Elites: The Supers of Project 12

by Angel Lawson

  He hovers the mouse over the next profile.

  Casper: Cyberkinesis. Manipulates and controls technology.

  His picture is an avatar. A cartoonish image of a brown-skinned man.

  There’s no other information.

  Quinn scrolls further down the page.

  Junior: Peak Human Condition

  No picture but there’s a notation: Last seen in Brazil with his mentor, Emma.

  “Wow,” is all she can say, reading the slim profiles. “So there are others.”

  “Yep.”

  The information isn’t much to go on but she spots a tab at the top of the screen. “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Impatiently, she reaches over to move the mouse and brushes Quinn’s hand with her gloved one. It’s not a big deal, but he moves back, giving her control. “Go ahead.”

  His heartbeat quickens at their interaction and his scent turns a little salty. Nerves. Does she scare him? Or maybe just intimidates. She can live with that.

  The tab is labeled Super Suits. She opens with a click of the mouse.

  “What the…” Quinn says, leaning forward.

  The label is exact and a 3-D rendering of a black leather costume fills the screen, complete with accessories, weapons and masks.

  “I had no idea,” she says, looking at the one he’d created for her. “I mean, he’d been having me go out in a protective outfit and I know he’d been working on making it better—you saw it—but this…” She looks at the image again. It’s gorgeous, a sleek design of sensory-compressing black pants, a killer top and elbow-length gloves. Redesigned cuffs that Astrid suspects contain an arsenal of weapons, along with sheathes in the pants and boots. There’s a sleek black eye mask to protect her identity. The woman in the photo is a simulation of Astrid down to her blue-green eyes and her long blonde hair is twisted in a tight braid over her shoulder. “This is a whole other level.”

  There’s a drop down bar with various names. Charger is listed below hers.

  “Let’s see what he made you,” she says, going to the page. A uniform made of black and ox-blood leather pops up on the screen. Similar in functionality and design except Quinn’s version has a tapered hood covering his head as well an eye mask. She glances at him. “Looks like we’re supposed to be a team.”

  Quinn’s eyes meet hers before going back to the screen. “Sure does.”

  Astrid’s phone buzzes, alerting her to a text. Her stomach drops at the name on the screen. “It says it’s from Atticus.”

  “Read it.”

  She opens the message and shakes her head. “Here. You do it.”

  Quinn takes the phone. “It’s a video.”

  Blood drains from her face and her eyes burn. She swallows, unable to speak.

  He presses play and Atticus’ face appears on the screen. He smiles warmly—the way he always looked at her when he had bad news to share.

  “Astrid, if you’ve received this message then it means you’ve triggered the failsafe on the computer. When you open sections of the files, a message will be sent to you with further directions. This one means you’ve opened the Super Suits page.”

  “Stupid name,” Astrid mutters, wiping her eyes.

  “I know, I know, it’s a lame name. Regardless, I’ve designed a series of outfits for you and your allies. You do have them, and although I may have told you differently, at least four participants of Project 12 have survived. You’ll discover in the files a dossier on each potential ally. It’s important that you find them and work together.”

  Again he smiles, this time a bit more sympathetically.

  “This is going to be hard on you. Probably all of you. After years of living an isolated life, honing your skills and figuring out how and where to fit into society, you’re going to have to open up a little bit. Trust one another. Depend on another person or an entire group.”

  She and Quinn glance at one another.

  “Behind the dressing room, third shelf on the right is a lever that opens to an adjoining room. You’ll find the suits there.”

  “What are we supposed to do with them?” she cries, knowing he can’t answer.

  “Good luck, sweetheart. Take care and remember: you can rely on others. Don’t be afraid. Embrace your destiny.” He nods and blinks out. The video ends. She stares at the blank screen and a few moments later the image itself spirals and vanishes.

  “I got one, too. Self-destroys after watching.”

  “What did yours say?” she asks, still looking at the screen.

  “To come here and find you and Atticus.”

  Although all she wants to do is go upstairs to her room and sleep for a week, she knows that’s not an option. Instead she rubs her face, trying to wake up, and asks, “What do we do now?”

  Quinn cracks a smile and says, “Let’s go find those suits.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Quinn

  Every minute spent in Atticus’ workshop--or lair, as he’s starting to call it-- the more impressed Quinn is with the man. The secret door in the dressing room isn’t easy to find but it’s exactly as he described it. The lever clicks and with a hiss the door slides to the right, revealing a chamber reserved for dramatic scenes in a movie.

  “I’ve never seen so much leather in one place,” he declares, taking in the room. The outfits are behind individual Plexiglass closets. His suit hangs on the wall surrounded by a variety of accessories made just for him. A small stand on the shelf holds the black leather mask developed to disguise his face and hide his eyes. Calf-high boots sit on the floor, with a complicated series of laces and buckles. He peers into them and spots several locations for hidden blades and other smaller weapons.

  “It’s some kind of fabric mixture he created. Durable and flexible. He’s been modifying it for months,” Astrid says, admiring her own suit. “I had no idea he’d done all this.”

  Quinn reaches for the door and pulls it open. The smell of rich leather fills the room. The closet carries the hum of electricity—probably from the backlight. Atticus spared no expense.

  She spins. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying it on?”

  “Now?”

  He feels the grin spread across his face. He needed this more than he realized. Something good in his life. Something new. “Yeah. Now.”

  *

  The sight of Astrid clad head to toe in leather ignites something in Quinn. He’s not being a pervert. He’d swear on it, but the woman has no idea how powerful she is. She may know when it comes to physical strength and gifted ability, but there’s no way she has a clue when it comes to beauty.

  Astrid is knockout.

  The leather molds to the curves of her body, every inch covered—protected—like Atticus knew she needed. It’s not revealing but still sexy as hell.

  A new version of the cuffs that she wore the night before are attached to her wrists. The mask, a tight domino for her eyes, fits perfectly to the lines of her face. The hilt of a blade sticks out of her boot and a tight coil of cable loops next to her hip. She faces the mirror on the wall, braiding her hair like the prototype on the screen.

  “Curse of not having a mother,” she declares, gesturing to her hair. “I had to watch YouTube videos to figure out how to do this.” Her eyes catch his in the mirror. “Damn, Quinn. You look like a bad-ass.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, you do too.”

  She moves over and he steps next to her. They stand side by side in the mirror looking at their reflections. “Is this weird?” she asks, striking a pose with her cuffs crossed in front of her. “It feels weird.”

  “Yeah, but…I don’t know, it also feels…”

  “Right.” She nods at herself. “It definitely feels right. How did he know?”

  Quinn doesn’t get a chance to answer. Astrid’s phone buzzes and she lunges for it. There’s no doubt she hopes it’s another message from Atticus, but she frowns at the screen. “I have an app that sends out alerts on
active crimes people have sent out on social media. Usually before the police get there. There’s an armed robbery in process down at the Quick-Mart.”

  She looks up at Quinn, her eyes green and shining behind the mask. He knows her question before she asks.

  “Should we go?”

  Quinn isn’t a vigilante. Or a superhero. He’s just a guy that helped his mentor gather information. “What would Atticus say?”

  A smile twists on her lips. “We should definitely go.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Astrid

  The old building crumbles under her fingertips but the grip on her gloves holds and Astrid heaves herself to the rooftop. Two nights. Two rooftops. One new partner.

  She feels Quinn behind her, his feet landing a little louder and sliding on the gravel. He’ll need to work on that, because she has no time for a heavy-footed man giving their location away.

  The Quick-Mart from the 911 call is located across the street. This tiny corner of Crescent City isn’t a nice one. They call it the swamp due to its proximity to a marshy, inhospitable edge of the river. It’s low income with too much crime. From her position on the roof, Astrid can see the gunman--who is nothing more than a teenager--and the gun he’s waving around. At least three customers are face down on the ground. There’s no sign of the clerk.

  “What are we waiting for?” Quinn asks. “And where the hell are the police?”

  “I like to know what I’m getting into. It will take them ten more minutes to get here. No one makes an effort down in the swamp unless it’s an election year.”

  “Then all the more reason we need to get in there.”

  It’s not that Astrid disagrees, but barging in there while a kid waves a gun? She’s not sure how to handle that. She’ll have to figure it out, though, because the kid starts yelling, loud enough that she can hear him all the way up here on the roof. Quinn paces anxiously next to her.

  “He’s angry,” she tells him, making out the gunman’s words. “He needs money to help get his baby to the doctor.”

  “You believe that?”

  “If I get closer, I can tell.”

  “It doesn’t matter if he’s telling the truth. That’s not the way to go about it.” He sighs and rubs his head with his hand. His dark hair stands on end from static. “I’ll take him. You get the people out.”

  “How are you going to do it?”

  Quinn shrugs and holds up his hands. A spark crackles off his fingertips. “Watch and see.”

  Confident bastard.

  She reaches for him and her gloves graze his back as he swings over the side of the building and drops down to the ground with all the grace of a falling elephant. Regardless, he looks up at Astrid and winks. Jesus. Two seconds later, he’s crossing the deserted street and ducking behind a car. One more and he’s closing in on the door.

  “Shit,” she mutters, following him down. He’s going in without her, which is not cool when you have a partner. They’re really going to have to work on this.

  Astrid’s feet hit the ground and she, too, runs across the street, dodging a car with a thudding bass midway across the road.

  She keeps an eye on Quinn, who much to her chagrin looks fantastic in a pair of leather pants. Lord, she had no idea that men outside of rock stars could carry off such a look. He wears them with confidence too, which is a whole other level of appealing. Atticus must have had his measurements, because damn. There isn’t an inch of space between the leather and his skin.

  Not that she’s checking him out. It’s just really hard not to notice his…you know, all the stuff crammed in the leather.

  Movement near the door catches her eye. The kid saw it too and he swivels, the pads of his finger sliding over the trigger of the gun.

  “Charger!” she shouts, barely a millisecond before he fires.

  Crack!

  Glass shatters and the man clad in red and black leather ducks. The bullet zooms over his head, burying into the pavement two feet from Astrid.

  Thundering heartbeats echo in her head. She feels the terror of the people inside, swallows their screams. The shooter curses and fires again, this time hitting the metal of the lottery sign. Quinn ducks and presses his back to the store wall, out of the kid’s sight.

  Quinn and Astrid make eye contact and for the first time she wishes she could reach out and feel him. Get inside that head. Is he really this good? Does he have the skills to dive into something like this without a plan? Astrid feels the heartbeats of all five people on the scene. Four in the building and Quinn.

  But that tells her something, too. His is the only one not racing. In fact, she hasn’t noticed the slightest uptick since the action started.

  The gunman turns and she takes the chance to dart behind a beat-up Chevy. The squeak of his sneaker is the only warning she gets before gunfire comes her way.

  “Atticus, where are you when I need you?” she mutters under her breath. She never realized how much she relied on him during a mission. He always had her back, gave her tips and intel.

  But, she wonders, tracking the scene with her senses. Did she need him? She uses her eyes. Ears. Nose and touch. She leans into the hard, cold car door. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath. Relying on these abilities, Astrid focuses on the shop, the street and the people. She doesn’t need to look to know what’s happening. She feels the pop and crackle of glass under Quinn’s boots, the tell-tale sign that he’s on the move. She smells the sharp scent of sulfur from the electrical current building in his fingers.

  The lights flicker on the Quick-Mart sign, the constant buzz of power interrupted. It’s a sign, a signal, and Astrid inches around the car, pinning her eyes on Quinn’s back. He touches an electrical panel on the outside of the building and again the lights flicker out. A loud pop sounds and all the lights of the surrounding businesses and streets go out as well.

  The hostages scream.

  “Shut up! Shut up!” the gunman shouts. “Whoever’s out there effing with me better stop. I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all!”

  The gunman sweats, the smell permeating the air. Astrid sees the glint of the gun in the faint moonlight and hears Quinn running toward the store. She lifts from her crouch and chases him, doing as they agreed. He’ll take the shooter. She’ll get the hostages.

  Sirens finally bounce off the dark streets and Astrid knows they need to fix what they’ve started. Now. Fast. So she focuses on the three people on the ground. She can see them in the dark, her eyes acclimated and honed. The tang of urine fills her nostrils. She runs toward it as Quinn throws his first punch.

  “Come on. Now!” she shouts at the woman on the floor. Another woman and a man lie nearby. “You too, come on.”

  “Hand it over,” Quinn demands. There’s a scuffle. Skin and fabric, sweat and movement. The gun goes off, followed by a bright flash; it gets one of the women up and running. Same with the man. Astrid cringes at the snap of bone, the gunman crying in pain.

  It’s too dark even for her to see, but Quinn’s heartbeat is strong and the gunman has reached levels of panic that trickle out in his sweat and breath. She drags the final woman off the floor and pushes her toward the door.

  Engines rev outside and the squeal of tires indicate the police finally arriving. Blue and red lights illuminate the front windows and Astrid sees that everyone is out, surrounded by police and an ambulance. Fingers point, but inside it’s just her and Quinn and the gunman, bleeding and crumpled on the floor. Dollar bills are scattered on the floor. The gun glints in Quinn’s hand.

  The kid—god, he’s just a kid—looks up at her, taking in her mask and outfit. Peeling off the fingertips of her gloves (good idea, Atticus) she walks over to him.

  “What do you want? I’m just trying to help my baby, don’t you see that?”

  Her fingers graze his forehead and his echo slams through her faster than a blink.

  “Stop! Put your weapons down. Do not move!” the policewoman says, holding a flashlight and g
un in their direction. Astrid pulls back, staring the kid’s watery eyes.

  “You may want to surrender,” she tells him, nodding at the cops. He nods and lifts his hands in the air. Without a word between them, she and Quinn slip out the back, quieter than mice.

  “Was he telling the truth?” he asks from their hiding spot. He’s just come back from restoring the power and they’ve slipped into the shadows. “About the baby?”

  She shakes her head. “Not even close.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Astrid

  Once they’re a few blocks away and the hostages are safe and the kid with the gun is in police custody, Astrid looses a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

  She stops to rest in a dark area against a crumbling stone wall, between a church and a graveyard. Quinn leans next to her.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I think I am.”

  “You were great out there,” he tells her. She still senses the electricity he’d wielded with such precise control rolling through his body. His eyes, bright blue against the domino mask, graze over her, and for the first time in a while she likes the way it feels to have a man look at her.

  Not a man. This man.

  He reaches into his jacket and pulls something out. Even in the faint light, she recognizes the familiar green bottle.

  “Did you steal this for me?” she asks, taking the soda in her hand.

  “I just saved three people and the store from being robbed. I’d consider it a thank you gift.”

  “That the owner doesn’t know about.”

  He smirks. “I think he’ll be okay with it.”

  She opens the bottle and takes a sip, sighing when the crack-a-licious mixture of sugar and caffeine hit her tongue.

  “You were reckless.” She screws the cap on. “Taking off like that. Not telling me your plan.”

  “I’m not used to having a plan.” He crosses his arms. His biceps strain against the leather. “Or a partner.”

  “What about Holden?”