The Galilee Falls Trilogy (Book 3): Fall of Heroes (14 page)

“You broke my heart. He didn’t take too kindly to that. And he also figured out you were Lord Nightingale. And, though he didn’t say it, he probably knows you’re Moonlight too.”

Jem just stares at the wall for a few seconds, not saying a word as the wheels in his mind revolve possibly faster than his usual million miles a minute. I’m surprised the earth isn’t spinning off its axis right now. Yet all he says is, “Shit.” He swore! Guess I’ve rubbed off on him.

“Do you still have everything in place for a Code Purple?” I ask.

“Yes.” A pregnant, like its water just broke, pause. “And I assume you wouldn’t be goin—”

“No.”

“My enemies would still try to use you against me,” he points out.

“Moonlight, I’m the damn supervillain pin-up girl. They don’t need you as a reason to kidnap me. And it won’t come to that. Ryder won’t come after me. Grace Pickering, yeah. Me? I’m not worth his time. Any of theirs. If this was a prison break, running is the priority, not mindless mayhem.”

“Still. We thought the same last time. If you have to go out—”

“I remember the protocol.”

“Yes, but you have a problem following rules,” he counters.

“Thought you love that about me,” I say with a smile which immediately drops when I realize what I’ve just said. “I’ll be careful. I promise. Just watch your back, okay? And don’t forget to eat. You always forget to eat when things get busy. You’re gonna need all your energy for this one. Even the world’s most perfect man needs to fuel up on occasion.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. I’ll be here if you need intel. Just radio. Guardian out.” I cut the feed.

Okay. So…shit is bad. Very bad, but nowhere near the flaming pile I’d envisioned. No one died. Yet. There aren’t currently over a dozen supervillains running down the streets in tanks shooting civilians with nuclear bombs ticking down to detonation. Of course that could be on tomorrow’s agenda. What we have here is a weird ass situation. I thought someone opened all the prison doors or blew a hole in its side. The fact only the villains were taken was by design. They were targeted. But why? If one of the villains
was
responsible and wanted to cover up they were the mastermind, take one or two others, sure. But the more people abducted the more risk, not to mention cost. It doesn’t make sense to grab them all.

Forget motive for now, Jo. Move to means. Who has the means to organize and fund this? I pull up the list of the escapees from Doris’ database. Oh, I forgot to add Hardcore’s newest guests, Hexen and Abbalam. Jem caught Hexen and New Urbana shipped Abbalam to Xavier last week. Add them to Virus, Chameleon, Boneshaker, Dr. Avatar, The Traveler, Warlord, Atomic Adam, Arch, Dragoon, Crimson Lilith, Black Pearl, Goblin, Professor Elven, and of course Alkaline. Okay who could fund this? Ryder for sure. Who else has the cash? Lilith’s ex-husband is a millionaire, maybe she rekindled their romance. Dr. Avatar, Warlord, and Traveler all amassed fortunes and had their assets seized when they were arrested, but like Ryder they could have secret accounts. The rest were lower on the totem pole. A few robberies, a few bank heists, all trying to make a name for themselves. They all failed, hence prison. But Ryder is the only one of the group who’s successfully broken out before. Dr. Avatar, Virus, and The Traveler attempted but were caught in hours. That places my old pal at the top of the suspect list. This is just his style too. Smart, quick, efficient with plenty of misdirection to throw us into confusion. But my gut rolls its eyes. It’s possible, but I don’t think it’s probable. And even if he did, it wasn’t done just so he can come after me. I’m in no more danger than any other citizen of Galilee. Which is still a shit ton.

Good thing I’ve got a big damn shovel.

“Doris…let’s get to work.”

*

I get in four hours of investigating before I can’t fight back sleep a moment longer. I crawl into my lumpy bed with its scratchy, stiff sheets and pass out. My nerves or overexcited brain only allow me the bare minimum amount of sleep needed to function, two hours. Worse there’s no food or coffee in my new prison, also no room service, so not even a few hours into Protocol Pink I break the rules and venture into the city. Or Missy, with her blonde wig and glasses, does. She even pays in cash. Thank God there’s a Starbucks on every corner, including this one. Double shot of espresso and chocolate croissant and my brain tops off at fifty percent efficiency. Enough so when I return to the hotel I can make sense of my chicken scratches from last night. They’d barely loaded anything into the GFPD or Federal databases last night but have begun to catch up. Time to watch the security footage.

At exactly 10:38 the guards begin exhibiting symptoms of lethargy. Drooping eyelids, inability to walk straight, confusion. Thirty seconds later those still on their feet drop to the linoleum floor. Ouch. Every cell block shows the same scene. If only C Block was breached, why gas the others? It would be safer for the extraction team, I guess. No stragglers or people to go investigate. They’d have almost total control of the prison save for the men in the watchtowers. Those four could be on the take, paid to literally look the other way. I jot that down.

Three minutes pass before the men begin climbing out of the manhole cover on the ocean side of C Block like ants on the march. One more minute passes before all sixteen have surfaced, each wearing the same black hoodie, black jeans, black gloves, gas mask, and carrying an actual empty body bag over their shoulders. Creepy. By the time the last man pops out, the leader has the side door open, and the men begin hustling inside the cell block. That door opens with a key card, regular key, and code. Definitely an insider involved.

The leader uses the keys to unlock all three doors needed to gain access to the Hardcore Unit’s guard station, where my old pal Garrett Leon drools in his chair inside the clear plastic enclosure. We met on the Alkaline case. The man was as dumb as a post with a ton of kids at home. Just because he didn’t help Ryder then doesn’t mean he’s innocent this go-round. Wouldn’t put money on it though. As Leon slumbers, the leader puts his key in, turns it, then presses a button. All the cells slide open. The henchmen each enter a cell. After pressing something to Leon’s hand, the leader hustles out of the guard station and with the last two henchmen, they run down the block to another stairwell. To Super Max. To access it, not only are both keys and a code necessary, but also two fingerprints with only a dozen authorized. Narrows the suspect pool.

The leader and another man remove what look like cell phones and hold them up to the fingerprint readers. Whatever that is, it does the job. The bars and steel door both lift and the men sprint down to the Super Max. The two guards, Jaime Santiago and Edwin Kemp, are both on the floor when the men breach what is supposed to be the most secure prison block on the continent. Twenty feet underground, walls lined with an inch of steel, no windows, only one way in and out. These men just run in, push a few buttons, and open the cells, including Ryder’s. Unlike the other villain cells, Super Max’s have cameras inside, so I can watch as the men glide inside the three cells. Like everyone else, Ryder, The Traveler, and Dr. Avatar appear unconscious. They don’t stir, not even as the men remove something from their belts and press it against the villain’s bare skin. Did they just drug them? That’s weird. Of course picking them up and lowering them into an open body bag is far weirder. The men zip up the bags, toss them over their shoulders again, and exit the cells. They’re strong. It’s hard to tell with the hoodies, but if I had to guess, they’re all fit. Tall and muscular. And Jem’s right. From the way they move, how mechanical this whole event is, they’re ex-military or professional mercenaries. Everyone knows their role and the plan, executing it without misstep.

Even without their leader, the men in Hardcore stick to their tasks. I watch as each man exits his appointed cell with his villain package and moves to the stairwell, opening doors with his own keys and cards, before returning to the manhole. One by one they lower their payload down the hole, I assume to someone waiting down there, before climbing down themselves until all sixteen are gone from sight. Time since this all began? Six minutes. Fine work, gents.

There are no cameras in the sewer but per the reports, investigators hypothesize the storm drain bars were cut earlier, as was unsealing the manhole cover. Only if someone were really examining each would they notice something amiss. That side of the island is only accessible by boat. The prison has patrol boats that circle the island, taking fifteen minutes to complete the circle. My hypothesis is a boat most likely dropped the men off at the storm drain, sped off, then returned at the appointed time. I write “check CCTV footage at docks.” The only problem being Galilee has ten miles of docks.

The GFPD made some headway with the gas as well. I don’t understand ninety-seven percent of the report, but do glean it’s a widely bought aerosol anesthetic used in the majority of veterinary surgery centers and zoos, mostly used to knock out larger animals like horses and gorillas to keep them under. The good news is only ten companies in the world manufacture it, the bad there are tens of thousands of orders for it this year alone. So, hello dead end number one.

I don’t—

The sudden knock on the door makes me gasp and leap an inch out of my chair. When I land, my hand instantly touches my pounding heart. I’m as skittish as a fucking cat in a house full of rabid dogs. Too much coffee.

“Jo-Missy?” a familiar voice says on the other side of the door.

Of course. Who else would it be, Fallon? I pad to the door and open it for the hooded Jem. “I-I brought you groceries,” he says, holding up the bags.

“Uh, come in.”

With his head hung, he steps inside toward the kitchenette where my own grocery bags still sit on the counter. He spots them and spins around. “You went out?”

“I needed coffee,” I say as I shut the door.

Oh, I know that face. His Joanna’s done something stupid face. His mouth flops open and head cocks to the left in annoyance. “You’re not supposed to leave this hotel room, Joanna.” He sets the bags on the carpet and removes his hoodie. His normally shiny black curls are all but plastered with grease. “One person. It only takes one person to recognize you.
One
. It-It-It-It’s part of the protocol you approved to follow.”

“I was in disguise. I kept my head down. I even used a New Urbana accent. I needed food, Jem. And the protocol isn’t house arrest, its limit leaving the hotel.”

“The more you leave, the probability if discoverability grows exponentially.”

“Hey, same goes for you,” I snap. “If you’re out in the world someone just needs to tail Jem Ambrose or Captain Moonlight here. The more often you come here, the bigger the chance is that happens. So I’m fucked either way. There are uncontrollable variables in every plan, you’ve said so yourself.”

“If we stick to the original—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The original plan was he’d come to me, we’d hole up together investigating, and Captain Moonlight would go out and kick ass. He’d change into a disguise, do the shopping on his way back. I’d only leave for emergencies. This morning’s need for coffee was damn sure an emergency.

“I’m not even sure if we can work together. Yet. Besides, there might not even be a threat to me. I really think you’re overreaching.”

“A superpowered maniac with limitless resources who attempted to kidnap, vivisect, and murder you is walking the streets.”

“Well, he’s not walking them in search of me.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that assumption? Because I’m not.” He shifts his weight and annoyance onto his right side. “At least promise me you haven’t informed anyone else of you location.”

“Only Bennett Stone. He’s in the shower now. Care to say hello?” Jem actually glances over his shoulder toward the bedroom. He doesn’t see me roll my eyes. He always chides me when I do. “I was kidding, genius.” He turns back around, shock morphing back to annoyance by the end of the trip. “You didn’t used to be so gullible, Ambrose.”

I bridge the gap between us and begin picking up the grocery bags. Damn. Being so close, I can smell him, the stale sweat and his natural musk. Better than the most expensive perfume on the market. Or aphrodisiac. One whiff is enough to rev my motor, even now. Guess my body hasn’t received the message we’re supposed to hate him, not jump his bones. This too shall pass. With time. Today I merely collect the bags as fast as possible and walk into the kitchenette the same way. “I was just reviewing the security footage and reports. Have you read them yet?”

“Read? No. I-I just left the prison. I sat in on some of the interviews.”

I hoist the bags onto the counter with the others. “Let me guess: know nothing, saw nothing, check please!”

“That was the gist.”

“The mercs had keys and codes. They had to get them somewhere.”

“The Warden provided GFPD and the Marshals with a list of those with access. The codes are changed weekly. If I recall, about twelve have clearance.”

“Even to Super Max?”

“Yes.”

“Still manageable.” My stomach rumbles when I pull out the eggs he brought. “Pardon.”

“When was the last time
you
ate?” Jem asks.

“Dinner last night. You?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Then you catch up on reports and I’ll scramble us some eggs.”

“Fine.” He pauses and bows his head a little again. “Thank you.”

He sits at my table, and I start on the eggs. This is the one food I somehow manage not to fuck up. Pop would usually just be getting in from his night shift as a cabbie when I got up for school. We’d take turns scrambling eggs and popping Eggos into the toaster. Jem and I fell into the same routine. He’d stop patrolling around five when I had to get up for work. I’d whip up some eggs as he told me stories of what I’d missed after I signed off Guardian duty. As I swish around the eggs I stare across at my ex hunched over the laptop. It’s as if nothing’s happened. There’s no rage, no sadness, no tension. Yesterday I wanted to knee him in the balls, now I’m downright wistful. I’m probably just exhausted. Lucky for his balls.