Heroes Lost and Found (19 page)

I closed my eyes, pulling myself into a ball to try and protect against the upcoming beating. There wouldn’t be any bars to temper Dykovski’s rage this time.

A loud noise crashed into me, temporarily deafening me. I clapped my hands over my ears to try and shut it out.

The same siren had gone off when Kit broke in.

Right now it sounded like a chorus of angels. If I was lucky, the cavalry had just arrived.

If I wasn’t, then heaven had damned loud welcoming trumpets.

The low drone began as a wail, growing into a screech.

I opened my eyes to see the black boot hovering in midair, Dykovski’s expression shifting from rage to fear. The fluorescent lights flickered and went out, the red emergency lights kicking on both inside Harris’s room and in the corridor.

Dykovski pulled back, digging in his pockets. A set of keys fell out, and he kicked them towards the cage in a strange nervous dance.

“Just burn yourself out,” he yelled at Harris. “Get out.”

Harris didn’t need to be told twice. His hands landed on the padlock and turned the shiny metal to a dripping liquid pooling on the ground. The U-part snapped in two a few seconds later.

He scrabbled his way out of the cage and ran over to me, his hands outstretched.

I gripped his forearms and got to my feet, resisting the urge to cry.

Thrasher and Hot Foot skidded into the room as a couple, almost wedging themselves in the doorway in a comedy routine. I hiccupped, trying not to laugh.

“Leave her alone and get in line.” Dykovski caught Harris by the back of his shirt and pulled him away from me. I staggered to one side before regaining my balance.

Harris fell into line with the two thugs, scowling at Dykovski.

“You three, get into the corridor and stay ahead of us.” Dykovski advanced on me, fists clenched. “Don’t you dare move.”

He seized my forearm, his short nails digging into my skin. “You, you’re staying with me. You’re my get-out-of-jail-free card.” With his other hand he dug in one pocket and came up with a small piece of paper. It was covered in numbers. I didn’t need to guess at what they were for.

He stared at the paper for a second before stuffing it back in his pocket. We headed for the door, Dykovski keeping a firm grip on me.

The three supers ran ahead of us, Harris pacing himself to be behind the other two. I couldn’t blame him. I sure wouldn’t want to be in the front lines for this particular battle.

“They’re coming in the east entrance.” Thrasher stopped in front of an alarm panel, the layout of the bunker clearly noted with flashing lights. Sweat poured off his face, a nervous tic making his right eye twitch. “Same as Inferno. Guess our repairs weren’t good enough.” His gaze darted to Dykovski’s and then to the ground, and he winced from an invisible slap. “Sorry.”

Dykovski didn’t say anything.

“Bastards have to bust the barricades first. Slow going.” Hot Foot tapped the glass panel. “Lots of crap for them to work through before they get to us.” He laughed, an almost maniacal giggle. “Going to be fun smacking their asses down.”

“Don’t bet on it,” I said under my breath. Dykovski’s nails dug in deeper, gouging into a fresh bruise.

I studied the diagram, finding the room I’d been kept in and where Kit’s body lay. Two entrances, east and west. The complex wasn’t that large, only a handful of rooms connected by tunnels and hallways. This was going to be a close-combat fight, no chance for long-distance attacks.

“It’ll take a few minutes for them to break through the second set of steel doors and get to this section. The armory’s down here. Follow me.” Dykovski dragged me down the corridor to another room. His free hand dug into his pockets, scraping around inside.

“Fuck the keys. Thrasher, kick it in.”

The super obliged, turning to stone and punting the wooden door into the room with ease.

The fluorescent lights flickered for a second before coming on full, adding an unworldly tinge to the strange weapons scattered around the room. Some of them I recognized as straight-up pistols and shotguns, nothing odd about that, but others seemed like prop extras from a science-fiction movie.

I spotted the weapon Dykovski had used on Kit. The nozzle still held a bit of dark residue on the end, the thick, tarry substance partially blocking the hole. It lay on the table, waiting.

“What do we get?” Thrasher looked over the shelves, reaching out to tap one of the peculiar weapons. His eyes gleamed as his fingers caressed a long silver barrel attached to some type of rifle.

Dykovski turned to him. For a second I saw fear in Dykovski’s eyes, naked fear.

He slapped Thrasher’s hand away from the weapons. “Nothing. You’re supers. Do what you do.” Dykovski threw me to the floor and walked over to a large cabinet. “You go beat them the fuck down. Remember our briefing? Do I have to tell you everything fifty fucking times over before you get it through your thick skulls?”

Thrasher opened his mouth and then closed it with a loud snap, a muscle in his cheek twitching. He moved to stand by the door and clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for orders.

Hot Foot followed after giving a greedy look to the ammunition belts layered one atop the other on the bottom shelf.

I tried not to show my relief. At least the team wouldn’t be facing rogues armed to the teeth. Dykovski didn’t trust supers with more than what they came with. It wasn’t a lot, but I’d take it.

My fingers itched as I spotted a row of grenades within easy reach.

The problem was what I would do with them.

We had to keep Dykovski alive and conscious until we neutralized the damned wristband. If we killed him or knocked him out, at least four supers would die, including me.

If we let him continue, he’d rack up more codes and be able to control and terrorize more supers and by proxy, civilians.

It was a losing scenario no matter how you played it out. All I could hope was that my lucky charm was somewhere nearby with a solution that kept my head on my shoulders.

“It’s showtime,” Dykovski whispered to himself. His lips parted in an almost sexual sigh.

He threw the doors open with a flourish, letting out a low chuckle as gears whined and motors sputtered up to full speed.

The shiny metal armor blinded me for a second, taking my attention away from the nearby firearms.

It was like looking into a giant toolbox, the humming engines shifting and flexing as metal pieces tilted from side to side and opened up a large body-sized gap, just big enough for a human to fit into.

Dykovski stood in front of the oversized wardrobe, grinning like a kid on Christmas Day. He spun around and backed into the empty space.

I watched as the automated systems initiated their routines, wrapping bulletproof metal around his arms and legs, the breastplate sliding out from behind his back and riveting to his torso with short, drilling noises.

Slick and professional from start to finish, but I’d expect nothing less from Agency-issue hardware. The fat metal shoulder pads extended out beyond the thick arms with extra plating around all arm and leg joints, reminding me of a football player with both his equipment and his body on steroids. If I were rioting and saw this coming at me, I’d have second thoughts.

Right now my first thoughts were getting the hell out of here and back to Hunter.

“Remember the plan,” Dykovski admonished the thugs. “Grab the jammers and get back to me. Draw them further into the complex, try to get behind and herd them towards me. That way I’ll be able to grab the codes. Beat them down but don’t kill them, not until I have the codes. Then we’ll see who’s calling the shots.”

I must have appeared stupider than usual because he chortled as he watched me.

Headgear reminding me of a light motorcycle helmet settled on his shoulders, leaving his face open and visible. “What, you thought I wasn’t prepared for your buddies to come and save you? Surf, that’s been the plan all along, ever since Meltdown contacted me. Take out the opposition or, better, make them my own team. The Agency will have to listen to me then, along with the government.” He chuckled. “Just think about all the damage your boys can do with a good leader behind them, urging them on.” His voice dropped a notch into evil-villain territory. “The Protectors will be working for me. And we’re going to take over the world.”

The room spun around me for a second before I gathered myself and tried to put a poker face back on. Harris shook his head and closed his eyes.

The humming stopped.

Dykovski took a step forward, the vibrations rolling through the floor. He moved clear of the equipment closet and swung his armored arms like a man testing out a new shirt.

“I like.”

On his left wrist a panel flipped up and down, allowing him access to his wristband. I studied the power armor, trying to commit as much as I could to memory. Outrager might have given Jessie the stats, but this was hard, fast evidence of what it could and couldn’t do. Pushing the fear to the back of my mind, I took stock of what this monstrosity displayed.

Flamethrower on left arm, hooked up to the backpack. Power source far, far inside and not within easy reach.

That was on purpose. This suit had been designed to control and contain supers, not allow them easy access to shut it down.

Trigger for the flamethrower down by his index finger. A twitch and super flambé.

Right arm and hand open and available to carry and use handheld weapons. The Agency thought of everything.

Except for how to deal with crazed ex-Guardians with delusions of grandeur.

Dykovski picked up the black tar weapon from earlier, snapping it onto his right forearm. It locked with a click, secure in its new home. The trigger lay by his thumb so he could fire without losing the ability to use his fingers for other mundane tasks.

Perfect for typing in plug codes, in other words.

I studied the goop gun, as I called it in my mind. I knew what that could do. Added to the flamethrower, it was a potent duo of death and incapacitation. Exactly what the Agency designed the suit for—to control and dominate supers along with anyone else who was unfortunate enough to get in the way.

Outrager and his buddies might be assholes, but they were darned competent assholes.

“Yes, I like.” He strode across the room, his armored head almost scraping the ceiling. His arms swept back and forth in a military march. “So how does it compare to Metal Mike’s?” Dykovski swung the goop gun up, propping his free hand on his waist in a macho pose.

A lump caught in my throat as I remembered Mike in his suit, the polished armor plating resembling a knight’s armor. He’d loved the public relations visits, letting the kids climb all over him and helping a few to sit on his shoulders, high above the crowd.

Metal Mike and his suit had come to stand for the good guys, one of the friendlier heroes out there. He never swore in battle and always had time to play—officially and unofficially.

The warped horror in front of me had nothing in common with Mike. Including humanity.

“Bastard,” I whispered.

Dykovski grinned at me. “Oh, baby. You’re going to learn to love me, one way or another.” He gestured at the three men standing near us. “What, didn’t I make myself clear? Get your asses out there and get them.” The edge of his mouth tweaked up. “Your new teammates are waiting.”

The two thugs charged out the door, leaving Harris behind. He looked from me to Dykovski and back again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry about all this.”

“Don’t apologize to her,” Dykovski yelled. “If you want to live, go help the other two take ’em down.”

Harris shook his head, crossing his arms in front of him. “No.”

“What?” Dykovski advanced on the super, eyes blazing. “What?”

“I’m tired of this. I’m not your goddamn boy toy, I’m a human being with rights.” Harris glanced at me for a second before continuing. “Kill me if you want, but I’m not going to go out there and fight my friends.”

“They’re not your friends.” He laughed. “They don’t give a shit about you, Meltdown. They came to save Surf, the cute widdle girl who gets the pinups and poses with the babies. You, you’re just the guy in the back holding the spear.”

I watched with a mixture of horror and amazement as the mechanized suit moved towards Harris.

He pointed his left arm at Harris, aiming the flamethrower. “And you worried about Kit burning you.”

Harris didn’t say anything. His Adam’s apple bounced up and down as he stared at Dykovski.

Dykovski reached out for Harris with his right hand. The armored plates turned his fingers into long metal cylinders, and I wondered for a second how he could tap in the codes on his wristband with such fat digits.

A flash of pink as he turned his hand palm-up and I had the answer. The damned armor only covered the top, allowing him to still pull a trigger and/or input the data needed to blow our heads off.

Damned Agency techs thought of everything.

He gripped Harris’s shoulder, tearing the flannel shirt. “Don’t think I won’t kill you right here, right now.” His eyes flared with a mixture of insanity and pride at having such control over our lives. “Die here or die out there. Your call. I’ll pop your plug if I see you helping those rebels or not doing your best to put them down.”