The Pantheon Saga | Book 4 | Gods of Wrath

by Ekeke, C. C.

  In the foyer, a rustle to the left spun her around. One ninja pounced from the shadows, sword drawn. Therese shot him in the chest. He crumpled. Two more exploded forward. Therese schooled that brief fear away to parry, and dodge both opponents’ attacks for several seconds. A spin kick KO’d one. Her back elbow/knee to the jaw combo broke the other’s jaw.

  Beefy arms grabbed Therese from behind, dragging her backward through a grimy corridor of flickering lights. She thrashed about, but both arms were pinned to her sides. The tightening grip made breathing difficult.

  “Longshadow,” Clint spoke on comms. “Nakamura’s practically on top of you.”

  Therese almost laughed. “No…shit!” She lifted both feet and kicked forcefully off the wall, driving her captor’s back against the other side. The air rushing from his lungs wafted Therese’s hood, barely weakening his bearhug.

  She jerked her head back, butting his face. Nakamura roared curses. And she was free.

  Therese whirled on Nakamura, a tall, rotund and ugly man in a cheap suit. He lunged for her throat.

  Therese caught his wrist and twisted, making him scream. She swooped in with surgical strikes using her fists and recurve bow. But Nakamura deftly countered each, his reflexes alarmingly quick. And Therese was countering and blocking his counterattacks. The back and forth dance careened violently down the hall. Nakamura was stronger, feral and able to hold his own—a true threat.

  She lurched from a wild haymaker punch, needing separation to fire an arrow. But Nakamura drove a roundhouse kick to her torso. Her outfit blunted the ache, but the impact sent her staggering.

  Therese barely recovered her balance as Nakamura sailed in, silver flashing in his incoming left fist. A knife. Her eyes widened. Suddenly she was dodging Nakamura’s swipes, the blade slicing spaces she’d occupied half-seconds earlier. Leaving himself open after a backhand swipe, she slammed a palm to the left wrist, knocking the knife from his grip. Therese then rammed the curve of her bow into his throat.

  Nakamura lumbered back, still able to slap the bow off. Therese replied by front-kicking Nakamura’s chest at full force. That smashed him into the wall, buckling the plaster. Nakamura sagged to the floor.

  Time to end this… Therese reached back for an arrow.

  The brief pause allowed Nakamura to push off the wall and mule-kick her stomach as hard as possible. Agony roiled up Therese’s torso, folding her in half. She slumped over.

  Spots fluttered at the edges of her vision as Nakamura rose and hoisted Therese up by the collar. He rammed her quiver-first against one side of the hall. Her bones rattled, limbs flopping about uselessly. Three piston-like punches nearly unhinged her jaw. For a second, everything went black.

  Suddenly, Therese was airborne, Nakamura flinging her down the hallway with disturbing ease. Therese landed on her back, face throbbing as the hallway swam jaggedly. Her recurve bow, one of five vibrating before fuzzy vision, was far from reach.

  Nakamura stood over her, pulling out a gun. Therese shook off as much dizziness as possible. Or I’m dead. Pushing into a handstand, she scissored Nakamura’s head between muscular thighs. He yelped, dropping the gun.

  Gotcha. Tucking her knees in with a sharp hip twist, she wrenched Nakamura’s face into the wall. There was a disturbing smack, and Nakamura sagged down the wall to his knees. Therese rose, using the wall for support. Nakamura swayed, cross-eyed but tried to stand.

  This motherfucker… A vicious crescent kick to Nakamura’s face knocked him down permanently.

  Therese sank to a knee, achy and panting. She slapped the comm on her collar. “Got him!”

  “I’ll come to you, and we’ll extract him,” Geist barked amid screams from his enemies.

  Fifteen minutes later, San Miguel PD arrived to find twenty-seven criminals restrained and beaten to a pulp. Therese and Geist were long gone on their motorcycles.

  Currently they’d returned to Geist’s main lair in downtown. Clint had already left for the night.

  Therese had pulled off her hood and mask once safely inside, threading kinks out of her stringy brunette hair with her fingers. “You could’ve gotten Nakamura yourself,” she accused, pointing her bow at Geist.

  The Midnight Son undid his mask, revealing a scarred, stern face. “You’ve been self-doubting since returning from injury,” he remarked, not mincing his words. “You needed that.”

  Therese frowned, unable to disagree. “Thanks…” Beating Nakamura had been a huge confidence booster. Especially since this was one of her last missions for a while. She looked over the tunnel they stood in, connecting the garage to the lair’s central hub. Her heart grew heavy. “I’ll miss this,” she admitted, working her still-sore jaw. Nakamura could throw a punch!

  “Don’t leave,” Geist countered.

  Therese laughed. “I want things with Quinn to work.” She would love to keep protecting San Miguel’s streets more than anything, except Quinn. The war with Paxton-Brandt had leveled the reporter in ways that Therese couldn’t fix. “If she needs to leave San Miguel, I want to be wherever she is.”

  Therese had learned to read Geist’s stony features. When his eyes warmed by a fraction, she knew he understood. “She’s with her family tonight?”

  “Quinn’s been with them a lot…” Therese couldn’t stifle her anger. "Since Wyoming.”

  Geist leaned against a tunnel wall. His stare stripped away her defenses. “Still mad?”

  A flush crept up Therese’s neck. “She goes off with that ex-lover OSA agent to rescue her friend and nearly dies? Yes, I’m still mad.” Her anger echoed off the tunnel. Feeling this way about anyone was so…infuriating. Regardless, she couldn’t get enough of Quinn Bauer.

  “She was protecting you, in her own way,” Geist reminded. “You almost bled to death in her arms. Don't forget that.”

  Therese suppressed a tremor. She should’ve considered that. “Hmm.”

  To her bafflement, the hint of a smile graced Geist's face. “I knew you’d end up with Bauer.”

  Therese rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  Geist gave a slow nod. “You weren't interested in casing some junior reporter,” he refuted in amused tones. “After the nigh one, you were obsessed.”

  “Shut up!” Therese’s ears warmed in embarrassment. Better change topics. “Why do you have to go?”

  Geist’s rare blip of good humor vanished, leaving a frighteningly vacant look. “Too much has happened lately that I should’ve stopped in advance.”

  Therese’s heart ached. “Is this about Shandon?” How could he possibly blame himself when they were fighting a clone of Titan?

  Geist dismissed the supposition with a hand chop. “The Junction earthquake, Morningstar. That Paxton-Brandt agent nearly shooting Quinn after I'd thought he was out. I should’ve caught these things before they bore fruit.” His eyes sparked to life. “I’ve lost my edge, indulged too much in Edmonds’s comforts.”

  Therese made a face. “Edmonds is hot.” Losing oneself in Sheriff Edmonds’s comforts post-evening patrol sounded delicious. Quinn incident aside, she sharply disagreed with Geist. Then again, being his protégé made her biased. But Titan’s death had worsened his self-flagellation. He still blames himself for not saving Titan from himself… But she didn’t voice that. “Are you sure?”

  Geist stared at his black, red-eyed mask reverently. “For San Miguel’s own good, I need to leave and return to the basics, reform myself. Like when I became active over a decade ago.”

  San Miguel without Geist was a disquieting prospect. Yet Therese supported whatever choice the Midnight Son felt would replenish his soul. “When will you return?”

  Geist tore his gaze away from his mask. “Could be weeks, months, or years.” His gaze tightened, as if searching for something that remained unclear. “I know which locations to reach but not where the path will lead.” He pushed off the wall, heading for the lair’s main chamber. “But I can leave knowing Domino and Blackjack will keep my city safe.”<
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  Therese smiled in agreement, following him. “And Aegis.”

  Geist rolled his eyes. “Him, too,” he remarked, drawing laughs from her.

  Chapter 59

  “I read through your independent news site plans,” Quinn said, crouched amid a sea of tall swaying grass in Paso Robles's foothills. A hazy pink-and-purple sky heralded dawn breaking. “It’s what you wanted to do after leaving SLOCO Daily, isn’t it?” Quinn didn’t realize how difficult this conversation was until she’d spoken the words aloud. “The one we'd to run together?”

  A dull ache grew behind Quinn’s eyes as she recalled the journey to rescue Helena.

  With the help of Agent Devon Strauss, they’d found her at the OSA black site in Nowhereville, Wyoming.

  Except, it had been a trap. Paxton-Brandt had sent operatives to ambush Quinn and Devon, then torture Helena further. If Devon hadn’t called backup before their arrival, all three women would've died. With Paxton-Brandt’s plot thwarted, then came negotiating Helena’s release. Quinn had wanted to throttle these smug OSA agents, forcing her to sign NDAs about anything seen at the black site. Even worse, Devon had gotten assigned to desk duty purgatory in DC for helping Quinn. At least Helena had been released into her custody.

  The memories left Quinn weary as she stared at the unmarked gravestone before her.

  The world still believed that Helena Madden had dropped off the grid after leaving San Miguel.

  In truth, she’d never left Wyoming alive.

  Helena’s torture at Paxton-Brandt’s hands had led to a fatal stroke before her release.

  Quinn reminded herself to inhale. This would be her last visit for a while. “I wounded Paxton-Brandt. But the cost was too high.” Her voice thickened with emotion. Attacking an OSA facility and murdering a civilian had forced the agency to end all Paxton-Brandt contracts. Despite the huge loss, the multinational remained too big—too powerful. Quinn focused her energy on Helena’s legacy and her own future. “Thank you for everything you’ve taught me…even when you were being a bitch." She chuckled at the gravestone. With the resources Helena had left Quinn—contacts, sources, possible stories, funds—she must've predicted her own demise. “One day I’ll make your dream a reality.”

  Quinn reached out, stroking the polished slab. “Goodbye, Helena. I love you always.” She rose and walked away. Staying any longer and the dam holding her together would break.

  Time to look ahead. In a few hours, she and Therese would leave to stay with Annie and Johnny in Germany. She had been discussing the trip with Annie right after quitting SLOCO Daily. Dates had been locked following Helena’s burial. The last three days had been spent saying farewell to the people who mattered, like Hugo, extended family, and local San Miguel friends.

  Now the day was here, finally sinking in. Everything felt all tingly and terrifying. “I have a few more stops before Germany.”

  An hour or so later, she had driven back to her Arroyo Grande condo she would sublet to Creed and Jensen. She’d changed into denim suspenders and a white tank top, her long braids in a high ponytail. She texted a group text with former and soon-to-be-former SLOCO Daily employees.

  ME: Last call. Everyone out?

  Colin: I no longer take jobs from them. So yes.

  Shelley: Starting at Newsworthy tomorrow.

  Jensen: Been out since last month.

  Creed: Today is my last day.

  JRP: Put in my two weeks’ notice this morning.

  Half a dozen other friends replied similarly. Quinn sighed in relief.

  SLOCO Daily had been hemorrhaging talent since Quinn’s departure, many despising the Rebecca Reyes, Packer, and Jono regime. The news site had slowly morphed into a propaganda arm for Paxton-Brandt.

  But Quinn had also been connecting her SLOCO Daily friends with Helena’s news media contacts.

  “Everything’s a go.” She had one more card to play against Paxton-Brandt before leaving American soil.

  JRP, aka Jess Richardson Palmer, had given Quinn more details than even Helena possessed on Packer’s stealing from sponsors. The now former Ad Sale Manager had reached out three weeks ago, bawling like a baby and begging for forgiveness.

  All Quinn needed was one more step.

  “Till next time,” she stated, shutting off her condo’s lights and closing the door behind her.

  Next stop, Geist’s downtown safehouse. She strolled inside the underground entrance toward the inner chambers. Domino, Blackjack, and Therese were gathered around Clint’s half-circle of computer consoles. The hacker appeared somewhat deflated. Therese looked scrumptious in her summer dress and floppy sunhat. Civilian attire felt out of place beside Blackjack in his all-black costume and headwrap mask, and Domino in a blood-red suit and goggles. Their faces exhibited the same moroseness.

  Quinn frowned in understanding. Geist had left. His absence from the lair was deafening. “Hey, guys.”

  Her approach turned heads. Therese lit up, which still made Quinn’s heart race. The archer gave her a quick yet firm kiss after the reporter had greeted the others. “Bonjour. You ready?”

  “Yes.” Now that Quinn had Therese in her arms, the decision felt right. Or was that just Therese’s fragrance fogging her brain up again? “A few weeks in Berlin is just what we need. After that, who knows.”

  “When will you return?” Domino inquired, her Israeli accent thick.

  “Not for a while,” Therese replied, hugging the crimefighting couple firmly. “This isn’t goodbye. Just…farewell for now.”

  A strong jerk of emotion pulled Quinn toward Blackjack and Domino. “You two keep safe out there,” she stated, embracing them. “The city is yours and Hugo’s.”

  Blackjack puffed out his barrel chest confidently. “We’re feeling good about that.”

  Quinn had faith in the crimefighting couple. She just hoped the Midnight Son would find whatever he was searching for on his walkabout.

  As Blackjack and Domino headed out for an early patrol, Therese watched them longingly. Guilt gnawed at Quinn’s soul for taking Therese away from what remained of Team Geist. But the archer looked back with a reassuring smile, eased her worries.

  She turned to Clint to complete her final act. “You ready with the other thing?”

  The hacker glared. “Who are you talking to?”

  Quinn raised her hands in peace. “Just checking!”

  Clint broke into a smile that showed big white teeth. “So we’re posting this on Washington Post, NY Times, Boston Globe, Vanity Fair, USA Today, Bloomberg—”

  “The entire list I gave you,” Quinn interjected, “with that single byline.”

  Clint searched her face, growing serious. “There’s no going back.”

  “That's the point,” Quinn stated decisively. She’d made up her mind a while ago. For Helena. “You’ll hear from me once we’re on the plane.”

  Quinn then dropped off her car at her Uncle Anthony’s house. She'd transferred ownership to him yesterday so Jordana had something to drive. The farewell was more emotional than Quinn had expected, much to her chagrin.

  She and Therese then took a Lyft down to the airport.

  “YAY!” Annie’s joy filled her ear as Quinn told her BFF over the phone that they had reached the private airfield. “Johnny and I can’t wait to see you. And meet the lady in your life.”

  Quinn grinned, unguardedly excited for the first time in a while. “You’re gonna love Reese.” She reached out and squeezed the archer’s hand.

  “Anyone dating you clearly has good taste,” Annie retorted.

  Now her BFF was overselling. “Alright, Giac. See you in several hours.” She hung up, right as a notification came from Clint.

  Quinn clicked on the link Clint had provided and skimmed over the article she’d crafted.

  SLOCO DAILY’S AD SALES STEALING FROM SPONSORS

  By Helena Madden

  This article recounted everything about Packer’s sponsorship scam; records, names, dates, and more
. All gathered by Helena and Jess Richardson-Palmer. Quinn made sure to add that SLOCO Daily’s former owner Hamilton Cross had known and had done nothing. And as a bonus, she added all evidence about Paxton-Brandt’s scheme to force Helena out from the news site. After a thorough readthrough of the lengthy article, she felt satisfied.

  Clint had found backdoors into each major news website around the globe to publish the same article using Helena’s byline. And even if the story got taken down from all those sites, Michael Hale had promised Quinn last night that Newsworthy would keep the story on their site.

  Quinn knew that this would destroy SLOCO Daily. But with Paxton-Brandt completely corrupting the news site, she considered this a mercy killing. Now that her friends were out of the blast radius, Quinn happily pulled the trigger. She texted Clint.

  ME: Do it.

  Clint: DONE. Safe flight.

  She then texted Michael Hale.

  ME: Hey. Go ahead and publish.

  MHale: On it.

  Putting the cell back in her purse, Quinn suddenly felt light as a feather.

  She sensed Therese watching. “How do you feel?”

  Quinn studied her girlfriend. “After using Helena’s byline to poison pill SLOCO Daily? Scared to death.” Her vision grew fuzzy from all the adrenaline.

  Therese’s expression tightened. “It had to be done.”

  Quinn nodded. “Yeah. It’s just a lot to digest.”

  “Then let’s look ahead,” Therese suggested, a sly grin slashing her features.

  “To Berlin? Or to us?” Quinn inquired curiously.

  Therese raised her brow suggestively. “Both.”

  Quinn’s heart swelled so much her chest nearly burst. She yanked Therese into a big, sloppy kiss. The vigilante was flushed and giggly when she pulled back. God, that felt amazing.

  “I support the heck outta that." Quinn took Therese by the hand as their rideshare arrived at San Miguel International Airport.

  Chapter 60

  Seven-thirty in the morning. The patrol had gone without incident so far…until seven-thirty-one.