Superhero Detective Series (Book 3): Killshot Read online

  KILLSHOT

  BOOK THREE OF THE

  SUPERHERO DETECTIVE SERIES

  By Darius Brasher

  Though this is a stand-alone novel which can be enjoyed without reading the other books in the series, you can check out the other books here:

  SUPERHERO DETECTIVE FOR HIRE

  THE MISSING EXPLODING GIRL

  HUNTED

  Click below to sign up for Mr. Brasher’s e-mail newsletter for exclusive information on his new releases. His novels are often sold at a discount for only a few days when they are first released. Newsletter subscribers are the first to be able to snap up these deals and discounts:

  DARIUS BRASHER’S NEWSLETTER

  Killshot Copyright © 2016 by Darius Brasher.

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition, Published March 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  EXCERPT FROM HUNTED

  EXCERPT FROM CAPED

  CHAPTER 1

  What was my name again? A superhero really ought to know his name.

  Though I seemed to have misplaced my name, I was definitely a superhero. Of that I was certain. I just woke up seconds before, lying on my back in a dark alley between two buildings that rose on either side of me like two mute giants. It was nighttime. Rain fell, a steady cold wetness that soaked my clothes and pounded my head like Chinese water torture. Instinctively, I made the rain stop hitting me. It was like I was suddenly enshrouded in an invisible force field. The rain hit it, trickling off onto the ground instead of giving me an unwanted and unappreciated bath. Then I increased the temperature of the water in my clothing and on my body, making it evaporate into a mist of steam with a slight hiss. I immediately went from being cold to warm. I was as snug as a bug in a rug. Well, as snug as a bug could be lying in an alley surrounded by other bugs, rats, and God only knew what else.

  So, I was definitely a superhero. I could control water, its movement, and its temperature. I was a hydrokinetic. I could come up with the word hydrokinetic, but not my own name. That was strange. Why was that? My head seemed like it was full of cotton. Thinking and dredging up memories took a concentrated act of will. Regardless of not being able to recall my elusive name, due to my powers, it was clear I was a superhero. Who other than superheroes had superpowers? Well supervillains, I guess, but supervillains were bad guys. I did not feel like a bad guy. I felt like a good guy. So, until I had evidence otherwise, I would assume I was a superhero.

  I felt myself grin foolishly. I was a superhero. Hot damn! I clung to the assumption gratefully. It was a life raft in a dark sea of hazy memories and uncertainty.

  Though I felt like a good guy, I was a good guy who did not feel good. My grin faded off my face as I started to realize how uncomfortable I was. The concrete under me was hard, as concrete worth its salt tended to be. I felt sick. And, despite the rain no longer hitting my head, my head pounded. Though it felt like it was packed with cotton, the cotton on the inside was not dulling the pain that started on the outside and radiated inward like spokes of a wheel. Sharp, pointy, jagged, throbbing spokes. My head felt like someone was taking a jackhammer to it.

  I sat up. It was a mistake. The world tilted, my stomach somersaulted, and my head felt like it was sliding off my shoulders like a house sliding off the edge of a cliff during a mudslide. I lay back down, panting. Though my head still hurt, the world stopped spinning after a bit. Better. I learned my lesson. I would stay lying down. Sitting up was overrated anyway. If it was so awesome, people would sleep sitting up. Screw sitting.

  I smiled up at the night sky with satisfaction. I had accomplished something. I had struck a mighty blow against sitting. If sitting were a supervillain, I had just smacked the crap out of him. Then I frowned. I was still lying in an alley. My nose and increasingly nauseated stomach were telling me the alley was full of rotting trash. As accomplishments went, taking a courageous stand against sitting while sprawled in a filthy alley was not on the same level as walking on the Moon or splitting the atom.

  How had I gotten here? The pounding of my head, the roiling of my stomach, the furry thickness of my tongue, and the sour taste in my mouth were my first clues. I had been drinking. Not only that, I had been drunk. I thought hard about that. My memory was hazy, my thoughts were sluggish, and my body felt like death warmed over. I concluded I still was drunk. How could that be, though? I had a vague but strong impression I did not drink. Drinking and having superpowers were not a good combination.

  It slowly started coming back to me. The memories flowed back like a dam springing more and more leaks. I used to not drink, past tense. But then a young Metahuman—a person with superpowers, that is—named Clara Barton had died a few months ago because of me. I had sought solace in a bottle. Well, it started off as a bottle. It had become a lot of bottles. So many, I had lost track of them all. I had quickly gone from Truman the Teetotaler to Truman the Tippler; from Lord the Lightweight to Lord the Lush.

  Wait. That was it. That was my name. Truman Lord. I remembered now. Sweet. Truman Lord, Mr. Lord, Señor Lord, Monsieur Lord, Lord-san. It was a nice sounding name in all the languages I could think of. I liked it. Did I also have a superhero alias, something like Water Wizard, or Hydro Man, or Rainmaker, or Drip?

  I frowned up into the rain falling from the heavens at the thought.

  Dear God, I prayed, please don’t let my code name be Drip.

  There was no response. Typical. I chewed on the notion of code names for a bit. It slowly, fitfully, dawned on me: I had superpowers, yet I only went by my real name. Though my head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton, it was getting less thick. Less like durable flannel, more like wispy cotton candy. My already sensitive stomach threatened to revolt at the thought of food. I assured my stomach the cotton candy was staying in my brain and not making its way south.

  Hunh. Not good. Not only was I lying in an alley talking to myself, I was talking to my stomach. What kind of weird-ass superhero was I? Schizophrenia Man?

  Like a light bulb had been flicked on, the answer soon came in a rush of memories. No code names or costumes or masks or capes or secret lairs or homoerotic sidekicks for me. No siree Bob. I wore regular clothes; I did not wear a mask or a cape, though most superheroes did; I did not have a secret lair, unless the condominium I lived in counted; I did not have a sidekick, homoerotic or otherwise; and, I went by my real name. And that real name was Truman Lord.

  So I knew my name and I knew I had no heroic al
ias. A step in the right direction. Not being named something lame like Drip was another fifteen steps in the right direction.

  I sat up despite the strenuous protests of my body. A private detective and licensed Hero really ought not lie in a filthy alley. I remembered that too, now. I worked as a private detective. And, I was not merely just a superhero. I was a licensed Hero, one of a small number of well-trained Metahumans who were permitted to use their powers because they had sworn to use them for the public benefit. Me using them for the public benefit was how I had wound up in this alley, I now remembered.

  I had been walking home in the wee hours of the morning to my Astor City condo after drinking more than I could remember in a bar. I had heard someone cry for help. A young woman was being dragged into an alley up ahead by two men. Being an intrepid Hero, I had rushed to help her. Though it would be embarrassing enough to say the two men had overpowered me, that was not what had happened. Being a drunk intrepid Hero, I had tripped on something in the alley before I had even gotten to the men. I had fallen, hitting my head on something hard. I now touched the back of my head with my hand. Sure enough, it came back bloody. Falling was the last thing I remembered before waking up in the rain a few minutes ago.

  I looked around. The two men and the woman were gone now. God alone knew what had happened to her. Some Hero I was. I should have used my private detective skills to track the men down and seen if they needed help robbing a bank as well. Though I did not feel up to driving their getaway car, perhaps I could hold the bags of money for them.

  How long had I been lying here? I looked at my watch. I blinked several times, not being able to focus enough initially to see it. The fact it was not on my wrist hindered that. It was gone. I patted myself down with unsteady hands. So were my cell phone and wallet. Great. Had my gun been stolen too? I thought about that for a moment. No, I had not been carrying it. I had been smart enough to not pack heat when I had started out on the town many hours before. Thank goodness for small favors.

  Though I did not know the exact time, there was little doubt it was time to get up. I struggled to my feet. The world spun. Sitting up had been bad enough; standing up was more than my stomach could take. I threw up. I puked so hard I would have regurgitated my socks and shoes had I still had them on. Apparently they had been stolen, too. My socks? Really? The shoes I could wrap my head around, but what kind of filthy degenerate stole a man’s socks? The next time I got drunk and knocked myself out in an alley, I would have to be sure to do it around a better class of criminals.

  I finished throwing up what felt like every meal I had since birth. Ugh! The aftertaste of my throw up was enough to make me gag. How about making sure there is no next time you get drunk, Captain Vomit? I thought.

  I still had on my jeans and white dress shirt. The former was splattered with dirt and now vomit. The latter was a kaleidoscope of colors, none of which were white. I faintly remembered having started the night off in a checkered sports coat. It was, of course, now gone. It would have been an insult to my fashion sense to have my socks stolen but my nice sports coat left behind.

  Nature called. Urgently. I unzipped my pants, fumbling clumsily in my haste to pull myself out before I had an accident. I pulled my penis out through the fly of my pants and underwear in the nick of time. My urine stream added to the fetid wetness of the alley. Though I seemed to have lost my dignity along with my shoes, socks, jacket, phone, watch, and wallet, I still had my underwear on. So that was something. If I went around wearing my underwear as outerwear as some other Heroes did, perhaps I would not have been so fortunate. Someone would have stolen it for sure. So it was a good thing I did not wear a costume. Who needed to fight crime dressed like a trick-or-treater anyway? Not this guy.

  My seemingly limitless stream of pee made me remember how much drinking I had done that night. The bar I had been in had to throw me out at closing time. The employees had not had an easy time doing so. I was a big boy at a shade over six feet, two inches tall and over two hundred pounds. I was a former mixed martial arts fighter and current Hero. Throwing me out of anywhere when I was not cooperative was not an easy task. Even though I was still drunk, I felt a flush of embarrassment at my behavior that night, all of which culminated in me puking and peeing in a filthy alley like a feral dog with a stomach virus.

  I thought before I had lost my dignity. No one had made me drink. So no, I had not lost my dignity. Nor had it been stolen. I had given it away.

  My bladder finally emptied. I tucked myself away and zipped up. Concentrating mightily to keep myself upright, I staggered out of the alley back onto the street’s sidewalk. At least I had the decency and good sense to get drunk in my home city, Astor City, Maryland. This was McAdams Street. Home was just blocks away. Astor City was one of the biggest cities in the United States. It was a bustling metropolis that never completely went to sleep. So whatever the exact time was, it clearly was still very early in the morning as only a few cars were on the road and even fewer people were on the street.

  Despite the throbbing of the painful gash on the back of my head and having thrown up, I was still very much drunk. Each step I took required will and concentration. I turned left on McAdams. It was still raining steadily. None of the rain was hitting me, though; I was still using my powers to keep it off of me. I walked almost an entire block. Something was wrong. I peered around. Things did not look right. The Jeffersonian building was on my left. Normally when I walked home on McAdams Street, the Jeffersonian was on my right. What a dirty trick to move an entire building just to confuse me. The work of supervillains no doubt. Crafty bastards.

  No. Wait. The building had not been moved. I was walking the wrong direction. I turned around. It took longer than it really should have. I might have spun in a circle a couple of times. Not sure though. Eventually the Jeffersonian was on the correct side. All was right in the world. I apologized for slandering the good names of supervillains needlessly. I promised myself I would make amends by buying the next supervillain I saw a drink. I resumed walking. Though I looked, I spotted no supervillains. Shame. I kinda wanted another drink.

  A bus drove by, sending sheets of water flying onto the sidewalk. I heard someone singing:

  “The wheels on the bus go round and round,

  Round and round,

  Round and round.

  The wheels on the bus go round and round,

  All day long.

  The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish,

  Swish, swish, swish.

  Swish, swish, swish.

  The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish,

  All day long.”

  I suddenly realized I was the one who was singing. The microscopic part of my brain that was somehow still sober and already horrified by my behavior was further mortified.

  Stop that! that part of my brain said.

  Shut up! You’re not the boss of me! the rest of me responded. I continued singing loudly as the falling rain around me provided a counterpoint.

  I remembered it all, now. I was Truman Lord, licensed Hero and private eye.

  And I was a mess.

  CHAPTER 2

  About a week after I woke up in the alley, I sat in my office one morning drinking scotch and thinking somber thoughts. I was probably about half an hour from being drunk when a supervillain walked in.

  “Hello Truman,” the middle-aged man said politely as he stood just inside the doorway of my downtown Astor City office. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? I need your help.” His manicured hand sporting a gold wedding band rested on the knob of my open office door. The name of my business, “Truman Lord, Private Investigations” was spelled out in metal letters on the top half of the wooden door. I had wanted to add “Licensed Superhero, Professional Gumshoe, Enthusiastic Butt-Kicker, Renowned Humorist, and All-Around Swell Guy,” but the man who installed the letters on the door had told me there was not enough room on the door for all that. He had not shared my artistic vision. Nor had he t
hought I was funny. I got that a lot.

  I had the impression the man now in my doorway would back out of my office gracefully and close the door behind himself if I told him I was too busy to talk. His appearance and how he held himself had changed in the years since I had last seen him. His light brown hair was expensively cut and carefully styled. He was dressed in a well-tailored, conservative, navy blue suit and a buttoned-down, French cuff shirt that was as white as an angel’s wings. He also wore dark brown leather shoes that gleamed with polish and a red tie with a subtle checkered pattern on it. Everything about him conspired to whisper money. He looked more like a candidate for the United States Senate than a supervillain.

  Politeness, grace, and being well-dressed were not what I remembered about the man standing in my doorway. What I remembered was the man had been clad in a garish yellow and blue costume as he ran out of Astor City Central Bank years before clutching two bags full of stolen money. I also remembered the look of surprise in his eyes when I grabbed him by his flowing white cape, threw him to the ground, and then choked him unconscious. I later learned his name was Ares. In addition to being stronger than the average human, Ares had the Metahuman ability to create any known weapon out of thin air. Low-level, super strong Metahumans like Ares could be physically overpowered readily enough if you caught them off guard and you were skilled enough in jujitsu to knock them out before they could bring their superior strength to bear. I had been a freshly licensed Hero at the time. The oath I had sworn at my Hero swearing-in ceremony to promote public safety and to keep the peace had still been ringing in my ears. I saw it as my duty to fight crime wherever I found it, especially when it took the form of a supervillain running past me as I entered my bank. Besides, if I had let a supervillain rob my own bank right under my nose, my colleagues in the Heroes’ Guild would have never let me hear the end of it. Plus, some of the money Ares had been trying to steal might have been mine. Unlike Ares, I could not create bullets out of thin air. Gun ammunition was not cheap, and I had been a young Hero on a budget.