Hero

14 Calvin

The new executive assistant stares back at me as her teeth carve into her bottom lip. She’s not bad to look at, petite like Cataline with dark brown hair. I think it might be all right to turn her around and take her from behind. I lick my lips as I think about Cataline bent over the sharp lip of that desk, my hands bound by long strands of her silky hair.

Back upstairs in my office, I automatically pick up my desk phone when it buzzes. “Parish.”

“Master Parish, you’re needed on the East Side.”

“Go ahead,” I say, reaching for a pen and paper to scribble down Norman’s message. My staff is the scaffolding of my secret identity, and their most important job is making sure no call to our private, direct line goes unanswered. I’ve told them countless times that minutes can mean the difference between life and death.

“Where you off to today, Parish?” Hale asks when he enters the elevator.

My attempt at a smile is pathetic. I hate this motherfucker because he’s a shit person, and because he’s always sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. “Got a meeting.”

I shrug off his irritating attempts at conversation before exiting the elevator and heading for my car. Cataline doesn’t know, but I only started spending more time in the office when she was hired over two years ago. Most decision making is done by the board and the president of Parish Media, who was a friend to my parents and one of the few who knows the truth about Hero’s identity. He runs my company because he’s trustworthy, but what I pay him ensures he stays that way. Together, we manage as best we can what the city sees about Hero.

My car glides smoothly out of the underground garage, and I’m traveling toward my destination. There’s no time for a costume change or to switch cars, so I go as I am in my suit and tie. The seedy underbelly of New Rhone, also know as the East Side, is my most common playground. If I removed its entire population, something I’ve considered, New Rhone would be better for it.

I park the car and remove everything from my pockets, tossing the contents and my glasses under the passenger’s seat. From outside, the warehouse I’ve been directed to is still and quiet without a person in sight. I shield my eyes against the afternoon sun and scan the deserted lot on New Rhone’s outskirts.

The building is seemingly empty when I enter, but I immediately tune to hushed voices and shuffling feet in the maze of aisles. It’s not until I hit a clearing that people appear. I recognize the approaching men as Cartel members by their signature rose tattoos with “Riv” scripted across the middle. Having just murdered their leader and some of their crew, there’s no question what they want from me. I ball one fist into my other palm and crack my knuckles as the thrill of attack burns its course through my body. Today’s turning out better than I expected.

As if prompted by some silent cue, each of the five men draws a gun. “Where’s your costume?” one asks as they encircle me. “We were hoping for a Hero, not a yuppie.”

I relax my stance, my trained reaction to danger. The first shot rings out, catching me in the shoulder. I inhale deeply, drawing on the pain to fuel my anger—and smile. They look to each other as I advance. Two more shots are fired, one landing in my upper thigh and the other deflected as it comes at my head.

One yells in Spanish to slow down because they need me alive. I only laugh as I grab the two men nearest to me, easily lifting one in each hand by his shirt collar. Footsteps echo in the warehouse as someone I didn’t see runs for the door. My instincts will me to chase after him, and I know I should, but I’m salivating over what’s right in front of me. I launch one man into the nearest wall then seize the other’s head between both hands, snapping his neck with a satisfying crack. In the moments it takes me to kill both men, I hear shots outside.

The bullets I took are just starting to slow me down. The two biggest men grab each of my arms, pulling me back. The third slams his fist into my stomach. “Hijo de puta,” he curses, withdrawing quickly and cradling his hand. I kick him swiftly in the chest, sending him to the concrete, and rip one arm free. I use it to snatch a gun at my feet and shoot the three of them before they know what’s happening.

I tell myself I can catch the absconder, but it’s been too many minutes since he took off, and my body is weakening. I stop dead in my tracks though when I see the busted window of my car, the result of several bullets. The only thing missing from under the passenger’s seat is my wallet—and since it contains my identity, it’s the only thing of any real value.