Project Northwoods (68 page)

Colonel Morant watched from the Panopticon as more runaways were being brought into the courtyard. At this distance, it was easy to imagine that everyone below peacefully offered their freedom and, in return, the heroes graciously accepted their victory. But his knowledge of human nature made this mere fantasy seem dangerously distant.

Arbiter’s refusal to allow him to capture the Capones and, presumably, the other masterminds was a dark sign of things to come when it had already appeared that life was no longer going to be bright at all. He had either sought to kill them… or simply deny Morant the capture as some sort of punishment.

Twenty years of leading the Enforcers, upholding the legacy of One Shot… and this is how it would end. All because he hadn’t yet divorced himself from his humanity. He shut his eyes, hoping that the horror of the Apartheid War was not to come.

Morgan tried to rub some warmth into her bare arms. The diner’s air conditioning was working overtime for what she could only rationalize as sadistic reasons. She had shed the orange top in the woods in favor of the more inconspicuous white tank top underneath. Steven had to steal a pair of too-large jeans for her in order to not appear like a freshly escaped convict. Which, sadly, she was. “What’s the plan…” She trailed off. It seemed so odd to be talking to Zombress, probably the most powerful Bestowed in existence, across a diner table. It was a bizarre spectacle, watching the t-shirt-and-jeans clad woman scan a menu of trucker food. The Queen of the Dead looked up at her, pushing a pair of small-lensed glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Other than the obvious, of course,” Steven chimed in.

Zombress cocked her head and smirked. “Gina.” She returned to her menu.

The mobster to Morgan’s right looked positively joyous. “No, shit!” Steven said, louder than anyone was comfortable with. He checked over his shoulder to confirm they were still the only patrons, then looked back at Zombress. “You’re telling us your real name?”

She snorted in annoyance. “I’m not a Gina.” Her eyes flicked back to the menu. “I’m not an anything. But it’s better than having the heroes called on us.”

Steven’s face seemed to brighten. “Could we go back to the mob?”

“No,” Zombress said, her voice flat and firm.

Morgan and Steven looked at each other. “It was just a suggestion,” Steven said dejectedly.

“You haven’t offered anything better,” Morgan said argumentatively.

“Because there’s only one viable plan at the moment.” Zombress looked into their eyes, cold and clear. “Survival.” She resumed looking at the menu.

Steven made a face. “And the Capones can’t help with that?”

The waitress, an older woman with brown, frizzy hair, stopped by their table and eyed them up. “Are you ready to order?” No one said anything for a moment. She eyed Morgan and Steven. “Y’all aren’t… mobsters or anything, are you?”

“Gosh, no!” Zombress was suddenly bright and chipper, like someone had thrown a switch in her brain. Her smile was wider than anyone expected. She leaned forward and touched Steven’s hand. “This here’s my lawyer, Mr. Daniel Laurie, and his wife Roxanne.” Her voice had developed a sudden Georgian accent. Zombress leaned in close to the waitress. “I’ma getting divorced.”

“You poor dear.” The waitress’s face scrunched in what could be assumed to be sympathy. “I’ll send over some coffee.” She took a step away, then seemed to second-guess something. She leaned on the table toward Steven. “Take the backstabbing shit for all he’s worth.” A moment later, she was gone.

“How did you…” Morgan started.

“Indentation on her ring finger,” Zombress said casually as she examined the menu. “How could anyone call this food?”

Morgan and Steven exchanged glances again. “I’m sticking with her,” Steven said. And, despite what she may have wanted to believe, Morgan couldn’t help but think it was her best chance at survival.

Julia was grateful that her father had purchased property so close to the villain side of town. It made the journey with Talia’s body faster, though still laborious. Her grapple gun had been recovered and returned to her earlier that night, and she had never been more appreciative of the device’s knack for quick, almost undetectable transportation. Nevertheless, the threat of being seen was great and worrying enough without the weight of another person to carry.

Talia stretched out before her on the dining room table, still bleeding. She couldn’t believe how much blood the villain had in her, but now that she was on the table, Julia had a chance to start keeping it where it belonged.

She had some medical training, enough to work with simple stitches. It might be enough to save her. But she had to move quickly, disinfect her hands, and try her damnedest to get the bullet out and repair any damage she could.

By the time Julia collected what she needed from the kitchen and returned to the dining room, Talia was still. “Fuck!” she screamed. In an instant, she was at the table and grabbing at the other woman’s hand. “Talia, stay with me, please.”

Talia’s head lolled to the side, and she smiled faintly. “He loves you.”

Julia shook her head in confusion. “What?” At that, Talia began to convulse. Julia squeezed Talia’s hand a final time before she grabbed the sewing kit. “Stay with me.”

Ariana sat on the empty subway platform, fairly sure she had made it to the villain side of town through the tunnels. And even if she didn’t, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Her nose leaked profusely, joining in with the seemingly endless rain of tears from bloodshot eyes. She was a mess, a horrible, angry, depressed mess. And everything in the world felt like it was tumbling down around her.

She had no idea why she was heading back home. She didn’t know where home would be. The apartment was full of memories she’d just as soon forget. Her father’s house would either be watched or occupied by her letdown of a parent soon enough.

There was no plan. There was nothing. No Tim. No mother. No father. No Arthur.

Not anymore.

Clutching herself with her arms, she curled up on the bench and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that she would never wake again.

Electronica trembled in the medical wing of the barracks, hot wells of fury working her gut into knots. The doctors finished replacing her now-useless bandages and left her alone long enough for that scumbag Zealot to come in, self-assured and proud. He took a seat next to her and stared. The know-nothing hero wannabe just stared, smiling his dreamy, doped-up smile, watching her movements like she was some kind of display.

Which, thanks to my fuck-up spawn, I am. Well done, girl. Here’s Wendy Severson on national news, proclaiming her late-blooming idiot daughter a traitor, turning her back on her family for a continued role in the Bronze Age… damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and a motherfucking spectacle either way.

“Overseer informs me that you failed to apprehend or kill the fugitive Aquaria,” Zealot said, his voice ethereal, “even though she was within reach.” His smile turned into a sneer. “That does not bode well for the woman who claims to have cut ties.”

“She had help.” Electronica turned to look at him. “Or did you not notice the army when you were choking the life out of a single villain?”

“It is never wise to take your aggression out on those who may decide your future, Electronica.” Zealot leaned back in his chair and watched her with his cool, glassy eyes.

Agent Diane Mast stared out the window of the D.C. bound jetliner, hand to her face in contemplation. Things were spiraling out of control. It was only a matter of time before things got even messier, and everyone would have to start worrying about the very real ramifications of what Arbiter was doing. There was so much at risk… the very system she had helped establish in order to protect countless lives had been reduced to a skeleton in a few short weeks.

The BVH, employing scarcely one hundred agents yet responsible for the whole of the United States, was spread too thin, too poorly funded, and stymied by bureaucratic red-tape to handle this kind of emergency. Rumblings were beginning in Chicago, Los Angeles, and Houston. A few of the more anti-government types had already cut ties to the Bureau in what could only be read as preparation. The heroes were talking to each other, trying to whip up support for Arbiter and his vision. A vision that she had hoped he had abandoned years ago, despite his rhetoric.

People like him, however, never changed. It was a lesson that she would not forget.