Generation Next: A Superhero Adventure (The Pantheon Saga Book 3) Page 6

  Connie kept yapping, her words becoming white noise.

  “She’s useless,” Ghost-Lauren continued with a devious smile. “Dead. Weight. Unless you need a warm body to stop missing me—”

  “Greyson?” Connie grabbed his shoulders. “Are you even listening?”

  “SHUT UP!” Greyson barked.

  Ghost-Lauren vanished, leaving only him and Connie, who recoiled from his outburst. “Don’t talk to me like that!” she ordered, visibly hurt.

  She hadn’t been the target, but Greyson didn’t care. He couldn’t listen to Connie anymore. “Shut the HELL. UP!” he barked again, popping to his feet.

  Connie backpedaled like a kicked puppy.

  And Greyson unloaded weeks of misery on her. “What do you want, huh? For me to enjoy being on this stinky boat?” Greyson demanded. “You want to see a touchdown dance?”

  Connie shook her shaved head, unable to look away. “I never—”

  “I lost everything,” Greyson bowled over her response, pointing at her accusingly. “My home, my friends, my family, my lover. Because of you! I killed the Hurricane…because of you!” These words, festering inside so long, exploded out of Greyson rapid-fire, and he couldn’t take them back.

  Connie’s eyes glistened. “What?” she asked, whisper-soft.

  Greyson got in her face, digging in his heels. “You and Izzie didn’t listen when I told you not to attack the Bashems,” he scolded. “Now everyone got fucked! Because of you!” He jabbed her shoulder to emphasize his last point. “You ruined my life!”

  Ugly and poisonous silence hung between the pair. Connie stood there trembling, tears shrink-wrapping her eyes. In that hushed moment, Greyson grasped the damage he'd done. The heartbreak on Connie's face pierced through the fog of pain and self-pity clouding his psyche for weeks. Now only awful guilt remained. “Connie—”

  She fled from the room as sobs overtook her, slamming the door shut.

  Greyson clutched his skull. What have I done? He moved to pursue his friend and caretaker. “Connie, come back! I’m sorry!”

  Behind him, Ghost-Lauren chuckled. “Toldya she’d crack.”

  Greyson glared at the reappearing hallucination, which she was.

  She folded her arms scornfully. “Admit it. You meant every word!”

  Greyson turned his head away in shame. Was she right? His hatred had come from somewhere.

  Ghost-Lauren inched closer, eyes glittering in triumph. “How did it feel, dropping the dead weight?

  Greyson’s fury reignited, at Connie, at this illusion, at himself. “Get out my HEAD!” he roared. Immediately, everything in the room went weightless. Greyson froze, fascinated yet disturbed as the bed, clothes, and other souvenirs littering the room all hovered. His first power usage in weeks.

  Greyson swore. He raised trembling hands to restore every object’s normal gravity. That’ll never happen again… Once everything lowered to their previous location, Greyson exited to find Connie. He had to make this right. Whatever Greyson’s plan was after escaping this hellhole ship, he'd never lay his choices on someone else. But he just did to poor Connie. Closing his bedroom door, Greyson ran into darkened corridors…colliding with a wall.

  He bounced backward, so feeble that his bones jarred.

  It was Briggs with three equally large cronies. “I told your scrawny ass to keep quiet,” he declared.

  Greyson backtracked. “Sorry.” A glance around revealed doors slightly ajar. Several passengers peeked out to watch the confrontation. “Me and a friend were having a disagreement.”

  Greyson moved to sidestep the four. But their bulk blocked the passage.

  Briggs dragged him forward by the throat. “You keep apologizing,” the large man snarled. “Yet nothing changes. I’ll just shut you up myself.”

  A piston-like punch sank into Greyson’s stomach. He collapsed to his knees, stomach on fire. Briggs and his lackeys surrounded him. Greyson sucked in tortured breaths as Briggs seized the scruff of his neck.

  Greyson’s enthusiasm surged at the opportunity. Give them proper motivation. When pulled upright, Greyson headbutted Briggs.

  The big man stumbled back, roaring curses and clutching his nose.

  His lackeys grabbed Greyson. Despite superior numbers, he could’ve easily freed himself. Greyson wasn’t looking for freedom.

  Briggs clutched his nose, which gushed red. The huge man’s eyes glittered. “You just fucked yourself.”

  Good. Greyson braced himself for a hellacious beating—until the whole barge flipped. Suddenly, Greyson was tumbling in a tangle of limbs with Briggs and his lackeys.

  When the world stopped spinning, Greyson lay prone and aching, bleeding from a cut tongue. Passengers nearby wailed, undoubtedly injured from what felt like an outside attack.

  Greyson pushed up, staggering as the barge rocked side to side. “What the…?”

  A foghorn blasted away coherent thought. “All passengers,” a voice called over the comm system. “Return to your rooms immediately!”

  Greyson’s thoughts went to Connie. He had to protect her. After one last look at Briggs, Greyson stumbled away down the halls.

  He encountered other passengers crying for help, lurching about in awful shape. No sign of Connie.

  Greyson called her name, but his voice got lost in tumult and foghorns.

  In the chaos, Greyson saw a dreadlocked black man he’d exchanged occasional pleasantries in the communal bathrooms.

  “Jared!” Greyson grabbed his arm. “What happened?”

  Jared turned, wide-eyed. “We’ve been boarded. Pirates or traffickers!”

  The reply stunned Greyson. Should’ve let Briggs beat me to death. “Did you see Connie go this way?”

  Jared shoved him off. “I got bigger concerns than your girlfriend.”

  Greyson flinched back. “She’s not—” He caught himself. Who cared what people thought? Especially if Connie was hurt…or worse. He moved to keep searching.

  Another shuddering boom from the barge’s other side sent Greyson flying. Then another, and another, flinging him like a ragdoll.

  Before his scrambled brain could adjust, ice-cold, briny waves smashed into his aching body.

  Hull breach, Greyson realized as churning ocean water dragged him under.

  Greyson made the blunder of trying to scream. Salty water rushed into his mouth. Dark silhouettes all around flailed as swirls of furious sea dragged everyone from the barge into a pitch-black expanse.

  Suddenly, Greyson was in the middle of the ocean, limbs going numb, unable to see anything beyond impenetrable darkness. His lungs burned for air. A knee-jerk survival instinct had him swimming toward pale rippling moonlight above the surface.

  Greyson made himself stop. Why?

  What awaited Greyson above water beside capture and the people he’d wounded?

  Connie, Mom, Sara, Lauren. Heroes Anonymous. College and work friends. The community center kids who’d looked up to him. Greyson had wounded them all.

  Dad and Dr. St. Pierre…he’d killed both.

  Even now, Greyson felt no remorse for murdering those bastards. Precisely why this choice was right.

  Greyson’s lungs were close to exploding. He ignored that survival instinct nagging him until his awareness shrank. I’m dying…

  That would’ve made Greyson smile if he could still feel his face. Rippling moonlight above the water faded into black…

  Chapter 8

  Quinn bustled around her kitchen shoveling down an egg, sausage, and cheese sandwich. Today looked to be wall-to-wall busy, starting with some mystery press conference in downtown San Miguel. Quinn loved busy work days. She hummed along happily until a self-inspection revealed jeans but only a bra.

  “Shirt!” Quinn bolted for her bedroom, curly afro wavering. Brain fart aside, last night was her best sleep in weeks. Quinn had the six-foot-four inches of lovely man in her bed to thank. And seven inches of snow. She giggled, wicked thrills running through her.

>   After a lingering look at her prize, Quinn searched for a polka-dot top from her closet. Then she dashed bedside, slapping the shaggy-haired man’s chest. He yelped, jolted from sleep.

  “Rise and shine,” she greeted, heading for the door while adjusting her earrings. “Go time!”

  “Already?” Colin groaned.

  “Breakfast sandwich is in the kitchen,” Quinn called from her living room to gather her purse. “Inhale it so we’re not late.”

  Ten minutes later, Colin was ready and they were out the door. How guys prepped so fast baffled Quinn. They took Colin’s car to downtown’s civic center. She loved working with Colin again, even though he remained a freelancer. “I can charge more,” he remarked with a crooked grin.

  How she’d gotten him into bed was still unbelievable. Quinn had longstanding suspicions of Colin’s crush. So, when he'd come over last night to help set up her sound system, some liquid courage and flirty banter prompted Quinn to shoot her shot.

  She saw in Colin’s expression how much he wanted to discuss last night. Quinn didn't, keeping things professional while piecing together scant details about this press event.

  In the civic center’s main auditorium, reporters from several news organizations clustered before a stage. Murmurs filled the hall as everyone waited. After a few minutes, a stocky man in a black button-down shirt took the stage.

  “Here we go,” Quinn muttered to Colin, who’d finished his camera setup.

  This stranger exuded gravitas. But how his smile didn't reach his beady eyes made him sixty percent trustworthy in Quinn’s viewpoint. Then she spotted a familiar bearded face peering out from backstage. Johnathan Sherwood, Annie’s fiancée. Sharp bitterness filled her. He’d never apologized after blaming Quinn for Annie’s near-death experience weeks ago (despite some truth to his claim). It was why she’d only visited Annie whenever he wasn’t home. Bitterness aside, Quinn remembered a client Johnny’s brand marketing firm represented. Superheroes based on mythological legends.

  Her eyes widened. “I know why we’re here.”

  The man onstage began. “Good morning. I am Stéphane Byers. I know you have questions.”

  Quinn arched an eyebrow at Colin. “Do we?” He swallowed a chuckle.

  Stéphane continued. “You probably heard of emergencies and crimes stopped in middle America and Canada before serious harm occurred.”

  Quinn watched Stephane more seriously. There had been reports about averted crises around the country. No one had taken credit, clearly by design.

  Stéphane gestured to the curtains behind him self-importantly. “Let me present the next generation of justice, The Elite!”

  Quinn’s jaw dropped in awe as six costumed individuals stepped onstage. She wasn’t alone. The auditorium rippled with fascination. These weren’t generic corporate-sponsored heroes. By the ornate suits, The Elite looked ripped out of mythology books.

  Stéphane basked in the reactions before introducing the team. Quinn could tell by the body language and position that the hero named Thor was the leader. He looked six-foot-six, his hulking frame evident beneath a fur-covered Viking costume. Bright-blue eyes shined, no, crackled with power behind curtains of shaggy red hair. Though a bushy red beard covered his mouth, Quinn noticed a surliness in his expression. Thor carried a short-handled mallet, the dark oblong hammerhead searing electric blue.

  Stéphane then introduced Apollo, who resembled his Roman namesake. Everything about the clean-shaven hero glowed, even his shaggy pale-blond hair. Apollo hovered a foot off the ground, shorter than Thor and leaner. But he easily filled out his shimmery golden suit, Titan-like in appearance. Also by design, Quinn mused.

  “I desire peace,” Apollo said nonchalantly. “But if someone wants a war, they'll get war.”

  Beside him stood Nike in bronze-hued breastplate, girdle, helmet, and skirt. The ensemble matched her gauntlets and knee-high boots. She looked every bit an ancient Greek warrior, wielding twin short swords. Quinn found the appearance badass. Nike had hawkish features, her sharp eyes roving the crowd like a predator. Several reporters exclaimed when she zoomed back and forth across the stage in half a second.

  A speedster warrior, Quinn surmised. Nice!

  “Start running, Blur,” Stéphane teased. “Or Nike will pass you by.” The reporters laughed.

  Morrigan was clearly the pin-up bombshell, stunning with ocean-blue eyes. Her skintight outfit revealed lots of flesh. Her sleek green hair was up in a high ponytail with blunt-cut bangs. At first, Quinn saw no likeness to the Irish goddess, until her curvy frame began shivering.

  Quinn gasped. Suddenly, three Morrigans stood onstage.

  “Not an illusion,” the middle Morrigan professed amid cheers, before the trio shivered back into one person.

  The oddest Elite member was Vishnu, bald and blue-skinned, with four arms and a scantier outfit than even his female teammates. His eyes burned red as he did a dance holding a golden chakra disc in each hand, to the crowd’s amusement.

  When Stéphane reached the last Elite member, awe loomed over the press pool. Watching this giant, Quinn grasped why. Samson was a head taller than Thor. Loose curly hair reached waist-length, like his Biblical namesake. His mountainous muscles had muscles, each leg wider than Quinn’s whole body.

  “Seven-foot-four inches, five-hundred pounds of unstoppable power.” Stéphane gushed over Samson was a pimped-out SUV. “Samson is the difference maker in any fight.”

  Quinn shivered as Samson glared at the crowd. A powerhouse among powerhouses.

  Stéphane looked pleased. “Questions?”

  Countless reporters jockeyed for attention. Stéphane took questions from several reporters.

  “Casey Joy, MSNBC,” a reporter said. “What are The Elite’s goals, and why are we just hearing of them?”

  “We were making sure they were ready to shoulder their new duties. And our goals?” Stéphane’s smile turned devilish. “Provide a superhero team this world hasn’t seen since Vanguard’s Sensational Seven.”

  Quinn winced. The shade aimed at Vanguard’s current lineup drew mixed murmurings.

  “Dan Chung, Herogasm. Are you worried a certain shoe company might sue?” He nodded at Nike.

  “Unless my next costume is a sneaker,” Nike snorted, sporting a Greek accent. “I’m unworried.” More laughs. So, The Elite had jokes.

  While questions were fielded, Quinn skimmed her phone for quick research. What little she found was unsettling. She swiftly raised a hand.

  “Yes?” Stéphane pointed her way.

  “Quinn Bauer, SLOCO Daily,” she stated, vocal recorder in hand. “Samson. Your teammates are based on Norse, Greek, Roman, Celtic, and Hindu deities. Do you feel parroting a Judeo-Christian hero is sacrilegious?”

  Stéphane grinned smarmily. “Who said he's parroting?” That drew laughs and offended gasps. He gestured adoringly at the building-sized Samson, looking like a small child. “Someone’s myth is another’s religion. And vice versa.”

  Quinn pursed her lips, unsatisfied. “That religion accounts for two and a half billion people worldwide.”

  Stéphane opened his mouth to reply. But Samson interjected with a scowl. “If I offend anyone…” His cavernous voice resembled an earthquake. “They can talk to these.” Samson flexed both arms bodybuilder-style. His biceps resembled actual boulders.

  Quinn gulped, most of her fear unscripted. “Point taken. Or should I say, peaks?” Everyone chuckled. “One last question. There are reports of excessive destruction from The Elite’s past missions. Given everyone's weariness of superhero battle damage, how can you assure that The Elite will be more mindful going forward?”

  Stéphane maintained his smile, but the chill coming off him was evident. “The Elite are fervently pursuing justice and containing collateral damage. They improve each day, and will get to know this nation from coast to coast. All reporters are welcome on our journey.”

  That drew all kinds of questions, like bird chicks vying f
or their mother’s food.

  Quinn almost joined, until Johnny weaved through the crowd toward her to converse. She wasn’t interested. Quinn eyed Colin, who immediately understood due to their easy, unspoken shorthand. They packed up and departed.

  “Every hero has a gimmick nowadays,” Quinn complained as they drove back to SLOCO Daily’s offices.

  Colin laughed. “They come in all shapes and sizes.” When his expression became thoughtful, Quinn dreaded his next words.

  “I think that man approaching us worked for The Elite. You know him?”

  The Johnny question was a strange relief. “Somewhat,” she replied dryly.

  Colin caught her disinterest and switched gears. “So… About last night.”

  “Yes?” Quinn felt warm and fuzzy remembering last night. But she hoped Colin wasn’t looking for more. A warm body was all she desired. At least until these night terrors stopped. “Two buddies had fun.” There. Boundaries set. She didn’t want to lead anyone on.

  Colin masked his brief discontent behind a goofy grin. “Wanna have fun tonight, buddy?”

  Quinn blushed. “Tell ya later, buddy.” Meaning, yes. But she couldn’t appear too thirsty.

  When they stepped out of the elevator to the fourth floor, Jono McGowan stood waiting.

  Quinn stiffened. She couldn’t help it. Quinn hated Jono. This bootleg Colin Farrell with his bedhead hair and sleazy smile was the Editorial Lead for SLOCO Daily’s superhero division. He constantly abused his power to hijack stories and throw perceived enemies under the bus.

  Colin’s angered reaction articulated his feelings about Jono. “I’ll clean up the press footage and upload it.” He loped off in another direction, ignoring Jono’s hello.

  The Irishman glared after Colin before turning to Quinn. “Black Irish.” He smiled.

  “Jono,” Quinn said politely, walking past him. She refused to kiss his butt like other reporters.

  Jono scurried to catch up. His irritation in having to follow Quinn was satisfying. “The Elite’s handlers called. They’re interested in an exclusive.”

  “Figured,” Quinn replied. “I’ll email you in two days on the best fit.” She weaved around HR rep Leslie Prentiss, who was showing the herd of new college interns around. The mystery around The Elite intrigued Quinn. Along with uncovering more about the flagrant collateral damage they caused.