Council of Evil (9 page)

“But that's crazy!”

Basilisk barked with laughter. “Exactly! That's why it
will work. Of course, the world's governments will try our hand and force us to launch the device. Blah, blah, blah. But, as usual, at the last moment they will concede and give in to our demands. We deactivate the machine, get rich, and everybody's happy.” He snapped his fingers like a showman.

“So what are you waiting for?”

“By itself the Probe can't tilt the earth. We need to load it with explosives and then set them off at the core.”

Jake guessed the next part. “But you don't have the explosives.”

“No, or the money to buy what I need. So we're forced to resort to pettier crimes to achieve a grander scheme. But it provides a perfect training opportunity for you.”

“What am I going to do?”

“A little blackmail.
You
are going to perform a kidnapping.”

Jake's stomach jolted with a sick feeling as he guessed that things were about to get very messy. For the first time since they had arrived at the base, Jake's thoughts strayed back to his family, and the Enforcers who were pursuing him.

“I need time to think about this.”

“There is no time to think, Hunter.”

Jake found a vacant seat and dropped into it. The
reality of the situation was just occurring to him. “If those Enforcer guys tracked me to where I live, then what if they get my family?”

Basilisk paused, as though searching for the right argument to convince Jake. “What has your family ever done for you?”

Jake opened his mouth to answer. They had very little direct contact with him, but then the freedom he had was a gift of sorts.

“The Enforcers don't yet know where you live, otherwise they would have picked you up before I could. You're safe from them for now. But when they do find you, you better have something to use against them.”

Jake couldn't help but notice that Basilisk's comments were about him directly—he never said “
us
.” But he had to admit that Basilisk had a point. It was a big country, and the only time he had used his powers was at school. And that had been an accident.

Basilisk softened a little. “I am aware that killing does not appear to be your style. At least not at the moment. Rest assured that there is nothing harmful in what you're about to do. Look.” The screen changed to a surveillance picture of a middle-aged man entering a gallery. “He's a wealthy businessman, with a few million to spare. All you have to do is bring him back here. Alive. Think you can do it?”

Jake's mouth was dry as he stared at the screen, but he nodded wordlessly.

“Good. Let's get you some different powers then. And remember: if he does give you any trouble, knock him out, because he's sure to try and kill you first.”

Jake took a deep breath. How much more trouble could he possibly get into?

The life of a supervillain was not shaping up quite the way Jake had imagined. Basilisk had instructed him to contact his parents to tell them he'd be staying over at a friend's house. Hardly a clandestine supervillain activity, but Basilisk insisted it was important to maintain a normal appearance and create an alibi. Secretly, Jake was relieved to have the opportunity to check that the Enforcers hadn't threatened his family. He got through to his parents' answering machine and left a vague message. But he was glad he didn't have to explain himself further.

He spent the rest of the day skimming through surveillance photographs of the gallery owner he had been tasked to abduct: Karl Ramius, a Ukrainian businessman who dealt in fine antiquities and art, and who owned a gallery in the city close to Jake's hometown.

Jake's initial apprehension at the notion of kidnapping evaporated when Basilisk explained that most of the Ukrainian's fortune was made from drug smuggling, and that he laundered the money through the gallery so that
it appeared to be legally obtained. Ramius was estimated to be worth forty million dollars, and Basilisk anticipated a modest two million ransom would suffice.

Later, Jake rested in a small room that was no larger than the shed back home, but at least it had new furnishings. So new that he had to pull the Bubble Wrap off the bed himself.

Although he was exhausted he couldn't sleep right away. He thought about his family, and the fact that he never had bothered trying to spend time with them. He shook off the thoughts and chalked them up to a rare bout of homesickness. Then his attention turned to Lorna, the girl at school. She'd been nice to him when others usually kept their distance, but rather than talk to her all he'd done was mumble embarrassingly. He sighed deeply and wondered why he always managed to mess things up.

After a fitful sleep he was given a laptop to browse through Villain.net and select powers that appealed to him. Some of the stick figures were indecipherable: one had straight lines coming from its head, another jagged lines, while others had wavy lines, and then all three were repeated in various combinations with Morsecode–like dots and dashes. Basilisk had indicated the icon representing flying, although to Jake it looked as if the figure had just fallen flat on its face. Jake selected that, and another three that looked menacing enough.

After he had chosen four powers, the unnerving mercury finger curved out and tapped his forehead.

He glanced at his watch and noticed it was almost time to commence the operation. When he arrived at the city it would be Saturday afternoon, and Ramius would be closing the gallery, an ideal time to strike. Jake returned to the command center to find Basilisk in discussion with another caped weirdo.

The newcomer was tall and muscular, wearing a gray and black outfit with a curious whirlwind logo on his chest, and a black flowing cape. What was most unusual was the man's head. It was bucket shaped, with a high sloping forehead and pale skin that was almost translucent, showing the blue veins beneath. A mop of greasy black hair crowned his head. Jake overheard Basilisk refer to him as Doc Tempest.

“It's a good thing you broke away when you did,” said Doc Tempest. Jake thought he looked nervous, his hands fidgeting with a pair of power-dampening handcuffs.

“The Council has no vision, Tempest. But they won't be a problem much longer, I assure you.”

“Good. Um … why is that?”

Basilisk's fingers rolled on his desk, making a sound like hailstones. “You will see with the rest of the world. But the Council of Evil will soon be no more.”

Jake frowned. Basilisk had mentioned the Council before. Now it appeared he was plotting against it.

Tempest nodded eagerly, and again Jake couldn't shake the feeling that the villain was nervous. “Getting equipment through the Council is proving more difficult every day. Chromosome is having a hard time getting new biotech gear for her Legion, and she's
on
the Council. The paperwork is crazy. I need more glider-discs too. It's a bigger operation than I—” Alerted by a sixth sense, Tempest suddenly whirled around to face Jake. “Who is this sneaking around?”

Jake's gaze was glued to the newcomer's enormous forehead, blue veins wriggling like worms. “What happened to your head?”

Tempest glowered back, subconsciously running a hand through his lank hair. “I fell into a vat of chemical dry ice when I was a child. It gave me extraordinary powers.” He raised his fist; ice suddenly cracked across his glove as the air around it super-chilled. As soon as he unclenched his fist, the ice vanished and Tempest flashed his jagged teeth at Jake, obviously pleased with the chance to show off.

Basilisk leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers as he fixed his hooded gaze on Tempest. “You still owe me money for the satellite service on that Storm Engine of yours.”

“I've had a few minor cash-flow problems caused by four little brats from that stupid dot-com site. The sooner somebody shuts it down the better!”

“Maybe you should take a hostage? Always stops meddlers.”

Tempest looked thoughtful. “You think so? Never really been my style. You've got to feed them, clothe them, make sure the doors are locked … just seems like a lot of hassle.”

Basilisk shrugged. “I find family members are always good leverage for situations like yours.”

Jake couldn't shake the feeling that Basilisk was looking at him when he said this. But the dark hood meant he couldn't be sure.

Tempest brightened. “Maybe you're right. I'll grab their mommy. That'll put the little beggars in their place!” Tempest stood and swirled his cape theatrically. “Until next time!” He walked from the room without giving Jake another glance.

“Who was that psycho?”

“He calls himself Doc Tempest. Not the brightest of villains. He's built some kind of weather machine and still owes me money for launching the satellite that deflects his machine's rays around the globe. He's one of the more theatrical types in our business, into all the old-school cackling and swaggering. He's a very odd character.”

“Is he always that nervous?”

Basilisk sounded thoughtful. “No. If I didn't know him better, I would suspect him of betraying me to the Council. But enough of him. Are you ready?”

Jake hesitated. This was his very first solo supervillain mission, a real test of his mettle. He felt the tingle of super-energy trickle through him and knew this was too good an opportunity to miss. Whatever Jake's doubts were, and whatever he had to do, Basilisk was offering a rare chance and he would be a fool to pass it up. He was already tangled in this mess. What did he have to lose?

Jake nodded firmly.

“Good,” Basilisk said mirthlessly. “Let's go and extort some money.”

The SkyKar was on autopilot for the entire journey, since Jake was traveling alone. It kept low, trying to avoid detection by the various air-traffic controls of the countries he passed over. The rumble of the engines was lulling him to sleep when he noticed a key design fault with the craft: the lack of a radio. The time alone allowed him to examine the chain of events that had brought him here.

Villain.net had been stolen, but from where, from whom, and how it actually worked, remained a mystery. Jake guessed there must be some method of storing superpowers so they could be downloaded in the first place. Did that mean there was a host of supervillains sharing their powers via the Internet, or were the powers all artificially created?

Basilisk had insinuated there were higher powers at work, and had mentioned “The Council of Evil,” but who was on the Council? And why did Basilisk want to bring it down?

The next piece of the puzzle was Basilisk's reasons for kidnapping the gallery owner. He mentioned it was to buy explosives, but what kind of explosives cost a cool two million? And would the governments of the world really give in to blackmail? After all, who was insane enough to really
want
to tilt the world off its axis?

Turbulent thoughts sailed through Jake's mind, and his imagination started to kick in about what
he
would be like as ruler of the world. He'd be able to have anything he wanted, and if it didn't exist, he would have the best scientists at his fingertips to invent it. He could live anywhere he wanted. Somewhere on a tropical beach sounded fantastic.

And he would ask Lorna if she would come and stay for a while. He was surprised by that last thought, but it made sense. She wasn't intimidated by him and seemed to like talking to him. Perfect company.

A soft beeping from the SkyKar woke Jake. He'd drifted asleep with dreams of a mansion on a golden Australian beach and his own private jumbo jet, complete with bowling alley, which would take him anywhere he wanted. Reality overruled the dream. There was a light rain on the canopy above his head, while below lay
drab city streets. The SkyKar was landing on the roof of the Ukrainian's gallery.

Jake climbed out, feeling apprehensive. He fingered a small aerosol can in his pocket. Basilisk told him a single squirt would render the Ukrainian unconscious. Then it occurred to Jake that he wasn't wearing any kind of disguise. His face wasn't concealed, and his spiky blond hair was distinctive. He had no choice but to take the man by surprise or else risk being identified later. Why hadn't Basilisk warned him about this?

Jake walked to the edge of the building and peered down the ten floors to the pavement below. His brief sleep had done little to refresh him and he felt irritable—but a voice at the back of his head assured him this was a good thing: didn't anger feed his powers? Or did the powers make him feel angry?

The street was deserted, with just a few vehicles parked along it. He closed his eyes, reminded himself he could fly, and took a step off the edge of the building.

He landed on the pavement and quickly looked around to check he hadn't been spotted. Across the street a pile of rags shifted, and like an optical illusion, a homeless man with a bottle in his hands became visible. He stared at Jake with an open mouth. Jake ignored him; a hobo was no threat.

Two doors down, a doorbell jangled as Ramius left his gallery and gave a quick look around. He only saw a
teenager walking toward him, head bowed against the rain. He pulled the gallery door tightly closed and turned keys in three separate locks. Then he turned to his Porsche, parked outside—just as Jake shouldered into him.

Ramius was instantly on the defensive; his fingers clutched a small can of pepper spray he kept in his pocket at all times in case anybody dared mug him. Jake was a flurry of movement, extracting his own knockout gas can and thrusting it into the Ukrainian's face—just as Ramius pulled out his.

They both fired at the same time.

Ramius briefly gagged on the gas jetting into his face, then crumpled like a sack of potatoes. The Ukrainian's pepper spray shot wide, but just enough billowed into Jake's face.

Jake felt his eyes sting, as if acid had been dropped into them. The skin on one cheek burned. He clutched his face and dropped to his knees in agony.