by C. C. Ekeke
“Tango,” Letty called in his earcom, “tag in Echo or Delta.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he replied. It would take a stronger blow to put Smasher down. “Bravo. Switch Kathy with Echo for an Anvil special!”
Boomph. Tom and Kathy disappeared as a staggering Smasher tried to regain his bearings.
Boomph. Seconds later, Tom reappeared several feet above Smasher, holding Connie’s petite and compact frame. His teleporting speed’s improved so much, Greyson noted proudly.
Tom disappeared again, reappearing at Greyson’s side emptyhanded. They watched Connie drop like a stone toward Smasher, knowing she’d increased her density similar to lead.
The dazed Bashem looked up, blue eyes bulging. He moved to run. But not in time.
A crashing din preceded a choked grunt. Greyson cringed watching the impact. Moments later, Connie stood triumphant over Smasher’s fallen body.
“Smasher got smashed,” Tom boasted amid the cheering crowd.
Greyson side-eyed him but smiled beneath his mask. “Cheesy but appropriate. Cuff him.”
Tom had volunteered to carry the power restraints into battle. As he slapped dampening cuffs onto Smasher, Greyson almost forgot about Crashdown.
The other Bashem still floated above, flailing uselessly like some undersized Rose Parade balloon. “PUT. ME. DOWN!” he bellowed.
Greyson snorted. Poor word choice. “You sure?”
“Yes!”
Greyson shrugged. “Okay.” With a thought, he increased Crashdown’s gravity to that of a cement truck.
The Bashem plummeted much faster thanks to his altered gravity, wailing as the ground rushed up. Success flooded Greyson at euphoric speeds.
They’d cuff Crashdown once he landed. Another win.
Connie turned to Big Izzie. “Delta,” she called out. “Let’s knock this fucker into next week.”
Big Izzie stepped away from crowd control, shifting from concrete to dark-grey iron. “Right on, Echo.”
Greyson’s heart crawled up into his throat. “Echo, Delta. No!” he shouted.
Connie and Izzie either didn’t hear or listen, charging Crashdown with fists swinging together.
The blows struck like twin thunderclaps, the aftershocks rattling Greyson’s teeth.
Crashdown, weighing several tons, sailed straight into a glass high-rise’s ninth story—a human-sized wrecking ball.
Greyson’s concern quickly became horror.
Huge sections of the building’s windows exploded on impact, showering glass and debris on shrieking civilians. Then came bloodcurdling screams, crunching bones, shredding flesh.
Greyson backpedaled. This couldn’t be happening. “Oh god…”
Tom clutched his own costumed head. “There were people in there…” Some of them tumbled from the blown-open windows, falling several stories.
Big Izzie cried out in wordless horror, reverting to his normal costumed form.
Nearby, Connie glanced from her hands to the blown-out building. “Didn’t…” she stammered, struggling to speak. “Didn’t mean to hit him that hard.”
“I…increased his gravity by five times…” Greyson explained, not guarding his temper. But was this impossible anger at his teammates or himself? At the end, the blame fell on the field leader.
Connie fell to her knees, trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Fear staggered Greyson as he surveyed the damage, the bodies, the screams. We did this… Greyson stood petrified, wishing he could rewind time to when the world hadn’t gone to shit.
“Team. How many casualties?” Letty’s query got silence. Kathy’s hand covered her masked mouth. Connie’s sobs grew louder. Big Izzie swore.
Greyson’s mind was a mess, thoughts bouncing wildly. His gaze drifted across uninjured bystanders pointing accusing fingers at the team. Many aimed their cellphones, recording the culprits. Even worse, their faces displayed suspicion and fear. Like this couldn’t get worse…
“Tango. How many are dead or injured?” Letty repeated more forcefully.
That sliced through Greyson’s stupor. “Unknown.” At a glance, he spotted over a dozen bloodied, motionless bodies.
Letty remained the calm in the storm. Thank god for her. “Deal with the immediate threat,” she stated crisply.
“Dampening cuffs,” Greyson realized and reached for Tom. “Give them to me.” Luckily, Crashdown’s motionless body was easy to find in the piles of rubble and bodies. Greyson slapped the cuffs on his wrists and activated them, restraining the powerhouse.
“Search for survivors,” Letty then continued. “Dig through as much rubble as possible.”
“No,” Dr. St. Pierre interjected. “Police are five minutes out. Back to the van.” The team exchanged unsettled looks. Greyson, despite his inner turmoil, was stunned. Fleeing when so many need help…
The crowd was becoming rabid, fear turning into anger.
“The survivors…” Greyson began.
St. Pierre steamrolled over him. “Five unregistered supers who caused a huge accident. You think the authorities won’t arrest you?”
Greyson had no comeback. The thought of jail chased any heroism right out of him. Someone nearby shouted profanities. Others called for their arrest. The choice was obvious.
“Bravo, we need to go,” Kathy stated like a stern mom.
Everyone agreed. Except Tom. “We can’t leave!” He gestured at the victims stirring in the rubble. “They need our—”
Greyson whirled on him. “Get us out. Now!” he barked, raw and emotional.
The teleporter recoiled. “Yes…Tango,” Tom stammered.
Distant sirens grew nearer, chilling and sinister in Greyson’s ears. Once everyone grabbed Tom’s shoulders, he teleported them away.
Greyson felt a forceful pull on his body as the chaotic scene vanished.
But the horrific cries from their victims, the lifeless bodies strewn across the sidewalks would never leave his memories.
Chapter 13
Two days and five unanswered calls later, Veronica Carson finally returned Quinn's call.
Then Lord Borealis’s wife sobbed incoherently for twenty minutes.
“He’ll die before ever standing trial!” Veronica wailed with earsplitting grief. “I know it in my bones!”
Quinn winced, lowering her car’s Bluetooth volume. The streets were waking up to a burnt-pink sunrise as she drove to breakfast in Old Town Paso Robles. Quinn gave up trying to calm Veronica. “Will the prison move Carmine to solitary after he’s recovered?” It felt bizarre using Lord Borealis's real name.
“His lawyers demanded that after the attack,” Veronica said with a pitiful sniffle.
Quinn’s heart ached for this woman. Not just the media circus hounding her daily, but having a spouse framed for crimes he didn’t commit. Now that spouse had been stabbed eleven times in a prison shower. By some miracle, he had survived. The attack had chilled Quinn to the bone when Annie told her the other night. Between that and the trial date being moved, Quinn was running out of time to find Titan’s true killer.
“Why aren’t you helping?” Veronica's eruption startled Quinn. “You said you'd help my Carmine!”
“Veronica—”
“You’ve done nothing!” Veronica shrieked.
Indignance shivered through Quinn. There were so many ways she could’ve responded, like what she’d sacrificed professionally to help Veronica’s despised husband. Yet Quinn realized Veronica was close to losing everything. Of course she’s lashing out. “Veronica,” she replied calmly, not raising her voice. “I’m doing my best. But these things take time.”
“Carmine nearly died!” Veronica spat. “Next time, they’ll finish the job! If you can’t help, tell me so I can find someone who can!”
Quinn almost blurted out that she could find Titan’s killer just to defuse Veronica’s terrors. But she caught herself in time. Because Quinn didn’t fully believe she could back those words. Not with all the variables she’d run acr
oss so far. Quinn sighed, measuring her next words. “I'm doing my best. I can’t promise anything beyond that.”
A hushed moment passed. “Not good enough,” Veronica said calmly. A click signaled the call ending.
Quinn sagged in her seat, realizing now how tensed her muscles were. “Wow.”
Minutes later, Quinn pulled into the Apple Farms parking lot for a breakfast meeting. Her nerves felt frayed, even though this guy was a friend who’d been unjustly fired. She ambled into the restaurant and spied Colin Garner’s lanky frame seated next to a window. The former videographer looked up from his phone and waved her over. He resembled a surfer, tanned with shaggier hair and sideburns, wearing a Lady Liberty t-shirt and boardshorts.
“Colin!” Quinn scurried over, arms spread wide.
“QB!” Colin stood, towering over the reporter and enveloping her with a fierce hug. After they’d sat, a waiter took Quinn’s order of blueberry pancakes with scrambled eggs and bacon. Colin went for a breakfast burrito with extra salsa. As the former coworkers caught up, Quinn was relieved hearing that Colin wasn’t hurting for work.
“Just freelancing and working on personal projects,” he admitted, sipping his water. “I like being my own boss.” He frowned. “Sorry about the Vanguard interviews.”
Quinn waved off the sympathy. “That mess was my fault.” From a far-off perspective, her actions appeared rather boneheaded. Maybe because she hadn’t told Colin about Lord Borealis's innocence. Nor will I. “I do need a favor.” She whipped out her tablet to show the Paragon’s YouTube videos, pointing out the brawny Latino boy with the stocky Indian man.
“I need HD screen captures of those guys’ faces.” Quinn leaned over the table to explain. “I can send you the videos where they appear.” She sucked in a breath at her next request. This could be very risky, but Quinn needed outside help to prove Lord Borealis’s innocence. “There’s also a missing video on the Paragon’s channel the day of Titan’s murder. Before, videos always post from Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday nights.” She lowered her voice. “Is there any way you can search for an unlisted link or copied video on another channel?”
Colin looked stunned. “How about I just hack into the YouTube account to see if the video’s there?”
Quinn gaped. “You’re a hacker?” she whispered-yelled in case anyone was eavesdropping.
“I’m good with breaking some code.” The videographer made air typing gestures and smiled goofily.
Quinn wasn’t smiling. Her stomach knotted with worry. “I don’t want you getting in trouble over this.”
Colin made a face. “Please. I’ve done it many times,” he boasted. Confidence looked good on him. “I’ll get you your screengrabs and the missing video in a few days, tops.”
Ignoring her doubts, Quinn exhaled in quiet relief. “Thank you, Colin. You’re the best. I’ll send the email with the videos now.” She whipped out her personal cell to access the email in the draft folder. “And if you can keep this on the DL—”
“What project?” Colin asked, smirking.
Quinn grinned back. “My thoughts exactly.” Perfect timing, as their food orders arrived. After that, she headed to work in a better mood. Quinn knew the drill. Head down, do the work. Her Redgrave Winery review should be back with edits from Medina before she submitted it for publishing.
Thinking of wine brought her back to Carmelo’s two nights ago. Annie had downed a bottle of red singlehandedly, ignoring Quinn’s comment to slow down. By night’s end, Annie’s fiancé Johnny had to carry her from the restaurant conspicuously sad yet used to this conduct. Quinn chewed on this uncomfortable memory while riding the elevator. Getting sloppy drunk on weeknights was unlike Annie. Something’s seriously wrong. Quinn made a mental note to chat with her BFF soon.
After reaching her desk, Quinn’s cell buzzed. She checked the text and nearly swallowed her tongue.
Helena M: Swing by when you get in.
Quinn’s legs folded and dropped her into her seat. Helena had ignored her for over two weeks. Did Medina complain? My work has been spotless.
Had she suspected Quinn was still investigating Titan’s real killer? I haven’t told anyone.
Or was she going to fire her regardless? Motherfrakk!
Quinn forced herself up and over to Helena’s office, heart rattling inside her ribcage.
She found the editor-in-chief at her desk, wearing a sports coat over a dark, long-sleeved tee with jeans, spiky blonde hair matted down. Helena skimmed over a Daily Beast article on her monitor. Pharmaceutical megacorp Paxton-Brandt was providing free clinics in Indonesia after a recent tsunami.
Quinn sucked in a steadying breath and opened the door.
Helena looked up, minimizing the Paxton-Brandt article. Surprisingly, she smiled. “Hi. Shut the door.”
Quinn entered and sat, confused by this sudden friendliness. “What’s up?”
Helena steepled her fingers. “The Vanguard interviews are back on.”
Quinn gawked. “OH." Her shock was followed by joy…and questions. “Wait. The Vanguard shelved those after…you know.” No need to rehash what had caused her and Helena’s rift.
The editor-in-chief studied Quinn, clearly expecting the reply. “The official story? The team changed their mind about sharing these interviews.”
Quinn frowned, noting the cryptic wording. “And the real story?”
“We’d reveal which Vanguard member sabotaged our interview series.”
Quinn couldn’t believe her ears. “Who?” she demanded.
Helena rubbed her hands together excitedly. “Robbie Rocket stole Colin’s camera, recorded his conversation with Jono, and leaked it.”
“Why would he do that?”
Helena arched an eyebrow. “Rebecca Reyes asked him to.”
Now Quinn was lost. “Huh?” Rebecca Reyes had sabotaged her interviews? That made no sense.
"Reyes was doing interviews detailing her time with Titan and other heroes who’d shaped his career," Helena said, gabbing with Quinn like they’d used to. “And…she’s fucking Robbie Rocket.”
The news mule-kicked Quinn in the chest. “Good lordy!” The Carmelo’s encounter came to mind, and Reyes's odd victorious smirk when they’d discussed the Vanguard interviews. “That makes so much sense.” She told Helena about the Carmelo’s incident.
The editor-in-chief threw her head back and laughed. “Wow!”
Quinn found no humor in Reyes sandbagging her. “That shameless cape-chasing slut,” she snarled.
“Yeah,” Helena agreed. “And Rebecca Reyes sucks too.” Both women laughed long and hard. “I think you have your own archnemesis, Quinn.”
“Clearly.” Quinn hadn’t thought of it that way. “Wait, how did you find this out?”
“Seraph contacted me. She said to use the info however I saw fit and let Jesus take the wheel.”
Quinn placed a hand on her chest, heart swollen from gratitude. “Sounds like Mikaela.” Blur had been truthful that night at Carmelo’s. Guess Seraph is a friend. But Helena didn’t need to know about that meeting. With the Vanguard interviews back on, the to-do list for those videos popped into Quinn’s head. She jolted forward in her seat. “I need to fix my voiceover.”
Helena immediately dismissed the concern with a lazy hand. “The VO’s fine. I watched everything last week.” The editor-in-chief’s smile warmed. “The Vanguard watched and loved them too. Ad Sales got the original sponsors back. We’ll release the interviews in the next few days.”
“Thanks, Helena.” Quinn, while grateful, knew things weren’t completely fixed between them. She rose up, turning to leave.
“Quinn…”
Quinn stopped. Helena looked back with pained eyes, as if deciding her next words. “The last two weeks, I was dealing with the fallout of the canceled interviews and…” She exhaled heavily and reclined in her seat. “I was so angry that you were throwing away this great job over pointless conspiracy theories.”
Quinn swallowed a
wince. Well… “I know how lucky I am to work here.”
The editor-in-chief looked pleased. “Fantastic work on those interviews.”
“Thanks,” Quinn said, ignoring her pang of guilt. Then she tried her luck. “Since Colin was clearly set up, would you consider rehiring him?”
Helena chewed over the request and nodded. “I’ll consider it.”
After leaving Helena’s office, Quinn had a spring in her step. Knowing her interviews would be seen restored her love for journalism.
As the day flew by, coworkers stopped over to congratulate her on the upcoming interview launch. Quinn’s gratitude was effusive, until another text rattled her cellphone. She checked and gulped hard.
BLOCKED: Your rooftop. Midnight.
Me: Okay.
Quinn felt nauseous replying. Yet she lacked an intimate knowledge of the heroes and villains’ community to help Lord Borealis.
Despite many misgivings, she’d reached out to Geist after returning from Carmelo’s two nights back. Extreme circumstances need extreme measures.
Much later, Quinn was on her roof at 11:58 p.m. bundled in her favorite peacoat and beanie. She heard nothing besides passing cars and distant pedestrians many stories below.
At midnight, a slight rustle sounded behind her. She turned and jumped three feet in the air.
Geist stood less than five feet away, swaddled in shadows and his trench coat. Even the Midnight Son’s silhouette was frightening. Like some vampire…
“Thanks for the heart attack!” Quinn snarked, recovering. She then informed Geist about her discussion with Colin and Paragon’s videos.
Geist’s eyes narrowed into gleaming slits. “YouTube videos?” he grunted.
Quinn nodded. “We can ID whoever befriended Lord Borealis before Titan’s murder.”
“And you trust this Colin?”
“Yes.” Quinn nodded again, hands stuffed in her pockets. “One of those two people at Paragon's could be the telepath Seraph was talking about. Or Titan’s killer.”
Geist shook his masked head. “Or working for the real killer.”
“What if Lord Borealis was brainwashed into attacking Titan?”
Geist vetoed that suggestion. “Even if brainwashed, his ankle bracelet needed to be disabled.”