How to Save the World (5 page)

“That's surprisingly benevolent of you,” Jessie said.

“I know, right?” Vicki's smile could light up billboards—­and did, all over the world. “Gonna go again? That was really funny—­I could stand to see another round or five.”

I was saved not by the bell but by Angélica, who came hurtling out of the office with a look on her face that made all three of us straighten up. “Suit up,” Angélica said, looking at me. “Our ransomer just got in touch.”

“Finally
.” I vaulted over the ropes and headed for the locker room, where Angélica kept body armor for situations like this.

“Gail. Catch.”

I barely had time to catch the object Jessie threw my way, and blinked in puzzlement at the belt in my hands. It had about fifteen little pouches.

Raptor's famous utility belt.

“Are you sure?” I asked. After all, we were just dropping off a ransom payment, and Jessie likely had thousands of dollars of tech buried in these pouches.

“I've got more,” she said, waving at me. “You keep it. You might need it.”

I hoped not, but with my luck, she probably had a point. I slung it over my shoulder and loped off, calling a thanks over my shoulder. It was time to meet my maker. Again. And probably save him, too.

 

CHAPTER 5

“I
s this kidnapper serious?” I asked as I stepped to the edge of the building and looked down at the swirling mass of orange traffic cones and pedestrian traffic below us.

Vicki, who'd taken up residence against a nearby pole and was slouching attractively, mask in place, scoffed. “What exactly is your problem with Union Station? Other than all of the ­people in a potential supervillain's crosshairs?” The last was clearly an afterthought.

I gestured indignantly at the pavement below. “Traffic!”

“We flew over it,” Vicki said.

“That's not the point. It's the principle of the thing.”

But Angélica frowned at me. “You don't even drive.”

“Principle,” I said again, and folded my arms over my chest.

While I'd been at the gym, the ransom notice had come to Davenport in an unmarked envelope, delivered to the Chicago waystation in the Willis Tower. Kiki had texted Angélica a picture of it, likely against orders, so we'd managed to beat the Davenport contingent to the scene. We had time, of course, since the payment wasn't supposed to be dropped for another quarter hour. But I chafed against the overly public location of the drop site and the fact that I'd always hated Union Station.

That's right. The jerk who had Mobius had picked Union Station on a prime train-­and-­bus-­travel day. That spoke either of genius—­there was no way we could reliably cover every exit—­or sadism because who even wanted to brave the construction around that place, anyway? I placed my bets on it being both, honestly.

“Hey, mentee, chin up,” Vicki said. “If it all goes to pot, we'll probably get to see some action. You can show off those new phasing moves Angie's been telling me about.”

“Don't call me that,” Angélica said without looking away from the street.

Vicki pushed her mask up and smirked. She'd brought me into Davenport that first day. Though she hadn't been slated to receive one for a while, they'd assigned her to be my mentor, and the fact that I'd flipped Davenport the bird and had peaced out didn't absolve Vicki of her duties, as far as she was concerned. Whenever she wasn't doing car commercials in Japan or punching foes in the face, she liked to drop by my apartment and dispense what she considered helpful advice.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that being a supermodel by day and a superhero by night wasn't as relatable an experience as she thought.

“The phasing is . . .” I chewed my lower lip while I thought of a proper term for it. “Not going that well.”

“Aw.” Vicki's friendly punch probably would have knocked somebody less sturdy off of the roof. “You'll get there.”

“Thanks.” I rubbed my shoulder.

“They're here,” Angélica said, and Vicki and I turned as one. Quietly, we watched the group approach on foot. All of them were dressed in plain clothing, dark jackets and black pants.

“Is it as obvious to you that Brook did not come alone as it is to me?” I asked.

“Yup,” Angélica said, and Vicki nodded.

“They're going to scare the kidnapper away before Brook even gets a chance to drop the money off.”

Vicki snorted. “Four million dollars? He knows she's totally not alone. This is us jumping through his hoops and he knows it. Or she. Could be a she.”

“Yay feminism,” Angélica said in a deadpan.

From a distance, I recognized the two bringing up the rear of the group. I hadn't expected Kiki to stay away from anything involving her grandfather, but I'd thought she would be on the rooftop with us, quasi-­illegally spying on a Davenport op. But no, there she was in the thick of things, talking to the tactical team. The woman next to her wore a trench coat, but I frowned to see white leggings sticking out underneath it.

“They're making Brook do the drop in uniform?” I asked. She had picked such an odd choice for her Chelsea supervillain attire, opting for blinding pink and white that had seemed much softer than the rest of her. Sometimes I wondered why she hadn't picked yellow and green to match her powers. Maybe she just liked pink. I hadn't exactly asked her about it while we'd been glaring at each other across the cell in Detmer. “Why?”

“The kidnapper asked for Chelsea,” Angélica said.

“And we aren't worried she'll send ­people screaming when they see her?”

“It's been months since we had a Chelsea attack and she didn't cause
too
much damage,” Vicki said.

I looked sideways at her. Brook and an assorted pack of minions had once leveled a shopping mall. With me, Vicki, and Angélica still inside. She'd been trying to get to Naomi at the time, as Naomi'd had information that Brook had needed to get revenge on Sam.

Vicki noticed my stare and pushed her shoulders up to her ears in a
what can you do?
motion. “On the supervillain scale, one building is practically do-­gooder territory.”

“Supervillains are so freaking weird,” I said, shaking my head.

Luckily, the crowds outside moved quickly, eager to get inside and away from the cutting wind Lake Michigan threw at the city. Ice covered the sidewalks, which meant most ­people watched their footing and not the tops of the buildings around them. I saw Brook's head swivel, checking the crowd. She held her cowl in her hands but seemed oddly reluctant to put it on.

“Remember,” Angélica said, looking from Vicki to me, “we're here to observe.”

“And kick ass as needed,” Vicki said.

“But to observe
first
,” Angélica said.

Vicki muttered her opinion of that under her breath. Angélica and I could both hear perfectly thanks to the Mobium, but we both chose to ignore her. Down on the ground, Brook pulled on the Chelsea cowl and shed the trench coat. She took the duffel bag Kiki held and flew off.

My stomach twisted. I didn't trust Brook any farther than I could throw her. Actually, I didn't trust Brook as far as I
could
throw her. “I'd have thought they needed a bigger bag for four mil,” I said.

Those had been the demands: four million, unmarked, nonsequential bills, no bugs or trackers. Come alone. Union Station at noon.
Or Dr. Mobius dies
had been scrawled in messy handwriting underneath. Our kidnapper wasn't one for pleasantries, but I was okay with that, considering that one time a kidnapper had let Guy know he had me via a song and dance number broadcast all over Chicago's TV stations. It wasn't a memory I cherished. Heavy-­weight card stock and drop-­site coordinates were something of a relief.

We still had five minutes until she was supposed to make the drop. Now it became a waiting game of hoping that Brook didn't abscond with the money and stab us all in the back.

“What are the odds Brook's in on this, again?” I asked.

Vicki shrugged.

I scanned the sky for Guy, looking for the fluttering half cape that was War Hammer's trademark look. Vicki on her own was more than enough muscle for this operation, but having Guy around would have been nice. His text had said he was on his way, so he should be there soon.

“Two minutes,” Angélica said, looking up from her watch. I began counting backward from sixty in my head. Vicki remained obviously bored and loose-­limbed between us. I fiddled with the balaclava in my hand and adjusted the belt Jessie had given me. “One minute.”

Though they were both playing it cool, I heard the soft relieved breaths my friends made when Brook rounded the corner. The pink-­and-­white cape fluttered in the breeze, catching the wintry sunlight. She landed beside the post office box the coordinates pointed to, and stuffed the bag inside. I held my breath.

Nothing happened. Nobody on the street seemed to notice the glaringly bright supervillain among them, their heads ducked down against the cold, hurrying about their day. Brook's head swiveled about.

I turned my head to ask if that was it, and that was, of course, when the screaming started.

I had to give most supervillains this: they definitely know how to make an entrance. A giant fireball exploded in front of Union Station, scorching the pillars of the building's façade. The heat hit like a sucker punch to the jaw, even at over a block away, and the screaming grew louder. Car horns beeped and tires squealed and I finally located the source of the fireball, mostly from the fact that pedestrians were scrambling away, slipping and falling on the icy sidewalks.

A group of supervillains strolled down the middle of the street like they owned the town. The woman in the middle, who wore a spiked and studded black leather vest over a sleeveless red shirt, waved her hand, flipping a car easily.

My stomach dropped. I had never actually seen the woman in person, but I'd seen plenty of pictures and a lot of video of her destroying New York. Tamara Diesel was one of Raptor's most infamous nemeses, and for some reason she was in Chicago and walking straight toward Brook, who'd leapt into the air with her fists clenched.

“Oh, crap,” I said, running to the edge of the building. I reached a hand out to grab a ride with Vicki, but she'd already launched herself, bulleting toward the group in the street.

Angélica paused, crouching on the edge. “This is why you need to practice phasing.”

“Villains now,” I said. “Scold later.”

She rolled her eyes at me and jumped. A split second later, I saw her hit the ground almost a block away, already running for the overturned car. Vicki flew at Tamara Diesel and was knocked back a solid twenty feet. Tamara hadn't come alone. I could see a man in a burned-­black duster, no doubt the source of the fireball, a spindly woman I recognized from a previous fight, and a man in a green hoodie and stained khakis. I didn't even want to know what his power was.

They would be too much for Vicki and Angélica, even with the Davenport mooks running around. I needed to get down there.

I looked down at the pavement below and felt briefly dizzy. That was a lot farther than four floors and there was no dumpster full of squishy and disgusting things to break my fall.

On the street, Angélica's head whipped toward me. I didn't need supersight to see the annoyed look on her face.

“I hate everything,” I said, and launched myself off of an honest-­to-­god skyscraper. Phase, I told myself,
phase
, use your momentum—­

I fell like a brick. The ground rushing at me wasn't an unfamiliar experience, thanks to all of the supervillain encounters I'd had, but it definitely wasn't a welcome one. My heart in my throat, I plummeted straight for the pavement. Any second now, I'd blink and I'd be on my couch, and getting back to this fight would just be a pain in the butt.

Instead, Guy caught me. I grunted as his chest plate slammed into me. “About time you got here,” I said, my voice shaking. “Which is totally Gail-­speak for thanks. That could have been . . . bad.”

“Sorry I'm late,” was all he said. He dropped me on my feet and took off with a little wave.

On the ground, I raced to help Angélica because I could already see one of the villains heading her way. Surprisingly, a white blur joined the fight already breaking out in the middle of the street. Vicki's fire bolts joined with Brook's yellow-­and-­green rays, aiming at the passel of supervillains wreaking havoc. A bolt of Vicki's fire splashed on the pavement to my left as I tackled Angélica to the ground. Instants later, a woman's hand slapped the air where her head had been. We both rolled to our feet and faced the woman, who was still thirty feet away, her arm contracting back to its normal length.

“You again,” Angélica said.

I didn't blame her for the sigh. We'd fought Stretchy McGee, or whoever the hell she was, when Brook had showed up at the mall to kidnap Naomi. Angélica had won then, and the woman, who was gangly even before the weird rubber powers kicked in, definitely looked like the type to hold a grudge.

She whipped both arms out and I yelped, leaping aside. Angélica wasn't fast enough to dodge the hit, but she shook it off, spun on her heel, and launched herself at the woman. “Help the others,” she shouted at me as she blocked a counterstrike. “I've got this.”

Arguing would only piss her off. I turned to look around. The fireball thrower, I could see now, was the infamous Scorch. He'd kidnapped me over three years before, and I hadn't missed him at all in the meantime. The dude took pyromania to the next level. He shot gusts of flame from his wrists while Guy nimbly dodged each blast. Vicki and Brook seemed to be taking on Tamara Diesel and the man in the stained hoodie. They fought together in almost perfect tandem. It was like watching some kind of beautifully coordinated dance.

I took a step back in awe and my heel hit a patch of ice. I landed flat on my back, knocking the wind temporarily out of my chest. When I looked sideways, I saw a flash of gray out of the corner of my eye. I rolled over, elbow dragging through a frigid puddle, right in time to see a man in a gray hooded jacket reach into the post office box where Brook had dropped the ransom payment. A glimpse of the black bag was all I needed.

“The kidnapper,” I shouted before I thought about it. The man, who'd been walking hurriedly with his hood up, broke out into a run. Trusting that my friends had the superfluous supervillain issue under control, I ran after him.

He ducked into the station, probably hoping to lose me in the fleeing crowd. I sped after him, leaping down the stairs four or five at a time and dodging around ­people. This would have been the perfect time to phase, really. I pushed that hindsight to the back of my mind where it belonged and pumped my legs harder. The kidnapper shoved civilians as he ran by, knocking them into my path. “Sorry, sorry,” I said as I hurtled over them like I was at a high-­school track meet.

The man spun—­I couldn't see his face since he was wearing some kind of mesh mask—­and knocked a cart over into my path. I skidded and nearly crashed into it. When I made the leap over it, though, a sharp punch hit me right between the shoulder blades.