Superhero by Night Omnibus

by Jeffery H. Haskell

  Shock and confusion washed over everyone in the room. Slack-jawed wide-eyed mobsters stared in disbelief at what they were seeing. Then, as one, they broke into action. Weapons appeared and chairs were knocked over as twenty men moved for the door. All of them looking up toward the broken skylight three stories above.

  “Calm down everyone,” Raker said. His voice had a commanding quality, and despite knowing he had superpowers Anthony found himself calming down. His muscles relaxed and—

  The room was plunged into darkness with nothing but the streaming silver moonlight to see by. A burst of blue light flashed into existence behind Raker. He screamed for a half second before it turned into a sickening gurgle as his throat was cut from artery to artery, spraying blood. Anthony squealed like a girl as Raker’s body fell forward.

  Standing behind him was a woman dressed in black leather with a red scarf around her nose and mouth. Her eyes flashed a deep blue, like twin suns. She flicked the sword off to the side, sending the remnant of Raker's blood flying away. Then she disappeared. She didn’t move, she vanished. A second later someone else screamed and then all hell broke loose.

  Gunfire erupted around him as frightened thugs with firearms opened up in every direction. Kuss produced a fully automatic SMG from somewhere and started spraying where Raker had stood. He yelled over the din, trying to rally the group and pull them into a cohesive force.

  Blue light burst above him, and she landed on his gun, knocking it from his hands. Kuss was a trained warrior, the tattoos on his hands and arms spoke of a hundred fights.

  Anthony pulled out his pistol and started backing away. Three men were shouldering the big double doors, but the heavy oak wasn’t budging. Something wet glinted on the floor under the doors, spreading out in a pool into the room— he had a sickening feeling it was blood.

  His attention was drawn back to the fight on the table. She said nothing; no taunting, no banter, she just fought. Kuss swung at her—his six-foot frame was easily three hundred pounds and the woman was half that, at most. She took the blow on one arm before striking out, open palmed, against his chest. The blow lifted him up and flung him against the far wall with a crunch of breaking bone and bruised tissue.

  Anthony fired. Or at least he tried too; he pulled the trigger but the safety was on and the hammer refused to budge. He swore as he looked down at the gun desperate to make the unfamiliar weapon work the way he needed it to. When he finally clicked the safety off, she was gone.

  “Oh, screw this!” he said out loud as he turned and ran, desperate to find an exit that wasn’t obvious.

  When he was a kid Anthony learned not to be afraid. His mother would drink, and when she wasn’t cheating on his father, she would beat Anthony with a tire iron for ruining her life. Anthony had conquered his fear the day he’d taken the tire iron to her.

  As the carnage continued around him, he realized he had never known real fear.

  Another scream ended in a wet gurgle behind him; he resisted the urge to look, trying to find another way out. The place was boarded up tight. There were four doors and each of them was locked.

  The windows!

  In addition to the skylight, the room had five big picture windows on two walls. He ran to the closest one, picking up and fumbling with a chair before throwing it at the glass. He wasn’t going to bother trying to open it.

  The chair bounced off the glass, leaving Anthony staring in horror. He aimed the pistol and pulled the trigger. The explosion of sound was lost among the endless gunshots behind him. The glass spiderwebbed but didn’t break. He kept pulling the trigger until the slide locked back.

  “Bulletproof glass? Are you freaking kidding me?” He threw the useless gun at the window and charged after it, kicking, punching, and pushing, trying to get the glass to give.

  He grabbed a lamp and was about to bash it against the glass when he noticed the silence behind him. He gulped and slowly turned, holding the lamp above his head, ready to strike.

  The room was empty except for the bloody, shot, stabbed, and decapitated bodies strewn about the floor and table. His heart pounded in his ears and he could barely draw breath as he formulated a plan. The wall where Kuss impacted had partially collapsed. He could maybe kick his way through the plaster and—

  Light flashed in front of him and she was there, sword pointed at his chest, eyes burning with a brilliant blue light that forced him to look away.

  “Please don’t kill me!” he screamed, dropping to his knees. “I’ll give you anything you want.” So many decisions in his life he regretted and every single one came back to him in that moment.

  “Your keys,” she said. Her voice reverberated with an unnatural sound that no human could make. He fumbled out his keys throwing them at her feet. He didn’t dare look up, those eyes bored into his soul, shaking loose all the terrible things he’d done in his life. He held his hands up over his head in surrender.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he said again in a whisper.

  “Where’s the next shipment leaving from?” the voice crackled in his ears like it was next to him. He closed his eyes hard and thought. Shipment… shipment?

  “There’s an arms deal going down tomorrow at two,” he said rattling off the address for the meet. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that the Outfit would kill him for betraying them, or that he was selling his principles—all he cared about was staying alive.

  “Tell me, have you ever killed anyone?”

  He shook his head ‘no’ as visions of the three teenage girls who wouldn’t go along with the program flashed in his head. The old man who owed money. The hooker who was used up… This monster couldn’t know he was lying, right?

  She knelt down in front of him, reaching out and lifting his head for her to gaze in his eyes. “You’re a liar.” Then she rammed the sword through his throat. As he blacked out his mind screamed at him to act. The whole thing hurt a lot more than he thought it would and he died with those brilliant blue orbs gazing down at him.

  ♦♦♦

  I cleaned my sword off on the last murderer’s jacket before leaning over and picking up his keys. Terrible human being, but he had good taste in cars. I twirled the keys before slipping them into my pocket and heading for the door. Reaching inside, I triggered my power, shadow stepping through the door to the shadows outside. I had bodies piled up against the two doors that weren’t locked. The only two people I hadn’t killed were the blondes walking around in bikinis. They were tied up and waiting for me with hoods on their heads. No need for them to see me. I don’t know if they were paid or what, but they were innocent—tonight anyway.

  I clicked the keys popping open the trunk before lifting a girl in each hand and tossing them in one at a time.

  My post-killing-spree high had me in full swing and I felt amazing. I closed the trunk; Later, I ’d find somewhere to drop them. I wanted to bask in my victory for a few more minutes.

  Chapter 2

  Krisan Swahili held her steaming hot coffee in one hand taking tepid sips every few seconds as she typed out her latest story for the Free Press. In the few months since Madisun left town, crime was down, gang activity was down, and the city was generally a happier place. It was giving the police enough breathing room to make some headway. Not that they would ever admit to anything other than their own diligence and budget increases as responsible.

  Krisan knew the truth.

  Despite only acting as the Wraith for a few days, Madi had made quite the impression on the local underworld. It had kept Krisan in articles for three months. But now, things were starting to quiet down and Krisan was feeling the buzz, the itch for something exciting.

  Like people trying to kill me?

  She shook her head and let out a giggle. With the last of her Starbucks gone, she tossed the cup into the wastebasket. “Two points,” she muttered as she closed out her article and sent it off to her editor.

  The little office she occupied in the corner at the Free Press was cluttere
d with old magazines, half-read books, and notebooks with pages and pages of barely legible scrawls filling the inside. Sometimes she was in a hurry when she wrote.

  Her phone beeped, alerting her to a breaking news story. She brought it up, eyes scanning across the message before she swiped it open.

  Over one hundred dead: largest single gang-land slaying in New Orleans history. Police suspect rival gang.

  The headline was next to useless. Everything was clickbait anymore, forcing her to read the actual articles. Lucky for her she could read faster than the average bear.

  Oh Madi, you really went after them.

  The vigilante had said as much when she left town. Still, part of Krisan had hoped the ex-model would find some peace. But no, she was in Louisiana raising hell.

  It sounded like things in New Orleans were exciting… far more exciting than Detroit. She looked around her office one more time, wondering if she should double check to see if she had everything.

  Why start now?

  She grabbed her scarf, phone, and Walmart purse before walking out of the office to her editor. He wasn’t going to like what she had to say, but that never stopped her before.

  “How’s my star reporter?”

  Krisan grimaced. She’d won one Courage in Journalism award and all of a sudden she was a ‘star reporter.’ She waved her hand, brushing the compliment aside.

  “Quitting,” she said matter-of-factually.

  His face fell. She could envision the calculations going through his mind. Could he give her a raise? No. The DFP was on the verge of bankruptcy. Despite an uptick of traffic on their website, nothing short of a miracle could keep them from going out of business.

  “But… but..”

  “I’m sorry for the lack of notice, but, well not really. Have a nice day?” She turned and walked toward the elevator banks. The situation was already behind her and she was already looking forward.

  It would take a few hours to close out her lease, pack up for the trip, and make arrangements for the stuff she couldn’t take with her. She hated flying, trains, busses; really anything that didn’t involve her direct control. However, she would make an exception this time. Madi moved fast and if Krisan didn’t hurry, she’d miss the story.

  Would it be cold there? She didn’t really give any thought to the organization that had already tried to kill her on multiple occasions, not to mention the time they tried to sell her into sexual slavery.

  She was more worried about packing enough scarves .

  Chapter 3

  Vaas cursed as he watched the news unfold on the obscenely large TV that decorated the far wall of the Presidential suite he occupied on the top floor of The Deck, his HQ here in New Orleans. He liked the place, liked the people, like the money and privilege. He didn’t like complications.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked his aide.

  “Russians, maybe?”

  Vaas shook his head. In the two years since they moved into New Orleans, things had gone so well. They practically owned Louisiana, from the governor on down to the local police. He could pick up the phone and have any of his men freed from jail, and anyone else he wanted, jailed. It was a long way up from the kid who grew up on the mean streets of Mexico City.

  He ran a hand over his shaved head; the quarter-inch stubble bristled against him as he tried to figure out who could have done this. Russians was a guess, but just a guess. Raker had powers, powers that kept him alive. Whoever killed him certainly knew that and was able to get around them. As for the rest of the men at the meeting? Well, they were all replaceable… in time. Raker though, he was their linchpin. His ability to control people was how they kept the more resistant elements in the city in line. They still had the blackmail on the people he controlled, so even if they did slip his bonds, they wouldn’t be going against ISO anytime soon.

  Still… dammit.

  “It’s not the Russians. It’s not their style,” Vaas said. The Vory—the Russian mafia—loved the big show; if it was them, they would have already called to brag about it.

  “Dude! who else would dare attack us?” His younger brother, Peter, was on the leather couch sipping a forty-ounce beer while cleaning his polished silver revolver for the nineteenth time. Vaas ignored him.

  “If it wasn’t the Russians…” Miguel said, “Then it has to be the Italians.”

  Vaas shook his head again. They’d broken the back of the Italian Mafia twenty years ago. No, this was someone new. Someone powerful. ISO-1 had spent the last three years building up their power base; they controlled people at every level of government. When the DMHA collapsed after the incident in Washington DC, it left the country ripe for takeover.

  Not the megalomaniac kind; the get-rich-or-die-trying kind. And ISO had indeed gotten rich. The last numbers back from Mexico rivaled most third world countries GDP. More than enough money to control half of North America and intimidate the other half. There wasn’t a major criminal or legitimate organization on the planet they didn’t have their hooks into.

  And they hadn’t seen this coming.

  “How many guys you think they used to do this?” Miguel asked.

  “At least a hundred,” Peter answered him.

  The news reporter on the scene held his hand to his ear and blanched. Vaas grabbed the remote from the table and turned up the volume. The police had arrived before Vaas’ own people could, meaning the scene was going to be reported on. Still, he had a heads up from the local precinct that something had happened.

  “This just in. It looks like… I have to warn viewers that what I am about to say is graphic, please if there are young children in the room or if you are sensitive to violence, don’t listen.”

  “Come on, get to it,” Peter said, waving his gun around the room.

  “Okay, I’m being given the go-ahead to talk about it now,” the reporter said. The man was dressed in a typical black suit, he was in his late thirties. They had set up in the cul-de-sac in front of Raker’s mansion with the front doors framed behind him. “The police are reporting at least thirty bodies within—”

  Vaas missed what he said next because Peter started swearing at the TV. He marched over and cuffed his little brother in the back of the head. “Quiet.”

  Peter ducked away but kept his mouth shut.

  “—It’s unbelievable. I don’t think… they are saying the victims have all been decapitated. That the majority of the bodies are piled in a room where all the doors and windows were locked… The room is riddled with gunfire and explosions. This may be the worst atrocity New Orleans has ever seen—”

  Vaas shut the TV off; he didn’t want to hear any more. His brother opened his mouth to speak and Vaas slapped him in the head with the remote. “Get out,” he yelled at Peter. Hurt but obedient, Peter jumped up and walked to the adjoining suite.

  Once Peter was gone Vaas had a moment of silence to think.

  “Decapitated…” Miguel said. “That’s… who would do that?”

  Vaas shrugged, he had no idea. Whoever was behind it had to have an army with them. It certainly wasn’t the feds or the Saints. They wouldn’t kill everyone in the room… and lock the doors and decapitate them. The thought of what happened to those men sent a shiver through his spine.

  “We might need some help here. Contact the Council, see if they have anyone they can spare.”

  Miguel nodded. “I’m on it.” He left through the front door a moment later.

  Vaas returned to his desk and pushed the volume control back up. He hated to listen to it, but he needed to know everything he could. Whatever organization was behind this had just declared war on the wrong people. No group could hide from ISO-1. He grinned. Maybe he would see to the execution of their leaders personally.

  Chapter 4

  The Hellcat was every bit as fun to drive as it appeared. The engine roared when I applied even a little gas, the seat hugged me like a glove, and the steering responded to my every touch. I had to say, I loved that car. The
post killing high had worn off a few hours before, it didn’t leave me drained this time. Sometimes I’ll feel awesome afterword, sometimes like I ran a marathon. The unpredictability of how it affected me was a little frustrating.

  “The only time it drains you is when you use your powers but don’t kill enough people to make up for it,” Sara said calmly from the passenger seat. I freaked out, slamming the brakes with both feet while twisting the wheel. The tires screamed as the car slid to a halt. I closed my eyes for a second and waited.

  Please oh please go away.

  She was gone when I opened them. That was the third time I had seen her since Joseph bequeathed me his powers. Was it a coincidence? Or was I losing my mind? I did miss her, every dang day. I missed all of them. I don’t know, maybe my conscious was playing tricks on me. After killing all those people, I kept waiting for the guilt to set it in. But… it hadn’t. I had emotions, clearly, but I couldn’t muster any compassion for these animals.

  My hands were shaking on the wheel and I flexed them a few times to regain some control. The car idled but I had I had to take a moment to calm down before I took off again. The engine rumbled as I slowly accelerated back down the quiet suburban road.

  Having driven these streets a million times as a teen I could find my old home with my eyes closed. Despite being in the city for the last month while preparing for my war on ISO-1, I hadn’t returned home yet. Tomorrow, things would get real. I wanted to see the house, even if it was burned down, one more time.

  The lane we lived on had a number of tall, shady trees lining the streets, blocking me from seeing the house as I drove down the street. I think the thing I looked forward to most was Mom’s garden. Even if the house was still sitting in its burned out state, the garden would be there. Who knew, maybe someone bought it and rebuilt it, then they maybe had saved the—