The passenger kicked me in the stomach. I felt something break and I coughed up blood when he kicked me the second time. I was wrong, there were four men in the minivan, I guess I hadn’t seen the last one.
I still would have done it. The driver hopped on one foot holding the door for balance as he cheered on his friends. “Don’t hurt her too much, I want her awake when we drag her ass back to the shack.”
They all had a good laugh at that.
Strong arms grabbed mine and yanked me up. I tried to pry them loose but he just backhanded me across the face hard enough to see stars. I was in so much trouble.
“If you’d just gone along with us we would have been nice about it, even showed you a good time…” The man yelling in my face outweighed me by hundreds of pounds and was a good eight inches taller than me. The funniest thing happened: in that moment, I wasn’t afraid. Angry, yes, afraid, no. No matter what they did to me, it couldn’t be worse than having Sara killed in my arms.
And since it couldn’t get worse for me, I decided to kick him in the nuts. My foot connected and he howled, his knees buckling as he collapsed to the ground. That is when I saw him. The man with the brilliant blue eyes dressed like Mr. Rogers, coming up behind the driver.
“What smells like pot and screams like a girl,” blue eyes said to the driver. He looked behind him just as the man’s foot connected with his already broken leg. He did indeed scream like a girl. As the driver collapsed forward, Blue Eyes snapped his palm up, catching the driver in the face and sending him sprawling into the van’s interior. The guy holding me up let go, and I dropped like a rock when my legs refused to hold me.
My face hit the ground and I couldn’t see what was going on, but it was over quick. When I managed to push myself up, all four men were down and not moving.
“W— who are you?” I managed to ask right before I passed out from the pain.
Chapter 11
The whistle of a teapot brought me out of my pain induced oblivion. The last thing I remembered was the thugs trying to… take me… then…
Oh!
I leaped up, hands in front of me defensively. The man with the piercing blue eyes walked into the room and stopped, a look of mild surprise on his face. He was older than I thought, with gray around his temples and a haggard face. Everything about him seemed… old… except for his eyes. His eyes were much younger looking than the rest of him. I hadn’t really seen him when I had knocked and he had refused to open the door.
“You’re up,” he said. He held two steaming cups; tea, I assumed, since I didn’t smell coffee. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He wasn’t what I expected from the blue eyes that had stared at me through the window. I’d never met anyone of Asian descent with eyes that color.
“Thank you,” I said holding out my hand. He handed me the tea. “How did you…?” I asked with a nod toward the exit. His eyes flashed as I spoke, he hid his smile with the teacup and a sip.
“Surprise. It’s a powerful ally,” he said. “I’m sorry I was rude to you earlier, I just… well, I don’t get a lot of visitors these days.”
I let out a long sigh and glanced at one of the two recliners in the room. I looked at him and he stiffened, then nodded.
“Go ahead and have a seat.”
The chair was as comfortable as it looked and it called to me. Being knocked unconscious doesn’t really count as sleep. Alarm ran through me. I pulled out my phone to check the time.
Damn.
The shelter was closed. They wouldn’t let me back in after 7 pm. They were very specific about that rule. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I had spent the night without a place to sleep. What’s done is done.
Suddenly remembering my manners, I held my hand out. “I’m sorry, sir. My name is…” Was it safe? I peered at him for a long moment, my reason warring with my fear as I tried to decide if telling this random stranger my name would put him—or me—in danger. “Madisun, my friends call me Madi,” I said, finally. Telling him my first name couldn’t hurt.
“Madi, I’m Joseph, Joseph Li,” he replied.
The article!
Right. He was the man whose family had died in the home invasion. Not only had the house survived the economic collapse when the rest of the neighborhood clearly hadn’t, but he still lived here? I wasn’t sure I would ever want to enter my parents’ house again—assuming it hadn’t burned down to the ground.
I sipped the peppermint tea for a moment, giving myself a chance to scan the room. The house itself was ranch style, all one floor. The living room had the two recliners, a couch, and several decorations, but no TV or any other form of entertainment. A faux fireplace held a gas-powered fire, and the mantel supported a plethora of family pictures.
I stood up, drawn to the pictures of his family. How did he do it? Here he was, surrounded by daily reminders of what he had lost. How? Every time I closed my eyes I saw Sara, Mom, Dad. Dad. After Charles died, Dad pretty much stopped talking to me, really. Either he was in too much pain, or he didn’t know how, or he blamed me—I had never known which it was.
And I never would.
I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve. I didn’t want to start crying in this man’s house. He clearly had his grief well in hand and I wasn’t going to impose on him.
“Was there a reason you came to visit, Madisun?” he asked.
I nodded, not really trusting my voice just yet.
“Did something happen to you?” he asked just above a whisper.
I nodded again. “My… my family was killed… murdered really.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said so quietly that I had to strain to hear him.
“Me too. The people who did it—the murderers—they’re going to get away with it. At least they think they are. I did too until yesterday.” I sipped more of the tea, letting the warmth flow through me as I worked out my thoughts.
“What happened yesterday?” he asked.
I put the teacup on the mantel and turned to him. “I heard of a man who kicked ISO-1 out of Detroit. A legend, really. Some say he doesn’t exist, but I aim to find him and convince him to come to New Orleans and do the same there. My family deserves justice. My little sister, she was only seventeen—”
He raised his hand to cut me off. Pain etched across his face. He had two teenage daughters, it had to hurt hearing about Sara. “I think you should go. You’re not going to find what you’re looking for here.” He put his cup down and walked into the hallway. I heard the front door unlock and that was my cue to leave.
The way he took out those thugs, the very real pain he felt—this had to be him. This had to be the Wraith. But why did he quit? Maybe he just got too old?
I followed him and he stood by the front door holding it open for me. The door had at least five different locks on it that had to be undone. I’d only heard one, though, which meant he didn’t latch them all.
I stopped in front of him; our eyes were practically on the same level. At 5’8” I was tall for a woman. It was one of the things that made editorial modeling a natural fit for me. He wasn’t particularly tall for a man, so we almost looked eye-to-eye. I held his gaze for a long moment. He didn’t look away and I couldn’t.
“Please,” I said in a whisper.
“Leave,” he said. His demeanor had gone from welcoming host to grumpy old man. Maybe if I gave him some time to think about it, he’d change his mind.
So I left.
I didn’t look back as I walked down his path and out the wrought-iron gate. I knew who he was now; I just had to convince him to help me.
I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Chapter 12
He didn’t answer the door the next day, or the day after that. Or any of the next ten days. That was okay, though, since I had time. Every morning I would hop out of bed, swipe a blueberry muffin from the breakfast counter, and leave the shelter by seven. The sun would come up while I walked to his house. Day after day I would knock on his door, and when he
didn’t answer I would just sit on his porch and read about ISO-1. Every hour I would knock again. Every hour he wouldn’t answer.
He had to get tired of it eventually and talk to me—if only to tell me to go away.
Drive and determination only went so far. Boredom set in on my walk, so I started jogging, then running, to his house every morning. At first, it took me nearly two hours to walk the two miles from downtown to his place. After a week I could do it in an hour and a half. When I started jogging, I cut that time down to an hour.
A month of that and I was running. When I could finally run the whole way there it took me thirty minutes. By the time the sweltering July heat hit, I was doing it in fifteen minutes. The heat was about as bad as NYC in the summer, but nowhere near New Orleans.
My research proved fruitful too. I don’t know if it was because of my visit, but Krisan Swahili suddenly started producing articles and exposés on ISO-1. From the way they moved into a city, to how they ruled using bribery and intimidation.
At first, I was terrified her articles were going to bring ISO-1 down on me, but she was careful not to mention me, or New Orleans. But God, I didn’t realize how bad it was. This gang was all over the United States. They were strongest in the south, but they also had a presence in a few big northern cities, like New York and Chicago.
How was this even possible? I thought the whole point of the superhero teams was to protect us from people like this? The upheaval of the last few years aside, I would think that the regional teams would line up to take out superpowered gangs. Sara had said something about a group called “Riot Boys.” I looked them up next.
Sure enough, the Arizona Diamondbacks, now known as The Protectors, took them out just before the coup attempt a few years ago. Right before all the state teams were disbanded and re-organized into Federal teams. Then the aliens came, and things went from bad to worse.
According to Krisan’s article, ISO-1 have all but taken over organized crime in the United States.
Holy crap. No wonder no one can take them down. Even if the FBI had evidence, what agent would want to act on it? ISO-1 could just reach out and have their family killed… the way they did mine.
It all followed a pattern. They would move in and blackmail or threaten low-level police, lawyers, or city council, for a while, then move onto mayors, governors, senators… Before long there wasn’t anyone they hadn’t bought or threatened. Since they had superpowered enforcers, the only people who could take them down would-be superheroes, but they didn’t seem to know this crime syndicate even existed.
How do you fight an organization that powerful?
Of course, I have no one left for them to kill, and I sure as hell can’t be bought.
I scooted to lean against the pillar of Joseph Li’s house and nibbled on my blueberry muffin, trying to make it last all day.
“You know,” I said out loud. “I think I get why you quit.” I looked around at the neighborhood. All the people he saved, all the lives, and the place still looked like a war zone. “I probably would’ve too, if this is what it came to.”
He didn’t respond; I didn’t even know if he could hear me, but my gut told me he could. How could I convince him to come out of retirement? Everything he fought for came to naught. Detroit’s recovery or lack-thereof was out of his hands—all he could do was stop one crime at a time. The city didn’t need organized crime to implode or corrupt its politicians, they did that all on their own. So how?
In a moment of absolute clarity, the answer popped into my mind. I looked down at my hands, flexing them into fists.
It could be me.
I could do it.
“Train me,” I whispered.
Latches on the other side of the door clicked open and the big wooden door opened a few inches.
“What did you say?” he asked. It was the first thing he’d said to me since the day he saved me.
With the sun outside and the darkness in his house, all I could see were those blue eyes glaring at me. They burned with an inner light in the shadows.
“Train me,” I said more forcefully. I heaved myself up to face him. “Teach me to do what you do. Show me how to get justice for my family and my city.”
He looked down as if contemplating what I was saying. Did I really want this? I was no revenge-driven movie character, no special forces badass or unstoppable terminator. I was just an ex-model on the run from the most powerful criminal organization in the US.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said in a whisper. “You know not what you ask, Madisun Dumas.”
It shouldn’t have surprised me that he knew who I was. I’d spent the last month on the man’s doorstep researching everything about ISO-1, It would have taken him all of ten minutes to Google me.
“Maybe, but if you aren’t willing to come to New Orleans and kick their asses, that doesn’t leave me much choice. I can’t… live like this. With this pain,” I said. My hand flew to my heart pulling on my shirt, then pressing against my chest. “I can’t NOT see her. Every time I close my eyes, every time I dream, she’s there. My little sister who died in my arms. I don’t know if punishing those responsible will make it better.” I looked away for a second. Fighting the tears that were desperate to come out, had been since it all happened. The tears I held back. “But I won’t know until I try.”
He let out a sigh. I couldn’t tell what kind, but almost as if a burden had lifted from his shoulders. When his head came up, his eyes were wet with building tears.
“So it begins,” he said.
I wanted to be happy, but I didn’t think happy would ever describe me again. Less furious would have to do.
Chapter 13
Power certainly has its privilege,” Mohammad said to himself. He stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. The white towel was only a shade lighter than his skin. Despite his Iranian parentage, when his powers manifested, they made him a sort of albino. Or as he preferred to be called, a Ghost.
“Can I go?” the young blonde asked. He didn’t know her name, she was just another in a long, endless line of prostitutes the Outfit owned. He smiled to himself. As the head enforcer for the Gulf Coast, he had quite a few ‘privileges.’ She and her ilk were one such privilege. He nodded to her, waving his hand. He would likely never see her again—he never had the same one twice. There was something refreshing about a woman who couldn’t say no.
The Ghost shook his head to clear his mind. He had business to attend to today and thinking about girls was one way to get him in trouble. He needed to keep his head in the game.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in an all-white suit with a red tie, The Ghost exited his private town car. As soon as he was out the driver took the vehicle around the block to wait for him. More privileges.
A note of apprehension echoed through his mind. It wasn’t often he was called to visit the head of the Outfit. He’d only ever met the illusive man twice: once when he was recruited, and a second time after he’d pulled off a particularly difficult job. Well—difficult for them.
Not for a man who can walk through walls.
He chuckled as he did just that, passing through the front door and the guards beyond without having to stop. As far as he knew, he could pass through anything. The only time he’d ever had trouble was when he tried to off the guy in the MRI machine; that had played bloody havoc with his abilities.
The elevator dinged, and he entered, pressing the button for the penthouse. He always wondered why they made their HQ a hotel, with its very public face. And not just any hotel; the Deck was possibly the highest rated hotel in New Orleans.
It wasn’t their main HQ, of course, just the one they used for the gulf coast. It made sense in one way though: hotels were a cash business. They could use it to launder money and also entertain guests with their more high-class call girls.
The elevator dinged again, interrupting his thoughts. Double doors opened onto a plush carpeted room with rich wooden furniture, lit by sun
light streaming through thin drapes of pink silk.
Ghost stepped into the room, looking both ways to make sure there were no nasty surprises waiting for him. His powers made him all-but invulnerable; the “but” part made him far more cautious than normal. After all, if anyone were to try and take him out they would have undoubtedly done their research.
When he knew it was clear, he crossed the room into the next. The real office. Two large men guarded the entrance. He knew them and they nodded at him as he walked in. They were brothers from a little town in Mexico, twins. Their powers manifested at the same time. He forgot what the American designation for superpowers was, but each could deadlift a cement truck and was nigh-invulnerable.
Ghost didn’t care for Mexicans much, but these two were a cut above the rest. He smiled at them, slapping shoulders as he walked by. They were pretty cool, unlike that crazy El-Fuego bitch he worked with the year before. That woman liked burning things entirely too much. It wasn’t the killing so much she liked, but the actual burning of things.
Ghost liked the killing, the moment the light went out in the eyes of his victim. He lived for that.
“Ahh, Ghost, so nice to see you,” Vaas Mando said from his massage table. Ghost smiled at the warm reception. Vaas was a capable man—not the leader of ISO-1 in total, but the head of the Gulf Coast region.
“Vaas, nice to see you,” Ghost said. His eyes stayed on the curves of the lovely red-head who rubbed the crime lord’s shoulders.
“We have a problem, Ghost, one I need your unique talents to fix,” he said. “A little to the right.”
Ghost’s heart leaped up at the chance to kill someone. He had lost count of the days since he was able to slit someone’s throat. “Name it.”
“There’s a reporter up in Detroit—”
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