Heroes Lost and Found (14 page)

I tasted blood.

Dykovski released me, letting out a laugh as I fell over.

Sparks flew from my fingers when I pushed myself back up, automatically readying a response.

He waggled a finger in front of the bars. “Before you think about turning your little tricks on me, think about this.” He displayed his wristband, the now-familiar black attachment plugged into one side of the bracelet. “I die or go unconscious, this goes off. Guess what happens then.”

“Fuck you.” I spat out a mouthful of blood, just missing his boot.

“Wrong answer and not yet.” He crouched in front of me with an evil smile before reaching in and grabbing me by the neck. His short fingernails scraped across the red irritated skin left by Kit’s attack.

“Let’s go right back to the beginning, to where you understand that I’m the boss here and you’re the rookie needing some instruction.” He smirked as he dragged me forward. “I don’t have to take you out of there to make you hurt, Surf.”

He was right.

A half hour later he left, a sneer on his smug little face as the door slammed behind him.

I lay on the cage floor, curled in a fetal position and gasping for air. My left eye threatened to swell shut, the bruising growing with every second. My right side ached, and I was afraid to inspect the damage. I coughed up another mouthful of blood and hoped it was from my cut inside cheek and not internal bleeding.

Still, it could be worse.

Hunter and the others could be with me.

I sat up, trying to tamp down a scream as my right leg protested. “Hunter? Anyone?” I called out over the link.

Silence.

I swiped at my eyes, pushing down the fear and the tears until later.

Save the world. I couldn’t even save myself right now.

I lay there for a few minutes, waiting until the worst of the throbbing subsided. At least Harris was still alive, according to what Dykovski had said. It wasn’t great, but it was a start.

I catalogued my assets. Me. Harris. Clean underwear. My mother would be proud.

Possible assets. The team. They’d find me with or without the GPS in the jacket or with my link being active. Jessie would find a way. Hunter would.

All I had to do was stay alive until they arrived.

I licked my lips, tasting the coppery tang of blood.

My best option for now was to play along and see what I could find out. Maybe try and break through Thrasher’s defenses and get him to reconsider his career options.

Not like I was doing anything else at the moment.

I leaned back, pressing against the bars. The cold metal helped to relieve some of the pain, but a handful of painkillers and a hot shower would have been better.

A hot shower with my favorite Guardian to take care of me would be heaven.

A painful muscle spasm in my right hamstring brought me out of that pleasant thought.

Dykovski wouldn’t kill me. He needed me for his personal ego boost and to help recruit other supers and keep them in line. No better way to scare the kiddies than to have your own private super woman/superstar on a leash.

Didn’t mean he had to keep me happy.

My line of thinking snapped with the blare of a siren, the rising tone blasting from a small speaker set in the far upper corner of the room. The metallic scream set my already-frayed nerves on edge, twisting my befuddled mind into new knots.

I struggled to turn around, trying to listen to get information.

A shout and the sound of running feet came from the adjoining room, retreating from the area. Either I’d just been abandoned to my fate, or the trouble was coming my way and they were running interference.

Neither option gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

I grabbed the bars and tugged again. Good American steel. The welds at the top and bottom were secure.

The padlock didn’t move as I yanked on it. No give there, shiny, new and strong. Without a hairpin and lock-picking skills I was stuck in the cage until someone came to let me out.

A low rumbling rolled through the floor, the vibrations shooting through the base of my cage and up the bars. I touched the cool metal, frowning as I tried to find the source of the shaking. It was almost like having one of the old streetcars chug on by the bookstore in the middle of the night.

The shaking stopped.

I pulled a full charge into my body, wincing as my muscles protested the effort. Something was happening, and I wasn’t going to get caught with my pants down. Or panties.

My pulse shot up in anticipation of a rescue. Maybe Kit had brought them here, maybe they were taking the complex apart looking for me.

“Hunter!” I called out. “Steve, Peter, Rachael, anyone? Can anyone hear me?” I shook the bars again, my panic giving me a burst of strength. “I’m in here. Can anyone hear me?”

The far wall burst apart, showering me in pieces of concrete and dust. The larger rocks bounced off the top of the cage with a resounding clang while the smaller ones made their way in, digging into my exposed skin. I covered my eyes, trying not to add blindness to my list of current negatives.

When I opened them, I saw a familiar figure sprawled on the floor within arm’s reach of my cage, gasping and coughing for air.

Chapter Eight

Thrasher got to his feet and roared, throwing his arms open in a bring-it-on gesture. His shirt smoldered with small dots of flame peppering the surface, the stone skin impervious to any damage. He ripped the remains of fabric off and tossed it to the floor.

He didn’t even glance at me but charged back through the opening, head down and yelling. A crash came from nearby, making the ground shudder under my feet.

I banged against the cage bars, feeling more helpless than ever. The temperature in the room increased, cutting down on my external shivering but increasing the dread inside.

“Hunter? Anyone? What’s going on?”

A screaming came from the other room, mixed in with loud cursing. I placed it as Thrasher’s voice filled with anger and frustration.

The door flew open. I recognized the other super from the diner, a middle-aged bald man who looked as if he’d stepped into too many lawn rakes. He ignored me as he sprinted towards the hole in the wall, wearing the same uniform as Thrasher and Dykovski.

He scrunched his chubby cheeks together in an imitation of a fat baby about to have a temper tantrum. He bounced for a second on the balls of his feet before sprinting out of sight at an incredible speed.

I ticked off the “speedster” category on my mental checklist. They weren’t Alphas, but they were a good team, muscle and speed.

It didn’t mean they couldn’t be beaten.

Said the half-naked woman trapped in an animal cage, my inner voice shrieked.

I grabbed the bars again, rocking the cage from side to side. There was another scream from the other side of the wall and then a horrible, disgusting odor drifted in on a whiff of smoke.

It smelled like someone had tossed a hamburger on the grill.

My stomach lurched with the odor, pushing me to retreat as far from the front of the cage as I could. I spotted some movement to my left and jerked my head around.

Dykovski stood in the doorway. He was breathing heavy and sweat poured off him like he’d been caught in a rainstorm.

The panicked look lasted a second before the stoic, strong mask slid over.

He held something in his right hand, some sort of fat, oversized pistol, reminding me of the mock weapons from toy stores. It shook as he approached me, both his hands trembling despite his best attempt to hide it.

He knelt by the cage and jabbed at the lock with a key held in his left hand, lifting the padlock with the short stubby barrel of the pistol. “Listen to me. You’re going to get out there and help them, or I’ll fry you right here, right now.”

I laughed. “Oh, really?”

The cage door flew open. He reached in and slapped me hard across the face with his free hand, the key dangerously close to ripping my cheek open.

“Don’t fuck with me, Surf. You go to work or you die.” His hand went down to the black box on his wrist. “Your call.”

He stepped back as I pulled myself out of the box, my cramped legs screaming for relief.

Another yelp came from the opening.

Dykovski leveled the weapon in his hand at me. “Get to work, Surf. Do good work and maybe I’ll give you a shirt.”

I glared at him, rising on wobbly feet. A mental push had me hovering off the ground, just a fraction of an inch, but enough to relieve the aching pain in my legs. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that you’re about to show me how good a fighter you really are, bitch.” He gestured towards the gap. “Get going before I change my mind and put you back in the cage.”

“I’m not fighting my own team.” I stood up as straight as I could manage, trying to ignore the throbbing pain running down my spine. Crossing my arms in front of me made me feel stronger, despite the spongelike substance currently inhabiting my body.

“Well, that’s fine and dandy,” Dykovski sneered. “Because it’s not your bunch of rejects. Now stop talking and get the fuck in there. You’re not the only one I can pull the plug on, Surf. Meltdown’s fighting already, and I don’t think you want to see how far I can blow his brains across the room.”

I headed towards the hole in the wall, sucking up as much power as I could in my weakened state. It took a second to hop/fly over the rubble and into the next room and another second to take stock of the situation.

It might have been a meeting room once. Faux wood paneling on the walls and a deep red carpet added a surreal twist that only a few feet away I had sat in a cage on a bare concrete floor.

Six leather chairs lay broken, shredded and discarded, the rectangular mahogany table smashed into pieces and spread out in varnished chunks, some burning with low flames dancing along the edges. At the head of a splintered piece of the table, a super roared for the meeting to come to order.

Kit Masters posed in the corner of the room, his back to the wall and yelling as he launched yet another pair of fiery waves towards the hapless supers in front of him. Thrasher blocked the majority of the flame with his bare chest, his fatigues smoldering and simmering on the edge of ignition. Behind him the super I’d seen earlier zipped in to land a blow on Kit’s blind side before retreating.

Hot Foot. The name came to me as I advanced at a snail’s pace, acutely aware of Dykovski waiting behind me. A low-level speedster. Older man edging towards retirement.

Didn’t think he’d make it at this rate.

Kit was sweating, his face a dark scarlet as he continued his assault. He wore the same stained clothing I’d last seen him in, with a few more discolored areas. He didn’t look at me, his full attention on the two supers attacking him.

“Jo.” A familiar voice came from my right. Harris crouched behind a piece of table, peeking over as his fingertips burned deep grooves in the glossy wooden top. He still had his clothes on, I noted with a dry irony. So much for equality under the Dykovski rule.

“Harris.” I nodded in his direction, ignoring his wide-eyed stare. “How’s it hanging?”

“Eh. Been better,” he replied in the same nonchalant tone as if we were hanging out at the local coffee shop. He ducked down as a stray fireball soared by, singeing the top of his barricade.

“Get the fuck in there, both of you. Take this bastard out. Now,” Dykovski shrieked from behind me. “Or should I kill one of you to encourage the other?”

I scowled but didn’t turn around. “You want him dead, I assume? Or is knocked out good enough for you?”

“Whatever,” he screamed. “Just do something.”

I looked around the room, grabbing information as fast as I could. Not a window in sight, no possible exit other than through Dykovski behind me and the smashed door to Kit’s left. Maybe we were underground. I flew over to hide behind Harris who scooted to one side, giving me plenty of room.

“Not really my thing,” he offered as we peered across the table. “Can’t get in close enough to touch him, so…” Harris shrugged.

Thrasher laughed as another set of flames washed over his impervious body. “Dude, this is getting pretty stale. I can do this all day, old man.”

Kit yelled something incomprehensible and fired another pair of fireballs, his face flushed. His single eye was unfocused and darted from side to side, trying to watch all of us and failing.

Hot Foot dashed in again to lay another punch down, this one to Masters’s kidneys. He was nothing but a blur, but I knew he’d landed the shot.

I wasn’t sure if they realized Kit’s abilities included being pretty tough. Not as tough as Steve with his iron skin, but it’d take a long time to work through his defenses with a stand-up physical fight.

Kit flinched but didn’t move, laying down another wall of fire. If he randomized his attacks, spaced them out differently, he might have a chance at hitting Hot Foot, but Kit was playing by the Agency rules—every three seconds, without fail.

Great routine for the cameras that could get the money shots. Lousy routine for taking down real attackers who can count and know when you’re vulnerable.