Draven looks skeptical. “But the guards—”
“I can take care of them,” I insist. And I know exactly how I’m going to do it.
About a year ago, Mom developed a new knockout serum that can render someone unconscious. It’s another one of her not-for-League-knowledge projects. It works so fast that when she tested it on me, I was out for two days. I woke up with the mother of all headaches and the dryness of the Sahara in my mouth. She has since refined the formula so that it only knocks out its victim for an hour. If we use it on the heroes, it’ll give us more than enough time to get in, free Deacon, and get him out.
Mom has a whole supply in the refrigerator in the garage, along with modified tranquilizer guns to deliver the dosage from a safe distance.
The guards will never see us coming. Or going. I grab Draven’s arm and look him straight in the eye. “I need to get to my house.”
“What?” He looks appalled. “No way! How do I know you won’t tell your mom and blow the whole thing?”
It’s a good question, and I don’t really have a good answer. At least nothing beyond, “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.”
Chapter 9
“You didn’t have to drive,” I tell Draven for the third time as he puts his car in gear and backs out of the driveway.
He ignores me.
I mean it, but I’m also glad he insisted on coming. I know it’s more about the fact that he doesn’t quite trust me than from any desire to protect me. Still, now that the reality of the situation is settling in. I’m not sure I would be the best person to be behind the wheel right now.
“Turn right at the light,” I say as we leave the neighborhood.
He flicks on the turn signal but otherwise gives no recognition that I’m in the car. Understandable. He’s just found out that one of his best friends, his cousin, is being tortured by his archenemies. And that his fate is now in the hands of two girls raised in the superhero world.
It’d be hard for anyone to take. Then again, we’re both dealing with world-shattering news…and having to trust people we normally wouldn’t.
We drive a few blocks in silence before Draven finally speaks.
“How long—” He clamps his jaw shut like he’s fighting the question. He regroups and then asks, “Did he look…strong enough?”
I could pretend I don’t know what he means, but I understand exactly what he’s asking. I could lie, but I don’t think that will help anyone.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “He was in pretty bad shape.”
Really bad. I’m not sure how long he will be able to hold on. I only hope that we’ll get to him before it’s too late.
Draven white-knuckles the steering wheel and stares blankly at the road.
“Is he… Is he the first?” I ask. “Do you know if other villains have been…”
“Tortured?” Draven’s nostrils flare. “Beaten, starved, water-boarded, electrocuted? Experimented on like they were some kind of lab animals instead of human beings?”
I shrink back a little at the venom in his words. And the images they paint.
“No,” he says after a minute. “Deacon isn’t the first.”
The subtext is clear. He might not be the first, but if Draven and Dante have anything to say about it, he will be the last. I never in a million years thought I would stand with villains, never thought I’d feel so desperate to save the life of one. Then again, I never thought I’d see the day when even a single hero would do something as awful as what I saw tonight. Whether this is a small group of rotten heroes or as widespread as Rebel says, I side with villains on this.
The torture has to stop.
Draven surprises me by continuing. “This shit has been going on for decades. Ever since the Collective formed and those assholes decided that some of you were in and the rest of us were out.”
That long? The Collective was created more than fifty years ago with the sole purpose of uniting heroes against villains. Fifty years of torture? My stomach lurches.
“I’m not one of them,” I say.
“You might as well be.” He pulls onto the highway that leads to my side of town. “Your mom is their very own Einstein, Edison, and Josef Mengele, all rolled into one.”
“Seriously? You’re comparing my mom to a sadistic Nazi freak?”
“If the unethical experiment fits…”
“You’re wrong,” I argue. “She’s not like that. She only wants to help people.”
“So she told you about the secret level then?” When I don’t answer, he laughs humorlessly. “Didn’t think so. Dr. Swift may want to help people, but only if those people are heroes. How many of her magical potions and pills have been used to help villains?”
I open my mouth to answer, but he cuts me off.
“Zip. Zilch. Zero. Every possible word for none at all.” He shakes his head. “How many have been used to hurt villains? To kill us?”