Ex-Heroes, Peter Clines [reading like a writer txt] 📗

shouted the bald man. “They all drop their guns, you get out of the suit, we take everyone hostage, and you all get to live.”

“Hostage?”

“Our chief wants one of your people. And all the guns you’ve got in your little film-studio fort. Your ninja-woman boss trades the man and the guns for all of you. Everyone goes home happy.”

“And then we’ve got no weapons and you march in.”

He barked out another laugh. “No weapons? You looked in the mirror, big girl? Your side has all the best weapons. You’ve got all the living weapons.”

“And you’ve got some dead ones.”

“A few,” he said with a smile.

“The Boss of Los Angeles,” repeated Stealth.

Within the cell, the ex nodded. “You want to hear it all now or you need a minute? I know this messes with people the first time they see—”

“Speak.”

“Game’s changed. We’re expanding and you’ve barely survived until now. You can keep your home here on one condition.”

“Which is?”

The ex held up his arm and pointed a pale finger past her. “We want him.”

Gorgon raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“You’ve fucked with the SS since you first appeared,” said the dead ganger. “We owe you big-time, all of us. We’re going to torture you for a month, bleed you a drop at a time, and then choke you with your own balls. And after you die, you’ll come back and we’ll do it all again.”

“I’m shaking,” said Gorgon.

Stealth held up a hand. “Who is your leader?”

“He’s the Boss of LA, head of the Seventeens. He rules this city except for one little fort here in Hollywood.”

“That does not tell us who he is.”

“Everyone called him Peasy on the news,” grinned the dead thing, “so that’s what he’s been using.”

A long moment passed before Stealth tipped her head. “Is there any more to this message?”

“Figured you’d send a team out for the truck we spiked last night. Some of our people are taking them hostage right now. You get them when we get the eye-guy.”

“I doubt that will happen.”

It grinned, showing off the pentagram. “I don’t. Got a few superpowers of our own these days.”

Cerberus shifted, her feet scraping on the pavement. “And if we don’t feel like being hostages?”

The bald man looked down at the straining thing on the front of the truck. “I let the demon loose and take anyone it doesn’t eat.”

“It’ll go after your people, too.”

He shook his head. “No,” he grinned, “it won’t. Any other clever ideas?”

She heard a faint scrape and looked back again. Another rifle barrel had slid out, peeking over her shoulder. She switched back to main view and tried to see the bald man’s eyes behind his sunglasses. “I’m thinking I could throw your big bad truck half a block once I tear the demon’s head off,” she growled.

“You got to get current, big girl,” the Seventeen said. He slung his AK back over his shoulder and waved his arms at the buildings around them. “You’re still thinking then, not now. We’re the way things are, the way they’re going to be from now on. We’re the majority. You need to get out of this superhero-survivor mentality if you plan on seeing Christmas.”

Her arms ached for the cannons. One burst would turn the bald man to mist. A cloud of red mist with boots.

“So, I see a lot of guns aimed this way,” he said. “You want to drop ’em all, or are we going to do this the fun way?” Again with the stupid grin.

The titan flexed her fingers, wrapping them into armored fists the size of footballs. “It’s not going to be fun.”

“Matter of opinion. Any last words?”

“Yeah.” She glanced up at the sky. “What took you so long?”

The bald man looked up and the air exploded into flames between them.

St. George landed in front of Big Red, inhaled, and spat a second cone of fire at the Dodge. He leaped back up, twisting in the air over the pickup, and threw more flames down on the people in the truck bed.

The Seventeens screamed. A few leaped from the Dodge, and as they did it blossomed into a ball of light and heat. The tree branches above caught fire.

Another leap carried the hero back to the garbage truck. The demon flailed at the air in his direction. Gunfire washed over the street. The rounds chimed as they struck Cerberus and wrinkled St. George’s clothes. A few sparked off the pavement. His new sunglasses exploded into shards of black plastic.

Some spotty return fire came from Big Red. The Seventeens crawling from the burning Dodge winced and threw up their hands.

The bald man stood on top of the truck and grinned. He swung his AK down and emptied the magazine at St. George. The hero’s leather jacket shredded apart.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” bellowed St. George. Smoke poured from his mouth as his voice echoed on the street over the gunshots, the sound of the burning truck, and the cries of the wounded Seventeens.

The bald man’s AK ran out of ammo and locked. He shrugged and tossed it down into the truck. “Give it a rest,” he called out to his people.

“So,” said St. George, “let’s review. You’ve just wasted a bunch of ammo, we did not. We’re bulletproof, your people are not. We’re near our base, you are not. Did I miss anything?”

“I’ve got the demon,” said the bald man.

“Then set it loose,” St. George said. “If you really think a zombie version of Cairax can take two heroes who were both better than him when he was alive, go for it.”

The bald man’s smile faltered.

“Just keep in mind, the minute you do, the kid gloves are off. Right now you can all walk away. You unleash that thing and we take it and you apart.”

The two men stared each other down across the dusty street. A curl of smoke twisted from St. George’s nostril. Cairax leaned forward again, snapping the chains tight.

The bald man nodded. “This one’s yours, dragon man,” he