Building a Hero: The Complete Trilogy

by Tasha Black

  There was no use denying it. Her men were incapable of performing in high stress situations. They were scoring off the charts on every controlled simulation she threw at them, but they couldn’t hold it together in real world scenarios. And once one lost control, it seemed almost contagious. The rest fell like dominoes.

  The strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.

  Right now, this pack needed a stronger wolf to hold it together.

  Sterling sighed, and thought of Dalton again. It seemed like she couldn’t stop thinking about him these days. His arms, his warmth, his betrayal.

  She’d been convinced that Dalton held the key. If he could control his shifting, the knowledge of how he managed could have empowered his brothers.

  She had joked that he’d be the end of her. Now it was looking like that might actually be true.

  Panchenko wasn’t known to shrug off business losses. You didn’t run the biggest Ukrainian organized crime syndicate on the west coast by being charitable.

  Getting involved with him was a bad idea, but she’d had no choice. Without his money, her men would have been out on the street. The shifting took its toll. None of them were mentally prepared for freedom. They would have all been in homeless shelters or worse in no time.

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Lt. Sterling, your guests have arrived,” the tinny voice announced.

  “Thank you, I’ll greet them myself,” she replied.

  Although she had accepted substantial sums of money from Panchenko, she had never met him. All her meetings had been with an accountant named Brad. It was pretty anti-climactic to deal with an organization like the Malina through a soft-spoken numbers guy.

  Right about now, though, Sterling was thinking she was going to miss Brad.

  A lot.

  She left the admin building and walked down the grassy path to the gate.

  An elderly man in a wheelchair waited on the other side. A younger man, well dressed and handsome, held the handles. Beside the pair stood a man who was presumably the bodyguard. He was quite possibly the largest man Sterling had ever seen.

  As she got closer, she noticed the tiny scars that dotted the big man’s lips.

  She remembered the rumors of how Panchenko got the nickname The Tailor, and suppressed a shiver.

  “Welcome,” she said in a calm clear voice. “So glad you could join us today.”

  She pressed a button and the gate opened.

  The younger man stepped forward from behind the wheelchair.

  “I’m Roman Panchenko, Mr. Panchenko’s grandson.” He extended his hand to her.

  Sterling shook it, unsure if she was supposed to greet him before his grandfather.

  Roman was devastatingly handsome up close. He wore a beautiful suit that made it seem he had just stepped off a European runway. Sterling could see now that he was not quite as young as he looked from a distance. She guessed he was in his late thirties. Somehow the tiny lines next to his eyes only made him more beautiful.

  The only flaw was his smile. Though there was nothing technically wrong with his perfect mouth, there was something sinister in the way it curved, like a snake about to strike.

  “Lt. Elizabeth Sterling. I understand you would like to see our men in action. Shall we?” she asked, gesturing into the compound.

  “Of course,” he consented.

  They headed down the path toward the old wooden decking that led to the enclosures. Sterling worried briefly about the chair on the ivy covered wood, but if Roman were having any trouble with it, he certainly didn’t indicate it.

  “My grandfather is concerned about his investment,” Roman said, glancing once at the older gentleman. “He has contributed substantial funding, but he has yet to see any evidence of progress.”

  “We are very grateful for your backing, Mr. Panchenko,” Sterling said to the older man. “The men have been in sessions nearly every waking moment and we have put your capital to good use in their training.”

  He did not acknowledge her statement, nor did he make any move to communicate with his grandson that Sterling could see. But Roman glanced over at him again for a moment, as if he were listening to him.

  “My grandfather is happy to hear about the training, but he is more interested in outcomes.” Roman said.

  “We are making good progress. However, our results rely on both physical training and mental preparedness. One works on a measured timeline, the other is less predictable.”

  They reached the observation deck over the old rhinoceros enclosure. The men below drilled in perfect formation, showcasing close-quarters combat skills. She had arranged nothing but formations and drill work today, no courses. The men were confident in these drills. She wouldn’t risk them losing control in front of Panchenko.

  They looked good. Great, actually. Sterling found she was feeling more relaxed.

  “There is a war coming to the streets of Glacier City,” Roman began. “My grandfather wants to remind you that our organization, the Malina, has long held the dominant position among the city’s less regulated avenues of business. When the dust settles, it is vital that the balance of power remains intact. Your soldiers are supposed to ensure that outcome. Are you prepared to meet your obligation, Miss Sterling?”

  Miss Sterling. Not Lieutenant.

  And no, she was not.

  Knowing it wasn’t true, but completely out of options, she bent to assure Mr. Panchenko.

  “Sir, you have my word that these men will report for duty in two weeks, as we agreed.”

  Again, he didn’t acknowledge her. She was unsure if he could even hear her.

  As she stood, she noticed the bodyguard had stepped closer. Maybe she had come too close to Mr. Panchenko.

  Sterling stepped back quickly and the bodyguard stepped back into his usual position.

  Sterling couldn’t help noticing his scars again, and wondering if she would get off that easy.

  9

  West patrolled the outskirts of the Scar. The air was so humid, even the buildings seemed on the verge of wilting.

  He was on his own tonight, while Dalton ran security for a Worthington Enterprises function. A function West, as the CEO probably should have been making an appearance at.

  Lately, the trappings of running a corporation seemed like part of another life, one he wasn’t anxious to return to. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t because every hallway of the building reminded him of Cordelia. And sometimes, he almost believed it.

  West had always been a very convincing liar.

  He scoped out the alleyway to his right with his infrared vision as he passed. No activity.

  He’d already stopped one group of punks, Gravediggers, trying to boost a car. No sign of any other gangbangers or Aryan Dawn yet, but the night was young, and the gangs never seemed to take a night off.

  He couldn’t help but smile as he thought of how the trio of Gravediggers had abandoned the car and run like hell as soon as they saw him coming. Jess had been right about the intimidation factor of the suit.

  Jess.

  West had been doing all he could to push away the memories of that night. But they kept crowding in.

  He’d rather battle an army of skinheads than face his feelings. Sadly, there didn’t seem to be such an army available to distract him at the moment.

  Why hadn’t he just decided to hammer his emotions into submission with booze, like a normal person? It was never hard to find a drink when you needed one.

  Instead, he continued along, warm air and dangerous thoughts pressing in from every angle.

  Westley Worthington was the envy of every man. Richer than Croesus, and the most eligible bachelor in Glacier City. He’d even been snatched back from the jaws of death, and now he was practically a superhero. But he felt like a complete failure as a human being.

  He had lost Cordelia. Forever. Telling himself differently would only prolong his suffering. The sooner he accepted that she was lo
st to him, the sooner he would be able to move on. Given his track record with women, that part had been almost inevitable.

  But Jess.

  Letting down Jess was the worst of it all. He had been her hero. And no matter how many drug deals or muggings he busted, it would never erase the look on her face that night at Med Pros. It was burned into his brain forever.

  A screech of tires broke his reverie.

  A large white passenger van ground to a halt just ahead of him - the same type that was used in the gun deal he and Dalton broke up.

  Shit.

  West had been hoping for a distraction, but these guys were the real deal.

  Four men hopped out. He immediately recognized the bearded guy with the scar, the one that had surprised West last time with his strength.

  Each wore a black tactical vest, and carried a shiny black tonfa baton - a long stick with a handle coming off the side at a right angle, like the police sometimes used.

  There was no hesitation or lining up to fight one by one, like in the movies. Three of them rushed him at once. And there was also no Dalton this time to sneak up from behind and get the drop on anyone.

  Beard Guy was clearly in command. West could tell by the way he was holding back, observing.

  West defended himself cautiously, trying to get a sense of the other men’s strengths and weaknesses between blows. Unfortunately, he didn’t see a lot of weakness.

  Beard Guy had apparently seen enough. He produced a taser from his inside his vest and leveled it at West.

  West tried to dodge, but the guy was good. He anticipated West’s movement and adjusted his aim at just the right moment.

  The pain was excruciating. West felt his body go stiff.

  He expected to hit the ground hard, but his legs locked up, preventing him from falling. So he stood, convulsing.

  Then the electricity was gone.

  But so were his prosthetics.

  He tried to move, but his legs were frozen. His right arm hung useless. His right eye saw only darkness.

  As he took inventory, the men closed in. Too soon, they were on him.

  West tried to shield himself with his good arm, but it was no use.

  The punches and kicks rained down on him without end. At least most of his limbs were numb.

  One of the guys hit him hard in the head. The pain cracked through him like lightning. Vision in his good eye went blurry, but his legs wouldn’t let him fall.

  The leader moved in and grabbed West’s mask.

  It wasn’t designed to come off easily, and West said a silent prayer that it would hold. But as Beard Guy pulled harder, West felt it start to give.

  No, no, no.

  In a rush, the life flooded back into his limbs.

  Counting on the element of surprise, he grabbed Beard Guy’s arm.

  The man pulled away, ripping out of his sleeve, and revealing the titanium skeleton beneath his clothing.

  West observed him in wonder.

  The man was like him. But he had no fake skin, there was no attempt to cover it at all.

  West realized he must look like that inside as well.

  Why did he try to hide it?

  One of the other guys pulled out a taser, but this time West was ready.

  He dodged and punched the taser, breaking it, as well as a few of the guy’s fingers.

  The biggest guy in the group took a swing at him.

  West pulled off an expert block and disarm, dislocating his opponent’s arm in the process. West had been studying Kali stick fighting since he began carrying a cane everywhere. Just in case.

  And now he had a weapon.

  The third guy seemed like he knew what he was doing as well, and got in a few good shots, before West’s instincts took over. West lost himself in the rhythm of the clacking sticks until he found the pattern in the attacks. After that, he took the guy apart, disarming and incapacitating him with ease.

  The fight was going his way, but West was in some serious pain.

  And his limbs were working overtime.

  He began to worry that in spite of his comeback, he was fading fast. How much more did he have in him?

  Before he had a chance to find out, a siren wailed, approaching quickly.

  The attackers broke off and headed for the van. And as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone, leaving West with nothing but an aching body and a couple of sticks to show they had ever been there at all.

  West caught his breath, then staggered back the way he’d come, ducking into a nearby alley to avoid being spotted. He’d have to walk to where he left his bike to get back downtown.

  He needed to tell Mallory about the other man with the tech right away.

  10

  West lay back patiently on the table as Mallory ran a full scan on his systems. The air in the room was cold and smelled lightly of antiseptic, as always.

  Mallory was running him through the usual barrage of questions. Most of them were familiar now, so he answered by rote.

  There used to be something…different about coming here. There was excitement, a charge in the air.

  Wistfully, West wondered if it was Cordelia’s absence. But of course she hadn’t been there every time.

  He studied the woman who was there every time.

  Mallory’s bright blue and blonde hair was long enough to flop over her forehead now. It lent an air of defeat to her normally quirky appearance. She was deeply engaged in the scan, but her demeanor was serious.

  She used to be over the moon every time he came in.

  He supposed a lot of this had to do with Sean Cooper.

  But it had started before Sean.

  West had been tormented over the things he’d said to Cordelia that night. But he had never stopped to think about the offense he had given to Mallory, a woman he respected and considered to be his friend.

  She seemed to perk up the day she helped him test his new hearing, but that probably had more to do with seeing her creation in action than it did with him.

  “Hey,” he said softly.

  “Yes?” she answered, glancing down at him in surprise, like she had almost forgotten he was even there.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said flatly.

  “I’m starting to think you only want me for my body,” he joked.

  “And you only want me for my brain,” she replied. She bent over her iPad and began to enter data again.

  Yup. He had really screwed up.

  “I’m going to have to remove the eye and recalibrate it,” she told him. “You managed to damage it in the beating you took.”

  “I’m sorry for the stuff I said that night,” West began.

  “You own the company, you say what you want,” Mallory replied. “I’d rather know where I stand.”

  “Where you stand? You saved my life. You stand at the front of the line.”

  She turned away, but West tugged at her elbow.

  “And I’m sorry I was a jerk,” he said. “I want us to be friends.”

  She sighed.

  “Your personal life is none of my business,” she said. “So it’s probably better if we leave it outside. I love working on you. But let’s take the friendship part slowly, cowboy. I’m still not a hundred percent sure I like you.”

  “Eighty?” West asked.

  “Eighty-three,” she said, a tiny hint of a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth.

  West sat up on the table and pulled her in for a quick hug. She smelled like bubble gum and hairspray, and she hugged him back after a reluctant moment, which pleased him.

  He wondered why he’d spent so many years of his life not apologizing for anything.

  “So,” he said as he let her go. “I have to tell you about the fight.”

  “Must you?” she asked with exaggerated weariness. “You know that’s not really my cup of tea.”

  “I think you’ll want to hear this one,” he told her. “The guy who did this to me
, was… like me.”

  “A colossal jerk who hugs disgruntled employees into submission?” she asked.

  “No,” West said. “He had prosthetics, like mine.”

  Mallory froze.

  “What do you mean, like yours?” she asked.

  “He was strong. Maybe as strong as I am. And when I ripped off his coat, he had prosthetics like mine. But without skin on them. The metal was just…exposed.”

  “Was it titanium, or carbon fiber?” she asked. “What did the connections look like?”

  West thought back, but couldn’t even picture the connections on the arm. He’d been a bit preoccupied at the time.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

  “I want a picture,” she said.

  “Great. I’ll just ask him to say cheese next time he’s trying to kill me,” West joked weakly.

  “You may not have to.” She had the look. The one she got when she came up with a new way to tinker with him. “Your eye functions like a very complicated camera. There’s no reason we couldn’t add some onboard storage while we have it out.”

  “So I could record stuff just by looking at it?” he asked.

  “We’ll add a switch,” she said. “Do you have room in your mental train set?”

  “It’s not a train set,” he corrected her. “It’s a train operating panel, just like the old regional rail trains my grandfather used to take me on.”

  The distinction was important. It wasn’t easy to keep track of everything going on in there. West needed to keep the mental image crystal clear.

  Mallory just stared at him.

  “Yes. I’ll be fine,” he told her.

  “Good,” she said, her fingers already tap dancing on the screen in her hand. “You’ll have to come to me to offload the data for now. Eventually, we can figure out a way to make it transmit wirelessly. But right now, the space in your head is getting a little crowded.”

  “You have no idea,” he replied.

  11

  Cordelia tried to sit perfectly still in her chair. If she looked precisely through the third window pane on the lower left next to her desk she could see the pigeons roosting on the building across the street. The sight of the birds squabbling and gossiping often amused her on a down day.