Inside Straight

I fired a barrage of bubbles at three of the henchmen who were grouped together. These were baseball-size bubbles, and I made them extra hard and dense. One guy was hit on his hand and screamed as he dropped his weapon. Another got one in the gut, and he doubled over.

I missed the third, but Jetman didn’t. He burst through the front-door transom windows and fired his “jetnet.” It whistled past my head and opened in midair, catching the lights and gleaming like a silver spiderweb. Then it wrapped around the goons and they fell to the floor.

More paint-bullets spattered me. I laughed and flung another hail of bubbles at the remaining goons. I missed one because he dropped to the floor, but the other two took direct hits to the chest. Their weapons went spinning out of their hands, and then the hostages shrieked with what sounded like real fear.

I glanced at the hostages and saw that one woman had been struck by one of the guns. She had a nasty cut on her forehead, and it looked like she would have a black eye. I knew they were extras and that they knew injuries might happen, but no one should have to bleed for a paycheck.

Jetman was hovering overhead—the ceilings were high in the bank, fifteen feet at least—and firing down at the three goons. A cloud of gas enveloped them, and moments later, they fell down unconscious. Now we could rescue the hostages. I ran to Tiff and gave her my hoodie so she could wipe the paint off her face, then I helped Drummer Boy untie the extras.

Another henchman appeared.

He was a young guy, maybe a few years older than me, maybe Jetman’s age. He was maybe six-one, six-two. His blond hair was cut short, almost military style. He was dressed like the other goons, but he was unarmed. I knew I’d seen him somewhere, but I just couldn’t place him.

“This sucker is mine!” Drummer Boy yelled, running past me toward the new henchman. DB had a good foot of height on the guy, plus the extra four arms. He cranked back the three arms on his right side and haymakered one at the guy’s head.

Blondie didn’t even flinch. As DB’s fists made contact, a beautiful yellow corona ballooned around the new guy. He reached up, clamped his left hand around Drummer Boy’s middle right fist, then grabbed DB’s belt. He lifted DB—who weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds—as if he were a toddler. Then he tossed him through the front window of the bank.

“Oh crap,” I heard Jetman say as he flew over to us.

“Who is that?” Tiff asked. Jetman had a look of awe on his face. I glanced down at Tiff and saw she had managed to wipe most of the paint from her face, but it had left her diamond skin less than sparkly.

“That’s Golden Boy,” Jetman called down. “The Judas Ace. He’s a legend. They say he’s invulnerable to harm and one of the strongest men in the world.”

My heart sank. I looked through the jagged hole where the window had been. DB was still lying in the street. One down. And Tiff would be virtually useless against Golden Boy.

That left Jetman and me.

“What about your sleeping gas?” I asked. “We get him down with that, use your net…”

“Oh dear,” said Tiff.

Golden Boy was already lunging toward us. Jetman zipped up to the ceiling. Tiff turned and ran to the front door. But I knew if he hit me, he’d only give me more power, so I stood my ground.

He dashed right past me toward Tiffani.

I ran outside in time to see him picking Tiff up and tossing her down the street. She shrieked as she sailed through the air. Then she landed hard and lay as still as Drummer Boy. Her power had protected her from most of the harm of the impact, but landing that hard had knocked her out. I was pissed. I knew she would be all right. But she was my friend and you don’t mess with my friends.

I looked around for Jetman and saw him flying out of the hole DB had made. Golden Boy stood between us. I saw Jet-man pull his jetgun from its holster. I backpedaled so I wouldn’t be in range when the gas went off.

Jetman fired. I heard the shot and expected to see Golden Boy go down in a cloud of sleeping gas. Instead, the next thing I knew, he was standing there holding the gas cartridge in his hand. Jetman’s mouth dropped open. I’m pretty sure mine did, too. Then Golden Boy flung the sleeping gas cartridge back at Jetman. The pellet hit him in the chest and a blue-gray plume of gas enshrouded him. A few seconds later, he plummeted to the ground.

I winced as he landed. He was going to feel like hell when he woke up.

Golden Boy turned toward me. I knew he couldn’t be hurt by my bullet-size bubbles—his force field would just absorb them. But a bigger impact would keep him off balance. I had no hope of winning at this point, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.

A bubble formed between my palms. It got bigger and heavier until it was the size of a medicine ball, and then I made it larger still. When it was the size and weight of a wrecking ball, I let it fly at Golden Boy.