Part 11 (1/2)

”I don't know.”

”Are the Fearless Five okay?”

”Did the Triad escape?”

”Is anyone hurt?”

Murmurs and whispers filled the air. My eyes went back to the collapsed roof. Seconds ticked by.

Minutes pa.s.sed. Still no sign of the Fearless Five. Come on. The superheroes had to be okay. Striker had to be okay.

Finally, just when I was about to leapfrog over the police barricade and run to the demolished building, three figures climbed back up onto the part of the roof that hadn't collapsed. The crowd cheered. Mr.

Sage gave a halfheartedwave. Fiera shot a few sparks off her fingertips. Striker just stood there, looking at the mess and the cheering crowd.

”Striker! Striker!” I shouted.

I knew he'd never hear me, one voice in a thousand. But for some reason, his gaze turned in my direction. Our eyes locked. All the emotions, all the hot touches and whispered caresses of last night, flashed through my mind. I'd come to the battle site because I wanted to see Striker again. Because I wondered if he'd felt all the things that I had. If he wanted me as much as I still wanted him.

Evidently, the answer was a resounding no. Striker stared at me for a moment, then turned and disappeared into the dark night.

Once all the excitement died down, I took a taxi to The Expose, wrote my society story, and left. I walked as slowly as I could back to my apartment.

Striker didn't show up during my walk home, and he wasn't waiting for me inside. He'd seen me at the KarmaGirl.

vacuum cleaner plant. I knew he had. Did he think I just went down there for my health? But he didn't come to me. Disappointment filled my heart, along with anger. What had I expected? Roses?

Chocolates? A mushy card? A repeat of last night's performance?

Still, though, I unlocked one of the living room windows, just in case.

Striker didn't come to me that night. Or the next. Or the next. He didn't follow me home from work. He didn't pop into my apartment. The superhero quit stalking me. He melted into the shadows from which he'd come.

Typical. Sleep with a guy, and he disappears. In a way, it was comforting to know some things were predictable. Even if my hormones and emotions weren't.

The days flew by all too quickly, despite Striker's absence. Time pa.s.sed, until I had only three days left before Malefica's deadline.

I threw down my highlighter. I'd been working nonstop for the last three weeks, and I was no closer to uncovering Striker's ident.i.ty than when I started. I'd slept with him, for crying out loud, and I still couldn't figure out who he was. How pathetic was that? I fumed for a moment, then picked up my blue highlighter. I didn't have time to be discouraged or angry. Every second counted.

I flipped through the list of the fifty richest men and women in Bigtime that Henry had provided me.

Notes and scribbles and highlighted pa.s.sages dotted the pages. I'd crossed off some of the names right away. After all, ninety-year-old widows with rheumatoid arthritis weren't the stuff superheroes were made of. Ubervillains, perhaps, but not superheroes.

I'd been depressed to find out exactly how rich the rich and famous of Bigtime were. Morgana Madison topped the list with a.s.sets in excess of fifty billion, not counting the stacks of cash and ropes of diamonds she probably had secreted away in foreign banks. When I'd first come to Bigtime, I'd dug into my boss, wondering if she could be one of the villains I was after. You had to be extremely lucky or do some extremely illegal things to acc.u.mulate that much wealth, and ubervillains loved money. The only thing they coveted more than wealth was power. Morgana had plenty of both. But she always seemed to be at a society function or on some overseas teleconference call when the Triad or other ubervillains tore through town.

So, I moved on. Berkley Brighton, Joanne James, Nate Norris, Bella Bulluci. All the usual suspects were also on the list. Or were they?

I frowned. I'd been over the list a dozen times, but I had a nagging feeling I was missing something. The list seemed . . . short. I flipped through the pages and counted the names. I came up with forty-eight. I counted again. Forty-eight. And again. Forty-eight. Odd. Henry was usually so thorough in his work. I'd never known him to make a mistake before. Who had Henry left off? I closed my eyes and went through a mental list of Bigtime's richest, but I couldn't put my finger on the missing billionaires. I had the forty-eight richest men and women. Two more probably weren't going to make a difference, but I didn't want to overlook anything at this stage of the game. It was fourth and long, the clock was running down, and I was miles away from the end zone.

I picked up the phone and dialed Henry.

”Hi, this is Henry Harris . . .” His answering machine clicked on after five rings.

”Henry, it's Carmen. There's some missing information on this list you gave me. I really, really, really need the missing info. I'm on a tight deadline. Call me back as soon as you get this, either at home or on my cell. Thanks.” I rattled off my numbers and hung up.

Henry was probably lost somewhere in the land of gigabytes. I drummed my fingers on my thigh. Who KarmaGirl.

knew when he'd get around to calling me back? I'd get the information myself. I grabbed my purse and coat and headed for the Bigtime Public Library.

For the next few hours, I surfed through stock holdings and perused tax reports. Finally, I gave up. It was almost midnight and closing time, and I still couldn't pinpoint the two missing billionaires. I went to the office, but for once, Henry wasn't there. Curiouser and curiouser. Perhaps he'd finally asked Lulu out to dinner. Either way, I'd have to get Henry to give me the missing information tomorrow.

I left The Expose offices and began my trek home, right past my nightly hara.s.ser's stoop.

”Hey there, sweet stuff,” the familiar, obnoxious voice called out.

”Get over yourself, loser.” I was in no mood to be hit on. Men. They were all the same, superheroes or not. They all wanted one thing. s.e.x. Once they got it, it was hasta la vista, baby.

”b.i.t.c.h,” he muttered.

I kept walking. Sneakers squeaked on the pavement, and I glanced over my shoulder. A large man emerged from the shadowy doorway. Even though it was chilly, he wore a sleeveless white s.h.i.+rt. Tattoos covered his muscled arms, and a large, gold cross dangled from a thick chain around his neck. My inner voice whispered in warning. I picked up my pace.

He dialed a series of numbers on his cell phone. ”The corner of Seventh and Thirteenth. Now. See you, bro.”

I glanced up at a nearby street sign. That was the block the two of us were on. Not good. I pulled my pepper spray out of my purse and crossed the street. The man jogged over as well. I glanced around, praying for a taxi to miraculously drive by. None came. There was no one on the street besides the two of us.

Suddenly, as if in answer to my prayers, two men stepped into view about a block ahead. A wave of relief hit me. The two men stood there, watching me walk. I slowed. It was almost as if they were waiting for me. I stopped. The man behind me kept coming.

”You ready to have a little fun now, b.i.t.c.h?” he called out in a mocking tone. ”Me and my boys are hot to trot tonight, if you know what I mean.”

My inner voice screamed. I ran. The men laughed. I dashed across the street and into an alley. Footsteps pounded on the pavement behind me. I ran faster than I'd ever run before. My heart slammed against my ribs. My lungs burned. My legs ached. Still, I ran. My life depended on it.

I rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. Dead end. I whirled around, ready to run again, but the men blocked the alley. My eyes darted around. Desperate. No way out. I flipped the nozzle on my pepper spray and tried to remember self-defense moves from my various cla.s.ses. My fingers trembled. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck.

The men circled me. I turned first one way then another, trying to keep an eye on all of them at the same time. Suddenly, they lunged at me. One of them knocked the pepper spray from my hand, while another slapped me across the face. Pain flooded my body, and I tumbled to the ground. Two of the men grabbed my arms and yanked me to my feet. I kicked out. They easily avoided my awkward, flailing blows.

In a moment, it was over. Two of the men pinned me against the wall. The rough brick dug into my back, cutting through my jacket and T-s.h.i.+rt. I kept struggling, twisting and turning and trying to break free, but it was no use. They both had about a hundred pounds of muscle on me. Still, I fought. I had to. I had to get away, or I was in for something more horrible than anything the Terrible Triad could ever dream up.

”Now, sweet stuff, we're going to have a little fun.” The tattooed leader grinned. Gold-capped teeth KarmaGirl.

glistened in his mouth.

Bile and fear and terror rose up in my throat. My inner voice screamed and wailed. I was going to be raped. Perhaps worse, if there was such a thing.

The leader pushed my jacket aside and ran a finger down my chest. ”Now, let's get to the sweet stuff.”

He eyed me in a cold, casual way, like I was a piece of meat he was about to sink his teeth into. The callous disregard enraged me, breaking through my fear. I wasn't going down without a fight. Carmen Cole never gave in, not even when things seemed hopeless. So, I did the only thing I could-I spat at him. ”Go to h.e.l.l and die, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”

The man wiped the spit off his face. Blackness filled his empty eyes. He stared at me a moment, then backhanded me. I cried out in pain. Blood pooled in my mouth. The men chuckled, and the leader reached for me.

His hand never touched me.