The Pantheon Saga | Book 5 | Absolute Power

by Ekeke, C. C.

  Greyson furrowed his brow. “I know.” He’d learned never to get too comfortable anywhere. Hence why they were speaking on encrypted burner phones he’d purchased in Mexico. “Corporations have agendas, which always change.”

  “At the end of the day,” Connie concluded, “anyone not us is our enemy.”

  Greyson smiled. Another reason why he loved this woman. “You have to get to Shenandoah soon, love.” After some more idle chitchat, the spouses wished each other goodnight.

  Greyson ventured farther into the neighborhood, hands in his pockets, hyperaware but nonchalant. The purpose of his walks went beyond learning about Shenandoah. Greyson had been scoping every location where the Natural Born Thrillers had done battle. Plus, this neighborhood had a White Castle.

  Greyson stepped forward when the first screams rang out. And then the swish of something huge spinning toward him.

  Greyson threw himself onto his belly thanks to battle-honed reflexes. A second later, wind from a Toyota Camry ruffled his fluffy hair.

  He rolled onto his back as it passed, heading toward a screaming couple.

  No…they’re innocents. Greyson reached out a hand, pooling his gravitational energies and focusing on the hurtling vehicle’s momentum.

  The car slowed right in front of the couple’s faces. Greyson unclenched his teeth and his fist, letting the vehicle drop in a jarring cacophony.

  That was close… He fought back to his feet, the world snapping into focus around him.

  People were yelling and running with a swiftness as if this was a familiar exercise. More explosions and shouts rang out around the corner the vehicle had come from. Chaos reigned.

  Greyson shouldered his way in that direction and shoved out of the fleeing throng. “Oh…shit.”

  In a filled parking lot, half the cars wrecked or burning, was a fast-paced super vs super fight.

  Greyson recognized one side of the battle, all five of them.

  The Natural Born Thrillers.

  Interlude: Ezra Michelman

  “You did what?” Ezra Michelman exclaimed with fatherly pride.

  “Yeah!” his daughter Rowan confirmed eagerly over the car speakers. “I finally flew, Daddy. For three whole minutes!”

  Ezra slumped back in his chair and crowed with pride. “That’s great, Rowan!” After this chaotic week, he’d needed that news. “I can’t wait to see you do this in person.”

  “You’re coming to Steinholt?” Rowan exclaimed.

  Ezra’s smile couldn’t stretch any wider. He made a turn as the highway veered left. “Once I drop your sister off to Southgate tomorrow, I’ll plan to see you soon.” This visit was supposed to be a surprise, but Ezra just couldn’t contain himself.

  “Yay!” Rowan’s joy leaped out of the speakers. Then her tone sobered. “How is she?”

  Ezra’s jovial mood evaporated. Of course, this would come up. “Says that she’ll never forgive me.”

  “Oh.” Rowan went silent for a few moments. “She won’t take my calls.”

  Heat rushed through Ezra, tightening his grip to where his knuckles turned white. “Spencer won’t admit she was wrong,” he fumed, shaking his head. “Has too much of your mother in her.”

  “You were always hard on her.” Rowan’s words struck with penetrating force.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, Daddy,” Rowan apologized. “But it’s true. And you hid that she had powers.”

  “That—” Ezra barely checked his tidal wave of anger. Rowan was too young to understand. “Your sister hurt people.” Reading reports of the retrievals Spencer had done for Paxton-Brandt broke Ezra’s heart.

  Rowan wasn’t stymied. “I know Spencer acts evil. But…” Her voice cracked. “Do you even love her?”

  The question rendered Ezra momentarily speechless. “Of course I love Spencer, but—” She killed your brother…my son. Sweet Rowan knew nothing of her late brother. Ezra and his wound still ached. “Spencer’s my firstborn.”

  Rowan sighed as if far older than thirteen. “Treat her like you do me. Then she'll be less bitchy.”

  Ezra was too charmed to chastise Rowan’s wording. “You would’ve been a better big sister.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Ezra laughed, wiping budding tears with the back of his hand. The green sign for his offramp neared. “I’m close to my satellite office. Talk soon.”

  “Love you, Daddy,” Rowan cooed.

  The lump in Ezra’s throat grew. He turned right toward his freeway exit. “Love you, RoRo.”

  Ten minutes later, Ezra pulled into the lot of the abandoned strip mall he owned miles from San Miguel. The night sky had cleared when he stepped out of his glossy black BMW. The surrounding flatlands were hushed save for faraway jet engines roaring overhead.

  Ezra adjusted his long-sleeved polo and walked to the strip mall entrance. After going through the usual security protocols and teleporting to the underground levels, he stood in his high-tech lab.

  Ezra pushed all distractions away as he weaved through the devices and stacks of gadgets and papers, focused on his singular goal. Destroy Paxton-Brandt.

  He’d seen the corruption, the unethical practices years ago. But telling himself the cutting-edge science and boundary-pushing were more important had made him stay.

  Ezra slumped in a seat in front of countless monitors, knowing the shameful truth. He’d been spiritually dead since his son’s passing and his wife’s jailing. Ignoring Paxton-Brandt’s true nature had been easy when they showered him with money, access, resources, and luxuries.

  Ezra now felt a self-disgust so deep, it hurt. How ironic that his dead best friend’s son had snapped him out of moral apathy.

  But Ezra couldn’t blame Hugo for abandoning this mission. The boy was too visible in his new role as San Miguel’s protector. And the intel he’d provided had been substantial.

  The OSA and the FBI still want more. Ezra bucked his teeth. How much do they need to finally act?

  He shook off the dismay, his fingers dancing across many keyboards to boot up his consoles. He’d heard rumors on this new project around an asset called “Damocles”. Security had tightened after Hugo’s attacks, so Ezra would have to be discreet in breaching the PB intranet to learn more.

  He began typing in a backdoor hack, when a sharp rustle sounded above the various humming servers.

  Ezra paused, narrowing his eyes. No one but Hugo, Titan, and Betty Ortiz had been down here. He rose from his seat, unshakably calm thanks to the countless life-and-death battles in his former career. The servers continued humming.

  Ezra stepped away from the console, scanning his surroundings. Was he being paranoid? Better to be safe than sorry. Ezra opened his mouth to order a scan for intruders—when a scarlet blast scorched out of the dark.

  “Shit…” He threw himself forward, the discharge sizzling just ruffling his wiry hair.

  Old instincts ignited as he rolled in the blast’s direction. Ezra snapped a hand up, power coalescing within before he unloaded a subzero salvo.

  The icy discharge bowled his silhouetted attacker over.

  Ezra popped up and jogged over. The attacker lay sprawled out and shivering, jet-black mask and stealth outfit covered in ice crystals.

  “Stay down,” Ezra barked.

  He knew one truth. Paxton-Brandt knows. Panic soared within. He turned his head, barely sidestepping the swipe of an electric baton. A slender, feminine figure, also masked and in black, kept swinging with aggressive strikes.

  Ezra brought up his forearms, encasing them instinctively in ice. Loud KR-KEEESH noises echoed throughout the lab when she smashed her baton into his hulking, icy-covered forearms. She tried a backswing, which Ezra ducked, leaving her wide open and defenseless. Ezra took advantage with two hard jabs to the face, dropping her.

  Before he could inspect, an abrupt burning rolled up his left arm.

  “Godammit!” He doubled over, clutching his spasming forearm, a reminder from the battle in
jury that had retired him. Ezra shook his hand out until the spasms stopped.

  He inhaled to gain resolve and stared at his unwelcome guests. “Let’s find out who you are?”

  Ezra made furious moves toward his targets—until abrupt and blinding pain stabbed his spine.

  He collapsed, every muscle seizing.

  Everything hurt. He blearily looked up into the striking face of a ghost. “You?”

  The last time he’d seen this woman alive, her hair had been shorter and her complexion tanner. Now she sported pale skin that complemented her long wavy brown hair. And she hadn’t aged a day since 2005.

  “Hello, December,” she greeted in a surprising British drawl. “I’m Gwyneth.”

  Ezra couldn’t sit up, let alone move. She must’ve used a shock dart on him. “How?” was all Ezra could get out. How are you alive and working for Paxton-Brandt?

  Pierce shrugged with arrogance. Understandable, given her skillset. “Paxton-Brandt’s intranet experienced a data breach months ago from Eastern San Miguel,” Pierce explained. “The port closed before we could identify the source. Until someone pointed us toward you.”

  Ezra finally struggled with any remaining strength to a seated position.

  Four well-armed figures slipped out of the shadows. “What now?” one man asked.

  “Download anything essential,” Pierce ordered calmly. “Burn the rest. Then we find his daughter.”

  Ezra’s terror skyrocketed for Spencer. “Please…” he cried out. The helplessness for someone of his former stature was humiliating—angering. “Don’t do this, Severine—”

  “Gwyneth” frowned in fleeting confusion. “Who’s Severine?” Lifting a boot, she kicked Ezra in the face.

  And that was that.

  Chapter 10

  As panicked citizens fled the fiery disaster scene, Greyson guffawed at his luck.

  Erika Skye. Bulldozer. Brightburn. Shattershot. Reverb. The Natural Born Thrillers were several feet away, ripe to be taken down.

  Then Greyson realized how exposed he was. No costume or mask. Just flannel, jeans, and boots. “Oh well.” He first spotted who the Thrillers was fighting in the parking lot—a brawny humanoid in a red-and-blue suit and a thimble-style helmet. The individual was holding his own against the Thrillers.

  Greyson noticed a handful of heavily armed characters at the parking lot’s farthest end, running from the fight. The cyborg’s accomplices?

  He felt no interest in pursuing to find out. In fact, he found himself turning around and almost running away. He forced himself to stop, struggling to push away this bizarre terror.

  Greyson then realized what was happening. “Shattershot…” He glared at the lean empath standing at the edge of the fight, one hand on the side of his head with a glazed expression.

  No wonder everyone was fleeing so uniformly. His psychic defense training from Paxton-Brandt helped him break Shattershot’s empathic control.

  Greyson scrambled on hands and knees behind an SUV, peeking over to watch the fight. Better to let the heroes contain the threat first.

  Bulldozer resembled a giant bronze statue up close, punching spiders made of cobbled-together junk to pieces. Reverb, curled into a ball, bounced and bashed through more skittering spiders.

  Erika Skye hovered above the cyborg controlling these metal spiders, barking orders. She had such a regal presence in that gold suit and those braids whipping about.

  She made a chopping motion with her hand, hurling energy knives through the cyborg’s armored torso.

  Brightburn, her costume flattering her slender legs, issued forks of lightning from curled fingers. The cyborg got rocked back, chewing up concrete and smashing into more cars.

  Erika Skye landed in a crouch. “You’re surrounded, Cybrid!” she yelled. “Surrender before this gets ugly.”

  The cyborg called Cybrid sat up. His helmeted face revealed no emotion, but he radiated fury. “NEVER!” He raised a fist and fired a thick red energy blast, slicing cars in half. Quite a few citizens got thrown to the ground. Greyson clutched his badly ringing ears.

  Erika glared at Shattershot. “Speed up the evacuation. We’re trying to avoid collateral damage.”

  Shattershot winced at the rebuke but kept empathically commanding lingering bystanders. “On it!”

  Bulldozer stomped on one junkyard spider creature with a size seventeen boot, then punched another’s legs off. “Don’t get too familiar with those people, Shattershot,” he snarled.

  Greyson peeked from behind a car to watch Shattershot stiffen but say nothing. Some disharmony?

  “Bulldozer.” Reverb dropkicked Cybrid from behind. “Focus on the enemy.”

  Bulldozer flitted an indifferent gaze between Shattershot and Cybrid. “Which one?”

  “Brightburn! Bulldozer!” Erika Sky commanded, hurling more energy knives. “Focus on Cybrid.”

  Greyson watched Cybrid fire off more energy blasts. But the Thrillers tag-teamed him with a flurry of gleaming fists from Bulldozer, hot knives from Erika Skye’s and Brightburn’s energy bolts.

  Cybrid soon dropped to his knees, battered and charred. As the Natural Born Thrillers swarmed their downed foe, Brightburn whipped out her cell for a smiling “superhero selfie.”

  Erika approached calmly. “Your crew fled. Again. The cops are coming. Surrender.”

  The Thrillers were distracted. The main threat had been averted. Now was Greyson’s chance. He rose slowly, gravitational power boiling within.

  Then Greyson spotted him from the corner of his eye. A punk kid also hiding behind another car a few yards away, recording the fight on his iPhone. And one of Cybrid’s spider creatures, large and rusty, skittered up behind him.

  Greyson already saw the scenario play out in his mind’s eye. Cybrid took the kid hostage, possibly killing him to regain leverage or escape.

  Greyson was moving without thinking. But letting innocents die pointlessly with a dangerous supervillain on the loose wasn’t the point of his crusade. He tackled the kid down and tossed him aside. Greyson rolled onto his back to see the spider beast rearing up in front of him. And four of its eight legs rushed down to spear him through.

  His fright was brief before determination burned through. Greyson let pure nuclear energy pool into his fists and issued a dazzling burst upward.

  A blinding flash coincided with the jarring eruption of shredded metal.

  When the smoke cleared, Greyson rolled onto all fours. The majority of the cars were totaled beyond recognition, flattened or devoured by angry yellow flames. The teen boy he’d rescued, with buzzcut hair and dark skin, sat wide-eyed on his behind with no visible injuries.

  “Run. Now,” Greyson hissed, waving him off.

  The boy sprang up and dashed away.

  At least the kid’s safe. Greyson was relieved until he turned around.

  All five Natural Born Thrillers stared at him. Cybrid lay motionless behind them, out of commission.

  “Goddammit.” Greyson had been made—by his own mercy.

  Erika Skye marveled at him. Then she glared at Shattershot, who she stood a bit taller than. “You were supposed to disperse the crowd.”

  The lean, sandy-haired man cupped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry.” His contrition sounded ragged and genuine. “I didn’t see them.”

  Now Bulldozer was in his face, dwarfing his teammate in sheer size. “Didn’t or refused to?”

  Shattershot turned brick-red. “Get off my back, Dozer!”

  Brightburn and Reverb shuffled their feet uncomfortably. But Erika Skye wedged herself between her feuding teammates. “Bulldozer! Those bystanders are safe thanks to—”

  Greyson popped up and ran out of that parking lot.

  “Hey!” Erika cried out. “Wait!”

  Greyson didn’t stop. To stay and fight meant defeat. And the Natural Born Thrillers had seen his face.

  Angry at himself for screwing up a simple victory, he ran faster into the night.

  Chap
ter 11

  Hugo knew more about the Extreme Teens than he cared to.

  Not just because they were ubiquitous on social media, TV, film, and his friends being mega-fans.

  Definitely not from them being fellow superheroes. His idiot brother, AJ, was obsessed, watching every 3D Combat Experience movie and their unscripted show Extreme Dreams.

  The Malalou brothers sat at the dining table wolfing down Cheerios. AJ was glued to a Blur interview on N3 about the expansion of Olympian Theme Park’s Extreme Teens section.

  “His new costume looks stupid,” Hugo remarked while chewing.

  “Shaddup,” AJ threw back.

  Hugo sniggered. Blur looked ridiculous in his skintight blue racetrack unisuit, collar unzipped to show off his chest—what little there was. The speedster reclined in his seat, manspreading, goggles resting atop his disheveled dark hair. Blur’s “Come At Me Bruh” face was aimed to evoke toughness. Hugo laughed harder, much to AJ’s ire.

  Equally interesting was the attractive reporter interviewing Blur. The smart red pantsuit highlighted her trim figure, sleek brown hair spilling over one shoulder. Rebecca Reyes, Hugo mused. The news veteran had escaped SLOCO Daily’s implosion unscathed, returning to her National News Network gig.

  She threw softball questions at Blur the whole interview, laughing at all his lame jokes, constantly pawing at him. And Reyes making bedroomy eyes at someone young enough to be her son was gross to watch. But AJ was oblivious to the onscreen tension.

  Hugo itched to change the channel until Reyes asked Blur about rumors of Aegis dating Starchylde and joining his team.

  Blur prickled. “Both untrue.” He sat up and ranted, “And why are people having orgasms over that Titan cosplayer breaking the sound barrier?” he demanded. “I break the sound barrier like a hundred times a day.” The speedster shrugged cockily. “I broke it eight times this morning, before breakfast.”

  Now Hugo turned the TV off, despite AJ’s protests.

  “You gonna let him shit-talk you, uso?” AJ remarked, finishing his cereal.

  Hugo shook his head. “That overcaffeinated midget is using my name to stay relevant.” Blur’s taunts, while tiresome, were from obvious jealousy. The speedster couldn’t go one day without somehow mentioning Hugo. “I’ll focus on saving lives.” The Samoan grabbed his brother’s bowl, something else nagging him. “Rebecca Reyes goes with Blur everywhere.” He tossed the bowls and spoons in the sink.