Page 2 of No Capes
Fight, Madeline.I recall Golden Ace’s self-defense talk:Use your knees. Aim right between their legs. Don’t ever let them take you to a second location.
I’m running out of options.
I shut my eyes and brace for impact. “Why?”
“Because I—” the man starts, but an ear-shattering gunshot obliterates the rest of his sentence. I recoil, but a bullet never hits me.
Oofsandughscome from nearby. I risk a peek. A fresh bullet hole decorates the wall to my left, while a dim figure stands over my stalker, who now lies unconscious in the mud. The hero’s dark outfit blends in with every shadow—like the night itself is determined to conceal them—until a bolt of lightning flashes across their chest.
A Super.Not Golden Ace.
“You good?” comes a male voice. Electric energy dances around his shoulders, illuminating him in the slivers of light.
I nod. I’ve never seen a lightning Super. Short bolts sizzle across his spandex, sparks of white hissing in the rain. He reminds me of a predator luring prey with pretty lights; if you can see their glow, it’s already too late.
Maybe equally as dangerous as his lightning, the Super also seems to have a thing for darkness. Black gloves, wispy like shadows, reach his elbows, while tall, ebony boots hit just below his knees. An obsidian mask covers his face, with a protective screen over his eyes. The Super’s costume exposes only the curves of his mouth, which keep all of his secrets.
He gives one last kick to the man’s unconscious body and dusts off his gloves, admiring his handiwork.
Do I shake his hand? Hug him? Thank him fifty times? Get out of here ASAP?I almost do all four until the embroidery on his suit becomes clearer, showing two initials over his heart:
D.S.
The graffiti behind him captures his features perfectly.
Golden Ace’s latest nemesis.
“You’re him,” I say, guessing he won’t need me to specify. He’s younger than I expected, going from the pitch of his voice, though the exact sound seems disguised. Probably not too far from my age.
“So?” The Super replies.
“So,” I say, “aren’t you supposed to be the bad guy?”
In one swift movement, he scoops the $200—my$200—which has fallen in the mud from Raincoat Guy’s pocket, and slides it into his own slick, black boot.
“Who says I’m not?” He points at Raincoat Guy. “You, Madeline Roberts, are in quite a few people’s little black books.”
“Yeah, right.” What a load of bologna. Besides my classmates, approximately ten people in Capital City know who I am. Not even Arielle, my darling, icy sister, would have sent someone after me.
“Only fair to give you a heads up. Gotta keep things interesting.” He twirls a gloved hand, lethal luminescence flickering in his palm. “Next time, maybe don’t bring a dead phone to a gun fight.”
The Super reaches toward Raincoat Guy and takes an additional wad of cash, a black flip-phone, and two IDs from the soaked jacket. He tosses me the IDs, depositing the rest in his boot. Raincoat Guy had cash.So why was he after me?
“Yours and his. Gary Slate. Now you know.”
I turn it over: a driver’s license with a photo of Gary; Raincoat Guy, apparently. Only there’s paper stuck to the back of it. I peel it from the plastic, then stop.
Holy Aces.
It’s a print of a photo. In it, I stand with my mom—she holds an award, a journalism prize. This was taken just over three years ago. It also might be the only public photo of me where I’m not wearing goggles and a swim cap.
The Super is correct. Now I know: My encounter with Raincoat Guy wasn’t random.
“But what did he want with me?” I ask, but the Super has vanished into the dark. A gust of wind chases him, while I’m left drenched and shaking, but still alive.
What the heck just happened? Is the stalker man dead?
A groan comes from the pile of clothes. Raincoat Guy is regaining consciousness. Time to go.
