The Bigtime Series (Bigtime superhero series, e-bundle)

by Jennifer Estep

  I squinted and peered into the shadows. A flash of silver caught my eye, then vanished. My heart sped up. Had it come from that alley over there? Or from behind the building over—

  A sword sailed through the air, landing in the rear tire of one of the cars. It wobbled back and forth, and the tire hissed and flattened. As quickly as it had appeared, the sword flew out of the tire and back into the shadows. Moments later, the process repeated itself, this time on the other car.

  Striker had arrived.

  I fumbled for my camera. I set it to video mode and leaned over the roof, almost falling off in the process. A few loose bits of bricks slid off the edge and plummeted to the street below, but the gangbangers were too preoccupied to notice.

  Shouts rose up from inside the vehicles. Doors popped open, and men poured out. This time, they sported guns instead of briefcases. Evidently, semiautomatic pistols and multiple clips fit perfectly into the pockets of designer suits these days.

  But no more swords appeared. No superheroes swooped into sight, either. The men stood still. Their excited breath spurted out in huffs and puffs. They crouched beside their cars for several minutes in a silent Mexican standoff with someone they couldn’t see. The men stared into the shadows and waited for the next attack, while I watched from above, my camera capturing every slow, agonizing second.

  After five minutes, the men began to grumble. They exchanged glares and shrugs and dropped their guns to their sides.

  Suddenly, a black figure sprang from the shadows.

  He landed between the two cars. The headlights spotlighted him, and I got my first good look at Striker in the flesh. My mouth went dry. He was tall with a lean figure and perfectly sculpted muscles in all the right places. Twin swords rose above his shoulders, held in place by some kind of scabbard built into his black leather suit. A black-and-gray mask covered his face, while the F5 insignia stretched across his chest. His black hair glistened like onyx under the bright headlights.

  Striker lifted his head. I gasped at the sight of his eyes. They were gray, a shimmering, ethereal sort of gray that made me think of moonlight and the stars far above. But there was a fire in his eyes, a fire that could sear your very soul with its heat. I shivered.

  Striker moved. His two swords flashed like lightning. He ran through the men like a lawnmower chugging through dry grass. Fists met flesh and bones cracked. Swords sliced through gun barrels as if they were made of paper. Bodies flew through the air, landing with dull thuds on the street.

  In less than a minute, it was over. Striker stood alone. A dozen gang members littered the ground around him, taking their rightful place with the rest of the garbage. The men cried and moaned and whined in pain. Those who could crawled away. Those who couldn’t hugged their knees to their chests and hoped for mercy. Striker stood still amid the chaos.

  I switched from video to camera mode. I shot picture after picture of the superhero. I couldn’t stop myself. Something about him was so impressive, so mesmerizing, so captivating. I couldn’t look away, and I didn’t want to. My camera clicked and whirred with each frame.

  Striker cocked his head. I stopped. Surely, he couldn’t hear my camera over the whimpers of the men. Why, he’d have to have the most amazing hearing in the world to do that—

  Striker’s head snapped up. He stared right at me with those searing, piercing, gray eyes. I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs. He frowned.

  Uh-oh.

  The superhero’s eyes narrowed to slits. Yet they glittered like diamonds in the dark night. My breath caught in my throat. He recognized me. How could he not? After all, I was the woman who’d driven his friend to commit suicide. Guilt tightened my chest.

  I started to duck behind the wall, to hunker down and cower, to do something, anything to hide from Striker’s piercing eyes. But my inner voice chattered, and I stopped. Oh, what the hell. He’d find out I was tracking him sooner or later. Who knew, it might make my job easier in the end.

  So I waved at him.

  Chapter Seven

  Striker was not amused. His gray eyes glowed with anger, and his gloved hands clenched into fists. He stepped over one of the weeping gang members and started toward the building. A vision of myself shish-kebabed on his swords flashed through my mind.

  Striker stopped and cocked his head. A moment later, the thin wail of a siren sliced through the air, and flashing red lights appeared at the far end of Good Intentions Lane. Striker stared at the oncoming police cars, then up at me. Debating. He turned and melted back into the shadows like the ghost he was. A long, tense breath escaped my lips. I didn’t know what I would have done if he’d come up here and confronted me. Quivered with fear and begged for mercy, most likely. And probably ogled the sexy superhero. I shook my head. Why the hell would I be thinking about ogling—

  The door to the roof banged open. I shrieked and fumbled for my stun gun. The short man stuck his head out.

  “The cops are coming. Let’s go!”

  I didn’t need encouragement. I shoved my camera into my purse. The man held the door open, then took the lead as I pounded down the stairs after him. He led me through the building and out a back door that opened up onto the opposite side of the building from Striker and the approaching cops. We cut through a dilapidated parking lot. Weeds and crushed beer cans crackled under our feet.

  “This way! This way!” he hissed. “The subway’s only three blocks ahead.”

  He might have been short and fat, but the man ran as if a whole gang of ubervillains was after him. Maybe they were.

  I struggled to keep up. My purse slapped against my thigh like a lead weight. My lungs burned. My heart pounded. A stitch embedded itself in my side.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t run another step, the man slowed. A cracked subway sign flickered up ahead, and a set of graffiti-covered stairs led underground.

  “I’m going first. Wait here a minute, then come down. You never saw me. I never saw you,” the man said. “Forget what I look like. I’ll do the same.”

  I nodded, more concerned with gulping air than responding. The man slid down the stairs. I put my hands on my hips and concentrated on breathing. When I felt like my lungs weren’t going to explode, I shouldered my heavy purse and plodded down the grimy stairs to the subway platform.

  It was close to one o’clock in the morning now. A couple of homeless guys slept over a steam vent, while a bored transit cop read a comic book inside his bulletproof booth. My erstwhile guide had vanished like a puff of smoke blown away by the wind. I clutched my stun gun and tried not to look nervous.

  A train rumbled into the station a minute later. I paid for a token and sank onto a hard, plastic seat. I was the only passenger. The doors hissed shut, and the train slid away from the platform. I let out a breath. Safe. For now.

  On the ride home, I thought about Striker. He’d recognized me. The question was, what would he do now?

  I chewed my lip. Striker would go back to the Fearless Five’s supersecret headquarters and tell them Carmen Cole was up to her old tricks again. Given Tornado’s suicide and my involvement in it, they’d try to figure out what I was up to, if I was trying to expose the rest of them.

  They’d start investigating me, just like I was investigating them.

  And they’d have a much easier time of it. If Hermit was the technological wizard he or she was rumored to be, the superhero had hacked into every part of my life by now. Hermit most likely had my bank records, credit history, library card number, grade school report cards, everything. He was probably reading the story about my doomed wedding and superhero ex-fiancé at this very moment. Other than the usual little prick of pain, the thought didn’t bother me. I had nothing to hide. My humiliation was public record, and I was the one who had made it that way.

  My thoughts turned back to Striker. The image of him spotlighted between the two cars flashed through my head. His pictures didn’t do the man justice. I’d seen plenty of superheroes before. Hell, I’d even s
lept with one. But something about Striker captured my imagination like no one else ever had. Those piercing eyes, those perfect, chiseled lips, that hard, sculpted body that just begged to be touched. And kissed. And caressed. And covered with whipped cream.

  Striker had looked good. Very, very good. Mouthwatering good. Toe-curling good. On a scale of one to ten, Striker was definitely a thirteen and a half. I wondered if he looked as fantastic out of that costume as he did in it. Somehow, I knew he did. And by the looks of it, he hadn’t been wearing a sculpted codpiece so many of the macho, male superheroes favored. Heat flooded my body. I shifted on the hard seat and fanned myself with my hand.

  I shook my head. Why was I thinking about how well Striker filled out his leather costume? So what if he had the perfect body with lots of muscles in all the right places? Most superheroes did. It was practically a job requirement. Superheroes couldn’t afford to let themselves go. Their adoring publics wouldn’t let them. Nobody wanted to see overweight, out-of-shape superheroes. It just wasn’t done. Fiera’s pinup calendar was proof of that.

  It had to be hormones. I hadn’t had a decent date, much less sex, in forever. I’d gone without, and my hormones had kicked into overdrive at the sight of a sexy superhero. That’s why I was lusting after Striker. That’s why I was imagining the feel of his lips on mine. That’s why I was fantasizing about peeling that leather suit off his body to see if he was as rock-solid as he looked.

  That pair of searing gray eyes filled my memory. They had burned into mine, as if they could see into the very depths of my soul. A shiver swept up my spine.

  Hormones or not, it would be a very, very long time before I forgot about those amazing eyes.

  * * *

  The next morning, I flipped through The Exposé. The drug-bust story covered the front page, along with police photos of the dealers in various states of pain and agony. I scanned the story, written by one of the newspaper’s many crime reporters. The police had confiscated more than a hundred pounds of heroin. Chief Newman said the arrests resulted from an anonymous tip. He didn’t confirm or deny that Striker and the Fearless Five had been involved. Perhaps he didn’t know. The police always seemed to be the last to know anything in Bigtime.

  I threw down the paper and paced around my apartment. Every time I made a lap, I stopped and stared out the living room windows into the street below. People bustled down the sidewalk, coffee and cell phones in hand. Cars jockeyed for room while horns blared out their harsh notes. Vendors hawked everything from magazines to giant pretzels to knock-off watches in loud, obnoxious voices. Another typical day in Bigtime. My eyes scanned the crush of people, peering into the alleys, squinting into every nook and cranny. Looking for someone. Looking for him.

  Looking for Striker.

  I knew he would seek me out. By now, the Fearless Five had figured out I was investigating them, trying to uncover their identities again. They wouldn’t be pleased by the realization. I’d half expected Striker to be waiting in my apartment when I got home last night, hiding in the dark shadows, ready to spring out and order me to cease and desist with my investigations, as any good superhero would. But everything had been as I’d left it, and there were no nasty surprises waiting inside.

  No strange phone calls, no sudden knocks on the door, no windows breaking in the middle of the night. Nothing. Striker hadn’t shown himself. Still, I knew he was coming, that he would be here soon. To my surprise, I was eager to see him again, although I couldn’t quite figure out why. My eyes scanned the crush of people again, looking, searching, seeking.

  There he was!

  My heart stopped. A figure clad in black crouched on top of a city bus rumbling down the street toward my apartment building. That lithe form. That hard body. That elaborate snakelike headdress—

  Wait a minute. The bus stopped in the street below, and I got a good look at the figure riding on top of it. The costume was black, but the figure squeezed inside it was definitely female. I sighed. It was Black Samba, another of the city’s resident superheroes. Along with some weird voodoo powers, snakes were her thing, and they wrapped around her arms like multicolored bangle bracelets. She also liked to dance, hence her name.

  The bus pulled back into traffic. I turned away from the windows and sighed. Malefica’s deadline drew closer with every passing second. I didn’t have time to waste worrying when Striker would appear on my doorstep. Not if I didn’t want to end up looking like a radioactive snow bunny.

  There were no society events scheduled for the evening, so I returned to the Bigtime Public Library. This time, I gathered information on the Terrible Triad. Every newspaper column, every glossy magazine spread, every journal article written about the ubervillains. I downloaded them all to a flash drive, stuffed the paper copies in a trash bag, and headed home.

  It was late when I unlocked the door to my apartment and stepped over the threshold. I flipped on the lights, threw my keys down on a nearby table, and walked over to the alarm system. I punched in the code. I shivered and glanced at the thermostat. Sixty-five degrees. I frowned. The thermostat was set at seventy-two. It should be a lot warmer than that in here—

  My fingers stilled for a second. Then, I leaned forward and fiddled with the thermostat, pretending to punch in an elaborate command. My eyes scanned what I could see of the living room. One of the windows was open. A cool breeze invaded the room and fluttered the white curtains.

  There was only one problem. I hadn’t left the window open. I never did, not since a kid had climbed up the fire escape, slipped inside, and hidden two pounds of rotten fish under the sofa. Someone had broken into my apartment. Another, more disturbing thought popped into my frantic, confused brain.

  He might still be in here.

  For a moment, I wanted to scream and bolt through the door. Instead of running, I reached out into the hallway and picked up my garbage bag filled with papers. I knew who had come calling while I wasn’t home. I was just surprised it had taken him this long.

  I lugged the bag to the coffee table and plopped it down. The table creaked under the weight.

  “Whew!” I said for the benefit of whoever might be listening and wiped a bit of imaginary sweat from my forehead. “That one was even heavier than the last batch. Time to take a shower.”

  I walked down the hall as if everything was perfectly normal, even though my heart pounded and blood roared in my ears. I went into the bathroom and closed the door not quite all the way. I stood at the crack, listening. Nothing. Was complete silence one of his superpowers? For once, my memory failed me. My jumbled brain couldn’t recall.

  I turned on the water in the sink. The steady hiss drowned the rapid beating of my heart. I reached under the toilet and yanked off a piece of duct tape. A gun fell into my sweaty hand, along with an extra clip of ammo. It comforted me. I was pretty sure who my intruder was and that he wouldn’t hurt me, but it was better to be safe than sorry. I racked back the slide and stuck the clip in my waistband. My hands trembled.

  I took a deep breath to steady myself. Then, I tiptoed to the door and squeezed through the opening. I padded down the hall, as silent as any mouse. I stood in the pool of darkness that separated the hall from the living room and kitchen. I held the gun up, waiting, watching, listening.

  Come out, come out, wherever you are…

  A long, tall shadow detached itself from the refrigerator and headed for the open window. I raised the gun and aimed at the shadow’s back. I pulled the trigger.

  I wasn’t fast enough. The shadow whirled around, sensing my presence. A dart hit the wall behind where he’d been standing a moment ago. So I fired again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And again.

  He kept moving. Dart after dart followed him through the kitchen. Glasses shattered and dishes broke as the tiny missiles hit them. Damn, he was fast, even for a superhero. A hollow click rang out, followed by another, then another. Out of ammo.

  “Oh, bloody hell.�
�

  I popped out the clip and jammed in the fresh one. Slow, slow, slow! I was moving too slow, like I was underwater. I expected a body to slam into me at any second. Or a gloved hand to yank the gun from my shaky, sweaty grasp. But nothing happened.

  I snapped up the gun. The shadow stilled. We stood there in a silent standoff. Then slowly, oh so slowly, he eased forward into the light that spilled in through the window.

  Striker.

  He looked just the same as he had last night. Black suit. Black mask. Black hair. Silver swords. Gray eyes. But the effect was far more devastating up close and personal. A dark, dangerous air buzzed around him like an electric current. He stood still, sizing up the situation. Striker was a predator. I was just his chosen prey for the evening.

  I licked my lips. Hot, nervous sweat trickled down the back of my neck, plastering my hair to my skin. My hands shook. The gun bobbed up and down. I steadied my grip.

  Striker pried a dart out of the kitchen wall and held it up by the feathered end. His movements were lithe and fluid and controlled like those of a jungle cat. He seemed unconcerned with me and my gun.

  “Tranquilizers.” I answered his silent question. “With enough juice in them to knock out an elephant. Striker, I presume?”

  He nodded.

  “I assume you know who I am.”

  He nodded again.

  We stood there in silence. I kept my gun leveled at him. Striker leaned back against the kitchen counter as if he owned the place. His gray eyes slid over my body in a frank, assessing manner that made me tremble from head to toe. I felt like a fattened calf on the auction block being inspected by would-be buyers. I wondered if Striker liked what he saw. The thought startled me. I looked down at my faded, ripped jeans, battered sneakers, and T-shirt that read 0 to Bitch in 7.7 seconds or your money back. Probably not. Ugh.