We Could Be Heroes
Page 30
How much time passed? Minutes? Hours? It was hard to tell, given her singular focus, though at some point, she did have enough self-awareness to consider that something really fucked up must have happened for her to be buried under all that. Also, how the hell was she alive?
Her focus returned, every moment solely about going farther and farther up, and though she didn’t exactly have a compass pointing the right direction, the sounds of everything called to her: massive engines mixed in with birds chirping and the echoes of footsteps, even the rolling of bicycles. Somewhere there was even some running water.
Fistful after fistful came and went, pulling and digging until she hit something flat. Not totally flat, as her hands explored the surface to find crevices and edges.
A big goddamn rock.
“Are you serious?” she muttered to herself, and rather than just go around it, something tugged at her to form a fist and hit the rock as hard as she could. Surprisingly, her hand did not shatter, but parts of the rock did. She could feel chips of it stuck against her knuckles, but that wasn’t enough to stop her, or even slow her down at this point. Not this close. She was getting through that rock to breathe air on the surface even if it obliterated her arm.
It didn’t, though. Each successive punch seemed to tear further into the boulder until it had a clear splitting point. She thrust both hands through the middle, and tensed her shoulders, giving herself a quiet count to three before pulling as hard as she could.
Suddenly, light blinded her. Her hands fell on dirt, and after her eyes adjusted, she saw the large chunks that had once been a single boulder lying round. A glance down showed that she was waist-deep in earth, but with a few seconds of wiggling, she stood on firm ground.
“Holy shit,” a man said, his mouth open.
She looked down at herself. Dirt fell off of her, catching in the light breeze, and beneath the layer of dirt appeared to be some kind of leather suit, black with silver zippers, with most of the left arm torn off.
Who would wear such an idiotic costume?
“Are you... I mean...is this—” the man sputtered.
“Where am I?” she demanded. The sun sat just above the horizon, purples and pinks beaming into the sky, but was it dusk? Morning? That remained unclear, and as the man stammered again, a weird glow formed around him. “Slow down. I’m getting my bearings here.”
Then it hit her, a proverbial light bulb flickering to life in her mind. She spit dirt out and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling out two rusty nails that got tangled during the climb up.
“Are you...alright?” he asked.
She didn’t know how to answer that question. Seriously, saying “I’m fine” after crawling from however-many-feet buried and punching through a rock didn’t quite seem appropriate.
But she did know one thing, one solid thing that arrived seconds ago and infused every fiber of her being with certainty. And it was the only thing that mattered.
Her name was Zoe Wong.
45
JAMIE STOOD IN THE lobby of the bank, face hidden by a San Delgado Barons cap while pretending to look at a brochure for IRA investment plans.
In reality, he watched. Stretched out with his abilities, assessing the state of the room, from the tellers to the security guard to the two people in line.
No threats.
Everyone here, it turned out, was a complete stranger to the person he tracked, the man second in line for the tellers. Jamie locked into his mind, staying present but keeping a distance to not affect his actions. Simple observation of the man’s memories, and as proof that he cleanly invaded the headspace, the man even began to scratch the back of his neck.
“Next in line, please,” a teller called, and this man walked up, a casual step forward while he pulled out several checks and a large wad of cash. He offered chatter, comments about how the rain had been unusually heavy this season and did she hear the latest news about extraordinaries in New Turning City, some even claiming to be magicians or wizards or something ludicrous like that. Smiles and nods, polite laughter and friendly replies, all of that going the way a simple bank transaction should have.
Except Jamie knew better. He had an inside peek.
As expected, the man’s memories turned to the source of the deposits as he handled each item—a simple trick Jamie had discovered regarding human behavior in identifying critical memories.
And there it was: clear memories of skimming funds out of San Delgado’s Police and Firefighter’s fund. Step by step, everything lined up as expected, from cashing out dummy checking accounts to “losing” bits of cash here and there. All meticulously constructed into the lump sum represented by his deposit—and definitely not the first time he’d done it.
Got you.
Jamie pulled out his phone, holding it like he was texting but in reality snapping a photo of the man. The brochure now in his back pocket, he found the exit before the man even finished his transaction then walked across the street to a café where a different man sat, a man with large sunglasses and a hoodie framing his light brown cheeks and serious smile.
“You’re right,” Jamie said. “Lethbridge is dirty. I saw pretty much everything you suspected.”
Chesterton nodded and said a casual, “That’s all I need,” before handing Jamie an envelope, the familiar thickness of cash slapping against his palm. The detective stood up and walked away before Jamie could reply.
Was he the only cop on the straight and narrow in San Delgado? Probably not, but he did seem to be the only one committed to rooting out corruption in the city. Or the only one with abilities. Maybe both. And “consulting” for Chesterton proved to be a much safer gig than robbing banks—and it came with another strange, completely unexpected perk.
Satisfaction.
Jamie started walking to the bus stop, taking a shortcut between buildings. As it started to drizzle, a sneeze echoed through the alley. Jamie stopped and swiveled, the words “Bless you” already spoken by the time he’d turned around.
But there was no one there.
Adrenaline coursed through Jamie’s body, his senses sharpening in a way that had nothing to do with his mental abilities. He whirled around, looking back and forth in a constant motion, trying to locate the source of it.
Then it hit him, harder than an extraordinary punch. Of course there was no one in the alley with him.
Instead, Jamie looked up.
“Working with Chesterton now, huh?” a female voice called out. “Still wanna rob a bank?”
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The bulk of this book was written and edited during a time of personal upheaval. A family medical crisis, seemingly endless home repairs and a day job transition all led to finishing edits while trying to homeschool during a global pandemic. It was, as you might imagine, not easy, and I am lucky that the day always started and stopped with my wife, Mandy, and my daughter, Amelia. They are the 100% most best, and there’s no one I’d rather drink coffee and watch superhero shows with.
Every book has its own unique (and often twisted) journey, and this one is no different. Its genesis, in fact, started as a short story. Shortly after I’d signed with my literary agent, Eric Smith, he sent me an open call for superhero short fiction. I’d come up with a pitch about a superhero and supervillain who accidentally meet in an AA meeting. Sometime later, I wrote that short story with Jamie and Zoe, then titled Anonymous, and sold it to Storyteller magazine.
And when Storyteller folded, the rights for the story reverted back to me. Toward the end of edits on A Beginning at the End, I told Eric that I had an idea to take that short tale and go much bigger with it. Thus, We Could Be Heroes was born.
So this would not exist without Eric in many ways—not just him pitching and selling the book, but going all the way back to entering that contest that started this idea. And the other h
alf of that is Margot Mallinson, my editor, who understands the fine line I’m walking between genres and pushes me to get better. Margot gets an extra shout-out for taking a chance on a story that’s quite a bit lighter than my first two books.
This book wears its influences on its leather superhero outfit, and I’ll be the first to admit that. In particular, this book would not exist without Arrow, Jessica Jones, Daredevil, and Legends of Tomorrow. In fact, I think Zoe and Jamie would fit right in with the Legends (my favorite show in recent years). And if you recognized the character names here, well then hello fellow classic Doctor Who fan.
Of course, writing requires a good team of trusted feedback and I’m lucky to be friends with amazingly talented people. Sierra Godfrey assured that the first act was off to a good start; Kat Howard gave really smart suggestions to rework the first half; and Meghan Scott Molin sped-read the final draft before I turned it in. Peng Shepherd contributed the very important names Tater Truck and Noodle Tent to the story’s world as well as being part of the crowdsource group that came up with Zoe’s ridiculous shuriken catchphrase.
Some noteworthy shout-outs: Jeff Kakes, who challenged me to get a Lobot easter egg in a book (see, I did it!); Richard Donelly, who earned a character name by providing a bunch of free plumbing advice as everything in my house was falling apart; and Matt Smith and Ming-Na Wen, who played Jamie and Zoe in the movie I saw in my head. My many writer friends who help my sanity and creativity on a regular basis, but especially Diana Urban, Wendy Heard, Randy Ribay and my TeamRocks tribe. And my lovably clueless cat Nermal, who will now be immortalized for playing a cat named Normal in this book, down to the exact awkward mannerisms.
And finally, thank you to David Bowie for the absolute perfect title for this book. Your presence is in my family’s life every day.
ISBN-13: 9781488077111
We Could Be Heroes
Copyright © 2021 by Mike Chen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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