That night, I attended the annual Fall Ball, hosted by the Bigtime Debutante Society. It was the night when all the proud, marriage-minded mothers introduced their daughters to Bigtime society and made them go trolling for suitably rich husbands.
My eyes roamed over the crowd. I studied all of the men, comparing them to Striker. I wondered if one of them sported a black leather suit underneath his tuxedo. Wondered if one of them had a mask hidden in his jacket pocket. Wondered if one of them was thinking about what had happened between us last night. Wondered—
High-pitched laughter caught my ear. A cluster of twentysomething debutantes gathered around Sam Sloane, giggling at his every word. For once, the billionaire appeared to be a little flustered by the hungry, female attention. He seemed distracted and kept glancing around, scanning the crowd. Who could he possibly be searching for? People flocked to Sloane. He didn’t have to seek out company of any kind—female or otherwise. And where was his latest supermodel? The billionaire looked rather exposed without a towering blond clutching his arm.
I stared at Sloane. Wondering. Comparing. Contrasting.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Oh, he had black hair like Striker, but so did tons of rich businessmen. It was practically a job requirement on the society scene. If you weren’t a thirtyish playboy with dark good looks, then you were fifty-plus, with a mane of silver hair, and searching for trophy wife number three. Besides, Sloane just didn’t seem to have Striker’s intensity. Sloane was as handsome as the next playboy, but he couldn’t turn me into a puddle of mush with a single glance. Still, for some reason, my eyes strayed back to him again and again. Perhaps I should use Henry’s list to dig a little deeper into Sam Sloane, just to be sure he wasn’t Striker.
Sam Sloane, Nate Norris, Devlin Dash. Each of them and a dozen others fit Striker’s general description. I paid special attention to Dash, who always sported a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, usually a dead giveaway. But Dash seemed too quiet and introverted to be the leader of a team of superheroes like the Fearless Five. All he did was wander around, sip champagne, and look at the paintings that adorned the walls.
After an hour of sizing up every man on the premises, I gave up. If Striker was hidden among the high-society crowd, I wasn’t going to discover his identity tonight. There were just too many suspects.
I was finishing up my last interview when excited whispers cut through the air. A group of people clustered around an older man. A cell phone flickered in his hand, and I spotted an SNN logo on the screen.
“What’s going on?” I asked, shoving my way through the crowd.
“The Terrible Triad’s on a rampage,” a matronly mother piped up. “They’ve ransacked the Complete Computer Company already, and they’re at the Super Duper Sweeper Upper Vacuum Cleaner Plant right now. Everybody’s wondering where the Fearless Five are. Why they haven’t stopped them yet.”
My breath caught in my throat. Where the Terrible Triad were, the Fearless Five would soon follow. Including Striker. I dashed out of the ball, flagged down a taxi, and leapt into the back seat.
“The Super Duper Sweeper Upper Vacuum Cleaner Plant. And step on it.”
“What’s the address?”
“How the hell should I know? Just follow the police cars and the sound of the explosions.”
“What are you?” the driver asked. “One of those weird superhero chasers?”
“Something like that,” I muttered. Superhero-obsessed slut was more like it.
The cabbie double-timed it, and ten minutes later, we stopped a block away from the plant. I shoved the fare at him, scrambled out of the taxi, and started running. Now, running toward the scene of an ubervillain crime spree wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to do, especially when Malefica wanted to turn me into a monster. But I couldn’t stay away. Not if there was even the smallest chance he would be there. Striker…Striker…Striker. My footsteps pounded out his name as I sprinted toward the plant.
The cops were already on the scene. Police cars, SWAT vehicles, and a couple of tanks crouched in front of the plant, a square, squat building in one of Bigtime’s blue-collar neighborhoods. Lights swirled on top of the vehicles, bathing everything in a harsh, red glow. I dashed past the old ladies in their curlers and housecoats and the kids in their baggy sweats. A beefy cop held up his hand, but I flashed my press pass at him and zoomed by before he could protest. Sirens screeched, and walkie-talkies cracked and squawked. I made my way as close to the front of the barricade as I could, grabbed an official-looking guy in a dark suit, switched on the audio recorder in my camera, and held up the device.
“Carmen Cole with The Exposé. What’s the situation?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got three ubervillains on the roof who don’t want to come down. That’s the situation,” he growled. The guy pulled his arm free and turned back to his fellow policemen.
I craned my neck up. Sure enough, the Terrible Triad stood on top of the two-story building. Malefica put her hands on her hips. Frost cradled his infamous freezoray gun in his arms, while a large metal briefcase dangled from Scorpion’s meaty hand. I eyed the briefcase. What could there possibly be of value at a vacuum cleaner plant?
The three of them stared down at the crowd, unconcerned by the cops’ considerable show of strength.
“Put your weapons down and your hands up!” a cop roared through a bullhorn.
Malefica laughed. The pealing cackles sent chills up my spine. She turned to Frost and gestured at the policemen. The thin ubervillain stepped forward. His icy eyes swept the crowd.
“Damn, that’s cold!” a cop close to me muttered.
Something hit the ground next to my feet. It had been a gun at one time, but now a solid lump of ice covered the weapon. One by one, the cops dropped their frozen guns. Even the ones on the tanks iced over. Frost sneered.
“Your puny weapons are no match for me!” the ubervillain shouted. “And your lack of intellect is too small to calculate!”
Scorpion cracked his knuckles. He looked like he wanted to drop the briefcase and dive off the roof onto the cops below. Malefica waved and blew kisses to the crowd. Some of the men cheered her name and let out low whistles and catcalls. At least, until their wives glared at them.
The policemen exchanged nervous glances. A couple checked their watches. They were outmatched, and they knew it. I looked for Chief Newman, but I couldn’t spot him in the crowd. And where were the Fearless Five—
Suddenly, a fireball slammed into the building where the Terrible Triad stood. Three more figures popped up on the far side of the roof. The Fearless Five had arrived. Fiera flashed by in all her flaming glory and hurled a fireball at Scorpion, who ducked out of the way. Mr. Sage focused his gaze on Frost’s gun, trying to rip it out of his hand with his telekinesis while the ubervillain tried to put the deep freeze on him.
But I had eyes only for Striker. He ran at Malefica as if to tackle her, but she used her telekinetic powers to pick up a couple of cement blocks and throw them at the superhero. The blocks slammed into his chest, and Striker fell to his knees. I gasped. But the superhero got right back up and went after Malefica again.
For the next ten minutes, the two groups tried to kill each other and level the surrounding neighborhood. Fireballs, rubble, and more flew through the air. Explosion after explosion roared out. Grunts, shouts, and curses floated down from the rooftop.
The spectators oohed and aahed at the pyrotechnic show. Girls played with Fiera action figures. Boys crossed mock Striker swords. Teenagers punched each other with foam Scorpion fists. Just another typical superhero-ubervillain battle in Bigtime.
With a loud groan, part of the roof collapsed. All sorts of things smashed, cracked, and shattered. A cloud of smoke puffed up, obscuring the roof. Everyone screamed and leapt back except me. I couldn’t move. Not until I was sure that Striker was okay. It was suddenly very important to me that he was all right.
“Let’s go!”
Malefica shouted above the roar of the crowd.
A horrible screech rang out. It was like a thousand ice picks stabbing into my brain at the same time. Agony, pure agony. I stuck my fingers in my ears to try to block the noise, but it didn’t work. The sound intensified. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand another second of it, the terrible noise stopped. I shook my head, trying to clear away the painful fog. All the cops around me wore similar, dazed expressions.
“What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are the Fearless Five okay?”
“Did the Triad escape?”
“Is anyone hurt?”
Murmurs and whispers filled the air. My eyes returned to the collapsed roof. Seconds ticked by. Minutes passed. Still no sign of the Fearless Five. Come on. The superheroes had to be okay. Striker had to be okay.
Finally, just when I was about to leapfrog over the police barricade and run to the demolished building, three figures climbed back up on the part of the roof that hadn’t collapsed. The crowd cheered. Mr. Sage gave a half-hearted wave. Fiera shot a few sparks off her fingertips. Striker just stood there, looking at the mess and the cheering crowd.
“Striker! Striker!” I shouted.
I knew he’d never hear me, one voice in a thousand. But for some reason, his gaze turned in my direction. Our eyes locked. All of the emotions, the hot touches and whispered caresses of last night, flashed through my mind. I’d come to the battle site because I wanted to see Striker again. Because I wondered if he’d felt the things that I had. If he wanted me as much as I still wanted him.
Evidently, the answer was a resounding no. Striker stared at me for a moment, then turned and disappeared into the dark night.
*
Once the excitement died down, I took a taxi to The Exposé, wrote my society story, and left. I walked as slowly as I could back to my apartment.
Striker didn’t show up during my walk home, and he wasn’t waiting for me inside. He’d seen me at the vacuum cleaner plant. I knew he had. Did he think I’d just gone down there for my health? Disappointment filled my heart, along with anger. What had I expected? Roses? Chocolates? A mushy card? A repeat of last night’s performance?
Still, I unlocked one of the living room windows, just in case.
Striker didn’t come to me that night. Or the next. Or the next. He didn’t follow me home from work. He didn’t pop into my apartment. The superhero quit stalking me. He melted into the shadows from which he’d come.
Typical. Sleep with a guy, and he disappears. In a way, it was comforting to know some things were predictable. Even if my hormones and emotions weren’t.
*
The days flew by all too quickly, despite Striker’s absence. Time passed, until I had only three days left before Malefica’s deadline.
I threw down my highlighter. I’d been working nonstop for the last three weeks, and I was no closer to uncovering Striker’s identity than when I started. I’d slept with him, for crying out loud, and I still couldn’t figure out who he was. How pathetic was that? I fumed for a moment, then picked up my blue highlighter. I didn’t have time to be discouraged or angry. Every second counted.
I flipped through the list of the fifty richest men and women in Bigtime that Henry had provided me. Notes and scribbles and highlighted passages dotted the pages. I’d crossed off some of the names right away. After all, ninety-year-old widows with rheumatoid arthritis weren’t the stuff superheroes were made of. Ubervillains, perhaps, but not superheroes.
I’d been depressed to find out exactly how rich the rich and famous of Bigtime were. Morgana Madison topped the list with assets in excess of one hundred billion, not counting the stacks of cash and ropes of diamonds she probably had secreted away in foreign banks. When I’d first come to Bigtime, I’d dug into my boss, wondering if she could be one of the villains I was after. You had to be extremely lucky or do some extremely illegal things to accumulate that much wealth, and ubervillains loved money. The only thing they coveted more than wealth was power. Morgana had plenty of both. But she always seemed to be at a society function or on some overseas teleconference call when the Triad or other ubervillains tore through town.
So, I moved on. Berkley Brighton, Joanne James, Nate Norris, Bella Bulluci. All the usual suspects were also on the list. Or were they?
I frowned. I’d been over the list a dozen times, but I had a nagging feeling I was missing something. The list seemed…short. I flipped through the pages and counted the names. I came up with forty-eight. I counted again. Forty-eight. And again. Forty-eight. I checked the files Henry had e-mailed me, but they were missing two names as well. Odd. Henry was usually so thorough in his work. I’d never known him to make a mistake before. Who had Henry left off?
I closed my eyes and went through a mental list of Bigtime’s richest, but I couldn’t put my finger on the missing billionaires. I had the forty-eight richest men and women. Two more probably weren’t going to make a difference, but I didn’t want to overlook anything at this stage of the game. It was fourth and long, the clock was running down, and I was miles away from the end zone.
I picked up the phone and dialed Henry.
“Hi, this is Henry Harris…” His answering machine clicked on after five rings.
“Henry, it’s Carmen. There’s some missing information on this list you gave me. I really, really, really need the missing info. I’m on a tight deadline. Call me back as soon as you get this, either at home or on my cell. Thanks.” I rattled off my numbers and hung up.
Henry was probably lost somewhere in the land of gigabytes. I drummed my fingers on my thigh. Who knew when he’d get around to calling me back? I’d get the information myself. I grabbed my purse and coat and headed for the Bigtime Public Library.
For the next few hours, I surfed through stock holdings and perused tax reports. Finally, I gave up. It was after midnight, and I still couldn’t pinpoint the two missing billionaires. I went to the office, but for once, Henry wasn’t there. Curious. No, more than curious. Though, perhaps he’d finally asked Lulu out to dinner. Either way, I’d have to get Henry to give me the missing information tomorrow.
I left The Exposé offices and began my trek home, right past my nightly harasser’s stoop.
“Hey there, sweet stuff,” the familiar, obnoxious voice called out.
“Get over yourself, loser.” I was in no mood to be hit on. Men. They were all the same, superheroes or not. They all wanted one thing. Sex. Once they got it, it was hasta la vista, baby.
“Bitch,” he muttered.
I kept walking. Sneakers squeaked on the pavement, and I glanced over my shoulder. A large man emerged from the shadowy doorway. Even though it was chilly, he wore a sleeveless, white shirt. Tattoos covered his muscled arms, and a large, gold cross dangled from a thick chain around his neck. My inner voice whispered in warning. I picked up my pace.
He dialed a series of numbers on his cell phone. “The corner of Seventh and Thirteenth. Now. See you, bro.”
I glanced up at a nearby street sign. That was the block the two of us were on. Not good. I pulled my pepper spray out of my purse and crossed the street. The man jogged over as well. I glanced around, praying for a taxi to miraculously drive by. None came. There was no one on the street besides the two of us.
Suddenly, as if in answer to my prayers, two men stepped into view about a block ahead. A wave of relief hit me. The two men stood there, watching me walk. I slowed. It was almost as if they were waiting for me. I stopped. The man behind me kept coming.
“You ready to have a little fun now, bitch?” he called out in a mocking tone. “Me and my boys are hot to trot tonight, if you know what I mean.”
My inner voice screamed. I ran. The men laughed. I dashed across the street and into an alley. Footsteps pounded on the pavement behind me. I ran faster than I’d ever run before. My heart slammed against my ribs. My lungs burned. My legs ached. Still, I ran. My life depended on it.
; I rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. Dead end. I whirled around, ready to run again, but the men blocked the alley. My eyes darted around. Desperate. No way out. I flipped the nozzle on my pepper spray and tried to remember self-defense moves from my various classes. My fingers trembled. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck.
The men circled me. I turned first one way then another, trying to keep an eye on all of them at the same time. Suddenly, they lunged at me. One of them knocked the pepper spray from my hand, while another slapped me across the face. Pain flooded my body, and I tumbled to the ground. Two of the men grabbed my arms and yanked me to my feet. I kicked out. They easily avoided my awkward, flailing blows.
In a moment, it was over. Two of the men pinned me against the wall. The rough brick dug into my back, cutting through my jacket and T-shirt. I kept struggling, twisting and turning in an attempt to break free, but it was no use. They both had a hundred pounds of muscle on me. Still, I fought. I had to. I had to get away, or I was in for something more horrible than anything the Terrible Triad could ever dream up.
“Now, sweet stuff, we’re going to have a little fun.” The tattooed leader grinned. Gold-capped teeth glistened in his mouth.
Bile and fear and terror rose up in my throat. My inner voice screamed and wailed. I was going to be raped. Perhaps worse, if there was such a thing.
The leader pushed my jacket aside and ran a finger down my chest. “Now, let’s get to the sweet stuff.”
He eyed me in a cold, casual way, like I was a piece of meat he was about to sink his teeth into. The callous disregard enraged me, breaking through my fear. I wasn’t going down without a fight. Carmen Cole never gave in, not even when things seemed hopeless. So, I did the only thing I could—I spat at him. “Go to hell and die, you bastard.”
The man wiped the spit off his face. Blackness filled his empty eyes. He stared at me a moment, then backhanded me. I cried out in pain. Blood pooled in my mouth. The men chuckled, and the leader reached for me.