Heroes Lost and Found (4 page)

“He’s gonna be pissed.”

“He’ll get over it. That or he’ll short-sheet my bed.” I faced Hunter. “Dinner first, fight later?”

He got to his feet, shaking his head. “Women.”

“Tell me about it.” Steve stretched out his arms and tucked them behind his head with a world-weary sigh. “That’s why I’m a player. Love ’em and leave ’em, just make sure you keep the keys to the car and extra clothing in the trunk.”

I rolled my eyes as I headed out of the suite, hearing the two men laughing behind me.

The walk down to the suite I shared with Hunter seemed longer than usual. I reached the door and unlocked it with the cardkey, leaving it ajar for Hunter.

What I needed was a master plan on how to deal with Dykovski and his stolen tech.

What I was about to get was a rip-roaring fight with my new boyfriend.

Whoever said the life of a superhero was all bells and whistles was full of crap.

There was a small first-aid kit in the bathroom left over from my recent adventures in spelunking. I grabbed some antiseptic cream, gauze pads and bandages and headed for the living room to wait.

I settled down on our own black leather couch, stretching out on the cushions. The television remote control lay on the coffee table, just within reach. I didn’t bother trying to get it.

The door slammed shut.

Hunter sat down beside me and offered his left hand in silence.

The cut wasn’t deep, nothing more than a nasty set of scratches from the splintered wood. I cleaned it out thoroughly and dabbed an obscene amount of cream on it before applying the bandage.

“You’re not seriously considering this.”

I looked up. “At least you didn’t call me Shirley.”

The joke fell flatter than a bad pancake.

He put his bandaged hand on my thigh. “Jo, you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Running off on your own is going to get you killed. Hell, it almost got you killed once already. Even in Vegas a good player knows when to walk away from the table.”

I pointed at the folded postcard where it lay on one of the side tables. “Then what do I do about that? He sent it to me, Hunter. He didn’t send it to Toronto to wait until we got home. He didn’t send it to you or to David. He sent it to me, here. He knows we’re here and what we’ve been dealing with. It’s immediate and it’s happening now and I have to go.”

“You think it’s got something to do with Dykovski. Which makes it even more dangerous.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I almost lost you two weeks ago, Jo. I don’t want to let you go running into the street to play in traffic.”

“It’s Harris. I owe him at least the opportunity to hear him out.”

“It could be a trap.”

“It could be. But Harris wouldn’t do that to me. To us.”

“Are you that sure?” Hunter stroked my cheek. “What if he’s hooked up with Dykovski? I know he promised you he wouldn’t go back to the dark side, but who knows what’s happened? If he couldn’t hack it out in the real world, it might be damned enticing to flip sides.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted. “But I can’t not go.” I locked eyes with him. “He helped out when he didn’t have to. I trust him not to set me up.”

“So let’s all go. We’ll throw the team onto a bus and chug on out to Buttcheek, Wherever.”

“And make Harris a target for Dykovski,” I shot back. “If Dykovski’s monitoring us through the media, he’s going to follow us out there along with all the news vans. Harris doesn’t have a jammer. If he gets to Harris before we do, jumps ahead of us, the guy’s as good as dead.” I drew a thumb across my throat, the meaning clear. “The more people who go, the more media it attracts. We can’t take that risk, not with Harris or any other supers.”

“Okay.” Hunter stood with a resigned look. “I know when you’re being stubborn. But at least wear my jacket.”

I blinked in confusion as I pushed myself into a sitting position. “Not that I don’t mind wearing your shirt when we pause for a snack, but…”

He laughed. “My mission leather, silly.” A few long strides took Hunter to the giant closet where he pulled out a black leather jacket.

In all the confusion and drama I’d forgotten about our new toys. Jessie had jumped through some fancy hoops to give us a practical uniform we could use, body armor being the most important. No one was pulling punches because we had to look pretty for a photo shoot after the fight.

“I can monitor you nonstop.” Hunter nodded towards the small computer tablet lying on the far table. “At least do that much for me. Between the link and the camera, I’ll be able to track what’s going on, and if you need help, we’ll be on the way.” He threw the jacket on the couch beside me. “Give me something here, Jo. Don’t make this into a full-fledged brawl.” He grinned. “I can think of better things to do for our last night in Las Vegas.”

I picked up the jacket. My own had been shredded in the mine collapse that had almost cost me my life and had cost Lamarr his.

“Lost my pants too.”

“Not interested in replacing those.” He advanced on me with a smile, knowing he’d won a concession. “In fact, I like it when you don’t wear any pants at all.”

I fondled the leather for a second before putting it to one side. “How about we call it a win for me and we order up dinner?”

“And what do I get for losing?”

“Anything you want.” I gave him my best come-hither look. “That is, after we eat. I think I’m going to need a lot of energy for tonight.”

He almost broke a leg trying to get to the phone.

The next morning we went to the airport bright and early, only a handful of media in tow as the Protectors finally left Las Vegas. It was all fine and lovely, with Hunter keeping a firm grip on my waist as we posed at the stairs leading up into the jet, waving and smiling as if we didn’t have a care in the world.

A few minutes later I slipped out with the last of the aircrew, my blonde hair tucked up under a baseball cap in a tight bun, wearing sunglasses and Hunter’s jacket, lugging a duffle bag. I didn’t look back towards the jet as I hustled with the workers back towards the terminal. I knew it would undo the last of my resolve.

“Call us if you need us,” Hunter said over the link. “Otherwise I’m just going to watch and wait and worry. And you don’t want me to get worried, ’cause I’ll come after you, and it won’t be a pretty sight when I get there.”

I didn’t reply. Instead I touched the brim of my baseball cap.

I got into a cab just in time to see the jet get airborne, lifting into the early morning sky.

The bus was cramped, noisy and I was pretty sure someone had peed on the seat beside me, which explained why it was the only empty one. All in all, what I had expected. But no one took a second look at the woman curled up in the window seat pretending to be asleep with the cap pulled down over her sunglasses and the oversized leather jacket hanging off her. At least the kid behind me wasn’t screaming, although his continued exclamations about how far he’d gotten in his video game became annoying after the fifth time. I settled in for a long ride.

We cruised through California where I grabbed a dinner in Sacramento of something claiming to be a hamburger, struggled through a rainstorm into Oregon on stale corn chips, and stumbled into Kensington Grove in the early morning, the lights coming on in the bus and startling me out of a half-sleep. I jolted awake and staggered to my feet as the driver reached for the intercom mike.

“Kensington Grove. No time for a smoke break—sorry, folks.” He didn’t sound too apologetic. I fumbled with my duffle bag, wedging it through the aisle in front of me.

“Have a good day,” the driver drawled as I went down the steps. The door slammed shut behind me so close I suspected there were track marks on the back of my jacket.

The bus pulled away with a burst of dust, giving me a second or two of confusion before the cloud cleared up enough for me to see where and what Kensington Grove was. I looked up at the thin metal sign advertising the Greyhound logo, which was barely visible under the neon sign advertising
Good Food
and
Open
.

The small restaurant sat at the corner of Large and Second, according to the street signs jutting out from the lamppost. I shouldered the bag and headed into the restaurant, hoping against hope I’d find a good cup of tea.

I had no idea how I’d find Harris Limox here, but I knew I wasn’t going anywhere without at least something in my belly more substantial than chocolate bars and stale corn chips.

My stomach gave an angry rumble as the door slowly shut behind me, the ringing bells announcing my arrival. Counting the waitress who was busy wiping the counter and the cook who glanced through the opening from the kitchen, there were three of us in the diner.

I slid into the first empty booth, bouncing along the faux red leather cushions until I reached the wall. The duffle went opposite me since I didn’t dare place it on the floor and risk having a thousand unknown liquids soak into the fabric. It sat and glared at me like a fat, angry burrito.

My stomach growled again.

“What can I getcha?” The waitress handed me a laminated menu. She quickly and efficiently set up a place setting as I studied the glossy Courier-font offerings through the sunglasses.

“Let’s start with a cup of tea. And your super breakfast slammer jammer. Can I add an extra order of pancakes onto that?”

The woman peered at me over her glasses, her gaze switching from amazement to curiosity to measured cautiousness. “You sure can.” She scribbled on the notepad before tucking it into the front pocket of her apron. “Be right back with the tea.”

I looked around the small restaurant, still shaking off the sleepiness that had followed me from Vegas. The décor tagged it as a classic diner, the white linoleum on the floor matching the countertops, and enough shiny metal to match a carney’s mirror maze. But the food smelled good and I hadn’t tripped over cockroaches the size of Godzilla, so it was as good a place as any to refuel before starting my hunt for Limox.

Outside the window, the sun was just rising on the jagged skyline, the various shades of red dipping away through the buildings into a deep clear blue.

A clanging noise came from the kitchen, a muffled curse flying through the small window between cooking and serving. The waitress glanced over from where she chattered on her cell phone then resumed her conversation, obviously used to the noise.

The large flat-screen television set mounted at the far end of the diner displayed the local weatherman rattling off an alert for forest fires in the current dry spell. Various graphs and bar charts scrambled across the screen, pointing out the obvious—fire was bad.

I didn’t take notes.

A pot of hot water landed in front of me a minute later, the little metal pot puffing steam out of the spout. A teabag sat beside it, lonely and looking rather bedraggled. Beside it lay a slice of lemon without a creamer in sight.

I’d forgotten how the Americans love to destroy tea.

I dunked the teabag into the hot water and reached for the white ceramic mug, hoping I’d have better success with the breakfast. Not that I didn’t like my Americans, Hunter being the most obvious example, but it was just impossible to get a good cup of tea. I’d spoiled myself back at the penthouse in Niagara Falls with my old teapot, and David continued the abusive cycle with his Brown Betty.

The fact that I was sitting there pondering the mysteries of tea showed how hungry I was. So when the overloaded plate arrived, a tower of bacon, sausage and scrambled eggs threatening to roll off the platter and cover me like the Blob, I was happy. Almost as good as sex.

The edges of my mouth twitched, remembering what I’d been doing only a day ago.

Almost.

The sausages leaked grease like a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, the bacon crunched like freshly fallen snow underfoot. The pancakes soaked up half the bottle of syrup without leaving any trace. The eggs were perfect, not overcooked to a rubbery state and not half-raw, sliding around the plate like an alien life-form. I was in true foodie heaven.

The waitress came back five minutes later and stared at the half-empty plate. One carefully waxed eyebrow rose as her gaze darted around the booth looking for the pit bull I’d hidden somewhere and fed secretly.

“Could I have a large orange juice, please?” I asked. “And maybe a cola?”

“Sure.” She didn’t bother to write it down and scurried away. I had no doubt her next move would be to call up the local paper and announce a professional eater had arrived at her establishment to practice for Coney Island or something like that. My stomach gave a halfhearted round of applause as I turned back to the task at hand.

I emptied the syrup bottle and watched the remaining three pancakes float away in a sweet, sticky ocean while I pondered my next move. I was pretty sure I couldn’t ask for the local phonebook and look up Harris Limox. Or maybe I could. A small town like this, people knew people. And a short, fat dude rolling into town might make enough of an impression to warrant someone taking notice.

With any luck Harris wasn’t known as the local strange man who liked to fondle girlie magazines.