I peek behind all of the paintings, then check the filing cabinet, the closet, even underneath the rugs. I don’t find anything. No trapdoor, no secret panel. Nothing is even the least bit suspicious.
There is a gigantic safe on one wall, tucked behind a painting of some epic battle scene, but it’s certainly not big enough for a human to fit through—especially one as tall and broad as Mr. Malone. I don’t know how to break the combo, but I feel pretty confident in assuming it’s not the secret door.
At the same time, I wonder why he needs a safe anyway. What kind of secrets is he hiding? The heroes are supposed to be all about transparency. Secrets are for villains, Mr. Malone always says.
Jeremy would laugh at how paranoid I’m being, but it’s a massive safe. It could hold a lot of secrets.
Still, it’s not like I have the ability to melt steel, so I move on. I’ve searched the office, so I head for the bathroom—yes, he has his own bathroom attached to his office, complete with shower and steam room.
I can’t imagine the Superhero Collective traipsing through a bathroom to get to a secret sub-level, but maybe that makes it the perfect access point. The shower, specifically, would be a really clever place for a secret door. All that tile provides plenty of places to hide an access button. Before I can do much more than step into the shower, I hear Mr. Malone’s office door opening and muffled voices.
Oh shit! He’s here! I have absolutely no excuse to be in Mr. Malone’s office except for the truth, and it’s not like I can just blurt that out. Who, me? I’m just investigating an accusation made by villains who I’m not even supposed to remember. But I believed them enough to doubt the president of the League’s integrity. Yeah. That would go over well.
I’m totally screwed.
I would trade anything for the power of invisibility right now.
I launch into full-blown panic mode. Glancing frantically around the small room, I try to find a place to hide. It’s not like there are a lot of options—the shower is a glass cubicle, the cabinet under the sink is stuffed with Kleenex boxes and other stuff, and the towel closet has shelves that only leave about two inches between them and the door.
I settle on the steam room—it has a full-length door with only a small, square window. Hopefully Mr. Malone’s not here for a late-night sauna session.
As the voices get closer, I slip inside and close the door carefully, holding the handle so it doesn’t click into place.
“I don’t know, Rex,” a male voice I don’t recognize says. “I’m not happy with this recent breach of security.”
“I understand, but it’s fine. Sit down, have a drink.” There’s the tinkle of what sounds like ice cubes on glass. “They didn’t get anything.”
I can’t believe how clearly I can hear them. What if they can hear me too? I try to quiet my panicked breathing.
With all the money Mr. Malone spent on this office, you would think he’d have spent some on soundproofing. But isn’t that typical? All show and no substance.
I press myself back against the wall.
“They knew to come here. To look for the missing villains—”
My heart stops. Terror rips through me and for a second I forget how to breathe.
“Again, they didn’t find anything or we would have heard about it by now. And if they try to come back, they will run into deadly security measures.”
“I’m not sure that’s good enough,” a different male voice says.
“It is, John,” Mr. Malone insists. “Trust me.”
The other men don’t respond, or if they do, their voices are too soft for me to make out. They must be displeased though, because Mr. Malone suddenly booms, “Why don’t you come down with me? You can take a look at what I’ve done today. I assure you, it will put your minds at ease.”
“That might be best,” the first man says. “I’d like to look over the new security, make sure there are no flaws.”
“Absolutely, absolutely.” Mr. Malone’s joviality sounds forced, but that’s not exactly a surprise. I’ve been around the Malone house enough to know he hates being questioned about anything. He gets furious every time Rebel stands up to him over something stupid. I can’t imagine how angry he is right now.
He would never trip over himself to please the other members of the Collective. So who are these other men that Mr. Malone feels the need to placate them?
The voices fade a little, and I hear what I think is the office door shutting. Then I don’t hear anything.
For a few seconds I just stand there, shaking, my heart in my throat. I can’t believe how careless I was, how close I came to getting caught. And I really, really can’t believe what I just overheard.
I replay the conversation, the sick feeling in my stomach getting worse. For the first time tonight, I’m not sure that I’m going to prove my doubts wrong.
The idea is devastating. Terrifying. Incomprehensible. Even though I’m almost positive Mr. Malone is gone, I open the steam-room door slowly. Creep out. Peer around the door into the office. The empty office. Thank God.
The best chance I have to get answers is to follow Mr. Malone and the others. But I have to be careful. Something tells me, Rebel’s best friend or not, things won’t go well for me if I’m caught snooping.
I cross Mr. Malone’s office and peer through the interior windows. He’s walking down the hall with two men, both in slate-gray suits.
Damn, the Ray-Ban brigade. I knew those guys were bad news.
I start to follow them, making sure to leave a good distance between us. It’s not unheard of for me to be up on the third floor, even at this time of night, so if Mr. Malone sees me it won’t be the end of the world. But he can’t think I’m following him.
When the men reach the elevator bay, I dart into an alcove, press myself against the back of it, and hold my breath until the elevator car arrives.
The doors swoosh shut and I peer out. They’re gone. The coast is clear.
I press the call button, and the second elevator starts up from the lobby. As I wait, the first elevator’s indicator light stops on sub-level two. My heart beats double time as the second elevator arrives and I step inside. Clearly they’re not going to my mom’s lab to see the new security measures, because that’s on sub-level one.
When I swipe Mom’s security badge on the access panel and press sub-level two, the elevator descends quickly, bypassing all other levels. It only takes a few moments, but it feels like forever. I clench my hands into fists to keep them from shaking.
The elevator opens onto a containment hallway, a long, empty space with no labs or rooms on either side. Sub-level two is laid out differently than sub-level one. They conduct far more volatile experiments here, so additional safety precautions are in place. No one wants a nuclear blast getting out of the basement.
Mr. Malone and the gray suits are nowhere to be seen. Where could they have gone? I’m only a few seconds behind them. And since Mr. Malone doesn’t have super speed, it makes no sense. They can’t have made it out of the containment hallway already. They couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air, right?
I step off the elevator, wondering if I made a mistake. But when I press the call button, both elevators’ doors slide open. No, Mr. Malone and the Ray-Ban brigade definitely came to this level.
So where did they go?
I start running, and still it takes me a full minute to reach the end of the hallway.
No way did Mr. Malone turn the corner before my elevator arrived. No freaking way. Which means…what? I don’t have a clue, but something shady is going on.
I head back and push the elevator button again. Again, the doors to both elevators slide open. I get in the one on the left this time, the one Mr. Malone and the gray suits took.
I don’t press any buttons. Instead, I just stand there as the doors close in front of me.
What am I missing? They got in this elevator, descended to sub-level two, and…what? Vanished? I know I live in a world of superpowers, but that just doesn’t happen. Only about one percent of superheroes have the power to go invisible, and Mr. Malone isn’t one of them. Which means they are somewhere.
I tap on the floor, push on the walls. Nothing. I’m frustrated now, really frustrated. I press the button to take me back up to three. The elevator rises effortlessly. At the top level, instead of getting out, I press the button to go back down to sub-level two.
It’s crazy, but I can’t help thinking that the answer is here in this elevator. I just need to find it.
Come on, Kenna. Think.
The elevator goes back down, but when it stops at the second sub-level, the doors don’t open. It just sits there, like it’s waiting for me to do something. Too bad I don’t have a clue what that something is.
I start to step forward and the door slides open.
My movement must have signaled the door sensor. Why would they need a pressure trigger in an elevator?
My jaw drops.
“Unless…”
Instead of stepping out into the hall, I swipe Mom’s badge over the reader and return to the center of the elevator. When the door closes, I turn and take a step toward the back.
The rear panel of the elevator slides open, revealing a dimly lit concrete space and a winding staircase. The staircase doesn’t go up, like an emergency stairwell might. It goes down. To what I can only imagine is secret sub-level three.
Chapter 7
My ears strain for sounds of movement or danger. I don’t hear anything, so after a minute, I step out into the stairwell. It’s a circular staircase—which is weird enough in a lab—so I can’t see the bottom. I close my eyes, take a couple deep breaths, and start down one slow step at a time.
I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe this. How can there be a secret level? Why is there a secret level?
I’m confused, worried, more than a little scared. And annoyed, really annoyed. My mother lied to me. She looked me straight in the eye and lied. She made me doubt Rebel, made me doubt myself, and that pisses me off. It also makes me wonder what else she’s lied about. And why.
At the bottom of the staircase there is a door. It’s locked, requiring a security pass. I swipe my mother’s badge and the light changes to green. Proof that she not only knows about this level, but she has authorization to be here.
Before I open the door, I look through the narrow, rectangular window just above the doorknob. Two cameras hang on the opposite wall, scanning the length of the hallway, one on each side. The whole thing is monitored at all times.
Which pretty much sucks for me. My mom might have clearance, but I certainly don’t. If they catch me on camera, I can’t even begin to imagine how much trouble I’ll be in.
But I’m close, so close, to finding out what’s going on down here. I came back to the lab against my mother’s specific orders because I have to know. I have to prove to myself that the crazy thoughts I’ve been considering for the last eighteen hours are as nuts as they seem. Villains aren’t victims. They’re liars. I can’t walk away. Not now.
So I wait and I watch the cameras sweep the hallway again and again and again. I track the arc. I memorize the pattern, rendering the data as a 3-D image in my mind. And I notice a blind spot. A couple of them, actually.
There are exactly four seconds when neither of the cameras picks up the hallway right outside the door. Two seconds when they meet in the middle and can’t see directly beneath each other, and then another four seconds when the second camera can’t see the end of the hallway.
It’s a long distance, but if I time it precisely right—and run like hell—I can make it. I hope.
I wait a little longer, count the seconds again as I watch the cameras run through one, two, three more sweeps. I know if I don’t go now, I never will. I’ll lose my nerve and I’ll never know what’s down here.
Taking a deep breath, I wait for the camera to get into position and launch into motion, running full-speed down the hallway. I get to the first true blind spot, where the cameras cross, and wait, breath held, always counting. Then I book it again.
I’m terrified I’m not going to make it, but I do. I turn the corner, breathing heavily and praying there aren’t more cameras on this hallway.
My hope is in vain, because of course there’s another camera. But thankfully only one, which gives me a lot more time to walk down the hall without getting caught.
I make it down this hallway and another using that same technique. I’m not sure where I’m going, or even what I’m looking for. But I figure I’ll know it when I see it.
There are labs on either side of me, dark rooms that look empty. And while there’s a part of me that wants to know what’s behind every single door, there isn’t time. What I’m looking for—what I need to see—will be wherever Mr. Malone and the gray suits went. Which means I need to keep moving.
I turn the corner again, expecting to have to dodge yet another camera. But in this hallway there are no cameras, at least none that I can see. This only makes me more nervous. After all that security, all that surveillance, why would this area be unwatched? Unless there’s something going on here that Mr. Malone and the Superhero Collective don’t want anyone to see.
Fear rockets down my spine. It’s not fear of getting caught that paralyzes me. It’s fear of what I’ll find. Of what I’ll see. I don’t want my faith in the superheroes to be misplaced.
But I’ve gotten this far and I’m not going back until I know. Squaring my shoulders, I keep going. Most of the rooms are dark, but fluorescent lighting pours under one of the doorways. Someone is in there.
I drop to my knees and crawl along the wall. The window in the center of the door is covered by tightly closed blinds. I’m just inching up to peek through when I hear it. A scream so pained, so tortured, that I swear it chills the blood in my veins. Every hair on my body stands at full attention.
I freeze. Another scream rends the air, this one even worse than the first. Adrenaline pours through me. My chest tightens and it’s hard to drag air into my lungs. I move to a kneeling position and search the window, desperately looking for a split in the blinds so that I can see something, anything.
There’s a gap at the right side of the window where one of the blinds is bent. It’s small, but it’s enough.
I peer through, and my heart stops.
Rebel’s boyfriend, Dante, is tied to a chair in the middle of the room. He’s badly bruised, his head hanging down, shoulders slumped. I can’t be sure, but it looks like the only thing keeping him upright is the strap around his torso and arms, pressing his shoulders against the back of the chair.
All kinds of cables are hooked up to him, and as I watch, his entire body jolts and shakes, almost like an electric current is running through him. My hand covers my mouth to keep me from crying out as he jerks and shudders and screams.
Oh God, does he scream.
I’m not sure how much time passes before the shaking stops and his body goes limp. But it’s right after he vomits all over himself.
Somebody I don’t recognize hits him hard on the side of the head. He barely reacts, his body listing to the side under the pressure of the blow. But that’s it. His eyes are blank, his face slack. Then he starts to jerk again.
I can’t watch anymore. I whirl around and sink my butt to the floor, my hands still clenched tightly over my mouth. Oh my God. Oh My God. OH MY GOD! What is going on? What the hell is going on?
My mind races and my eyes sting. This must be what shock feels like.
I sit there for a minute, two, trying to get my head together. Trying to make sense of what I’ve seen. But there’s no sense to be made. What’s going on in that room isn’t an experiment—which would be bad enough. No, it’s tort
ure, pure and simple.
Another scream rips through the quiet. This can’t be happening. This just can’t be happening.
But it is.
It really is.
I take a deep breath. The hall spins around me, but I force the nausea down and climb back to my knees. I peer through the slit in the blinds again, then wish I hadn’t. Huge fists rain down on Dante’s shoulders, his chest, his back, his head.
A movement in the corner of the room catches my eye, and I press my cheek against the glass. Mr. Malone and the gray suits are watching, observing casually, like they’re looking at a painting in a museum.
The look of pride on Mr. Malone’s face turns my veins to ice.
I want to rewind time by ten minutes and not find the entrance to sub-level three. I want to stop this guy’s pain. I want to open the door and scream at them at the top of my lungs. But I’m smart enough to know that would get both of us killed. By heroes.
The knowledge turns me inside out.
All my life there have only been three absolutes: ordinaries are useless, villains are evil, and heroes are good. Heroes are supposed to be the people the rest of the world looks up to, the very best examples of humanity.
I’ve spent my whole life distrusting villains—hating villains—and now I find out that some heroes are just as bad. Maybe worse. This kind of brutality is worse than anything I’ve ever heard villains accused of. This is worse than what they did to my father. Worse than murder.
Heroes are the good guys, the ones who stop things like this from happening. The heroes I know would never do this. But they are. They are. So what’s going on?
Hypnosis? Mind control? I don’t know. Somebody is responsible for this. There’s no other explanation.
But who? What are they getting out of it?
Another scream pierces the air, and I shudder. I’ve never felt so useless in my life. There is nothing I can do to help him, to save him. Nothing I can do to make it stop. What I wouldn’t give to have any superpower.
Powerless Page 7
