Blood of the Masked God (Book 1): Red Wrath

by Gehrke, Gerhard

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Red Wrath

  Blood of the Masked God – Book One

  by

  Gerhard Gehrke

  Copyright © 2018 Gerhard Gehrke

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording, or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  Published by Lucas Ross Publishing

  Author website: www.gerhardgehrke.com

  Edited by Brittany Dory at Blue Minerva Copyediting

  Cover design by Abbyanna.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Chapter One

  I was sitting in a bar, brooding and thinking about superheroes.

  There was a special on the news all about them. The large flat-screen televisions mounted on the wall should have been showing the Mets game. Instead we got a fawning comedian whose film career had tanked years ago talking across a desk with a Chicago-based vigilante named the Fireball Kid. The show’s guest must have been at least forty, long of tooth for anyone called “Kid.” He was wearing white spandex with an orange flame pattern running down the center, which only accentuated his slight gut. The ridiculous costume wasn’t visible when he ignited, the spandex replaced with a sheath of fire. At least the “Kid” had the courtesy to step away from the host’s desk and activate his powers in the middle of the performance stage. Flame licked off his body, obscuring all his features. The band director sloshed him with a bucket of water, which erupted into steam. Fireball Kid turned as if angered, and then everyone shared a good-natured laugh.

  All of this was transmitted via the closed-captioning, as the volume was mercifully turned down to almost nothing. The bar was well over half-full, what I guessed was a standard crowd for a Wednesday night when the Yankees weren’t playing.

  “Carolyn?” a man asked.

  I perked up. Date was here. I offered my hand across the small table. “That’s me,” I said. “You must be Jimmy.”

  Jimmy had dimples and they curled as he smiled. Mid-thirties, curly dark hair a little too long, pasty complexion in need of sunlight. As I looked him over I saw he was doing the same. It was the unspoken game of who lied more in their dating profile. But he didn’t look disappointed.

  I was in good shape, better than most. The only thing I worried about was my hard arm muscles, visible because of my sleeveless blouse. Some might find it a turnoff. But he slid in the booth across from me, obviously not deterred.

  “You have something already,” he said, nodding towards my club soda and lime.

  “Yeah. Gin and tonic.”

  “Let me grab a beer.” He got up and went to the bar, checking his phone as he waited. Nice device. Apple, their latest. His jeans and cargo shirt weren’t anything special, but he wore expensive shoes and a wristwatch that looked nice. Probably employed. He also wasn’t a big guy, which worked for what I had in mind.

  A perfect target.

  When he returned I drank up the last of my club soda. “The beer looks good.”

  His face brightened. “Let me get you one.”

  “How about one of their margarita pitchers?”

  As he turned to go back to the bar I poured three ounces of vodka from a flask into his glass of lager. It killed the head on the beer and almost overfilled the glass. He returned with a pitcher and poured us two margaritas.

  I pretended to drink while he had two beverages to choose from.

  “It’s a party now,” I said with a wink.

  He sipped his beer. He made a face but it didn’t stop him from finishing it and moving on to the margarita. We talked. By talk, I mean he went on about the software company he worked for. I made enough noise that he believed I was listening and interested. Meanwhile on TV, Fireball Kid was gone and a musical guest was bouncing up and down with a microphone in her hand. A commercial for the evening news showed the latest Chronos activity. I had to force myself to return my attention to Jimmy.

  Thirty minutes later, my date was talking too loud and laughing at his own jokes. I refilled his margarita glass.

  “Do you not like it?” he asked, nodding at my mostly-full glass. His pale cheeks had turned rosy. “I can get you something else.”

  “I hate to waste what’s here, but it’s a bit watered down. I hear their Triple IPA is really good. I’ll have one if you will.” The beer was the highest alcohol by volume on their menu.

  “I should probably slow down or at least get some food in me.”

  “Let’s get the beer and then we can order an appetizer.”

  He went and got two beers. While he was up, I spiked my margarita with more vodka and traded glasses. Once he got back, he sampled his beer and nodded approvingly. He waited for me to try mine.

  I took a taste and made a face. “A little bitter. Tell me what you think?”

  “Better than the lager.”

  The flush to his face only darkened as I took conservative sips and he finished both his margarita and second beer. On a second TV, Maid of Honor was helping first responders on the scene of a massive pileup on the Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel. She pushed a flipped Cadillac SUV back onto its tires with ease. Her costume was a flowing white robe that looked like a toga. Several motorists were out of their cars and recording the action with their phones.

  When I saw Jimmy was also watching TV, I nudged him with my foot.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Always exciting stuff whenever they show up, right?”

  “I never miss my supers news.”

  Jimmy ordered food from a server but before our calamari plate arrived, I put my hand on his. It startled him. At least he didn’t jerk away.

  “Did you drive here?” I asked.

  “Uber.”

  “How far’s your place?” I knew how to smile with my eyes.

  We were out of the bar in minutes, him opening the door for me while trying to call up the closest ride on one of his apps. I didn’t let it show I was wishing he had a car. Too many things could go wrong going back to his place, and any more witnesses besides the bar patrons were possible complications.

  He was leaning on me by the time the ride showed up. The
woman driving the small Hyundai SUV didn’t notice, just told us to buckle up as she drove to his requested destination.

  “Man, I’m loopy,” he mumbled. “I guess it’s been a long day.” He was swooning.

  “Just hang in there,” I said softly. Then I whispered some things in his ear to give him motivation.

  The Hyundai dropped us off in front of an apartment building. He swiped a key card to get into the lobby and I had to help him make it to the elevator. He was leaning in the corner as we went up to the third floor. He didn’t exit when the doors opened.

  “Come on, Jimmy. Almost there.”

  I had to get under an arm as we stumbled to his door.

  “Don’t feel so good,” he said. “I really should have eaten something.”

  “You’re fine. Give me your keys.”

  He reached into his pocket but came out with his phone. “This is hitting me stronger than I expected. We better call it a night. I don’t feel so good. I need to call my—”

  “I’ll take care of you, Jimmy. No need to call anyone.”

  I snatched the phone away. With my other hand I pulled on his belt and leaned in close. Yanked his keys from his pocket. There were a lot of them and I couldn’t figure out which fit the bottom lock. Jimmy’s legs were spaghetti. I took most of his weight as I fumbled for the right key. A door down the hall creaked. An older man and woman emerged and walked past us. One of them greeted Jimmy and stared.

  “Hi, neighbors!” I said brightly, keeping Jimmy between me and them so they couldn’t see my face.

  “Everything okay?” the old man asked.

  “Just a little too much celebrating at the company party. We launched today.”

  “Congratulations. Have a good night.”

  I watched them leave before trying again with the keys.

  He had a nice place, clutter free, with lots of tech toys and a TV bigger than most cars. I flopped him into his couch. His eyes were closed and his jaw was moving, but no words were coming out.

  “Go to sleep, why don’t you?” I said as I plucked his credit cards out of his wallet.

  I scanned them with my phone. Using a dark web app, I sent the numbers along to a service that would ding each card for a couple grand, splitting it fifty-fifty with me. I’d get a Visa gift card in my P.O. box. The amount of cash he had was barely lunch money, but the score would pay the bills for another couple of weeks. Once the gift cards arrived, I would have rent covered.

  His phone was chiming. I couldn’t help but look when a variety of text messages came in, displaying on the lock screen. All the messages appeared work related. Still, it was time for me to go.

  I made sure he was sitting upright and breathing normal before I left.

  It was about a thirty-minute walk back to the bar where I had parked my scooter. I used the time to clear my head and let the nerves unwind. Once the money came I could pay bills. I also had my sights set on a new reloading bench, if I could make room for it in my studio apartment. But there were a lot of other toys on my wish list: a new scope, a rangefinder, a motorcycle, and a dozen other gadgets. I also wanted more training and range time with my new rifle.

  But if I didn’t want to lose my apartment, I had to go to work.

  Besides robbing the occasional date, I made money working as a personal trainer and yoga instructor, running a spinning class, and teaching a self-defense workshop for women, where I threw in some Muay Thai moves that my students ate up. A full workload. I got my workouts for free at the gym chain where I taught and saw clients, and I had places I could change and shower while out hunting Chronos. But my secret lair was a studio apartment over in Brooklyn with no room for a weight bench.

  By the time I made it back to the bar, it was past midnight. I had a client at eight. Time to get home and sleep. Revenge didn’t put food on the table or a roof over my head.

  Chapter Two

  Lunchtime the next day. I was under the overhang on the top floor of a parking garage near the East River listening to a police scanner app while browsing forum posts on handloading and bullet casting. Apparently you could buy a dehumidifier for your gun safe. Something else to put on the shopping list. I still needed to buy the full-size gun safe so I could put my rifle away securely.

  Reports of a ten-fifty and a ten-eleven didn’t catch my interest. Minor noise disturbance and a car alarm, according to the app. Nothing to attract his attention, or any other superhero listening. But then there came a report of a ten-thirty in progress and it was in the financial district.

  I put the phone away.

  My red scooter was parked next to an old brown Camry. The Toyota was a loaner car, basically given to me by someone I’d helped with physical therapy after her shoulder surgery. The wealthy woman had heard me when I’d told her I was looking for a car to give some of my clients a ride. Just the parking spot in the downtown neighborhood would have cost me half my rent. But it made for a good base of operations when I wasn’t at home.

  The car was musty inside. No, there were no bodies. I had checked when I got it and I hadn’t added any. But no amount of Febreze had helped. I rolled down the back windows since the front ones wouldn’t budge and pulled out of the spot. The car had an automatic garage door clicker that let me out onto the street. The radio was tuned to news but I wasn’t hearing anything pertaining to superpowered villains doing their thing.

  But if it happened, the news would report it. It was what people liked to hear.

  I was heavy on the gas pedal and the horn, but it still took twenty minutes. Once near the address of the robbery, I made a U-turn and butted into a spot more red than anything else, partially blocking a delivery alley. My police scanner app kept chattering with cop talk. I missed a lot of what was going on, but the crime scene was the center of attention. The cool voice of the dispatcher said there were two officers on scene, but they were no longer responding on their radios.

  The address was at the diamond exchange a half block up. I got out of the car and watched the sky and the street with a small pair of binoculars.

  Down the street, I saw strange flashes of blue light. A few people were running my direction. Beyond them I spied a group of men come into view wearing fur coats and fedoras and carrying strange-looking rifles, large ones. The gang was moving through the street between stopped traffic and firing bright blue rays at everything. Smears of frost shone from each point of impact and tiny icicles hung on the vehicles and traffic lights. In the middle of the gang was a woman in a powder-blue outfit with matching goggles and gloves. She looked like a snow bunny snatched from the slopes of an alpine ski resort. But she was holding a pair of long-barreled silver pistols.

  Jill Frost.

  She had been arrested a couple of years back for executing a luxury boat smash-and-grab, but she must have gotten out early.

  The gang made their way across the street to a brown delivery truck with its hazard lights flashing. Even as they piled into the waiting truck, I got into the Camry, ready to start driving after them. Then I saw their truck wasn’t moving. Someone was standing on the street in front of them.

  I dropped the keys in the cupholder and climbed into the back seat of the car. With the extra-dark tinting, no one could see what I was up to. My heart hammered. I was all thumbs as I pulled the mostly assembled rifle free from the blanket that concealed it. Screwing on the scope took ten seconds. Next came the bolt, which slid into place after a few attempts. Adrenaline was making even these well-practiced moves clumsy.

  There wasn’t much room in the back seat, and the firing position was less than ideal. I grabbed a bullet from a pocket and slipped it into the breach before closing the bolt. My weapon only took one round at a time, but it was a big one. 50-caliber, big enough to stop most civilian vehicles if put in the right place. But I wasn’t hunting cars.

  I folded down the back seat and slid the barrel into the trunk and wriggled after it. The first thing I had done with the Camry after getting its oil changed was to rig
the back so the trunk could be opened from the inside, just a few inches. Nothing else was back here. The space was clean. I had made sure I would have as much room as possible to adjust my aim and provide the widest field of view between the taillights. Less than ideal. But toting my weapon openly out on the street would get me spotted. Probably shot by the police.

  I tried to look through the scope. Saw nothing. The plastic covers were still on both ends. I took them off and tried again. My hands were shaking.

  A couple of the gang members were now sprawled on the pavement. Jill Frost was firing wildly, spraying ice from her two chrome guns as fast as she could pull the trigger. It took me a moment to spot her target. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t even here.

  She was popping off at another regular on the New York scene, a bouncy little hero named Slingshot who moved fast enough that Jill Frost couldn’t do much more than spend her ammo. Either her freeze guns were inaccurate or she was suffering from overexcitement like I was.

  Slingshot flipped, flopped, and cartwheeled between cars and sidewalk obstacles, obviously showboating. His muscular bare arms and massive hands propelled him along, turning the city into one giant jungle gym. He wore a purple vest and big purple goggles and always had a big grin plastered to his face.

  Eventually Jill Frost’s weapons ran dry and she had to reload. Slingshot bounded forward, but Jill was ready. She backhanded him with one of her guns.

  Slingshot fell.

  I could see Jill Frost talking as she pushed a power cartridge into one of the silver blasters. Slingshot was recovering rather slowly. She had him if he didn’t move.

  My angle was good. I could have taken her out, or Slingshot. But I had no beef with either of them. Still, two fewer superpowered people in the world would be an improvement. My finger stayed on the trigger guard. I had to be patient.

  A shadow crossed over Jill, making her look up. From my angle I couldn’t see much above her head. By unhooking a wire, I could have opened the trunk all the way, but that would leave me exposed. Jill slapped a cartridge into her second weapon. She dodged out of the way as someone dove down just past her and slammed into her delivery truck. It took me a moment to even see what was going on.