The Pantheon Saga | Book 4 | Gods of Wrath

by Ekeke, C. C.

  Greyson clammed up, giving Rikki and Saed warning glares to follow suit.

  The older man was a forceful presence in that bedroom. His scathing onceover lingered longest on Saed. “I pay for top-tier killers. Yet what I get is more failures?”

  Rikki cleared her throat, drawing everyone else’s attention. “Hirsch froze.” She glared accusingly at Greyson.

  Greyson’s jaw twitched. He came this close to killing that backstabbing bitch on the spot. “I didn’t freeze,” he refuted. “I prevented all three transports from getting slaughtered.” He nodded at Hernando. "Including your son.”

  Cristóbal and Dayanara both paled. Delgado stood unmoved. “Oh?”

  Hernando stepped forward. Suddenly this brutish man looked meek and boy desperate for attention. “He’s right, Father. I wanted to take out Diablo.”

  Delgado arched an eyebrow. “Yet you didn’t.” Icy disapproval hit Greyson with all-too familiar force.

  Hernando gulped. “Father…”

  Delgado had already dismissed him, while Saed struggled up to a seated position to interject.

  Greyson waved him off. “Patron,” he stated as respectfully as he could muster. “After seeing Diablo fight, I have a sense of his strengths and weaknesses.”

  Delgado appeared unimpressed, reminding Greyson too much of his dead father. “Which are?” Not a question. A demand.

  Greyson ignored the bile searing his throat. “I need three good men.”

  Cristóbal grew suspicious. “For what?”

  “You’ll know afterwards.” Greyson glanced about the room, signalling its unsecured nature.

  By the subtle shift on Delgado’s stony face, he understood. “Do not fail me, freak.” His gravelly tone held all kinds of menace. “Join him, Hernando. Try finding your courage out here.”

  On the drive into the nearest town, Greyson did most of the talking to Hernando and his armed thugs. A message was needed to rattle Diablo. “Which town do you hear most about Diablo?” Greyson asked Memo, a thickset youth with dark-grey eyes.

  “Pampillo,” Memo answered.

  Greyson nodded. Like I thought. “They might be helping him. Take me to their crop fields.”

  The driver turned left. Greyson watched Hernando staring out the tinted window. “Your dad does that a lot?”

  Hernando turned to him, anger twisting his face. “Are you a shrink now?”

  Greyson stiffened but didn’t recoil. Guys in Hernando’s profession usually hid their pain behind walls of old-world machismo. “Just having a conversation,” he replied blandly.

  Hernando sagged. “El Patron has high standards. I need to be better.”

  Greyson had lived through this hopeless story in a far-off city he once called home. “Nothing was ever good enough,” Greyson said, shaking his head, “no matter what I tried.”

  Hernando studied him. Patches of dry land whooshed by. “How did you fix that?”

  “I killed him.” The admission sounded so clinical and detached, Greyson momentarily wondered if this was someone else’s story.

  Hernando and his three men burst out laughing. “Funny, gringo.” He studied Greyson’s poker face, and that mirth faded. “Oh shit,” he whispered.

  “We’re here,” Memo announced upon reaching Pampillo’s outskirts.

  Greyson exited the car to see row upon row of lush green crops before him. Like Missouri…

  “Okay…” Hernando seemed more hesitant around him. “Now what?”

  Part of Greyson grew heartsick at what had to happen. It’s part of the plan. “Burn the crops,” he blurted out. “We need to send a message.”

  Hernando barked orders at his men in Spanish. The trio scurried to the back of their Jeep, emerging with blow torches and a drum full of oil.

  Fifteen minutes later, one field was leaping with flames. Greyson made his heart go dead as heat washed over him, sweat beading on his face.

  Soon, several villagers in simple clothing came running, shouting angrily and firing rifles in the air.

  Greyson watched Hernando, and Memo shouted out the words he’d instructed in the local dialect. “This happens when you support Diablo!”

  Hernando whipped out a handgun and fired six times. Screams rang out. Two older women and a young man lay dead.

  Each bullet struck Greyson like a physical blow. Horrified, he dashed over to Hernando and jerked his hand down. “Stop!” he ordered. “They’re not the enemy. Diablo is!”

  Hernando yanked himself free. “This is war, gringo.” Bloodlust burned in his eyes. “Get with it.”

  Greyson could have stopped these men—should have. But he was already on thin ice with Delgado. Drastic measures were needed.

  Sick to the depths of his soul, Greyson turned away. More shots cracked across the firestorms roiling nearby, followed by more screams.

  Chapter 20

  “Are you kidding?” Boyd demanded.

  Quinn wished Therese had been joking. “Nope.” The Spotlight team’s collective uproar emphasized how she’d been right to sit on this for a day. Their reactions would’ve been too much after just finding out herself. “My source swears they saw Titan’s face with similar powers. Another source confirmed his burial place hadn’t been disturbed.” She appreciated Lady Liberty, through Hugo, following up on that.

  The Spotlight team was present except Pablo, who was at some school event for his daughter. Quinn had locked the doors, even to Doyle. “It’s probably why Paxton-Brandt cleared out the Shandon facility.”

  Maureen, a hardcore Titaniac, massaged her temples. “Do you have proof?”

  Quinn fiddled with the many tight knobs her hair was in. “I’m obtaining video evidence.”

  “People can say it’s doctored.” Boyd added skeptically. “We need rock-solid data.” He straightened in his seat. “Paxton-Brandt can claim ‘resurrection’ to counter our hit piece.”

  Quinn agreed, nauseated beyond words.

  Lenny Dano, a small yet potent presence, curled up in her seat and slapped her own face to stay focused. “What about them clearing out the free clinics?”

  Quinn raised a silencing hand as the door unlocked.

  Pablo walked in. Usually jovial and greeting everyone, he went straight to his desk without a word and woke up his laptop.

  Quinn and Boyd exchanged worried glances. “Pablo?” the latter inquired.

  The reporter said nothing, typing away.

  Quinn marched up and tapped his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  Pablo jerked away like she'd scalded him. “They came to my kid’s school,” he blurted out.

  Shock tickled Quinn’s brain. “No...” The Spotlight team converged around Pablo’s desk.

  He was shaking while divulging the intrusion. “I’m outside with my daughter after her talent show. Then some guy says: Your kid’s talented. Hope she’s smarter with her words than her dad.”

  What Quinn saw in Pablo’s eyes unmoored her most: helplessness. “They can come after me,” he continued, whisper-soft. “But my baby?” He waved his hands to divorce himself from the possibility.

  Maureen rounded Pablo’s desk to face him. “It means we’re rattling them.” This seemed to re-energize her. “Don’t let this rattle you.”

  Pablo glared at Maureen and her insensitive encouragement.

  “Pablo...” Quinn knelt beside him. “I don’t have your obligations. But Paxton-Brandt has hurt people I care for.” Her thoughts revolved around Therese Lévesque, recovering from injuries thanks to Paxton-Brandt.

  Those words reached Pablo. “One of your sources?”

  Quinn nodded, giddy and terrified. She’d never admitted this to herself before now. Heat swelled in her chest that she didn’t want to let go. “If we surrender—then Paxton-Brandt hurts more people. More children.”

  Boyd knelt beside Quinn. “They’ll abduct more supers. Do you as a parent want that?”

  “No,” Pablo admitted. The helplessness left his eyes. “Sorry. I just had a weak m
oment.”

  Quinn moved past the gushy warmth and focused on her anger at Paxton-Brandt’s transgressions. She turned to Boyd as they both stood. “Everyone’s sections are almost done. Can we talk to Helena about moving up the publication date?”

  Boyd vetoed that. “Not until we get proof about this Titan clone. That more than anything will grab public awareness and spark legal investigations.”

  Lenny agreed, draping an arm around Pablo’s shivering shoulders. “If we blow our load too soon. They parade this Titan imposter out as a distraction.”

  That disappointed Quinn. But these veteran journalists weren’t wrong.

  Boyd addressed the team in stern tones. “Put the finishing touches on your sections and then work your sources about that Titan clone.” He clapped. “Get to it!”

  Quinn planned on doing just that later today. Her first priority was Helena. The editor-in-chief had rarely been at her desk since Jono’s sexual harassment claim and Hale’s departure.

  She was there now for roughly ten minutes, thanks to Doyle’s text confirmation.

  The ginger-haired intern was waiting nervously outside Helena’s office when Quinn arrived.

  Helena’s secretary, Steven, gave her pained look. Quinn saw the cause of their nerves.

  Dave Packer, the bulbous, balding, and red-faced Ad Sales VP was engaged in a clearly heated discussion with Helena inside her office. The editor-in-chief gave it right back, gesturing dramatically. Quinn wished these glass walls weren’t soundproofed.

  Packer had two members of his posse present, to look more important. Scott Packer, an Ad Sales director resembled a younger, skinnier clone of his dad. Clone…ugh. Beside Scott was Tania Navarro, a bronzed and buxom Ads Sales manager and member of Packer’s harem. Quinn’s skin crawled, as she knew that harem wasn’t a jokey rumor.

  After a few more minutes of silent jousting, Packer stormed out with Tania and Scott.

  Doyle shrank from his path. Packer didn’t even acknowledge the intern.

  “Hello,” Quinn greeted formally to hide her intense dislike.

  Packer squinted at her like she was a vagrant and kept walking. He still hadn’t forgiven her blowing up the sponsorships in the Missy Magnificent profile. Probably because he didn’t get his kickbacks.

  Tania ignored Quinn. Only Scott offered a quick smile as the trio vanished around a cubicle island.

  Quinn wasn't exactly heartbroken. Soon Packer would be gone. Doyle hovered outside Helena’s office as Quinn entered.

  The editor-in-chief’s attire was a black button-down blouse and jeans, longish hair tousled and unbound. Quinn was taken aback how Helena slumped wearily into her seat. The last few days along with her Editor-in-Chief responsibilities must’ve been exhausting. “Was that as enjoyable as it appeared?” Quinn offered.

  Helena had only smiles for her protégé. “Hardly,” she said. “DOYLE!”

  Doyle scurried inside. “Yes, Helena?”

  Helena handed her two twenty-dollar bills. “Grab me lunch.”

  Doyle mumbled a question that Quinn couldn’t understand.

  Neither could Helena. “Louder, I’m old!”

  Doyle nearly jumped, but then spoke up. “Your usual place and combo?”

  Helena nodded distractedly. San Miguel Tribune’s website dominated her computer screen. “And don’t forget my laundry. Or vitamins.”

  Quinn gave Doyle an encouraging smile as the intern dashed off. Helena had been tough on her when she’d transitioned into Editorial. Tough meant the Editor-in-Chief actually cared.

  “I heard about Hale…” Quinn said when they were alone. “…and Jono.”

  Helena shrugged, clearly unbothered. “If Hale doesn’t want to be here, good riddance.” Bitterness in her words confirmed that Hale’s departure hadn’t been amicable. “I’ll replace him in a week.” She resumed reading her screen. “And Jono? Just shows the fraction of the man he is.”

  Quinn wanted to feel assured. But she’d seen how Jono took down his rivals. But that had been with Helena’s backing. “Can he hurt you? Professionally?”

  She faced Quinn directly, revealing dark circles under her eyes. Her focus remained sharp. “No! Jono’s full of it.” She softened and reached over her desk to squeeze her protégé’s forearm. “QB, I’m fine. This will all blow over.”

  Her confidence impressed Quinn. “And Packer?”

  Helena was bouncing in her seat over that. “My meeting with Hamilton Cross is next week. Packer's ass will be toast.” She grabbed something from a desk drawer—a bottle of painkillers.

  Quinn’s stomach soured. The editor-in-chief popped two pills into her mouth, washing them down with water.

  Quinn never had much reason to worry about Helena before. These last few weeks, her danger sense tingled on overdrive. “Please tell me you’re almost done with those?”

  Helena bristled, shaking the pill bottle to revealing a near empty container. “Yes, Mother,” she derided, tossing it back in her drawer.

  Quinn wanted to explain the source of her worry. But the unreceptive vibrations she sensed gave her pause. “After the exposé is published and Packer’s sent packing.” Quinn guffawed at her accidental wording. “Haw! Packer sent packing…”

  Helena frowned. “I expect better puns, dear.”

  That killed Quinn’s amusement. “Sorry,” she apologized, embarrassed. “After everything settles, some time off Might be good for you.” She braced for a snappish response. But someone had to care for this wonderful woman.

  Helena shook her head emphatically, jostling her messy hair. “The Paxton-Brandt exposé is an appetizer.”

  A bigger story proceeding the Paxton-Brandt exposé was news to Quinn. Haw, news being news…okay, stop. Helena had mentioned this the other day. Goosebumps prickled Quinn's forearms. “An appetizer for what?”

  “Patience is a virtue, youngling.” Helena grinned. “You’ll learn soon.”

  Her secretary popped his head in. “Olympian Worldwide CEO on line two.” That was Quinn’s cue to leave.

  “Also,” Helena said. “Apparently Geist hasn’t been seen in days. Look into that?”

  Quinn fought to keep the pang of grief from her face. “On it.”

  Later that day, she returned from doing a special edition of Sidewalk Confessionals with Colin. The question for San Miguel citizens was which superhero team did they prefer: The Vanguard or The Elite. The responses had surprised her.

  “Wow,” she exclaimed as they entered SLOCO Daily’s lobby. “Most prefer The Elite? Really?”

  Colin looked nonplussed while hefting his video gear. “The Elite are new, bright, and shiny. Give them six months or a major screwup, and people will turn on them, too.”

  Quinn wanted to agree. But she sensed something darker. “Or The Vanguard will never escape Titan’s mistakes.” The vitriol behind some people’s criticisms of the once-beloved team had been downright scary. “And Wyldcat’s sudden absence does looks suspicious—”

  She spotted Doyle milling around the lobby under the five TV screens. The intern looked a little lost.

  “I’ll catch you later,” Quinn said. Colin headed for the main elevators.

  “Doyle,” she called out.

  The summons startled the biracial intern. But seeing Quinn, she relaxed. “Hi…” Embarrassment flushed her light-brown skin. “I’m working up the courage to speak with Helena.” She was wringing her hands. “I love working here. And I want to do what you and Helena do.”

  Doyle’s enthusiasm made Quinn smile. Aside from her many assignments and following up with sources on this clone business, she had to prepare her condo for Therese’s stay. The latter task created another tickle in her brain.

  But the abject terror in Doyle’s dark eyes gave Quinn pause. Of all the interns, she’d shown the most initiative these last few months.

  “Okay…” Quinn guided her to a bench in the lobby. “What editorial department interests you?”

  Doyle shrugged. “US News.
Maybe politics.”

  Quinn chopped a hand down. “Don’t say maybe with Helena. Be totally sure if you're asking for an opportunity. Being wishy-washy annoys her.”

  “Good to know.” Doyle grabbed her frizzy red hair. Just like how Annie would when nervous. God, Quinn missed her.

  “Another thing,” she offered. “The editorial departments you’re interested in. Ask their senior editors to shadow a staff writer to see if you like the department. Then talk to Helena.”

  Being able to mentor gave Quinn fulsome pride. “Helena likes you. It’s why she is so demanding and asking you to do menial tasks.” Quinn’s teasing expression made Doyle laugh. “Helena’s testing you. And you’re at one of the best news sites on the planet. Don’t wait for opportunities to fall in your lap. Do the work and make your own.”

  Doyle relaxed more, her thickset frame no longer rigid. She stared up at one of the monitors and frowned. “Those Elite are kinda intense.”

  Quinn followed her gaze to a TV screen broadcasting the six-man team in ferocious battle: Thor, Nike, Samson, Vishnu, Morrigan, and Apollo. Quinn recalled what Hugo had said about their ultra-violent actions. She gave a dispassionate glance to Nike, the speedster in Greek armor, racing across the screen, slicing through enemies like cake—

  A masked female speedster had attacked Team Geist with fake Titan. Quinn shot to her feet.

  Was that Nike? Paxton-Brandt was The Elite’s corporate sponsor. Wheels started turning in Quinn’s head.

  Doyle gave her a sidelong look. “You okay?”

  Quinn turned to her with fulsome gratitude. “You’re kind of a genius.” She ran for the elevators. “Good luck with Helena!” she called over her shoulder.

  Chapter 21

  When that final bell rang at noon, Paso High students poured into the streets like hysterical cattle.

  Hugo stood near the front entrance, a monolith of muscle in board shorts and a San Miguel Sentinels cutoff jersey. He watched throngs of fellow students leave while they chatted, cried, and laughed about the last day of class.

  A gaggle of skimpily-clad girls caught his eye, led by Taylor von Stratton. She headed for downtown, sun-kissed tan with flowing blonde hair, flanked by other Songs cheerleaders. A buff, bronzed water polo boyfriend was on Taylor’s arm.