfreude over their imminent defeat was healthy. Quinn’s elation soured when recalling how billionaire Hamilton Cross, SLOCO Daily’s owner, was friends with Packer. “You think the owner will fire Packer?”

  Helena snorted. “He won’t have a choice.” Regardless, her expression revealed uncertainty. She drained most of her wine, placing the glass beside Quinn’s. “Packer’s ouster needs to be quiet. Word getting out will destroy SLOCO Daily’s reputation.”

  “And that’s not counting all the potential lawsuits,” Quinn noted.

  “I’ve never liked Packer.” Helena stretched both arms with cat-like grace. “But this isn’t personal. My strategy has always been to leave SLOCO Daily in better shape than when I started.”

  She gave her protégé an intense, sidelong stare. “In two years, I’m not renewing my contract again.”

  Quinn leaned away, not expecting that. She assumed Helena would never leave her SLOCO Daily kingdom. “Where would you go?”

  Helena shrugged. “Wherever I land…” Her expression softened. “You’ll always have a place beside me.”

  Gratitude jolted through Quinn. “Thanks,” she murmured.

  “Now.” Helena scooted closer to Quinn. “How was the wedding?”

  Quinn happily recapped Annie and Johnny's nuptials. Helena was a rapt audience, probing for details and laughing at the funny parts.

  “The last wedding I attended was between a bioengineer and an ICC prosecutor.”

  “A ‘smart couple’ wedding?” Quinn snarked.

  Helena rolled her eyes. “They did their vows in four languages, the third being Dothraki or one of those made-up nerd languages.” Her expression curdled. “Then during the reception, they go around asking guests how those differences made them feel.”

  Quinn scoffed, personally offended. “Who gives homework at a wedding?”

  “My thoughts, exactly!”

  “I’m there to get cake, get drunk and maybe get lucky,” Quinn declared.

  “Did you?” Helena probed, grinning eagerly. “Get lucky?”

  Quinn proudly raised two fingers. “Twice!”

  Then Helena dropped a bomb that dropped Quinn’s jaw. “You’ve been proposed to three times?”

  Helena nodded, fiddling with the tie holding her ponytail. “The first time,” she sighed heavily, “was a reporter I’d met while embedded in the 2000 McCain campaign. But he wanted th
ings that I didn’t back then. Kids and suburbia.” She made a distasteful face. “I got cold feet, accepted the Guardian job, and moved to London.”

  “Wow,” Quinn managed, transfixed.

  “The second time,” Helena continued, raising two fingers, “happened during my NewYorker.com stint.” Her eyes filled with regret. “Craig would’ve made a great husband. But advancing my career was my sole priority. So I cheated on him and ran like hell.”

  “And number three?” Quinn asked, eager for more.

  “I turned down a proposal,” Helena admitted. “The guy was an asshole. I saw no future beyond mind-blowing sex.” Both women cackled.

  “And when I’m finally ready to settle down,” Helena continued, no longer amused. “I just…settled.” Quinn stop smiling. The mirth had been sucked from the room without Jono’s name being mentioned.

  “Learn from me,” Helena’s voice grew wavery, like she was about to cry. “You find someone great who loves you, don’t let go.” She abruptly stood, snatched both wine glasses, and vanished into the kitchen.

  Strong emotions were guaranteed whenever Helena mixed wine with nostalgia.

  Concerned, Quinn followed her.

  Helena was twisting open a prescription bottle over the sink. She popped two pills in her mouth like candy, then drained her glass.

  Quinn remembered Helena straining her shoulder weeks ago in her yoga kickboxing class. “Your shoulder still hurts?”

  “Yeah.” Helena gulped down her pain-killing cocktail. “I got something stronger from my doctor.”

  Quinn didn’t like that answer. “Just see a specialist.”

  Helena leaned back against the sink. “Sure thing. Can you add four hours to the day?” Her sharp tone carried a warning.

  Quinn tensed, catching the hint. Helena Madden stood only a few inches taller, about five-foot-seven. But her strong-willed personality gave the woman an intimidating and towering presence—especially when angered.

  Quinn tried an alternative approach, still worried about her mentor's emotional state. “I’ll stay in the guestroom.”

  Helena prickled. “QB, I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Very.” Helena picked her phone off the countertop and began typing. “Besides…I’m ordering takeout.”

  Quinn guffawed. Helena mentioning takeout away from work never meant food. “Brazilian again?”

  The editor-in-chief looked up with a pervy grin. “I’m thinking Japanese.” She played with her Tinder app, scanning over possible matches.

  Quinn smiled, misgivings aside. Helena was an adult. “Enjoy.” With that, Quinn headed to grab her stuff.

  Stars were strewn across pitch-black skies when she left Helena’s house.

  Reaching Arroyo Grande took no time thanks to little traffic. Hallway lights spilled into her darkened apartment when she opened the door.

  Quinn swayed, now wanting to sleep for half a day. Today’s six-hour flight followed by the work meeting suddenly struck like an eighteen-wheeler.

  Right after closing the door, she sensed movement behind her.

  An arm seized Quinn’s waist, dragging her from the door. Her purse went flying.

  Quinn’s fatigue was scorched away by full-blown panic. Again…?

  Her squeal muffled by the hand over her mouth, Quinn thrashed and elbowed like crazy…

  “Quinn…”

  Quinn froze, recognizing the hoarse whisper. “Longshadow?”

  Therese Levesque released her from behind. Quinn lurched forward and flicked on her hallway lights, fear shifting to fury in seconds. Therese had snuck in her apartment—again.

  “Of all the pigheaded ways to grab my attention—” She whirled and gasped.

  The vigilante leaned heavily against the foyer wall, panting. Her arrow quiver was empty, both mask and hood of her blue-and-black costume drawn back. This revealed sweat-soaked brown hair tinged in red. Her lovely face was blotched by bruises. Blood trickled from numerous wounds on her costume, including where her fingers clutched her ribs. Large drops trailed Therese down the hallway beyond the living room.

  Quinn stared, her weary brain imploding.

  Therese smiled, teeth wet with red. “Welcome…home.” Her legs folded.

  “Good Lord…” Quinn dove to a knee, catching Therese. Fear breached her stupor, but not for herself. “What happened?”

  “Paxton-Brandt ambushed…us…at Shandon,” Therese coughed, blood dripping from her lips. Her eyelids fluttered. “Got…separated. Blackjack…Domino…hurt bad.”

  The vigilante's brutalized state gripped Quinn in dizzying pain. She cradled Therese closer. How bad were her injuries? What the heck had they found in Shandon?

  Quinn then realized whom Therese hadn’t mentioned. “What about Geist?”

  Grief contorted Therese’s face. “Geist…” she wheezed, “…he’s dead…”

  Her eyes rolled back as she wilted in Quinn’s arms.

  Chapter 12

  A golden glow from the east kissed the morning skies. Hugo wrinkled his nose at salty breezes wafting his face, married perfectly to the waves crashing hundreds of feet below.

  Hugo stood on empty cobblestone streets. The mask and hood of his Aegis costume were drawn back—in broad daylight. Hugo wasn’t concerned. His attention was mesmerized by Cyclades-style white buildings around him with blue domes, littering the red cliffsides.

  The Greek island, Santorini—Hugo’s first memory at three years old. He smiled fondly. His family had spent a year on Santorini, Dad pursuing freelance photography with Mom working at the local hospital. A happy family of vagabonds.

  Hugo turned to his right, seeing a small dog perched atop a polished white ledge. It stared at the endless blue sea below.

  Like his younger self had years ago, Hugo curiously approached.

  The canine hopped onto the cobblestone and trotted around a corner. Hugo followed, finding the canine on the ledge farther down the pathway, staring over the edge. Hugo approached again, and the dog hopped onto the pavement and trotted around the corner.

  As the path veered from the cliffside, Hugo giddily knew what awaited. His first meeting with Titan, who’d rescued a cruise ship nearby. Hugo remembered the meeting perfectly; the crowds gathered around the hero, the canine running up to Titan wagging its tail. The hero kneeling to pet the eager stray.

  Instead, Hugo found no Titan, no crowds, no dog. Only a large orthodox church, blue-domed, white-walled, loomed ahead. An unknown. Hugo’s uneasiness rose. Yet he mustered up his courage and pulled the door open, stepping inside…

  And got jolted awake by loud ringing. Hugo sat up, groggy and bewildered. He was at home in bed. Last night wrecked him so badly that he’d needed Mom to drive him to school. Still, Hugo had made it to fourth period before needing to take an Uber home and pass out. Luckily, he had no finals today. Hugo stretched his hearing above the ringing. The house was empty, with Mom at her night shift and AJ at Dallas Dunleavy’s.

  Fuck! Hugo had missed a playdate with Abby. But he would’ve been useless with how tired he’d felt.

  Speaking of. Hugo did a quick assessment. No soreness, nausea, or weakness. He felt like his usual powerful self. Healing from that attack had taken longer than usual. He shivered, a cherry-red evening sky radiating through his window.

  “Jesus,” Hugo remarked before answering his still-ringing cellphone on the nightstand. “Your mom said you weren’t feeling well,” Ms. Ortiz said after exchanging greetings.

  Hugo then recapped last night.

  “Take tonight off,” his mentor stated with her usual maternal concern.

  Hugo was on his feet, panicked at missing a patrol. “What about Rainmaker?” He couldn’t miss the chance to take the villain down.

  “Worry about fully recovering.” Ms. Ortiz’s reply left no room for debate. Hugo sat heavily on his bed after the call ended. He didn’t need to study for Thursday’s geometry final. And he'd delivered his English term paper already. Now what? Pu
tting aside his work cell, he snatched his regular cellphone on the nightstand.

  Some missed calls from Mom and Simon. A text from Jordana, recently returned from her family friend’s wedding.

  Jodie B: Missed you at lunch. Call me.

  The text made Hugo smile, warming his insides. With finals and all, they hadn’t hung out much since Jodie’s return from Rhode Island. And her strict parents didn’t allow boy visitors after nine p.m. He started texting back when another message appeared.

  Marshmallow: Busy?

  Hugo immediately replied.

  ME: Nope.

  Marshmallow: Come by the penthouse. I’m bored.

  Hugo gulped, his desire for Jodie’s company diminishing. Spencer had no restrictions on visitors at her family’s penthouse. Her dad must be away on business again.

  “Guess I got plans.” Hugo texted Jodie that they’d talk tomorrow, then threw on jeans and a hoodie tee.

  With his superspeed working again, he reached downtown San Miguel in seconds. But arriving so soon after Spencer’s text would raise red flags. So he slowed down ten blocks away and walked normally. The streets were packed and crackled with excitement.

  Fifteen minutes later, he reached the Pendleton, two adjoined towers of luxury residences for San Miguel’s upper crust. Spencer’s family was wealthier than Brie’s, Brent’s, and Natalie Rodriguez’s families combined.

  Hugo entered the gilded lobby with ornate, Renaissance-style walls. The lanky concierge at the front desk happily gestured him forward, as Hugo visited many times.

  “Thanks, Crowley,” he greeted before hopping on an elevator.

  The lift shot up to the Western tower’s three-story penthouse on Floor Fifteen.

  Hugo stepped into the private lobby, and the walls trembled rhythmically.

  “Huh?” Hugo opened the door, entering a living room bigger than most large apartments.

  A house party was in full swing.

  Hugo stiffened. Of course, Spencer Michelman would throw a house party during finals week.

  R&B throbbed off the walls. Purple and blue lights bathed the raucous get-together of drunken teens contorting to the music.

  Hugo recognized several popular Paso High kids pounding drinks or passing around pipes.