“Mark, please, tell your people to stand down.” She wasn’t used to begging, but it was a surprisingly easy thing to do when it was the right thing to do, when it might actually help.
He paused, and she thought she was going to scream, waiting for him to answer. When he finally spoke, despair weighted his voice. “I’m not there. I’m listening to it on the radio.”
“I’ll call Chief Appleton,” she said. “Maybe he can do something.”
“No, I’ll call him. But if there’s any way you can get the Olympiad off the street, please try.”
“Okay, yes. Thank you, Mark. Thank you for calling.”
“Celia, I … take care.” He clicked off.
They needed to have a nice long talk. God only knew when that would happen.
She entered the command center in time to hear Suzanne say, “Arthur, thank God you’re here! And Celia—did you sleep well? Are you feeling better?” she called from her post at the communications terminal. She was in street clothes, though her skin suit showed under the collar of her blouse.
Her mother assumed she’d been in bed—here, in bed—all day. Maybe she and Arthur wouldn’t be discovered.
“Mark just called. He wants all you guys off the streets. The cops are ready for a standoff.”
Suzanne said, “Arthur, call Warren and Robbie in, we can’t risk a confrontation with the police.”
“I already contacted Warren. Robbie’s with him.”
“Are they coming back?”
“I don’t think so—” He cocked his head, listening to an unheard voice, sensing something ethereal. “Something’s happening.”
The city’s vigilantes and police force had avoided an outright battle for over twenty years. Forty, if you counted the Hawk’s tenure. Surely one wouldn’t erupt now.
Suzanne turned a dial that brought the volume up on the police radio. A voice crackled from the speakers.
“Shots have been fired, I repeat, shots have been fired. There’s been a flood, a wave of some kind, we have men down—”
TWENTY-SIX
SUZANNE returned from discarding her civilian clothes. She was Spark, now. When the costumes came out, they ceased being her parents and became the four-color heroes of legend.
“Suzanne, what do you possibly think you can do?” Arthur said.
“I don’t know.” Spark paced back and forth along the computer console. “I have to be ready. They might need me.”
The news channels had finally gotten cameras to the harbor area, though the police forced them to keep a wide berth. Pierson Street was completely flooded, as if a tidal wave had crashed in and scoured the place. No one had been killed outright, but two police officers were missing, and feared swept out to the harbor. Typhoon had disappeared during the confusion, and one officer reported seeing the Bullet—briefly.
Reports were mixed as to whether the police had fired at Typhoon before or after she released the tidal wave.
All Celia, Suzanne, and Arthur could do for the moment was watch the jerky, static-laden images from the news cameras, listen to the sensationalist commentary—talk of the superhumans gone rogue, of a new criminal mastermind taking over—and listen for the latest reports on the police radio.
Then Captain Olympus buzzed the Olympiad’s emergency line. The flashing red light made them all flinch; Spark pounded the button to reply.
“Yes, Captain, we’re here,” she said to the speaker.
“We’re coming up from the garage. We have injured.” He cut off the line.
Without comment, Spark ran to the back of the room and the elevator that led straight to the subterranean passage, where the Olympiad gained access to its hangar and vehicles. Arthur, more calmly, went to a supply locker hidden behind a secret panel that lay flush with the slick wall and removed a first-aid kit.
Celia waited by the table. She’d only get in the way if she tried to help. The injury couldn’t be serious—a graze, a twisted arm. There was only so much they could do with a first-aid kit. She liked to think if the injury were serious, her father would swallow his pride and go to the hospital. Take Robbie to the hospital—no way was Warren the injured party.
The elevator door hissed open. Captain Olympus exited first, assisting someone, a woman, her arm over his shoulder. Spark went to her other side to help, bringing her into the light. It was Typhoon, her blue suit damp and shining with water—and blood. The Bullet followed them to the table.