The Strike Trilogy (19 page)

CHAPTER TWO

T
he “Gala by the Back Bay” was one of the most prestigious events in all of Boston; held on the top floor of the historic Bellemont hotel, this annual fundraiser to benefit the city’s hospitals attracted the wealthiest of the wealthy: politicians, socialites, athletes…year after year, the most famous citizens of Boston would attend the gala to mingle, eat terrific food, show off their most expensive jewelry…and, of course, donate to a very worthy cause.

Being that the event was so well attended by Boston’s most famous citizens, the event’s security was always top-notch. This night, however, many of the partygoers had noticed something strange about the many security guards stationed throughout the ballroom. Many of them seemed nervous. Jumpy. As if they were waiting for something. They didn’t, many people at the gala thought to themselves, seem to be acting like security guards at all.

That’s because they weren’t.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
The three gunshots rang out, loud and sudden in the ballroom, causing the music to stop and many of the partygoers to shriek and drop their drinks and appetizer plates.

“Everybody be cool!” one of the security guards shouted, holding his pistol in the air, which was still smoking from the three warning shots that had just caused the party to come to a screeching halt. “This is a robbery! Everyone listens to us, and nobody gets hurt!”

With that bone-chilling threat, every other security guard on the top floor of the Bellemont hotel also fired their guns into the air. The partygoers screamed and dropped to the floor, trembling and crying. As the security guards began locking the doors to the main ballroom, it became very clear what had happened: at some point, the real security guards for the party had been replaced—by armed, dangerous, vicious thieves.

“Put all your money and jewelry into these bags,” the leader of the thieves shouted, as he began throwing small, tan bags to the partygoers on the ground. Several of his partners were also throwing empty bags to the trembling partygoers, while also barking orders and making it very clear they were to be listened to. “Don’t forget a dime, and don’t say a damn word!” the leader continued. “The first person who talks gets a bullet in their head, and so does the person next to them! We are not joking around here, people! You will die! There will be blood!”

Suddenly a window shattered. The thieves and the partygoers looked up.

He was here.

Through the broken glass ceiling of the Bellemont hotel, a masked figure dressed in blue jumped down from the night sky and into the ballroom, surrounded by shards of broken glass. A dark, tattered cape was billowing around him as he gripped it with both hands, and a bo-staff was on his back. As his feet hit the floor, the figure in dark blue looked up at the thieves and partygoers, and the eyes above his mask sparked and flashed with white electricity. To the partygoers, he looked like an avenging hero. To the thieves, he looked like an angel of death.

Strike—the masked, electricity-wielding, crime-fighting vigilante (who was also secretly Tobin Lloyd, an eighteen-year-old high school senior from Bridgton, Massachusetts)—stood up straight, stomped across the broken glass, and headed for the leader of the thieves. The rest of the thieves were so frightened they didn’t even fire their guns or try to run away—even when Strike grabbed their leader by his shirt collar and smashed him against a wall.

“You’re right,” Strike said, holding the thief a foot into the air, “there will be blood.” The hero leaned in close, only inches from the thief’s face. “Yours.”

Then there was the sound of an elevator bell, dinging to announce somebody’s arrival. Every person at the fundraiser—the partygoers, the thieves, even Strike—turned to see who was coming through the elevator at the far end of the room. When the elevator door opened, everyone watched as a six-and-a-half foot tall, blue-and-white Siberian husky walked out of it and into the party. He was wearing a cowboy hat and a brown leather jacket, and also holding a very large grenade launcher over his shoulder. Many of the people at the party had heard rumors of the dog-man that had been fighting crime alongside Strike for the past few months, but nobody had ever seen him this close. He was even stranger looking than the newspapers had described.

“Seriously,” Keplar Costello said. “Don’t you ever just use the door? You and the broken windows.”

Strike relaxed his grip on the leader of the thieves and let him drop to the floor. “I don’t know,” the hero said. “It’s my thing, ya know? I like the broken glass entrance.”

Keplar walked towards the center of the ballroom, loading green canisters into his plasma cannon. “Yeah, I can tell. And you know what else it is? Really mean to whoever owns the window.”

“You think so?” Strike said.

“Yeah. You know how much it must cost to replace a window that big? Plus it’s getting really old. No one’s even surprised by it anymore.”

“How can you not be surprised?” Strike asked. “Who said that? How can you not be surprised when somebody crashes through a window and—”

“Um, hello?”

Strike and Keplar looked down. One of the fund-raising partygoers—an older man with white hair—was cowering on the ground.

“The thieves with the guns?” the white-haired man said. “You might wanna do something about them?”

“Oh, yeah,” Strike replied. “Right.” The hero looked to Keplar. “You wanna?”

Keplar fired his plasma cannon across the room, nailing one of the thieves with a green, explosive blast that sent the thief crashing through a door and into the outside hallway.

“Yeah,” the dog replied. “Why not.”

The fight began, and the room turned into a warzone: as Strike and Keplar began taking out the thieves one-by-one, bullets were whizzing around the ballroom and the partygoers were taking cover every which way they could, with many of them escaping through the open door or into the elevator. In the middle of the awkward, violent chaos, Strike was as calm, cool, and swift as the world’s greatest acrobat; as he flipped and cart-wheeled around the room, he was dodging the thieves’ bullets and fists, while also taking them out with his glowing, electrified, blue bo-staff. In the seven months since Tobin Lloyd had become Strike, his fighting skills and agility had advanced well beyond any human comprehension; he often simply looked like a spinning, kicking, punching, staff-swinging ball of electricity. The would-be thieves of the Bellemont hotel were barely able to comprehend what was hitting them.

“So let me get this straight,” Strike began, as he spun in a blue flash and kicked one of the thieves directly in the stomach. “For the past seven months, a legit, real-life superhero has been stalking the streets of Boston and literally kicking the snot out of the city’s criminals, and you guys decide to rob one of the most well-known events of the year? I’m guessing you guys didn’t do too well in school, did you? I’m gonna say…fifth grade? You didn’t make it past fifth grade? I know, believe me—long division is a nightmare. Am I right?”

Whereas Strike was fast and agile in his attacks against the criminals, across the room, Keplar’s fighting style was different: the husky was strong, deliberate, and downright brutal. He had been fighting crime much longer than Tobin, after all, and was so skilled in the use of his plasma cannon that taking out these thieves was a game for him.

“Oops, sorry about that,” Keplar said, as yet another thief was sent flying from a green explosive blast from his gun. The husky had noticed a group of partygoers trying to escape through a locked door, so he was quickly making his way over to them. “Hey there, look out,” he said with a laugh, as he used his giant, furry, blue paw to cold-cock one of the thieves across the chin. Finally reaching the partygoers, Keplar used his plasma cannon to blast the door open. “There you go, everyone,” he said, as the partygoers ran to safety. As they escaped, many of them were glancing back in shock at the dog that was saving them from the criminals. “No, folks, do not believe the Internet—this is not a costume. C’mon, now, you know how insulting that is? Go ahead, get a good look. But don’t stare too long—we’re trying to keep you alive here, after all. Don’t worry—I’ll be available for pictures and autographs later.”

As Strike watched the partygoers run out the door, something caught his eye; one of the thieves was dashing behind the hotel bar. After disappearing out of view, the thug stood up again and pointed his handgun at Keplar.

“Keplar!” Strike shouted. “Look out!”

Keplar dove out of the way right as a series of bullets whizzed by his tail. The gun-wielding thief behind the bar laughed, thinking he had his target cornered…until he tried to fire his weapon again:
CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!
The gun was out of bullets.

The thief looked at his useless gun, then turned his eyes to Keplar. The husky stood up, grinning wildly, and pointed his plasma cannon at the thief. But when he pulled his own trigger:
CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

Keplar looked at his plasma cannon. “Well, what do you know? I’m out of ammo, too.”

The thief let out a sigh and let his shoulders relax. Keplar laughed.

“Now that’s funny, huh?” the dog said. “You gotta admit, that’s pretty funny.”

The thief nodded and chuckled, relieved.

“Why don’t we just call it even?” Keplar said. “It’s only fair, right? It’s a draw.”

The thief shrugged and smiled.

However, Keplar quickly pulled one of the laser blasters from the holster on his waist and blasted the thief. Instantly, the thief was thrown against the wall in a green flash, before dropping and disappearing behind the bar.

Keplar blew the smoke away from the barrel of his laser blaster and put it back in its holster. “A draw,” he said, shaking his head. “What do you think this is, soccer?”

At the other end of the ballroom, Strike was engaged in a brawl with the last two robbers. When he elbowed one of them across the jaw, the robber’s fake mustache went flying across the room.

“Oh my god, you guys wore fake mustaches?” Strike laughed. “That is so awesome. What, were you gonna try and blame this on a group of baseball players from the 1980’s? C’mon, if you’re gonna attempt a huge robbery, at least have some fun. You could even do a themed thing next time, like pirates or something. How cool would that be?”

Strike swung his glowing bo-staff around his body and knocked out the two robbers.

“Bank-robbing pirates. You guys gotta start thinking of this stuff.”

As soon as Strike was finished with the last of the criminals, he heard police sirens blare outside. Looking out a window, he saw a half-dozen squad cars pull up outside the hotel.

“Uh-oh,” he told Keplar. “Time to go.”

“I’ll head out the back and meet you out front.”

“Got it.”

With a flash of blue electricity erupting from his boots, Strike shot up into the air and through the broken ceiling window, returning to the night sky.

Down an alley not far from the Bellemont hotel, Keplar (wearing a helmet to cover his face and a pair of gloves to cover his paws) pulled a blue tarp off of his motorcycle and hopped on. When he reached the sidewalk, Tobin was there to meet him, already out of his Strike costume.

“Well,” Tobin said, “that was fun.”

The boy and the dog looked across the street; the police officers were leading the bruised and battered thieves out of the hotel and into their squad cars.

“All in a day’s work,” Keplar replied. “You coming to the museum for training tonight?”

“No, I gotta meet Jen and Chad over at Jen’s house. I haven’t hung out with them in a while, and I promised I’d see them tonight. What time is it?”

Keplar looked at his watch. “Almost eight.”

“Oh, crap—I was supposed to be there an hour ago. I gotta go.”

Tobin dashed down the street.

“It’ll take you at least an hour to get home,” Keplar told him.

“Not if I try out my new car.”

“Well, I’ll be looking forward to your funeral then.”

Tobin turned around and shrugged. “Don’t worry, it can’t be that hard. It’s just a car, right? See ya tomorrow.”

“All right, good luck.”

As Tobin turned the corner, Keplar revved up his motorcycle and headed onto the street. Before he took off, however, he noticed a beautiful blonde woman in her early twenties walking along the sidewalk. As she strolled by, the dog watched her carefully through his helmet.

“Hey there,” the husky said. “Any chance you got a thing for big blue hairy guys?”

CHAPTER THREE

F
ifteen minutes outside of Boston, Tobin was driving his car down a quiet back road, away from the main highway. He was running late again to meet up with his friends, but knew there was one way to make up some time.

“Okay,” he said, looking around the deserted road. “Nobody else around.” The boy opened a hatch on his dashboard, revealing a series of buttons. “Let’s see how this ‘Bolt Racer’ works.”

Taking a deep breath, Tobin pushed one of the buttons and held it down with his finger. “I am terrified,” he said to himself. Then, after clearing his throat, he said in a clear, assertive voice: “Change to Flying Mantis.”

As Tobin nervously gripped his vehicle’s steering wheel, the run-down, dinged-up, 2002 model, aqua station wagon suddenly spouted sleek, midnight blue wings from its sides. Then, with a mechanical whirring and humming from both inside and outside the car, the entire vehicle suddenly transformed: gone was the aqua station wagon—now Tobin was driving a dark blue vehicle that resembled a menacing, flying praying mantis.

“Okay,” Tobin said. “Now what?”

As if an answer to his question, an engine on the back of the vehicle roared and shot out a streak of red flame. Before Tobin could grasp what was about to happen, he and his vehicle lifted off the road and rocketed straight up into the air.

“Aaaaaaaaaaah!” the boy screamed, as he was pinned against his seat like an astronaut during take-off, looking out the windshield at the zooming sky in front of him. Gritting his teeth, he glanced down at the speedometer: 120 miles per hour.

Suddenly, Tobin’s stomach lurched, and the vehicle finished its take-off and leveled itself at cruising altitude. At least he was now facing forward, but Tobin still couldn’t control the Flying Mantis; as he screamed and fumbled with the steering wheel, his vehicle was dipping and swooping, crashing through the treetops and nearly dive-bombing the cars below him on the street, which were swerving wildly at the sight of the unidentified flying object being piloted by a terrified teenage boy.

Not far from Tobin, a college student named Brett and his new girlfriend Tanya were making out in Brett’s open Mustang convertible. They were parked on a quiet cliff overlooking the skyline of Boston, and Brett could tell Tanya was nervous.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“I don’t know, Brett. I’m not comfortable. Somebody might drive by.”

Brett shook his head. “I already told you, Tanya: we’re all alone. No one is gonna drive by, I promise. Okay? Just calm down.”

“Okay.”

Brett and Tanya resumed their kissing. The moment Tanya relaxed and got more into the romantic moment, however, a giant flying insect made out of midnight blue metal zoomed by directly over their heads.

“Sorry!” Tobin shouted from the open window.

The force and speed of the Flying Mantis sent dirt and litter swirling around the open convertible, while also
whooshing!
Tanya’s hair into a wild mess. When the flying vehicle was gone, Brett and Tanya sat in shocked silence for a moment, until Tanya reached over and slapped Brett in the face.

Tobin, meanwhile, had more important things to worry about: he was in a panic, still trying to get the Flying Mantis under control. Reaching out with one hand, he pushed the button on the control panel of his vehicle again and held it down.

“Change to Ion Speeder!” he shouted. “Change to Ion Speeder!”

After swooping down and hitting the street at 140 miles per hour, the Flying Mantis screeched onto its landing gear and metallically morphed once again: this time it turned into an ultra-sleek, ultra-fast, midnight blue convertible, looking like the world’s coolest sports car from the year 2525. Rocketing down the open road, Tobin could only scream and hold on tight.

“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhaaaaaaaahhhh!”

Heading straight toward a fork in the road, Tobin was going too fast to turn his steering wheel, and instead he drove headlong into a cornfield. As the corn stalks whizzed by him, battering the sides of his car and sending ears of corn flying, Tobin once again pushed the “Morph” button on his dashboard.

“Change to Off-Roader!” he yelled. “Change to Off-Roader!”

The sports car now turned into an off-road buggy, with big, bulky wheels attached to springy shocks, and a metal cage of yellow armor around the front of the car. The Off-Roader smashed through the corn stalks until finally bursting free from the field…and directly into a ravine.

Springing along the rocks and water, Tobin splashed through the ravine and bounced off its banks like a rabid Kangaroo. After being rattled around the inside of the vehicle for several hundred feet, the boy’s trip suddenly smoothed out, and his bones stopped rattling. He sighed. Phew. What a relief.

When the boy opened his eyes, however, he realized why his journey had smoothed out: he had driven straight off a cliff. He and his vehicle were now in the open air, and falling face first toward the ground.

“Flying Mantis!” Tobin shouted, holding the “Morph” button on his dashboard. “Flying Mantis!”

The Off-Roader mercifully morphed back into the Flying Mantis and shot back up into the air. Tobin was no longer falling to his death, but he was once again soaring uncontrollably through the sky.

“God, I wish this thing had an Auto-Pilot!” Tobin bellowed.

A woman’s voice then spoke through the vehicle’s speakers:

“Auto-Pilot on,” she said calmly. “Enjoy your ride.”

The Flying Mantis took control of itself, straightened out, and flew quietly and quickly toward Bridgton, Massachusetts. As he cruised smoothly through the air, Tobin sat back. He was breathless, stunned, and shaking.

“Are you kidding me?!” the boy shouted.

Twenty minutes later, Tobin was back in his small, seaside hometown of Bridgton, Massachusetts. As he parked his car and walked to the back door of his friend Jennifer Robins’ house, he realized that he hadn’t been to her house in almost two weeks. All through the last two years of middle school and the first three years of high school, Tobin had been to her house two, even three times a week, either to hang out with Jennifer and their friend Chad, or to have dinner with Jennifer and her family. Now, though, Tobin’s daily life was becoming very hectic, and he was finding it difficult to go back to his usual routine. After knocking on the back door of the house, he let himself in.

“Hey guys,” Tobin said, “sorry I’m late, I was—”

Tobin looked into the living room; Jennifer was there, sitting on a couch and watching television by herself, with her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Where’s Chad?” Tobin asked.

Jennifer didn’t turn around. “He left about a half hour ago.”

“Oh.” Tobin held up a bag of popcorn. He had picked it up on the way over to Jennifer’s, after his Bolt Racer had finally morphed back into a 2002 aqua station wagon. “Well…do you still wanna watch the movie?”

She stood up. “We already watched it ‘cuz we didn’t think you were coming.” She handed the DVD in its red envelope to Tobin. “It sucked.”

“Oh.” Tobin watched Jennifer walk toward the door. “I’ll make sure to let Netflix know. This movie will feel the wrath of the one star.” The boy mimed clicking the button on a computer mouse. “Click. One star.” He clicked his imaginary mouse again. “Click.”

A silence. Jennifer put her coat on.

“Ya know?” Tobin said. “One star, like when you return a movie and rate it on the—”

“Yeah,” Jennifer said. “I know.”

Tobin’s shoulders drooped. “I’m sorry. Let’s do something else. We could go get ice cream. We’ll have Chad meet us there.”

“I can’t—I already made other plans. C’mon, walk with me.”

They walked outside and toward Jennifer’s car.

“Who’d you make plans with?” Tobin asked.

“Tommy Evans. We’re going to his friend Josh’s house. You can come with us, if you want.”

“Um, no thanks. Josh gave me a wedgie freshman year that I can still feel, especially right before it rains, for some reason.” They reached Jennifer’s car. “You’re hanging out with Tommy Evans? Since when?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He asked me to dinner a couple weeks ago.”

“He did?”

“Yeah.”

“And you went?”

“Yeah.”

Tobin furrowed his brow and shook his head. “How did I not know about this?”

“I don’t know. We don’t really see you anymore, Tobin.”

He sighed. “I know, and I want to fix that, I do. I’m just having a hard time...balancing everything.”

“I know. I understand completely. Chad and I, we both do. We want you to keep doing what you’re doing, Tobin—it’s incredibly brave and important and absolutely amazing. We literally couldn’t be more proud of you, and I hope you know that. I just—hopefully you’ll have more time to hang out with us soon, too. I know that must sound incredibly selfish, but…”

Tobin nodded. “I know. But definitely Friday night, right? The prom will make up for it. You’re gonna get sick of me you’ll be seeing me so much. I’ll be dancing you off your feet all night long.”

Tobin began dancing a Mexican hat dance around Jennifer, snapping his fingers and shuffling his feet in a stutter-step. She stood there. Tobin continued the dance. Nobody said anything. It got awkward.

“You don’t seem to be too enthused about me dancing around you,” Tobin said, not giving up on his dance.

“Ugh,” Jennifer said. She closed her eyes and threw her head back. “This sucks.”

Tobin stopped dancing. “What?”

“I’m not going to the prom with you guys.”

Tobin was shocked. “You aren’t? Why?”

“Because…” She thought it over. “Because I’m gonna go with some other people. But I’ll still hang out with you guys when I get there and stuff—it’ll be just the same as if we went together, we just won’t be…arriving together.”

Tobin looked at her. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re gonna make me go by myself with Chad and his weirdo foreign exchange student date, who I’m pretty sure is a mail order bride? Who are you going with?”

“Tommy.”

Tobin threw his arms out and let them fall at his sides, shaking his head. “What is going on here?”

“I don’t know. I told you—Tommy and I have been hanging out a lot and he asked me to the prom last week…so I said yes. I was waiting to tell you.”

“But we always said that if we didn’t have dates to the senior prom, we would…”

A silence. Jennifer looked at Tobin, sad.

“Why do you wanna go with Tommy Evans?” Tobin asked. “I mean, sure, he’s ridiculously handsome. And athletic. And smart. And he smells how a man should smell. But other than that...”

Jennifer laughed and hugged Tobin.

“I’m sorry, Tobin. I miss you. We all do. Let’s hang out Thursday night, okay? Are you doing anything?”

“I’m supposed to go out on patrol, but I’m gonna tell Orion I have to skip it. It’s time I hung out with you guys again.”

“Okay, it’s a plan then. See you in school tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Jennifer got into her car and drove away. Tobin watched her go. Then he grabbed a handful of popcorn from his bag and shoved it into his mouth.

“This sucks,” he said, chomping away.