Hero Stalker

Part Thirty-Two

The stereos inside the bar blared at maximum volume as I walked in. Three suited men in a booth glared at me and shoved papers back into their briefcases. A six-armed man with a blood-red mask mixed three drinks at once behind the bar. Two men with black knives tattooed on their necks monopolized the pool table to my right. To my left, two women dressed like prostitutes and one in a teal mask/pantsuit combo laughed at me from a high table, green martini glasses in hand. Multiple copies of the same pale brunette women played foosball against each other.

Oh, and Dan sat at the bar with a knot of men I vaguely recognized from the Speedway attack. Does the whole PCD go out after work and drink with the men they arrest? Worse, Pulse sat three stools down, his hood-like mask pushed up off his face as he talked loudly with a tall blond woman in a slinky gold dress.

"So my math teacher tells me to stay late after class." Pulse took another gulp of beer. "I'm like, what the fuck is wrong with you, lady? You're just a substitute. You don't know me."

"The ignominy," said the woman, who had to be at least ten years his senior. Her long, forked tongue extended from between her teeth, wrapped around her shot glass, and upended it in her mouth.

"Ignominy. Yeah." Pulse looked confused, but continued. "So then she's like, I'm Femme Fatale and I'm an intelligence operative on the Centurions. I've been monitoring you for the past two weeks and I want you to try out for the team. And I'm like, sure, lady, but you were so much hotter in the Ratjaw video."

My blood boiled and my legs took over. Next thing I knew, I stood between the two of them. "That's our captain you're talking about. Show some respect."

He rolled his eyes. "This is a senior Centurion you're talking to. Show some respect. At least I'm not on probation."

That stung. I finally had a shot at my dream. I didn't need Pulse reminding me just how fragile everything was. And I sure as hell didn't need to hear the story of how he'd been handed everything I ever wanted on a silver platter. "Yeah? Well, you're underage." It might have been a weak comeback, but I punctuated it by slicing his PBR in half. The blond woman shrieked as beer flew all over her dress.

"Cute," Pulse said. The air around me suddenly solidified, locking my limbs in place. I couldn't breath.

Pulse cocked his head. I flew backwards and slammed into the wall. Pain shot up my lower back. Framed pictures crashed to the ground. Gasping for air, I dropped to my knees. Shit, I thought, and, no wonder Femme recruited him.

"Am I gonna have to start booking people?" Dan shouted from the bar. The prospect of arresting Centurions didn't seem to faze him.

"You owe me for dry-cleaning!" the blond woman shrieked, wringing out the hem of her dress. I winced. Oops. I'd ruined the night of an innocent bystander.

"I'm so sorry," I muttered. Heat flooded my face.

"I'll take care of the bill, Serpentis." A man in his mid-fifties with grey hair and a shattered jaw walked out of a door behind the bar, dressed in an ancient tee-shirt that read 'Raybury Bass-Fishing Tournament 2008' and khaki shorts. He tapped the six-armed man on the shoulder. "Take a break, Joe."

"You sure you want her in here, Harrison?"

"As long as she pays her tab." He dropped a dirty shotglass on the counter and filled it with Jack Daniels. Hooray. "This one's on the house."

I walked up to the bar. Dan stared openly at me, and I couldn't tell whether he'd think better or worse of Shadowcat if I downed it. But Slasher—or Harrison, without his mask—smirked at me, and I couldn't screw up every single part of my training.

I downed the shot to scattered cheers. My throat burned. Dan rolled his eyes and turned back to his buddies. Shit.

Harrison grabbed my arm and pulled me close. "That teenager in the Autopsy shirt. Mask shaped like a marijuana leaf. He's a drug dealer who calls himself Metalhead. Spent all last night whining about Harpy messing with his operation. Go tell him you'll pay his tab if he talks."

"I can't afford to pay anyone's tab."

Harrison looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "I'll take the loss. Go bribe the supervillain."

Bribe. The word rattled around my brain. Politicians went to jail for that. Criminals got shot. Centurions . . . I'd never heard about a Centurion offering bribes. Didn't they kick you out for that? I could always blame Slasher.

Yeah, I could always blame someone else for my personal lapses in judgment. Because that was exactly what a Centurion should do.

Harrison released my arm and started pouring another round for the PCD officers. I took the hint and a deep breath, drew myself up to a towering five-foot-six, and walked as confidently as I could over to Metalhead's table.

The sticky, sweet smell of weed clung to him. His two muscular, suited bodyguards stood close behind him. Aside from the five-pointed green mask, the so-called supervillain was just another skinny white boy, the kind that had haunted the computer labs of BaytonCommunity College. Unlike most of the boys I'd known back then, he was thumbing through a stack of hundred dollar bills. His lips moved as he counted. "What's up, sweet thing?" he said when he saw me.

I knew exactly what I was supposed to say. But I jammed the blades of my right hand through his stack of bills anyway. They stuck fast in the table. "Where's Harpy?" I growled, trying to imitate Slasher. "What is he planning? Where will he strike next?"

One of his bodyguards grabbed my shoulder. Blades flickered out of my left hand. He jumped backwards.

"Chill, Raymond," Metalhead spat out his joint and smothered it until his heel. "You owe me six hundred dollars," he told me.

"That's dirty money," I said. "I've got friends in the PCD. Tell me what I want to know or you'll spend the night in a cell."

Metalhead stood. His tee-shirt bulged. He probably wore body armor underneath. That had to be miserable in this heat. "Come on outside. There's too many ears in here." He jerked his head in the direction of the cops.

I followed him outside. His bodyguards stuck close to him, but they didn't worry me. I'd punch one in the jaw, jab my boot into the other's ribcage, grab Metalhead, and dangle him off a roof until he told me where Harpy was. And you think I'm not tough enough, Slasher. I worked for Valerie Lavoie. This stoner had nothing on her.

The sidewalk outside Harrison's quickly cleared as Metalhead glared at the scattered pedestrians. The bodyguards tucked their hands into their jackets. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, impatiently. Just make your move, kid. I dare you. This kid was Vicky's age, for Christ's sake. Was his superpower rolling his eyes?

One of his bodyguards stepped up behind me. He stood a foot taller than me. If he tried to grab me, I'd be fifty feet away before his hand connected.

"Harpy." Metalhead smacked his lips. "Hires my best men off me. No offence, guys, you know I love you. But I—"

"Harpy," I prodded him.

"Right. Him. See, he's got the money to hire a crew. No loyalty. Left eight of them in prison already. PCD tries to make 'em talk. They're not talking. They're scared. They took Harpy's money and got in over their heads. He's not in the drug game, but I can't beat his wages. Makes things hard for me. Good thing I've got a plan to revitalize my business. You're giving me just what I need."

"A chance to help the Centurions get this psycho off the streets?"

He cocked his head. The green spraypaint on his mask glittered in the streetlights. "Yeah. Yeah, something like that."

Then electricity grabbed my spine and folded me in half.