My phone rang, jarring me out of my smug, self-satisfied reverie. “Carmen Cole.”
“Carmen, it’s Chief Newman,” a deep Irish voice rumbled in my ear.
“Hey, Chief. What’s up? Calling to congratulate me?”
I’d spent many hours going through files with Bigtime’s chief of police, and the two of us had developed a good working relationship. The chief also wanted to learn the identities of the Fearless Five and the Terrible Triad. Both groups had destroyed their fair share of Bigtime, and Newman wanted them to foot the bill for the cleanup and repairs. Not to mention all the unpaid parking tickets they’d accumulated with their souped-up supercars and vans.
“Not exactly.” He paused. “I’ve got some bad news, Carmen. It’s about Travis Teague. He’s dead, Carmen. He committed suicide.”
My champagne glass slipped from my fingers. It shattered on the floor.
Chapter Three
Six months later
I swirled champagne around in my cut-crystal glass. Bubbles rose up in the golden liquid, then fizzed out.
Just like my life.
After Travis Teague committed suicide by throwing himself out of his office on the thirtieth floor of Teague Towers, my star hadn’t just fallen, it had been snuffed out like a candle. Unmasking was good for business. Having Tornado, one of the most beloved superheroes in the world, commit suicide because you unmasked him was not. I got numerous death threats, not only from Tornado’s fellow superheroes but also from the general public. People crossed the street to avoid walking past me. Restaurant waiters refused to serve me. Kids gathered in front of my apartment building and threw rocks whenever I stuck my head outside. People hated me with a passion heretofore reserved for heretics and lawyers.
I accepted the abuse. I deserved it. My guilt over Tornado’s death knew no bounds. I barely ate. I hardly slept. On the rare occasion I did drift off, nightmares plagued my feverish dreams. All I’d wanted was to tell the truth, to reveal the people behind the masks. But things had gone terribly wrong. Instead, my own bad karma had bitten me on the ass, and Travis Teague had paid the ultimate price for my smug, stupid arrogance.
After his suicide, the only thing I wanted was to hole up in my apartment and never come out again. However, the editors at The Exposé wouldn’t let me slip quietly into the good night. Hell, they wouldn’t even fire me outright. Oh no. The newspaper’s cross-town rival, The Chronicle, would get too much mileage and glee out of that. Instead of axing me, the editors at The Exposé devised a fate worse than death—they reassigned me to the society beat.
I trudged to function after boring function, chatting up old, rich ladies and their spoiled, horse-faced daughters. I’d learned more about shoes and designer dresses and accessories in the past six months than I had in my entire life. Not to mention plastic surgery, liposuction, and pre-nuptial agreements.
I lived a sort of half-life at the newspaper. I came in, schlepped out to the latest debutante ball or charity function on the schedule, schlepped back, wrote a story, e-mailed it to the society editor, and left. The only one who even acknowledged my presence was Henry Harris, and that was only when his nose wasn’t mashed against his computer screen.
Tonight, I was attending the opening of yet another art gallery. I’d been on the scene over an hour and had done all the usual things—chatted with the artist whose work was on display, gotten some quotes from the owner, taken notes about the latest in designer fashion. Now, I sipped flat champagne and tried to find someone who would say something moderately interesting about the opening. Sandra, the other reporter who reluctantly worked the society beat, had come in, gotten a few quotes, and left after ten minutes. Not me. I might not care about who was wearing what or who was sleeping with whom, but that wasn’t going to stop me from doing the best job possible. I still had a little pride left. It was the only thing I had left.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Sam Sloane, one of the wealthiest men and most eligible bachelors in all of Bigtime.
“Mr. Sloane! Mr. Sloane!” I waved.
Sam Sloane gave me a look that would have frozen ice. He walked right by me, his eyes fixed straight ahead. I sighed. Two months ago, my editor had ordered me to get an exclusive interview with Sloane, the owner of The Chronicle. I couldn’t understand why my editor wanted a story on Sloane, given his legendary business battles with Morgana Madison. The two hated each other with a passion, as did the staffs of their respective newspapers. Reporters and editors at The Chronicle and The Exposé always tried to one-up each other, just like Sloane and Morgana with their corporate shenanigans. Morgana barely tolerated Sloane’s name being mentioned in passing on the society page. She’d blow a gasket if we did a whole story on him. Perhaps my editor just wanted to get me fired.
Not that it really mattered. The assignment was impossible. Sloane never talked to anyone with the media, not even the reporters at his own newspaper. His conversation was reserved for the latest supermodel hanging on his arm. Unless I morphed into a six-foot-tall, blond Amazon with a tiny waist, fake boobs, and questionable morals, I wasn’t getting anywhere near Sam Sloane.
Even then, I would have a hard time fighting my way through the throngs of women who flocked around the billionaire. In addition to being richer than a sultan, Sam Sloane had dark good looks and a killer smile. Even I had to admit that a tuxedo had never looked better on a man. Sloane also was quite the charmer. Or so I’d been told. He’d never done more than stare coldly at me the few times he deigned to acknowledge my presence.
After another hour of flat champagne, moldy Brie, and stale crackers, I left the gallery and took a taxi downtown to the gigantic skyscraper that housed The Exposé. The glass-and-chrome building never failed to take my breath away. With its winking blue lights and glittering facade, it was even more impressive in the dark night. Only The Chronicle’s building, a gleaming skyscraper a few blocks away, rivaled The Exposé building’s height and beauty.
I rode the elevator up to the one-hundredth floor, where the reporters and editors worked. I walked the length of the newsroom, or the gauntlet, to the very back wall. I’d once had a desk right in the middle of the newsroom, where the golden girls and boys lorded over their beats like queens and kings. After the Tornado fiasco, I’d been shuffled to the back, along with the other rejects who hung on to their jobs like spinach stuck in your teeth.
I reached my desk, a tiny metal affair on four shaky feet, sank into my uncomfortable chair, and smacked on my computer.
“How’s it going, Carmen?” Henry Harris asked from his own desk a few feet away.
“Fine, Henry. The usual. Another night, another opening, another glass of flat champagne.”
Henry smiled and went back to his computer. He pushed up the sleeves of the white shirt he wore under his plaid sweater vest, adjusted his polka-dot bow tie, and started typing. The faint light emanating from the humming monitor gave his mocha skin a slightly blue tinge. The light also made his glasses gleam and highlighted the smooth planes of his face. Henry was just shy of thirty, but he looked much younger, despite the old-fashioned clothes he always wore.
For the next hour, I tuned out the world, including the giggles and whispers of the golden girls and boys. I wrote a glowing story about the gallery opening, describing the scene in detail and adding quotes from all the pertinent power players. I threw in some tidbits about the resident fashionistas and their outfits, shoes, and accessories, and sent my story to the society editor. I picked up one of the Rubik’s Cubes that littered my desk and fiddled with it, sliding the rows of colors back and forth. A few minutes later, my computer pinged with a new e-mail from the editor.
Fine. You can leave now.
Ah, short and sweet as always. I gathered up my things and headed toward the elevator.
“Later, Henry.”
He gave me a distracted little wave. His dark eyes never left his computer screen. I often wondered whether Henry ate or if he subsisted on data bytes alone. I’d
put money on the data bytes.
I rode to the bottom floor, pushed through the heavy revolving doors, and stepped onto the street. It had rained while I’d been inside, and a damp, glossy sheen covered the sidewalk. Heavy clouds blanketed the night sky, and the metallic scent of more impending rain tickled my nose. No taxis cruised by, so I decided to walk. Home wasn’t far.
“Hey, baby! How about a little fun tonight?” a low voice called out from a dark doorway.
“Get lost, creep,” I snapped and kept walking.
My hand slipped into my purse, where I kept my pepper spray. Since Tornado’s suicide and the various death threats that had come my way, I’d started taking self-defense classes. Oh, the superheroes would never make good on their threats to injure me. Their moral compasses wouldn’t allow them to harm normal folks, not even a lowdown, good-for-nothing reporter like me. No, it was regular people, the ones who called me nasty names and left dead fish outside my apartment, that I worried about.
Shoes squeaked on the slick sidewalk, and I glanced over my shoulder. Two men dressed in pinstriped suits lumbered along behind me, even though it was after midnight and all the downtown office buildings were closed. This wasn’t terribly unusual, as many Bigtime businessmen worked long, hard hours. But the flat, dead look in their eyes made me walk a little bit faster. Cold dread curled up in my stomach. My fist closed around the pepper spray.
I squinted, trying to make out the numbers on a nearby street sign. The subway was only two blocks away. Cops patrolled the underground tunnels all hours of the night and day, watching for purse snatchers and muggers. It would be safer down there. I picked up my pace. My feet snapped against the concrete like rubber bands. The footsteps behind me quickened, and I lunged out onto the street. A black sedan skidded to a halt in front of me. I jumped back onto the sidewalk.
“Hey!” I smacked the car’s hood with my purse. “Watch where you’re going!”
Something sharp pricked me. I yelped. One of the two men in suits shoved a syringe deeper into my arm. A strange, blue liquid glowed inside the glass tube. I yanked the pepper spray out of my purse and gave the goon a face full of it.
“You bitch!” he screamed and stumbled back.
I whirled around and gave the other goon the same treatment. He, too, cursed and stumbled away. The black sedan sat silent, its occupants enjoying the show. I tugged the empty syringe out of my arm and threw it down. The glass shattered. Blue liquid hissed onto the concrete, and white steam rose up from the strange substance.
My inner voice shrieked with fear. I was in serious trouble. I had to get away from these people, but everything seemed so strange. The world wouldn’t stay still. It kept spinning round and round and round like a carousel. I took a step forward. Two more blocks. I could make it two more blocks.
I took another step forward. Dizziness hit me like a tidal wave. I pitched to the ground, and darkness overcame me.
Chapter Four
I lost all sense of time and space. I was in a car, a car I didn’t want to be in, with some dangerous men. What they wanted and where they were taking me, I couldn’t imagine, but I didn’t feel frightened. A blue haze bathed my fear, softening it. Voices and bits of conversation floated in and out of my drugged mind.
“Can’t believe she got you two fools with pepper spray...”
“Not our fault...”
“Didn’t know...”
“Thought she’d go down quicker...”
I lapsed into unconsciousness once more.
*
Something hard and cold pressed against my cheek, so cold that it burned. I jerked my head up. A million needles stabbed my jumbled brain. The hot pricking traveled from my head down my spine and into my limbs. A groan of pain escaped my numb, cold, chapped lips.
“Well, well. Look who’s awake. Rise and shine.”
Cold, rough hands hauled me up. The room spun around, and I struggled to focus. I found myself face-to-face with one of my kidnappers. His beady eyes were bloodshot, and his nose was red and runny. I studied him, memorizing every detail of his flat face, his clothes, his mannerisms. I wanted to give the police an accurate description of my kidnapper, if somehow I got out of this alive.
We were in a small, empty, concrete room with only one door. I thought about distances and angles and running.
“Jimmy!” the man yelled. “We’ve got a live one.”
The second man entered the room and grabbed my arm. I studied him as well. They dragged me outside. The sudden motion made me sick. I took deep breaths and tried not to vomit. Focus, focus! I had to be sharp, be strong. That was the only way I was going to get out of this mess.
I forced my mind away from the stabbing needles and throbbing headache and concentrated on my surroundings. We stood in an enormous factory or plant of some kind. A long, winding assembly line snaked over pipes, under catwalks, and around huge vats. Fog puffed up from silver canisters. But what caught my attention was the ice—it covered everything, from the concrete floor to the metal pipes high overhead. The temperature hovered around the freezing mark. My ragged breath frosted in the air.
The two men half dragged, half carried me up a flight of stairs. I tried to dig my heels into the ground, but they skidded along the frozen floor like a pair of ice skates.
“I wish Frost had picked another place to do his experiments,” the second man grumbled after slipping on the icy incline.
“Quiet!” the first man hissed. “Or he’ll put the deep freeze on you.”
My own insides froze with fear. I knew who Frost was. The ubervillain was a member of the Terrible Triad, along with Scorpion and Malefica. If my head didn’t feel like a marching band had taken up residence inside, I might have been able to give my two kidnappers the slip. But I was no match for Frost or any other member of the Triad, even on their worst, most inept day. My inner voice let out a small, plaintive wail. This was not going to end well.
The goons dragged me through a dark hallway. We emerged onto a platform overlooking part of the factory. Ice and frost and metal stretched as far as I could see. The two men stopped. I hung between them like a rag doll.
I cocked my head. A faint sound echoed in the distance. I concentrated. The sound came again, then again. It took me a moment, but I recognized it. The distinctive click-click-clack of high-heel shoes rang out through the factory, getting louder and closer with every step. My doom approached.
Malefica, the leader of the Terrible Triad, strolled into view. Skintight, blood-red leather hugged her perfect figure from head to toe. A black leather whip looped around her impossibly thin waist, while a black M strained to cover her impressive chest. A black-and-red mask covered her eyes, while a red cowl hid her hair from sight. A scarlet cape and strappy sandals completed the fashionably evil ensemble.
“Ah. I see our guest has arrived. We’ve been expecting you, haven’t we, boys?”
Frost and Scorpion stepped out of the shadows. I gasped. Frost was a tall, skinny man clad in an ice-blue suit. A shock of white-blond hair stood straight up on his head, and his eyes glowed with a vivid, blue flame. With bulging, rippling muscles, very wide shoulders, and a shaved head, Scorpion was the polar opposite of Frost. He wore black from head to toe and looked as solid as cement.
And so I found myself face-to-face with every superhero’s worst nightmare—the Terrible Triad. I swallowed.
“Leave us,” Malefica barked to the two hired hands.
The men dropped my arms and scurried away like rats. I wobbled and struggled to remain upright.
Malefica’s ruby-red lips curved into a smile. “Carmen Cole. It’s an honor. I’ve been a fan of your work for some time now.”
My inner voice muttered. Somehow, I managed to speak. “Sorry, I can’t say the same.”
“Aren’t you the feisty one? Pity.”
Malefica backhanded me. The sound cracked like thunder. The woman worked out, that was for sure. I hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. The needles returned, worse t
han before. My head felt like it was going to explode into a million pulpy pieces. I bit back a groan of pain. I was nothing, less than nothing, to the Triad. I would likely be dead within the next five minutes, but I vowed not to show weakness in front of them. I would not! My scraps of pride wouldn’t let me.
I stared at the scarlet sandal tapping in front of my aching face and burning brain. It was the only way I could take my mind off the searing pain rippling up and down my body. Plus, I found it odd and somewhat funny how big and clownlike Malefica’s feet were in proportion to the rest of her lithe body.
“Nice sandals,” I croaked. “Bulluci’s fall collection?”
“Good eye,” Malefica said. “Now get up. We have things to discuss.”
I slowly staggered to my feet, held my head in my hands, and tried to keep the world from careening out of control. I wasn’t very successful. Unconcerned, Malefica sashayed away, her shoes click-click-clacking on the iced-over floor. Every footstep made my head ache more. I limped along behind her. Frost and Scorpion brought up the rear, making me the middle of an ubervillain sandwich. Terrific.
Malefica twisted and turned her way through the factory until we reached an office. I stepped over the threshold and blinked. It was a room fit for a queen. Wingback chairs and an enormous love seat sat on one side of the room, while a huge, canopied bed took up the other section. A mahogany desk piled high with papers crouched next to a tall liquor cabinet. Flames blazed in a marble fireplace, and sinfully thick carpet covered the floor. It was the plushest ubervillain lair money could buy. Despite my fear of imminent, painful death, I made mental notes, not only of the room but of the objects in it. Not that the police would believe I’d been kidnapped by ubervillains, but a girl had to try.
“Sit.”
I did as I was told. There was no point in being stubborn. Besides, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand. It was hard to remain upright when your knees shook like leaves in a tornado.
Karma Girl Page 3