Pennyworth hesitated then vehemently nodded.
“What you’re doing, your intentions are good,” Bill stressed. “Misguided, but good.”
Pennyworth sat up a little straighter, his chest puffing out with hope and maybe a touch of pride.
Then Bill’s next words deflated him quicker than a tire punctured by a five-inch nail. “But you’re liable to get yourself and these women you think you’re protecting killed.”
“But, I—”
“No.” Bill held up his hand. “No buts. You don’t have the training or the physical stamina to fight off an attacker if one were to actually go after any of these women. If you tried, you’d undoubtedly just make a bad situation worse. You want to be a real superhero?”
Again Pennyworth nodded.
“Then lose some weight. Take some defense classes. And volunteer at a shelter for abused women.”
Pennyworth recoiled, frowning fiercely. “But I want to wear the suit,” he pointed down at his ridiculous outfit. “And I want to—”
Bill cut him off by shaking his head exasperatedly, turning to Mac and saying, “I tried.”
“I know you did,” Mac replied, fighting a smile.
“Now let’s get the hell out of here before I sock him one just for being a smelly moron.”
Mac rolled in his lips, nodding for Eve to precede them out the front door. He’d just stepped over the threshold when he heard Bill add, “And if I were you, Dale, I wouldn’t waste my time calling this in and reporting it. Not only am I best buds with some pretty powerful folks in the police department, but I also have a clean record. The same can’t be said for you. So let’s not get into a your-word-against-my word thing, huh?”
“N-no,” Mac heard Pennyworth sputter. “O-of course not.”
Tromping down the stairs and piling into the Hummer took barely a minute, but the three of them were silent for a long time after Bill cranked over the big engine and put the vehicle in gear. Then, finally, while stopped a red light, Bill muttered, “For shit’s sake, is it just me, or is that guy more than a French fry or two short of a McDonald’s Happy Meal?”
And Mac couldn’t hold it in any longer. He started laughing so hard he had to grab his stomach. “No, no,” he shook his head when he could finally speak, wiping away a tear. “It’s not you. I have a feeling there’s a manifesto hidden somewhere in all his junk, but instead of rantings and ravings, it’s filled with stories of him roaming the streets of Chicago, saving helpless damsels in distress from imagined fiends.”
“It’s not funny,” Eve muttered from the back seat.
“Yeah,” Mac nodded. “It really is.”
“No, it’s not,” she insisted. “Because this means my would-be killer is still out there.”
And that sobered him instantly.
Black Knights Inc. Headquarters
10:24 p.m.
“What fresh hell is this?” Bill grumbled as he pulled up to BKI’s big iron gates only to find a Chicago Fox News van blocking the way.
Why in God’s name hadn’t Toran warned them of the waiting ambush so they could reenter the compound through the secret river tunnel? He glared at the man sitting in the guardhouse even though he knew Toran couldn’t see him through the Hummer’s tinted windows. And then it occurred to him…
He and Mac had set their phones to “silent” before following Delusional Dale down the block. Digging into his hip pocket, he yanked out his iPhone and…sure enough. He had three missed calls and two waiting text messages. All from Toran…
Can’t a guy catch one friggin’ break today! Is that too much to ask?
Apparently. Because Kristin Avery, Fox’s bottle-blond news reporter turned in their direction and began marching toward the Hummer with a microphone in hand and cameraman following close on her designer heels.
“I thought you said Samantha Tate gave up when she couldn’t convince you to have Eve come out and answer her questions,” Mac muttered, as Bill slammed a palm down on the Hummer’s horn. The loud hooonnnkkk didn’t do much in motivating the news van to move.
“I guess she was just gathering the troops,” he growled, suppressing the urge to jump out of the SUV and shove that microphone straight into Kristin Avery’s ear. Rolling down the window, he yelled at the approaching television reporter. “Get the hell out of the way! You can’t block entry to a place of residence!”
“I just have a few questions for Eve Edens!” Ms. Avery called breathlessly when she crossed the final few feet. She didn’t hesitate to stick the mic through the open window, angling it toward the back seat. “Bernard, can you get a shot?” she asked the bulky black behemoth who was her cameraman.
“Getting a partial,” Bernard responded, his camera lens jutting through the open window, barely an inch from Bill’s cheek.
Bill had never considered himself necessarily bloodthirsty—yes, he’d killed in the name of the flag and freedom, but, despite what he’d boasted to Dale, he’d taken no joy in it—but he would be surprised if the smile that spread across his lips at that moment didn’t come complete with a set of fangs.
“You better get that goddamned camera out of my face before I shove the entire thing up your ass,” he growled. And even though Bernard must’ve been used to threats in his line of work, his expression said he knew this particular warning wasn’t an idle one.
Kristin Avery missed it though, as she was too busy shouting questions at Eve. “Are you seeing one of the mechanics who works here, Miss Edens? Is there romance in the air? Or have all your recent misfortunes led you to seek the comfort of a place that boasts twenty-four-hour surveillance? And, if so, what does your father have to say about that?”
“No, no, no, and who the fuck cares what Patrick Edens thinks?” Bill answered for Eve as his ulcer began spewing acid. He ignored the urge to reach for his travel-sized bottle of Pepto. “She’s simply here visiting friends. Friends who are sick and tired of watching her get hounded by the motherfucking press at every motherfucking turn!”
And, yes. He’d used the foul language intentionally. Let them try to put that on the evening news.
“Is that true, Eve?” Ms. Avery persisted, shooting Bill a look hot enough to fry his eyebrows.
“Of course it’s true,” he growled, having reached—um, no; that’d be more like surpassed—the limit of his patience. He shoved at the microphone while simultaneously hitting the power button for the window. Bernard was left with a choice: either remove his camera or risk having it crushed by the rising glass. Bernard chose the first option.
Good man.
“Now move your van!” Bill yelled through the window. When Kristin Avery hesitated, he threw the Hummer into gear and began inching forward. The hulking SUV wasn’t only bulletproof, it also came with a tempered-steel grill guard that could ram a hole into the side of a brick building. The flimsy sheet metal that made up the body of the news van didn’t stand a chance.
Ms. Avery must’ve realized this, because she squealed and began running toward the van with Bernard lumbering behind her. Bill was about five seconds away from giving the van a little kiss with the Hummer’s grill guard, when the reporter and cameraman jumped inside the open cargo door. A heartbeat later, the van’s driver shoved the vehicle into reverse, and Bill was left with a clear shot through BKI’s quickly opening iron gates. He gunned it, the Hummer growling delightedly at the sudden injection of fuel. But once he’d passed into the interior of the compound, he glanced into his rearview mirror and—sweet Mother Mary—he was forced to slam on the brakes. Errrttt! The SUV’s big tires left rubber on the blacktop.