"I don't know."

"Are the Fearless Five okay?"

"Did the Triad escape?"

"Is anyone hurt?"

Murmurs and whispers filled the air. My eyes went back to the collapsed roof. Seconds ticked by.

Minutes pa.s.sed. Still no sign of the Fearless Five. Come on. The superheroes had to be okay. Striker had to be okay.

Finally, just when I was about to leapfrog over the police barricade and run to the demolished building, three figures climbed back up onto the part of the roof that hadn't collapsed. The crowd cheered. Mr.

Sage gave a halfheartedwave. Fiera shot a few sparks off her fingertips. Striker just stood there, looking at the mess and the cheering crowd.

"Striker! Striker!" I shouted.

I knew he'd never hear me, one voice in a thousand. But for some reason, his gaze turned in my direction. Our eyes locked. All the emotions, all the hot touches and whispered caresses of last night, flashed through my mind. I'd come to the battle site because I wanted to see Striker again. Because I wondered if he'd felt all the things that I had. If he wanted me as much as I still wanted him.

Evidently, the answer was a resounding no. Striker stared at me for a moment, then turned and disappeared into the dark night.

Once all the excitement died down, I took a taxi to The Expose, wrote my society story, and left. I walked as slowly as I could back to my apartment.

Striker didn't show up during my walk home, and he wasn't waiting for me inside. He'd seen me at the KarmaGirl.

vacuum cleaner plant. I knew he had. Did he think I just went down there for my health? But he didn't come to me. Disappointment filled my heart, along with anger. What had I expected? Roses?

Chocolates? A mushy card? A repeat of last night's performance?

Still, though, I unlocked one of the living room windows, just in case.

Striker didn't come to me that night. Or the next. Or the next. He didn't follow me home from work. He didn't pop into my apartment. The superhero quit stalking me. He melted into the shadows from which he'd come.

Typical. Sleep with a guy, and he disappears. In a way, it was comforting to know some things were predictable. Even if my hormones and emotions weren't.

The days flew by all too quickly, despite Striker's absence. Time pa.s.sed, until I had only three days left before Malefica's deadline.

I threw down my highlighter. I'd been working nonstop for the last three weeks, and I was no closer to uncovering Striker's ident.i.ty than when I started. I'd slept with him, for crying out loud, and I still couldn't figure out who he was. How pathetic was that? I fumed for a moment, then picked up my blue highlighter. I didn't have time to be discouraged or angry. Every second counted.

I flipped through the list of the fifty richest men and women in Bigtime that Henry had provided me.

Notes and scribbles and highlighted pa.s.sages dotted the pages. I'd crossed off some of the names right away. After all, ninety-year-old widows with rheumatoid arthritis weren't the stuff superheroes were made of. Ubervillains, perhaps, but not superheroes.

I'd been depressed to find out exactly how rich the rich and famous of Bigtime were. Morgana Madison topped the list with a.s.sets in excess of fifty billion, not counting the stacks of cash and ropes of diamonds she probably had secreted away in foreign banks. When I'd first come to Bigtime, I'd dug into my boss, wondering if she could be one of the villains I was after. You had to be extremely lucky or do some extremely illegal things to acc.u.mulate that much wealth, and ubervillains loved money. The only thing they coveted more than wealth was power. Morgana had plenty of both. But she always seemed to be at a society function or on some overseas teleconference call when the Triad or other ubervillains tore through town.

So, I moved on. Berkley Brighton, Joanne James, Nate Norris, Bella Bulluci. All the usual suspects were also on the list. Or were they?

I frowned. I'd been over the list a dozen times, but I had a nagging feeling I was missing something. The list seemed . . . short. I flipped through the pages and counted the names. I came up with forty-eight. I counted again. Forty-eight. And again. Forty-eight. Odd. Henry was usually so thorough in his work. I'd never known him to make a mistake before. Who had Henry left off? I closed my eyes and went through a mental list of Bigtime's richest, but I couldn't put my finger on the missing billionaires. I had the forty-eight richest men and women. Two more probably weren't going to make a difference, but I didn't want to overlook anything at this stage of the game. It was fourth and long, the clock was running down, and I was miles away from the end zone.

I picked up the phone and dialed Henry.

"Hi, this is Henry Harris . . ." His answering machine clicked on after five rings.

"Henry, it's Carmen. There's some missing information on this list you gave me. I really, really, really need the missing info. I'm on a tight deadline. Call me back as soon as you get this, either at home or on my cell. Thanks." I rattled off my numbers and hung up.

Henry was probably lost somewhere in the land of gigabytes. I drummed my fingers on my thigh. Who KarmaGirl.

knew when he'd get around to calling me back? I'd get the information myself. I grabbed my purse and coat and headed for the Bigtime Public Library.

For the next few hours, I surfed through stock holdings and perused tax reports. Finally, I gave up. It was almost midnight and closing time, and I still couldn't pinpoint the two missing billionaires. I went to the office, but for once, Henry wasn't there. Curiouser and curiouser. Perhaps he'd finally asked Lulu out to dinner. Either way, I'd have to get Henry to give me the missing information tomorrow.

I left The Expose offices and began my trek home, right past my nightly hara.s.ser's stoop.

"Hey there, sweet stuff," the familiar, obnoxious voice called out.

"Get over yourself, loser." I was in no mood to be hit on. Men. They were all the same, superheroes or not. They all wanted one thing. s.e.x. Once they got it, it was hasta la vista, baby.

"b.i.t.c.h," he muttered.

I kept walking. Sneakers squeaked on the pavement, and I glanced over my shoulder. A large man emerged from the shadowy doorway. Even though it was chilly, he wore a sleeveless white s.h.i.+rt. Tattoos covered his muscled arms, and a large, gold cross dangled from a thick chain around his neck. My inner voice whispered in warning. I picked up my pace.

He dialed a series of numbers on his cell phone. "The corner of Seventh and Thirteenth. Now. See you, bro."

I glanced up at a nearby street sign. That was the block the two of us were on. Not good. I pulled my pepper spray out of my purse and crossed the street. The man jogged over as well. I glanced around, praying for a taxi to miraculously drive by. None came. There was no one on the street besides the two of us.

Suddenly, as if in answer to my prayers, two men stepped into view about a block ahead. A wave of relief hit me. The two men stood there, watching me walk. I slowed. It was almost as if they were waiting for me. I stopped. The man behind me kept coming.

"You ready to have a little fun now, b.i.t.c.h?" he called out in a mocking tone. "Me and my boys are hot to trot tonight, if you know what I mean."

My inner voice screamed. I ran. The men laughed. I dashed across the street and into an alley. Footsteps pounded on the pavement behind me. I ran faster than I'd ever run before. My heart slammed against my ribs. My lungs burned. My legs ached. Still, I ran. My life depended on it.

I rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. Dead end. I whirled around, ready to run again, but the men blocked the alley. My eyes darted around. Desperate. No way out. I flipped the nozzle on my pepper spray and tried to remember self-defense moves from my various cla.s.ses. My fingers trembled. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck.

The men circled me. I turned first one way then another, trying to keep an eye on all of them at the same time. Suddenly, they lunged at me. One of them knocked the pepper spray from my hand, while another slapped me across the face. Pain flooded my body, and I tumbled to the ground. Two of the men grabbed my arms and yanked me to my feet. I kicked out. They easily avoided my awkward, flailing blows.

In a moment, it was over. Two of the men pinned me against the wall. The rough brick dug into my back, cutting through my jacket and T-s.h.i.+rt. I kept struggling, twisting and turning and trying to break free, but it was no use. They both had about a hundred pounds of muscle on me. Still, I fought. I had to. I had to get away, or I was in for something more horrible than anything the Terrible Triad could ever dream up.

"Now, sweet stuff, we're going to have a little fun." The tattooed leader grinned. Gold-capped teeth KarmaGirl.

glistened in his mouth.

Bile and fear and terror rose up in my throat. My inner voice screamed and wailed. I was going to be raped. Perhaps worse, if there was such a thing.

The leader pushed my jacket aside and ran a finger down my chest. "Now, let's get to the sweet stuff."

He eyed me in a cold, casual way, like I was a piece of meat he was about to sink his teeth into. The callous disregard enraged me, breaking through my fear. I wasn't going down without a fight. Carmen Cole never gave in, not even when things seemed hopeless. So, I did the only thing I could-I spat at him. "Go to h.e.l.l and die, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

The man wiped the spit off his face. Blackness filled his empty eyes. He stared at me a moment, then backhanded me. I cried out in pain. Blood pooled in my mouth. The men chuckled, and the leader reached for me.

His hand never touched me.

A force yanked him back with a furious vengeance. He hit the wall on the other side of the alley and slumped down.

Striker leapt out of the shadows. My heart swelled. I had never been so grateful to see anyone in my entire life.

"Let her go." His voice was harsh, demanding, furious.

"No need to get all heroic, bro," one of the men said. "There's plenty here to share."

Striker didn't respond. His gloved hands tightened into fists.

"If that's the way you want to play it, bro, we're game."

The two men jumped at Striker. My knees buckled with relief, and I slid to the ground.

Seconds after that, so did the men.

Fists pummeled flesh. A tooth clinked away into the darkness. Bones snapped like dry twigs. The men whimpered for mercy.

I struggled to my feet. My vision clouded over, and I squinted through the fog. Striker towered over the three men, who curled into fetal positions. The leather-clad superhero stepped over them and came to me.

"Are you okay, Carmen?" His voice sounded gentle, concerned.

"I'm fine, Striker." For some reason, I felt unnaturally calm. Disjointed even, as though I was standing outside my own body.

"I-"

"I said I'm fine. I'm going to go home now. Good night."

I grabbed my purse and pepper spray, and hobbled down the alley and onto the main street. I didn't turn around to see if Striker was following me. He was. I could feel his eyes on me. A taxi cruised by. Where the h.e.l.l had the cabbie been five minutes ago? I lurched into the street, waved my hands, and flagged down the car.

"Are you all right, lady?" The driver stared at me in the rearview mirror.

"Fine. Just drive." I gave him my address.

I stared at the back of his bald head, thinking of nothing in particular. Lights and streets whizzed by, but I couldn't quite focus on them. Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up to my building. I paid him and got out. Every movement hurt, stabbing through some of the strange, calm coc.o.o.n that wrapped around my mind. I brushed by the doorman, who gave me a bored look, and got into the elevator. I concentrated on the b.u.t.tons. Five more floors. Three. Two. One. The elevator pinged open. I cringed at the sound and dashed to my apartment. My hands shook as I put the key in the lock.

KarmaGirl.

I went through the apartment, double-checking to make sure every window was locked. I bolted the door and dragged a chair in front of it. Then, I stripped off my clothes and threw them away. I wanted nothing to remind me of this night and what had almost happened. Nothing.

I got into the shower. The white tile cooled my burning feet. I turned the water on full blast as hot as it would go and scrubbed everything hard-three times. I leaned against the shower wall. The water cascaded over me. The steady hiss blocked everything out. Everything except my memories of the last hour. Blood mixed with the water around my feet.

I got out of the shower, dried off, and put on a pair of plaid, fleece pajamas. I peered at my face in the bathroom mirror. The would-be rapists had split my lip open with their slaps, and a nasty-looking, purple bruise had formed under my right eye. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth. No loose teeth, though. I dabbed some ointment on my swollen face, took a couple of aspirin, and turned out the light.

After triple-checking the door and windows, I padded into the bedroom and put my stun gun and pepper spray underneath my pillow. They hadn't done me much good before, but I wanted them near. I drew back the comforter, snuggled underneath the soft sheets, and curled into a tight ball.

As I lay there, the rest of my odd calm cracked and flaked and peeled away, like old paint chipping off a house. The alley. The men. Their hands on me. The images invaded my mind, whirling round and round like a kaleidoscope. Then, the tears came, slowly at first, trickling out of the corner of my eyes like a leaky faucet. I did nothing to hold them back. I couldn't have, even if I'd wanted to. Soon, my whole body shook with intense sobs and m.u.f.fled cries. The enormity of what had almost happened hit me like a tidal wave.

Even though I'd escaped being raped, I would never be the same. Before, I'd roamed around the city at all hours of the day and night, never really worrying about the danger. Getting mugged, getting raped, getting murdered, those things happened to other people. Never to me or anyone I knew. I'd always felt relatively safe. Or at least before Frost and his goons had kidnapped me. Even that had been a fluke, a freakish, once-in-a-lifetime event. What had happened tonight could happen to me again.

At any time.

In any city.

Now, I would always look over my shoulder and wonder who was walking behind me, what they might want to do to me. Malefica and Frost's tubs of radioactive goo had frightened me. But now, their threats seemed petty, almost cartoonish, in comparison to the attack tonight.

Suddenly, a quiet stillness filled the room. He was there watching me have a nervous breakdown. And probably enjoying it immensely.

"Go away," I said through my sobs, embarra.s.sed and ashamed of my cosmic meltdown.

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"I'm fine. Now please, go away. I don't want you to see me like this."

"Like what?" Striker asked in a gentle tone.

"Frightened, weak, crying my eyes out. It must seem so pathetic to you." I closed my eyes and squeezed back the tears. I wouldn't cry again until he left. I would not.

Striker sat down on the edge of the bed. It dipped with his solid weight. "Superheroes aren't perfect, you know. Just because some of us have superstrength doesn't mean we never get scared. We have fears and insecurities and worries too."

I rolled over to look at him. "Fear? What fear? I didn't see any fear in you tonight. You took out those KarmaGirl.

guys like it was nothing, just like you took out the drug runners a few weeks ago." Just like you made love to me.

"I was afraid tonight. Afraid for you. I saw the men chase you into the alley. I was afraid I wouldn't be quick enough to save you, fast enough to stop them."

"That's not the same thing."

"Yes, it is."

I let out a snort. "You almost sound like you care."

His eyes locked with mine. Some emotion I couldn't quite identify s.h.i.+mmered in the silvery depths. "I do."

"Then why haven't I seen you since . . . that night?" It was a question I'd asked myself a hundred times.

A thousand times.

He dropped his eyes. "I've been around. I just-I didn't know-I couldn't-"

Striker reached out. He hesitated, then put his hand on my head. He stroked my damp hair. The image of my would-be rapists flashed through my head. Instead of Striker's gentle touch, I felt their cruel hands marching all over me.

My stomach churned, and I rolled away from the superhero. "Please just leave."

Striker didn't listen. Instead, he lay down on the bed next to me and drew me into his arms. I let him. I was weak and scared and terrified, so I let him hold me.

The tears came back. For the second time that night, I did nothing to stop them.