by C. C. Ekeke
Chapter 21
Quinn waited in another dark alleyway of the derelict Junction at 11:45 p.m., overly dressed for another secret meeting and the needling cold.
She had watched the Vanguard series conclusion at Helena’s house, mingling with SLOCO Daily higher-ups.
Tonight had centered on Wyldcat grieving Titan’s death and the team's rookie, Morningstar, establishing her place. Testimonials from their teammates added emotional heft to the women’s interviews. The great work she and the team had done wowed Quinn.
She should’ve still been there networking. In fact, Helena had asked her why she was leaving so soon. Quinn had claimed exhaustion and wanting a good night’s rest.
In truth, Geist had texted tonight’s time and location. So she’d Ubered from Helena’s San Simeon beach house to this sketchy street corner. Quinn made an effort to stay out of sight. But her skin crawled from checking that every shadow wasn’t someone following her. Knowing that a creeper had been watching her apartment wasn’t something she could shake.
“All the more reason you shouldn’t keep me waiting,” Quinn hissed after almost ten minutes shivering in the cold night. She reached for her purse to grab her phone one moment. Abruptly, a cloak wrapped over Quinn, holding her tight. She then got yanked up off the ground, winds rushing around this dark veil enveloping her.
Before Quinn could even scream, she was back on solid ground inside a dimly-lit room. “Ahhh!” She stumbled, catching herself from pitching forward.
The room was spartan in furnishings, bordered by concrete walls and heated. Quinn whipped her head left and right. “What the heck?”
“One of my hidden safehouses,” Geist growled.
Quinn’s gaze landed first on the vigilante’s wiry silhouette and glittering red eyes. His trench coat spilled down around the ankles, jet-black in the shadows. Behind him Quinn spotted a monitor’s pale glow. A scrawny youth sat before several larger wall screens. Seemingly younger than Quinn, he had large eyes, a shock of yellowish hair, and tattoo-sleeved arms.
The young man waved. “Hello!”
Quinn stared up at Geist and pointed at this random youth, clueless.
“Clinton Marsden,” Geist added with gruff impatience and subtle fondness. “My tech guy.”
“His eyes in the sky,” Clint corrected with a face-splitting smile. “And the best at what I do.”
Geist made a tutting noise.
Quinn snorted, charmed by Clint’s cockiness. “Hello.” She turned back to Geist. “What have we here?”
“Information on those two supers from Paragon’s. And their group.” Geist gestured at Clinton’s screens, displaying seven profiles.
Quinn marveled. “Where'd you get all these?”
Geist shrugged. “Detective work. Police friends. Competent associates. A network of street-level informants.”
“And me,” Clint interjected.
“I said competent, didn’t I?” Geist snarled.
“That’s Geist-speak for thanks,” Clint sassed.
Geist has a team, Quinn realized. “It does take a village to be a hero.”
Geist’s eyes narrowed. “I’m no hero.”
“While risking your neck to absolve an ex-con that he hates,” Quinn threw back, eyebrows raised.
Clint clapped in delight. “I like her.”
Geist silenced him with a glare.
“Let’s see…” Quinn murmured, approaching the monitor in fascination.
Clinton pointed to one picture on the monitor, a young Asian girl with short hair spiked up like razors. She’d be cute if not for her unyielding scowl.
“Priscilla Lau,” Clinton began. “Goes by Presley. Must be an Elvis fan, which is weird given her age—”
“Clint,” Geist barked.
“Sorry.” Clint shrank back and continued. “Seventeen. Leader of this crew. And legally dead.”
Quinn leaned away as if the screen was toxic. “Is she a zombie?”
“Accelerated healing,” Geist corrected curtly. “Powers manifested after falling fifteen stories.”
Quinn cringed in horror. “Ouch.”
“Was declared dead at the scene. Her body disappeared from the morgue hours later,” Clinton added. “She then reappeared.” Geist approached the screen, his footsteps noiseless. “Fourteen months ago, in Vegas with this crew.”
Clinton pouted at the next mugshot; a bald, strapping Latino boy glaring at something. “Guillermo Vargas. Sixteen. Lycanthrope abilities,” he explained. “Former enforcer for Los Leos Locos, ironically. Joined Lau’s crew last year.”
Quinn studied Vargas’s face, belly churning with anxiety. “He’s the werewolf from Paragon’s.” She still remembered his stinking breath on her face, how easily he’d slapped Seraph aside.
Geist moved to an average white kid with the largest nose Quinn had ever seen. “Paul Davian. Eighteen. Enhanced lung capacity to exhale gale-force winds. Met Lau in Vegas eighteen months ago.”
“Nikilesh Patel.” Clinton went on to the Indian boy Quinn had seen in the Paragon’s videos. He looked just as dead-eyed and creepy. “Seventeen. Telepath. Long rap sheet before joining Presley.”
“Gabrielle Santos. Sixteen.” Geist pointed to a plump Filipino girl. “Can turn herself and others invisible.”
“Malcom Jayne. Sixteen.” Clinton gestured at a lanky black boy. “Can stretch his limbs like Gumby.”
Quinn studied these young supers, chewing on what she’d just learned. “These kids are connected to Titan’s real killer? Are they like an evil, street-level Extreme Teens?”
Clint chuckled. Geist didn’t, shockingly. “They work as fixers and in-betweens for whoever pays,” the vigilante growled. “Running jobs in Vegas, Los Angeles, and San Francisco until settling in San Miguel six months ago. They’re good and discreet despite their age. Whatever their involvement in Titan’s murder, it’s their highest-profile job to date.”
“Meaning this client might have them on retainer to tie up loose ends,” Quinn considered.
“There’s another component,” Clint added. “XS.”
Quinn gaped. “The superpower-boosting drug?”
Geist nodded his masked head. “A police contact had been tracking an XS dealer. They got Patel on video buying from him. But when the police moved in, Patel vanished. Like he’d never been there.”
“Gabrielle was probably with him,” Quinn stated. “Made him invisible so they could escape.”
Clinton agreed, smiling. “These kids work well together.”
Quinn scratched her chin, mind spinning. The inclusion of XS added a new dimension to Titan's murder. “Either Patel was purchasing for himself or his crew’s client.”
“Which explains why the EMP that killed Titan was so massive.” Geist unhurriedly approached the monitor. “So it’s a hero with magnetic powers.”
“Or a superpowered criminal no one’s heard of,” Quinn countered.
Geist’s head whipped around so fast, Quinn instinctively stepped back. The vigilante didn’t reply, but his eyes gleamed angrily at possibly being wrong.
Quinn preferred to discuss the seventh profile onscreen who hadn’t been discussed. “What about him?” she asked, pointing to a tall, handsome man with short, messy hair. He looked either Hawaiian or Polynesian.
Geist’s mood immediately darkened. “Hugo Malalou. Fifteen-year-old student at Paso Robles High.”
Quinn did a double take. “He’s fifteen?”
“Manifested recently,” Clinton explained.
“Encountered him this summer,” Geist stated, prickling angrily. “Jumping off rooftops.”
He’s Jordana's age, Quinn fretted. Did she know this building-sized kid? “Why’s there a question mark next to him?”
“Hasn’t done any jobs with Lau’s crew,” Geist stated. He scrolled through pictures of Hugo and Presley walking the streets, holding hands. “Not sure if he’s joined officially. Hugo had no connection to them until a month ago when he started dating La
u.”
Quinn frowned at the screen. Malalou looked chiseled out of rock. “What can he do?”
“Remember that building downtown where some super raced down the side?” Clinton asked.
Quinn drew a blank at first, and then recalled Colin telling her about this. “Vaguely. He’s a speedster?”
“More,” Geist corrected.
“Superstrength?”
“More.”
That unsettled Quinn. She’d heard of supers with more than one power. But several? “How many powers does he have?”
“More than the other six combined,” Geist stated, hands behind his back. “In fact, Malalou might be one of the most powerful supers on the planet.”
Quinn’s brain became mush. She leaned on a wall to regain her balance. “That’s a problem.”
“We don’t know when he’ll join Lau's crew,” Geist continued, always cynical. He slinked away from the monitor, returning to the shadows cloaking the rest of the room. “There are eyes watching Malalou. But I trust my eyes more. He's dangerous, whatever choice he makes.”
“Then tell the Vanguard. Or Lady Liberty,” Quinn suggested. “If these supers are such threats—”
“No.” Geist turned, eyes glittering. “They didn’t listen when I warned them about Borealis’s innocence. Besides, they cannot be trusted yet.”
“Oh, right.” Quinn threw her hands up. “You think a superhero’s involved.” This paranoid psycho was willing to jeopardize this investigation because of his pride.
“We capture one or two of these kids,” Geist continued. “Then make them reveal their employer.”
“By torturing them?” Quinn bristled. “Criminals or not, they’re children! And we agreed that I won’t take part in any advanced interrogations.”
Geist advanced on Quinn slowly, forcing her to backpedal. “That’s where you come in. I put the fear of God in them, without doing serious harm. You question them so your story isn’t compromised.”
Quinn hadn’t expected that answer. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find a retort.
“Titan wouldn't want his murder investigation leaving a trail of bodies.” Geist's rough whisper almost sounded human for the first time. “I'll honor my friend’s memory, pummeling and killing only when necessary.”
Quinn wrinkled her nose, not sure if that view made her feel much better.
Clint clearing his throat drew Quinn’s and Geist’s attention. “Geist,” he declared, scratching the back of his neck. “There’s still the Ukrainian and Korean problem?”
Geist stiffened. “Right.” He turned to Quinn. “Lau’s crew has to wait.”
Quinn frowned. “Until when? Borealis’s trial begins in two weeks.”
“And this city needs me,” Geist growled back. “Once this matter is dealt with, we’ll handle this crew.”
Quinn didn’t like waiting. According to Lord Borealis’s wife, he was recovering in solitary confinement. But what about when solitary ended? But Geist remained adamant. Nor would he share what this pressing matter was.
Quinn was relieved no kids would get tortured. Small mercies.
The next morning, Quinn headed into work. Texts, emails, and social media messages over her Vanguard interviews kept pouring in. Quinn smiled, scrolling through the praise. But her mind remained on those teen supers.
During her lunch break, she exchanged texts with Jordana about her boy situation.
Jodie: Still shooting my shot at Fall Fling. BTW, the girls LOVED the Morningstar and Wyldcat interviews.
Quinn felt a pang of fear, remembering Jordana’s description of her crush. Built like a man, her cousin had said. Quinn recalled how this fifteen-year-old Hugo Malalou looked like a man.
Me: Tell me more about this boy. Ethnicity. Name. Details!
Jodie: Nice try, prima. My lips are sealed.
