by Ekeke, C. C.
Hugo remembered. Valentine’s Day… What a memorable night.
He stopped and squeezed Spencer’s hand, forcing her to stop.
She turned, youthful and somewhat paler without makeup or spray tan.
Hugo looked up at her fondly. Despite the chaos she’d wrought, his affection for this girl lingered.
Spencer’s features hardened. She yanked her hand away.
Hugo measured his words before speaking. “Hey, Marshmallow,” he greeted. “You getting shipped off to Verdant isn’t what I wanted.”
Spencer’s face became a beautiful, empty mask as she watched him.
Hope jolted through Hugo. “I’m sorry.” Maybe they could part on good terms.
Spencer’s eyes flashed wrathfully. “Not yet,” she seethed. “But when you, Jenny, and Daddy pay for betraying me?” A cruel smile split her face. “When you pay so fucking hard? Then you’ll be sorry, Aegis.” She shoved him. Hugo stumbled, falling down the stairs—jolted out of Spencer’s mindscape.
He sat upright, consumed by panic. After a moment, he recognized his bedroom and relaxed. But the encounter stung, especially the nasty way Spencer uttered his alias. She hated him.
“I guess that’s it,” Hugo murmured sadly. Even when sleep arrived, sorrow still haunted his dreams.
Interlude: Steve Olin
Steven Olin would rather stand in front of a firing squad than his current situation.
During his decade as Paxton-Brandt Industries’ CEO, he’d stood before his board of directors in the conglomerate’s sleek New York offices. Whenever he was explaining his ideas to expand the company’s vast portfolio and fattening its coffers, Olin knew that he and the board saw eye to eye.
Until exaggerated abuses about the Elite had been leaked, leading to Black Wednesday and over one hundred employee deaths.
Stupidly pursuing Quinn Bauer had led to a death on government property, killing their lucrative OSA contract. The cherry on top had been purchasing SLOCO Daily, originally meant to control a vocal adversary. Then someone posing as Helena Madden had published how that greedy tub of guts Dave Packer overcharged clients for years. That had killed the news site and triggered countless lawsuits.
All those events had led this emergency board meeting at 7:30 in the evening to decide Olin’s fate. Now he stood before thirteen of the company’s most prominent board members in this glass-walled room that felt increasingly small. Their stares lasered into him. But wearing a pristine suit and crimson tie, Olin showed no fear…despite his bowels nearly liquefying.
Before the votes, he’d requested time to showcase his plans to turn around Paxton-Brandt’s cratered revenue. In short, Olin came to beg. A man like Steve Olin didn’t beg.
“The last three months were rough,” Olin stated after finishing his detailed presentation. “Especially in the stock market. But my strategies take Paxton-Brandt beyond previous revenues.”
At the other end of the table, an older man cleared his throat. Johann Mueller, one of Paxton-Brandt’s first investors, had a surly look. “Under your watch, over a hundred employees lost their lives.”
“And we lost over half our US government contracts,” another board member, Hal Preston, added.
Mueller wasn’t done. “And it will be years before we settle this avalanche of lawsuits from Black Wednesday and SLOCO Daily’s former advertisers…”
The indictments landed body blows on Olin. Even longtime friend Jeffrey Brasher turned on him. “Why should this board trust your leadership anymore?” the dark-skinned man decried, several other board members agreeing. A few remained silent, watching Olin carefully.
For a soul-crushing moment, Olin wanted an end. He was almost sixty, and his wife wanted to move to France. Let them vote you out. Take the golden parachute. The moment was crushed by fury and drive. This wasn’t how Steve Olin left Paxton-Brandt. “You have no one else,” he spoke over the noise.
Many were outraged. One board member, a lovely Latina woman in a white pantsuit, smiled at his gall.
Olin straightened, confidence restored. “Anyone you’ve auditioned for my job, which made you all even richer, worked under me.” He smirked at their shock. Like they could’ve hidden that from him. “You think someone else can do this job as good as me? Never.”
Heated murmurs bubbled around the table.
“Steve isn’t wrong,” the Latina woman said with a noticeable accent, fingers steepled. The youngest board member at forty-three, she owned more Paxton-Brandt stock than many board members in this room—combined. “The Elite project should’ve succeeded if not for that internal leak.”
“Riva…” Johann protested.
“And,” Riva de León plowed over him, “a new CEO means an onboarding period, lowering consumer confidence further.” She gestured at Olin like a smiling gameshow hostess. “Give him another shot.”
Not much opposition proceeded. Riva’s words always carried weight.
Brasher snorted, rubbing his hands impatiently. “Shall we vote then?”
Olin’s heart was in his throat as the vote began.
After the votes were checked, Olin was a mess. His legs felt leaden on the long walk back to his office.
Once he reached his vast corner office overlooking lower Manhattan, Olin wanted to do nothing but gather his belongings and head home. Today had been exhausting.
However, Bradley Reynolds, his untiring chief of staff, was pacing before the office agitatedly.
Olin paused, eyes widening. “Did the meeting go well?”
Olin almost told the thirty-five-year-old wunderkind to go home. But Bradley would find out before tomorrow. “Yes,” he revealed with a weary smile. “I have eighteen months to fix things.” The vote had been 7-6, Riva breaking the tie. Again, I owe her, he realized while entering his office.
Bradley was elated. “Great! Then Operation Elevate is still on?” he asked, closing the door behind them.
Olin stared at the younger man with reproachful eyes. “Absolutely. We continue experiments and the training sessions with successful subjects.”
“About that.” Bradley made a wincing face, running fingers through his thick, shaggy mane. “Aegis.”
Olin felt clouds of anger gathering overhead. “What about Aegis?”
“He smashed another transport an hour ago, even with our insurance policy,” Bradley said. “The subjects being transported are in the custody of Kern County’s Department.”
This motherfucker again? Olin fought the urge to throw something with some quick mental triaging. “Do we have friends in Kern County government?”
“In contact.” Bradley kept stride with his boss. “One of our pharma subsidiaries has labs out there.”
Olin’s blood pressure nominally dropped. “Find their price and get our property back. With NDAs.”
Bradley’s brow beetled with discontent. “That’s five times, Mr. Olin. Why aren’t we retaliating?”
Olin raised a hand, silencing his overeager subordinate. The impulse to crush this “Shield of Justice” made sense and would’ve been pleasurable if Paxton-Brandt was in a position of dominance.
“We’ve been able to blunt exposure after his attacks,” he remarked calmly. “Plus, the public and media love Aegis. As opposed to Paxton-Brandt.” He added another fact as Bradley began to reply. “It doesn’t help that Aegis saved Paxton-Brandt’s San Miguel headquarters on Black Wednesday.”
Olin posed a question for his protégé to contemplate. “How would attacking him openly look?”
Bradley looked ready to protest, then recoiled. “Bad, with all the new leaks these last few weeks.”
He understands now. Olin furrowed his brow at another theory he’d been nursing. “Those leaks have to be from whoever is feeding Aegis information. Once we plug that leak, then we deal with Aegis.” Olin looked forward to coming after Aegis like a freight train and destroying his life.
“I’m investigating suspects who might be our leaker or leakers,” Bradley declared,
puffing his chest out.
Olin scratched his chin, satisfied by this direction. “Keep digging and be discreet.”
“Done.” His chief of staff marched out of the room.
Olin watched Bradley go, sitting heavily on his desk. He’d run the last six months through his mind hundreds of times. Paxton-Brandt had almost broken into the superhero market, with assets and teams ready for municipal usage. Helena Madden had been silenced, along with every traitor in the company leaking to her. And The Vanguard had imploded before the whole world.
Olin glowered, knowing everything had gone south following that inside leak about the whole Elite project. He smoldered over how he’d make that leaker suffer and…
A door knock jarred Olin from his musings of revenge. After he welcomed in the guest, a slim woman with fair skin strutted in carrying an iPad. Lazy waves of brunette spilled down her shoulders, complementing her purple trench dress.
Olin relaxed at the familiar face. “Ms. Pierce. You’re back.”
“Sir.” Gwyneth Pierce nodded dutifully. She’d been his special assistant for two years on many off-book issues. And she never disappointed. “Mr. Greyson returned from Mexico, with a body count in El Paso.”
Olin’s mood soured again. “I heard. Seems like two weeks down in Mexico didn’t slake his bloodlust.” As useful as Greyson Hirsch would be to Paxton-Brandt, his talent for murder could become problematic if he drew too much attention too soon.
Pierce watched him with unemotive eyes. “I’ll talk to him,” she replied, flat and final.
Hearing this, Olin knew the problem was handled and switched topics. “What about his next targets?”
Pierce’s slow smile didn’t reach her vacant eyes. “I have a list of Seneca International solo heroes and teams by city.” She handed over her iPad.
Olin studied the list. Number eleven stood out. “Shenandoah? That shithole city has a superhero team?”
“The Natural Born Thrillers activated early summer last year but got overshadowed by Titan’s death,” Pierce confirmed. “Supers and vigilantes local to the Shenandoah Valley and Northern Virginia.”
Olin paced a few moments after clicking on the Natural Born Thrillers data profile link, studying its six members. They were young, photogenic, and wielding combat-ready powers. This looked like a formidable team. Then again, Shenandoah’s collective sentiment toward supers and heroes was the polar opposite of San Miguel’s. “How solid are they with the locals?”
“Making progress,” Pierce admitted cautiously, wrinkling her nose. Shenandoah’s anti-superhuman laws were some of the harshest in America. “But the city hasn’t forgotten the Chicago Massacre.”
Chills ran through Olin recalling the Chicago Massacre. Titan vs Paragon, a dream matchup for the ages, paid for with almost five thousand Chicagoan lives. He shrugged off the grisly memories, seeing an opportunity there. “They’ll be Hirsch’s target.” A smile played across his lips at the possibilities.
Pierce’s elation mirrored his own. “I’ll get on it.”
“Any word on Ultraviolet?” Olin said as his special assistant turned to go.
Pierce shrugged, indicating her lack of progress. “Her father claims he sent her away to a boarding school for supers, but I’ve found no records of such.”
Olin didn’t like that. Ultraviolet, aka Spencer Michelman, had been one of Paxton-Brandt’s most promising operatives. Plus, she’d secretly bugged Helena Madden’s home and helped them learn what the late reporter had almost published. Then Spencer had vanished three months ago. Right before Black Wednesday. The situation felt rotten, gnawing at him.
Olin ground his teeth and faced Pierce. “I’ll take lead on the Ultraviolet situation.” He faced Pierce fully, arms folded. “Ezra Michelman has grown…prickly after the Elite incident.”
“You reactivated his daughter’s powers without his knowledge or consent,” a bold, female voice declared. “Did you expect a fucking block party?”
Olin winced, recognizing the voice. Riva de León in her ivory-white pantsuit, dark hair in a low and tight bun with a side part, stood at the door.
Olin gulped hard. “Gwyneth, excuse us,” he dismissed without making eye contact.
His special assistant nodded and glided toward the door.
Riva slammed it behind Pierce, then walked over like a runway model. “Good evening Steven.”
Her extra approach coaxed a chuckle out of him. “Riva.” Her petiteness forced him to lean down and her to stand on her tiptoes for their usual double-cheek kiss greeting. Riva’s firecracker personality more than made up for her size. This billionaire venture capitalist, with ties to global elite, was an uncompromising goddess.
“Thanks for that save,” Olin said breathlessly.
“And for keeping Operation Dom Pedro on track.” Riva batted her eyelashes. “Now you have to deliver.”
“I will.” Olin meant that.
“I know.” Riva’s stare turned cold-blooded. “Or I’ll flay you of everything you hold dear.”
Olin stood petrified, making the executive question if anyone would miss him at his funeral. The rumors he’d heard about those who let Riva down came to mind. “Understood.”
Riva’s megawatt smile returned full force. “Great. Oh, and I know who your mole is,” she announced with such indifference, one might think she spoke about finding her car keys.
Olin perked up, not doubting Riva’s veracity or sources. “Who?”
Riva playfully beckoned him closer with one finger.
He sighed and leaned down as ordered. Riva stood on her tiptoes again and whispered a name in his ear.
Olin jerked away, almost backing into his desk. He heard but couldn’t believe. “Oh. My. God.”
Chapter 5
“Are you kidding?” Connie snapped.
Greyson, as incensed as his wife, rose from his seat. They were currently in Paxton-Brandt’s Odessa, TX facilities in the office of Gwyneth Pierce.
Steve Olin’s special assistant remained seated and indifferent to their outrage. “This comes from Steve himself,” she explained, adjusting her sleeveless red jumpsuit.
“I don’t give a shit.” Greyson leaned over the desk. “A no-kill order on my targets?”
Gwyneth studied him, unimpressed. “Too much bad press.”
Greyson glanced at Connie. “I want to speak to Olin. Now.”
Gwyneth’s elfin features grew frosty. “I speak for Mr. Olin.”
Connie caught Greyson’s arm right before he could erupt. “Bad press?” she inquired.
Gwyneth’s brow raised. “We invested a lot in you. And cape-killers have very short careers.”
The steely threat in her words stiffened Greyson’s posture. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You think other heroes will just turn a blind eye while you keep murdering heroes?” Gwyneth noted. The posh English accent added to her condescension. “Eventually, they’ll unite and hunt you down.”
“She’s right, Hirsch,” Connie remarked, wearing a flowery romper. “The good guys will push back.”
Greyson wanted to kick himself for being so shortsighted. “Now what?”
Gwyneth’s emotionless smile gave Greyson the chills. “We’ve found your next target.”
“That’s easy,” he scoffed. Another target, another win.
Gwyneth tilted her head in reproach. “Not so much. This is a corporate-sponsored ERAT, a superhero team, unlike what you and Connie have faced in between your trips to Mexico.”
Connie palpably soured. “You make it sound like we’re weekending in Cabo.”
Gwyneth arched an eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Fuck off, Gwyneth.”
“And Aegis?” Greyson asked. Now was the time to take him out.
“That mandate hasn’t changed,” Gwyneth replied flatly.
Greyson was over this. “All these restrictions on who and how I engage.” His anger rose with each word.
“Hirsch…” Connie warned.
“No, Connie.” Greyson shrugged her off and pointed at Gwyneth’s smug face. “Paxton-Brandt recruited me for what I bring to the table,” he declared. “Why aren’t I choosing my own targets?”
Gwyneth chuckled and shook her head, then tapped her desk phone’s speaker. “Send her in.”
The office door opened. Connie gasped. Greyson found himself staring at a ghost.
“Excuse me.” Lauren Gerard entered wearing a lab coat over her pink blouse and pencil skirt, ash blonde hair in a tight ponytail. “I have the pathogen test results.” She handed Gwyneth a flash drive.
Greyson’s brain could barely form coherent thoughts. “Oh my god…” He collapsed into his seat. Greyson knew his ex-fiancée was alive. Seeing her alive just ripped his spine out. “Laurie…”
Lauren looked his way for the first time in bemusement. “Yes?”
Her curt response confused Greyson. “Why are you here—?”
“Sorry.” Lauren gave him a blank look. “Do I know you?”
Greyson’s surprise drowned away deep-rooted heartache. Why doesn’t she know me? He stood.
Gwyneth cleared her throat. “Dr. Gerard works at Genex Labs, a Paxton-Brandt subsidiary.”
Greyson was speechless, his brain grinding to a halt. “I…I…”
“Laurie,” Gwyneth’s voice startled Lauren, who seemed fearful of Greyson and Connie. “These are two of our field operatives, Mr. and Mrs. Hirsch.”
Lauren offered a tight-lipped smile. “Nice meeting you both.” She left the room as fast as possible. Greyson watched her, struggling with that bizarre encounter.
He turned slowly around to Gwyneth, who studied him and Connie closely. “Was that some sick joke?” Greyson demanded softly. “An impostor of Laurie?” His voice cracked when saying her name. Energy rippled through his veins, itching for freedom to rip this cruel bitch limb from limb.
“That was no impostor.” Gwyneth looked none too pleased as she sat back down. “Your former fiancée, Lauren, has worked at Paxton-Brandt for years.”
Greyson had no clue Genex Labs was part of Paxton-Brandt. In fact, he had no clue about anything.
