Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel (31 page)

Niobe woke to the sound of sizzling and a spicy scent filling her nostrils. Her stomach growled and knotted. Bleary-eyed and groggy, she pulled the bowler hat off her face and sat up on the couch, putting a hand against her spine. That had been a bad place for a nap. Her back felt like a sumo wrestler had done a tap dance on it.

She plodded to the kitchen.
Gabby?

Her heart sank when she saw Solomon stirring the sizzling vegetables around the pan. Solomon gave her a too-cheerful grin as she sank into a seat at the table and propped her chin up on her hands.

“Why so glum?” he asked.

“Bite me,” she said. “Where’s Gabby?”

Solomon shovelled the vegetables into piles on two plates. “Still in the bedroom.”

Niobe put her face in her hands. Gabby hadn’t so much as looked at them when she came back up from the basement, her clothes streaked with engine grease. She went into the bedroom, shut the door, and then Niobe heard the shower running. That was the last she’d seen of her.

Solomon shoved a plate and a big glass of water in front of her, and forced a fork into her hand. “Eat, kiddo.”

She wasn’t so hungry anymore. She glanced at the bedroom door, but no matter how much she willed it, it didn’t open. She could just go in, but that might cause more problems than it would solve. Or maybe Gabby was in there waiting for her to come apologise. This bloody thing was too complicated.

Solomon sat opposite her, putting his plate down on top of an old police report about Daniel O’Connor’s team taking down some metahuman kidnappers. He chowed into his food immediately, but Niobe poked a piece of broccoli with her fork. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“Stir-fry,” Solomon said with his mouth full. “I thought you were supposed to be Asian.”

“My folks cooked Japanese food, not Chinese. And I spent most of my time at boarding school.” She could barely remember her mum cooking. But the food did smell good. “Aren’t you supposed to have rice or noodles or something with this?”

He shrugged. “Quit your complaining and eat. You can’t go hunting supervillains on an empty stomach.”

Her hunger returned as soon as she started eating. Her stomach rumbled with satisfaction. “What’s the time?”

He checked his watch. “Five in the afternoon.”

Crap. Her nap had gone a few hours longer than she intended. No wonder she was hungry. She drained her glass of water and went back to the food. They’d spent until midday poring over the documents she’d taken from Met Div, trying to piece everything together, find connections. They’d got nowhere. They were working with too few pieces of the puzzle. They needed to work out how everyone fitted together, but more importantly, they needed a location on Quanta. She’d lost count of how many times she’d listened to his smarmy voice on the recording, but the background noises were too distorted to be of any help.

The midday radio news said there had been reports of a breakout at the Metahuman Correctional Facility, but the cape coppers had lips as tight as their arses. It must’ve been a hell of a breakout. All the meta prisoners would have kill-switches, so any guard who caught them escaping would be able to blow the back of their head out in seconds.

Everyone who had a hint of authority had been quick to assure the public that the AAU wouldn’t bow to Quanta’s threats. The media called him a terrorist, not a supercriminal, like they were trying to play down the fact that he just executed one of the world’s greatest superheroes on live television. Still, that didn’t stop the reporters from snooping around the Old City, trying to get comments from ex-heroes. So far, they’d failed miserably.

Other than that, Met Div were floundering. Some were suggesting the radiation bomb Quanta left at the TV studio was a trick—real radiation poisoning didn’t completely wear off after a couple of days. The cops had evacuated a mile radius from the studio, and had hazard teams cycling in and out to monitor the contamination. If it had all been for nothing, some people at Met Div would have red faces.

That said, she and Solomon weren’t doing any better. Her eyes hurt trying to make out the handwritten reports. Solomon looked as shattered as she felt. Thankfully, he avoided asking any questions about her fight with Gabby. The situation was awkward enough as it was.

While she chewed, her eyes drifted over the paper scattered across the table. Avin and Screecher were definitely connected. They’d communicated and even worked in the same teams a few times back in the old days, and they were both active in Heroes for Freedom. Avin was a prominent member, while Screecher was a behind-the-scenes guy, but the organisation hadn’t been large. It wasn’t hard to picture them becoming friends and following the same causes.

What could entice them to fall in with Quanta, though? And what about Daniel O’Connor, the Met Div officer who’d snatched Sam from the boat? Judging from some of the reports in his file, O’Connor seemed to have links in the meta community. Was that how he’d encountered Avin and Screecher? He’d started out as a beat cop in New Zealand, but he got friendly with some AAU bureaucrats and was promoted to some unspecified international government work in Europe in the ’50s. Interpol, maybe, or some sort of special unit, the documents weren’t clear. When he came back to New Zealand, he got tasked on some of the higher-profile stuff. Supercriminals and hostage situations and the like. He volunteered for Met Div when the unit was set up after the Seoul Accord was signed. He’d had a couple of brutality complaints, although nothing stuck. But then there was something interesting. The report of his dismissal was vague, but “indiscretions” were mentioned, along with veiled accusations of corruption. It wasn’t conclusive, but she had a pretty good idea what’d happened. He’d been leaking departmental information. He’d been spying for Quanta. And by the sound of it, it had been going on a long time.

But how did he get to know Quanta in the first place? And where was the link she needed? It was here somewhere. There was something in these files that could help her find Quanta and Sam. There had to be.
Sam. He’s alone with that bastard.

She gobbled down the last bit of carrot and sat back in her chair. She’d never felt so satisfied. The Carpenter was giving her a funny look.

“What?” she said.

“Got any answers for us yet? I can hear your brain working from here.”

She opened her mouth to tell him she was fresh out of ideas. A knock on the door cut her off.

He raised his eyebrows at her and frowned. She met his look, heart racing, and gave a tiny shrug. She didn’t entertain visitors. Ever.

They stood silently. She reached for her gun before she remembered she’d left it in the holster in her bedroom, along with her mask. The Carpenter pulled on his mask and hat while she quietly padded to the bedroom and opened the door. Gabby was lying on the bed in a bathrobe, eyes puffy from tears. She sat up when Niobe entered.

Niobe pressed a finger to her lips, grabbed her gun from its holster, pulled the mask over her face, and slipped back into the living room. The gun was loaded. She deliberated for half a second, then switched to stun rounds. The knock came again, louder. She went to the window and pulled the curtains closed. The Carpenter stood by the door, hatchet in one hand and a small, crazed smile on his face. She came alongside him and held up a fist.
On three,
she mouthed. He nodded.

She held up one finger.
One.

Who the hell could it be?
Two.

She sucked in a lungful of air and slipped into shadow. The comforting dark embraced her, and she became part of the faded carpet. She sped through the crack under the door and got an image of the sleek surface of someone in a full bodysuit. She darted between his legs and emerged from the shadow behind him.

Three.

The Carpenter jerked the door open, and at the same time she shoved the barrel of her gun against the stranger’s back. The man jumped, but before he could react, the Carpenter’s hand darted out, latched onto his shoulder, and hauled him inside. Niobe followed, gun pressed against the white bodysuit that covered every inch of skin.

She kicked the door shut behind her as the Carpenter pressed the man against the wall. The suited man was so tall she had to stretch to press the gun barrel against the side of his head. The masked man raised his arms, palms out, and said, “Jesus Christ, don’t shoot!”

It took her a moment to recognise him. “Quick-fire?”

“Bit far from the Blind Man’s territory, aren’t you, speedster?” the Carpenter said, the man’s suit fabric scrunched in his fist. “Get lost on your way to buy a pack of smokes?”

There was a patch on his suit covering the spot where Niobe’s stun round had hit him. That felt like years ago.

“Talk quick,” she said. “How do you know where I live?”

“The Blind Man.” His voice was clipped. “He knows all that sort of stuff.”

That son of a bitch. What else did he get when he was rooting around in her brain? Were her bloody memories not enough?

“What do you want, Quick-fire?” the Carpenter said.

The speedster reached to his neck and pulled the mask off his face. Christ, he was just a skinny little kid himself. The Maori boy couldn’t have been more than twenty. Dark fuzz peppered his upper lip, and his head was a mop of black curls. His wide eyes darted between them, but they kept coming back to the gun she aimed at him.

“Jesus, lady, take it easy with that thing. I got a message for you from the Blind Man. Information.”

She growled and he looked even more scared. Taking pity on the kid, she uncocked the revolver and let her arm fall to the side. The Carpenter glanced at her and eased up his grip, but he didn’t let go completely.

“Yeah?” the Carpenter said. “How much is he charging for it this time? I got a soul I’m just dying to sell.”

“No charge. Mates’ rates.”

She shared a glance with the Carpenter. “Bullshit.”

“No, really,” Quick-fire said. “You guys have got a common enemy.”

Ah, so that’s it.
“The Blind Man’s taken a disliking to Quanta then,” she said. “He wants us to do his dirty work for him.”

Quick-fire nodded. “Something like that.”

“Piss off.”

“No, wait. The Blind Man says it will help you get the boy back.”

She frowned beneath her mask. It smelled fishy, but then everything attached to the Blind Man did. She could see the same thought going through Solomon’s brain. His grip tightened on Quick-fire’s white suit.

“Think I should let him go?” he said.

She tapped her cheek with her free hand and considered it. A dark part of her was enjoying watching the poor kid squirm. But finally she nodded. “Go on, then.”

He let go, brushed the creases out of the kid’s suit, and stepped back. Quick-fire eyed them warily for a few seconds, then he seemed to breathe a bit easier.

“This information,” she said. “How’d your boss come by it?”

“A guy came around looking for new recruits. One of Quanta’s boys. The Blind Man didn’t like that. We got hold of him, and the Blind Man poked his mind to see what came out.”

She couldn’t see a lie on his face, and it seemed like the sort of thing the old man would do. “All right. Talk.”

His gaze flicked over them again, and he took another couple of breaths to calm himself. “The guy, Quanta, his real name’s Morgan Shepherd.”

Niobe grabbed a pen and paper from the table. “S-H-E-P-H-A-R-D?”

“Nah, —H-E-R-D. I think.”

Quanta = Morgan Shepherd
, she scribbled. “What else?”

“He’s definitely got the boy you’re looking for. The boss wasn’t sure, but he thinks they’re trying to mess with his brain.”

“His brain? Why?”

Quick-fire shrugged. “Dunno. But Doll Face is the one doing the messing.”

Her heart dropped into her intestines. She’d been blocking out that particular thought, hoping Quanta had some other use for Doll Face. What tortures had Sam already been through?
Jesus Christ, he’s just a kid!

“Spook?” the Carpenter said quietly.

She realised her fingers were trembling around her gun. Hot anger pulsed through her in time with her heartbeat. She forced herself to breathe. Getting worked up wouldn’t help anyone.

Did Quanta think he could control Doll Face? Supercriminals had tried it before, and they always regretted it at the end, when the end was a long time coming.

“If we’re gonna stop this guy, we need a location,” the Carpenter said. “Tell me you’ve got that for us.”

Quick-fire’s lips formed a line. “Not exactly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said.

“The boss could only get an image. He drew a picture.” Quick-fire pulled out a slip of paper from a hidden pocket.

Niobe was skeptical about an old blind man’s artistic ability, but when she unfolded the paper, she had to stifle a gasp. The picture could’ve passed for a photograph. It depicted part of the Neo-Auckland skyline. She could make out the Peace Tower standing tall above all the other buildings. But it was far away. The picture had been taken from a fair way south.

Solomon pointed to the other side of the picture, away from the skyline. “Are those chimneys? Industrial chimneys?”