FriendorFoe by Frances Pauli Page A

listened.
    Footsteps scuffed inside the building. Goons, Simon thought, targeting the floats. Children rode on those floats. He growled and flexed his neck. Not on his watch.
    He hugged the building and slipped toward the back entrance. His spandex suit expanded with each movement and the soles of his blue boots muffled every step so that his progress made no noise. He held his breath, lest he exhale audibly and disturb the evildoers at their work.
    He stole a peek around the corner, darting forward and back like lightning. Still, his trained gaze took in the details, the crowbar leaning near the open door, the black van parked just beyond the dumpster, the lone Goon standing guard. His brain digested the facts and formulated a plan while his muscles tensed in preparation for action.
    He might have burst from the alley. He could have grabbed the crowbar quickly enough to take the goon out before he knew what hit him. Simon's sense of honor immediately rejected the idea. He shook his head and stepped around the corner.
    He stopped directly in the moonlight, where the goon could easily make out his royal blue superhero suit, his sound-proofed boots and tight, black mask. He widened his stance and rested both his palms on his narrow hips. The goon stared at the ground and hummed to himself.
    Simon had to cough to get the man's attention. When the square head snapped up, he nodded and let his gaze travel over the black pants, red shirt and black ski mask. "Freeze, goon!"
    The guy hadn't actually been moving, but the ones inside the garage certainly scrambled at the sound of his pronouncement. Shouts drifted through the open door, followed by the pounding of booted feet against cement.
    Simon reset his legs and waited. The guard, registering the threat at last, dove for the crowbar. Simon watched him snatch it up and braced for action. The goon dove forward, swinging the metal weapon. He ducked it, brought up his right leg and swept the man's feet out from under him.
    The goon went down hard. The crowbar skittered toward the dumpster where one of his cronies could snag it. As if on cue, three of them pushed their way out of the garage. Simon grinned and brought up his hands. He rocked back into his stance and prepped for a nice roundhouse.
    "Maximus," the lead goon snarled. "Just in time to spoil the fun?"
    "That's my job," Simon winked at the goon. "Where's your boss tonight? Hiding in his lair while you guys get knocked around?"
    "None of your business and we ain't been knocked around yet." The goon chuckled softly and waved one of the others toward the crowbar.
    "The Spartan is my business," Simon answered. "And just wait."
    The goon growled and lunged at him.
    Simon sprang into the roundhouse, planted the instep of his boot against the man's face and felt the impact tremble up his leg. He spun, ducking a blow from the side, and punched, kicked and swept his way through the attacking trio.
    As the third red shirt hit the pavement, the next group emerged from the garage. This time, they ran for the van. He waited. Next to his boot, the lead goon groaned and Simon nudged him to silence with a quick tap of his boot.
    The van's engine roared to life. Two of the goon sat inside it, waving madly at the third. He ignored them, bent over next to the vehicle and picked up the crowbar. The heavy metal swung in his grip and his toothy smile gaped under his stocking-cap mask. He tossed the bar from one hand to the other and rushed forward.
    Simon leaned back, waited until the last second and then aimed a side kick directly into the goon's abdomen. The red shirt gave against the force. A grunt escaped the man's lips and he crumpled to his knees. His fingers released the crowbar and Simon kicked the weapon away. He reached for his belt comm even before he heard the screech of tires tearing away down the alley.
    Simon pressed the call button that connected him to the chief of police. As he swung up onto the dumpster, a sleepy voice spoke from