Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape) (Volume 3) by Marion G. Harmon Page A

least, her lips curved up a little. “Today’s other shooting is more alarming.” She looked across the table at Shelly, still in her sleek silver-and-blue Galatea form. Now I wasn’t feeling at all funny.
    “We have discussed being in public casually and openly since the Paladin attack last spring, and while Mr. Scott is not a Sentinel he is now recognizable to anyone motivated to find him. The police have only begun their investigation, but the café’s security tapes clearly show that our guest was the shooter’s target.”
    Shelly sat stiff and rebellious, but I’d seen the tapes; we owed Kristen Cho, the waitress, art student, and policeman’s daughter who screamed, big-time. The shooter had come loaded with armor-piercing rounds. If Kristen hadn’t seen the gun and thrown her tray at him, his first and only shot would have put Mal in the hospital or the morgue instead of killing an innocent cookies-and-cream malt and slicing a few customers with flying glass. She didn’t know it yet, but she was about to get an anonymously funded full-ride scholarship. Quin knew how to do it.
    Mal didn’t look rebellious — he looked green . Not that anyone blamed him, or Shelly for that matter; I wouldn’t have guessed he might be a target. Not before he even had a mask on.
    “Mr. Scott,” Lei Zi continued, “I’m afraid that, while you remain in the Dome, you will be covered by our protocols. And we will all be cutting back on showing recognizable faces, in or out of costume, outside the Dome when not on mission.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and that was it. Lei Zi’s mouth softened a little, an almost-smile of sympathy, but she left it there.
    “The same applies to everyone here without a secret identity,” Blackstone said gently. “We had two incidents today that could have resulted in civilian fatalities, one that targeted us. We cannot afford the bad press if a second attempt leaves innocents dead. Those of us who maintain true secret identities must also be doubly careful. The police have identified the shooter, and while they have barely begun their investigation they have informed us that his name appears on the Paladins’ membership rolls.”
    That killed any leftover levity, but nobody looked surprised.
    The Paladins called themselves patriots “preparing against the day that superhumans attempt to take over the country, steal America from its freedom-loving citizens, etc.,” but there was a deeply racist streak to their worldview. Mal had killed someone, and not another SPB (Super Powered Being). It didn’t matter that it was an accident, he deserved to die; it was like something out of the Jim Crow South.
    Blackstone reviewed our security procedures, and Quin warned everyone again about loose talk online; she’d already updated our team webpage with today’s events.
    “Stay sharp, everyone,” Blackstone concluded. “Bright side, cutting back on our scheduled public appearances will give us all some much-appreciated downtime. Astra? Would you stay behind again?”
    ----
    “ Totes awesome !” Shelly laughed in my earbug as I swung wide around the Lake Point Tower and turned south on my patrol circuit. Chicago always looked amazing from above and, with the sun setting, my wider-spectrum sight painted the streets between the towers as ribbons of light in shadow. Yesterday’s private after-briefing meeting had slipped past her radar (probably because of Mal), but this last one hadn’t and naturally she’d hounded me until I spilled the beans. Now, great as the view was, it wasn’t what she was excited about.
    “Totes?”
    “ Totally, duh. New slang — got to keep up on the wordage .”
    “No, no, I don’t. And are you out of your quantum mind? In what evil mirror-universe is this awesome?”
    “ It’s awesome right here ’cause it’ll be ‘Astra and the Young Sentinels !’ Eeeee! ”
    “We haven’t chosen a team name yet, and if you squeal like a fangirl one more time, I’m