Birth of a Supervillain

By Scott Spangler

It's been a decade since the first ultra-enhanced human beings were forced to abandon covert military operations. Advancing public technology and new government regulation made continuing to operate in secrecy untenable, and so they mainstreamed, becoming the world's first superhero group - the Order of Champions. They are the ten mightiest individuals on the planet - beloved by the masses and feared by their enemies. And their world is falling apart.

The superheroes have become complacent - secure in their own sense of invincibility. They are arrogant and alone and increasingly rocked by scandal. They have grown wealthy in their new role and stagnant from being restrained on a leash against what they were created to do. They are gods among men, but must suffer being kept like pets. That is, until their most powerful member is unexpectedly murdered by an unknown assassin. The shocked heroes suddenly find themselves aligned against a new adversary - a supervillain. And the massive secret hiding behind this new threat will forever alter the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Spangler
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215397558

Scott Spangler

Scott is 45 years old and lives near Kansas City. He wrote the first book of his fantasy series, "Portal to the Gods" in 2005 and has recently published the third book in the Portal series, "Dark Reign." He is also the author of "The Demon Hunter: 21 Days". He is currently working to complete his zombie apocalypse book, "PerfectTown." Scott welcomes comments on his work at: [e-mail]

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Birth of a Supervillain

Scott Spangler

Copyright 2023 by Scott Spangler

Smashwords Edition

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Other Books by Scott Spangler

Supervillain Series

Birth of a Supervillain

Supervillain Inc. – Forthcoming

The Demon Hunter Series

The Demon Hunter: 21 Days

The Demon Hunter: Retribution - Forthcoming

Portal to the Gods Series

Portal to the Gods

The Other Side of Existence

Dark Reign – Forthcoming

The Last Paladin – Forthcoming

Apocalypse Series

PerfectTown

Archeron’s Quest – Forthcoming

The Trojan – Forthcoming

Chapter 1

The Thirteenth Street Vatos ruled a twenty-six-block section of the West Bluffs area of the city with an iron fist. They weren’t one of the larger gangs, but their reputation for violence and ruthlessness was unparalleled. The West Bluffs had seen its better days, being one of the oldest neighborhoods standing just southwest of the downtown skyscrapers and overlooking the Textile District in the bottoms to the north and west. It had become a largely Hispanic neighborhood and Mexican in particular, although those of Mexican origin were a minority in The Vatos as they called themselves. Most were former paramilitary soldiers from all over Central and South America and their backgrounds in guerilla warfare made them experts in committing all sorts of atrocities.

The Vatos sported an impressive resume of prostitution, gambling, and extortion, with which they helped to finance their real criminal enterprises. It was their massive drug distribution network with a thick vein stretching deeply into South America that brought in their greatest revenues. There were corporations publicly traded on Wall Street whose profits paled by comparison. And it was all run from the back room of this dilapidated little tavern nestled between a rundown Laundromat and abandoned clothing store perched along Thirteenth Street. The real boss lived somewhere south of the border, but once the product crossed into American territory it came under control of The Vatos. Perhaps the South American drug lord pulled all the strings from afar, but the local gang still wielded an immense amount of power. One wouldn’t know it judging from the appearance of the three tattooed goons lounging in front of the building in their white tank tops, colorful headbands, and baggy trousers.

They carried on a conversation in Spanish, cackling like schoolgirls around the cigarettes dangling from their mouths as they found ways to make fun of the few people who passed by. It was with considerable mirth that they watched the approach of a dark-haired senorita in high heels and a short, striped dress. She was thin and wasn’t necessarily unattractive, although she had something of the used-up look shared by many of the ladies roaming some of the rougher wards of the city. There was no doubt where she was headed as she stumbled in her stiletto heels past the Aztec mural painted on the side of the building.

Hey, Mamacita, one of the goons hollered out as she neared the door. "Come over here, baby. I’ll treat you real good."

She didn’t even bat an eye at the young men as she fumbled with the screen door, finally managing to enter the building. They, in turn, didn’t put too much effort into wooing her. She was a huntress on the warpath looking for that sweet crack rock. Miguel was the boss-man and when she finished sucking on whatever body appendage that he chose to bare to her; he would probably send her their way. That was usually the way it worked. That magic rock wasn’t free – one had to pay the price. Her tight little booty was just pretty enough that Miguel might not send her away empty-handed.

The tavern’s interior was dim, lit only by a few dusty yellow light bulbs and the glow from half a dozen flat screen televisions – each one tuned to a different Mexican League soccer match. There was a pool table in the corner, around which lounged three or four Vatos garbed in similar attire to their companions outside. One held a pool cue, but he was more invested in telling a very animated story rather than shooting pool. The bartender was an older Hispanic male in a greasy apron, leaning on the bar conversing with two gang members perched atop barstools on the other side of the worn mahogany counter. At the far end of the bar a skinny kid was sucking face with a fiery little chica. Her face was caked with so much makeup that her blue eye shadow and red cheeks nearly glowed in the dark. Her black leather miniskirt was short enough that her butt cheek would have been sticking out for all to see if not for the gangbanger’s hand squeezing it tightly and thus blocking the view. Her ridiculously large loop earrings looked almost like hula-hoops in her ears and her white shirt was too short, revealing love handles that sagged over her belt on each side. But her shortcomings didn’t seem to bother the homeboy and if things started getting any steamier, they’d need to get a room. A haze of smoke hung in the air, indicating that the occupants either didn’t know about the city ordinance prohibiting smoking in public establishments, or else they simply didn’t care.

Most heads turned at the dark-haired girl’s entrance. It was a conditioned gangster reaction to always be aware of who was walking through the door. Even with the lookouts outside one couldn’t be too careful. But it also wasn’t all that uncommon for a crackhead to come wandering in looking for her fix and so they recognized her visit for what it was right away. The storyteller halted his tale in mid-sentence, twirling the pool cue once as he rounded the table to approach her.

Hey, baby girl, he said, circling her once slowly and using the cue like a walking stick. He halted next to her, leaning backward to catch a good glimpse of her rear, which he reached out a hand to gently rub. What can we help you with? Upon receiving no response, he patted her hinny a final time and then leaned closer to her ear. "Te hablas English?"

She looked up at him. Her dark eyes appeared tired as she nodded. That was common with these ladies of the night. They were almost like vampires and likely wouldn’t ever see the light of day if it weren’t just to score an early fix. They could do what they had to do to earn their fix before the sun went down and then ride the blessed rush through the rest of the night.

"Yo, Holmes, one of the bangers near the pool table called out, you know what she wants. Send her back already so we can finish up over here."

He shot a glance back toward his homies and then leaned the pool cue against the wall. He stepped up behind the girl, pressing his cheek against the side of her head as he ran his hands up her sides to frisk her. Your hair smells real nice, pretty thing, he said softly into her ear as the hands converged on the front, cupping over her breasts and then lingering there for a moment. She suffered the indignity in silence. Giving them a firm squeeze in parting, he crouched behind her, checking her shoes and socks, and then running his hands up the insides of her bare legs. One hand continued up and under the skirt and she flinched a bit as it crept inside her panties. He grinned back toward his buddies as he withdrew the hand and put it to his nose, sniffing deeply. Oh, that’s nice, he announced with a smirk. Then, taking her unceremoniously by the arm, he pulled her toward a door near the back of the room beyond the bathrooms.

The back room wasn’t much more than a storage area. There were shelves of liquor bottles and large cans of cheese, beans, tomato paste and other such goods. Cases of beer were stacked up along the walls with the most popular being an assortment of Mexican brands. There was a computer desk in the far corner with a laptop hooked to an expensive flat screen monitor and a nice octagon poker table dominated the center of the room. Four Vatos reclined around the table chattering away in Spanish and tossing red and blue chips onto the green felt surface that was covered by a large unruly pile of poker chips and twenty-dollar bills. Bottles of Tejada beer in various stages of emptiness were perched around the table’s perimeter. A fifth Vato stood across the room near the concrete block outer wall talking on his cell phone. He was a big fellow, weighing in at least at three hundred pounds.

None of them paid much attention at first when their homie led the girl into the room, but once a pair of queens with an ace kicker won the pot, one of them took notice. He was lean and handsome, wearing a white button-up shirt with the sleeves ripped off to display his muscular arms. An assortment of spiraling tattoos crawled up his arms, interspersed with filthy profanity written in Spanish. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes, beneath which a scruff of whiskers spread across his face. It was clear by the way he carried himself that he was the leader, Miguel.

What you got here, Tito? Miguel inquired, reclining back in his chair with his fingers interlocked behind his head. From the smirk on his face, one wouldn’t know that he had just lost four hundred bucks in that last poker hand. But it was just money and there was plenty more where that came from. He wiped his ass with four hundred bucks.

Sweet mama crack whore, Tito replied, releasing the girl’s arm, and giving her a bit of a shove toward the table.

Not bad, ese, one of the gangsters at the table blurted. I might have to get me a piece of that.

Miguel leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the table. The movement of his eyebrows made it evident that his eyes had just narrowed behind the dark glasses. You look awful clean for a crackhead, baby - You been smoking the rock long?

The girl shrugged her slender shoulders, her gaze remaining glued to the floor. She fidgeted some, shifting her weight from left to right foot and struggling to retain her balance on the steep heels. Perhaps she was just nervous, or else maybe it was the twitches of her body wanting its fix.

Let me see your teeth, baby, he ordered, nodding in satisfaction when she flashed them toward him. Another quick inclination of his head was enough of a sign for all his homies to vacate the room.

Make sure my money’s still here when I get back, ese, one of the poker players said as he snatched up his imported beer and headed toward the door."

Oh, it’ll still be here, Holmes, Miguel answered, "but it might be a little sticky." He raised a hand toward Tito as his fellow Vato turned to follow the others. "You can stay, Bro. I got me a feeling that this chica can take on both of us. She’s way too clean, eh? I think we need to break her in right." Without further ado, he leaned back in his chair and unzipped his fly, pulling out his man parts. Tito let out an approving whoop, unfastening his own belt.

The girl had no illusions as to how she was going to earn her candy. She advanced slowly toward Miguel’s chair, kicking off her high heels, and then kneeling between his legs in front of the chair. He arched his hips as she leaned in, anticipating what was next to come. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

She turned her mouth toward a tiny button on her collar that the Vatos could have no idea was a tiny radio transmitter. He’s here, she said softly. Then in a lightning-quick move she punched Miguel so hard in the groin that he flew back – chair and all – to smash against the back wall. A greenish-blue aura suddenly enveloped her, blurring her features for a moment. The light receded as quickly as it had come, taking with it the visage of the haggard-looking, drug-using Senorita. Left in her place was an attractive fair-skinned blonde in perhaps her early thirties, sporting a turquoise-colored bodysuit and blue cape. Blue gloves ran the length of her forearms nearly to her elbows, matching her blue leather boots.

Tito stood like a statue staring wide-eyed at the spectacle – each hand holding an end of his unfastened belt. Lo que la cogida? he gasped, muttering what the fuck in Spanish. He managed to free his hands from his belt to fumble for the pistol jammed into his waistband.

A blue boot connected to a spinning back-kick slammed against his temple, sending him tumbling into a stack of beer crates. The same boot stomped hard on his face, erasing any vestige of consciousness that might have remained after the first blow. With him sprawled over the shattered crates, the blonde turned her attention back toward Miguel. The Vato leader was slumped forward with one hand cupping his aching balls and the other groping for his nickel-plated .45 pistol.

The blonde tossed the poker table aside, sending poker chips and beer bottles flying in every direction. I’ve got a few questions for you, asshole.

"Fuck you, puta," Miguel barked, lifting to aim the pistol toward his female assailant.

The turquoise and blue-clad woman caught his wrist, twisting it sharply and sending the weapon flying away. Her other gloved hand latched onto his chin, roughly tapping the back of his head against the wall. "Where does the Trail start? she growled. Give me a name and place."

The Trail to which she referred was the largest supply chain of illicit drugs in the history of America. Dealing mostly in cocaine and heroin, the new pipeline dwarfed the cocaine trade of the Columbian drug lords of the eighties and had heralded in a new golden age of cocaine and especially crack cocaine. It was a ruthless and deadly chain, leaving unidentifiable bodies in its untraceable wake and creating a wide array of addicts ranging from poor children to elderly aristocrats. The supply chain was such a massive, elusive, and seemingly unstoppable monster that the DEA agents had taken to calling it the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

Bitch, I don’t know what’chu talkin’ about.

The back of his head struck the wall a bit harder. You’d better jog your memory while there’s any brain left to do the jogging. One of your homies fingered you as being the man with the answers.

Before she could press him further the door opened, and the fat man stuck a mammoth shoulder in the room. Is everything ok in here, boss? he inquired in English with a heavy Hispanic accent. His eyes widened as they alighted upon Tito’s unconscious form and the blonde woman holding the gang’s leader by the throat.

Kill this bitch, Miguel barked without considering that any gunfire aimed in his assailant’s direction might inadvertently strike him as well.

The fat man displayed uncharacteristic speed in digging below a tremendous roll of blubber for his weapon. The stubby hand emerged an instant later clutching a semi-automatic Uzi. Before he could train it upon the blue-caped mystery woman, the bar’s rear outside wall suddenly exploded inward. Sheltering his face from flying debris, when he looked back there was a massive hole in the building’s outer wall. Standing in the breach there was a shadowed figure every bit as large as him.

With a startled yelp that sounded odd coming from such a rugged man his size, he swung the Uzi in that direction, squeezing the trigger repeatedly. A hail of bullets launched into the new arrival, plunking, and ricocheting away as if striking a stone wall. The figure took a few quick and thunderous steps into the room, heedless of the projectiles harmlessly bouncing off its body. The light revealed a stocky, muscular, and hairless figure with dark, grayish skin seemingly made up literally of stone. The bald head rotated on its thick stone neck to gaze upon the blonde and her quarry, all but ignoring the Uzi-toting gangbanger who was steadily and ineffectively emptying his magazine at its impenetrable skin.

What took you so long, Granite? the blonde snapped, tightening her grip on Miguel’s throat lest he forget that she was in control and attempt to do something foolish.

The rock man’s face shuddered with his thick stone lips seemingly curling into a smile. It looks to me like you’re doing ok, Turquoise, his rumbling voice answered. He took an additional step forward, effortlessly swatting away the fat gangster like one might swat at an annoying gnat. The sudden silencing of the Uzi allowed the sounds to filter into the back room from the surprised gangsters in the bar scrambling for their weapons like a poked hornet’s nest.

The three tattooed goons outside the front of the building laughed and joked in Spanish, speaking about how many holes the dark-haired Senorita was currently getting filled and by how many Vatos. The running joke was that the youngest of the three of them would end up surfing the Great White Sloppy Sea at the end of it all. They exchanged shocked glances at the echoing crash that blasted from the other side of the building and shook the whole structure. At the sound of gunfire an instant later they leapt from their seats yanking pistols from their baggy, sagging waistbands as they went.

The foremost Vato reached the door with his pistol extended out before him, tumbling suddenly backward, and careening into his companions as if he had run smack into an invisible wall. The young fellow at the end – the White Surfer – accidently discharged his pistol, striking his nearest homie in the shoulder. With his middle companion screaming and clutching at his bloody shoulder, the lead gangster’s eyes widened as they settled upon something descending from the sky.

A strange rippling effect saturated the air surrounding them, much like the distant distortion seen in the desert on a very hot day. It was all around them enveloping and seemingly permeating their bodies. The haze blurred the black figure that hovered in the air, gradually settling lower and lower. With its rippling black cloak and glimpses of gray beneath, it seemed as if the Grim Reaper was descending from the heavens to claim three victims and they each knew deep down that they had much to answer for. Lying on his back on the concrete, the lead Vato tried to lift and aim his pistol skyward, but his arm seemingly weighed a ton. All he could do was lay there blinking as the figure settled effortlessly to the ground before him. He managed to lift a shaky hand to make the sign of the cross across his forehead and chest.

The black-cloaked figure seemingly paid no heed to the helpless gangsters as he moved toward the establishment’s front entrance, still surrounded by the blurred haze. With each step he took the entrapped Vatos were dragged along behind as if fish caught in a fisherman’s net.

Nice work on these three chumps, Gravito, a voice called out suddenly from someone coming up the sidewalk, but from the sound of things it looks like the party is inside. The cyborg, Max Overload, leaned in the shade against the building enjoying the brief show.

The cloaked figure paused with the shadowed hood angling back in that direction. Perhaps you should investigate, Max.

With that much lead flying around I think I’ll follow you, the newcomer answered. He fell in behind Gravito with the unnatural haze expanding to encompass him as well.

The bar’s interior was mass chaos. The behemoth Granite stood across the room taking fire from several gangsters. The bullets ricocheted off his bulky hide, flying away in every direction. One struck a tattooed goon through the cheek, removing two or three teeth before exiting the other side. The rock man hefted a nearby cigarette machine, hurling it to shatter against the pool table behind which a pair of Vatos sheltered as they fired their weapons.

Gravito extended his arms straight out to the sides with fists clenched. There was a hair-curling screech almost like fingernails on a chalkboard, followed immediately by first an outward and then inward-flowing pulse of energy. An instant later the bar was nearly silent with nothing but the lingering odor of spent gunpowder. Fourteen Vato gangsters and one Vato whore lay in a neat pile in the middle of the floor ensnared by an invisible net of gravitational energy.

Well, that was a neat trick, Granite said, making a show of flexing his stone fingers. I thought I was going to have to beat all these knuckleheads into submission on my own.

With the cessation of the gunfire, Overload stepped out of Gravito’s protective aura. He wore a sleeveless gray jumpsuit with black leather boots and a compartmented belt. His hair was bright blonde and close-cropped with a shadow of thick whiskers covering his face. A mask of dark black sunglasses completed his uniform. I guess I should call the boss in from the back lines now that we’ve got these little princesses all trussed up, he announced.

Don’t bother, Granite answered, he’s here already.

Man, this was almost too easy, Overload pointed out. "The North Side Devil Dogs have been trying to take these chumps out for years and we did it in… what… sixty seconds?"

Big man wants you in the back room, Robo-boy, Granite called out, gesturing with a massive rock thumb back over his shoulder. You can talk all the smack you want when the workin’ day is through.

Ram, leader of the Order of Champions entered through Granite’s breach in the back wall just as Turquoise finished firmly tying the Vatos gang leader to his chair. He looked every bit his name with his blue and yellow suit and ram-horn helmet. The blonde heroine straightened as his blue-eyed gaze fell upon her.

It’s nice of you to make it to the party, she said with a sly wink.

Ram ignored the remark, advancing closer. They all knew that with his invulnerable skin bullets were the last thing he feared. In fact, they had yet to see something rattle their stoic leader. The perimeter is clear and Atomica is already heading back to base. His gaze settled upon the bound gangster. Is this him?

Turquoise stepped over the unconscious Tito lying crumpled on the floor, her expression darkening as she unexpectedly kicked him in the gut. His body doubled over from the blow but being already unconscious he didn’t make a sound. She started to turn away, deciding instead to aim another shot square into his crotch.

Ram put a yellow-gloved hand on her shoulder. You can stand-down now – he’s out already.

She rounded on the Order’s leader. "That’s easy for you to say. It wasn’t your private parts that this pig just groped."

You fuckin’ maricons, Miguel snapped, interrupting their conversation as he pulled against his bonds. I ain’t gonna tell you nothing.

"Max," Ram said, calling forward the handsome fellow in the black sunglasses.

Overload stepped up to the gang leader, not even attempting to hide the malicious grin that painted his face. I’m on it, Boss.

The Vato stared up at him. "Why ain’t you got no pretty costume, puto? You not so special like these other clowns?"

Nah, ese, Max replied mockingly, leaning closer to the gang leader. "I’m happy with my little sleeveless gray jumpsuit – it breathes better. He unbuckled one of the square pouches at his belt. And you’ve got to let the ladies marvel at the pipes, he added, flexing his bicep, but you apparently already know that." He twisted a bit so that the Vato could see inside the belt pouch that wasn’t truly a belt pouch after all – it was an illusion. It was instead a hollow compartment allowing access to a mechanical plate embedded into his body. The Vato’s eyes widened as three tiny, segmented cables suddenly shot out through the open compartment, hovering in the air on their own volition and slowly whipping back and forth like riled snakes. Of course, I was thinking about investing in a few white, wife-beater tank tops, he continued, seemingly oblivious to the cables growing out of his body, so I can look like a nimrod like you and your little butt-buddies out there. He reached out to put a hand on the wide-eyed gangbanger’s forehead. "Hold still, Holmes, and this will probably only hurt a little bit."

With that, the three cables shot toward Miguel’s head – one attaching to each temple and the third to the center of his forehead. There was a very faint metallic whir as the nearly microscopic, needle-like connectors extended through the criminal’s skin, attaching to various nerve-endings, and thus essentially hacking into the Vato’s central nervous system. Overload twitched once as the interface completed its connection. He stood silent and still for a moment with his head cocked backward as he sucked in the gangbanger’s memories like a vampire.

Oh man, Turq, he said finally, glancing back over his shoulder toward Turquoise, You have no idea the dirty, filthy things old homeboy here was planning to do to you. He leaned down toward the gangster’s face. You are a very naughty boy, Miguel. There was no response from the gang leader who sat in a catatonic state with his eyes bulging in succession with the pulsing of the tiny cables as they literally drank the stored thoughts from his head.

Do you see anything yet? Ram inquired impatiently – ever the buzzkill.

Give me a second, Max answered, adjusting the sunglasses on his face. Wait for it… Wait for it… And there it is!

Well?

It looks like we’re going to South America, boys and girls.

Chapter 2

The nondescript black SUV with silver rims and darkly tinted windows turned off the main thoroughfare, entering the dirty, century-old alley that seemed almost too narrow for the vehicle. There weren’t many of those alleys left in the lower midtown area. A decade prior the ward had been nothing but crumbling, graffiti-covered, brick buildings and dilapidated warehouses with broken windows, but most of those had more recently met with the wrecking ball and blade of the bulldozer. The remnants of industry from yesteryear had been replaced with spacious lofts, high-rise apartments, coffee shops and trendy nightclubs. Decades of neglect and decay had been erased in a relatively short period of time, replaced by new century prosperity. What was one more SUV among the upscale midtowners?

The vehicle slowed as it navigated past a rusted dumpster, crunching a plastic soda bottle that had rolled into its path. A great skyscraper standing two blocks away rose like a mountain over the surrounding buildings, looking much nearer than it was. There was no fancy signage announcing its identity, but the shining glass and steel behemoth was the headquarters of the Order of Champions. That fact alone drove up the real estate prices for a dozen blocks in every direction. There was nothing more prestigious than owning property next door to the world’s first resident superheroes. The skyscraper slowly disappeared the deeper into the alley that the SUV ranged, finally vanishing behind a dirty, two-story brick wall at the road’s end. The vehicle halted before a steel garage door that jerked and creaked as it began to rise out of the way.

The interior of the garage looked like any that might be found out in suburbia. A few shelves lined the walls, stacked with cardboard boxes full of forgotten junk the same as stored by seemingly every family – old sporting equipment, stuffed animals, worn clothing and forgotten boardgames. A rusty old bicycle hung on the wall next to a shovel, leaf rake and other handy implements tied together by a few dusty cobweb strands. The cobwebs fluttered in the gentle breeze as the SUV pulled into the building and halted to calmly idle as the door rattled in its descent behind it. The vehicle’s engine continued to run after the garage door had made its way to the concrete and even after the single yellow lightbulb had blinked out, leaving it in darkness.

A low rasping sound was the only thing announcing the rise of four thick plates emerging from hidden recesses in the floor to surround and encase the SUV in a steel box. The activity was inaudible from outside the garage even if one stood with an ear pressed to the door’s outer surface. There was movement a moment later as the floor sank into the ground, carrying the SUV with it as it dropped at least the distance of two subterranean levels. It settled to the bottom with barely a bump. The shaft-like steel walls retracted into the ground, revealing a dark tunnel extending toward the west. Thin strips of fluorescent lights flashed to life, dimly illuminating the featureless corridor. The vehicle lurched forward, traversing the underground thoroughfare at a relatively high rate of speed.

The vehicle’s headlights reflected off steel exhaust fans mounted in the ceiling every two hundred feet or so as it sped past. The overhead lights left most of the passage shrouded in patches of darkness into which the SUV repeatedly disappeared and then reemerged as it shot toward the proverbial glowing light at the end of the tunnel. Red taillights lit up as the vehicle slowed at the edge of that bastion of light, climbing a short concrete ramp to emerge into a large parking garage. It was soon making its way through rows of stout concrete pillars and as it neared its destination, a line of a dozen identical black SUVs. The newcomer slowed to a crawl, finally pulling into a parking space near the end of the line.

The vehicle lights extinguished shortly after the engine cut off, leaving the featureless gray garage once again basking in its lonely stillness. The silence was soon broken by the click of the door latch disengaging and soft creak of the driver’s door opening. A muscular leg wrapped in deep blue emerged from the interior, the yellow boot at its base descending to the concrete floor. An instant later the rest of the godlike figure came into view of the slew of high security cameras scanning every square foot of the underground garage, revealing it to be Ram, leader of the Order of Champions.

Ram was clad in his typical blue and yellow uniform, minus his namesake ram horn helmet. A square jaw and handsome face rested atop the bare muscular neck, topped with a full head of blonde hair. A palm went to his face to push the expensive shades up onto his forehead, revealing captivating eyes as deeply blue as his suit. He then leaned back into the vehicle to retrieve the helm with its great curled horns from the passenger seat. Tucking the helm under his arm like a football helmet, he shut the door and circled the neighboring vehicle heading in the direction of the elevator. As he approached the large square window of the security office standing adjacent to the lone elevator, he was met by a gray-haired black man in stained navy coveralls. The man was lean with a grizzled white beard and walked with a noticeable limp.

Leroy Powell had been a frogman with the 1st Recon Battalion during the Vietnam War and then had helped train Seal Team Six in the early eighties. Just in case anyone thought he was full of shit when he was spinning his frequent tales about those days, a signed picture of him and Richard Marcinko drinking beer together at some dive bar in Virginia Beach hung over desk, among several black and white photos from his Vietnam tours. Leroy had never married and had no family, living in a tiny subterranean apartment adjacent to his little office. The apartment typically went all but unused since he rarely slept. He was a fantastic mechanic and loved maintaining the Order’s fleet of vehicles. If he had a soulmate, it was made of chrome, plastic, and steel. His devotion to his roles as both mechanic and guardian of the secret back entrance to the Order of Champions building was absolute and he rarely left the cavernous garage, earning him the nickname of Batman, although some people called him The Vampire. Every year he was invited to the Order’s Christmas party and the few other events that the group hosted, but he rarely showed. On the rare occasion that he did stray from his cave-like abode, it was a brief appearance.

Good afternoon, Mr. Ram, the old man said, halting near the window to await the hero’s approach. Given the environment in which he willfully locked himself, it was amazing that he was able to differentiate day from night.

Ram nodded, shifting his horned helm from one arm to the other so that he could toss the SUV’s keys to its keeper. There was no worry about Leroy seeing him unmasked, as the old warrior-turned-mechanic was one of the small handful of people trusted with the true identities of all the Order’s heroes. Have the others returned yet?

The former frogman easily caught the keys, limping forward a couple steps. Do you see any trucks missing?

I didn’t count them when I pulled in.

"Well, maybe you should have. Then you’d know the answer to your question."

Ram grinned, clapping the old fellow on the shoulder as he passed, continuing toward the elevator. Leroy loved to talk a little good-natured shit and while that wasn’t really his thing, he enjoyed the spark of the mechanic’s personality. He might look like a senior citizen on the outside, but Ram was pretty sure the man still saw himself as a twenty-nine-year-old Navy Seal.

Leroy was already stretching out the long hose of the gasoline pump from its niche behind the office as Ram rounded the corner and into the short hallway leading to the elevator. He spared a brief glance through office window as he passed. A veritable arsenal of weapons hung on the wall opposite Leroy’s little desk, all of which he was sure were fully loaded. Aside from the heroes themselves, Leroy was the only person to ever step foot in this garage and so there was no sense in keeping them locked away. If old Mr. Powell took his job as mechanic seriously, he took his security role even more so.

On the wall adjacent to the weapons several banks of monitors displayed nearly every camera feed inside and outside the building. Leroy knew that someone was coming or going even before they themselves knew. He might even have more than the actual security office on the first floor. There was a camera feed for everything except the women’s locker room showers and knowing Leroy, he had that one as well. It was just a matter of knowing to which channel to tune. Ram halted for a moment, his gaze locking onto one of the small monitors near the lower right of the array. On any other day he probably wouldn’t have noticed the random man in a business suit pacing back and forth in the first-floor secure hallway with his nose buried in his computer phone, but he had just spent the last thirty minutes in an encrypted phone session with the man.

Mack Stewart technically worked for the Order – at least on paper. But the reality was that the Order of Champions wasn’t quite as independent as they would have the public record believe. The top officers at the Pershing Military Base directly pulled the proverbial strings and ultimately the highest stripes at the Pentagon ran the big show. Most of the smoke and mirrors was aimed at keeping the politicians guessing, although they were told it was for the public. Nothing could fuck up a perfectly good system with as much efficiency as a politician. As liaison, Mack was there to help them walk the tightrope between independence and military oversight.

Ram bypassed the elevator, choosing instead to take the stairway, which he usually did, climbing up out of the garage. It seemed asinine and lazy to take an elevator that travelled the distance of a single floor only to be forced to transfer to a different elevator to continue the ascent the rest of the way into the tower’s higher recesses. He would rather walk the distance. The stairwell was gray and sterile and well-lit, opening into the much brighter first-floor secure hallway.

Toward the front of the building the hallway dead-ended at a massive glass wall looking out at the commons area. While the tower itself wasn’t opened to the public, people were free to come and go in the commons after passing through the outer perimeter security. Tourists came from far and wide to do the Champion’s Walk along the line of massive statues representing the heroes of the Order, most often posing with them for thousands upon thousands of selfies. There was also a small museum, two coffee shops, and a bagel vendor. The glass wall was shaded so that one could see out from within, but not inward. Access to the interior hallway was restricted to a limited few. A secured door about halfway to the window was the only exterior access, requiring passing through the security control center and its complements. Anyone wishing entry must have the proper credentials and access codes. That allowed the heroes to traverse the area unmasked.

Mack turned in that direction at hearing the steel staircase door clank open, holding up a finger toward Ram to indicate that his call was nearly finished. He spent half his life with that phone up to his ear and it was surprising that whatever radiation that it emitted hadn’t already fried his brain. It seemed like it would be easier to use a wireless earpiece, but Mack was old school, preferring to talk on the phone like it truly was a phone. Sometimes it was almost comical to watch him let loose of the phone to shake his aching hand, or else to try to successfully balance whatever load of papers or items that he might be carrying as he talked incessantly into the device in the course of his duties.

Mack had that look – where he probably would have been a top salesman for some marketing company if he hadn’t chosen to mire himself in government work. Thankfully, he wasn’t the self-serving bullshitter that too many salespeople seemed to be. But he looked like the fraternity boy that everyone loved to hate. His thick brown hair was always perfectly styled, and no amount of rain or wind could seem to dislodge a single hair out of place. He never stepped foot in the tower wearing anything other than a business suit.

He pulled the phone away from his ear, clicking it off as Ram drew near. It looks like the South American thing is going to be a go, Adam. Connie is working on putting together a logistical meeting as soon as possible. He fell in beside the hero, the duo making their way up the hallway toward the private elevators. "This Vato takedown is a good start in dealing with the gang and drug flow problem. The President will be pleased if we can cut the head off this snake."

Ram halted at the elevator doors. The problem is that it’s a hydra. Cut one head off and it seems there are a dozen others ready to take its place.

We just have to tackle them one at a time.

The Order’s leader nodded. Well, if this is what they want us doing these days, then let’s do it. I don’t want to hold back.

"I agree, but we’re going to have to be a little more careful in how we approach things. These aren’t Black Ops. If we get on the wrong end of some cell phone camera while operating in the public streets