by Ekeke, C. C.
The entrance startled the Irishman into sitting up straight. “Top o’ the day to ya, Black Irish,” he greeted with unusual benevolence, waving off his flustered secretary. “You’re usually more precise with your accusations.”
“Dissolving the Spotlight team?” Quinn snapped. “Firing Boyd? After all the award-winning stories that team churned out?” She curbed herself from going off-topic.
Jono smiled, enjoying her umbrage. “As Managing Editor, I have to review each department’s budget.” Smugness emphasized the growing pudge around his waist and chin. “Spotlight has been bleeding money for years.”
While true, Jono’s shortsightedness left Quinn breathless. “Spotlight brought value and legitimacy to SLOCO Daily!” she fired back. “We had a huge story the public needs to see.” The longer that exposé was on hold, the more crimes Paxton-Brandt could get away with.
Jono remained unmoved. “Boyd made the same case. And your story is sterling,” he admitted. “Once things settle, I’ll decide whether we can publish that.”
Quinn leaned back. “Meaning it’ll not?” She was this close to punching his throat…repeatedly. “Another parting shot at Helena?”
Jono stopped smiling. “My priority is stabilizing our editorial departments and promoting new blood.”
“More sycophants paid to kiss your ass?” Quinn was too furious to hold her tongue.
“Then Creed Samuels is a sycophant?” Jono chuckled at her shock. “I offered him the Films Editorial lead. Helena never would’ve promoted him. Thought he was too argumentative.” Jono pointed to himself. “I saw potential. Now I’m rewarding it.”
Under different circumstances, Quinn would’ve been thrilled for Creed. He was fantastic at his job. But Jono McGowan tainted everything he touched. “You wanna medal?” She realized how pointless this encounter had been. Tired of looking at Jono’s smug face, Quinn turned on her heel.
“Quinn, wait.” Jono’s desperate plea stopped her, despite every instinct saying otherwise.
When she turned, Jono was standing. “Wasn’t always this way with us.” He ran shaky fingers through shaggy locks, his eyes strangely remorseful. “Let’s reset our relationship.”
Quinn had no interest after the hell Jono had put Helena through. “Not sure that’s possible.”
“Yes, it is,” Jono emphasized. “Without Helena pitting us against each other.”
Quinn rolled her eyes. “The same Helena who cleaned up your messes around the office?” she refuted. “Whom you had so dickmatized she let you do whatever you wanted?”
Jono’s eyes narrowed. “The same Helena who kneecapped my career.”
Quinn would have laughed if his absent self-awareness wasn’t so gross. “Keep crying wolf, Managing Editor.”
Jono rounded his desk. “You don’t know Helena like I do.” He advanced on the her, dominating her space. “Viewing SLOCO Daily as her kingdom. Getting off on pitting editors against each other to fight for her approval. And when you started rising up the ranks, she liked undercutting me to favor you.” He jabbed a finger at Quinn’s face, and she backpedaled. “Like with The Vanguard interviews.” Jono whistled. “Helena wasn’t lying about your talent. But she didn’t tell you everything…”
Jono backed up. Shame dominated his features. “Last summer, Helena found out that I'd cheated on her.”
Quinn snorted. She couldn’t help it. Of course Jono was unfaithful. And water was wet.
“Those Vanguard Interviews were mine,” Jono declared peevishly, a man-child throwing a tantrum. “Helena gave them to you to punish me.”
“You’re lying,” Quinn rebuffed. After helping get his ex-girlfriend fired, now Jono wanted to drive a wedge between her and Helena.
Jono gave her a sidelong look. “Why would I lie about having an affair?”
For a moment, Quinn didn’t understand. But the dots connected quickly in her mind. “That’s what your sexual harassment claim is about.” Jono’s complaint was valid.
A smarmy smile pulled at his lips. “Wasn’t the only time. Helena forced me to stay quiet about her secret meetings with you to find Titan’s real killer.”
“After you got me fired?” Quinn’s anger flared. “Seems like a trend with women who challenge you.”
Jono averted his eyes. “That was a mistake. I apologize.” He sat on his desk and met Quinn’s gaze. “Helena didn’t help your Titan’s murder story to seek justice and all that rigmarole. She was covering her arse.”
Quinn frowned, again confused and losing ground. “Why?”
“You’re familiar with 'catch and kill'?”
“Of course,” Quinn snapped. “Every media outlet does it.” The popular tactic was employed by news organizations when they got wind of a possibly damaging story. The outlet either killed the story at the target of the story’s behest or used it to garner access/leverage.
“SLOCO Daily is no different,” Jono continued, arms spread. “Especially regarding superheroes’ bad behavior. Like Wyldcat’s substance abuse problems. And your friend Seraph’s affair.”
Quinn’s patience had reached its summit. “I assume there’s a point.”
Jono sneered obnoxiously. “An anonymous source came to the Superhero Department eighteen months ago. They claimed Titan had sexually harassed a teammate.”
Quinn’s distaste collapsed. “What?” she asked in a small voice.
Jono nodded. “Helena killed the story herself for an exclusive interview of Titan discussing his new southern Alaska charity.”
The revelation struck Quinn like a body blow. She flashbacked to Morningstar's confession months ago. Countless media institutions protect Titan…
Including SLOCO Daily. “You’re telling me…” Quinn had troubling forming words, “that source could’ve been Morningstar asking for help?” Horror coiled so tight in Quinn’s chest, the pain was acute.
Jono rested a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. She was too thunderstruck to pulled away. “She’s constantly buried popular heroes’ worst behaviors in exchange for access, to compete with Herogasm.” There was a victorious gleam in his eyes. “You deserved the truth about Helena.”
Quinn felt numb as she left Jono’s office, all the fight bleeding from her. The Paxton-Brandt exposé became a distant memory before the fallout of Helena’s actions. Titan’s death.
Presley Lau’s crew getting slaughtered.
Lord Borealis getting framed.
The Mistura attack.
Annie's near-death.
Quinn almost getting killed four times.
She didn’t remember returning to her desk until she’d sat hard in her seat. Then her cellphone buzzed. She fished the device from her purse and cringed.
Helena: Heard the exposé got tabled. Still coming over tonight? We’ll talk next steps.
Quinn didn't want to see Helena. Countless media institutions protected him… She texted back with trembling fingers.
ME: Something came up tonight. Sorry.
She stuffed her phone back in her purse, just in time to see Creed’s lunch invitation.
A little later, she sat dazed in a corner booth at Beach Bum Burger while Creed Samuels discussed his promotion offer. Jensen Clarke, his girlfriend, was bouncing in her seat.
“That’s great, Creed!” Quinn lied with a fake smile, hiding her prior knowledge.
Creed, unsurprisingly, wasn’t pleased. “Jono probably wants my allegiance signed in blood.” He looked to Quinn and Jensen. “I’ll decline. After all his bullshit—”
Jensen smacked his arm. “No, you won’t!”
Quinn reached across the table to take his hand. “Creed. Your integrity is one of many things I love about you.” She recalled the advice that had been hammered into her. “Don’t make waves. Accept the promotion and the pay bump.”
“See?” Jensen beamed at Creed. “I told you QB would know what to do.”
Quinn winced at the praise. She wished the coward’s path wasn’t her only play.
Cree
d smiled at Jensen, sneaking in a kiss. He turned back, something behind Quinn catching his eye. “Speaking of promotions…” he grumbled.
Confused, Quinn turned around and almost yelped.
Naomi Doyle waited in line at the takeout counter. Quinn hadn’t seen the intern since finding Helena unconscious at her estate.
She almost called Doyle’s name, then spied a wiry, ginger-haired man beside her in a tight polo shirt.
Quinn spun back to Jensen and Creed. “Doyle and Scott Packer are dating?” she hissed.
Creed rolled his eyes. “She’s the newest member of the Ad Sales Mafia.”
Quinn flattened in her seat. Another body blow. “What the...?”
Jensen’s lips curled in a disgusted snarl. “Happened yesterday, lowkey. She works under Scott as an Ad Sales Coordinator.”
Creed almost spat out his soda. “I bet she works under Scott.”
Quinn turned again as Doyle and Scott left with their lunch, holding hands. “You don’t say?”
The intern had never mentioned any interest in Ad Sales. Then again, Doyle had ratted out Helena and landed a full-time Ad Sales gig in a week? Ad Sales was run by Dave Packer, who hated Helena.
Coincidence…or compensation?
Quinn chomped on her burger, possible explanations filling her brain, all fueling her with dread.
Chapter 38
The swollen red sun was setting when Greyson reached El Galaneño. The town with its ramshackle sprawl of bright-colored buildings looked tiny this high above ground. The citizens resembled ants beneath his feet, roving the streets.
The town square’s fountain was especially packed. People singing, dancing and carousing to toast another week’s end. Greyson chuckled. This spot was perfect.
He went with light tactical gear over everything except his head. Greyson didn’t want the glowing neon purple dot painted on his forehead hidden.
He increased his pull to the earth, gradually descending.
His landing was met with surprise, pointed fingers, and stares. Some laughed, calling him ‘payaso’. Greyson had been called worse. Several scattered away from him. Smart group. He strode through the murmuring crowd, reached the fountain and parked on the edge. Greyson leaned on his knees and waited.
Bystanders were getting close. Watching him like some zoo animal. Annoyed, Greyson sheathed himself in a wide anti-gravity bubble. Shouts rang out as bystanders got repelled several feet and knocked to the ground. That made him smile.
Now every citizen ran. Many barricaded themselves inside nearby bars and restaurants. Another wise choice. Greyson didn’t want them too far. These people would all learn a valuable lesson.
Soon the town square was empty. Greyson waited, staring ahead at darkness. Diablo would come.
An hour later, a fiery comet slashed the evening sky, closing in on the town square. At the same time, a cluster of figures far down the street emerged from the gloom.
Greyson felt genuine elation. Diablo took my advice. He kept waiting.
The first attack came from behind, the familiar explosive noise of teleportation.
Then came two surprised yelps flung in opposite directions. Greyson turned his head. A lean figure lay in a heap, wearing jet-black tactical gear. Greyson hadn’t forgotten the sneering face of Mr. Silk from Excessive Menace. This one enjoyed hurting others.
Mr. Silk leaped into a crouch and lunged again.
Greyson scowled, remembering how much he hated this guy. Focused on Mr. Silk, he severed the gravitational pull to the ground.
Mr. Silk shot upward with a shriek.
Greyson squinted after the man’s trajectory as the clouds swallowed him. Once out of Earth’s atmosphere, Mr. Silk would either asphyxiate or freeze to death. Good riddance. “Doubt we’ll see him again,” Greyson remarked with a satisfied smirk. One down.
He looked right. “Still playing the hero, Tommy?”
Tom Whelan fought to his feet, wincing. Prison had left a permanent scowl on his features. “You don’t get to call me Tommy."
Greyson had expected this. “Still mad.” Tom should have been angry with Hurricane for making him take the fall for Heroes Anonymous. But past grievances wouldn’t distract him tonight.
By this time, Greyson’s adversaries revealed themselves. ShocKing and Brickhouse walked side-by-side. Connie was with them, blank-faced. Greyson perked up at the pudgy and pale Illusionist from Excessive Menace. All wore dark, form-fitting uniforms.
ShocKing surveyed the skies and then Greyson with burning eyes. “You’ll die for that.”
Yards away, the red earth warped into a well-muscled black man. “Can’t reach him,” Israel griped, swinging his fist. “He’s covered by a gravity field.”
Greyson stood. “Hello, Izzy.”
“Fuck you,” Big Izzie threw back.
Also anticipated. Greyson still felt that. He turned to his ex-lover. “Connie. I expected better.”
Connie closed her eyes and turned in shame. Greyson spared her no further attention as Tom rejoined the group. “Where’s Kathy?”
Big Izzy’s eyes turned murderous.
“She opted out,” Tommy replied before the former could erupt.
Greyson laughed, drawing stares. “Meaning she’d rather rot in prison than team with them.” He gestured at ShocKing, Illusionist, and Brickhouse. “Can’t blame her.”
The fiery comet above landed in a superhero crouch. Diablo then stood. Citizens packing the buildings and balconies were buzzing.
In that obsidian costume, Diablo had a more graceful stride with no sign of injury. His eyes blazed.
He can heal fast. Greyson hid any dismay as best as possible. “Diablo,” he greeted stiffly. “Greyson,” the vigilante replied with his deep, modulated voice. “You came alone.”
Of course, Diablo had cased the surrounding buildings. Smart. Greyson nodded at the vigilante’s entourage. “You took my hint about teaming with this lot.”
Diablo’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t understand.
Greyson’s smile stretched Cheshire-Cat-wide. “I mentioned how formidable these folks were in a room filled with Delgado’s henchmen and children.” He spread his arms. “ShocKing, Illusionist, and Brickhouse are convicted murderers.” Greyson brushed imaginary dust off his hands. “Way to protect la raza.”
Diablo looked from his squad to Greyson with clear uncertainty. Like Greyson had planned.
ShocKing advanced, out of patience. “He killed Mr. Silk.” Blue lightning crackled on his fingertips. “Let’s kill this mother—”
Diablo stayed him with a sweep of his hand. ShocKing grew surly but complied. That probably won’t happen again, Greyson realized.
“Surrender now, Greyson,” Diablo stated evenly. and this ends without more bloodshed.”
Greyson shook with pleasure. “Then how would I kill you? I made a promise to your papa.”
Diablo stiffened long enough for others to notice.
That snapped Connie out of her stupor. “Huh?”
ShocKing stepped away from Diablo. “What did he say?”
Greyson couldn’t restrain his obnoxiousness. “Cristóbal Delgado is having a public row with his papa!” he crowed, pointing.
Diablo was a statue. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied stiffly.
Greyson waved off the denial. “I get hating your father. But please grow some balls and attack him directly.” Greyson made a fist. “I got in my dad’s face and shattered every bone in his body.” Euphoria sized him recalling that. “No regrets.”
The group looked disturbed, even Connie who’d seen the corpse.
Tom looked physically ill. “You’re sick.”
“No, Tommy.” Greyson laughed. “I’m free.”
“We are nothing alike, gringo,” Diablo declared after recovering composure. “I love my father!”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Diablo puffed out his chest to appear superior. “He was a good
father, especially after our mother passed. But someone has to protect the people from the poison he’s spreading.” His eyes glittered. “And scum like you.”
Diablo’s entourage had grown antsy. “When are we killing him?” Brickhouse asked, hands on hips.
Time to drop the second shoe. “You’ve convinced people that they need you, leaving more innocents exposed.” He locked eyes with his foe. “Causing more deaths.”
Diablo grabbed the hint, his eyes widened. “What have you done?”
“A social science experiment,” Greyson admitted blandly. “Which is more important? Stopping me, or stopping your father’s men from butchering Missiones’s citizens?”
Connie gawked. ShocKing and Brickhouse looked impressed.
“What?” Big Izzy and Tom asked at once.
Diablo shook his head feverishly. “You’re lying.”
Greyson jabbed a thumb at the clock tower behind him. “Tick-tock, hero. Lives are on the line.”
Diablo glowed unbearably bright to attack Greyson. Instead, he turned to his allies. “Deal with him.”
Big Izzie’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding?”
Diablo was already walking backward. “You don’t know how…effective my father’s killers are. Deal with him until I return” He rocketed into the sky, a trail of bright flame searing behind him.
Greyson chuckled. This had gone exactly as planned. He lowered his repulsing fields and clapped.
Big Izzie and Tom advanced, as did ShocKing and Brickhouse. Illusionist and Connie hung back.
Unfair odds…for them. Greyson balled his fists eagerly. “Shall we?”
Abruptly, red and blue lights flooded the square. Fifteen or more cars surrounded them. Policemen and women exited with guns drawn. One of them shouted in Spanish on a megaphone for everyone to surrender.
Greyson rolled his eyes at the distraction. “Goodie. The police.”
Brickhouse scanned the buildings accusingly. “Who called the goddamn policia?”
ShocKing gave an indifferent shrug. “Who cares? They’re already dead.” He hurled forks of blue lightning at the police cars. Police vans erupted in fire and sizzling flesh.