Super (3 page)

T
here are
a few cardinal rules you don’t break in this business. The first is don’t trust anyone. You start making friends, having drinks, watching the game together, it’s easy to slip into this comfortable place where you share tips and tricks and the next thing you know, some muscled prick in red tights with flames down the side is knocking at your front door because your “friend” didn’t live up to that supposed role.

Happened once, never again.

The second rule is, nobody will ever understand why you do what you do, so don’t bother trying to explain it to them. I say this because I’ve gotten close—I mean like,
close
—to a couple of women who could’ve been The One, since my divorce, and I thought they would get it. I thought they would get
me
. Nope. They beat feet down the front path fast enough to leave a cloud of dust in their wake.

Happened twice, never again.

I don’t like moving halfway across the country to hide, and I don’t like having my heart broken.

I guess there’s an unofficial addendum to rule number two; don’t fall in love in the first place.

I’d like to again, believe me, but there’s no room for it. Well, I shouldn’t say that. I do it all the time in my imagination. I just don’t act on it.

The third rule, and quite possibly the most important, is never, ever get lazy. All it takes is one mistake, one tiny little hiccup, and you’re exposed. You’re wide open and you might as well draw a bulls-eye on your back.

I broke rule number three. I don’t know how or when, but the fact that Charlene sits across from me, smelling like delicious, creamy strawberries, waiting on an answer, means that I slipped up.

I stare at her with abject speechlessness and race through detail after detail in my mind. I’m clean, I know I am. I can’t think of a single thing I might have screwed up with the Patriotman job. I didn’t so much as leave a flake of skin behind. There was no way in hell that I—

“Leo?” Charlene butts in.

“What? Oh, right? What was the question?” I know damn well what the question was but I need two more seconds to think.

Jeff drops off a basket of fries and says, “On the house, lovebirds.”

Really? Really, Jeff? Do I need that right now?

“You’re better than that, you’re better than Dallas, and I’m half-tempted to march over there and tell Kim Jong Un where she can shove it.”

“She’s from
South
Korea.”

Charlene looks up at the ceiling—as if she’s addressing God—as if she’s asking “Why me?”

My inability to focus on the imperative element must get under her skin. For the first time ever, she lets go of the zebra-bag shield long enough to hold her hands out to me. She pleads angrily, “You can’t let her get away with it.”

“It pisses me off too, but why does it matter?” This question is about as close to an admission of responsibility as I can get. By acknowledging the fact that Dallas stole my thunder isn’t cool, I’m opening the door just a crack to let Charlene know that she’s right. I don’t want to do it, but man, I’m stumped. If she knows, she knows.

“It’s not right, that’s all.”

“Charlene?”

“What?”

“What’s the real reason?”

Charlene glances over her shoulder. The other ten members of SASS are down at the lanes, arguing over whether Tara (or maybe it’s Mara) stepped over the line. Charlie Delta is so red in the face, I think I can see a vein bulging from here.

Dallas cackles with laughter.

Charlene turns back to me with a scrunched up nose, almost like she’s snarling, and says, “Because she’s a no-talent ass clown, and you’re one of the best in the business. I can’t stand the fact that she’s got all those other schmucks wrapped around her little finger, and they worship her like she’s some kind of…”

“Superhero?” It’s hard to ignore the irony.

“Whatever. If I didn’t think she would run and snitch on me to the suits running DPS, I’d expose every dirty little secret she has.”

My hand goes up in the air, and I unintentionally use a ketchup-coated French fry to accentuate my surprise. It wobbles limply between my thumb and forefinger when I say, “Hang on,
what
did you say?”

“That I’d love to expose every little—”

“No, the part about DPS. You’re talking about
the
DPS?” I’ve been working with Agents Lisa Kelly and Deke Carter for about four weeks. I thought they were invisible…to everybody.

Charlene snatches up her handbag again and resumes using it as a protective shield. She tries to backpedal. “I-I-I didn’t say anything about—you have ketchup running down your fingers.”

Indeed I do, but more important things are hanging out there like the most pregnant
oops
in the history of mankind. “You said DPS, Charlene. Direct Protection Services?”

Only when she nods do I finally drop the fry and wipe the ketchup off my hand.

“Who’s your handler there? And is that how you know about my work in the Maldives?”

Charlene shrugs. I’ve quickly gone from lovesick teenager to highly paranoid, distrustful, elite superhero assassin Leo Craft. It’s amazing how three little letters can change an entire scenario.

I repeat, “How do you know about DPS?” While I wait on her to make up her mind about answering, I breathe deeply, cycling through my options. Not one of them is good. They all lead to a fade-to-black that I don’t enjoy.

Charlene’s hand snaps out to grab a fry and draws it back in. She nibbles on the crusty end and says, “I’m getting soft.”

That tender spot for her winks to life again like a distant star poking through the darkness. It takes a lot to admit that, especially among the ego-driven culture we inhabit. I feel the muscles in my face relax. My leg stops jackhammering the floor, and I lean up onto the table with my elbows. “I can see why. That
Don Donner
thing must be tough.”

Charlene points her chin at the lanes. The arguments are over, and the thunderous bowling has resumed. “It’s because of her.”

“Dallas?”

“When DPS dropped her and took me on, she flipped out.”

“Hold up. Dallas worked for DPS, too?”

“Yeah. And she’s the one that revealed my identity to CNC and Don Donner.”

“Are you absolutely
positive
?” I ask, but I already know the answer. If Charlene knew this to be true, Dallas would’ve been dead already.

“It
has
to be her. And now that I’ve fucked this up,” she says, pointing at me, then her chest, “I could use your help.”

And the truth comes out. That’s why Charlene is
really
upset—and good Lord, who wouldn’t be—with Dallas, as long as she’s the real snitch, and now that I’ve had a second to process, I’m starting to think that Charlene’s little “uh-oh” wasn’t so accidental at all. She doesn’t give a crap about Dallas stealing my glory, she just wants to watch her burn. Plus, if she’s working for DPS, then it’s easy to see how she could’ve potentially learned that the Patriotman job was mine, but there are some seriously gaping leaks if that level of interdepartmental sharing is going on. I’ll need to have a discussion with Kelly and Carter as soon as possible. Who knows what other details about me are floating around out there?

This is not good.

This is not good
at all
.

But it’s
Charlene
, though. If there’s one person in this group who I would be slightly okay with knowing what’s happening on the back end, it would be her, but damn, it’s dangerously close to breaking Rule Number One.

Yet again, I repeat another question from earlier. “Who’s your handler?”

“Two of them, actually. Crenshaw and Hawthorne. You know them?”

“No, just my two. Carter and Kelly. Kelly’s lead and Carter…well, I don’t know what he does other than sit around and look pissed that I made him the first time we met.”

“Older guy? Should’ve hung the gloves up thirty years ago?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a teddy bear if he likes you.”

This doesn’t surprise me. I’d bet that Charlene captivates most men. And I say this without the slightest hint of sexism or chauvinism, but that’s probably how she got in so close to all the men in tights that she’s eliminated. If everyone in the group is telling the truth about their number of recorded kills, then Charlene is first, I’m second, Tara and Mara are third, and so on and so forth. I consider myself top-notch in the skill department, but Charlene, she’s something else.

Back before Charlene became the nearly incapacitated paranoid recluse that she is now, if she approached me in a bar wearing a cocktail dress and a smile, and had murder on her mind, I’d be clawing at a garrote wire around my neck before the end of the night. So they say. As the story goes. Blah blah blah.

She adds, “Deke’s the one that told me about the Maldives.”

“Figures.” I nibble on another fry, trying to gauge her facial expressions, wondering what’s actually going on here. Study people long enough, you can pick up on all these little micro-movements that will tell you more about them than an all-access autobiography. A twitch at the corner of an eye, a wrinkled nose, a smile ever-so-slightly dipping into less of a smile…they all tell you so much.

If I’m reading her right, so far this is legit.

“Why’d he tell
you
about that?”

“He’s not your biggest fan.”

There it is. There’s what I’m looking for: briefly, it’s that almost imperceptible flinch of the fatty skin tissue residing above her cheekbones, or, in layman’s terms, a squint. It’s a microscopic hint that she’s focusing on what she’s trying to say to me, as if she’s forcing it to sound true and get past my defenses.

It could be innocent. It could be the dust particles flying around in here because I can feel the air of the ventilation system gently puffing against the back of my neck.

Maybe, but I don’t think so.

What she’s saying isn’t quite true because, while Deke Carter
isn’t
my biggest fan, I can tell that I’m growing on him, and I doubt he’d betray my cover.

Charlene, Charlene, Charlene…what are you up to?

I haven’t survived this long by being an ignorant fool. It’s not time to start now. I have to remember, absolutely
have
to accept the fact that this woman is a highly trained assassin. Paranoid or not, if we’re on opposing sides of something I’m not familiar with, I can’t risk allowing the walls around me to fall.

Do I test her now? Do I play along until I see what she’s up to? Should I punt and hope to stay in the game for a while longer?

An incomprehensible thought occurs to me, and Jesus, it would be one risky but amazing long con if that’s what she’s going for: what if her debilitating paranoia is just a charade? What if she, or someone at DPS, intentionally leaked her identity to Don Donner and CNC to set up this elaborate plot to draw me into a trap?

Call it prophetic, call it suspicious, but plotting out scenarios like this in my head is what’s keeping me alive.

Would she risk her life that way? Every superhero in the world is gunning for her right now. Am I worth that?

What did
I
do? Why would they be after
me
?

Yeah, punting is the safest option. For now.

Maybe I’m totally going down the path of insanity here, becoming truly, amazingly mistrustful like Charlene, and maybe that subconscious blip of wrongdoing on her face was nothing more than a speck of dust in her eye, but better safe than dead.

It occurs to me that it was awfully strange how a government organization that I’ve never heard of pops up out of the darkest depths of national secrecy to recruit me. I need to step away from this for a while. I need to go talk to my contact that knows the answer to more questions than a
Jeopardy!
champion.

We call him the Oracle, like that lady in The Matrix, but really he’s a retired CIA guy named Phil that has more connections than there are grains of sand on the beach. If Phil doesn’t know about the DPS, then I have plenty of reason to worry.

How do I make a fast exit without alerting Charlene that I’m onto her?

Thank God, it couldn’t have been better timing: my phone buzzes in my pocket. “Hang on, Char,” I say, holding up a finger, “let me check this.” The ID screen tells me it’s Agent Kelly. I apologize to Charlene and tell her that I need to take it, that it could be important. “Can we talk later?”

She looks let down. Is it genuine? I’m so flustered that I can’t read her right now. “I guess so. Don’t forget me, though. I still need your help with Dallas.” She meekly pulls her handbag close to her chest and turns away.

I’m hustling out the door when I hear John Conklin shout, “Fall you bastards, fall!”

Among all this craziness, I’m kinda hoping he just rolled his first perfect game.

I
’m sitting
on my front porch enjoying some well-earned downtime when a black sedan with non-descript government plates parks in front of my house. I sit up and throw the blanket off my legs, then set the latest masterpiece about particle physics to the side. I don’t understand a word of it, but it makes for interesting reading.

Whoever is parked in the sedan shouldn’t be here. Most of the major agencies know that I don’t operate on such a familiar level. My
house
? No way that the NSA, CIA, or even those trundling knuckle-draggers over at the FBI would risk blowing my identity by showing up on my doorstep. They know better.

It sits there quietly with the engine running. The windows are tinted, and I can’t see inside. I’m tempted to get up and take a stroll down the front walk, but from where I’m sitting, my guns and poisons and
nun chucks
and swords are a helluva lot closer. For probably the first time ever, I slacked off and didn’t bring a weapon outside with me; I regret the oversight.

Who in the hell is that?

Local law enforcement doesn’t know about my degree of involvement with the United States government, or most of the governments of NATO for that matter, so if it’s a couple of departmental detectives here to brace me about something, then it has nothing to do with my black-ops, off-paper work.

Finally, the engine shuts off. I scoot up to the edge of my seat, butt cheeks right on the lip of the rocking chair, with my toes pointed toward the front door, ready to dart inside. I don’t normally get antsy, but this is highly out of character for anyone I might be in contact with at the national government level.

Both doors open simultaneously, and I flinch, waiting, holding my breath, until out climb Agents Kelly and Carter. I exhale heavily and mutter, “Unbelievable.” I stand up and walk to the top step, folding my arms across my chest, glaring them down with a stare of disapproval as they make their way up to the house.

Agent Kelly is all smiles. Deke Carter stares at me like I’m the guy who stole his daughter’s virginity on prom night. Kelly says, “Good to see you again, Leo.” Deke grunts and turns his attention down the street.

“The hell are you doing here at my house?”

“In the neighborhood. Thought we might stop by.”

“In the neighborhood. Right.” I grind my teeth and lower my voice. “Are you insane? Broad daylight? What’s wrong with a phone call?”

“We could’ve, but this stuff is always better done in person. Less breadcrumbs that way. Eyes, ears everywhere.”

I glance nervously around at the nearby houses. It’s nine a.m. on a Wednesday morning, so most everyone is at work. The Marshalls across the street are on vacation, and Bill Tuttle, who lives next door, is retired and, fortunately, deaf and blind. His daughter Mindy won’t be by for another couple of hours to check up on him.

Flinging a pointed finger at my front door, I order them to get inside.

Agent Kelly’s smile stays plastered to her face—she’s enjoying my agitation—and Deke Carter does nothing more than lift his chin at me as he passes. One last look around to make sure nobody saw, and I step in behind them.

Agent Kelly whistles. “Nice place, Leo. That’s a real Picasso, isn’t it?”

“It’s a print,” I lie. “Ten bucks at a yard sale.” Truth is, that thing set me back like four million. It’s a little known piece from his blue period, and I got it off this billionaire the last time I was in Madrid. Taking out the superhero known as
El Jefe
had proved to be more difficult than the Spanish government had expected, so I had charged them double, and the Picasso piece was my own personal reward for a job well done.

“And look at this couch,” she says, running her hands across the plush black leather. “You could melt into it.”

“Sit down if you want. Deke, you can, too.”

He grunts and says, “Coffee?” with an expectant look. I should be offended, but this is the first word I’ve ever heard him speak, so I let it slide.

“Lisa?” I drop the formality with her. Might as well, since she’s inside my freaking house.

“I’ll have one, too. Thanks.”

She looks good today, wearing a dark blue suit with a cream top and matching heels. Nice touch. Her hair is down, and even though it looks great, I preferred it up, like the way she wore it on the day we met.

They sit while I head into the kitchen. I shuffle through the cabinets, acting like I’m getting prepped to make their coffee, when what I’m really doing is trying to remember where I put that Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38; was it in the junk drawer or where I keep the knives or—there it is, in the drawer with the cooking utensils, because that makes perfect sense, right? Why
wouldn’t
it be there? I tuck it into my waistband at my back and cover it with the hem of my long-sleeve t-shirt, then set about brewing the coffee.

As it gurgles and steams into the pot, I walk back into the living room. I lean up against the doorjamb to give myself easy access to the .38 if I need it.

Lisa and Deke both have to turn their heads to the side to see me. She smiles and says, “Come sit down.” She points to the matching armchair on the opposite side. I sleep there more often than I do in my own king-sized bed. That chair, I swear, is like dozing on a bed of fluffy white clouds.

“I’ll stand,” I say. “Gotta wait on the coffee.”

“You don’t need the gun, Leo.” Lisa winks. It’s still not a measure of reassurance that I’m comfortable with.

I don’t question how she suspects it’s there because it’s fairly obvious. She’s been trained to know her shit and to anticipate stuff like this long before it’s necessary. Given that, I respect her skill and move over to the armchair, but I don’t sit back, nor do I relax. The cool metal of the handgun presses into my skin, and I’ve practiced this scenario enough to know that it can be in my hand and aimed in four-tenths of a second.

I would’ve done well in the Old West.

“So,” Lisa says, scooting up to the edge of the couch, or trying to, anyway. It’s deep and so thick that she literally has to squirm to adjust her position. Deke doesn’t bother. He appears disinterested in me and keeps his eyes trained on my Picasso. I suppose he’s pretending to study it, but in reality, he’s monitoring me from his peripheral vision. “Nice place you got here.”

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“Cut the bull—
why
are you here, in my home? You only told me about the Sassy Club or whatever the hell it is last week. I went on Tuesday and Thursday and you need to back the hell off. You don’t find a traitor in a week, and let me tell you something else—those people are insane.”

Her smile fades like she’s disappointed. I couldn’t care less. She says, “I can see that we’ve put you out a bit, so I’ll just get right to the point. We’ve discussed your current status with your handlers among the other agencies, and everyone feels that it’s best for you to come work solely with us until this situation is resolved.”

“Bullshit.” There’s no way that she got clearance from Eric Landers, Joe Gaylord, or Conner Carson all at the same time. It’s likely that they’re familiar with each other on a professional level, based on the fact that they’re all working for the sake of national interests, but I doubt that they know that each of the others works with me on an individual basis. I don’t care how convincing Lisa is. I flat-out refuse to believe that all three of them would simultaneously agree to give up such an asset, and I say that without a hint of bruised ego.

Plus, I have such clandestine relations with these men that I find it impossible to believe that she and Deke would be able to make the connections.

A sly smile creeps back across her lips. “Eric, Joe, and Conner—all three of them—were very understanding when we suggested that your services were better used elsewhere.”

Well, there you have it. Call me flabbergasted. Maybe the DPS has more pull than I thought. I’d checked around with a few of my contacts to see if any of them had ever heard of Direct Protection Services, but no dice. That hadn’t surprised me considering the fact that I was unaware of their existence as well. I hadn’t made an attempt with the Three Amigos either because, for one thing, I didn’t want them to
know
that I was ignorant of something since that might allow them to feel like they had the slightest upper hand.

For another thing, while I was pondering asking, I had been concerned that if they weren’t familiar with DPS, then what kind of shitstorm would it set off among them if a fourth agency—one previously unknown—was snooping around, looking to steal my in-demand services? In the end, I left it alone, figuring I could always meddle around later.

I clear my throat and hear the end of the brew cycle beeping in the kitchen. “Coffee’s ready,” I say, standing, walking away. I use it as an excuse to clear my head for a second. I pour three cups and debate on adding a little something extra to theirs. “Cream or sugar?” I call into the living room.

Or cyanide, perhaps? The vial is right there in the drawer.

“Both for me,” Lisa answers. “Deke says neither.”

“Coming right up.” A thought I have makes me curious, because what she’s telling me now doesn’t quite jibe with what she said last week. I step gently back into the living room, holding the coffees delicately to prevent any of the scalding liquid from sloshing out, and for a moment, I consider throwing both cups in their faces and making a break for it.

But, I don’t, because if they have connections with my three handlers, and are able to sway their opinions, then it would most likely be the end of my career. No more offing dudes and ladies in multi-colored tights for me.

“Coffee for you, ma’am. And Deke, this ought to put some hair on your chest. You look like you could use a few more.” Deke lifts one corner of his mouth in the slightest grin. Maybe he’s warming up to me. As they both take hesitant sips, testing the temperature, I back up to my cushy chair and ease down. “I’m curious about something.”

Lisa lifts her eyebrows at me in response.

“You said last week that you were so off the books that even the President doesn’t know about DPS. How’d you pull rank on the NSA, the CIA, and the FBI without clueing them in?”

Lisa sets her coffee mug down—on a coaster, thank God—and says, “Give us a little credit, Leo. We weren’t born yesterday.”

“You maybe. Deke here looks like he might’ve fought a stegosaurus for scraps.”

That comment results in a hearty chuckle from Deke. Not that I’m warming up to
him
, but obviously the man appreciates a witty sense of humor.

Lisa continues, “Your three contacts think we’re with the Secret Service, and they don’t need to know any different. Is that understood?” The hopeful look on her face suggests that I should nod to let her know I got the hint.

I do just that, but then I add, “Secret Service? What kind of pitch did you run with? Those sunglass-wearing mutes have nothing to do with double agents, do they?”

“Deke had the idea that we would approach it as if we had intelligence indicating President Palmer’s life had been threatened by an extremist group of superheroes, and who better to help protect the C.I.C. than the guy responsible for taking out those exact same people?”

Deke curses when he spills coffee on his stark white shirt. I’ve heard him use two words now, and the second shouldn’t be repeated in polite company.

“Rags are in the kitchen, Deke. Second drawer down below the coffee. Ignore the .45 if it’s still in there.”

He nods and toddles into the other room, swiping at his tie.

I say to Lisa, “Let me get this straight. You told three of the most powerful law enforcement agencies in the US that a super
hero
was planning an assassination attempt? Look, I may just be an ant on the bottom of the food chain, but that sounds like the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. No offense to Deke, because hey, seems like it worked, but why in the world didn’t you go with a super
villain
instead? I heard the Black Viper was working on something big. Starbeast is back. FireShot, King Killer, Dr. Craze? Any of those guys would be perfect culprits, but now, you’ve probably got entire task forces out there chasing down a threat that doesn’t exist. And if distraction is your plan, so be it, but damn if that’s not reckless endangerment when you’re causing valuable resources to be allocated to chasing ghosts.”

Lisa nods throughout my speech. When I finish, she looks underneath the coffee table at my feet and then glances around the floor like she’s searching for something.

“What’re you doing?”

“Trying to see where you keep the soapbox.”

“Very funny.”

“Here’s the thing, Leo… You’re right. We could’ve done that. We could’ve given them a spiel about how the craziest masterminds in history were cooking up a credible threat against the president, but there’s no way in hell that Eric, Joe, and Conner would’ve handed you over for that. They would’ve laughed in our faces. They would’ve told us to suck it up and find someone that worked on that side of things. But, and this was the integral part, who better to chase down disgruntled superheroes than the guy who’s been eliminating them for the past three years?”

Okay, she has a point. I tell her as much, and she shrugs off my approval as Deke re-enters the living room. “And you came here just to tell me that officially I work for you guys now?”

“Yeah. And don’t worry, you’re still on the support group thing, but we’ve got a little side project for you.”

“Like what?”

“Ever been to the Maldives?”