Hero Worship (11 page)

EIGHTEEN

Eliza made plans to pick me up the following night. I was supposed to work at Midtown Café, but I called in sick. With Yvonne working there now, I figured Gus had enough staff to cover my waiter duties.

Eliza said it was important for me to get back in the saddle again. She didn't want me sitting around thinking about how things had gotten slightly out of control at the parking garage.

While it's not as famous as Mystic's Jet Car, Roisin's all-white ride takes a close second. The government-issued license plates read
Core #6
. When I get in, the vehicle reeks of roses, like an overzealous detailer sprayed too much air freshener inside. Eliza is wearing her Roisin costume. She fidgets with her white miniskirt, trying to pull it down where it's riding up on her thighs. If it was just an inch shorter, it would go from a PG-13 to an R. Her halter top reveals her bronzed and taut stomach, and her stiletto heels are so high she might as well be wearing stilts.

She notices me staring and smiles. “You should've seen what they wanted me to wear originally,” she says. “Thank goodness my contract had a clause giving me costume approval.”

“Do I get costume approval?”

She looks at me—or, more specifically, at my costume. I'd always envisioned myself in a cool costume, like a black leather biker jacket and matching boots. I wanted to wear something tough, something that would strike fear into the hearts of evildoers.

What she makes me wear is not that outfit.

I look like I work at one of those medieval-themed restaurants, where employees wear tunics and chain mail in an attempt to re-create eleventh-century life. This costume might actually be more ridiculous than Sling's weightlifting getup.

“You look cute,” she says.

“I look like an idiot.”

“People will remember you.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

She looks me up and down. “It'll do,” she says, handing me a helmet. “Try this on.”

The helmet is heavier than it looks. It's clunky and I can't see very well out of it. “This is so stupid. Where'd you get this?”

“It's a prototype costume,” she says.

She shifts the car into gear and hits the accelerator. The car spins out and fishtails as we explode from zero to sixty almost instantly. Fumbling for the seat belt, I fasten it as we shoot out of the parking lot and onto the street, cutting off oncoming traffic. A cacophony of horns blares in unison as we speed away.

“Are we in a hurry?” I ask.

“Marvin, I'm always in a hurry,” she says, weaving in and out of traffic.

We're halfway through the block when the light up ahead turns yellow. She presses the accelerator all the way to the floor. It turns red, and luckily she stomps on the brakes, squealing to a sudden stop at the intersection. I plant my hands on the dashboard to brace myself. A car horn makes Eliza look into the rearview mirror, raise her gloved hand, and flip the middle finger. “Don't you dare honk at me,” she shouts. The light turns green, and she stomps on the gas pedal.

There's a ringing as a red light flashes on the dashboard. “Sorry, but I've got to take this call,” she says, pressing a button on the steering wheel. “This is Roisin.”

“Roisin, I'm going to need you to handle a 2-11 in progress near 46th and Pine,” a man's voice says. There's a lot of distortion coming through the call, like the person on the other end is yelling into a phone while standing in a wind tunnel.

At the next light, Roisin takes a hard left. “I'm on my way,” she says.

“I'd deal with it myself,” the voice says, “but I've got to pay a visit to the Frontera Cartel.”

Eliza glances at me. “You're on speaker, and I've got a civilian in the car.”

The line goes silent.

“You should've said that out of the gate,” the voice finally says.

“Marvin, do you wanna say hi?” she asks.

“Who is it?” I whisper.

“Mercury.”

Stunned, I look at the speaker, realizing I'm listening to my hero—Lieutenant Mercury. I'm so overcome, I think I might have an anxiety attack.

Eliza nudges me with an elbow and says, “Say hi.”

“Hi,” I croak.

“Who's that?” Lieutenant Mercury asks.

“Marvin,” Eliza says as she maneuvers through traffic. “He's a friend.”

“Howdy, Marvin. I hope you can hear me. There tends to be a little distortion when I'm flying.”

“You're flying right now?” I ask. “Like, not in a plane, right?”

Mercury chuckles. “No, not in a plane.”

“He's up above it all,” Eliza says.

“That is so cool,” I say.

“Marvin, I've got to go, but it was nice chatting with you.” The line goes dead.

“I just talked to Lieutenant Mercury! That's so freaking cool!”

“Hero worshipper,” Eliza says, grinning.

“Whatever.”

The car speeds toward a red light, and Eliza pushes down on the gas. I begin to scream when I realize she has no plan to stop. We bolt through the red light and miraculously make it through the traffic unharmed. “There's an armed robbery in progress,” she says. “You ready to get into the mix?”

“Really?”

“It's time to step up to the plate,” Eliza says. “You okay with that? If not, you can wait in the car.”

“I'm ready.”

I'm more nervous than I can ever remember being. This is it. This is what I've been dreaming about since I was a little kid. My chance to be a hero. A real hero. I pray that I don't screw up. I want to hit this out of the park.

Up ahead, the entire street is cordoned off with yellow police tape. It looks like the entire fleet of Loganstin police cruisers have formed a barrier around the block. A throng of spectators gathers on the other side of the barrier.

Eliza repeatedly honks her horn as she drives through the crowd. When the people realize it's Roisin who's trying to get through, they cheer wildly and swarm the car like locusts, slapping the vehicle and shouting encouragement to the youngest member of the Core. As people plaster their faces against the glass to sneak a peek inside, Eliza glances over at me and says, “It's a good thing I brought you that costume when I did. There was a clean, like, ten years ago who was a real hard-ass, and he decided to not wear a costume. He let it all hang out. Someone he pissed off tracked down the guy's uncle. That didn't end well.”

“What happened?”

“His uncle was used to send a message, which they carved into the guy with razorblades.” Eliza chuckles. “You only have your dad, right? And he's already in prison, and I'm guessing you probably don't really care if he's whacked. But better safe than sorry.”

It feels like she punched a fist through my chest and squeezed my heart. Images of my mother flash through my head. While she's right about my father, I think of Yvonne and Kent. I flip down the helmet's visor.

Eliza manages to get through the crowd and approach the police tape. Two young officers spot the car and hold the yellow tape up, allowing us to drive through. Eliza stops the car and gets out.

As soon as I open the door, I hear a barrage of bullets being fired. It sounds like we've just entered a war zone. Eliza's talking to Loganstin's chief of police, Earl Wooden, a weathered man with a deep and raspy voice that's probably due to years of smoking. It's well documented that he has an uneasy relationship with the Core. While still a homicide detective, he gave an interview in which he stated that the Core did little to assist the department with real police work. Wooden claimed the costumed heroes were only ceremonial crime fighters. He'd taken heat for comments like that, and many were shocked when he was appointed chief of police.

True to form, Wooden stares at Eliza with a thinly veiled look of irritation.

“What's the situation?” she asks.

Wooden doesn't attempt to conceal his disdain for the teenager dressed in white as he considers whether or not to enlist her help. I'm sure his ego doesn't like the idea of asking a young girl for assistance. But if Eliza sees this, she doesn't show it. Then Wooden looks me up and down and says, “Who's that?”

“A friend,” she says.

“Is the Core recruiting at the Renaissance faire?” He chuckles.

“Are we going to make small talk or get down to business?” Eliza says.

Wooden bristles, apparently not accustomed to getting talked down to by a teenager. “Okay. An hour ago, two heavily armed assailants in body armor strolled into the Loganstin First Bank and shot up the place. When they came out, my men were waiting,” he says.

“Where are they now?”

Pointing down the street, the police chief says, “You can't hear the gunfire?”

The muzzle flashes from the gunfight around the corner cast an orange glow on the side of the building. There's a series of bursts of light, and it takes a few more seconds before I hear the sound produced by the gunshots. There's a stream of orange flares in rapid succession, which makes it look like an orange strobe light is pointed at the side of the building. The noise that follows is unmistakably that of automatic weapons.

Heading down the street, Eliza says, “Wooden, tell your men to stay out of our way. We'll handle this.”

The chief of police curses under his breath. He glares at me as I hurry by him.

We peer around the corner of the building, and I'm unprepared for what I see. The entire scene seems to be ripped from a Modern Warfare video game. Two men dressed in head-to-toe body armor brandish automatic rifles. They have a variety of handguns in holsters on their belts. The men fire their weapons randomly across the street, hitting everything and anything. Fifteen members of the Loganstin SWAT team take cover behind squad cars and inside doorways. Two police cruisers are engulfed in flames. A wounded member of the SWAT team is pinned down behind one of the burning cars. The two gunmen riddle the car with bullets—it looks like a block of Swiss cheese on the verge of being blown to shreds. When the two men in body armor run out of bullets, the SWAT team emerges from behind their cover and fire their guns at them, but the bullets ricochet off the impenetrable suits of armor.

Eliza surveys the situation and recites her findings: “Two shooters wearing Aramid body armor with illegally modified assault rifles, including three Romanian AIM rifles, a modified HK-91, and an AR-15. A dozen or so SWAT team members on scene, with one, possibly two, injured and in between the crossfire.”

“What do we do?” I ask, a lump in my throat.

Eliza steps out from behind the brick wall and stands in the middle of the road. Her eyes begin to glow bright red. The air around her begins to crackle, and it smells like ozone. The glowing intensifies, building up in force. Then a burst of red energy erupts from her eyes and shoots down the street. The assailant doesn't even see it coming as it hits him on the left side of his body and blows a hole through him, severing his body in two.

“Oh my god,” I say. “You killed him.”

It takes a moment for the other gunman to process what just happened to his partner. He stops firing and looks at his friend, who lies in two parts in a pool of blood and charred flesh. Following the direction of the blast, the man spots Eliza standing in the middle of the road. Her eyes begin to glow again, building up strength for another blast. Realizing the dire situation he's in, the man runs toward the burning squad car and the wounded SWAT team member, who fires his gun at him. As the bullets clank off the assailant's armor, he rips the rifle out of the wounded man's hands, grabs him, and hoists him to his feet. He uses the grimacing SWAT team member as a shield from Eliza.

“Marvin, you're up,” Eliza says. The glowing red energy in her eyes dims.

“What?”

“I don't have the best aim,” she says. “Do your thing.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

“Use your power to end this,” she says.

I stare at the severed corpse. I try to make sense of it. Just moments ago the guy was alive, and now he's dead, mowed down like a weed. And Eliza did it. She didn't even hesitate. It wasn't even a last resort. It was her first move. But the thing that troubles me the most is that it doesn't appear to affect her in the slightest. Just another day at the office.

“Marvin, any time now,” Eliza snaps.

“I'm not going to kill him.”

Backing away from the threat of Eliza, the gunman struggles to get his hostage to move. The SWAT team member is weak and stumbles to the ground. The rest of the SWAT team fires at the gunman, but the bullets just bounce off his body armor. Picking his hostage back up, the assailant continues to back away.

“Do something!” Eliza barks.

“Okay, okay,” I say. I focus my energy on probing for fear. I try Eliza first, but she's not afraid. My feardar expands its search and reaches the wounded SWAT team member. Surprisingly, he isn't full of fear. But I hit pay dirt with his captor. The man in body armor must be sweating bullets. He has a reservoir of fear, like cool, dark waters held behind a massive dam. I tap into his fear and drink deeply.

“Marvin, if you don't—” Eliza starts to say, but I don't hear her finish because I'm already on the move.

I dash down the street, passing the assailant and his hostage. I circle around the two men three times while I consider my options. On the fourth pass, I pull back my arm and throw a punch at the side of the gunman's head. My fist connects with his metal helmet, and I feel it cave under the impact. Running around him three more times, I continue to hit him until he finally stumbles and collapses to the ground. The SWAT team member staggers on his feet before falling to the concrete.

I rip the weapons away from the gunman, tossing them across the street. He moans and tries to get to his feet. I pummel him with another series of blows. He gasps and falls back to the ground. This time he doesn't stir. I rest a hand on his chest and feel his heart beating.