Darkest Day (StrikeForce #3) (3 page)

My alarm went off the next morning and when I moved to turn it off, my body practically screamed at me. And it wasn’t screaming pleasant things. No, no. If my body could fully enunciate its unhappiness with me and my Zamboni-lifting ways, it would have been using streams of profanity that I would have appreciated under any other circumstances. I groaned and managed to turn the alarm off.

“Note to self, no more carrying cars and shit around,” I muttered. They never showed crap like this in the old superhero comic books or movies they used to make. No one ever showed the superhero practically unable to move after doing some of the crazier shit they did. Maybe it never crossed those old writers’ minds that super powered people had limits. All I knew was, I was pretty sure I’d more than reached mine.

My first steps out of bed were agony, and lifting my arms to take my shirt off so I could get in the shower was its own special kind of torture. By the time I was under the hot spray, I was practically in tears. As I washed, I noticed several bruises, mostly from when the Zamboni had fallen a bit or moved unexpectedly when I’d been dealing with the flying chick. Bruised shoulders, arms. A pretty big bruise on my hip from the time she’d hit me after I’d landed, and another across the backs of my thighs, because we fight the kinds of assholes who hit when your back is turned.

I gave up on the possibility of washing my hair. I stood under the hot spray and let it work some of the stiffness out of my muscles, then dried off and slipped into a t-shirt and leggings, and then into my uniform. I was moving a little bit easier than I had been, but each movement still made me wince. Once I had my uniform on, I gritted my teeth through the process of brushing out my hair and putting it up. I sat for a minute, trying to get some relief from the achiness, and read through my emails on my phone. One from Portia updating us on the Tribunal’s investigation into Alpha and his people. They were supposed to be hearing our case and hopefully taking Alpha, Nightbane, and Crystal into custody soon. I checked Twitter, mostly so I could see what our favorite StrikeForce-hating blogger and streamer, Detroit UnPowered, had to say about our heroic save the day before. Not much, of course. Asshole.

I scrolled through the
Detroit Free Press
headlines for a few minutes, then forced myself to get up. I grabbed my mask and headed down to the cafeteria. I sometimes skipped coffee in the morning so I could sleep in a while longer before my patrol shift with Ryan, but after the crappy sleep I’d had the night before, coffee was absolutely essential.

When I got down to the dining hall, I saw that Portia and a few people who worked in her office were sitting at one table, talking and laughing. Ryan was sitting at another table, looking at his phone. He raised his eyes when I walked in and I gave him a little wave, then went to grab coffee.

Okay. Pouring coffee should not feel like it takes all that much effort. This was getting stupid. I made it through making a cup of coffee, then grabbed one of the fruit danishes from the assortment of pastries and carried them over to Ryan’s table. He was watching me. I set my stuff down on the table, then tossed my mask next to it and maneuvered into my chair.

“Still sore, huh?” he asked in greeting.

“Yep.”

“You should take the day off,” he said.

“I’m fine. I’m assuming I won’t end up having to carry anything like that while we’re out on patrol.”

“Probably not. I’m guessing sparring is off later, though.”

I grimaced. We usually trained together once a week or so. Usually, working with my newfound ability to punch without actually punching. Or dealing with nerve centers and how to use them. We were supposed to be getting back into wrestling training this week. “Yeah, I think we’ll have to call it off.”

I finished my coffee, and we headed up to the flight deck to start our patrol. I got on the elevator and Ryan stepped on behind me.

“Shoulders hurt the most, huh?” he asked. I nodded. “Turn around,” he said. I did, and he rested his hands on my shoulders and started kneading my aching muscles. I let my head fall forward and closed my eyes.

“You know we have a massage therapist on staff, right? This is kind of why.”

“I don’t like strange people touching me.”

He let out a low laugh, his hands continuing to work their magic on my shoulders. “You must hate going to the doctor.”

“Yep.”

“I’m moving my hands toward your neck now, okay?” he asked, and I nodded. He remembered how touchy I was about my neck since my incident with Maddoc, and he was careful about that when we trained together. We were at the point now where it barely phased me when he touched my neck, and I had the feeling that he’d made it so that he had to do it more often than necessary to help me get over some of the terror associated with that particular thing. When his fingers started massaging the aching muscles where my neck met my shoulders, I groaned in relief. His hands stilled for a moment, and then he started kneading my muscles again.

“We could stay here all day,” he said.

“Your hands would get tired eventually. And I have the feeling Portia would be pissed.”

The elevator doors opened when we reached the top floor and he pulled his hands away from me.

“Thanks. They actually do feel a lot looser now,” I told him as we walked out.

“Good. You’re enough of a crab ass in the morning without being sore on top of it,” he said, throwing a grin my way.

“It takes one to know one,” I said. Then I pulled my mask on, and he did the same.

We were an hour into our patrol when Jenson’s voice came over our comms. “Daystar, Caine. Can you get to Eastpointe? Looks like we’ve got some weirdness going on. Bunch of people fighting for no reason.”

“Sounds like what happened at the game yesterday,” I said.

“I thought so too. Just sent you the coordinates, Caine.”

“Copy,” Caine said. He steered the plane in the direction we needed to go. “Maybe I’ll actually get to have some fun today, with you out of it,” he said.

“You just want to shoot things.”

“Only if they’re being assholes,” he said, and I shook my head.

“Boys and their guns,” I muttered, and he laughed.

“I’ll leave that one alone for now.”

“Good call.”

Ryan brought us down a couple blocks away from the incident, landing in a field behind a middle school, and once we got out of the plane, I flew us to the scene. I set him down and he held his stun guns out, firing at the two assholes in matching red leather costumes practically before he touched the ground. Both fell to the ground, stunned, and the crowd seemed to immediately calm down. I collared the red leather guy closest to me and Ryan took care of the other, and then we went through the crowd of people who had been shopping at nearby stores or pumping gas at the gas station, and then been overtaken by the urge to kick the ass of the next person they saw.

One teenage girl was sporting a bloody nose, and I took some clean gauze out of my first aid pouch and handed it to her. She pressed it to her nose to stop the bleeding.

“Thanks,” she said in a muffled voice.

“Sure. Can you tell me what happened?”

She nodded. “I was at work in the ice cream place over there,” she said, nodding across the street. “And I came out to clean up some litter in front of the shop. And then those two guys got out of that car over there,” she said, and I followed her gaze to a red SUV. It perfectly matched the red leather of their costumes.

“They definitely had a theme going, huh?” I asked.

“Tacky,” she said, and I agreed.

“So you came out and saw them. Then what?”

She looked at me as if really realizing who she was talking to.

“Holy crap! You’re Daystar!”

“Uh huh. So what happened?”

“Oh. Uh. It got kind of weird and confused for a while. I noticed the guys just kind of standing there, and then people started fighting out of nowhere. My manager came out to check on me and I kicked him in the nuts.” Her eyes widened and she put her hands over her mouth. “Oh, shit. I kicked my manager in the nuts. I am so fired.”

“Well, that depends. Did he hit you back?”

“Nah, he started fighting the manager of the pizza place next door.”

I shook my head. “Then I’m sure he’ll understand, if he even remembers at all. And if he fires you, call me and I’ll come talk to him.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” I stood up. “Thanks for your help.” I walked around some more, talked to a few more people. Our two mind controllers or whatever they were were still stunned, cuffed, and collared on the ground under Ryan’s watchful eye.

“Yeah, it sounds a lot like what happened at the arena,” I said, and he nodded. “I want to talk to these two. Portia and Amy don’t usually let me in the rooms, but these two must know something.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “There’s no ‘letting’ you into the rooms or not. You want to be there, be there.” He hoisted one of the guys up, and I picked up the other one. We got them into the two extra seats in the mini jet, one next to mine and one behind. We each shackled them in and double-checked the dampeners and cuffs.

“I know that,” I said, continuing our conversation. “I also don’t want to step on Portia’s toes more than necessary.” I got into my seat and strapped in.

“If she doesn’t understand that you need answers more than you need to be diplomatic, that’s on her, not you.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her that,” I said. He took off and we flew toward Command. When we got there, we took the two red leather thugs to the detention facility and stood by as Samantha and her team got them settled in. Samantha had taken over for Marie, who had been my friend and ally in overthrowing Alpha. Luckily for us, Samantha was just as capable and friendly as her predecessor had been.

“Do your thing now before Portia and Amy get here. I’ll distract them,” Ryan murmured.

“How are you going to distract them?” I asked.

He opened the door to the cell of the first red leather guy. “I can be very distracting when I want to,” he said. “Try to make it quick.” He walked away so he could intercept Portia and Amy, and I turned to the first guy. Samantha had removed his mask, and the mask of the other guy, and we’d been not completely surprised to discover that they were twins. Thin, tall, with longish blond hair. They kind of had a 1980s rocker look about them that made it really hard to take them seriously. I was already starting to think of them as Thing One and Thing Two. Which was stupid, but I had a feeling it would stick.

It was because of the hair, I think.

“Okay, Thing One,” I said. “You two were at the stadium yesterday, too. What’s the story?”

He just smirked at me.

“Just so you know, we’re starting with the bad cop this time. What are you doing working with Raider and her crew?”

“Raider who?” he asked with a smirk, and I sent a quick punch at him, sending his head rocking back.

“That was a warning. What’s Raider’s play? Why the stadium.”

“You are fucking nuts, you know that?” he shouted, flexing his jaw.

“So I’ve heard. Talk.”

“The stadium thing was to get your attention.”

“StrikeForce’s?”

“She doesn’t give a fuck about StrikeForce. She wanted
your
attention,” he said.

“Why?”

The little shit actually rolled his eyes and I kind of wanted to hit him again.

“So you and Thing Two over there. Mental manipulation?”

“Pretty sweet, huh?”

“Where is she?”

He laughed. “You seriously think I know that? I’m a nobody. No one other than maybe Maddoc and Daemon and the big man himself know where she is when she’s not taking care of shit.”

I felt my hackles rise just hearing a reference to Killjoy. “Yeah? And any idea where the ‘big man’ is?”

“I don’t know. We don’t see him anymore. He’s pissed, though. You are in deep shit, lady.”

“Yeah, I’m trembling. You got a name?”

“Like I’d tell you. I know what happens when someone finds out what your secret identity is,” he said.

“Yeah. So do I,” I said, just as Portia and Amy walked into the room.

“She totally punched me,” Thing One said to Amy and Portia, who both looked at me.

“It was a love tap. He works for Raider, who is working with Killjoy, just as we suspected. I wasn’t able to get much more than that out of him. Other than that he has people he wants to protect. He’s keeping that secret identity close to the chest.”

“Thank you, Daystar,” Portia said, looking more than a little irritated. “We’ll take it from here.”

“Also, that’s his brother, obviously,” I said, nodding my head toward where Thing Two was being held. “So we have someone who matters to him if we think he’s not being compliant enough.” I watched him, and he paled at that.

“Out, Daystar,” Portia said, and I looked at Thing One for a moment before stepping out into the hall where Ryan was waiting.

“Thank you,” I said to him as we walked toward the elevator.

“Find out anything helpful?”

“Only that they work for Raider. She wanted my attention. And she works for Killjoy, for sure. And he doesn’t want us digging into his secret identity.”

We stepped onto the elevator and Ryan hit the button for my floor. “So you went straight to ‘bad cop,’ I’m guessing,” he said after a while.

“I have no patience for these dipshits anymore,” I said.

“I know. And I got a message right before Portia and Amy showed up. I think our pals found something,” he said, ducking closer to me. “I think we should all try to get out and grab a bite to eat later,” he said in a more normal voice.

I nodded. “We should definitely do that. I could go for something other than the dining hall stuff.”

“Good. I think Jenson’s off at nine.”

“Perfect.” The elevator stopped on my floor and I got off and started heading toward my suite.

“You want another massage before I leave?” he asked, and I glanced back at him, holding the elevator doors open.

“Don’t tempt me,” I said. “See you later.”

He laughed, then let the doors close, and he was gone. I shook my head and let myself into my suite. Sleep. Sleep sounded really good just now, and I had a few hours to hopefully get some sleep and maybe take a long shower to soothe my aching muscles before our dinner meeting. As I flopped down onto my bed, my last thought before drifting off to sleep was that I should have taken Ryan up on that second massage.