Wearing the Cape 4: Small Town Heroes by Marion G. Harmon Page B

could undog it.
    “Hello, Astra.” Veritas held the door, greeting me in his usual uninflected near-monotone even as our ride banked into a hard left. Even on a plane he wore his ubiquitous shades, and I never had figured out if they were Verne-tech or fashion statement. “Glad you could join us.”
    “Us?”
    Stepping by him, I lowered my go-bag to the floor with a heavy clank. That elicited a raised eyebrow (like he thought I’d leave my armor and maul at home?). He dogged the hatch and stood back, and he hadn’t changed a bit in the time since I’d last seen him; hands on hips and halfway into his pockets, head cocked, he looked at me like I was something very interesting but probably inconvenient.
    “Us. Right this way.” He pointed us down the short hall leading away from the hatch and cockpit. The oak-paneled door at the end stood open, and he ushered me through ahead of him. I nearly backed right back out.
    The executive’s cabin was crowded, half the space taken up by five helmeted US Marshals in full blue and gray body armor. The guns they cradled had to be Verne-tech; obviously designed to be able to put a dent in me if they needed to, I’d never seen anything remotely like them outside a blockbuster sci-fi movie. If they missed, they’d probably blow big holes in the jet; if they didn’t miss, I’d probably put a big hole in the jet. The guns pointed down, but that wasn’t very reassuring because the man sitting across from them could order them used with one word.
    I was sharing my ride with Director Kayle, head of the Department of Superhuman Affairs. And he didn’t look happy.
    “Hello, Ms. Corrigan. Won’t you sit down?”
    And just like that I felt like a fraud in a stupid costume. It had been awhile since I’d last felt awkward wearing my superhero outfit—especially since I’d gotten Andrew to redesign it without the wedgy-inducing thong butt—but here everyone was in a suit or a battlesuit and I was just the girl in primary colors.
    But the Director didn’t look like a man who made conspiracy theorists salivate like Pavlov’s Dog in a cathedral bell choir. He could have disappeared into any crowd. Thin face, high receding hairline, he looked like a fussy corporate suit except that he watched me with eyes that weren’t vague at all.
    And they wouldn’t be. As President, the man had successfully led the country for six years, through the aftermath of the Event and everything that went with it plus two short wars; he was sharp .
    “Please,” he said, pointing to the seat across from him. Next to it, a steel bucket filled with ice offered bottled water and sodas. I sat, tucking my cape back.
    He watched me settle, smiling at something. Reaching over, he selected a bottle of spring water and opened it for me.
    “When was the last time you were called to the principal’s office?”
    “What?” came out before I could stop it, and I flushed hotly.
    He opened a bottle for himself, took a sip.
    “I have a daughter not much older than you, and she didn’t have your sterling school record. She was summoned to the principal’s office a number of times, and I imagine she wore a face much like yours—wondering which of her crimes she’d been caught at and sent up for.
    He gave me what he probably supposed was a reassuring smile. “You haven’t been ‘sent up’.”
    “Oh. Okay,” was all I could think to say.
    “Not that there aren’t some consequences of your being here. Have you heard from your friend since you boarded the plane?”
    “My— Shell? How do you know—? Shell!” She should have been in my ear with a whispered Great googly moogly! the instant she saw the Director through my eyes. “Shell?” Complete and thought-numbing silence.
    The Director waited for me to un-panic and I took deep breaths, remembered I was holding a bottle, and gulped down cold water. I focused hard on not destroying the bottle. Was this the day they came for Shell and I became a