A Villainous Affair

Chapter 1

The Gastro was a secret villain hangout in the seediest part of London. The huge underground facility was one of the few neutral places where villains of all kinds could network, run business meetings, and grab a bite to eat without having to watch their backs. Mostly. The Gastro had only one rule-once through the door, no one was allowed to commit any crimes.

In the main section, a huge bar took up an entire wall. On this Friday evening, nearly every stool was occupied by one criminal or another, from lowlifes just starting out to grizzled veterans spinning tales of their greatest heists to whomever would lend them an ear.

Servers buzzed among the pub's tables, precariously balancing two or more trays. Silverware clinked. Patrons guzzled ale and tucked into plates of hearty food. The noise level grew deafening at times. Mismatched lamps, grimy and tarnished, bathed the area in harsh white light.

Most customers conducted their business at the tables over meals, but there were private rooms in the back for more complicated negotiations. The Gastro also boasted a dealer's room, a job board, and even a service to get one's police record wiped clean-for a hefty price.

At his booth in the dealer's room, Herb Jones hunched over a clipboard sketching designs for one of his dream inventions-a Lava Lamp Gun. The only obstacle was money and the facility in which to build it. Once completed, the weapon would fire actual lava. Herb chuckled to himself. Maybe he should call it the Groovy Gun instead.

His wares lay spread out before him on the table. A few customers had trickled by his booth, but so far the night had been a bust. In the villain world, he had the best inventions of anyone. So why hadn't he made any sales?

Herb adjusted the price tag on his Electro Whip, the weapon he was trying to sell for five hundred pounds. Could be the price of his gear was a deterrent-more than once a potential customer had taken one look at the price tags and cackled with derision-but if a villain wanted the best gear, he had to pay for it. Herb knew his inventions could make a good villain into a great one, so he wasn't about to sell himself short.

The problem was, no one else seemed to agree with him. He took out a red pen and slashed the price of the Electro Whip in half. This wouldn't be the first time he'd had to resort to such tactics. It was a necessary strategy if he wanted to keep inventing. Or eating. But if it came down to a choice between eating and inventing, he'd choose inventing. It was what he did. His ambition had gotten him kicked out of school and then out of his father's toy company back in America, but Herb Jones couldn't not create infernal devices of one kind or another.

Now his main goal was simply to find the perfect boss, one who'd appreciate his formidable skills. Or maybe it wasn't so simple. The villain world was vast, and he'd only been at this a year or so. The villains he'd approached so far had only wanted utilitarian weapons for basic robberies or territorial warfare. Boring! Where was their style, their finesse? Who didn't want to look fabulous while robbing a bank or stealing historical artifacts? A supervillain using Herb's mod gear for out-of-this world heists, now that would make some serious waves in the villain world.

To the few supervillains around, Herb was small potatoes. He needed to find someone at his level, so they could grow their careers together. Someone smart who dug his unique design aesthetic. Naturally, that was easier said than done.

Herb glanced up from his blueprint and stared at the room, now empty except for other bored merchants. The guy on his right was already packing up. The one on his left was dozing, so no chitchat opportunities there. Herb stood and stretched. Might as well take a break.

He stored his gear in his rolling trunk and secured it with his patented booby traps. This way, he could head out to the bar and relax without having to worry about anyone messing with his inventions. Some of them were extremely dangerous. One particular explosive, cleverly disguised as a lady's compact, had enough firepower to blow up the whole Gastro. Herb snorted at the thought. He did love a good, noisy explosion.

Herb wandered the main room for a while, greeting fellow villains he knew and passing out business cards. Growing thirsty, he headed to the bar.

He grabbed a seat and signaled to the bartender. "Hey, man."

Bart the bartender nodded. "The usual?"

Herb nodded. Moments later, Bart-a short, wiry man who would kick the living shit out of anyone who made fun of his name in light of his job-deposited a large glass of warm milk on the counter. Anything stronger would have to wait until after business hours. It wasn't, however, too early for another type of recreation. Herb withdrew a silver lighter and a joint from his jacket pocket. Lit up and took a few drags. When he was deep in the zoooone, he passed the rest to his neighbor, whose face brightened upon receiving the freebie.

Herb grabbed his glass and then spun on the stool to face the room. He was a regular and had already memorized the layout, so it was immediately apparent something was different about the north corner of the Gastro tonight. For one thing, a platform had been set up. A boxing ring.

Herb mentally shrugged. He wasn't much into sports-not at all, in fact. But he was bored and the night was still young. The fight probably wouldn't hold any appeal, but he could understand why someone had decided to provide a little entertainment. Villains were a restless sort.

Herb sipped his milk, watching idly as a woman in black capris and a red, sleeveless top climbed into the ring. Her black hair was styled in a sleek Bardot ponytail. Her back was to him, so he couldn't get a proper look at her face. No matter. Probably a new hire. The woman tossed a satchel down in one corner. Then she began setting up some kind of sign.

Herb drained the rest of his milk and signaled for another. "Who's fighting tonight?"

Bart deposited a fresh glass of milk on the counter and pointed at the ring. "She is."

A spray of milk shot out of Herb's mouth and onto the floor before he could stop it. He looked back at the ring. Now he could read the sign, attached to a pole above the ring. Flowery red and black lettering on a white background.

The top part read, "Doesn't it feel so good to be bad?" and beneath that, a name.

Herb shot a questioning look at Bart. "'Scarlet Overkill'?" He'd never heard of her, but something about the name made his heart beat faster. Weird.

Bart shrugged as he handed Herb a mop. "Some kind of wannabe villain if you ask me. She promised the boss a unique spectacle in exchange for an opportunity to make a little cash on the side, but I don't know. A woman who looks like that is biting off more than she can chew."

Herb dutifully mopped up his mess, stealing glances at Scarlet all the while. She did seem awfully slender for a boxer. Then again, he wasn't the athletic type, so what did he know?

He resumed his seat. Slapped a twenty-pound note on the counter. "On the other hand, it's 1966, man. A woman like her might be full of surprises." Herb grinned, feeling a bit drunk even though he hadn't had a drop of alcohol. Something about tonight made him feel like taking a chance-a big fucking chance. Which was strange, because he didn't even know the woman.

"Keep makin' idiotic choices like that an' you'll end up in the poor house." Bart matched Herb's note with one of his own. "But you got yourself a bet!"