Like A Hero (The Invictus Chronicles #1)
Dennis recalled his father’s words as he squirmed on a plastic chair on the soccer field, awaiting his diploma and glaring over the heads of his classmates at the empty seat next to James and Linda.
Vincent’s seat.
James met his gaze a moment and Dennis detected annoyance. Linda offered a sympathetic look, but Dennis focused his simmering anger on that empty chair next to his godparents and shuddered at the memory of how Vincent’s persistent tardiness had destroyed their family. After all they’d been through since that horrible night, and with all the preparations to put their plan into action this summer, Dennis was sure his brother had changed.
Obviously, not.
Feeling disgust well up within him, he turned back to face the stage. The light breeze pushed his hair in front of his eyes and, irritated, he shoved it aside.
Principal Rodriguez, wearing a fancy blue dress, stood at the microphone praising the graduates for their hard work. Behind her sat the other administrators and those teachers who’d be presenting awards to the highest-achieving graduates.
Ms. Ellis—Dennis’s art teacher—caught his eye and smiled.
Despite his smoldering anger at his brother, Dennis couldn’t help but smile back. Ms. Ellis was his favorite teacher, and she had a huge, infectious smile that always brightened his day. She would present the “Best Artist” award to him, an achievement that filled him with pride. He saw it as a small stepping stone toward becoming a professional comic book illustrator.
Behind them, held up by several tether-ball poles, a banner proclaimed, “CONGRATS PARKER MIDDLE SCHOOL GRADUATES.”
“This is one of my favorite classes in ten years at Parker,” Ms. Rodriguez said with a grin. “Give yourselves a round of—”
The class burst into thunderous applause before she could even finish, and she laughed.
Dennis clapped half-heartedly, thinking of his parents and involuntarily glancing off to the side once again at that empty seat. His chest pulled tight, and sadness weighed on him because he knew how proud his parents would be of his award and top-ten GPA standing.
Vincent had said the right words—“Great job, bro”—when Dennis told him he was graduating with honors, but there’d been no passion behind those words, like always.
Dennis forced himself to stifle the painful memories of growing up in Vincent’s shadow, and never measuring up. Since the accident, they’d gotten closer than they’d ever been, especially while creating Invictus, but Dennis desperately wanted that closeness to get stronger.
I’ll make you proud of me, Vince. Somehow.
Ms. Rodriguez concluded her remarks, and applause arose from all over the field. She’d just turned to introduce the teachers when loud gunshots sounded from the direction of the administration buildings.
As Dennis spun around, he heard, “Nobody move unless you want a bunch of dead kids!”
A large number of masked men carrying military-grade weapons stormed the field, surrounding the graduates and their parents.
| *** | |
Vincent, wearing dress pants and shoes, but no shirt, hurriedly rummaged through his closet. He pulled out a shirt and eyed it. The shirt was wrinkled. Frowning with disgust, Vincent tossed it onto his bed and grabbed another. This one was also wrinkled. With a sigh of frustration, he pitched it atop the other. Snatching a third, he examined it, squinting through his round wire rim glasses for any sign of wrinkles.
He knew his obsession with neatness and perfection was, for the most part, unhealthy, especially at times like this when he was very late for Dennis’s graduation, but he couldn’t help himself. It was a deep-seeded compulsion, one that had admittedly served him well in school and martial arts. Deciding this shirt would do, he removed it from its hanger and replaced the hanger exactly where it had been on the clothes rack. He’d just slipped one arm through the sleeve when he heard Dennis’s police scanner squawking from the other bedroom.
He never turns anything off!
Annoyed, he slipped on the shirt and stepped into Dennis’s room across the hall. As always, it looked like a bomb had gone off. Feeling disgust in the pit of his stomach as he stepped over piles of dirty clothes, he approached the desk. It was strewn with artwork, comics, and poetry books. The scanner sat beside Dennis’s computer, continuing to squawk. He reached out to snap it off, but a crackling voice burst forth from the tinny speaker and froze him where he stood.
“All units in the vicinity of Parker Middle School. Hostage situation in effect. Unnamed perps are holding approximately two hundred children and their parents hostage. Captain Torres is on route. Report to him outside the campus. This situation is fluid. Do not attempt to engage perps without authorization.”
Vincent realized he’d stop breathing, and let out a loud, gasping breath.
Dennis!
He spotted one of Dennis’s drawings next to the scanner. It was the final Invictus costume, just as his brother had designed it.
Vincent bolted from the room.
| *** | |
Dennis lay face down on the soccer field, while men in ski masks strolled among his prone classmates waving semi-automatic weapons at anyone who moved. He considered employing his martial arts skills, but being skinny and only passably good, such foolish courage would probably get him killed.
He shook his hair from in front of his eyes with a slight jerking motion and focused on James and Linda, lying on the field off to the side with the rest of the parents.
James had his head slightly raised and Dennis caught his eye. When a gun- man approached, James quickly returned his face to the grass. James wanted to intervene. That was obvious by the way he kept looking around for some kind of opening. But could he do anything without getting people killed?
The masked men called themselves “anarchists” and were well armed. Despite lying prone for the past forty minutes, Dennis had managed to spot sentries pa- trolling the rooftops, apparently stationed there to prevent the cops outside from storming the school and making their way to the field. He’d also noted the types of weapons these guys carried and considered how best each could be disarmed if this was a comic book scenario.
Except it wasn’t.
He considered the anarchists’ claims. They said they were “anti-capitalism” and “anti-public-school indoctrination,” but then they demanded twenty million as ransom for not killing him and his classmates, which sounded pretty capitalistic to him.
Raising his eyes once more, he noted a big, broad-shouldered dude wearing a black and blue ski mask, staring right at him while chatting with a burly guy holding an Uzi. Dennis averted his eyes and hoped he hadn’t called too much attention to himself. He’d overheard them earlier as they conversed by walkie-talkie. Masked guy was called “C-1” and burly guy “C-2” by the other anarchists, so he figured they ran the show.
He glanced over at Jackson and Kenny lying a few feet away. His two best friends looked terrified. Jackson’s curly hair partially hid his brown eyes, but Kenny’s bright blue ones screamed pure fear. Dennis tried for an encouraging smile, but it was difficult with his cheek pressed against the grass.
All his comic book scenarios started much like this one, except the hero al- ways knew what to do. As annoying as Robin could be, he’d know what to do even if Batman wasn’t around. Dennis’s mind raced with ideas. He knew James was packing—on duty or off, James always packed. But if he pulled his gun, kids would die.
I wish I’d thought of something when these guys first showed up.
Instead, he’d frozen with fear when the masked men flooded onto the field. And now with everything that had gone down since, Dennis trembled with the terrifying possibility that someone would die. Maybe him. Sadly, he wasn’t the hero of his dreams.
He peered at the administration buildings. Long and single story, the two main wings spread the length of the field. His gaze traveled up and he squinted with confusion. The sentry who’d been on duty at the north end was gone.
What the…?
Dennis knew his weaponry from playing Call of Duty and other war games, and that guy had been patrolling with an Artic Warfare Super Magnum sniper rifle, likely a .338 Lapua Magnum, but Dennis was too far away to be sure of the model.
Only now the guy was gone. With C-2 barely ten feet away, Dennis used cau- tion to scan the south roof. That sentry was gone, too. SWAT maybe? He knew James’ mean-ass boss would have called in the big guns for something like this. But he was also sure those sentries had been up there no more than two minutes ago.
Could it be Invictus?
His heart thumped with hope. Vincent must know about this by now. Dennis pressed his face into the grass and pretended to look scared. Hell, he didn’t have to pretend. He was scared!
Ms. Rodriguez and the administrators sat tied to their chairs. Several armed men surrounded them, including C-1 and C-2. Ms. Ellis squirmed against her restraints and happened to glance his way. She looked petrified.
“Why don’t you just let the children go?” Ms. Rodriguez pleaded.
“Why would I do that? Who would pay money for you?” C-1 raised a walkie- talkie to his mouth. “North roof, check in.”
Static shot from the speaker.
He looked up at the far roof of the administration building and stiffened. “South roof, check in.”
Again, his only answer was static.
He gazed out over the row upon row of horizontal bodies.
“Roof sentries aren’t answering,” C-1 told C-2, loud enough for Dennis to hear. “Somethin’s wrong.”
“Think the cops got ’em?” C-2 asked, hefting his Uzi.
“How? Ain’t been a peep.” He paused a moment to scan the roof. Then he swept his eyes over the field. “Alert the chopper. Tell ’em we may need ’em early. I’m gonna check the perimeters.”
C-1 stepped off the stage and moved toward another perp. “Be ready,” he warned in a low tone. “Somethin’s wrong.”
Dennis eyed the masked leader, whose booted feet passed within inches of his head. He could have reached out and tripped him. But could he take the weapon away before getting shot by the other guy? Not likely. So, he remained rigid and allowed the boots to pass out of range. Not sure why, he raised his eyes to the empty roof once more and sucked in a slight breath.
A shadow rose just above the lip of the roof, barely visible in the twilight. The shadow raised something that looked like a small handgun.
Dennis craned his neck around to observe the gunmen at the periphery of the field. One by one, each swatted at his neck in annoyance, as though driving away a pesky fly. But Dennis knew it wasn’t a fly. He lowered his face and grinned into the prickly grass.
Invictus was here.
C-1 stopped beside the motionless group of parents and consulted with an- other perp holding a cell phone.
“Still got them pigs on the line?”
The man handed over the phone.
C-1 pressed the speakerphone button. “Captain Torres, I know what you’re tryin’ to do and it’s gonna cost you.”
Dennis barely made out a muffled “We haven’t done anything” from the speakerphone.
“Then where are my men that was on the roof, eh, Captain?” C-1 retorted, clearly angry.
“We never touched your guys.” poured forth from the speaker. “And we brought no snipers, per your demands.”
C-1 chuckled. “Course you got snipers. You guys always do.” He surveyed the field of parents and students, and then spoke into the phone again. “Any word on the money?”
“No,” came over the phone. “We’re waiting on the mayor.”
C-1 cursed and held the phone closer, gripping his firearm tightly in the other hand. “Your time is up, Captain. Maybe if we start reducing class size around here, you’ll take us seriously.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone back to the tall man. He looked right at Dennis and moved in his direction.
Dennis stiffened, and his heart pounded against his chest. They were gonna start killing kids and C-1 was headed straight for him!
The guy snapped his fingers at several thugs and pointed to four kids lying on the grass. The men stooped and yanked the kids to their feet. Two were girls and two were boys. The girls whimpered and the boys looked rigid with fear. All four wore looks of wide-eyed shock.
Distracted by their struggles, Dennis nearly jumped with surprise when a shadow fell across his face. His eyes registered a pair of boots before he was roughly pulled to his feet and dragged toward the others. He caught a glimpse of the black and blue ski mask as he tried to turn his head.
The man shoved him hard. “Keep your eyes ahead, punk.”
Dennis smelled peppermint, as though the guy wanted to make sure he had fresh breath when he murdered innocent kids.
The men pushed and dragged the five struggling teens to the edge of the field near the administration buildings. Dennis caught James’s eye as he was shunted past. Then C-1 gave him a brutal shove that sent him to his knees. He threw out both hands to break his fall and jammed his wrists hard as he toppled forward. But he managed to avoid face-planting into the hard field, rolling slightly and landing on his back, shaggy hair covering his eyes. He whipped up a hand to brush it away.
C-1 loomed over him. “You’re the prize, so we’ll start with your sorry ass.”
Dennis’s heart pounded. The prize? Start with you? His mind whirled.
But I never even got my award! And I’m barely fourteen!
C-2 handed off his Uzi to C-1 and grabbed the front of Dennis’s blue graduation gown, wrenching him to his feet. One thick arm encircled his throat, cutting off his air supply. The other hand floated before his eyes brandishing a serrated hunting knife.
Dennis struggled and fought, but the man was built like a grizzly bear, and he could barely squirm.
C-1 waved over the guy with the cell phone. That guy shifted the phone around like he was framing his shot for a movie.
“Make it gory as hell,” C-1 said. “I want them to know we’re serious.”
Dennis heard C-2 grunt with approval. He could smell the man’s fetid breath as the vise grip loosened to expose part of his throat. The arm remained pressed around his torso, locking him against the huge man and preventing him from even lifting his hands.
The knife danced before his eyes. It glinted red beneath the setting sun. The blade moved closer.
The other guy held out the phone. C-1 laughed.
The blade came closer. It brushed the soft flesh of Dennis’s throat.
Dennis felt weak in the knees. He forgot to breathe. His heart hammered, and he snapped his eyes shut.