Another Piece of the Puzzle: More Stories

By Scott H. Young

ANOTHER PIECE OF THE PUZZLE is the latest book of stories bringing my unique, original universe to readers.
I have dubbed my book series: Scott Young's Infinite-verse!

ANOTHER PIECE OF THE PUZZLE builds on the foundation of my first 2 books. These six stories take you to places you've never been and are sure to thrill you. Of course, you can still read these stories without knowing the others. I deftly reintroduce the main characters, show their motivations and get the reader up to speed on what's already happened...and I do it without boring anyone who's already read everything.

Six original adventures, combining existing storylines while introducing all-new characters, who will play integral parts in
what's to come. Their tales weave together to create a bigger, more complex, over-arching story sure to knock your socks off!

See the human/vampire hybrid, Bloodlust meet the mercenary duo, Hardline and Beauty!
Witness the government sanctioned Power Elite cross paths with the magical Lightbringers!
Marvel as members of The Blessed face off against the super-powered teens in The Secret Society of Superheroes!
Plus, you'll gain a greater understanding of what the Gathering of the Seven means for the fate of humanity!

It's a roller-coaster, rocket ride of suspense, chills and excitement! Take the journey with me!

This collection of engaging and electrifying stories will leave you wanting more. There's something for everyone!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098325985

Scott H. Young

Scott Young is the Wall Street Journal bestselling author of Ultralearning, a podcast host, computer programmer, and an avid reader. Since 2006, he has published weekly essays to help people learn and think better. His work has been featured in the New York Times, Pocket, and Business Insider, on the BBC, at TEDx, and other outlets. He doesn’t promise to have all the answers, just a place to start.

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to real scenarios or character histories is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Paragon, Lionheart, Hardline, Beauty, Lucifer Luongo, Incognito, Rubberband Man, Free Spirit, Copycat, Aftershock, Mr. Monster, Barricade, Gossamer, Hitchhiker, Deluge, Secret Society of Super-heroes, Bloodlust, Discord, Façade, Rebel, Interface, Ecstasy, The Blessed, Astra Luna, Gale Force, The Mariner, Caliburn, Djinn, Crucible, The Lightbringers, Maximum, Mother Earth, Joy, Bliss, Darkling, Storyteller, Angora, Proton, Rocket-Launcher, Bonfire, Zephyr, Landslide, Dr. Millennium/The Yesterday Man, Scott Young’s Infinite-verse and all related designs, descriptions and visual representations copyright 2020 by Scott Young

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781098325985

Copyright © 2020 by Scott Michael Young. All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.

For Rebecca,

my favorite person in the world.

You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.

"To me, writing is fun.

It doesn’t matter what you’re writing,

as long as you can tell a story."

                                                                              -Stan Lee

Contents

A THIN LINE

A LITTLE BIT ME, A LITTLE BIT YOU

BLOOD AND GUTS

A METHOD TO THE MADNESS

DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF

I BELIEVE IN YESTERDAY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CREDITS

A THIN LINE

Thank you for accepting my invitation. I’m elated we can spend this time together.

Joshua Constantine smiled broadly, sending a chill down his guest’s spine. There was no congeniality in the facial expression, only restrained rage and malevolence. The billionaire walked to the nearby custom-designed Michael Weatherly corridor bar, opening the left door to peruse the assorted spirits. A Remy Martin Black Pearl Louis XIII Cognac in a Baccarat decanter was selected. Before pouring, he turned back to his visitor.

Would you care for a drink? he asked with mock sincerity. No? Suit yourself. He smiled wistfully while filling a Waterford crystal snifter halfway and holding it under his nose to take in the delicious bouquet. If you’ve never savored the Black Pearl, you’ve not yet lived.

The impeccably dressed man sat in a stylish, Foretti Bergere armchair. The sunlight streaming through the large window behind him bathed the area in an incongruent heavenly glow. Joshua smirked with self-satisfaction, fixing his impossibly blue eyes on the figure across from him. Constantine casually sipped his drink, swirling the remaining cognac after each offering as he studied his guest with equal parts admiration and loathing.

You can’t imagine how long I’ve waited for this meeting, he said with a far-away look, his mouth slightly open with his tongue gently resting on the bottom part of his upper lip. I truly hope it will equal my expectations. He raised his glass in a toast, hunger in his eyes. I’m sure if we make an effort, our time together will be extraordinary.

The billionaire’s unwilling guest struggled against the restraints with rage-fueled strength, determined to break free and wipe that smug look off his face. The titanium reinforced shackles held firm, and after a moment, the struggles ceased.

You shouldn’t overexert yourself, Joshua said. It’s going to be a long night…you can trust me on that. And I’m counting on you to live up to your reputation. He narrowed his eyes. I’d love a personal demonstration of that amazing stamina the newspapers endlessly extol.

Constantine touched a button on a nearby remote, sending 1500 volts of electricity through his guest’s heavily-fortified chair for five seconds, causing an involuntary, anguished scream. The air filled with ozone as the deranged billionaire hit the activator, again and again, testing the limits of the previously mentioned stamina. The electrical onslaught singed the ends of the visitor’s long hair, causing the room to fill with the unmistakable and unpleasant odor of burnt follicles which stopped the barrage momentarily. The torture victim’s breath came out in raspy, agonized grunts, putting a satisfied grin on Constantine’s face.

Unnngh…I-I’m gonna make you…nnnhnnn…p-pay for this.

Yes, I’m sure you would, given a chance, Constantine countered. I have no doubt you’d use all the marvelous gifts at your disposal to exact a measure of revenge against me, as you’ve done with all your adversaries. But I’m sorry. I simply can’t allow it. The billionaire solemnly shook his head back and forth, studying the effects of his words, and the electricity, on his captive audience of one.

After a few moments, he stood and straightened his suit jacket before crossing to the bar to refill his glass. As he poured the liqueur, a buzzer sounded on the nearby intercom, followed by a feminine voice, Mr. Constantine, sir? Your guest has arrived. I’ve shown him to the conference room as requested.

Thank you, Miss Jennings, Joshua replied, pushing the small red button on the intercom. I’ll be along momentarily.

The sadistic businessman went to his desk, grabbing a small briefcase from the space underneath and placing it on top. He opened it, checked the contents and closed the case once more before moving toward his reluctant guest.

"As I said, I can’t allow any of your usual…heroics while I’m away, so please forgive this interruption, he said, taking a small syringe from his interior suit pocket and removing the protective cap. I’ll return just before you awaken." He injected the hypodermic needle under his captive’s jawline. Constantine then moved back to the desk, retrieved the briefcase and quickly walked out of the office. The shackled prisoner was unconscious before the door closed.

*                  *                  *                  *

Three days earlier, just after midnight, a lone figure huddled on a rooftop near N. Basin Road in Queens, New York. He adjusted the eye lenses in his custom-made facemask to telescopic, night-vision mode, surveying a nearby warehouse with growing trepidation. The international freighter finished docking at the 11th Street Basin over twenty minutes ago. Two dozen men were now busy unloading a significant drug shipment for Jimmy Moon-Boy Mooney, the head of the city’s Irish Mob contingent. The onlooker silently made his way to the opposite corner of the roof for a better vantage point, making sure to stay low and in the shadows.

As he arrived on the other side, he saw movement in his peripheral vision, turning quickly to confront any would-be attacker. The rooftop was empty, but the cautious man still felt uneasy, as if someone was watching him. He knew from experience to trust his instincts, scanning the surrounding area with every setting on his lenses: night vision, heat-sensitive, x-ray, ultrasonic and radar. Nothing. Just to be safe, he placed three small motion detectors behind him before turning his attention back to the dock and adjoining warehouse.

Nicholas Hart surveyed the tableau unfolding below with rising tension, his upper lip curling in disgust. He’d spent almost three weeks getting intel on this shipment and devising the plan to disrupt it. It was, by far, the best chance to cripple Moon-Boy’s smuggling and drug-running operations. It might be months, maybe years before another opportunity to inflict this much damage in one fell swoop presented itself. And he didn’t have that kind of time. Hart raised his head, surveying the surrounding rooftops, hoping to see his partner nearby. The cautious man knew there was no way to take out two dozen men by himself. The most he’d ever done was eight, and that was hardly a cakewalk, leaving him with cracked ribs and a mild concussion. Where are you? he whispered, closing his eyes. The determined man tried to calm the turmoil inside, but his mind wouldn’t cooperate, involuntarily replaying the tragic events which made this mission so vitally important to him.

Nicky grew up in Canarsie, Brooklyn, the only son of Eddie and Debra Hart, two middle-class people, living in a middle-class neighborhood, enjoying their middle-class life. Eddie and Debra were high school sweethearts, and even after twenty-seven years of marriage, their eyes still lit up at the sight of each other. Eddie ran a local auto glass shop while Debra worked part-time at Schlotski’s Delicatessen. They had a lovely split-level home in a good area with neighbors they liked and trusted. The local public school was only a few blocks away and there was even a church right around the corner. Everything seemed perfectly set-up in their idyllic, little world. The Hart’s doted on their son, doing everything they could to make sure Nicky had a carefree, happy life. And it was happy too, filled with laughter and love. That is until Jimmy Mooney came to town.

Mooney was a low-level thug back in those days, working his way up through the Irish syndicate by generating protection money for his employer, Boss Conor O’Malley. Jimmy was dedicated, creative and vicious in his duties, not afraid to break the occasional storefront window or kneecap to get his point across. Before long, the entire neighborhood feared the roar of his ‘68 Chevelle’s engine, knowing terror and pain followed in its wake. Moon-Boy was infamous for his short fuse and demanded total compliance. He didn’t like backtalk or trouble-makers. When Eddie Hart repeatedly refused to pay up, the ambitious thug decided to use the auto glass man as an example to show others what happens if you dared to defy him.

On the evening of June 17th, 2005, Discount Auto Glass, a neighborhood institution for over eighteen years, burst into flames with Eddie Hart and his fourteen-year-old son, Nicholas, still inside. Thanks to the wooden glass racks, various lubricants, sealants and other flammable materials, the place went up like a tinderbox. It was a raging inferno before the heat and smoke reached the back office, where Nicky was helping his father finish up for the day. Eddie was reconciling the business receipts, as he did at the end of every week before the boys met Debra for their traditional, Friday family fun feast at Pizza Heaven.

When the older man finally smelled something strange and opened the office door, a blast of heat and flame erupted into the tiny, twelve by twelve office knocking him off his feet. With his face and neck already blistered, Eddie managed to close the door, but the room was rapidly filling with noxious fumes, causing both Hart men to gasp for air. Knowing their time was limited because sooner or later the fire would reach the propane tanks behind the shop, Eddie devised a desperate plan. He wrapped his son in the dusty, old, floor rug, covering his body from just above the knees to his shoulders. He then made the boy don safety goggles before placing a metal bucket on the terrified teenager’s head. Finally, Eddie took the fire extinguisher and doused his son’s entire body with the flame retardant foam. As he began using the remainder of the small extinguisher on himself, Eddie Hart saw the tears running down the boy’s cheeks. He locked eyes with Nicky, reached under the bucket and took his son’s face in his hands, trying to give him the courage for what came next.

D-dad…I’m scared, Nicky said. I don’t…I don’t want to die!

Don’t worry, kiddo, Eddie replied, adjusting the bucket for maximum coverage. We’re gonna be okay. Get down on the floor. Once I open the door, wait for the initial blast to die down and then run as fast as you can. I’ll be right behind you all the way. Just head for the garage doors and don’t stop for anything. Just like you did in pee wee football. You remember that, right? Can you do that for me, Nicky?

Y-yeah, he said nervously, crouching down as low as the rug would allow. I’ll…I’ll try, Dad.

You’re gonna do great, Nicky, the older man said with a smile. Just remember, I love ya, kiddo.

I love you too, Dad.

Eddie used up the rest of the fire extinguisher on himself, barely covering half his body, before moving to the door. He raised his burned and raw left hand, holding up his index, middle and ring fingers. Eddie nodded at his son, and Nicky nodded back. With a conflicted smile, the older man counted down with his fingers, opening the door once he lowered all three. The heat and flames rushed in once more, instantly igniting the ceiling and desk and almost completely depleting Eddie’s protective layer. Nicky blindly rushed out, immediately running into the fire-ravaged workbench and falling to the ground. His father helped him up, the pain in his hands almost overwhelming him. He pointed his son in the right direction and pushed him along, trying to shield his own exposed flesh from the all-encompassing flames.

Nicky tried to hold the bucket in place, but it was too hot, scalding his fingers. It lowered to his eye line, forcing the safety goggles askew, further obscuring his vision. All he could do is run in a straight line and hope for the best. The twelve seconds it took to run through the garage were the longest of his young life, culminating with a terrified scream when he crashed through the flame-weakened, wooden garage door into the crisp, evening air before falling to the hard, concrete sidewalk. Realizing the rug surrounding him was on fire, Nicky quickly rolled out of it. He stamped out the flames on the floor covering before patting out a small flame on his pants leg. The teenager shook the bucket off his head and tried to remove the safety goggles, but they had started to melt from the intense heat. He took a deep breath and, with a mighty tug, removed the eye protection, pulling some skin and parts of his left eyebrow off with the plastic.

As he winced in pain, the terrified teen finally looked around for his father, but couldn’t see him. A small crowd had gathered near the burning building, afraid to come any closer. Flames completely eclipsed the front of the store, with thick, noxious plumes of smoke rising from the boy’s escape route, making it impossible to see inside. The seconds crawled by as Nicky tried not to think about his father, his hero, burning alive inside the glass shop. Then, a miracle! Eddie burst through the flames, his clothes on fire, stumbling to his hands and knees. Thinking quickly, Nicky took the rug and draped it over his father’s shoulders to smother the flames. The older man screamed in agony, most of his body burned badly from his ordeal. After extinguishing the fire, Nicky backed off. Eddie rose to his knees, shrugging off the floor covering. He cried out immediately, the brisk night air giving his scorched and melted flesh waves of unimaginable misery.

Somebody call an ambulance! Nicky shouted to the crowd. Please!

I called 9-1-1 as soon as I saw the flames, a man replied. They’re on their way, Eddie! Hang in there, man!

Nicky knelt in front of his father, trying not to hug him but giddy with joy they were both still alive. The boy locked eyes with the man who meant the world to him. They began laughing and crying simultaneously, their minds unable to deal with their conflicting emotions. Without warning, the propane tanks exploded, the concussive force knocking both men down. Nicky covered his head with his arms as the sky filled with flames, shards of glass and wood, other debris and billowing clouds of smoke. When his ears stopped ringing, he could hear the sirens of the fire trucks getting closer, knowing it was already too late to save the shop. The overwhelmed teen felt pressure on his legs and torso. Opening his eyes, he realized the explosion had thrown his father on top of him.

Dad! Dad, are you okay? Nicky screamed. Dad!

That’s when he saw it. A long shard of metal sticking out of Eddie Hart’s back, right below his left shoulder blade. Instinctively, the boy reached for it, but the sharp, molten metal both cut and burned his hand, causing him to scream. Nicky wormed his way free from his father’s weight just before a large piece of the remaining building collapsed, sending flames and embers everywhere. The shell-shocked teen grabbed his father under the right arm, trying to drag him away as he screamed for someone, anyone to help them. Two men braved the carnage to assist Nicky in pulling Eddie away from the still-raging fires. When they placed the auto glass man on the ground, his eyes snapped open, darting back and forth in a panic. His haggard breaths came in fits and spurts as he gasped for air. The man struggled to talk as he searched for his son’s face. When he found it, a look of relief crossed his face.

Nuh-Nuh-Niic… Eddie Hart wheezed.

I’m here, Dad, Nicky said frantically. Hold on, please, hold on.

Duh-doh-don’t… don’t… Eddie gasped as the first fire truck screeched to a halt near the front of what used to be Discount Auto Glass. The badly-burned and dying man turned to look at his business, a strange melancholy on his face as his life’s work, his legacy disappeared before his eyes. He then looked at his son and smiled, knowing his true legacy was going to be all right. As the EMTs rushed to them, the auto glass man reached for his son before his arm went limp, the light leaving his eyes.

Eddie Hart died in his teenage son’s arms that fateful Friday evening and life for Nicky would never be the same. The once happy-go-lucky teenager turned bitter, sullen and angry. It began during his father’s wake, where he openly challenged the other business owners in attendance to get justice for his father’s murder. Nicky pleaded with them to tell the police what they saw, what they knew: it was Jimmy Mooney who set the fire that killed his Dad. The other men and women sat in silence, unable to meet the boy’s gaze, ashamed of their cowardice but more afraid of sharing Eddie Hart’s fate if they spoke up. The heart-broken boy stormed out of the mortuary, vowing to take vengeance on those responsible. Two months after the funeral, Debra Hart, afraid for her son’s safety, took Nicky and moved to Ohio near her brother, Charles and his family. The young boy never forgave her for running away and desecrating the memory of his father.

On the day of his eighteenth birthday, Nicholas Hart enlisted in the Marines, determined to forge a new life and see the world. He vowed never to return home. Nicky excelled in his new career, earning every award a U.S. service member can achieve and quickly rose through the ranks. Before his twenty-second birthday, he joined an elite fighting unit comprised of Green Berets, Navy Seals, Army Rangers and Marine Raiders. They were the best of the best and given the codename: Victory’s Vanguard. In the ensuing years, Nick forged lifelong friendships and learned combat skills, the likes of which he never dreamed, becoming one of the most decorated heroes the armed services ever produced. He also saw the cost of war, terrorism, and the mechanism behind the military-industrial complex, giving the thoughtful, patriotic young man pause. Over a multitude of missions, he experienced corruption, callousness, and greed, finally seeing the world for what it is: a morally ambiguous, never-ending horror show where only the strong or unscrupulous survive. Upon his discharge, right after his twenty-sixth birthday, the Marine known as Nicholas Hart disappeared, utterly disillusioned and without purpose.

Ten months later, the man known as Lionheart made his first appearance in New York City, disrupting the protection racket of a low-level hood named Paddy Donegal in Park Slope, Brooklyn. The vigilante appeared like lightning, wearing specialized body armor featuring a distinctive lion head mask, complete with unique cats-eye lenses and flowing blonde mane. The dark blue and gold outfit, with its lion motif chest plate, tactical belt, titanium-reinforced knuckles and toes, was quite a startling sight. The strangely-garbed crusader elicited laughter from Donegal before the interloper drew his custom-designed crossbow on the thug. When the hood tried to run, Lionheart pierced his left calf with a titanium bolt. Then he was on him in a flash, breaking the enforcer’s jaw and beating him into unconsciousness with a viciousness that frightened the first-time crimefighter. After regaining his cool, he slapped Paddy awake so he could send his boss, Moon-Boy Mooney, the new head of the Irish syndicate, a personal message.

Tell Jimmy Boy the streets are no longer safe for his lowlife thugs like you, Paddy, the man who used to be Nicholas Hart told the battered hood. Tell him Lionheart is coming for him.

Since that night, Lionheart has waged a personal battle against organized crime in general and Jimmy Mooney in particular. Tonight’s operation could be the most significant salvo in that war, but its success or failure relied on Nick’s back-up. Come on, come on. Where are you? he whispered to himself as he looked around the rooftops once more, hoping to see his partner making her way towards his position. Despite their conflicting ideas on how to tackle the syndicate, she’d been steadfast and dependable once they devised a strategy. It wasn’t like her to be late. At least, he didn’t think so. After all, they’d only be working together for a relatively short time. He knew next to nothing about her except she was the most capable fighter he’d ever met.

After two interminable minutes, Lionheart saw her approaching the warehouse, out in the open and all by herself, completely disregarding any of the plans they’d agreed upon earlier. He cursed under his breath, changing his eye lenses back to regular viewing mode. With all eyes on her, the vigilante stood and snapped out his crossbow, planning to shoot a molybdenum reinforced cable to the ground below. Before he could fire, one of the motion detectors sent an alert to the visual display inside his mask. Nick Hart ducked and rolled to his left, firing the crossbow bolt in one motion. The arrow with the cable still attached struck something twenty feet away, hanging there suspended in mid-air, moving back and forth on its own. Thinking quickly, Lionheart took out one of his taser-discs and threw it at the area around the arrow. The disc hit, electrifying the area behind the crossbow bolt.

Suddenly, a male figure came into focus, completely covered in a strange silver and black outfit. The arrow protruded from his shoulder, blood beginning to seep around the wound. Nick rushed the man, knocking him out with one punch, thanks to his reinforced knuckles. When he removed the mask, he recognized the man. It was Leo Mannix, one of his former compatriots from the Vanguard unit. The befuddled vigilante heard gunfire from the docks, taking a quick look to see his partner engaging the two dozen Irish mobsters without him. He removed the crossbow bolt and quickly applied a field dressing to the puncture before zip-tying Mannix’s ankles and wrists.

Lionheart replaced the arrow, stood on the rooftop’s edge and fired to the ground below. He shot another arrow into the roof behind him, securing the cable to it before taking a leather strap from his belt, placing it over the wire and sliding the three stories to the ground, hitting and rolling with the impact. Lionheart was up and running toward the melee within a second, his long mane of hair flowing behind him. When he arrived at the scene, the vigilante’s partner was holding a goon off the ground with her left hand, about to deliver a knock-out punch with her right.

Paragon! Lionheart yelled. Watch your six!

The imposing woman turned, seeing two armed thugs about to shoot. She threw the terrified mobster at them with minimal effort, sending the three men careening ten feet into one of the heavy crates on the dock. They laid unmoving, knocked unconscious from the impact. She struck a defiant pose, almost daring the other thugs to try something. Paragon was six feet tall with a stunning physique, toned but not overly muscular. Her long brown hair, sharp green eyes, and long, shapely legs gave the heroic woman a breath-taking quality. When you added a form-fitting outfit that covered her arms and legs entirely but bared her midriff and shoulders, the thigh-high dark blue boots and the matching choker, she was the stuff of dreams. She even had a birthmark near her upper lip like Madonna or Marilyn Monroe.

Lionheart ran past the dispatched thugs, visually checking they were out of the fight, before notching another arrow and firing a concussive bolt into the crate where six other men had taken cover. After a moment, the charge exploded, sending the men flying in all directions, as a white cloud of heroin formed over the demolished container. The remaining men rushed the two vigilantes, as they assumed a back-to-back battle stance.

What happened? Paragon asked. Why’d you change the plan?

What? Lionheart responded. I was waiting on the roof like we agreed. Why’d you rush in with no strategy?

Paragon jumped in the air, somersaulting into a flying kick and taking out two goons. As she landed, she said, Because you told me to! You changed the plan…every part of it…or didn’t you send me those texts a half-hour ago?

I did not, Lionheart said, sidestepping a mobster and flipping him over his hip, causing the goon to land hard on his back. A haymaker made sure he wouldn’t be getting up. Obviously, somebody is fucking with us.

Haven’t I made my feelings clear… Paragon started before jumping in front of Lionheart to shield him from a barrage of gunfire. She looked over her shoulder at him, the bullets bouncing off her indestructible skin, as she finished saying, … about your incessant need to use foul language? She smiled at him.

Yeah, sorry, he replied with a chuckle. Give me a boost?

Absolutely.

Paragon laced her fingers together, crouching down slightly. Lionheart stepped into her hands and a second later, he was twenty-five feet in the air on the strength of his partner’s heave. He calmly notched an arrow and fired, then another and another, each bolt taking out a mobster before they could get off a shot. He landed expertly, like a skydiver, rolling and springing to his feet to take on another duo of goons.

Behind him, Paragon charged toward the last contingent of criminals. The thugs, knowing they were overmatched, began peeling off and running away. Without a sound, a missile hit right in front of the charging hero, the concussive force of the explosion hurtling her into the warehouse wall, cement and brick cracking from the impact. Paragon looked up from her prone position to see a man in a futuristic suit, walking toward her, each footstep making the loud, clanking sound of metal on concrete. The outfit was black, gold and silver. It looked like a weird, cannibalized version of a medieval knight’s armor, complete with a fully opaque, reflective face mask. As he got closer, she noticed vents, seams, and other compartments, which probably contained hidden weapons. The most apparent armaments were his upper extremities, where missile launchers encased both arms. They looked like a bizarre mixture of miniaturized pirate-ship cannons and advanced technology. A small tendril of smoke wafted from the aperture of the right one. The blue-clad woman shook the cobwebs out of her head, checking her lower lip for blood as she grinned at the newcomer.

Aren’t you a little high-tech for a bunch of Irish mobsters, Mr. Roboto? Paragon asked with a smirk.

These idiots? the man replied. I have nothing to do with them. They call me Rocket-Launcher, sweet cheeks…and I’m here for you.

Sorry, Paragon said, standing proudly. You’re just not my type.

The man didn’t respond. Instead, he raised his left arm to launch another missile. Before he could fire, a grappling hook encircled his arm and yanked it to the right, causing the projectile to hit the warehouse wall thirty feet above and to Paragon’s left. The already damaged façade crumbled immediately, burying the defiant woman under an avalanche of debris.

Paragon! Nick Hart yelled.

Thanks, pal, the mechanized villain said. I couldn’t have done it any better myself. He laughed heartily.

Laugh it up, Robo-cock, Lionheart said, removing three taser-discs from his belt. I doubt you’ll find this very funny.

He threw the discs, hitting Rocket-Launcher square in the chest, but they bounced off harmlessly. You’re right, he said, moving forward on his adversary. That wasn’t funny. Just kind of pathetic. He hit Lionheart with his arm, sending the surprised vigilante hurtling through the air. Just before he hit the ground, Paragon was there, having moved so fast neither man saw her. She caught Nick Hart, holding him in her powerful arms.

You okay? she asked.

Yeah, I’m fine, he replied with embarrassment, trying to squirm out of her grasp. Now, put me down!

She awkwardly complied as Rocket-Launcher fired two missiles consecutively, both heading directly for them. Paragon casually deflected the first, sending it to her left. It continued along that trajectory until detonating into the freighter. The ship exploded, fire and debris rising to the sky. Even before the first missile reached the vessel, Paragon caught the second one, as easy as a child catches a rubber ball. She swung it around before throwing it back at her armored foe. The explosive device struck directly in front of him, knocking the assassin back thirty feet. When he looked up, she was already there, using her incredible strength to crush the ends of both arm-launchers, ensuring any missile fired would explode inside his suit.

How-? was all he could muster.

Clean living and good thoughts, she replied with a smile before hammering him into unconsciousness with one punch, shattering his faceplate and bloodying his nose in the process.

The remarkable woman turned toward her partner. You okay, ‘heart?

Yeah, I already told you. I’m fine, Lionheart replied with annoyance, limping toward her slowly. He had his right hand over his left rib-cage, disputing the veracity of his statement. When he saw her look of concern, he conceded, I may have busted a rib or two. Happy?

Hap-? she said, confused. Why would I be happy you’re hurt?

I don’t know, why would you go out of your way to make me look like a…like a…aw, forget it. Just forget it, Lionheart said, walking away from her.

No, wait, she said, softer now, moving toward him. I don’t want there to be any problems between us. You must know how much I value your abilities and…you.

The forlorn vigilante stopped with his mind a torrent of alternating emotions. He wanted to apologize but couldn’t, unable to swallow his pride. A second later, he almost screamed at her for emasculating him like that. He’d planned this op, but he’d done nothing. Absolutely nothing. She had to protect him…three times! Lionheart looked at her, seeing the beauty and goodness radiating from her face, and suddenly, he felt very small and insignificant.

Please, talk to me, she said.

Nick heard sirens in the distance, giving him an excuse to avoid her knowing gaze. Listen, you may be a media darling and celebrated hero, but I’m still just a dirty vigilante wanted by Johnny Law. I gotta bolt.

I’ll deal with the police, she said. Will you at least let me tell them about your part in all this? Can I explain how you’re a hero, too?

No! Lionheart replied. I need to stay in the shadows to be effective. You take the glory. You deserve it more anyway. He turned away once more.

Tomorrow! she yelled. Meet me at the rendezvous tomorrow! Same time as today? Okay?

I’ll be there, he said, beginning to jog toward the rooftop where the night started for him. Good work tonight!

You too! she said, waving, hoping her partner would look back. When he didn’t, she picked up the fallen Rocket-Launcher and carried him with one arm toward the burning freighter.

Lionheart aimed while running, firing his grappling hook arrow to the edge of the rooftop before quickly ascending the building’s wall. Every movement brought new agony from his ribs, but he didn’t make a sound, scaling the façade in record time. When he alighted to the rooftop, he discovered Leo Mannix had vanished. Nick scanned the roof multiple times, even going so far as to set off a small smoke bomb to ensure his adversary wasn’t once again invisible or cloaked.

Once convinced his erstwhile comrade was gone, he gathered his paraphernalia before crouching near the corner of the roof once more. He stoically observed the arriving police interact with his current partner as he secured his motion detectors on his tactical belt. Paragon was the toast of the town, given all the courtesy and respect local law enforcement and state government could supply. He knew it shouldn’t bother him. It wasn’t even what he truly wanted, but he couldn’t help feel a tinge of jealousy. Deciding to put it out of his mind, the conflicted vigilante disappeared into the shadows, letting his more glamorous counterpart bask in the adulation of the masses.

Wow, Paragon, Detective Adami said. This place looks like a war zone, and you don’t have a scratch on you. The heroine shrugged as the officer surveyed the vicinity. This is a big haul. We’ve been trying to take down a shipment of Moon-Boy Mooney for a long time. Nice work.

I wish I could take all- Paragon started before remembering what her partner said. Thank you, Detective. I hope this is the beginning of dismantling the Irish Syndicate once and for all.

It’s a good start, for sure, Adami replied with a smile. He moved toward her and shook her hand. What happened to the ship?

It was the one in the high-tech armor. Calls himself Rocket-Launcher, she answered, rolling her eyes. He claimed to be working alone, not affiliated with the others. Don’t know if I believe him, but I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it once you get him into interrogation.

Oh, we’ll get him to talk, Adami said as he looked over his shoulder at multiple news vans pulling up and parking along the pier. Let’s get your statement out of the way. I get the feeling your adoring public will want a word…or a thousand. He chuckled good-naturedly, and Paragon smiled back, already tired of the song and dance but recognizing it as a necessary evil. Maybe I’d be better off as a mysterious vigilante with no police cooperation or favorable press, she thought to herself, as she took a quick peek back at the rooftop where Lionheart disappeared.

Almost ninety minutes later, after dutifully answering every question asked by the police, FBI and the gathered press, as well as taking several selfies with various reporters and officers, Paragon was ready to call it a night. She shook hands with the officers and agents in charge before waving to the press corps and turning to leave. Just then, a stretch limousine was allowed through the police barricade, stopping twenty feet from the beleaguered heroine. She waited to see if it was the Mayor or some other dignitary arriving for a last-minute photo-op. The chauffeur exited the vehicle, walked around the front before opening the right, rear, passenger door.

After a few moments, a man exited the limo, still talking on his cell phone. He removed his sunglasses, making eye contact with FBI Agent-in-charge Stuart Bauer, then immediately put up his index finger, wordlessly asking the agent to wait a moment while he finished his conversation. The obviously wealthy man was over six feet tall, with slicked-back blonde hair and dressed in a black, pinstripe, Armani suit, black, Ferragamo shoes and a red, silk tie. His solid gold cufflinks and top of the line Rolex sparkled in the dim evening light, giving him an even greater air of wealth and privilege. Paragon wondered who he was trying so hard to impress.

She started to walk away, unaware of his identity, but completely uninterested in finding out. All she wanted was some time to herself, a few hours out of the spotlight for a little peace and quiet. Plus, she was starving and wanted to get something in her stomach as soon as possible. Before she could get more than ten feet away, Agent Bauer called the heroine back, moving toward her after momentarily chatting with the newcomer. Not wanting to be rude to a member of the FBI, she sighed and returned to the gathering of law enforcement officers.

Paragon, I’m glad you’re still here, Bauer said in a soft voice. I’d like to introduce you to Joshua Constantine over there. He’s a big deal, owns most of the property in this area and wanted to extend his personal gratitude to you. He’s got a lot of pull in local government and a good person to have on your side if you get my meaning? Would you mind helping us out?

Of course, Agent, she said. Always happy to do my part.

They walked over to the impeccably dressed billionaire, who looked at the gathered press corps with disdain as he ran his hand over his overpriced suit, smoothing the jacket. Agent Bauer greeted Constantine first, attempting to schmooze the businessman, but the privileged man simply walked past him toward the heroine. To Paragon, this man seemed purposely rude, going out of his way to ignore everyone in his general vicinity. His supposed air of superiority was written all over his face. She wasn’t sure why but the exhausted crimefighter took an instant dislike to him.

Paragon, hello, he said with a big smile, showing perfectly capped and unusually white teeth. I’m Joshua Constantine. It’s a pleasure to meet you. He extended his hand.

Paragon shook his hand while replying, Nice to meet you, Mr. Constantine. I’m sorry there was so much damage to your properties during the encounter.

Oh, don’t give it a second’s thought, my dear, he countered, placing his other hand on their handshake. That’s why I have the best insurance money can buy. And please, call me Joshua. He smiled again, his eyes locked on hers, giving her the heebie-jeebies.

Okay, good to know. I’m glad it won’t be a problem for you, Paragon said congenially, breaking the handshake. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I nee-

No, wait, Constantine said, cutting her off. Please. He cocked his head slightly to the right with a wry smile. Please, allow me to show my profound gratitude. Perhaps over dinner? I’m sure even an impressive woman such as yourself needs to eat. I have standing reservations at every restaurant in Manhattan. What’s your pleasure?

Paragon hesitated, unsure how to respond without insulting him, but in no way interested in spending any time with this preening buffoon. I thank you for the gracious invitation, she said. But I couldn’t. I have…other matters I need…to…that need my attention. My apologies. She turned to walk away once more.

The billionaire rushed to the hero, grabbing her arm, causing Paragon to look at him through narrowed eyes. He removed his hand immediately. I suppose it’s my turn to apologize. I didn’t mean to invade your personal space, he whispered, leaning in. I simply wanted to say…if it’s the public nature of dining out that bothers you, I certainly understand. I myself am constantly bothered by onlookers and various hangers-on.

No, Mr. Constantine, she said, obviously annoyed. I enjoy meeting my fans.

Of course, of course. The billionaire smiled broadly, running his eyes up and down her body while rubbing his chin. He leaned in to say, We could always take my private jet to Maine for lobster or fly down to Baltimore for some delicious crab cakes. Or if you’d rather, I could set up something more intimate. Say, a private meal at my penthouse overlooking Central Park?

Thank you again for the offer, she replied without emotion. But as I said, I have other, more pressing concerns.

More-? he repeated, his face turning cold. A darkness took hold in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment before. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth, holding it on his left incisor for a moment. Suddenly, he took a step back, bowing. When he raised his head, he was all smiles again. Of course. I understand completely. You are a very busy woman, I’m sure. Perhaps another time?

Perhaps, she said uneasily. Have a good evening, Mr. Constantine. She turned and leaped into the air, covering hundreds of yards.

Call me Jos- Constantine began, but Paragon was long gone before he could finish. His face twisted in anger, fury filling his cobalt blue eyes. The billionaire closed those eyes for a brief moment, and when he opened them again, his countenance had changed once more. He turned back to Agent Bauer with a grin, glad-handing and complimenting everyone in attendance on a job well done. The press surged toward the billionaire, shouting questions as he walked back to his vehicle.

Mr. Constantine, are you and Paragon an item? Joshua, did Paragon rebuff your advances? Joshua, what did Paragon say when she turned you down? Constantine, any truth you’re going to be the new Bachelor: Superhero Edition? Most in attendance laughed at the last query, causing the annoyed businessman to pause, his anger rising quickly, before continuing to the limousine and disappearing inside without a word.

Where would you like to go, Mr. Constantine, sir? the chauffeur asked.

Home. Take me home.

Can you believe that guy? Agent Bauer said to Detective Adami. "Thinking he