Part 5 (2/2)
Striker rarely appeared in print, except to growl at nosy reporters who had gotten too close to a battle scene.
I could only find a few pa.s.sing references to Hermit, including one that referred to him or her as the greatest technological wizard ever.
By the time I finished, I had five stacks of papers, one for each superhero. I put the Striker stack on top of the coffee table and shoved the others under the sofa. Time to go see if I could spot the man, the hero, the legend in person.
I threw on some jeans, a T-s.h.i.+rt, and a black fleece jacket. I pulled my auburn hair into a short ponytail and grabbed my pepper spray and stun gun. I also locked and loaded the tranquilizer dart gun I'd purchased a few months ago and tucked it in the back of my jeans. Despite its name, Good Intentions Lane wasn't in the best part of town.
I took a taxi to the specified location, arriving about thirty minutes early. Good Intentions Lane squatted about ten miles past the wrong side of the tracks. The street looked like a war zone or the epicenter of the most violent superhero-ubervillain battle ever. Abandoned buildings covered in graffiti and gang symbols lined the street. Broken windows and busted-down doors grinned like dark, gaping maws. A few fires smoldered in overflowing trashcans that dotted the cracked sidewalks. Flickering traffic lights swung in the breeze.
”You sure you want to get out here, miss?” the taxi driver asked. ”This doesn't look like the safest place to be.”
”Unfortunately, I must take the road less traveled. I'm afraid that I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep,” I quipped.
The driver gave me a funny look, like I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Maybe I was, quoting Robert Frost at a time like this. I paid the man and got out of the taxi. The driver put his foot to the floor, and the yellow car sped away into the dark night. What a gentleman.
I looked up and down the street. Nothing moved or stirred in the night, except the foot-long rats that made their homes in the deserted buildings and alleyways. I put my hand in my jacket pocket, clutched KarmaGirl.
my pepper spray and stun gun, and walked down the lonely street. Garbage and empty fast-food cartons crunched under my feet. I moved as fast as I could. I checked the address Lulu had e-mailed me and jogged up the steps to a rickety-looking building, the only one on the whole block that still had a door attached to it.
My knuckles cracked against the steel door, shattering the chilling silence. I fought the urge to duck for cover.
”What's the word?” a low male voice asked from the other side.
”The word is Striker,” I replied.
Several locks clicked, and the door creaked open. A short, fat, Asian man glared at me. Suspicion darkened his eyes.
”You here for the show?” he asked. ”You're early.”
”You betcha. I brought popcorn and soda and everything. I always come early to get the best seat in the house.”
The man frowned, failing to see the humor in my joke. Most people did. He turned and walked deeper into the building. I followed him, keeping a tight grip on my stun gun. Graffiti scrawled across the walls, and worn-out mattresses covered the floor. The whole building reeked of greasy French fries, wet dogs, and human excrement. I wrinkled my nose.
We worked our way up a couple flights of rotted stairs to the top of the building. The man unlocked a metal door and held it open.
”This goes to the roof. Enjoy. I'll be waiting downstairs to let you out when the show's over.” He turned and disappeared back down the hall.
A wave of fear and doubt washed over me. What was I doing here in a strange building in a bad part of town in the middle of the night? I was going to get myself killed- or worse. Surely, there had to be an easier way, a safer way, to uncover Striker's ident.i.ty. Visions of my body covered in fur with eyes the size of golf b.a.l.l.s danced through my head. I swallowed. I didn't have time to be overly concerned with my safety. Besides, if I got killed, I would cheat Malefica out of the chance to turn me into a monster.
There was a small glimmer of satisfaction in that thought.
I squared my shoulders, stepped through the door, and climbed up another flight of stairs. I emerged on the roof and gulped in the cool night air, trying to get the building's sickening stench out of my nose and mouth. The fresh air also helped settle my jangled nerves. A breeze ruffled my hair. The moon shone like a huge lantern in the night sky and bathed everything in a silvery glow. Stars twinkled like fireflies far above. There was plenty of light for the lens of my night-vision digital camera, which meant I wouldn't have to use a telltale flash. Good.
I walked to the side of the roof that overlooked the street. Silence. Even the rats were quiet and still for once. I dug a tape recorder out of my purse. It was no larger than a deck of cards, but it could pick up sound three hundred feet away. Henry had given the gizmo a rare five-star rating in his technology column. I switched it on and set the device on the three-foot-high wall that ringed the roof. I grabbed my digital camera out of my purse and flipped it on. It, too, was small but powerful.
My tools of the trade ready, I sat on the ledge, leaned against the side of a chimney that jutted up from the roof, and settled down to wait.
Thirty minutes later, a pair of headlights popped on at the far end of Good Intentions Lane. Midnight.
Right on schedule. Another set of headlights lit up at the opposite end of the street, and the two cars flashed their lights several times in some sort of code. The vehicles crept toward each other.
KarmaGirl.
I sat up, camera in hand.
The cars stopped, and several men of varying ages and ethnicities emerged. One group favored designer business suits and glossy wingtips, while the others opted for sweats.h.i.+rts, pricey sneakers, and baggy pants. Drugs brought people together no matter what their socioeconomic backgrounds might be. How comforting.
Both parties hauled thick, metal briefcases out of their respective vehicles and put them on the hoods, which faced each other.
”You got the stuff?”
”If you've got the money.”
Voices floated up to me, and the briefcases snapped open. The one on the designer suit side brimmed over with the aforementioned money, while the other on the sweat-s.h.i.+rt side contained large white packets of what I a.s.sumed was heroin, cocaine, or some other nasty, illegal substance. I snapped a few pictures with my superduper night vision lens. Even if Striker didn't show, Chief Newman would find the photos interesting.
The money and drugs exchanged hands. Once the deal was done and the briefcases safely stowed away, the men relaxed. They joked and talked and laughed about b.i.t.c.hes, basketball, and various other topics.
I scanned the street and the surrounding alleys. Nothing. I bit back a growl of frustration. Striker wasn't going to show. I had come down to Drugs R Us and put myself in danger for nothing, not to mention wasted precious hours I could have spent researching Striker and his cohorts. For once, Lulu's information had been wrong.
I switched off the tape recorder and glanced over the edge of the roof. Both groups drifted back to their respective vehicles. The party was breaking up. I turned to go.
Suddenly, I stopped. A feeling swept over me, and I knew, just knew, I shouldn't leave yet. I listened to that inner feeling, that voice whispering in the back of my mind. It had never let me down before. I flipped my tape recorder back on and resumed my position.
I squinted and peered into the shadows. A flash of silver caught my eye, then vanished. My heart sped up. Had it come from that alley over there? Or the one a building over- A sword sailed through the air, landing in the rear tire of one of the cars. It wobbled back and forth, and the tire hissed and flattened. As quickly as it had appeared, the sword flew out of the tire and back into the shadows. Moments later, the process repeated itself, this time on the other car.
Striker had arrived.
I fumbled for my digital camera. I set it to video mode and leaned over the roof, almost falling off in the process. A few loose bits of bricks slid off the edge and plummeted to the street below, but the g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers were too preoccupied to notice.
Shouts rose up from inside the two vehicles. Doors popped open, and men poured out. Now, they sported guns instead of briefcases. Evidently, semiautomatic pistols and multiple clips fit perfectly into the pocket of a designer suit these days.
But no more swords appeared. No superheroes swooped into sight. The men stood still. Their excited breath spurted out in huffs and puffs. They crouched next to their cars for several minutes in a silent standoff with someone they couldn't see. The men stared into the shadows and waited for the next attack, while I watched from above, my camera capturing every slow, agonizing second.
After five minutes, the men began to grumble. They exchanged glares and shrugs and dropped their guns to their sides.
KarmaGirl.
Suddenly, a black figure sprang from the shadows.
He landed in between the two cars. The headlights spotlighted him, and I got my first good look at Striker in the flesh. My mouth went dry. He was tall with a lean figure and perfectly sculpted muscles in all the right places. Twin swords rose above his shoulders, held in place by some kind of scabbard built into his black leather suit. A black-and-graymask covered his face, while the F5 insignia stretched across his chest. His black hair glistened like onyx under the bright headlights.
Striker lifted his head. I gasped at the sight of his eyes. They were gray, a s.h.i.+mmering, ethereal sort of gray that made me think of moonlight and the stars far above. But there was a fire in his eyes, a fire that could sear your very soul with its heat. I s.h.i.+vered.
Striker moved. His two swords flashed like liquid quick-silver. He ran through the men like a lawnmower chugging through dry gra.s.s. Fists met flesh and cracked bones. Swords sliced through gun barrels like they were made of paper. Bodies flew through the air and landed with dull thuds on the street.
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