The Indestructibles (Book 2): Breakout Read online

  "What are you going to do about our problem?" another voice joined in. As she listened, Kate skirted the rooftops of the parking lot until she reached the main building where her targets were gathered, a cement block of space lined inside with industrial-sized storage racks. Cheap, grimy skylights on the roof allowed her to look inside.

  The second speaker was Dusty, real name Frank Wilson, one of the biker gang reps. Dusty was the antithesis of LaCoste — slovenly where LaCoste was pristine, loud instead of soft-spoken, and presenting a clear level physical threat that LaCoste hid in himself. Both men were capable of incredible brutality. Kate had witnessed their handiwork firsthand.

  "You're telling me you can't handle her?" LaCoste said. He sat down at the end of a makeshift table, a long plank of plywood supported up by a pair of metal drums. One of his bodyguards put a Starbucks coffee cup down in front of him.

  "Your boys aren't doing much better," Dusty said. "How many shipments have you lost this month?"

  "Including the two shipments your guys abandoned on the side of the road so they could run from some high school girl in a costume?"

  Dusty stood up, his chair squeaked loud and sent feedback through Kate's earpiece.

  "I've gotta take a leak. It was a long ride to come listen to you insult me," Dusty said.

  Kate scurried along the rooftop, trailing Dusty's path to the men's room. She wanted him out of the action first because despite his uneducated demeanor he was one of the two most capable fighters in the room. Things would move more smoothly if she took him down early.

  She reached the small window to the men's room first, slid inside, and jumped into one of the stalls. Kate heard the door creak open and watched Dusty's black biker boots sidle toward the urinals along the wall directly across from her. When he crossed in front of her stall, she shoved the door, kicking off the wall with her full strength. She felt the different points of impact on the other side of the door — nose, teeth, hips, kneecaps.

  Dusty staggered, both legs unsteady from the impact of the door. Kate quietly closed the stall door and punched him in the throat. He tried to call for help, but choked on his stunned and split lips. Blood gushed from a clearly broken nose.

  A quick zap with her taser and it was on to his colleagues.

  * * *

  "That's a long leak," one of LaCoste's gunrunners said just before the lights went out.

  Kate had rigged the entire warehouse into a psychological battlefield. The lights went off just long enough for the spinning spotlights she'd installed on the ceiling to kick in and start roaming the floor, throwing off any hope of her enemies regaining their night vision. To make matters worse, she'd hung disco balls from the ceiling, just for the added chaos they would bring to the room. And then of course there was the music, death metal screaming at inhumane volume, Kate's own ears protected with plugs.

  The room transformed into hell for people who hated nightclubs.

  Kate launched into action, her ballet of kicks and punches took out each of LaCoste's men. Someone tried to raise a gun but Kate was quicker, throwing a knee at the man's elbow and sending the pistol spinning across the floor from numb fingers. Another flashed a knife, but Kate dodged it easily, deflecting the outstretched arm and planting a knockout blow to the man's temple. She flung LaCoste's steaming Columbian dark roast at someone's groin and followed it up with a kick to the head.

  Finally she landed on the table and faced down LaCoste himself. He never moved, simply sat there watching the chaos as if he were in a bar people-watching. They made eye contact, and LaCoste smiled, showing off the reason why everyone called him "The Teeth," those surgically enhanced incisors loomed like a predatory animal's fangs. He stood up slowly, unbuttoned his suit coat, and held out his arms.

  "I've got no problems with killing a kid," he said.

  Kate answered him with a kick, which LaCoste deflected with surprising ease. She felt his huge hand get a good grip on her ankle and yank her leg out from under, letting Kate slam down onto the plywood table. The table's surface splintered and the barrels holding it in place tipped, sending her sliding to the floor. LaCoste clamped another hand on the same ankle, his fingers locked like vices.

  Kate didn't bother trying to attack him directly. Instead she sent the tungsten-capped heel of her free leg slamming into LaCoste's fingers. Once, twice. She felt his bones cracking. Three times. His grip loosened. Kate scrambled to her feet. LaCoste's face was a grimace of pure rage, saliva ran down his lips from his oversized teeth. He tried to make a fist with his shattered fingers. Kate scrambled to her feet as the mobster charged her. She couldn't get out of the way fast enough and LaCoste slammed into her, knocking the wind from her lungs when he fell on top of her.

  His hands tried to find a way to grab hold and pin her down, but she'd done too much damage to his fingers. She pulled her wrists from his weak grip as he leaned in, his teeth flashed and he lunged for her neck and face. Kate wrapped both hands around his neck, held him back, then pushed a knee into his solar plexus to keep his weight off her.

  "Who do you think you are?" he said, working his jaws like an attack dog.

  Instead of answering, she head-butted him twice, bang-bang, forehead to forehead. The protective layer she installed in her mask took most of the impact, but still it left her dizzy — though not as dizzy as her opponent, whose eyes went bleary and jaws went slack. Kate shoved LaCoste off of her and yanked a zip-tie around his broken hands behind his back.

  She fell to one knee; the room swam around her. Tapping a button on her belt, she turned the music off and the lights back up.

  She almost screamed when she saw the costumed man cuffing one of the gunrunners a few yards away.

  "Missed one," the familiar, gargled-glass voice said.

  In the old days, before he retired, the man was known as the Alley Hawk. One of Doc Silence's old teammates. He was like Kate, a normal human running on determination and planning and luck instead of some sort of superhuman ability. They spoke once in a while, Kate visiting him in his ramshackle hideout on the outskirts of town, but she'd never seen him in costume before. Not in person. Certainly there were photos around the Tower, old news clippings, but up close, he was terrifying — costume both gargoyle-like and avian, a smoky blend of dark grays and gritty browns. His suit was not unlike Kate's own, with protective plates and hidden compartments, a half mask revealing mouth and jawline but hiding his identity. She could see the scars that ran all over his face on his exposed skin. There was something almost birdlike about the shape of his half-mask, a slight hooking downturn that hinted at a beak.

  "You're wearing a cape," she said, taking the protective buds from her ears.

  "You might consider it," Alley Hawk said in his low, rumbling whisper. "They have their uses."

  "Like getting caught on doors."

  "And helping you blend into shadows. And making you look twice the size you really are," he said. She had to admit he did have a point. Out of costume the Alley Hawk wasn't much taller than she was, though he was built like a fire hydrant. In costume he seemed enormous.

  "What are you doing here, Hawk?"

  "Backing you up," he said. He slammed the gunrunner's face against the floor and stood up to his full height. "You have an entire team of super-powered allies and you decided to take these guys down alone?"

  "This is my beat. My collar."

  "Fair enough," Alley Hawk said. "Where's your partner? The walking carpet?"

  Kate sneered. She did it before she even had a chance to think about it.

  "He's busy."

  The Alley Hawk adjusted his cape, shifted his shoulders. He cocked his head, hearing the sirens before Kate did. Police on their way.

  "You call them in?"

  "No. But you could hear your music trap three blocks away."

  "I liked my music trap."

  The Hawk smiled.

  "So did I. Are you going to stay and talk to the cops?"

  "They aren't crazy about m
e," Kate said.

  "They never liked me either," he said. "Do me a favor, kid."

  "I don't owe you any favors yet."

  "No, you don't," he said. "But listen to me. Let someone watch your back. I did it alone for years."

  "And everyone said you hated working with other heroes."

  "No," the Hawk said, letting out a barking laugh. "I hated taking orders. But it'll drive you mad after a while. "

  Kate nodded. The Alley Hawk pulled a grappling gun from his belt and she did the same. Before he fired, she spoke.

  "What happened to your partner, Hawk?"

  The Alley Hawk looked at the ceiling, never making eye contact as he answered.

  "He went in without me one time too many times," he said. Then his grappling gun coughed and the aging vigilante disappeared through the skylight.

  As the sirens grew closer, Kate escaped as well. And she wondered where her partner was, going it alone.

  Chapter 3:

  The Battle of Public Opinion

  Jane landed outside Ishmael's Donuts in full costume and walked in, feeling, as she always did, more self-conscious among regular people than she did flying into combat. The Tower, or rather the flying, alien space ship which used to be the top floors of the Tower, was visible drifting above the City when she touched down.

  They really needed to figure out what to do about their base, Jane thought. For now it was safe enough, unreachable from the ground as it meandered like an escaped parade float over the City. Neal, the sentient computer program who acted as the Tower's central nervous system, could easily keep the ship moving to stay effortlessly out of the way of commercial aircraft but Jane was beginning to worry. At what point would the residents of the City stop seeing the Tower as a gentle protector and view it more as big brother looking over their shoulders?

  Jane got in line in the coffee shop like anyone else would, feeling ridiculous in her form fitting top, impractical skirt, and cape. Her hair, which became more and more like open flame with each year, made matters even worse, so much so that she'd taken to building up an extensive hat collection for when she was off duty. More than any of the others she dressed like a classic comic book hero, but where Kate looked dangerous up close, Billy mysterious, and Emily almost harmless, Jane felt like an escaped cheerleader when she wasn't on a mission. People stared. She received a mixture of shy glances, jealous sneers, intimidated shrugs, and more. Sitting at a table in the shop, though, a six year-old girl waved to her excitedly and held up a crayon drawing of Jane, as Solar, flying through the sky; a bright yellow sun complete with smiley face rose behind her.

  Well if I have one person who thinks I look like that, who cares what everyone else says, she thought.

  The boy behind the counter was one of the veteran staff members and remained completely unfazed as she ordered an iced coffee. Billy, being some sort of marketing genius and white-collar criminal, had brokered a deal with the coffee chain when they realized none of the Indestructibles had figured out a way to carry cash when they were out in costume. The chain had offered them free coffee whenever they wanted it as long as they showed up in uniform and allowed the staff to post photos on social media depicting the visit. Billy had actually dangled the idea of a corporate sponsorship, which the coffee chain ownership had been willing to agree to, but Jane nixed the idea. Trading coffee for some good publicity was one thing, but cashing in on their name for sponsorship money was a dangerous precedent, she thought.

  Still, they did let Emily "invent" her own coffee, which had become a sensation. The Entropy Emi-latte was a mocha latte with four shots of espresso, whipped cream, and a caramel drizzle that even Jane had to admit was appropriately named. One of those and gravity stopped working appropriately around the person drinking it. The Indestructibles took a vote and allowed Emily to pose for promotional photos for the Emi-latte as long as a huge donation went to charity in lieu of payment. Her ridiculous grin adorned the wall even now, staring back at Jane five times the size of real life.

  "Like Emily's head needs to get any bigger," she said.

  "Better not get into the habit of talking to yourself out loud in public," a familiar voice said. "The tabloids will say you're cracking up."

  The voice belonged to Jon Broadstreet, a local journalist who had somehow become the Indestructibles beat reporter. He seemed too young for the job, with a baby face that he tried to offset by always wearing a shirt and tie, but Billy suspected Jon had scored the gig specifically because he was so young, and both Billy and Emily urged Jane to foster a good working relationship with him.

  "We can train him to be our pet reporter," Emily had said, showing uncharacteristic bluntness.

  "How goes it, Broadstreet?" she asked.

  "Good work with the dinosaur man yesterday," he said. "Heard about your girl Dancer's latest act of urban terrorism?"

  Jane sighed as the barista returned with her iced coffee. Jon offered to pay, but Jane waved him off. It felt too much like bribery to take coffee from the press.

  "Not. Yet," Jane said, gritting her teeth.

  Kate had become a PR nightmare since Titus stopped checking in, going after bigger and bigger targets among the local criminal element on her own. Jane agreed with the goals Kate was striving for, but her tactics were making people uncomfortable.

  "She took down the heads of a massive interstate gunrunning ring," Broadstreet said. "She left the cops Jimmy 'the Teeth' LaCoste gift-wrapped last night."

  "You're saying this like you're about to tell me why it's a bad thing."

  "She assaulted twelve men," Broadstreet said. "Now, off the record, these were twelve men who deserved to have the snot beaten out of them, but a good lawyer will be able to get them off. Maybe not as easily as they expect since Dancer left two thousand pages and a gigabyte of evidence for the police, but still . . ."

  "I'll talk to her," Jane said. "Thanks for the tip."

  "No problem," Broadstreet said. "I have another one for you if you want it."

  "Do I owe you anything if I say yes?"

  "A five minute phone interview if you find anything."

  Jane nodded. She had to give Broadstreet one thing — he was pushy, but he knew just how far he could push before she'd fly away. That had taken a few weeks to figure out.

  Broadstreet handed her a newspaper, folded to page three.

  "Look at that."

  Jane scanned the article. There had been three outbreaks of a mysterious, often fatal illness. A diner, a family restaurant, and a huge department store. Dozens of people taken ill in a matter of minutes, most still hanging onto life by a thread.

  "Healthcare is kind of out of our specialty," Jane said. "Why are you telling me about this?"

  "I just get a bad vibe from it," Broadstreet said. "I don't know why. I have this weird feeling the wrong people are looking into it."

  Jane nodded.

  "We'll take a look."

  "And I get my interview?"

  "If, if we find anything," said Jane.

  She gave Broadstreet a little salute to say goodbye and started to leave. As she reached the door, he called out again.

  "One more thing, Solar?"

  "What?"

  "The public wants to know if you have a boyfriend."

  Jane felt her jaw drop open before she could stop herself. She heard a few camera phones snap photos of her accidental look of horror. She shot Broadstreet her dirtiest look.

  "A boyfriend? I don't even have time for regular friends," she said.

  "Your fan club will be thrilled."

  "Goodbye, Broadstreet," Jane said, launching herself into the sky, iced coffee in hand, before the reporter could ask her another question.

  * * *

  Jane flew up to the Tower and entered through a platform that used to be the helicopter landing pad. At least that was how the previous occupants of the ship had treated it, but no one really knew what to call it now. A docking bay? A really uncomfortable deck? Either way, it led into a
cavernous garage where an assortment of vehicles no company on this planet had designed or built, including the flying hoverbikes Kate and Titus used to come and go from the Tower.

  Or Kate did, at least. Titus found the bikes terrifying and usually called Emily to come pick him up, which was a sign of how scary he actually did find the bikes. Nobody ever calls Emily for a ride unless this is the last or only option.

  Kate's bike, which she'd been slowly personalizing with gadgets and painting to blend into the darkness, was already parked inside, which Jane did not expect. Kate had been dodging her and the other Indestructibles for a few weeks, using some undisclosed hideout she'd used before she joined the team and only checking in when absolutely necessary.

  Jane found her in the kitchen using one of the ship's bizarre matter manipulators to create some sort of faux macaroni and cheese. Kate was barefoot and wore the armored pants of her uniform and a grimy, sweat-stained tank top. Lately, every time Jane saw her, Kate looked a little worse for wear — new scars, certainly, but she also seemed to be burning down to nothing but raw muscle. She had bulked up a little since Jane last saw her, too, her shoulders and arms more defined than before.

  "I'm going to use the Tower as my base of operations for a while," Kate said, not making eye contact. Jane sat down across from her and helped herself to some of the mac and cheese.

  "You don't have to tell me," Jane said. "This is your home as much as anyone else's."

  Kate nodded, eyeballing the generous helping of dinner Jane stole.

  "Does this have anything to do with the hornet's nest you kicked last night?" Jane asked.

  "I hand-deliver them the bad guys and they all made bail," Kate said.

  "Why didn't you — "

  "I made a miscalculation. Had too much faith in the justice system. Won't happen again," Kate said.