The Pantheon Saga | Book 4 | Gods of Wrath

by Ekeke, C. C.

  Hugo loomed over her. “Had to set things up.”

  Quinn didn’t know what that meant. “Where did you take her?” She stood, slipping on Therese’s blood.

  Hugo caught her elbow before she fell. “I’ll show you.” He hoisted Quinn over his shoulders.

  Suddenly, everything around Quinn became blurs of light and sound, winds buffeting her face.

  Just as quickly, Hugo placed Quinn back down. She stumbled, dazed and off-balance. Dang speedsters.

  After regaining her equilibrium, she drank in a room straight out of some spaceship show. Sleek and spacious yet compact, adorned with cabinets, monitors, and glass. Across the room, Quinn spotted Therese on an operating table, hooked to a breathing machine, an IV, and a couple medical apparatuses. Her costume had been removed from the torso up, revealing pale skin, several bright red gashes, and discolored bruises.

  Quinn had to look away.

  She then noticed a stout Polynesian woman in nursing scrubs and gloves inspecting Therese. The stranger’s wavy black hair was wrestled in a bun, her heavy features tensed in concentration.

  In her harried state, Quinn instinctively ran to Therese. “What the—where? Who’s that?”

  Hugo again caught her elbow, holding Quinn in place. “Underground medical center.” He nodded at the woman working on Therese. “That’s my mom, an OR nurse.”

  “And just getting off my shift,” Hugo’s mom chided without breaking focus, “when you snatched me from the parking lot.”

  Quinn watched Hugo cringe in very teenage fashion. “Therese is a friend, Mom,” he explained. “We couldn’t take her to the hospital—”

  “I know.” Mrs. Malalou shook her head. “God, she’s a mess. I’ll do what I can. If it’s too bad—”

  “Hospital. Got it.” Hugo made a sweeping gesture around this place. “Everything you need is here.”

  Mrs. Malalou glanced at him. “Including blood? She’s lost a lot.”

  Quinn immediately saw similarities in appearance and mannerisms.

  “Hold on.” Hugo reached the operating table in three strides. He typed on the console of one device Therese was hooked to. In seconds, the screen gave an answer Quinn couldn’t see.

  “A-negative.” Hugo scurried past Quinn to one of the lower cabinets. He pulled open a mini-refrigerator of stored blood bags. “How many?”

  “As many as you can get,” Mrs. Malalou replied tersely. She slid a nearby rolling cart of shiny medical tools closer to her. “Thanks. I could use a second set of hands.”

  Hugo marched back to his mother carrying a dozen blood bags. “Oscar’s ten minutes away. I don’t know where he lives so I couldn’t grab him.” He placed them on the medical cart. Quinn blinked in shock at Hugo expertly hooking a blood bag to the IV stand.

  “Oscar?” Quinn echoed, surprised by her frail voice.

  Hugo looked over his shoulder after connecting the bag. “He works here. Former surgeon with experience patching up superheroes.” Despite his confidence, Quinn's fear hadn't waned.

  Mrs. Malalou began stitching up Therese’s many wounds. Again, Quinn couldn’t watch.

  “Who did this to her?” Hugo’s mother demanded with some heat.

  “We don’t know,” Quinn lied, earning Hugo’s surprise. She shook her head curtly. Despite Mrs. Malalou knowing his secret, Quinn wouldn’t drag another innocent into Paxton-Brandt nexus of evil. She continued more truthfully. “Longshadow’s team got ambushed.”

  Mrs. Malalou glanced up in recognition. “She works with Geist.”

  Hugo and Quinn exchanged a discomforted look. “Worked,” he corrected.

  If his mother grasped that meaning, she showed no sign, fixated on Therese.

  A door swung open from the corner of Quinn’s eye. “I’m here,” someone gruffly announced. A new figure entered with scrubs, shaggy brown hair, and a trimmed beard with shoots of white. He joined Mrs. Malalou at the table, studying the medical readings and patient with a surgeon’s casual superiority.

  Quinn realized this must be Oscar. But if he could save Therese, the reporter didn’t care if Oscar’s ego was bigger than Australia. “What’s all this?” The surgeon scowled at Hugo.

  The teen folded his arms, scowling back. “It was either here or a hospital where she’d get outed.”

  Oscar rounded the operating table. “Libby won’t like strangers in here.”

  Quinn gaped. Lady Liberty, she guessed.

  Hugo rolled his eyes. “She knows my mom, and Quinn's trustworthy.” His face darkened. “Geist is dead.”

  That wiped away Oscar’s surliness. Mrs. Malalou looked up in surprise. Quinn hugged herself, unable to get warm. The Midnight Son’s death wouldn’t compute.

  Oscar nodded soberly. “I’ll do what I can.” He rounded the table again, holding his tools of choice. “Where are we, ma’am?” The medical professionals spoke quietly, working in concert to save Therese.

  “This will take a while,” Hugo warned, facing Quinn. “I’ll get you home.”

  “I’m not leaving her,” Quinn emphasized. Not again…

  Hugo nodded and stepped aside. During the wait, he explained some basics of what Oscar and his mom were doing.

  “You know a lot about medical procedures,” Quinn marveled.

  Hugo shrugged. “Mom showed me and my brother first-aid basics. And Lady Liberty’s taught me about triaging, so…”

  A blaring alarm drew Quinn’s attention to the operating table. Something was wrong.

  Oscar and Mrs. Malalou stayed calm, working with more urgency to contain the problem. Quinn barely drew breath until the alarm ceased. By the time Oscar and Hugo’s mom finished, they’d used almost all the blood bags Hugo had procured. A chilling factoid.

  Oscar and Mrs. Malalou approached, both visibly exhausted, their attire smeared in red. Therese lay on the operating table, covered in a bedsheet from the collarbone down, eyes closed, and deathly pale. Yet the machines hooked to her beeped, the monitors showing signs of life.

  “How bad?” Hugo asked.

  “Half a dozen slash or stab wounds,” his mother began. “Including one through the back that narrowly missed her spine. Three broken ribs. Third-degree burns across the back. Hairline fracture on the left forearm.” The nurse exhaled heavily. “Collapsed right lung…”

  “That’s not including the scars and half-healed injuries,” Oscar added.

  Each injury was a painful jab to Quinn’s chest. Only one answer mattered. “Will Therese make it?”

  “She’s stable,” Mrs. Malalou replied. “But it's too soon to tell.”

  Quinn felt like she’d been stabbed herself. Not the answer she craved.

  “Anything more I can do, Mom?” Hugo inquired.

  The nurse stroked his cheek, smiling wearily. “Not for now, baby.”

  Hugo deflated, but nodded. “I’ll get you back to your car.” He turned to Oscar. “Then I’ll tell Lady Liberty…about Geist.” The news slammed again into Quinn’s gut.

  “I’ll watch Therese,” Oscar said.

  Quinn recovered enough to offer her gratitude. “Thank you, Mrs. Malalou. Thank you, Oscar.”

  Hugo’s mother’s smile warmed further. “Of course.” Oscar nodded.

  Hugo picked his mother up. She looked small in his arms.

  “Hang on,” he cautioned, prompting Ms. Malalou to wrap both hands around his neck. The next instant, he abruptly disappeared in a stiff gust.

  That left Quinn alone with Oscar and Therese. She slowly approached the bed. Therese’s face was ashen and corpse-like. Yet the slight rise and fall of her chest offered small sparks of hope.

  “What now?” she asked.

  Oscar walked to Quinn’s side, standing half a head taller. “We wait.”

  Chapter 14

  Hair on the back of Greyson’s neck stood on end as he walked through empty streets blanketed in dirty smoke. similar clouds filled the skies, hellish lightning flashing orange from within each.

  For a chillin
g moment, Greyson thought of Amarantha’s war-torn streets.

  No, he realized after inspecting the bodies strewn around him. This was an American city. Shattered buildings lined the roads like rows of broken teeth, jutting up at the heavens. The corpses around him were scorched or crushed beyond recognition. Greyson had grown numb to dead bodies, studying them like one would blades of grass. Heat from buildings consumed by hungry flames nipped at Greyson’s flesh.

  He recalled a similar dream the night of Titan's death. Greyson had been floating over a burning city.

  Last year… Greyson chuckled, his previous life a vague memory.

  A draft whooshed behind him, heralding someone's arrival.

  Greyson turned, anticipation spiking.

  A figure hovered above the buildings in the stained sky, too far away to see clearly. But Greyson could discern a strapping physique and a hood obscuring the face. He frowned, fingers curling like claws in preparation. Yet insecurity gripped his heart. “Who are you?” he shouted.

  Greyson woke abruptly, finding himself in a car and Saed at his side.

  He recoiled, smacking his head on the window.

  Saed chuckled under the dim lights. “Sleep well, cupcake?”

  Greyson blushed in embarrassment. “I’m good.” He wiped drool from his cheek, remembering now as the jeep jostled along dirt roads. It was Day Three of a cross-country drive to Cuidad Victoria in Mexico, courtesy of the Delgado Cartel.

  Rikki sat slumped on Saed’s other side, fast asleep. A blacked-out divider blocked the driver from view.

  Greyson now regretted his eagerness toward this job. Yes, it was his chance to kill a superhero. But working for a drug cartel? He pursed his lips and glanced out the windows. The dense forest was thinning. “Are we close?”

  Saed nodded. “Less than half an hour.” Twenty minutes later, the jeep passed through the gates of a sprawling compound, overflowing with security.

  When Greyson stepped out of the car, burnt-orange skies lightened before the morning sun. He barely noticed, too busy gawking at the mansion—correction—castle in front of him. White-walled with Adobe-red stuccoed roofs. The surrounding forests provided a blanket of security.

  Rikki rubbed her eyes. “Yep,” she said. “This is how the have-mores live.”

  “We’re in the wrong business,” Greyson murmured. “Minus the beheadings.”

  Saed swallowed a laugh. “Right?”

  The driver, Renaldo, drew Greyson’s attention, leanly built in a slim black suit with short hair and a mustache. He had a cold and causal menace, even in repose. The guards flanking the estate looked battle-hardened, their roving glares as lethal as their assault rifles. Greyson shivered, despite his powers.

  “Follow me,” Renaldo requested in an accented voice.

  Greyson followed him inside, Rikki and Saed falling in beside him.

  “Shut up and let us talk.” Rikki gestured to herself and Saed while the trio walked through marble-floored halls.

  Greyson wanted to respond but didn’t. Let Rikki feel important.

  Renaldo brought them to one of the mansion’s rooms. This one was small yet lavish with what appeared to be massive family photos decorating the walls, like a mobster film. At the ornate table sat four individuals; an older man with grey-streaked hair and a growing waistline, wearing a pinstriped suit. He gave them a withering onceover.

  The other three were younger than Greyson, a woman and two men in their twenties. One boy was impeccably urbane with a crisp khaki suit and designer glasses. The woman was dolled up with long and loose brown hair and full lips, in a tight coppery dress. The eldest dressed more casually, choosing a striped button-down shirt and jeans. Arrogance oozed off him as he reclined in his seat, cowboy boots propped on the table. Greyson exchanged looks with Rikki and Saed when entering the room. By the shared resemblance to each other and the older man on the room’s pictures, these were siblings.

  The man with glasses and his sister stood, as did the pinstriped man. “Hello,” the former said. “Cristóbal Delgado. This is my sister, Dayanara, and my brother, Hernando.”

  “Hector Moro,” the pinstriped man greeted.

  After Saed, Rikki, and Greyson introduced themselves, everyone sat. Greyson took note of guards in every corner.

  Hernando glared from across the table. “Waste of money. My crew could've handled this.”

  Dayanara eyed her brother sharply. “Then why are we calling outside help? Estupido!”

  Greyson glanced again at Saed and Rikki, both pokerfaced. Clearly there was dissent among the siblings over even hiring outside help. This vigilante must be more dangerous than they were letting on. Greyson rubbed his hands beneath the table.

  Hector shook his head, clearly disappointed.

  Cristóbal was the patient one. “Guys. Relax.” He smiled at Greyson and the others, about to continue.

  The door swung open. In walked an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, his physique well-defined in a collarless blue shirt. His face was wizened and bearded, with flinty, dark eyes.

  Greyson gulped. Juan Carlos Delgado—the cartel head.

  The Delgado children and Hector sprang up.

  “Father,” Cristóbal stammered, adjusting his glasses. “Didn’t expect you to attend.”

  Dayanara blew hair from her face, less than thrilled. “We have this under control, Father.”

  His stony reaction made her shrinking back. “If so, we wouldn’t need to hire sicarios extranjeros.” He circled the table, stopping near Saed. “These them?” Delgado asked Hector, who nodded.

  Now the cartel leader looked interested. “Who’s the super?”

  Rikki and Saed turned to Greyson, whose heart lurched.

  Delgado motioned for him to stand. Greyson complied.

  The cartel leader walked up, his face impassive. “What can you do, super?”

  Greyson didn’t take the dismissal personally. Nor would he buckle to a bully. “Lots of things.”

  Delgado narrowed his eyes. “Show me your trick.”

  Greyson almost did in kneejerk fashion, but caught himself. Why seek some drug lord’s approval? “No.”

  Hector’s eyes bulged. Hernando gasped, as did Cristóbal and Dayanara. Rikki swore under her breath.

  Delgado’s eyes widened slightly. This was someone who didn’t taste defiance often. Or at all.

  “My father gave you a command,” Dayanara barked.

  “And we're paying your group handsomely,” Cristóbal remarked.

  Greyson focused on the urbane twerp. “And that makes me your mindless slave?” Deep down, he probably should’ve complied. But Greyson had nothing to fear. Not with his powers. “When I go to war, I’d rather my enemies not see me coming. No offense.”

  Dead silence. Greyson kept stone-faced, heart racing into a gallop. I screwed up, didn’t I?

  Surprisingly, Delgado smiled. “The gringo has cajones.” He studied his petrified children. “It’s on you if they fail.” Delgado departed as abruptly as he’d arrived.

  The room collectively sighed. Greyson clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. The implacable power coursing through him had led to strange acts of courage. He sat back down, ignoring Saed’s and Rikki’s death glares.

  Hernando seemed impressed. “Bold move.”

  “Who’s our mark?” Saed interrupted, bringing them back on topic.

  Dayanara provided folders containing pictures and briefs on the adversary. The target was Diablo. Pictures revealed a masked vigilante in a black and gold costume, masked, tall and fit. Gender appeared male. Diablo resembled a ghost in these shots, carving through Delgado’s men with ease.

  Greyson wasn’t impressed. He cared about two things: Diablo’s powers and when the attacks started. The vigilante had solar powers and flight, according to Hector. “The attacks began five months ago, always during night runs no matter where or how careful we are.”

  Hernando appeared rather defeated. “Diablo keeps finding out, costi
ng us millions.”

  “We’ll take you on our next night run,” Dayanara said, her eyes lingering on Saed. “As far as the organization knows, you guys are extra security.”

  “Then,” Cristóbal glowered, “you can kill that sonuvabitch.”

  “Gladly,” Greyson answered. What a welcome challenge. Rikki and Saed nodded in agreement.

  The three were escorted outside the mansion and transported to the bungalows under a hazy dawn, a good mile away from the main estate.

  Once the jeep pulled away, Rikki slapped Greyson. The blow split his lip, staggering him back. He’d expected that.

  Rikki moved in furiously to do more damage, but Saed blocked her.

  “You nearly ruined everything!” She shoved Saed off. “I knew bringing him was a mistake!”

  “Why would you antagonize Delgado?” Saed asked, eyes ablaze.

  Greyson wiped his bleeding lip with his sleeve. “What did you notice in that meeting?”

  Rikki seethed while Saed frowned in contemplation. “Delgado, his consigliere, some guards, and his kids.”

  "Exactly," Greyson replied, hoping Saed understood. “No layers of leadership. No lieutenants.”

  That cut through Rikki’s hatred. “Delgado doesn’t trust them. Cuz there’s a mole leaking to Diablo. That’s why you didn’t show Delgado your powers.”

  Greyson spread both hands disarmingly. “Correct.” He’d always been good at reading rooms. “We need details on el jefe’s inner circle.”

  Saed’s eyes glinted eagerly. “Which could lead to Diablo sooner.”

  Greyson snorted. “Ask your admirer.”

  Saed and Rikki again looked confused. “Huh?”

  Greyson didn’t hide his disgust. For seasoned killers, these two were oblivious. “Dayanara was checking you out. Use that to get info.”

  Rikki laughed, making Saed blush. “Quiet,” he growled.

  Greyson grinned and had one more point. “Rikki?”

  “Yes?” she answered tartly, arms folded.

  Greyson was in her face before she could blink. “Slap me again, and you’ll pull back a bloody stump instead of a hand,” he warned, no longer smiling.

  Saed gaped. Rikki exclaimed in wordless shock. She was genuinely afraid.