“Doesn’t sound like the best tactical decision.”
“Maybe not, sir. But it’s the one that fits best with who I am.”
St. George smiled. “What if I could give you another option?”
“Like what?”
The hero bent down and picked up the bundle resting against the spire. He grabbed it by the corners and shook it out. Freedom raised an eyebrow.
“Is this a joke, sir?”
“Not at all,” said St. George. “The position’s been empty for nine months now. A couple people have tried to fill it unofficially, but I think you might be just the man for the job.”
Freedom stepped forward, his boots clanging on the tower. “You’re serious?”
“Very. I talked it over with Danielle on the trip, and she agrees this is the way to go. And that you’re ass-kicking enough to deserve this. So does Stealth. We got someone to let it out for you.”
The larger man took it and shrugged it up over his body. “It’s tight in the arms. And across the chest.”
“Do you own anything that’s not tight across the chest?”
“Not at the moment.”
“He can probably add in some more material or something. What do you think?”
“It is appealing, sir, but I can’t abandon my commission. Or my men.”
“I’m not asking you to,” said St. George. “I’m just hoping you can do this for now, help us protect these people, and keep this place safe and peaceful. It gives your men a purpose. It gives you a purpose.”
Freedom stretched his arms. It was tight, but he could still move. “You know, I’ve got to be honest, sir. I’ve wanted one of these coats ever since I saw Hellboy.”
“You can lose the sir. It’s just St. George. Or George, even.”
“I’ll hang onto sir for now, sir.”
Voices echoed up to them from the base of the tower. Two men were shouting at each other. St. George recognized one of them as Roger Mikkelson. He was waving his arms at one of Christian Nguyen’s regular lackeys.
“Duty calls,” said St. George with a smile.
The large officer smirked and bowed his head to the hero. Then he leaped off the water tower and plunged down to street level.
Captain Freedom hit the pavement and it cracked under his heels. The two men leaped back, their argument forgotten. He straightened up and brushed back the lapels of the leather duster to let the light hit the seven-pointed silver badge.
“Let’s take it easy there, gentlemen,” he said. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”
Afterword
One of the worst sensations in the world is writing your first book. Don’t let anyone tell you anything different. In many ways it’s glorious and thrilling, but there’s always that nagging fear, the one gnawing away at the writer each night. Am I wasting my time? Will anyone ever read it? Will they like it?
As such, the second-worst feeling is when that first book wasn’t a waste of time, was read, and was liked. Because now you have to write another one and figure out some way to make that lightning strike twice. Worse yet, as Hollywood has shown us again and again, there’s no such thing as one sequel. If the first one works, you have to aim for a trilogy. Which means even bigger stakes and even more planning. Which means you’ll probably all be seeing Ex-Communication released a year or so after this book you just finished reading.
Of course, I couldn’t’ve handled all this alone. So a few deeply felt thanks must be given to...
Mary, soon to be Doctor Mao, who pointed me in all the right directions to begin my superhuman research project. Also a big thanks to my college roommate, who now goes by Doctor John Tansey, Director of the Interdisciplinary Program in Biochemistry and Molecular Biology of Otterbein University. John helped fine tune the project and made Doctor Sorensen’s work sound far more plausible than I ever could. Any vagueness, errors, or open fabrications are there to serve the needs of fiction and came from me, not either of them.