Sidekicked (30 page)

“This is insane,” Mike says. “The last time we rode
bikes
together you nearly ran over a dog.”

“He was chasing me. Besides, even high school dropouts can drive a car. How difficult can it be?”

I step on the gas and the Suburban jumps forward over the sidewalk onto the grass, nearly knocking over a sculpture of a bronze eagle—the Highview mascot.

“Reverse,” Mike spits out.

“Right. Reverse.”

I throw it into reverse and nearly crunch the car behind us. I notice that Mike has his eyes shut. “I'm going to pee myself, just so you know,” he says.

“Just hang on. I know what I'm doing.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“Saving the day . . . I think.”

I gun the engine and we shoot out of the parking lot at something that feels pretty close to light speed.

“I just hope we aren't too late.”

D
riving is easy.

Not hitting stuff proves to be the difficult part.

I do pretty well, actually, seeing as how it is my first time, I am going way too fast, I'm having a little bit of difficulty seeing over the wheel because I didn't bother to adjust the seat, and I have to stretch some to reach the pedals. We rub against a few cars parked along the side of the road, not hitting them so much as flirting with them, though we do lose the passenger-side mirror to a light post when I almost miss my turn, nearly giving Mike a heart attack. I can tell he's nervous because every time we hit something—a little bump or the median or a mailbox—the radio shoots back on and the dashboard blinks on and off. The check engine light is glaring at me, but I don't know if that's something I've done or Mike's nervous discharge. I don't care. All I care about is getting to that apartment.

“Wait a minute,” Mike says. “You're telling me that Mr. Masters is working for the
Dealer
?”

I shake my head. Then nod. Then bump another parked car. Then shake my head again.

“I don't know. All I know is that someone with ties to H.E.R.O. has been helping the Dealer. It's the only possible explanation for everything that has happened—leaking our identities, our connection to our Supers, everything. And Mr. Masters has been trying to locate the Titan. And because of me, Jenna knows where he is. And now she has disappeared with him. Besides, haven't you noticed anything strange about Mr. Masters lately?”

“I've noticed several things strange about you in the last ten minutes,” Mike says.

I can't argue with him. He doesn't believe me, and I don't blame him. It's pretty far-fetched. But then I tell him about Red, and Mr. Masters lying to me, and the plans for the Fox's secret headquarters with all the security devices and entrances marked out. I remind him that Mr. Masters has access to secret information. Information the Dealer could use to, say, take Supers down one by one.

“And maybe, I don't know, maybe we were getting too close. Maybe he was afraid we would find out and that's why he shut H.E.R.O. down. To get the rest of us out of the way.”

Beside me, Mike throws his hands in the air and stares at me with bug eyes.

“Drew . . . this is Mr. Masters you're talking about. He's like our ugly-sweater-vest-wearing second dad. There's no way he's working the other side,” he says. “Probably he and Jenna went to get doughnuts or something, if they went anywhere at all. Or maybe you're just pissed off because your Super is a loser so you've concocted some harebrained, cockamamie scheme to give you an excuse to steal a freakin' car and pretend to play hero when there's absolutely no one out there who needs saving, except for your incredibly freaked out friend who you dragged into this mess who is now going to be arrested for grand theft auto!”

Mike pounds on the dashboard, and both headlights explode.

“Sorry,” he says. “I'm under a lot of stress right now.”

Maybe he's right. Maybe I am just being paranoid. Maybe we will pull up to the apartment and everything will be fine. Kid Caliber and the Titan will still be tucked away, and we will drive back to school in our stolen car to find Jenna waiting for us outside with news that the Fox has finally captured the Dealer and the whole thing is over.

Suddenly I slam to a stop, and Mike nearly breaks his other arm trying to keep himself from chewing on the dashboard.

“Then again,” Mike says.

There, ahead of us, is Kid Caliber's apartment complex. Or what's left of it. There is a hole in the second-floor wall, and I can smell smoke.

“Do you hear that?” I ask.

“Hear what?”

Mike doesn't hear the sirens. Only I can hear them. They're still far away.

“Hand me my bag.”

Mike reaches behind him and grabs my backpack. I dig through it and pull out my costume, slipping the mask over my face, clicking the belt into place. I look at the Sensationalist in the rearview mirror.

Mike shakes his head. “What are you going to do? You're not going
in
there, are you?”

“Not me,” I say. “Us.”

It is way too quiet, and that means a lot coming from me. The door to Red's apartment has been blasted off its hinges and lies, a smoldering slab, on the carpet inside.

“Come on,” I say, “the coast is clear.”

The Sensationalist says things like that, I've decided.

“I shouldn't go in there.” Mike points to the shaggy carpet stretching out from the door. His house is all hardwood floors.

“I think a little static electricity is the least of our worries,” I tell him.

One look inside, and I know we've missed something big. There is a confusion of smells—hard to pinpoint through the smoke. The acrid tang of gunpowder is overwhelming, though. “There was a shootout,” I say, sniffing.

Mike points to the holes riddling the walls. “What gave it away, Sherlock?”

By the kitchen lie a couple of spent machine guns, their muzzles black. I have a good guess who they belong to. The television is shot out, twice broken now. There are scorch marks along the walls. The recliner looks like maybe it was split in half by a chain saw. There's glass everywhere, but no bodies. I look down the hall to the room at the end.

Outside, the sirens are getting louder. We don't have a lot of time. I reach down to my belt and pull out my stun gun, holding it out in front of me as we pass by the bathroom to the end of the hall. I realize the little bit of voltage I'm carrying is nothing compared to the human Taser walking beside me, but it helps to have something in my hand.

“Drew,” Mike says. The hair on his head is standing at attention.

“Quiet.”

Nothing. No sound. No movement coming from inside.

The Sensationalist stands at the door—I stand at the door. The same one I stood at yesterday. I give it a push.

This room looks normal, untouched. The bed's even made. I can still smell him, though. “They got him,” I say. And then I catch another scent, lighter than the first but distinct. I close my eyes, zeroing in on it, dissecting through the layers to concentrate on the few molecules of it still lingering in the air. My feet suddenly grow numb. There is no mistaking that smell.

“Purple Passion,” I whisper.

“What?”

“It's Jenna.”

He took her too. The Dealer scooped up the two has-been Supers and kidnapped Jenna on the side. And Mr. Masters helped. He must have. There's no other explanation. I can still catch a trace of his VapoRub as well. They were all here.

“Drew.”

Mr. Masters must have somehow contacted the Dealer and then led Jenna into a trap. She probably knew too much. Maybe she had already confronted him. Maybe that's why she told me not to trust him, to stay away. To protect me.

“Drew.”

And now the Dealer had her. His ticket to the last Super who still posed a threat to him. Somewhere Jenna was probably dangling from a hook or staring down a death ray with the Dealer at the trigger, waiting for the Fox to arrive. Capture her, and there would be no Supers left. He would have his revenge, and Justicia would be his for the taking.

“Drew, I think you should take a look at this.”

I shake my head to clear it and then step back into the hall. The sirens are only blocks away; I'm sure even Mike can hear them. I grab Mike to push him out the door when I see what he has in his hand. Actually, had I been concentrating on sounds instead of smells, I would have heard it.

An old rail conductor's watch, gold plated but tarnished with age. A crack runs down its face.

“I don't think Mr. Masters would have just left this behind,” Mike says.

I take the watch in my hand, trace the jagged lightning bolt along the glass.

“No. I guess not,” I say. The wind sneaks through the hole in the wall of the apartment.

In that wind I can still smell her.

Then we both hear the voices coming from outside.

“This is the Justicia police. We know there is someone in there. Come out with your hands on your head.”

Mike looks at the cast on his arm.

“I don't think I even
can
,” he moans.

I look at Mr. Masters's watch. This is getting worse by the minute.

M
ike is having a panic attack. Little jolts of electricity are literally weaving their way in and out of his hair; he looks like one of those trolls people used to stick on top of their pencils.

“Oh. Fantastic! Because stealing a car wasn't enough, now we can add breaking and entering!”

“Just entering,” I say, peering through the window. “The door was busted down when we got here.”

“You're hilarious.”

That's what the Sensationalist does, I decide. He makes jokes to help defuse the tension of the dangerous circumstances he always seems to find himself in. I take a peek outside.

There are only two squad cars, though I can hear other sirens in the distance. Fire. Ambulance. Who knows, maybe the National Guard. Justicia's already on high alert, and I'm sure the guys in costume outside the apartment are just as antsy as we are. The cops don't have their guns drawn yet, though their hands are ready at their sides. Behind me Mike is spinning around in circles, looking for some kind of secret escape route—a slide or a pole that leads to an underground passage, perhaps. I look at the watch again. The crack runs straight down the middle, but the hands are moving. I wonder if it still works.

I concentrate on the Purple Passion again, focusing in on it the way Mr. Masters taught me. It's just strong enough to pin down. I think this will work. I hope it will.

“We are only going to have one minute,” I tell Mike as I adjust my mask and belt and stand by the doorway.

“What?”

“You take the SUV.”

“What?”

“I'll take one of the cop cars.”

“
WHAT
? You're stealing a cop car? Don't you know they can hang you for that?”

“Go get help. I don't care who. Find someone.”

“I don't need to go get help. Help is outside, about ready to blast my head off.”

“Yeah—I think we're going to need bigger help than that. Besides,” I say, pointing to my mask, then gesturing toward the trashed living room with the bullet holes and smashed furniture, “this would take more explaining than we have time for.”

“How am I supposed to drive with only one arm?”

“You'll figure it out. I'm going to find Jenna,” I say. “Take this.”

I dig in my pocket and pull out my ring. The Titan's ring, the one that led me here the first time around.

“What is this? Are you proposing?”

“It's my SLD. You can use it to find me.”

“Find you? Find you where?”

I give an exaggerated sniff. “I don't know, wherever Jenna leads me. If I had to guess, I'd say the Dealer's secret hideout.” Mike just shakes his head.

“This is the Justicia police,” repeats the voice outside. “Come out with your hands on your head. You have thirty seconds to comply.”

Mike takes my ring and slips it into his pocket. It wasn't designed for his skinny fingers and would just fall off—besides, we'd both feel a little weird if he actually wore it. “My mother is going to kill me if I get arrested,” he says.

“She might not get the chance,” I say.

I grab Mike's hand and then press the button on Mr. Masters's watch. The world is instantly silent. It still works.

Sixty seconds.

We careen down the stairs and throw our backs against either side of the hallway door leading outside. I take just one second to listen, just to be sure, then throw it open.

Outside the apartment, three cops are lined up, pistols at their sides, ready to storm the building. A fourth is sitting on the driver's side of one of the squad cars. Just down the street, an ambulance is turning a corner. Above us, three birds have just launched from an electrical wire. They are all frozen. Everything is. I hand Mike the watch. “Take it,” I say.

“No, you take it,” he says, pushing it back.

We have forty seconds left. This is no time to argue.

“You're going in alone. You're going to need it,” he insists.

“Yeah, but it's me, remember? I can sense danger coming from a mile away.”

Probably to end the argument before the cops come unstuck, Mike takes the watch, then heads to the Suburban. I run over to the nearest squad car, which is, unfortunately, the one with the cop sitting in it. Thankfully the keys are in the ignition. I have about twenty seconds left.

I pull the cop free, with some effort, and then take an extra five seconds to unholster his gun and throw it in the bushes by the apartment. Cop cars are significantly different from Suburbans. There are a lot more distractions. Still, the basic mechanics are the same. With two seconds left, I throw the car into gear.