7
Striker was not amused. His gray eyes glowed with anger, and his gloved hands clenched into fists. He stepped over one of the weeping gang members and started toward the building. A vision of myself shish-kebabed on his swords flashed through my mind.
Striker stopped and cocked his head. A moment later, the thin wail of a siren sliced through the air, and flashing red lights appeared at the far end of Good Intentions Lane. Striker stared at the oncoming police cars, then up at me. Debating. He turned and melted back into the shadows like the ghost he was. A long, tense breath escaped from my lips. I didn’t know what I would have done if he’d come up here and confronted me. Quivered with fear and begged for mercy, most likely. And probably ogled the sexy superhero. I shook my head. Why the hell would I be thinking about ogling—
The door to the roof banged open. I shrieked and fumbled for my stun gun. The short Asian man stuck his head out.
“The cops are coming. Let’s go!”
I didn’t need any encouragement. I shoved my camera and tape recorder into my purse. The Asian man held the door open, and I pounded down the stairs after him. He led me through the halls and out a back door that opened up onto the opposite side of the building from Striker and the approaching cops. We cut through a dilapidated parking lot. Weeds and crushed beer cans crackled under our feet.
“This way! This way!” he hissed. “The subway’s only three blocks ahead.”
He might have been short and fat, but the man ran like a whole gang of ubervillains was after him. Maybe they were.
I struggled to keep up. My purse slapped against my thigh like a lead weight. My lungs burned. My heart pounded. A stitch embedded itself in my side.
Just when I thought I couldn’t run another step, the man slowed. A cracked subway sign flickered up ahead, and a set of graffiti-covered stairs led underground.
“I’m going first. Wait here a minute, then come down. You never saw me. I never saw you,” the man said. “Forget what I look like. I’ll do the same.”
I nodded, more concerned with gulping down air than with responding. The man slid down the stairs. I put my hands on my hips and concentrated on breathing. When I felt like my lungs weren’t going to explode, I shouldered my heavy purse and plodded down the grimy stairs to the subway platform.
It was close to one o’clock in the morning now. A couple of homeless guys slept over a steam vent, while a bored transit cop read a comic book inside his bulletproof booth. The Asian man had vanished like a puff of smoke blown away by the wind. I clutched my stun gun and tried not to look nervous.
A train rumbled into the station a minute later. I paid for a token and sank onto a hard plastic seat. I was the only passenger. The doors hissed shut, and the train slid away from the platform. I let out a breath. Safe. For now.
On the ride home, I thought about Striker. He’d recognized me. The question was what would he do now?
I chewed my lip. Striker would go back to the Fearless Five’s supersecret headquarters and tell them Carmen Cole was up to her old tricks again. Given Tornado’s suicide and my involvement in it, they’d try to figure out what I was up to, if I was trying to expose the rest of them.
They’d start investigating me, just like I was investigating them.
And they’d have a much easier time of it. If Hermit was the technological wizard he or she was rumored to be, the superhero had hacked into every part of my life by now. Hermit most likely had my bank records, credit history, library card number, grade school report cards, everything. He was probably reading the story about my doomed wedding and superhero ex-fiancé at this very moment. Other than the usual little prick of pain, the thought didn’t bother me. I had nothing to hide. My humiliation was public record, and I was the one who had made it that way.
My thoughts turned back to Striker. The image of him spotlighted between the two cars flashed through my head. His pictures didn’t do the man justice. I’d seen plenty of superheroes before. Hell, I’d even slept with one. But something about Striker captured my imagination like no one else ever had. Those piercing eyes, those perfect, chiseled lips, that hard, sculpted body that just begged to be touched.
And kissed. And caressed. And covered with whipped cream.
Striker had looked good. Very, very good. Mouthwatering good. Toe-curling good. On a scale of one to ten, Striker was definitely a thirteen and a half. I wondered if he looked as fantastic out of that costume as he did in it. Somehow, I knew he did. And by the looks of it, he hadn’t been wearing a sculpted codpiece so many of the macho, male superheroes favored. Heat flooded my body. I shifted on the hard seat and fanned myself with my hand.
I shook my head. Why was I thinking about how well Striker filled out his leather costume? So what if he had the perfect body with lots of muscles in all the right places? Most superheroes did. It was practically a job requirement. Superheroes couldn’t afford to let themselves go. Their adoring publics wouldn’t let them. Nobody wanted to see overweight, out-of-shape superheroes. It just wasn’t done. Fiera’s pinup calendar was proof of that.
It had to be hormones. I hadn’t had a decent date, much less sex, in forever. I’d gone without, and my hormones had kicked into overdrive at the sight of a sexy superhero. That’s why I was lusting after Striker. That’s why I was imagining the feel of his lips on mine. That’s why I was fantasizing about peeling that leather suit off his body and seeing if he was as rock-solid as he looked.
That pair of searing gray eyes filled my memory. They burned into mine, as if they could see into the very depths of my soul. A shiver swept up my spine.
Hormones or not, it would be a very, very long time before I forgot about those amazing eyes.
The next morning, I flipped through The Exposé. The drug-bust story covered the front page, along with police photos of the dealers in various states of pain and agony. I scanned the story, written by one of the newspaper’s many crime reporters. The police had confiscated over a hundred pounds of heroin. Chief Newman said the arrests had come about through an anonymous tip. He didn’t confirm or deny that Striker and the Fearless Five had been involved. Perhaps he didn’t know. The police always seemed to be the last to know anything in Bigtime.
I threw down the paper and paced around my apartment. Every time I made a lap, I stopped and stared out the living room windows into the street below. People bustled down the sidewalk, coffee and cigarettes in hand. Cars jockeyed for room, while horns blared out their harsh notes. Vendors hawked everything from magazines to giant pretzels to knock-off watches in loud, obnoxious voices. Another typical day in Bigtime. My eyes scanned the crush of people, peering into the alleys, squinting into every nook and cranny. Looking for someone. Looking for him.
Looking for Striker.
I knew he would seek me out. By now, the Fearless Five had figured out I was investigating them, trying to uncover their identities again. They wouldn’t be pleased by the realization. I’d half expected Striker to be waiting in my apartment when I got home last night, hiding in the dark shadows, ready to spring out and order me to cease and desist with my investigations like any good superhero would. But everything had been as I’d left it, and there were no nasty surprises waiting inside.
No strange phone calls, no sudden knocks on the door, no windows breaking in the middle of the night. Nothing. Striker hadn’t shown himself. Still, I knew he was coming, that he would be here soon. To my surprise, I was eager to see him again, although I couldn’t quite figure out why.
My eyes scanned over the crush of people again, looking, searching, seeking.
There he was!
My heart stopped. A figure clad in black crouched on top of a city bus rumbling down the street toward my apartment building. That lithe form. That hard body. That elaborate snakelike headdress—
Wait a minute. The bus stopped in the street below, and I got a good look at the figure riding on top of it. The costume was black, but the figure squeezed inside it was definitely female. I sighed. It was Black Samba, another one of the city’s resident superheroes. Along with some weird voodoo hoodoo powers, snakes were her thing, and they wrapped around her arms like multicolored bangle bracelets. She also liked to dance, hence her name.
The bus pulled back into traffic. I turned away from the windows and sighed. Malefica’s deadline drew closer with every passing second. I didn’t have time to waste worrying when Striker would appear on my doorstep. Not if I didn’t want to end up looking like a radioactive snow bunny.
There were no society events scheduled for the evening, so I returned to the Bigtime Public Library. This time, I gathered information on the Terrible Triad. Every newspaper column, every glossy magazine spread, every journal article written about the ubervillains. I copied them all, stuffed them in a trash bag, and headed home.
It was late when I unlocked the door to my apartment and stepped over the threshold. I flipped on the lights, threw my keys down on a nearby table, and walked over to the alarm system. I punched in the code. I shivered and glanced at the thermostat. Sixty-five degrees. I frowned. The thermostat was set at seventy-two. It should be a lot warmer than that in here—
My fingers stilled for a second. Then, I leaned forward and fiddled with the thermostat, pretending to punch in an elaborate command. My eyes scanned what I could see of the living room. One of the windows was open. A cool breeze invaded the room and fluttered the white curtains.
There was only one problem. I hadn’t left the window open. I never did, not since the first time a kid had slipped inside and hidden two pounds of rotten fish under the sofa. Someone had broken into my apartment. Another, more disturbing thought popped into my frantic, confused brain.
He might still be in here.
For a moment, I wanted to scream and bolt through the door. Instead of running, I reached out into the hallway and picked up my garbage bag filled with papers. I knew who had come calling while I wasn’t home. I was just surprised it had taken him this long.
I lugged the bag over to the coffee table and plopped it down. The table creaked under the weight.
“Whew!” I said for the benefit of whoever might be listening and wiped a bit of imaginary sweat from my forehead. “That one was even heavier than the last batch. Time to take a shower.”
I walked down the hall like everything was perfectly normal, even though my heart pounded and blood roared in my ears. I went into the bathroom and closed the door not quite all the way. I stood at the crack, listening. Nothing. Was complete silence one of his superpowers? For once, my memory failed me. My jumbled brain couldn’t recall.
I turned on the water in the sink. The steady hiss drowned out the rapid beating of my heart. I reached under the toilet and yanked off a piece of duct tape. A gun fell into my sweaty hand, along with an extra clip of ammo. It comforted me. I was pretty sure who my intruder was and that he wouldn’t hurt me, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I racked back the slide and stuck the clip in my waistband. My hands trembled.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. Then, I tiptoed to the door and squeezed through the opening. I padded down the hall, as silent as any mouse. I stood in the pool of darkness that separated the hall from the living room and kitchen. I held the gun up, waiting, watching, listening.
Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .
A long, tall shadow detached itself from the refrigerator and headed for the open window. I raised the gun and aimed at the shadow’s back. I pulled the trigger.
I wasn’t fast enough. The shadow whirled around, sensing my presence. A dart hit the spot where he’d been standing a moment ago. So I fired again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
He kept moving. Dart after dart followed him through the kitchen. Glasses shattered and dishes broke as the tiny missiles hit them. Damn, he was fast, even for a superhero. A hollow click rang out, followed by another, then another. Out of ammo.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
I popped out the clip and jammed in the fresh one. Slow, slow, slow! I was moving too slow, like I was underwater. I expected a body to slam into me at any second. Or a gloved hand to yank the gun from my shaky, sweaty grasp. But nothing happened.
I snapped up the gun. The shadow stilled. We stood there in a silent standoff. Then slowly, oh so slowly, he eased forward into the light that spilled in through the window.
Striker.
He looked just the same as he had last night. Black suit. Black mask. Black hair. Silver swords. Gray eyes. But the effect was far more devastating up close and personal. A dark, dangerous air buzzed around him like an electric current. He stood still, sizing up the situation. Striker was a predator. I was just his chosen prey for the evening.
I licked my lips. Hot, nervous sweat trickled down the back of my neck, plastering my hair to my skin. My hands shook. The gun bobbed up and down. I steadied my grip.
Striker pried a dart out of the kitchen wall and held it up by the feathered end. His movements were lithe and fluid and controlled like those of a jungle cat. He seemed unconcerned with me and my gun.
“Tranquilizers.” I answered his silent question. “With enough juice in them to knock out an elephant. Striker, I presume?”
He nodded.
“I assume you know who I am.”
He nodded again.
We stood there in silence. I kept my gun leveled at him. Striker leaned back against the wall like he owned it. His gray eyes slid over my body in a frank, assessing way that made me tremble from head to toe. I felt like a fattened calf on the auction block being inspected by would-be buyers. I wondered if Striker liked what he saw. The thought startled me. I looked down at my faded, ripped jeans, battered sneakers, and T-shirt that read 0 TO BITCH IN 7.7 SECONDS OR YOUR MONEY BACK. Probably not. Ugh.
“How did you know I was in here?” His voice was deep and rough and rich, with an edge of cool sophistication. The sort of voice that made women melt. Including me.
“It was cold.” I, on the other hand, squeaked like a mouse caught in a trap. “You forgot to shut the window.”
“I see.”
More silence.
“So, what do you want?”
Striker blinked. “Excuse me?”
“What do you want? I assume there was a reason you broke into my apartment. Or is it something you do for kicks?”
“You want me to tell you the reason I’m here?”
“Yes,” I said. “Aren’t superheroes supposed to be honest, forthright, and have outstanding morals? Isn’t that part of the job description, along with helping little old ladies cross the street?”
Striker hesitated, as if he didn’t know what to say. “Shut up,” he growled.
“Excuse me?”
“Not you.” He pointed to his ear. “One of my colleagues is listening in on our conversation. He’s laughing at your last statement. Evidently, he doesn’t think I’m very forthright.”
“Oh.” I wondered which one of the Fearless Five was tuning in to our tête-à-tête. Probably Hermit, given the fact that Striker had some sort of listening gizmo in his ear.
The silence gathered around us once more. Striker stared at me with his piercing gray eyes. The dark current snapped and hummed around him like a live wire. The man oozed danger and sensuality. Every part of my body tingled and tightened in response. And in anticipation of something I couldn’t quite identify.
I dropped my eyes from his face. My gaze landed on his fantastic chest and slid down his rippling stomach to his . . . I snapped my head back up. My cheeks flamed.
“Look, I’ve had a really long day, and I’m tired. I would like nothing more than to take a shower and go to bed, plus my arm is starting to cramp from holding this gun. So, why don’t you just tell me what you want? Who knows? I just might give it to you. You can be on your merry way, and I can get some sleep.”
“Why don’t you put the gun down first, and then we’ll talk.”
I chewed my lip. “Might as well. I imagine you could take it away from me before I could blink if you wanted to.”
Suddenly, Striker moved. He sprang at me like a panther leaping upon a plump little bird. I blinked once before he pulled the gun out of my hand. I didn’t even feel him do it. For a moment, he stood there in front of me, so close that his breath kissed my face, so close that I could see the flecks of electric blue in his hypnotic eyes. My heart slammed against my rib cage.
“I did just take your gun away. Quite easily. But hold on to it if it makes you feel better.”
He stepped back and tossed the weapon to me. Somehow, I managed to catch it.
“Well, there’s no reason to get all cocky about it,” I muttered, trying to hide my intense reaction to him.
I stumbled forward on shaky feet and put the gun on the coffee table. I sank down into the groove on the sofa, kicked off my sneakers, and propped my feet up on the trash bag. I tried to look tougher and stronger and calmer than I felt.
Striker leaned against the entertainment center. “What’s in the bag?”
“Papers.”
“What sort of papers?”
My eyes flicked over the table. “The sort of papers you’ve been going through, judging by the mess you’ve made.”
“More papers on me?” A hard edge crept into his voice. It cut me like a razor.
“Not exactly.”
“Then what sort of papers, exactly?”
“Papers on the Terrible Triad. Malefica, Frost, Scorpion, their various escapades.”
Striker cocked his head to one side, listening to whatever his comrade said. “My friend says you’re telling the truth. That all you’ve been doing all night is making copies at the library. Why are you gathering information on the Triad? Given our . . . previous meeting, I thought I was the one you were after.”
“Not exactly.”
Striker jerked his head at the table. “Those papers tell me otherwise. You’ve gathered quite a bit of information on me, and I saw you on top of that roof last night. I assume you weren’t there to buy some drugs. Are you trying to uncover my identity? Planning to expose me to the world?”
I hesitated. “Not exactly.”
“Then what are you doing, exactly?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
Striker’s hands curled into fists. His gray eyes bored into mine. They glowed with barely suppressed anger.
I shivered under the intense scrutiny. I didn’t think Striker would hurt me. The superhero code of ethics wouldn’t allow him to. Then again, I hadn’t thought Tornado would commit suicide either. Or that Matt would cheat on me. I wasn’t the best judge of character when it came to superheroes.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I mumbled.
“Try me.”
I weighed the pros and cons. Oh, what the hell? I’d probably never get another opportunity to talk face-to-face with Striker. I might as well lay my puzzle pieces on the table.
I rolled up my T-shirt. Two bruises colored my arms in angry purple and garish green. “Your good friend Malefica paid me a visit a few nights ago. Or rather she made me pay her one. Two goons kidnapped me and drugged me.
When I woke up, I was in some kind of factory. Malefica was there with Frost and Scorpion.”
Striker’s eyes bored into me like hot laser beams. My temperature shot up about ten degrees. “I’m listening.”
“Frost had some animals that he’d done experiments on. They were . . . they were . . .” I took a deep breath to steady my shaky nerves. The memory of those poor creatures made me sick. I could still feel their pain and horror. “He had changed them. Into monsters. Malefica told me that unless I discovered your identity in a month’s time and gave it to her, she would turn me over to Frost and let him do the same thing to me.”
“I see.”
Silence.
“But I have a plan,” I continued.
“A plan?”
“Yes. I’ve been gathering information on you in hopes of uncovering your true identity.”
“And what happens if you do? How does that help you, other than keep you out of Frost’s grasp? Or perhaps get you back in the good graces of the editors at The Exposé ?” Striker’s voice could have frozen boiling lava.
“Simple.” I picked up a wayward Rubik’s Cube and fiddled with it. “I use you to lead me to Malefica. I uncover her real identity and give it to you. You and the rest of the Fearless Five go after her, while I slip off into the sunset. You apprehend your greatest enemy, I don’t get turned into a yeti, and we all go home happy, except for Malefica and her boys, who will hopefully get twenty-to-life in a secure facility for insane ubervillains.”
“I see. Why not just concentrate on Malefica? Why drag me into it?” His voice was quiet and calm, but I could hear the anger in it. Striker didn’t approve of my master plan.
“Because I need you to lead me to Malefica. That’s how it works. The superheroes always lead me to the ubervillains, not the other way around.” I slid a row of colors into place. My hands trembled, and I hoped Striker didn’t notice how much he affected me.
“What makes you think I have anything to do with Malefica?”
I looked up at him. “Karma.”
“Karma?”
“Karma.” I got up off the sofa and paced around. I couldn’t sit still. Not when he stared at me like that. “Good and evil always balance each other out. Superheroes and ubervillains are always connected in some way. They’re like magnets, always attracting and repelling each other. It’s fascinating. Malefica is somewhere in your life. She might be a friend, a girlfriend, a business partner, maybe even your wife. You just don’t know it or refuse to see it.”
Striker paused. His eyes turned inward, mentally sorting through every person in his life, trying to figure out who might fit the mold.
“Come up with any suspects? Anybody sneak off in the middle of an important business meeting? Any girlfriends fail to show up for dates? Any so-called friends have odd, unexplainable injuries?”
“No,” he growled.
“Too bad.”
I finished my Rubik’s Cube and put it on the bookshelf.
“So, I’ve told you my plans. How about taking off that mask?” I asked in a bright, cheery voice to hide my nervousness. “I’m sure you’d be much more comfortable without it. I’ve always wondered how you people breathe through those things. They look terribly thick. And I really don’t see how you move around in those leather suits either. Or is yours some sort of special spandex?”
Striker crossed his arms over his chest and gave me a cold look that would have made Frost icy with envy.
I shrugged. “It never hurts to ask. And it would make my job a lot easier.”
He didn’t respond.
“Look, I don’t want to expose you. I’m not going to reveal your identity to anyone. I promise. I’m through with that. For good.”
Striker’s eyes slammed into mine. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because of what happened to Tornado.”
The words just popped out. A muscle in Striker’s clenched jaw twitched. His eyes grew dark and stormy as a thundercloud. I shrank back against the bookcase. I didn’t need my inner voice to tell me I’d just stepped way over the line.
Still, there was something I had wanted to say for a long time, something I needed to say, whether he believed me or not. I turned my back to the superhero, unable to meet his damning, angry gaze. “I’m sorry. I truly, truly am. I never meant for that to happen. If I’d had any idea Tornado would react that way, I never would have written the story. I hope you can accept my apology and sympathy for your loss.”
The silence deafened me. I turned. The apartment was empty.
Striker had left the building.