Clark cheered wildly with the rest of his classmates. He knew racism was a much deeper problem than this one battle. But it made him happy that Smallville had landed on the right side of history in this case.
As the clapping slowed, Clark’s focus drifted to the sounds all around school. Now it was easier for him to direct his attention. Ever since Clark had begun wearing the suit under his clothes, he could control his powers better than ever. He’d decided to put it on every morning, beneath his regular clothes.
Just in case.
A girl near the back of class was whispering to a friend: “I just wish I knew who it was. I mean, how can he fly like that?”
Out in the hallway, a student walked by, retelling the story of what he’d seen that weekend to a buddy on the phone. He made swooshing and swooping noises to mimic Superman’s flying.
All the way across campus, Clark heard Moira DeMeyer, Lana’s ex-friend, claiming that Lana was actually dating Superman. There was one particular sound that he kept coming back to, though. In a distant room on campus, a girl was laughing.
He’d recognize the sound of Gloria Alvarez’s laugh anywhere.
As soon as class was over, he hurried out of the room and found her sitting next to Counselor Julius on the steps of the school’s back entrance. Gloria was looking up at him, her face filled with joy.
When she spotted Clark, she called him over.
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s so funny?”
She handed him a letter.
It was a college scholarship offer. Metropolis University had offered her a Dreamer spot beginning next fall. One of the top schools in the Midwest, if not the whole country.
Gloria stood and gave Clark a kiss on the cheek. “I’m actually going to college,” she told him. “Can you believe it?”
“I can,” he said. Then he gave her a big hug, whispering in her ear, “I’m so incredibly happy for you, Gloria.”
“Thank you,” she told him. “Maybe you can help me move in September?”
“I’d love to.”
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go celebrate. I’m meeting Marco and some friends at All-American. They’d love to see you.”
“Sounds great,” Clark said.
They began walking the few blocks to the All-American Diner. Gloria was beaming, unable to let go of the letter. She kept reading it to Clark over and over again. Like she needed to make sure it was real. They talked about what she might study, and how excited she was to go back to Metropolis.
But as they neared All-American, Clark heard something else.
It was the steady whine of a failing airplane engine. He heard it approach the area at thirty thousand feet. Pass overhead and then start to fade in the distance.
Then the sounds of the engines were suddenly gone.
Clark strained to hear them, but there was nothing.
Instead, he heard a man’s faint voice. “Mayday! We are declaring an emergency. NationAir Five-Zero-Two. Repeat, full engine loss at thirty thousand feet.”
A strained robotic voice in the background repeated an emergency cockpit message over and over: “Pull up. Pull up. Pull up. Pull up. Pull up.”
Other cockpit sirens and alarms wailed. The noise became so clear, Clark felt like he was with them inside the cockpit.
Clark turned to Gloria. “Listen, I have to…” Clark couldn’t figure out what to say. “I’ll catch up with you guys in a sec, okay? I promise. But first there’s something I have to take care of.”
Gloria looked confused but eventually smiled. “Of course, Clark,” she said. “Do what you gotta do. We’ll see you when we see you.”
He nodded and jogged away behind a building.
Ducking behind a dumpster in an alley, he tore open his button-down shirt and quickly shed his regular Clark Kent clothes and glasses. Leaping into the air in a blue-and-red blur, he soared toward the falling airplane. Now nearly two hundred miles away. And descending rapidly.
His blue-and-red suit seemed to sparkle and shimmer so close to the sun. The bright red cape billowed behind him. The family emblem on his chest practically glowed, reminding him of who he was and why he needed to drop everything to save this crashing airplane.
And why he always would.
After all, he was more than just Clark Kent.
More than Kal-El, son of Jor-El, from the planet Krypton.
He was Superman.
I’d like to thank the following people who helped make this book possible. First off, a huge debt of gratitude goes out to the entire DC/Warner Bros. team for letting me dip a toe into the incredible Superman legacy. This was truly an honor! Thank you to the talented and tireless editorial team at Random House, especially Chelsea Eberly (you were incredible!), Michelle Nagler, and Jenna Lettice. Thanks to Chris Rylander, who was instrumental in the early part of this process. I’d like to thank so many other folks at Random House who played vital roles in this process: designers Regina Flath and Stephanie Moss; copyeditor Barbara Bakowski; the marketing team, including Lauren Adams, Tara Grieco, Kerri Benvenuto, Elizabeth Ward, Hanna Lee, Kate Keating, Kristin Schulz, and Mallory Matney; publicist Aisha Cloud; Tim Terhune in production; and the entire Random House sales team. I’d also like to thank Afua Richardson for creating such a beautiful Superman poster and Steven Malk for being the best agent a writer could ask for. And most importantly, I want to thank my wife, Caroline, and our two little people, Luna and Miguel. You all are my superheroes.
MATT DE LA PEÑA is a #1 New York Times bestselling and Newbery Medal–winning author. He has penned six critically acclaimed YA novels, including Mexican WhiteBoy and The Living, a Pura Belpré Author Honor Book. Matt’s picture book Love was a #1 New York Times bestseller, and Last Stop on Market Street was awarded a Newbery Medal. Matt received an MFA in creative writing from San Diego State University and a BA from the University of the Pacific, which he attended on a full basketball scholarship. Matt lives in Brooklyn, New York.
mattdelapena.com
@mattdelapena
As Bruce rounded another bend, the wails suddenly turned deafening, and a mass of flashing red and blue lights blinked against the buildings near the end of the street. White barricades and yellow police tape completely blocked the intersection. Even from here, Bruce could see fire engines and black SWAT trucks clustered together, the silhouettes of police running back and forth in front of the headlights.
Inside his car, the electronic voice came on again, followed by a transparent map overlaid against his windshield. “Heavy police activity ahead. Alternate route suggested.”
A sense of dread filled his chest.
Bruce flicked away the map and pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the barricade—right as the unmistakable pop-pop-pop of gunfire rang out in the night air.
He remembered the sound all too well. The memory of his parents’ deaths sent a wave of dizziness through him. Another robbery. A murder. That’s what all this is.
Then he shook his head. No, that can’t be right. There were far too many cops here for a simple robbery.
“Step out of your vehicle, and put your hands in the air!” a police officer shouted through a megaphone, her voice echoing along the block. Bruce’s head jerked toward her. For an instant, he thought her command was directed at him, but then he saw that her back was turned, her attention fixed on the corner of the building bearing the name BELLINGHAM INDUSTRIES & CO. “We have you surrounded, Nightwalker! This is your final warning!”
Another officer came running over to Bruce’s car. He whirled an arm exaggeratedly for Bruce to turn his car around. His voice harsh with panic, he warned, “Turn back now. It’s not safe!”
Before Bruce could reply, a blinding fireball exploded behind the officer. The street rocked.
Even from inside his car, Bruce felt the heat of the blast. Every wi
ndow in the building burst simultaneously, a million shards of glass raining down on the pavement below. The police ducked in unison, their arms shielding their heads. Fragments of glass dinged like hail against Bruce’s windshield.
From inside the blockade, a white car veered around the corner at top speed. Bruce saw immediately what the car was aiming for—a slim gap between the police barricades where a SWAT team truck had just pulled through.
The car raced right toward the gap.
“I said, get out of here!” the officer shouted at Bruce. A thin ribbon of blood trickled down the man’s face. “That is an order!”
Bruce heard the scream of the getaway car’s tires against the asphalt. He’d been in his father’s garage a thousand times, helping him tinker with an endless number of engines from the best cars in the world. At WayneTech, Bruce had watched in fascination as tests were conducted on custom engines, conceptual jets, stealth tech, new vehicles of every kind.
And so he knew: whatever was installed under that hood was faster than anything the GCPD could hope to have.
They’ll never catch him.
But I can.
His Aston Martin was probably the only vehicle here that could overtake the criminal’s, the only one powerful enough to chase it down. Bruce’s eyes followed the path the car would likely take, his gaze settling on a sign at the end of the street that pointed toward the freeway.
I can get him.
The white getaway vehicle shot straight through the gap in the barricade, clipping two police cars as it went.
No, not this time. Bruce slammed his gas pedal.
The Aston Martin’s engine let out a deafening roar, and the car sped forward. The officer who’d shouted at him stumbled back. In the rearview mirror, Bruce saw him scramble to his feet and wave the other officers’ cars forward, both his arms held high.
“Hold your fire!” Bruce could hear him yelling. “Civilian in proximity—hold your fire!”
The getaway car made a sharp turn at the first intersection, and Bruce sped behind it a few seconds later. The street zigzagged, then turned in a wide arc as it led toward the freeway—and the Nightwalker took the on-ramp, leaving a trail of exhaust and two black skid marks on the road.
Bruce raced forward in close pursuit; his car mapped the ground instantly, swerving in a perfect curve to follow the ramp onto the freeway. He tapped twice on the windshield right over where the Nightwalker’s white vehicle was.
“Follow him,” Bruce commanded.
The roaring crowd in the makeshift arena didn’t set her blood on fire.
It did not shake her, or rile her, or set her hopping from foot to foot. No, Selina Kyle only rolled her shoulders—once, twice.
And waited.
The wild cheering that barreled down the grimy hallway to the prep room was little more than a distant rumble of thunder. A storm, just like the one that had rolled over the East End on her walk from the apartment complex. She’d been soaked before she reached the covert subway entrance that led into the underground gaming warren owned by Carmine Falcone, the latest of Gotham City’s endless parade of mob bosses.
But like any other storm, this fight, too, would be weathered.
Rain still drying in her long, dark hair, Selina checked that it was indeed tucked into its tight bun atop her head. She’d made the mistake once of wearing a ponytail—in her second street fight. The other girl had managed to grab it, and those few seconds when Selina’s neck had been exposed had lasted longer than any in her life.
But she’d won—barely. And she’d learned. Had learned at every fight since, whether on the streets above or in the arena carved into the sewers beneath Gotham City.
It didn’t matter who her opponent was tonight. The challengers were all usually variations of the same: desperate men who owed more than they could repay to Falcone. Fools willing to risk their lives for a chance to lift their debts by taking on one of his Leopards in the ring. The prize: never having to look over their shoulders for a waiting shadow. The cost of failing: having their asses handed to them—and the debts remained. Usually with the promise of a one-way ticket to the bottom of the Sprang River. The odds of winning: slim to none.
Regardless of whatever sad sack she’d be battling tonight, Selina prayed Falcone would give her the nod faster than last time. That fight…He’d made her keep that particularly brutal match going. The crowd had been too excited, too ready to spend money on the cheap alcohol and everything else for sale in the subterranean warren. She’d taken home more bruises than usual, and the man she’d beaten to unconsciousness…
Not her problem, she told herself again and again. Even when she saw her adversaries’ bloodied faces in her dreams, both asleep and waking. What Falcone did with them after the fight was not her problem. She left her opponents breathing. At least she had that.
And at least she wasn’t dumb enough to push back outright, like some of the other Leopards. The ones who were too proud or too stupid or too young to get how the game was played. No, her small rebellions against Carmine Falcone were subtler. He wanted men dead—she left them unconscious, but did it so well that not one person in the crowd objected.
A fine line to walk, especially with her sister’s life hanging in the balance. Push back too much, and Falcone might ask questions, start wondering who meant the most to her. Where to strike hardest. She’d never allow it to get to that point. Never risk Maggie’s safety like that—even if these fights were all for her. Every one of them.
It had been three years since Selina had joined the Leopards, and nearly two and a half since she’d proved herself against the other girl gangs well enough that Mika, her Alpha, had introduced her to Falcone. Selina hadn’t dared miss that meeting.
Order in the girl gangs was simple: The Alpha of each gang ruled and protected, laid down punishment and reward. The Alphas’ commands were law. And the enforcers of those commands were their Seconds and Thirds. From there, the pecking order turned murkier. Fighting offered a way to rise in the ranks—or you could fall, depending on how badly a match went. Even an Alpha might be challenged if you were stupid or brave enough to do so.
But the thought of ascending the ranks had been far from Selina’s mind when Mika had brought Falcone over to watch her take on the Second of the Wolf Pack and leave the girl leaking blood onto the concrete of the alley. Before that fight, only four leopard spots had been inked onto Selina’s left arm, each a trophy of a fight won.
Selina adjusted the hem of her white tank. At seventeen, she now had twenty-seven spots inked across both arms.
Undefeated.
That’s what the match emcee was declaring down the hall. Selina could just make out the croon of words: The undefeated champion, the fiercest of Leopards…
A thump on the metal door was her signal to go. Selina checked her shirt, her black spandex pants, the green sneakers that matched her eyes—though no one had ever commented on it. She flexed her fingers within their wrappings. All good.
Or as good as could be.
The rusty door groaned as she opened it. Mika was tending to the new girl in the hall beyond, the flickering fluorescent lights draining the Alpha’s golden-brown skin of its usual glow.
Mika threw Selina an assessing look over her narrow shoulder, her tight braid shifting with the movement. The new girl sniffling in front of her gingerly wiped away the blood streaming from her swollen nose. One of the kitten’s eyes was already puffy and red, the other swimming with unshed tears.
No wonder the crowd was riled. If a Leopard had taken that bad a beating, it must have been one hell of a fight. Brutal enough that Mika put a hand on the girl’s pale arm to keep her from swaying.
Down the shadowy hall that led into the arena, one of Falcone’s bouncers beckoned. Selina shut the door behind her. She’d left no valuables behind. She had nothing worth stealing, any
way.
“Be careful,” Mika said as she passed, her voice low and soft. “He’s got a worse batch than usual tonight.” The kitten hissed, yanking her head away as Mika dabbed her split lip with a disinfectant wipe. Mika snarled a warning at her, and the kitten wisely fell still, trembling a bit as the Alpha cleaned out the cut. Mika added without glancing back, “He saved the best for you. Sorry.”
“He always does,” Selina said coolly, even as her stomach roiled. “I can handle it.”
She didn’t have any other choice. Losing would leave Maggie with no one to look after her. And refusing to fight? Not an option, either.
In the three years that Selina had known Mika, the Alpha had never suggested ending their arrangement with Carmine Falcone. Not when having Falcone back the Leopards made the other East End gangs think twice about pushing in on their territory. Even if it meant doing these fights and offering up Leopards for the crowd’s enjoyment.
Falcone turned it into a weekly spectacle—a veritable Roman circus to make the underbelly of Gotham City love and fear him. It certainly helped that many of the other notorious lowlifes had been imprisoned thanks to a certain do-gooder running around the city in a cape.
Mika eased the kitten to the prep room, giving Selina a jerk of the chin—an order to go.
But Selina paused to scan the hall, the exits. Even down here, in the heart of Falcone’s territory, it was a death wish to be defenseless in the open. Especially if you were an Alpha with as many enemies as Mika had.
Superman Page 25
