A Shot at the Big Time

by Christina McMullen

  In hindsight, we probably should have held on to the comics or at least the action figure. Those things go for a pretty penny today. Funding our evil empire on the backs of Liberty Gang merchandise would have been a nice, if not completely over the top, touch, but we were kids. We had no concept of finances. Triple digits in the savings account made us feel like kings.

  Oh, who am I kidding? Triple digits in the ol’ bank account—especially on the day before payday—still makes me feel like a success. It’s the little things, you know. Speaking of…

  I checked my wallet to make sure I had enough bills for a couple of drinks. Yes, I know what century it is and yes, I have credit cards, thank you very much, but when your boss is the leader of the Coalition of Evil, getting called away to join a fight on the other side of town is a frequent occupational hazard. I didn’t always have time to wait for some beleaguered bartender to close out my tab.

  “I’m just saying, there’s a certain understated class the old guys had that I think is lacking in today’s typical heavy.”

  Geez, really?

  Even after I tuned him out to give you folks all the exposition you would need to enjoy the rest of my story, Lane was still going on about retro fashion. And here we were already over halfway to Lucky’s.

  To be fair, I could see why Lane liked the style. Back in the sausage party days of villainy, nearly all the hired muscle was built like he was: solid blocks of flesh that vaguely resembled humans. But stylish or not, the dockworker style of pea coats and woolen hats probably weren’t the most practical fashion statement in a landlocked place like Maxima City, where summer tended to last for eight months of the year. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone without ice attributes comfortably lives here. It’s brutal.

  “Tell me you wouldn’t wear something like this,” Lane went on, flicking the page with a finger so that it made that annoying pop sound that always made me cringe. “Aren’t you always going on about how our costumes need to be more practical?”

  “If you’ve got a problem with the uniform, take it up with the boss,” I said, cutting off Lane’s runaway train of thought before it derailed and took me with it. “Right now, I’ve got less than three hours to forget about the last eight, and I don’t intend to spend it talking shop.”

  On the contrary, I intended to spend the next three hours building a lovely, vodka-fueled buzz.

  Chapter 2

  Lucky’s was already jam packed by the time we got there. Lane spotted a group of his sales bros and took off in their direction. I ducked into the ladies room to touch up my makeup so I wouldn’t look as deflated as I felt and sent off a where-are you text to my friends, since I didn’t see them on my initial scan of the bar. I got an almost immediate reply telling me to check my messages. Apparently I’d missed a group email about some grand opening of a place in uptown and they’d all decided to go check it out.

  Great. So not only was I drinking to forget my crummy week, but now I was drinking alone to forget my crummy week. Now all I needed was one broken heart and one lost dog and I could win this round of my-life-is-a-country-song bingo. Even though I felt a little pathetic and awkward, I couldn’t really get mad at my friends. None of my happy hour crew were talent, so they didn’t know I had a rather important gig to get to later in the evening and couldn’t spend all night drinking martinis, eating tapas, and pretending I was high society.

  I spied a narrow gap in the crush of bodies at the bar and squeezed myself in, whipping out a larger bill that I used to flag down the nearest bartender. Somehow drinking alone at the bar never seemed quite as bad as sulking in a dark corner, which didn’t really make any sense when you think about it, but I wasn’t in the mood to think about it. I just wanted a drink and a place to park my butt while drinking.

  Surprisingly, I was in luck, because just as the bartender was setting half priced vodka tonic number one in front of me, the barstool to my left emptied. I hooked my foot around the leg and hopped up, expecting my ass to meet the gross-but-tolerable feel of pre-warmed vinyl, but instead, I found myself perched on what felt suspiciously like a thigh.

  A muscular thigh.

  The kind of thigh that would make Greek sculpture jealous.

  A thigh clad in skin tight and faded blue jeans, ripped in all the right places, revealing a familiar scar in the shape of a heart that might have once been a tattoo with my initials in it.

  Dammit.

  “Well, hello there, gorgeous. I must have missed the weather report announcing hell had frozen over. Oh wait…”

  “Don’t even start with me, Dee,” I warned, downing my drink in one swallow while signaling to the bartender for another.

  Of all the mentally unstable, egotistical, trigger happy throwbacks in town whose lap I could have accidentally ended up sitting on, I had to plant my cheeks on this one.

  “Now, now, now. You’re the one who jumped on me, so I’m not buying the cold hearted act, princess.”

  “Keep poking me with that gun in your pocket and I’ll remind you exactly how frosty I can get,” I warned, shifting away from the obscene lump poking into my backside.

  Most guys, when threatened with the possibility of having their balls literally frozen off, would run for the hills, hands firmly clasped over the ol’ family jewels. Dennis DeMarco, however—despite knowing better than anyone what I was capable of and that I didn’t often make idle threats—was not most guys.

  “Oh, that?” He shifted back, poking me again. “That is a gun in my pocket. Two guns, actually, but I’m still happy to see you, if you know what I mean.”

  I moved as far away from the offending bulge as I could, knowing full well he wasn’t just making a perverse joke. The guy frequently carried enough firepower to outfit a small army. More than likely, the guns in question weren’t even equipped with a safety, despite their close proximity to their owner’s junk. DeMarco’s secret identity wasn’t called Wildcard for nothing. The dude was legit crazy. I should know. I dated, broke up with, and dated him again often enough to question my own sanity.

  “Ah, relax, babe.” He snaked an arm around my waist and patted the bulge at his side. Well, one of them. “I take good care of my toys. You don’t have to worry about any of my guns going off prematurely.”

  I bit back a retort, knowing full well what would happen if I gave in to the temptation of provocative banter. I didn’t have time for that kind of a distraction and besides, our last break up was still a fresh wound.

  “Isn’t this place a little out of the way for you?” I asked instead. Lucky’s wasn’t an upscale bar by any means but it did cater to those of us working in the corporate sector. DeMarco was rather vocal about his disdain for office work and would go on at length about corporate drudgery if you let him. Not that I had any convincing counterarguments, but it wasn’t like his job was any more glamorous.

  Dennis DeMarco was the only talent I knew of whose job didn’t really change once he got into costume. By day he was a skip tracer, or bounty hunter for those who want to romanticize the job of tracking down deadbeat dads and parole violators. By night, Wildcard was nothing more than a soldier of fortune, working for whoever waved the most cash under his nose.

  Technically, he was an Action Figure, but he was one of those line straddling bad boys who was all the rage at the moment. He was usually just Boy Scout enough to decline jobs from the vilest of Mals, but I’m not embarrassed to admit I pillow talked some tidbits of intel out of him on more than one occasion.

  “I’m not here to kick back and take in the sights and smells of corporate desperation, if that’s what you mean. I’m on the clock.”

  “Since when do you punch a clock?” I should have known he was working when I noticed he wasn’t drinking, but I’d chalked that up to the prices at Lucky’s being a lot more than the dives he typically frequented. Well, that and I was pretty sure they didn’t even carry the cheap swill he called beer. “And how is that any different from ‘corporate desperation’?”


  “Because I choose which jobs I want to take and when I want to take them.”

  I didn’t even have to look in his direction to know the words were followed up by the signature Wildcard head toss and exaggerated wink. I swear, everything in his arsenal was learned from cheesy eighties movies about bad boy cops, from his obsession with overpowered weapons and mirrored sunglasses all the way to his glorious and entirely un-ironic mullet.

  “Besides,” he continued, “with the kind of money the LG has to throw around, who am I to question where I dirty my boots?”

  “You took another Liberty Gang job?” I rolled my eyes. For a so-called free agent, he was one hell of a hypocrite.

  “So what if I did?”

  Supposedly—and I only have his word on this—the Liberty Gang approached Wildcard a few years back about joining the team. He claims he declined because the world wasn’t so easily divided into good guys and bad guys. I can’t say I disagree with his philosophy, necessarily. Hell, his moral ambiguity was half of what attracted me to him in the first place. But for someone who often—rather vocally—claimed neither side could buy his loyalty, I couldn’t help but notice the majority of jobs he took were funded by the very organization he was too good to work for.

  “It’s not like you don’t go running every time Hostile Takeover snaps her fingers. How is working for the Coalition different from working for the LG?”

  “The difference is that I’ve pledged my allegiance to the Mals, pal.” I added a wink, mentally patting myself on the back for the rhyme. Yeah, it was pure cheese, but I’ll remind you that good or bad, none of us were in the business of subtlety. “I’m not the one claiming to be an independent contractor.”

  “Oh? And what exactly are you claiming to be?” he asked in a husky voice that dripped innuendo with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I wanted to blame my sudden flush on the alcohol and not the stubble-roughened cheek that grazed my earlobe, but there was no point in lying to myself. Dee and I happened to have a lot of chemistry. Granted, it was the exploding meth lab variety of chemistry, but I’d be a liar if I said that didn’t just make the bad decisions that much more fun.

  “Late for work,” I answered, not even bothering to hide the frustration in my voice. I had just enough time to get home, grab a sandwich, and squeeze into my costume before it was time to perform my role in tonight’s shenanigans. I gave a pointed look at the arm around my waist, but it didn’t budge.

  “Ah, relax. I’m sure you’ve got time for one more.” Instead of letting me go, he wrapped his arm tighter around me and made to flag down the bartender with his other.

  Something was off. There was a casualness that was just a little too casual and a little too at odds with the sudden death grip he had on me. A moment of clarity cut through the haze of booze and sexual tension and I put two and two together. When DeMarco said he was working, he didn’t mean he was hanging out waiting for a job. He was already on the job. Rather, the job was on his lap.

  So, the Liberty Gang figured out how to fight dirty.

  For a brief moment, I considered reaching around and icing him right then and there. Rules be damned, this was my heart on the line. Well, maybe not so much my heart as my libido, but whatever, I didn’t like being played. Lucky for me, a better idea found its way into my head before I did something that would get me a permanent ban from my favorite bar.

  “Well… I might have time for something…” I let my voice drip with enough innuendo that there was no way he could miss my intentions. Still, it took him a minute, so I added the less subtle, “You know my place is right around the corner, right?”

  When the lightbulb finally came on, I swear I could practically see the stock footage of trains going into tunnels, volcanoes erupting, and out of control firehoses dancing through his mind. He was up and off the barstool with a quickness that put most speed talents to shame.

  Admittedly, after a pretty intense elevator ride, I was damn near ready to risk my plan on a quickie, but held back. If Take were to find out I blew off a heist for five minutes in the sack with a ‘Fig, I’d not only be off the team, but out of a job with the word unemployable stamped across my resume.

  Besides, my plan was more fun.

  Dee played right into my hands. I have to give the guy credit. I’d wager not many folks have the dexterity needed to make out and strip while walking backwards, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t do so with grace and agility. Not only that, but as he fell back, arms splayed out above his head, I got an eyeful of exactly what it was that made quitting him for good so difficult.

  “You just going to stand there admiring the view?”

  “Maybe,” I answered with a wink. “Or maybe I’ve got something else in mind.”

  “Such as?”

  I lowered myself onto the bed, straddling his waist and reaching up with one hand to where his rested casually against the slatted headboard. With my other, I reached under the bed and began to furiously poke around until my hand found cool steel.

  “Hey! Those are mine, aren’t they?”

  “Maybe,” I drawled with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle as I slowly brought the handcuffs into view. As a matter of fact, they were his. One of the more dysfunctional quirks of our on-again-off-again relationship was a long-standing tradition of stealing things from each other. Little things, but things that would definitely be missed and/or would inconvenience the other with their absence. I’d actually snagged the cuffs a while back, thinking they might come in handy, but I’d failed to find the key.

  The poor guy didn’t even think to question my motives when I slapped his own cuffs on him. He didn’t think anything of it when I left him alone and went to the kitchen to grab a quick bite to absorb some of the alcohol in my system. When I came back to my room and started stripping off my work day clothes, I almost felt bad for getting the poor guy all worked up. It wasn’t until I began to wrestle myself into a black and silver leotard that it finally dawned on him that something was up.

  “So, uh… Is this some sort of role playing thing?”

  “It could be, but you’ll have to wait until I get back.”

  “Back? Where are you going?”

  “Oh, Dee-Dee.” I shook my head and gave him a pitying look. “I do hope the Liberty Gang paid you in advance.”

  “Half now, half la—wait a minute. How did you…?”

  “For a guy called Wildcard, you’re pretty predictable,” I said with a pitying tsk as I pulled on my utility belt and began stuffing it with all of my gear. One of these days, I’m going to design my own costume and add pockets. Seriously, who was the idiot that decided skintight leotards were the way to go?

  “So, what? You just gonna leave me locked up like this?”

  “That was the plan.” I gave him a smile that was a little more smug than apologetic before walking out the door with a little more hip swing than was absolutely necessary. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. Maybe even sooner since there’s one less ‘Fig to deal with.”

  “And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

  I turned back. My hand hovered on the light switch as my gaze swept over him one last time. At last, I gave him a wink before turning out the lights and answering, “Miss me, of course.”

  Chapter 3

  Most of the time when Take plans a huge and complicated heist, there’s a reason for it. Either we stand to make a crap load of money or we have a cause we’re championing. This was not one of those jobs. Tonight’s affair was huge, complicated, full of critical failure points, and completely lacking in payoff.

  I hate these jobs.

  We were going to break into the Musée d’ Art. Sounds fancy, I know, but Musée d’ Art is just French for Art Museum. Don’t ever let it be said that Maxima City lacks culture and refinement. Normally, I love having a go at this place. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that art theft is big business and I’ve broken into this security system so often that I’ve actually got a protocol named after
me. But this time, we weren’t after a rare masterpiece. On the contrary, we were actually doing the world a favor.

  Tomorrow evening, the Musée is to hold a gala event unveiling an exhibition by none other than Wayne Grey. Yep, the same Wayne Grey who owns the half of Maxima City’s businesses not under the control of Mary Sue Winfield. The same Wayne Grey who throws on a state of the art body suit with a few million dollars’ worth of toys and calls himself Nocturno. The same Wayne Grey who bought his way into leadership of the Liberty Gang despite having no actual talent of his own.

  Yeah, that guy.

  Apparently he also fancies himself an artist. I’ve seen his work. I’m no art critic, but I’d be willing to bet hard cash that giving a paint brush to a spider monkey drunk on fermented fruit would produce something with more artistic merit. I’m sure the fact that Grey’s corporation is the museum’s biggest sponsor had absolutely nothing to do with the hosting of the exhibition.

  And that just made tonight’s heist all the more pointless. I know this is going to come as a complete surprise, but Wayne Grey is Mary Sue Winfield’s biggest rival. The fact that he owns nearly one percent more of the city’s business and industry boils her blood. Naturally, this means that Hostile Takeover’s main objective is taking down Nocturno by any means necessary. I get that. Rivalry is a big deal.

  What I don’t get is why Take would waste her time, money, and resources to have her top goon-squad break into the museum and replace already bad art with pictures of clowns. Not even scary clowns, though that’s debatable considering that it seems like everyone and their brother is afraid of clowns these days. And despite the rumors some jokers still perpetuated, no, a clown did not kill Grey’s parents. To me, it was just petty nonsense when we could have been out doing something worthwhile.

  Granted, I wasn’t exactly in a position to voice my concerns without suffering repercussions, which is why I found myself on the roof of the Musée d’ Art, infiltrating the electronic security program, and feeling a little smug about the fact that I could do so with nothing more than a burner phone. A few feet away, my partner in crime for the evening ran through a few warm-up exercises.