Hero Stalker

Part Thirty-Three

At first, I thought I'd had too much to drink. My head burned like I was hung-over, and I couldn't remember where I'd been. A bar . . . whiskey . . . getting Tasered in the neck.

Bright light beamed into my eyes. I felt around with my tongue and made sure my mask remained on my face. It did.

My relief quickly faded when I tried to move my arms and legs and found I'd been chained to the side of an overturned refrigerator. The metal links bound my hands together so tightly I couldn't angle them to cut me free. My feet were stretched out over open air.

"Hey, baby." Metalhead bent down over me. He'd changed his Autopsy tee-shirt for a Slipknot one, but he still had the body armor on underneath. You'd think he could have afforded better gear, what with the stacks of cash he'd flashed in the bar. "Welcome to my lair."

He pushed a switch. The refrigerator rotated upwards, giving me a better view. Metalhead had trapped me in a cave carved from the black stone that ran under WashingtonHarbor. It rose two stories tall and was full of with hydroponic gardens. Giant speakers hung on the walls. He'd even bothered to put down a shag carpet. It all smelled terrible.

"You're new to this, aren't you? Must be a late bloomer. Chickie, no one walks into Harrison's and picks a fight without consequences. It's neutral territory. I'm letting you off easy this time, since I have a weakness for pretty girls. Even black ones. But try that shit again, and you'll get your teeth knocked out." The way he stumbled over his words indicated he'd had another joint while I'd been unconscious.

"Let 'em try," I growled, trying to sound fierce despite being chained to a fridge. Someone will get me out. Half the bar had seen me walk out with him, including Harrison and Dan. But the PCD probably assumed Centurions could take care of themselves, and Slasher had never wanted me on the team at all . . . Buy some time. Think this through. How the hell could I catch Harpy if I couldn't outsmart this asshole? "Hey, why do they call you Metalhead?"

"Funny you should ask." A pair of sharp, spinning blades sprouted from his head. He pressed them into the cave wall. A chunk of stone the size of a baseball snapped off and went flying. Clang! It landed between my legs, denting the fridge.

A few more shots like that might break me free. "That's still not metal," I pointed out. "It's solid psi-energy. Metal knives can't cut through stone—"

He leant back again. This time, the chunk of rock landed next to my head. From the smile on his face, I knew he'd missed on purpose. The chains hadn't loosened at all. "You were saying?"

"Cool power!" My voice squeaked. Get it under control, Shadowcat. You're not the first Centurion to wind up in a situation like this. I might, however, have been the first Centurion to get send here by her own mentor. "You know, a gifted kid—a gifted man like you would be a real asset to our team. I could pull some strings . . ."

He grinned. His teeth were stained yellow. "You got a nice ass. Ever thought of becoming a stripper?"

"Son of a bitch!" I should have expected it—nine times out of ten when I heard 'you're pretty for a black girl,' it inevitably went there.

"See, baby, all because a man can do something, doesn't mean he's gonna do it. Let's get real. What's it mean to be a hero? I might have qualified, sure, if I'd been asked to try out, but heroes . . . they're not real. Not like money is. Money you can count." He walked over to the fridge and leant up against me, pressing his head against mine. "Want a smoke?"

"I'm a Centurion." I probably shouldn't even have taken that whiskey.

"You're missing out. This is some . . . y'know, it's not great shit, but it's good shit. Decent shit." His breath nearly made me retch. "Maybe your friend behind the case there would want one."

"My friend?"

"Yep. The dude in blue and grey. The security feed's running on those TVs behind you. He knocked out my bodyguards, cut the lock off my door, and totally jumped over that dynamite-rigged square on the floor." He raised his voice. "Hey, pal, want a joint?"

"I'm not your pal," Slasher said from somewhere behind me.

"Whatever. You're fast, but I'm faster. Move a muscle and I'll turn your friend's head into a smoothie."

I remembered how those blades had snapped through rock and froze. "Slasher?" My voice wobbled. "Listen . . ."

"Whattaya want?" Slasher sounded almost bored.

"Call the mayor. Tell him I've got a Centurion hostage. I want ten million bucks and safe conduct outta the city. Harpy's killed my business, I gotta—"

Then a grey streak threw him back against the stone wall, knocking over three hydroponic tables on the way. Metalhead cursed. The spinning blades spiraled out of his head. Slasher shoved his own blades between them and they jammed.

"Wasn't born yesterday, kid." Slasher twisted Metalhead's arm behind his back and forced him to his knees. "You can't live off drug money forever. Take your cash and run. Get to the boonies where no one knows your name. Find a real job. Teach your grandkids to whittle, fifty years from now. You're not a supervillain. You're a statistic waiting to happen." He pulled a plastic tie from his utility belt and bound Metalhead's hands. Then he stopped to right an overturned hydroponic table. He cut through my chains as he passed me, without bothering to make eye contact.

I followed him out. A dark grey sports car with blue stripes waited outside, past where the two bodyguards lay, tied together. Aside from the paint, the car perfectly replicated Femme's. I'd expected Slasher's ride to look angrier.