 
Zorana

### Confessions of a Small Town Super-Villain

By John Cosper

Copyright 2012, 2017 by John Cosper

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

www.johncosper.com
DISCLAIMER

Monica Deluna and the publishers of this memoir would like to express their deepest appreciation to Wolf & Hart Publishing for allowing them to reproduce excerpts from the as yet unreleased autobiography of War Eagle, War Eagle: My Struggle. We are grateful for the opportunity to share certain key events in this story from the vantage point of the great super hero in his own words. We hope that the inclusion of events as told by this great man of justice, who played such a key role in Ms. Deluna's life, will enhance your enjoyment of this truly inspiring tale of adventure and redemption.

### Contents

Introduction

Exile

Pops

Loose Ends

Refuge

Shadows

Reunions

Sidetracked

Everyone Has Secrets

Loco

Counseling

Distress Signals

Confrontation

Surprise Twists

Rescue

Aftermath

Special Bonus #1: Pops Bender: Diary of a Super-Villain Life Coach

Special Bonus #2: The Vega-Virus by Austin Nichols

Special Bonus #3: Super Girlfriend

About the Author
**INTRODUCTION

**By Sally O'Nally

In the twenty plus years that War Eagle served as America's greatest hero, no one faced off with more villains than the great one. As a journalist who made War Eagle my life's work, no one found themselves face to face with those villains more often than myself. Of all the villains that held me in their clutches, no one,and I mean no one, scared me half as bad as Zorana.

I've taken considerable criticism over the years for my methods. People said I was foolish to constantly put myself in harm's way and that I compromised War Eagle's ability to do his job. I was only doing my job, and I will never apologize for that. I have been captured, chained, imprisoned, tortured, and put in more deadly predicaments than I could ever recount. Gregor the Barber captured me more than a dozen times during his five year reign of crime. We traded Christmas cards until he got the chair. But Gregor was a guy who left it at the office. Away from the lair he was a family guy who enjoyed a good laugh and a fine cigar.

Not so with Zorana. All business and all evil, the woman terrified me like no other. She was not the kind of villain who loved her own voice, rambling on an on about what she would do once she ruled the world or how she was going to do it. Zorana was a woman of action. Minions who displeased her died on the spot, no second chances. Hostages whose hour had come did not live to see another. Most villains talk about destroying the world, but they don't really want to see it end because they can't live without the luxuries of modern life any more than you or me. When she held the world hostage, I truly believed Zorana was willing to let the place burn.

Needless to say I was stunned and shocked when the woman who was Zorana called me out of the blue and asked me to write an introduction for this book. It was not that long ago that the Mistress of Darkness held the entire world in her grip. The memory is still all too real and terrifying for most of us. But it is worth bringing up because remembering who she was makes who she has become all the more remarkable.

Some of the names of people and places have been changed, and with good reason. While she has been pardoned by the United States government, there are still many people on both sides of the law who want the author dead. That said, I have met with many of the principals in this tale, and I can verify that her story is 100% true.

I cannot vouch the same for the man formerly known as War Eagle, whose memoirs are excerpted here alongside Zorana's. I have not spoken to the man in years, and to tell the truth, he loves to exaggerate. For example: the famed incident in which he defended a school of migrant children from mutant pterodactyls was actually a one-on-one confrontation between War Eagle and a rogue fruit bat. Yes, the fruit bat had rabies, but the facts of the matter were greatly exaggerated.

Sally O'Nally is a former TV journalist and the author of the book Why the World Really, Really Doesn't Need War Eagle. She lives in Oregon with her dog, Utah.
EXILE

"Shhh. Don't make a sound. I don't want to hurt you. I know you are afraid. You should be. But I will not hurt you, long as you do what I say."

What a dope.

I look into the eyes of the man with the six inch blade resting against my neck, fear glimmering in his eyes with the brilliance of a five carat diamond. I could kick myself for not noticing him stalking me in the bus terminal. The last thing I need, halfway to my destination, is to get into a violent altercation that will draw the attention of the authorities or worse, the media.

In his eyes I see a desperate man who just wants me to give up and give in. He's shaking, nervous, probably high on something. You have to be to attempt a robbery in such a public place. He's also completely ignorant because of all the women in all the bus stations in America traveling alone, I'm the last one he should have fooled with.

Whoever this man is, I am far more dangerous than he.

There are a few things that I fear, things that truly frighten me. The CIA. MI-6. Interpol. The Cartel. The Belgian Syndicate. But a mugger in a bus station restroom? Child's play. In the previous twenty four hours I've escaped death twice in circumstances far worse than this one.

Of course, I didn't look anything like the sweet, innocent traveler the mugger followed into the restroom. Twenty-four hours earlier, I stood on the command bridge of my secret island lair, overlooking the rocket carrying a doomsday device that had cost me countless billions of dollars to construct. I wore my favorite outfit that day, the purple leather with the laser gun bracelets and the silver headband I had stolen from a Maharajah's daughter in India.

I was no little girl lost, headed who knows where on a Greyhound bus. I was the world's most wanted, most feared super-villain.

"Zorana!" My chief rocket tech walked over, offering the simple half bow customary among my henchmen. "The rocket is loaded and ready for countdown."

"Proceed, Dr. Vornack," I ordered. He bowed again and sent his men into action.

This was it, the end of the world as we knew it, at least for the western coast of the United States of America. Granted, no super-villain really wants to bomb the world back into the stone age. It's all about the Benjamins. But if you're not willing to bomb a few cities or gas a few million people, you're never going to get that big pay day.

"T-minus five minutes and counting." The computer countdown had begun. Technicians and mechanics began to filter out of the launch area. Blast doors were sealed. Supervisors did head counts. Evil organization or no, safety comes first. Union rules.

"Bio-weapons system armed!"

I gazed out the blast-proof windows at the rocket coming to life in the launch bay. It had cost a pretty penny, this lair and the weapons systems that were now about to rain death upon American citizens. A small investment on what I had hoped might become a big return.

Boy was I in for some disappointment.

"Guidance systems are online."

I nodded to the tech. "Lock in on primary target: Oakland, California."

Why Oakland? Growing up in Iowa, I was kind of a Chiefs fan. Sorry, Raider Nation. No hard feelings. The world was about to see what my doomsday bug could do, and what would be more fun than watching a city full of Raider fans suffer an agonizing, painful death?

"T-minus four minutes."

Sirens began to blare. Red lights were flashing. But this was not part of the launch sequence. It was the lair security system. A white-faced henchman looked up from the monitors. "He's here."

"Impossible!" I snapped, knowing darn well just how possible it was. I looked at the monitors, and sure enough, I could see my arch-enemy streaking through the sky in those stupid pink boots.

I turned from the monitor to the sleazy man in a white on white suit with the eye patch. (Warrock? Was that his name? He was new.) "You swore to me he was dead, at the bottom of the sea!"

The hitman started sweating bullets. "He was, my mistress! I shot him myself. I saw blood!"

Rule of thumb for super-villains: unless you personally saw the body and checked that it had no pulse, never – NEVER – assume the good guy is dead.

"Fortify the launch pad!" I screamed, hearing the division commanders relay my orders as I gave them. "All units to their stations! Shoot to kill!"

White suit swallowed hard. "What about me?"

I raised my left arm and blasted him with a laser bolt from my bracelet. I should have known it would end this way. As my mentor Pops Bender used to say, never trust a hitman who wears white after Labor Day.

"You're done for now, Zorana!" Ugh, that voice. I turned back to the giant metal loop suspended over the launch bay, where Sally O'Nally, that snotty nosed blonde reporter was tied up, awaiting her execution. "He's coming! He'll stop you, and then he will kill you!"

"Do you really think your boyfriend can stop me?"

"I know he will!"

I was never sure if I truly hated Sally or just pitied her. She's been in love with War Eagle from day one. Too bad she doesn't know what I know. Super heroes have secrets too.

"T-minus three minutes and counting."

Dr. Vornack walked to my side. "I think you should get to your sub, mistress. It's too dangerous."

"I will not run, Dr. Vornack. Activate the satellite feed! The world must know what happens when they defy Zorana!"

Too late. The southern wall of the dormant volcano that made up the center of the lair exploded, crushing dozens of men and women in an avalanche of stone. Guns chattered, rockets blazed, but all were useless against the strong man in those stupid pink boots.

"War Eagle!" Sally O'Nally exclaimed with school girl crush glee.

The black, silver, and pink hero shouted my way with his piercing, super-powered voice. "Time's up, Zorana! Surrender, or I'll use your rocket on you as a suppository!"

Gross.

I turned to my dumb-founded, doomed army of henchmen. "For crying out loud, boys, will someone please kill him?"

Faithful to the end, my men began a brave, but futile battle against War Eagle. The sadistic jerk in white tights took pleasure in dismantling my men, good men, many of them with families that would soon be grieving.

In spite of the danger, Dr. Vornack and his men stayed at their posts, willing to die for the cause. I moved away from the battle, closer to the missile control station. "How close are we?"

"Two minutes and counting," one of the techs informed me.

"Bypass the countdown! Launch the rocket!" I ordered.

"By your command."

Keys were turned, buttons pressed, and the rocket roared to life.

"War Eagle, it's started!" Sally O'Nally screamed. Pointless to yell; there's no way he'd hear her over the roar of the engines, which had already clued him in to what Sally was trying to tell him. I turned to watch the rocket lift off – and ducked out of the way just in time, as a super kick from the flying fathead caused the rocket to topple over and crush the balcony, crushing the computers and several more good men and women.

Brush with death number one cleared.

"You did it, War Eagle!" I had had enough of Sally O'Nally at this point. I raced to the release lever on the wall. "Nice moves, War Eagle. Care to make a wager on Sally's life?"

"War Eagle, help!" the blonde bimbo screamed.

"Call it while she's in the air!" I pulled the lever. The ring holding Sally in suspension began to fall. "Heads or tails!"

Sally screamed bloody murder as she plummeted down the rocket shaft. I knew she wouldn't die; War Eagle would save his number one fan like he always did. I needed him busy long enough to grab the palm-sized bio-weapons packet out of the nose of the rocket that now lay wedged in my balcony. Rockets can be replaced cheap. Weapons of mass destruction tend to get pricey.

I ran to my quarters and placed the device and my encrypted phone into the duffel bag I had waiting (lesson from the Bond films: always have an exit strategy). I was nearly out the door when I remembered one last non-replaceable item on my shelf: a set of DVDs I had carried with me since Mexico. I tossed them in my bag and zipped it shut as I ran for the secret elevator shaft.

Seconds later, I was under the island in the submarine canal where the very real Captain Nemo once docked the Nautilus. (Long but interesting story; I'll have to write that one down some time.) I tossed my duffel bag in the escape sub, jumped in, and closed the hatch. The automated engine roared to life, and I was on my way out to sea, just as War Eagle and his bimbo gal pal reached the dock.

"War Eagle! She's getting away!"

"Die, you evil booger," he shouted. (Not that I heard the dialogue myself; I know those two well enough to know just how predictable and unimaginative they are.)

War Eagle launched laser beams out his eyes, blasting the rocks and water around me. Thank goodness for his near-sightedness, or I might have been a goner. Brush with death number two cleared.

I fired up the video satellite link in the sub and recorded a message for the leaders of the free world. Nothing fancy, I thought, just the usual "nanny nanny boo boo, you missed me" garbage. I hit send on the video, closed my eyes, and sank back into a bit of a depression.

There's no feeling in the world like seeing your evil plans foiled. After years of hard work and millions of dollars, it all crashes down around you in a matter of minutes.

Five years of my life were now gone, all thanks to that do-gooder. I snuggled in the blanket I kept waiting in the escape sub and let myself relax as my world came to an end. My rocket was in pieces. My lair destroyed. But the most valuable asset I owned was now safely tucked into my bag, ready for another day.

That evening I made my way to the apartment I kept as a safe house. I had never actually stayed there more than a night. It was more or less a place to hang out when I needed to disappear in an emergency. It was also the only link to the past, the only address known to those I had left behind. So it was no surprise when I arrived that a package from my Mom was waiting for me.

The package had been waiting a few weeks, but had arrived on time – for my birthday. I opened the card first and read:

"Dear Monica, I hope this package arrives safely. I was almost afraid to send it. Someone dropped it off here, saying you had instructed them to deliver it ten years after you had graduated high school. They said it was important to you. We miss you terribly. Come home for Christmas if you're lonely. Love, Mom."

Even a super-villain enjoys the simple, warming comfort of a "Love, Mom."

I opened the box and discovered a blast from the past. It was a time capsule, full of photos, a journal, high school memories. As I looked through the contents, a world long forgotten opened to me. I wasn't always a super-villain. I was once a sweet high school girl from Smalltown, Iowa.

I had good friends.

I had boyfriends.

I had a best friend in the whole wide world.

I had my first job there, serving pizzas.

And I sang in church on Sundays.

Oh the irony of it all.

I searched the rest of the box, but there was no note, no indication who delivered the box to my mom. I had a hunch... but no. He had left town the same as me. I honestly didn't remember making this package, let alone giving it to someone else with instructions. I had no desire to every see my mom or my hometown again, but in that dark moment, I felt a strange comfort being reminded of home.

The next day, I was on the road, not for home, but for the one place I always ran when I knew I needed advice. Like many super-villains, I had a mentor who had helped me persevere through a number of ups and downs, and right then I needed him more than ever. I also had a claim to file with my evil insurance agent and a ton of paperwork.

I have no idea where I will go after that, but I will not meet my end at the hands of a nervous bus station thief.

One quick turn of the wrist and I have a clear shot at his chest. I fire the bracelet still attached to my left arm, sending the bum into the wall opposite me with enough force to stun an elephant. I gather my things and head back out to wait for the bus.

It's quiet as we leave the station and head out on the highway. The sun is barely up. Most folks try to get a little sleep, but two jerks a few rows up decide to yack over the latest headlines on their phones.

"She got away?"

"Scott free. War Eagle said she had an escape pod ready to go. He never even got a shot at her."

"Only because he's cross-eyed."

Not cross-eyed; near-sighted. And a little slow.

"I wonder where she's going."

"Who knows?"

"She probably has some other secret lair on some forbidden island."

She did.

"Or maybe it's underground, like Atlantis or something."

"She could be anywhere... right under people's noses."

"I hope they catch her. I hope she fries."

"War Eagle will kill her. It's what she deserves."

I can't help but smile as I drifted off to sleep. If only they knew, the most dangerous woman in the world was on their bus, doomsday device and all, they'd show a little more respect.
POPS

It may surprise some of you readers to learn there really is a place called Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. It certainly surprised me. Truth or Consequences was the supposed home town of wrestler Mick Foley's most violent persona, Cactus Jack. I never believed the town was real, so you can imagine my surprise when, years ago, an evil friend led me to a nondescript ranch house in Truth or Consequences where Pops Bender kept office.

Pops Bender didn't look like a consultant, much less a consultant to the most evil, foul, and vile criminals on the planet. He was small, only about five foot four, and could only have weighed about 120 pounds soaking wet. His hair was mostly gone on top, and his glasses nested on the end of his nose. He looked like your grandpa, if your grandpa lived on a farm, whittled wood, and spent as much time down at the "crick" fishing as he could.

But Pops Bender was not like your grandpa. If you were to get a peek at his client list, you would be shocked, not only to see the names who had made their way to his door, but to discover that so many of the villains you believed to be only make believe were real. I won't drop a ton of names here, because Pops was very strict when it came to confidentiality, but I will tell you this: a certain man from a certain city who carried a poison gas-loaded umbrella was probably the kindest, most sensitive man I ever dated.

Pops is the only man in the underworld who knows my real face. When I go to see Pops, I leave the mask outside. There's no point; he knows me better than anyone at this point in my life. As much as I work to keep my identity a secret, it's nice to be some form of my real self around someone.

I walk in the back door to find Dionne sitting at the kitchen table, knitting. Dionne was a life-long friend and Pop's unofficial greeter. They may have also been romantically involved, but I never actually saw evidence of this. A plump, pleasant woman with white curly hair tight against her round head, she seemed completely oblivious to the evil that passed through the door day after day. She was always knitting, and always ready with a glass of iced tea.

"Hello, dear," she says with a smile.

"Hey, Dionne," I say.

I take a seat at the table, and Dionne pours my first glass of that oh so refreshing tea. "Been a while since you've been by. How are things?"

"They've been better," I tell her.

Dionne sighs. "No one comes to see Pops in the good times. Only the bad. But that's what he's here for, right?"

I nod as I bask in the taste of the iced tea. "He always knows what to say."

Dionne nods to the office door, behind which Pops held court. "He's got someone in there now. European fellow. The one with the cat. They shouldn't be too long."

We sit in silence the remaining twenty minutes. As Pops finishes his talk with the leader of SMERSH, I drift back to my first time in this house. The aforementioned sensitive guy from Gotham, knowing I was in need of some guidance in my first efforts to elevate myself to the upper echelon of evil, gave me the address and told me to go see Pops. It was Pops, he said, who helped him tap into his true self, adopting a bird-like persona and a whole array of themed weapons and gimmicks. Pops had worked similar miracles for everyone from the Evil League of Evil to the Legion of Doom to three presidential administrations. (Sorry, I have no idea which ones. Pops was strict on confidentiality.)

When I walked in the door for the first time, I was certain that Oswald was playing a gag on me. New evil girl hazing, I suspected, and I nearly walked out. It was the iced tea that got me to sit down, and it was the folksy wisdom of Pops that helped me craft my own image as a baddie.

"You're not royalty," he said when I told him my evil alter ego was Lady Nocturna. "If you're not royal, you can't bear a royal title. You're going to have enough enemies as a super-villain, and there's no sense angering real royals who might also be evil."

"Great," I said, frustrated that I had already ordered the stationary and return address labels under that name. "If I can't be Lady Nocturna, what name do you suggest I use?"

"Think simple, and hide in plain sight," he said. "And remember, it needs to be simple enough for the press to spell without checking."

That one word, "check," took me back to a time when I was studying in Europe. There was a girl from the Czech Republic, a royal pain, who commandeered the dormitory bathroom for an hour every morning as her personal space. She was thoughtless, cruel, and saw everyone as beneath her... that is, until someone put Nair in her hairspray bottle.

"Zorana," I said. "How about "Zorana?"

Pops smiled and nodded. And a villain was born.

Pops dispensed advice on everything. He thought of the things evil geniuses usually overlooked, like making sure an evil lair has plenty of bathrooms and proper staff to keep them in good working order. He advised us to invest heavily in medical facilities and to spare no expense in the commissary. "Healthy henchmen are happy henchmen," he told me. "Don't feed them mystery meat. Feed them the way you wish to be fed."

Pops would never do any strategic planning for you when it came to taking-over-the-world schemes. That wasn't his way. He listened, he questioned, and then he tore your plan to shreds, finding every major and minor flaw you never thought of.

Pops also taught me the value of having not one but two escape routes, especially if your lair is on an island, a mountain, or another easily sieged locale. Had my personal submarine not been available, there was a second option available only I knew about. I'll just keep that secret to myself, if that's alright.

"Good morning, Monica." My day dreams vanish as Pops emerges from his office, all smiles. The head of the world's largest anti-spy organization is out the door, cat in hand, without a word. He has no clue who I am without my mask, and he doesn't care. He's never really been the social type.

I stand to get my hug. "It's good to see you, Pops."

"Come in, come in," he says. "And bring your tea."

My glass is already refilled before I reach for it. "Good luck, honey," says Dionne as I head for the door, into a true fortress of solitude.

It's not at all what you'd expect from a world-class consultant to evil. The dark wood paneling and burgundy shag carpet date back to the house's original construction in 1977. The stone fireplace looks huge, and in the winter time generates enough heat to fill the whole house. The furniture is old and worn. A simple couch and easy chair reside in the room, their blue and red plaid clashing with the burgundy in a charming way. All the other furnishings are wood, and the few lamps are made with dingy brass and old, off-white shades.

Boring, I know, until your eyes start to examine the art on the wall closely. Italian. 17th century. Every one of them a priceless masterpiece. Everyone a gift. Everyone on Interpol's list of most wanted stolen works of art.

"So," he says, "How did it go?"

"Do I really need to go through it all?"

"That's how we process," says Pops. "It's how we grow."

I start from the beginning. I go through the planning phases of the operation, the creation of the doomsday device, the recruitment and staffing process at the lair. All the seemingly inane details the movies casually skip over. People simply don't realize that evil lairs and organizations don't just happen. There's a ton of paperwork and legwork that has to happen. Construction, staffing, insurance.

What makes it harder is that because of the nature of the work, you find yourself working with people as crooked and evil as you are. If you're not careful, some conniving, evil contractor could easily bump you off and take over the evil plan you'd worked so hard to create right at your moment of glory. I can't tell you how many so-called evil villains were actually just general contractors who usurped their clients and took credit for their hard work.

Pops sips his drink and listens, asking questions here and there for clarity. He doesn't write down a single note, nor does he ever drift in his focus. He listens, he absorbs.

I finish my tale of woe, and Pops looks into my eyes.

"So what next?"

I shrug. "You tell me."

"Are you done?" he says.

"Of course not," I say. "I'm down, but I'm not out."

"Why not?" he asks.

"I'm a villain!" I say. "I always have been."

"Even as a child?"

I flashback to my childhood, playing on the playground in a light jacket in the early fall with my best friend. He always wanted to play super heroes, but he never made me play the villain. I was always Wonder Woman, Supergirl, or Batgirl.

"No," I say, "I guess I wasn't."

"No one ever is," he says. "Even the worst of people were innocent at one time."

"I need a new plan," I say.

"Indeed you do."

I laugh a little. "You're supposed to help me plan."

Pops shakes his head. "That's not what I do. You know that. You come to me and tell me what you want to do, and I will help you think it through."

I look down into the dregs of my cup. "I have no idea. For the first time in years... I don't know."

"You know what I'd do?" he says. "I'd take a holiday."

My eyebrow lifts in surprise. "A holiday?"

"It's almost Christmas," he says. "When's the last time you saw your Mom?"

I shake my head. "It's been years, Pops."

"So go see her," he says. "She'll be thrilled to see you."

"If she knew what I've done," I say.

"She doesn't," he says, "Does she?"

"No," I say.

"Then go home," he says. "Have a Merry Christmas. See how being home feels to you after all these years."

"She doesn't want to see me," I say. "She's got a life without me."

"If she didn't want to see you, she would not have sent that package," he says. "Go, see your mom, visit some old friends. See how the place has changed over the years."

"And when Christmas is over?" I say.

"I'll be here," he assures me.
WAR EAGLE'S WAR JOURNAL  
DECEMBER 20, WASHINGTON DC, 1100 HOURS

ANOTHER BATTLE WITH EVIL ENDS IN TRIUMPH AND VICTORY FOR ME, WAR EAGLE, DEFENDER OF JUSTICE, TRUTH, AND ALL THINGS AMERICAN! ZORANA'S ROCKET OF DEATH WAS CRUNCHED INTO RUBBLE, AND HER SECRET ISLAND LAIR LAID TO WASTE. VICTORY SECURE, I TOOK SALLY O'NALLY INTO MY SUPER STRONG ARMS AND CARRIED HER HOME TO AMERICA!

AFTER DROPPING SALLY O'NALLY AT HER WASHINGTON OFFICE, I PROCEEDED TO 1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE FOR A DEBRIEFING WITH MY CLOSE PERSONAL FRIEND, THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. I TOLD MY BUDDY HOW I CRUSHED ZORANA'S FORCES AND DESTROYED HER ROCKET. I ALSO TOLD HIM HOW I MANAGED TO ESCAPE HER HIRED GUN WARROCK ON THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN, DEPENDING ON MY WITS AND MY UNIQUE ABILITY TO COMMUNICATE WITH SEA URCHINS TO SURVIVE. HE WAS IMPRESSED, BUT I COULD TELL SOMETHING WAS THE MATTER.

"WHAT IS THE MATTER?" I ASKED.

"SHE GOT AWAY."

"YES, SHE DID," SAID I. "BUT FEAR NOT. I FEEL CONFIDENT IN TELLING YOU THAT HER WILL TO DO EVIL HAS BEEN BROKEN, THANKS TO ME."

THAT WAS WHEN THE PRESIDENT SHOWED ME THE VIDEO. IT WAS ZORANA, HOLDING THE DEADLY VIRUS IN HER EVIL HAND, SAYING:

Hello, world. It's me again. Today you celebrate my defeat at the hands of War Eagle. I assure you, his victory will be short-lived! Why? Sift through the rubble of my lair. Disassemble my rocket, piece by piece. You'll find one piece missing - my doomsday device, the delivery system for the Vega-Virus. Where is it? Only I know for sure. War Eagle has failed, and his failure will mean your death.

"SHE'S LYING," I ASSURE THE PRESIDENT. "THERE'S NO WAY SHE COULD HAVE ESCAPED WITH THE VIRUS. AS SOON AS I STOPPED THE ROCKET, SHE RAN FOR IT."

"DID YOU FIND THE VIRUS?" HE ASKED.

"WELL, NO," I SAID.

"THEN HOW DO WE KNOW SHE DOESN'T STILL HAVE IT?" ASKED THE PRESIDENT.

"WE ARE DOOMED," SAID THE CHAIRMAN OF THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF, A PUNY MAN WITH PUNY SMALL MAN ARMS, HIS PESSIMISM SPROUTING LIKE A ZIT ON PROM NIGHT. "ALL SHE HAS TO DO IS RELEASE THAT IN SOME HEAVILY POPULATED CITY, AND SHE CAN WIPE OUT THE COUNTRY."

"IF SHE HAS IT!" I SAID.

"IF YOU DON'T HAVE IT, WE HAVE TO ASSUME SHE DOES," SAID THE CHAIRMAN.

"WE WILL FIND THE VIRUS," SAID THE PRESIDENT, GIVING HIS PUNY BUDDY THE WELL-DESERVED BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT. "WE'VE ALREADY DISPATCHED A CLEAN UP TEAM TO THE ISLAND. IF SHE LEFT IT BEHIND, WE WILL FIND IT."

"UNLESS THE RUSSIANS GET IT FIRST," SAID THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY.

"MEANWHILE, ZORANA IS LOOSE," SAID THE SECRETARY OF DEFENSE. "SHE MAY ALREADY BE ARMING A NEW ROCKET AS WE SPEAK!"

I SCOFFED AT HIS FEAR. "OH YOU OF LITTLE FAITH! WAR EAGLE WILL NOT REST UNTIL THE VILLAINOUS VIXEN IS BROUGHT TO JUSTICE!"

I LEFT THE OVAL OFFICE WITH A SWEEP OF MY GRAND CAPE (NEWLY REDESIGNED BY VERA WANG, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!) AND WALKED OUTSIDE, WHERE THE SWARM OF VULTURES WAS WAITING. OH HOW THEY PLAGUE ME WITH THEIR MUD-SLINGING, MUCKRAKING QUESTIONS.

"SHE GOT AWAY AGAIN, HUH, WAR EAGLE?"

"WHEN YOU GONNA GET A REAL JOB, WAR EAGLE?"

"HOW MUCH TAX PAYER MONEY WILL BE NEEDED TO CLEAN UP YOUR MESS THIS TIME?"

"KILL ANY ENDANGERED SPECIES THIS TIME, YOU PANSY?" (I HATE YOU MOST OF ALL, REPORTER FROM THE SIERRA CLUB.)

I IGNORE THEM ALL... ALL EXCEPT MY DEAR FRIEND, SALLY O'NALLY.

"WAR EAGLE, NOW THAT ZORANA'S FORCES HAVE BEEN CRUSHED AND HER SPIRIT BROKEN, WILL YOU BE TAKING TIME OFF FOR THE HOLIDAYS?"

BLESS YOU, SALLY. ONLY YOU GET ME.

"NO, SALLY. I WILL NOT BE TAKING TIME OFF FOR THE HOLIDAY. ZORANA IS DEFEATED, BUT STILL AT LARGE. REST ASSURED, I WILL NOT HAVE A HOLIDAY UNTIL ZORANA IS DEAD OR BEHIND BARS. THEN WE SHALL HAVE A GRAND HOLIDAY, A NATIONAL HOLIDAY. AND WE SHALL CALL IT, D-DAY!"

THERE ARE SNICKERS FROM THE PACK. I CAN'T SEE WHO THEY ARE. PIRANHA. WORTHLESS PAPARAZZI. I PUSH MY WAY THROUGH THE CROWD OUT ONTO THE LAWN AND LIFT OFF INTO THE SKY.

THE HUNT HAS ONLY BEGUN!
LOOSE ENDS

If you think your car insurance company is hard to deal with, try dealing with an evil insurance agency.

Yes, believe it or not, all those doomsday devices, secret lairs, stealth submarines, and high tech weaponry is insured. There are literally dozens of evil investors around the world eager to see the world brought to its knees, but as mad as they may be, they are no fools when it comes to money. These men and women want to protect their investments, and that requires insurance.

My policy gives me sixty days to file a claim, but since Farris and Tucker is on the way home, I decide to make a stop by the main office to start the claims process.

Virgil Tucker is as twisted and crooked as they come. As much as I look forward to my visits with Pops, I dread seeing Virgil. He keeps me waiting in the lobby for nearly an hour, then I set in a conference room for another thirty minutes before his secretary Mallory brings in my files and his coffee.

"How is he?" I ask my old friend.

Mallory shakes her head. She's always been my insider around this office. I can tell by the look in her eyes this is not going to be a quick and easy claim.

Virgil enters not through the door, but the hidden entrance from his private office. The wall panel swings inward, and the rotund insurance man squeezes through the opening. He's dressed in a black and white pinstripe suit with a red carnation on the lapel and what appears to be a Santa tie. I can almost hear the chair cry out in agony as he slams his massive posterior onto the cushion.

"Well, well, well," he says. "Looks like the Zorana plan went up in smoke. What happened?"

"You watch CNN," I say. "You tell me."

Virgil smiles. "War Eagle?"

"It's all covered by my policy," I say. "I took out the hero coverage on the lair and the rocket."

"Indeed," says Virgil. "I have it all right here. However, I'm not so sure you lived up to your end of the agreement."

I roll my eyes. "Are we really going to play this game, Virgil?"

"This is the insurance business," says Virgil. "We do not play games. We assess risk, and we provide coverage for loss beyond your control. I realize War Eagle is a pest, but he's a predictable pest that one can prepare for."

"Is he now?" I say. "Have you ever faced him? Ever had to deal with his super powers? Ever had to go toe to toe with him?"

"I've been insuring super-villains for more than thirty years, Zorana," he says. "This is not my first time handling a War Eagle claim. The man's been around long enough, one can predict what he will do and prepare for it. Now, if it were up to me, I'd sign this document and we'd have a check cut within thirty days, but the powers that be, well, they want to do a little research."

"What kind of research?" I say.

"Schematics of your lair," he says. "The doomsday plan prospectus. Standard documents. You have all these backed up and secured, right?"

I want to put a bullet between his beady eyes and watch the back of his head explode on the wall. This is typical evil insurance nonsense.

I take a deep breath and keep my cool. "Of course, I have everything you need."

"Hard copies," he says. "No PDFs, no digital formats."

Once again, I push down the urge to commit murder in the conference room. "Absolutely."

"Very good," he says. "I'll expect to see all those documents in this office the day after Christmas. We'll do some digging, and if we determine this was indeed an unpreventable loss, we'll honor your claim."

I stand up and shake Virgil's hand, imagining what it would be like to rip him limb from limb.

"Oh, there is one more thing," he says. "The Vega-Virus. Where is it?"

It hadn't occurred to me until just now that letting it be known I had the virus was a bad idea. It was a slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment, a foolish mistake. Not only would the forces of "good" be after me, but every evil organization looking to take my place.

Still, I hadn't been dumb enough to flash the device on camera, and the insurance pay out would really hit Virgil where it hurts. I give my insurance man a smile and lie.

"It's gone."

"Really?" says Virgil. "So all that talk about looking through the rubble, sifting through the wreckage, that was a bluff?"

"Keep them on their toes," I say. "You know the game."

"Indeed," he says, squeezing my hand tight. "Have a good holiday, Zorana."

I grab my bag and leave. It hadn't occurred to me until just now, but there was a silver lining to my visit.

As angry as I am, there's one thing I love about stopping by my insurance agency: the flea market across the street. There's a terrific homemade candy stand near the front, and some fun antique vendors throughout. The highlight though is the bootleg DVD dealer. His real name is Nick Austin, but in a past life he was a small time pro wrestler named Rufus Barnstormer. To this day I still call him "Rufus" as an endearing moniker. He's usually there Mondays through Fridays, and he specializes in the rare and obscure. If he doesn't have it, he knows a guy who can get it. When he sees me coming, he knows what I am after.

"Ms. Deluna," Rufus says, "So good to see you."

"Good to see you, Rufus," I say. "Hope you have some Christmas presents for me."

"I never know when I'm going to see you," he says. "But I always hold on to the ones I know you'll want."

Rufus, the only man who has used my real name around me in years, reaches under the counter. He pulls a small stack of discs, each sealed inside a colorful DVD envelope. The labels on the side are handwritten in Spanish, each labeled with the month, day, and year. Each one contains an episode of Lucha Libre wrestling from Mexico City featuring my favorite performer.

"Merry Christmas to me," I say.

"Anything else for you today?" he asks.

"Not today," I say. "How much do I owe you?"

Rufus slides the discs to me. "Merry Christmas. Pay it forward. Do something good for someone."

I smile and thank Rufus. It never ceases to amuse me when someone with no clue who I am urges me to do some good for someone else. If only they knew.

I step out of the flea market and feel my phone buzz. It's Mallory, sending me a text.

"Virgil calling friends of urs. Beware."

I look across the street and feel the urge to blow up the insurance office. Instead of paying up, he's calling everyone I ever crossed and sending them after me.

Either that, or he's not buying my story about the virus.

Good luck finding me. My mailing address is thousands of miles from my destination.

Home.

Smalltown, Iowa.

I'll deal with Virgil and his betrayal in January, after I spend my first Christmas home in years. I make my way down to the bus depot, where only two more legs separate me from the one place on Earth I wanted to escape more than anywhere else.

Actually, that's not true at all. I've been at least three places that I couldn't wait to escape more than home. Two were prisons, and one... One was the home of a certain Communist official with chronic body odor and a thing for James Taylor. Long story short, "You've Got a Friend" is not a song that brings back warm memories for me.

I shudder at the memory as that awful song begins to play in my head. As frightened as I am to see my hometown, it's a far cry better than spending another weekend with the head of the Chinese secret police.
REFUGE

Dr. Twizted once told me you could never go home. "It will only depress you. The places change. Buildings change. People change. Cherish your memories, but perish the thought of going back there. There is no back there. Home, like you, has moved on. It would be best for everyone if you never go back."

I guess that's why home seems so strange to me now. Expecting to walk into an Oz-like alternate reality, Smalltown looks every bit like the small town where I grew up. Howard Drugs is still Howard Drugs, probably owned by the same family that first opened the store in 1931. The Quik Station is still the Quik Station, although it looks like they did a remodeling job. Murphy's, the bait and tackle store is remarkably unchanged and dilapidated as ever. And Smalltown Antique Depot...

Hmm.

The antique shop seems to be gone, replaced with what appears to be a comic book shop.

I roll my eyes and giggle a bit, amused to find a bastion of super hero fandom in my hometown. I cross the street and walk in the front to give the place a look.

Whomever did the decorating didn't do much remodeling. The beautiful antique woodwork on the walls is still there, partially obscured by photos of web crawlers, Kryptonians, and brooding millionaires who dress as bats. It's standard fare, far as I can see, but there's one curiosity that draws my eye. Near the back of the store, blown up to peter size, is a picture of me in full Zorana regalia. Above the photo, in bright red letters, I can read the words: "Catch me if you can!"

A voice behind me speaks, incredulous in tone. "I don't believe my eyes. She's here."

I spin a bit too quickly, strangely afraid of whom I might see. The face is familiar, but a bit older. There's a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin on his face, surrounded by facial hair that could use a trim. It takes a second or two, but the name comes back to me.

"Evan Miller."

"Monica," he replies. "Monica Deluna."

Now it all makes sense. Evan's parents owned the antique store when we were in high school. Now the place was Evan's.

"It's been a long time," he says.

"Since high school, I know," I say. "I like the store."

"Thanks," he says. "I bought Mom and Dad out a few years back after I hit the grand prize on a scratch off ticket."

"Wow," I say. "That's a lucky break."

"Yeah, it was," he says. "And what have you been doing?"

I smile. "Just seeing the world."

"Oh," he says. "I bet that was fun."

I don't know why, but I don't care for the way he's looking at me. "It's good to see you, Evan. Maybe we can catch up some more while I'm home."

"I look forward to it," he says. He watches me like a hawk as I move to the door and leave.

That was odd.

My strange first encounter with the past behind me, I see a very welcome sight: Aldo's, the only pizza place in town, the place where I got my first job. There's a real comfort seeing the place so unchanged. Even the decrepit, sunken roof that should have been replaced ten years ago looks exactly the same.

I walk across the cracked pavement up to the door. It's early; Aldo's sign, the same one I turned from "Open" to "Close" so many Friday nights in high school, says the place won't open for another hour. I hope he'll make an exception.

The door chime rings as I push the door inwards, walking onto the black and white tile floor. It's faded, but it's the same tile that's always been there. And the smell, the heavenly aroma of that sweet Sicilian sauce wafting from the kitchen, is far better therapy for a wounded spirit than any analyst I've ever seen.

"Sorry, we're-a closed. Come back around eleven and..."

He hasn't changed a bit; and apparently, neither have I. Not enough to keep him from knowing exactly who I am. Poor guy nearly drops the plate he is drying as he calls back to his wife. "Maria!! Come see who it is!"

Maria is still the same plump, sweet-faced lady who taught me so much about life in my younger days. "Aldo!" she exclaims. "Is this a vision? Or has Monica Deluna come back to us?"

"Hello, Maria," I say. "Hello, Aldo. What's the news?"

Maria leans over the counter, switching to gossip mode. "Child, where do I begin?" She dishes out a decade of dirt: who's married, who's divorced, who's fat. Suddenly the years of being on the lam, living the life of a super-villain, seem to melt away.

"Enough, Maria," Aldo finally cuts her off. "Let her walk out with two ears, and do not talk them off."

"I'm sorry," says Maria. "It's been ten years since we saw you last! Where have you been?"

My secret lair, trying to take over the world.

"I've been working."

Aldo asks, "Did you do anything exciting?"

I invented a deadly virus and nearly wiped out Europe.

"Not really. Actually, I'm between jobs at the moment."

Aldo smiles. "Not any more. Go wash up, we've got lunch crowd coming soon!"

By the time the doors open, I'm back in the same apron I hung up after high school. The faces are different, but the cheerleading uniforms and letter jackets on the high school kids are identical, save for the numbers on the sleeve indicating their graduation date. I can hear Maria and Aldo bickering in Italian in the kitchen like they always did. Nothing's changed at all, and I'm taking orders and serving the same authentic Italian cuisine and pizza I had served back in high school.

I know what you're thinking: authentic Italian? In the Iowa cornfields? You're not the first to question it. A lot of folks thought Aldo and Maria were in the witness protection program. They moved here from New York when I was a kid, and everyone just knew they had to be mafia. But the food was so good and Aldo and Maria were such nice people, everyone dropped their suspicions and welcomed them with open arms.

"Hey, doll," says a young guy who can barely grow a mustache. "You new in town?"

"Not exactly," I tell him.

"I thought I knew every pretty face in this county. But yours? You got a nice one."

"I'm much too old, junior," I tell him.

"I like a girl who's seen the world," he winks. If only he knew... he'd probably wet his pants in fear.

I write down a couple more orders before heading back to the counter. I'm about to serve up a round of drinks when a thick hand grasps my shoulder. Instinct grabs the arm attached the hand and twists it into a painful hold. The tall, beefy blonde kid yelps in pain.

"Monica... it's me... Tim McDonald."

It can't be!

"Timmy? Little Timmy?"

I let go, and he stands up; Little Timmy is no longer little. The letter on his jacket says he's a four year varsity man in wrestling.

"Yeah," he says, blushing. "Although, nobody's called me Little Timmy in a while."

I help him up and give him a hug, a little stunned for words. I used to babysit Little Timmy. Changed his diapers.

"I'm sorry I... big city instincts. Self-defense, you know."

Tim smiles. "It's cool. It's good to see you."

"You too."

He's not the only blast from the past I encounter during my shift. Twenty minutes later, I spot a tall, rugged fellow at the counter. We both do a double-take. He's older than everyone else in the place, but not much older than me. A few months and a day.

"Hello, Monica," he says.

"Clay. How are you?"

"Good, thanks, Wow, long time no see. You look good."

"So do you. Still working for your Dad?"

"Dad's retired. I own the farm now." He smiles proudly.

"Good for you," I say. It's not the positive reaction he wanted, but... what did he really expect?

"Never thought I'd see you again. What have you been up to?"

Holding the world hostage. You didn't see me on CNN?

"Working," I say aloud. "Traveling a lot."

"And now you're back?"

"For a while," I said. "Thought I'd spend Christmas with my Mom."

"And then?"

For the first time in decade, I have no answer. "I guess we'll see."

Clay nods, taking his pizzas from Maria, and exits. Is he still carrying a flame for me? Has life in Smalltown changed so little?

Lunch rush over, I walk through town, my bag over my shoulder, and marvel at how life seems to have stood still. Every mailbox, every street sign, it all looks familiar. Even the old fashioned barber pole on Main Street.

"War Eagle attack!!!!"

Instinct throws my bag to the ground as I spin into a defensive posture. A few seconds tick by before I realize my error. War Eagle is not here. It's a group of boys charging down the street after a little girl, tears in her eyes, carrying a wounded doll.

"It's Zorana!" one boy shouts.

"Stop! In the name of the law!" cries another.

The boys surround the little girl, ripping the toy from the little girl's arms, stomping the poor doll.

"That's for kidnapping Sally O'Nally!"

"That's for what you did in Mexico City!"

Mexico City... I'll spare you the details for now, but let me go ahead and set the record straight: I didn't actually DO anything in Mexico City. Not that anyone cares.

"Let my dolly go!"

Careful not to let the adrenaline take over, I slip in amongst the doll lynch mob and rescue the defenseless toy from the grip of the little boys.

"Hey!" one punk kid shouts.

"Didn't anybody teach you boys not to pick on little girls?" I kick my foot into a metal garbage can to put an exclamation point on the lesson. The boys gasp, impressed.

"She's Zorana," says another kid.

"We were just playing," says one with a conscience.

"Boys, you need to learn the difference between innocent people and super-villains." I hand the doll back to the little girl. "And apologize when you're wrong."

One by one, the boys whisper "Sorry" before scampering off to create more mayhem. The little girl is shy, maybe a bit scared herself. It makes me feel self-conscious, transparent. There's no way she could know that the evil she was mistaken for had just saved her. She would never dream. But who would? People think super-villains are cold, insensitive, purest of evil. Deep down, we're still human. We have the same desire to be loved and accepted. And no matter how far you rise up the criminal ranks, you never forget the one place where that love and acceptance are always available.

Home.

It looks just the same as the day I left. The paint's still cracked. The front gate still off its hinge. A sudden fear sweeps over me that the face inside will be the one thing changed forever.

The door opens, and my fear is swept away by one big smile.

"Monica!"

"Mom."

She grabs me into her arms. "I can't believe you're home!"

Home for Christmas for the first time in years. But not alone. I had made a good number of enemies in my super-villain days. Old grudges die hard, and I would soon learn that War Eagle was not the only guy who had vowed to see me dead.
SHADOWS

I don't know what it is, but super-villains never prepare for the day after they hold the world hostage. Perhaps we're just short-sighted, with no real plan for what to do with the world once we have it. Or maybe it's a defeatist mentality brought on by years of super hero victories.

I will say, in a million years, I didn't expect to be back home, sipping hot chocolate with my Mom. But I'm not complaining about it. It's very nice. Much nicer than I ever hoped.

Mom sits beside me on the couch. It's all she can do not to hug me to death right now. Her gratitude at seeing me again is intoxicating.

"So, Monica, where have you been all this time?"

"You know, me, Mom. I wanted to see the world."

"So did you?"

"Pretty much." I've been around the world and back, though never stopping much to sight see. Bombings in the Sudan. Bombings in Southeast Asia. Piracy in the Southern Atlantic. And Mexico City...

Oh boy, did I go to Mexico City.

"So what did you do all those exciting places?"

"Mostly, I studied."

"Oh?" she sips her drink. "Where at?"

"Here and there."

"And you majored in?"

How do I answer this one? Let's see... terrorism, computer hacking, bomb construction, extortion, torture, and mayhem. How do I sum that up for my mom without lying?

"Political science."

"But you were never interested in politics! How interesting. I want to hear all about it."

"It's not that great a story, Mom."

"I haven't seen my little girl in ten years! I want details! Especially if there's a guy."

"Yeah, there was a guy..." I trail off, feeling very exposed. I hadn't anticipated this, but I suppose I should have. How do you tell your mother your super-villain origin story? At least she picked a good place.

"Well," I say, turning my mug nervously, "It started with a boy. Spring break, freshmen year. Some friends and I ran down to Daytona where I met Johann. He was a political science major at Florida State, and so hot."

It wasn't a lie; I met Johann sunbathing on the beach with some friends. I simply left out the parts that were key in altering the course of my life: Johann also happened to be the son of the late Dr. Insano, and shared his father's vision for the world.

Gosh, what a guy. He had such passion, and a zeal for fascism that was contagious. "I picture a world united under one authority," he said to me, sipping his Pina Colada on our first date. "We can eliminate poverty. Administer justice swiftly. And destroy anyone who stands in our way."

He was so deep. I knew I loved him, and he loved me. "Some day, Monica," he told me before boarding the plane back to his native Switzerland, "I will give you the world."

Johann meant every word of it. He had the plan, and the financial backing to make it happen. Then on our romantic getaway to Monte Carlo, one last fling before he would set the world on fire, War Eagle showed up.

I hate that guy, and his little pink booties. Oh I know, he's America's big hero, but he's also a bit of a psycho. No justice system for him. Not when he can maim and dismember those he has already judged guilty.

Poor darling Johann. He never had a chance! War Eagle grabbed him by the legs and split him in half. "Time for you to split!" he shouted, laughing maniacally. Then off he flew into the night, dropping one half of the love of my life on the steps of the casino, carrying the other over the Mediterranean. From that moment on, I hated him, him and his lousy puns.

You wanna know how a super-villain gets made? There you go. Not that I can share all this with Mom.

"Johann was... a victim of political intrigue," I tell her. "When he was gone, I became much more serious about my studies. I wanted to do something big, something important." I was never this good at half-truths in high school. Years of living a double-life had changed me.

"Wow, so political science," she says.

"Oh, I dabbled in everything. I went to Germany and studied biology." Ten months with the last remaining scientist who worked in Hitler's germ warfare division. If you're going to handle deadly bio-weapons, it's best to have a full knowledge of what you're working with.

"Then I went to Russia," I continue. "Where I studied physics."

"How exciting!"

Not really, Mom. Rocket science is as dry and boring as the old cliché about rocket scientists. But again, I didn't just want to depend on others to have the know-how. I wanted first hand knowledge of the delivery system for my killer virus.

"Oh, and I also did some theater in Britain."

"Acting?" Mom raises an eyebrow. "You never had any interest in that during high school. I tried so hard to get you to try out for all those plays."

"Yeah, I know," I say, sipping my hot chocolate. Things change when you plan to take the world hostage. I mean, a super-villain has to look good on camera and sound convincing when she says she will destroy the world. Pops hooked me up with Griffin Smyth-Smith, one of the finest diction coaches in all of England and a secret friend to super-villains everywhere. He's a legend who will never get his due. Who do you think told the Joker to invest in white grease paint?

"So in all your travels and study, did you ever get a degree?"

"I have a master's," I say, hoping we can end it at that. Not a pretty story. I spent two years in the Far East studying the way of the Ninja. Master Kyoto bestowed the rank of black belt on me, but I wanted more.

"Sensei," I asked him, "How will I ever achieve the rank of Master?"

"The only way to achieve that rank," he said in his wise, quiet way, "is for your Master to perish."

"I understand." One roundhouse kick to the face, a snap of the neck, and I had my master's.

"Well," says Mom. "I must say, I've missed you terribly, but I am very proud of you."

She wouldn't be if she knew the whole bloody truth. I smile, and sip the last dregs from my mug. It's bitter. There's a nagging feeling in my gut, a guilt I haven't felt since I lied to her about where I really went on homecoming night my senior year. I'm relieved that she seems satisfied for now. I wasn't sure how the rest of my story would go. How would I have twisted the stories about kidnappings, assassinations, biological weapons, and the difficult task of building one's own evil lair?

And what about Mexico City?

Mom excuses herself and heads off to bed. It's not that late; only ten Iowa time. But it's past her regular bed time. She promises me a big Iowa farm breakfast in the morning. It's funny how good it sounds to me now. When I first left home, I was all about healthy foods, and a smart start to the day. Being here, now, a big breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs, and made from scratch biscuits sounds like the best thing in the entire world.

Once Mom is gone, I take my things to my room. It's eerily similar to the way I left it. The same teen idols I once fantasized about, long faded from the public consciousness, adorn the walls beside my bed. A handful of CD's are still on the shelf, the ones I was too embarrassed to take to college because they were Mom's music. As hard as I tried to get into the music my classmates enjoyed, I grew up on older music, and nothing every connected with me like my Mom's favorite bands.

I slip one into the stereo that hasn't moved in ten years and put on my headphones. Like an old, familiar friend, the music embraces me and take me back to my youth.

Yes, I was in love with Nelson.

The joy of my reunion with my old room is short-lived. I look out the window, and while I know the landscape has changed a lot in a decade, I can sense something is out of place. Someone's outside, watching me.

This is Iowa, I remind myself as I hurry down the stairs. No one here knows who you are. No one who knows who you are knows where you came from. It's paranoia. It's nothing.

It's the most spectacular night I have seen in years. The stars of an Iowa sky are brighter and more numerous than anywhere I have ever roamed. I stop at the foot of the porch steps. If someone has come to kill me, I could not be more at peace to go than right here, now.

Not that I am going to go easily, as the man who grabs my shoulder quickly finds out. I flip him on his back and jam my foot into his neck before he knows what's hit him – but not before I can stop myself from killing the best friend I ever knew.

"Rey?"

I lift my foot. Rey's in shock, a little scared, but he starts to smile.

"Thank God you remember me!" he says. "For a second there, I thought it was the end."

"I was about to ask if you had any last words," I say.

He stands. "I was about to ask why you never came to say bye."

I'm fighting tears as he hugs me. I hug him back. "What are you doing here?"

"Aldo called," he says. "He told me you were back."

"I'm so glad he did."

Did I say I something about not feeling more at peace and happy than I was a moment ago? If I did, I was wrong.
WAR EAGLE'S WAR JOURNAL  
DECEMBER 21, DALLAS, TEXAS, 2300 HOURS

PEOPLE CAN BE JUDGMENTAL. BELIEVE ME, I KNOW. WHEN THEY SEE A SUPER HERO WALK INTO THE LOBBY OF A FIVE STAR HOTEL, THEY JUDGE YOU. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? SHOULDN'T YOU BE FIGHTING CRIME? ARE MY TAX DOLLARS PAYING FOR THIS? YOU'RE GETTING SOFT! AND WHAT'S WITH THOSE PINK BOOTIES?"

LOOK, SOMETIMES A HERO JUST NEEDS A BIT OF RESPITE. THANKFULLY, MY FRIENDS AT THE MARRIOTT HOTEL CHAIN HAVE ALWAYS BEEN VERY ACCOMMODATING. WORN OUT FROM TURNING OVER ROCKS AND SHAKING DOWN INFORMANTS, I FOUND MYSELF AT THE MARRIOTT IN DALLAS, WHERE THE MANAGER WAS KIND ENOUGH TO BOOT ANOTHER COUPLE OUT OF THE BRIDAL SUITE SO THAT I COULD ENJOY A BIT OF DOWNTIME. I TOOK A LONG DIP IN A BUBBLE BATH, SHAVED, AND TOOK MYSELF DOWN TO THE LOBBY FOR A NICE, RELAXING DINNER.

OR SO I THOUGHT.

THE WAITER SAT ME AT A QUIET TABLE OUT OF THE WAY, AS REQUESTED, A PLACE PERFECT FOR A ROMANTIC ENCOUNTER. DIRECTLY BEHIND ME, AN OLDER COUPLE WAS ALREADY ENJOYING THEIR COCKTAILS. I ORDERED A WATER WITH LEMON AND BEGAN TO PERUSE THE MENU. THEN MY SUPER HEARING RECOGNIZED A VOICE.

"I'M GOING TO THE LADIES ROOM."

THAT WAS NOT THE VOICE.

"I'LL BE HERE."

THAT WAS THE VOICE!

I LET THE ATTRACTIVE WOMAN IN THE BLACK DRESS VANISH FROM SIGHT BEFORE I MADE MY MOVE. SOON AS I KNEW SHE COULD NOT SEE, I STOOD AND SPUN AROUND TO STARE INTO THE MUSTACHIOED FACE OF AN OLD NEMESIS, THE MAN WHO NOT ONLY HELD MULTIPLE CITIES HOSTAGE WITH WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION BUT STOLE SOMETHING VERY SPECIAL FROM ME.

"DR. PSYCHO!"

HIS DARK, EVIL EYES WIDENED IN HORROR AS HE LOOKED INTO THE FACE OF COLD JUSTICE. "WAR EAGLE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

"TAKING A NIGHT OFF FROM TAKING OUT THE TRASH," I SAID. "LOOKS LIKE I'M IN FOR A LITTLE OVER TIME."

"COULD WE DO THIS LATER?" HE SAID. "THIS IS REALLY A BAD TIME."

"IT'S ALWAYS BAD TIME WITH YOU," I SAID, GRINNING AT THE PUN. "BUT NOW IT'S GOING TO BE HARD TIME."

"YOU COULDN'T JUST LET ME GO LIKE YOU DID ZORANA?" HE SAID.

"GOOD ONE," I SAID. "NOW COME ALONG! WE'RE GOING TO THE POLICE."

"WAR EAGLE, PLEASE," HE SAID. "I NEED YOU TO LOOK THE OTHER WAY, JUST ONCE."

"WE CAN DO THIS THE EASY WAY OR THE HARD WAY," I SAID. "AND THE HARD WAY IS JUST FINE WITH ME!"

ANOTHER VOICE INTERRUPTED. "HOW COULD YOU, ALAN?" IT'S THE WOMAN WHO WENT TO THE RESTROOM, ONLY NOW, THIS TIME, I RECOGNIZED IT. I TURNED AND LOOKED INTO A FACE THAT LAUNCHED A SWELL OF BUTTERFLIES SWARMING MY STOMACH.

"ANNIE?"

"HELLO, 'WAR EAGLE,'" SHE SAID. SHE TURNED TO DR. PSYCHO. "YOU CAN'T LEAVE WORK BEHIND. NOT EVEN FOR A MINUTE."

"ANNIE, I--"

"NO," SHE SAID. "DON'T. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN TO BELIEVE YOU. OR THAT SHRINK YOU TOOK US TO. THIS ISN'T GOING TO WORK. I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF JACK-BOOTED MEN IN SPANDEX WHO ARE TOO IN LOVE WITH THEIR CAREERS THAN THEIR OWN FAMILIES. I'LL GET MY THINGS, CALL MY MOTHER, AND GET A FLIGHT HOME TONIGHT. I'LL BE AT HER HOUSE WITH THE KIDS. WE CAN DISCUSS TERMS AND VISITATION LATER."

"ANNIE, PLEASE," SAID DR. PSYCHO.

ANNIE STORMED OUT OF THE RESTAURANT. A DOZEN OTHER TABLES WATCHING THE SCENE UNFOLD TURNED THEIR HEADS AWAY FROM US, PRETENDING NOT TO HAVE HEARD A THING AS SHE HEADED FOR THE ELEVATOR. I TURNED TO DR. PSYCHO.

"ALL RIGHT, PSYCHO, LET'S GO."

DR. PSYCHO SAT DOWN, A BROKEN, DEFEATED MAN. "MIGHT AS WELL, YOU'VE ALREADY TAKEN THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERED FROM ME."

"ME?" I SAID. "YOU TOOK HER FROM ME! REMEMBER?"

"YOU DIDN'T DESERVE HER, AND YOU KNOW IT!" HE SAID.

I REMEMBERED BACK TO THE DAY ANNIE WALKED OUT OF MY LIFE. SHE GAVE ME SOME SPEECH ABOUT BEING SELF-ABSORBED, EGOTISTICAL, ABOUT NEVER MEETING HER NEEDS. THEN SHE TOLD ME SHE WAS LEAVING ME FOR THE MAN WHO HAD HELD HER, AND THE CITY, HOSTAGE TWO MONTHS BACK. I COULDN'T BELIEVE IT. WHAT IN THE WORLD DID SHE SEE IN A SUPER-VILLAIN?

I LOOKED DOWN AT DR. PSYCHO. HE LOOKED ANYTHING BUT SUPER AS HE STARED OFF INTO THE RESTAURANT. "I WAS OUT, WAR EAGLE," HE SAID. "OUT OF THE EVIL SHENANIGANS. AFTER TEN YEARS OF MARRIAGE AND SIX FAILED EVIL SCHEMES, I REALIZED I WAS BECOMING SOMETHING I DIDN'T WANT TO BE."

"AND WHAT'S THAT?" I SAID.

"YOU!" HE SAID.

"ME?" I SAID. "I'M A HERO!"

"AND WHEN YOU WERE WITH ANNIE, YOU CARED MORE ABOUT BEING A HERO THAN BEING A BOYFRIEND," HE SAID. "I REALIZED THAT IF I DIDN'T CHANGE, I WAS GOING TO LOSE HER. WE HAD A LONG TALK ABOUT IT, AND I ASKED HER FOR SOME TIME APART TO MAKE SOME CHANGES IN MY LIFE. SHE AGREED, BUT I KNEW SHE THOUGHT I WAS JUST SNEAKING AWAY TO TRY AND TAKE OVER THE WORLD AGAIN. INSTEAD, I WENT OUT AND MADE A NEW CAREER FOR MYSELF, JUST LIKE I SAID. TOMORROW I WAS GOING TO SHOW HER MY NEW BUSINESS EMPIRE."

"YOU? IN BUSINESS?" I SAID. "WHAT KIND OF BUSINESS?"

"I OWN A CHAIN OF COLLEGE BOOKSTORES," HE SAID.

"REALLY?"

"OH YEAH," I SAID. "IT'S AN INCREDIBLE MARKET. I MAKE MORE OFF TEXTBOOKS THAN I EVER DID WITH THOSE DOOMSDAY WEAPONS. YOU'D BE SURPRISED HOW MANY SUPER-VILLAINS ARE IN THE BUSINESS."

I SAT DOWN. I CAN SMELL LIES A MILE AWAY - USUALLY - BUT MY LIE DETECTOR WAS DRAWING A COMPLETE BLANK. AS BAD AS THIS MAN HAD BEEN IN THE PAST, HE WAS BEING SINCERE. HE LOVED ANNIE, BETTER THAN I EVER HAD.

"I HAVEN'T SEEN HER IN NINE MONTHS," HE SAID. "OR THE KIDS. THIS WAS OUR WEEKEND TO SET THINGS RIGHT. I WAS GOING TO SHOW HER I WAS FOR REAL. BUT IT'S BEEN ONE DISASTER AFTER ANOTHER. OUR FLIGHT WAS DELAYED. THE HOTEL REFUSED TO GIVE US THE BRIDAL SUITE I RESERVED, AND THEN YOU SHOW UP. IT'S OVER NOW. IT'S ALL OVER."

"NO," I SAID. "IT'S NOT OVER YET."

I GRABBED MY OLD RIVAL BY THE WRIST, YANKING HIM OUT OF HIS SEAT AND RACING THROUGH THE RESTAURANT. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" HE SHOUTED.

"I'M FIXING YOUR MARRIAGE!" I SAID.

WE HIT THE ELEVATOR AND RODE ALL THE WAY UP TO THE TWELFTH FLOOR. ANNIE WAS JUST STEPPING OUTSIDE, BAG IN HAND, WHEN WE REACHED THEIR SUITE.

"ANNIE, PLEASE, DON'T GO!" I SAID.

"IF YOU THINK THIS IS YOUR MOMENT TO WIN ME BACK, YOU ARE SORELY MISTAKEN," SHE SAID.

"NO, NO," I SAID. "THIS ISN'T ABOUT ME. THIS IS ABOUT HIM."

"YOU ARE BOTH DEAD TO ME," SAID ANNIE.

"ANNIE, LISTEN TO ME," I SAID. "HE TOLD ME EVERYTHING. HE'S OUT OF THE EVIL GAME! HE'S A GOOD MAN!"

"THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" SHE ASKED.

"I'M TAKING A NIGHT OFF FROM MY NATIONWIDE HUNT FOR ZORANA," I SAID. "BEING HERE WAS A TOTAL COINCIDENCE. NOTHING MORE. I'M SORRY TO BOTH OF YOU FOR RUINING YOUR NIGHT. ESPECIALLY TO YOU, ANNIE BECAUSE THIS? THIS IS A GOOD MAN."

ANNIE LOOKED DR. PSYCHO UP AND DOWN. A SMILE TRIED TO CRACK HER FACE. "HE IS?"

"YES," I SAID. "AS MUCH AS A MAN IN THE COLLEGE TEXTBOOK RACKET CAN BE."

"SPOILER ALERT," SAID DR. PSYCHO.

"HEY, YOU WANT ME TO SAVE YOUR MARRIAGE OR NOT?" I ASKED.

DR. PSYCHO GAVE ME A PAT ON THE ARM. "IT'S TRUE, ANNIE. I'M IN COLLEGE TEXTBOOKS. TEN CAMPUSES AND COUNTING. I WORK FORTY HOURS A WEEK, AND NO MORE. AND I MISS YOU AND THE TWINS LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE."

ANNIE'S EYES WELLED UP WITH TEARS. "WE'VE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!"

DR. PSYCHO AND MY EX-GIRLFRIEND RACED TO EACH OTHER AND EMBRACED. IT WAS A TOUCHING MOMENT, A MOMENT OF SELF-SACRIFICE ON MY OWN PART I WILL ALWAYS TREASURE. WE STILL KEEP IN TOUCH, AND I'M HAPPY TO SAY THAT THEY ARE STILL TOGETHER. THEY OWN THIRTY COLLEGE BOOKSTORES NOW, AND THEY HAVE TWO SETS OF TWINS.

I WAS SO MOVED BY THE WHOLE MOMENT, I GAVE SERIOUS THOUGHT TO GIVING UP THE BRIDAL SUITE. BUT, I WAS ALREADY UNPACKED AND SETTLED IN, SO I QUIETLY EXCUSED MYSELF AND RETURNED TO THE TOP FLOOR ALONE. I ORDERED UP ROOM SERVICE AND SETTLED IN TO WATCH A BOWL GAME, LETTING MY SUPER BRAINS REST FOR THE NIGHT BEFORE I RESUMED MY CHASE IN THE MORNING.
REUNIONS

I sit by the window in Aldo's place looking out on my home town, sipping a Dr. Pepper. I glance over at a ghost by the counter, the same one that appeared outside my mother's home last night. It felt like a dream. Yet there he was again, ordering pizza for us. He promised he would meet me here, and he did. I knew he would. Except for one time in all the years I had known him, Rey was a man of his word.

I watch some kids from the high school walking up the street. A couple of pretty girls with their boyfriends with their letterman jackets and their wrestling pins. Iowans love our wrestling more than anything. Iowa farms breed the biggest wrestlers, linemen, and tight ends in the nation.

None of the big, beefy boys ever appealed to me. Sure, they tried, but there was only one guy in this corn fed town that ever held any attraction for me.

Rey was a wrestler too, but he was one of the little guys. He was also the sweetest, gentlest male soul I had ever known. We met in the second grade, and we became best friends, thanks to our shared love of GI Joe. Every afternoon, once my homework was done, I'd race over to his house to play. He was Zartan; I was the girl with the pink hair. We dropped GI Joe once we hit middle school, but the after school get togethers never stopped. Rey was always there for me, even when my Mom was too busy. He was my rock.

Can you blame me for taking it hard when he left me?

Not that we were together-together. We never got to that point, though in the back of my mind I always thought we would. Once high school was over, we would fall in love, and that would be that. I had no idea that Friday evening stroll under the stars would be our last. He said nothing, made no gesture to indicate to me that he was savoring any final moments. He simply told me, in his calm, nonchalant way, he was moving away.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow?"

"I have to."

"But we graduate in two weeks!"

"I'm sorry... my father won't live that long."

"You found your father?"

Rey nodded. It was no secret he had been searching for his father all his life. His mother kept one picture of him in the living room. She still loved him, though she had moved on and married another man. He had been good to Rey, and Rey loved his step-father very much, but he longed to know the man who fathered him so many years ago.

"He's in Mexico City," Rey told me. "In a hospital. My mother got the call from my grandmother down there."

"Wow," I said. "You really found him."

"Finally," he said. "You don't know what this means to me, Monica. Nineteen years ago, he sacrificed everything to get my mother across the border. After I was born in Austin, my Mom was allowed to apply for citizenship. My father was sent back."

I knew the story. Yet it had a deeper feeling to it this time, and a deeper sorrow.

"He's dying, Monica. He doesn't have much time. I have to find him and let him know the kind of man his boy has become. I have to thank him."

I patted Rey on the shoulder, restraining myself from more. "He will be very proud of you."

Rey wiped a tear. I moved my hand, struggling for something else to say. Finally, I uttered the question. "When will you be back?"

"I don't know... but I will write."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Only he didn't write. That was the one promise he ever failed to keep. Rey vanished from thought, I met Johann, and my life took a radical detour.

And then, I went to Mexico City.

It was five years ago, when I was still pretty much an independent contractor working for the highest bidder. I'd been hired to assist with a bank job for a major crime syndicate based in Munich. Real scary types, the kind that would have fit in all too well with Himmler back in the day.

I was in my hotel room getting dressed. The phone rang, and I answered.

"We are going. You will be there?"

"I'll be there," I assured them. The line went dead.

I finished putting my shoes on, checked my bag, then grabbed the remote control.

And froze.

I had turned the TV on that morning, looking for something to keep my mind busy while I waited for this moment. I'd stopped on a quiz show, but I hadn't really paid attention the last hour. Needless to say it was a total shock to look up at the television screen and see my old buddy, my sweetheart, Rey Garcia in wrestling tights.

I did a double take, then sat down on the bed. There was no mistaking that sweet face, the hair, the chiseled muscles. (Oh yeah, I had noticed in high school.) They introduced him as El Loco Hawkeye from Iowa in the USA. He got a huge round of boos.

I was stunned. Rey had scholarship offers from Iowa and Iowa State. He was a real wrestler, and as far as I knew, he never had any interest in this sort of garbage. Then again, I was always going on about what a bunch of garbage it was. Rey told me it was the only real option for wrestlers. Not a lot of money in freestyle or Greco-Roman wrestling unless you got a gold medal in the Olympics. But the pro wrestling circuit, if you played your cards right...

Was this his plan all along? Did he think I wouldn't approve? I wouldn't have, but I wouldn't have ended a friendship over it. How did my sweet Rey ever end up a professional wrestler in Mexico? And not just any wrestler, but the cruiserweight champion!

He had a fifteen minute grudge match that day versus Tiger Mask, ending with a double count out. I got completely wrapped up in the match. By the end I had my laptop out and was looking up information on El Loco Hawkeye. I found dozens of matches on the Internet and several articles (in Spanish) about his exploits.

His real life uncle Eddie was a promoter, and acted as his manager when he first got started. El Loco Hawkeye had come from America to bring the rest of Mexico into the Union.

Being from America made him a perfect bad guy in Mexico. The people hated him. But he was all over the place, selling tickets like crazy to obsessed fans who wanted to see him beat up and shipped back to America in pieces!

I lost all track of time learning about Rey's secret new life. By the time I realized I had missed my rendezvous with the Germans, all five of them were dead on the streets of Mexico.

El Loco Hawkeye saved my life, but he also put a price on my head.

I was a hunted woman after that. For two years, assassins seemed to be lurking in the shadows everywhere I went. It was only when I seized control of my own crime syndicate I was able to stop sleeping with one eye open at nights.

That was also the point when I was afforded enough time to really catch up on my Rey. I had a great kid in my outfit, Mitch, who turned out to be a big wrestling fan. He taught me all about the industry, far more than I ever wanted to know, and helped me track down all the bootlegs we could find featuring El Loco Hawkeye.

Going back for those DVDs nearly cost me my own life when I escaped the lair, but I couldn't leave them behind. It was my link to the past, to my dear friend. I was proud of him.

From what I could tell, Rey was going to be just as tight-lipped about his secret identity as I was. He slides back into the booth with fresh sodas for both of us, and I begin my interrogation anew.

"So after your father died, you became a farmer?"

"I know, big stretch, right?" Rey smiles, avoiding eye contact. "My uncle was struggling, couldn't get enough hands, so I stayed to help."

"For how long?" I ask.

"Last winter. Mom got sick, so I came up to take care of her."

"Your Dad would have been proud."

"Mom was relieved. She kept telling me I was wasting my life down there."

"On farming?"

There's a twitch; he's said too much, backpedaling, covering his tracks. "Just Mexico. My parents brought me here for a better life."

"On a different farm." Now I'm just being mean, but I can't help it. Rey has a secret identity. I'm charmed and annoyed at the same time.

"So you're still a farm boy."

"By day, yes," he says. "But by night..."

"Let me guess: you fight crime."

"No, no," he says with a smile. "Something much more exciting than that."

"Really?" He's not gonna tell me about El Loco Hawkeye, is he? Much as I want him to be honest, I'll also be disappointed.

"Actually, I was hoping you might be able to lend me a hand with something."

"Really? Doing what?"

Rey smiles, letting the suspense build. Drama queen, no wonder he became a wrestler. "Do you still play piano?"

I didn't see that one coming.

In fact I had played piano up until a few years ago. It was only on rare occasions, of course. Musician is a great cover job for assassinations. If you're with the band, you can get in just about anywhere.

Piano is one of those things you never really forget. I was going to have an organ installed in my lair, but one of my top level advisors started calling me Captain Nemo. Not wanting to jinx our operations, I tossed out plans for an organ and got a nice rec room for the boys instead.

"Sure," I say. "I can still play."

"Monica," Rey says, "You just saved Christmas."

"How so?"

"Mrs. Watson came down with the flu," said Rey. "And the kids pageant is tomorrow night."

"Kids pageant?" I feel an icy chill.

"At church," says Rey. "it's what I do now. I work with the kids at church."

"Wow," I say. "That's a tough gig."

"It's not so bad," he says. "But with Mrs. Watson out, I could really use a hand."

No. A thousand times no. No, no, no. Not that I had bad memories of that church. Not that I wouldn't want to see it's beautifully preserved interior once more. But the thought of stepping into church, playing piano for a bunch of children, after all I'd done...

"Sure," I said. "What the heck. It'll be good to play again."

The words came out so fast, I didn't know what hit me.

"Cool," he says. "We've got rehearsal this afternoon and again tomorrow. If you want, we can head over and you can look through the music. Believe it or not, it's the same score we used when we were kids."

"I think I can manage," I say, lying through my teeth.

The conversation prattles on, but I have no idea what's being discussed. Rey's eager to catch up with his old friend, but all I can think about is how I'm going to get out of this. After all the evil I've wrought on this world, there was no way I could set foot in a church, much less play piano as children sing about the Christ child.
SIDETRACKED

Three hours later I'm sitting in front of a piano, playing the hymns I used to play as a girl. The piano sounds exactly the same as the last time I played in this church.

Silent night, holy night  
All is calm, all is bright.

Rey sits in the second pew. He moves his hands with the beat, but not a lot. These kids are well trained, and they've been singing this song since they learned to talk.

Round yon virgin mother and child  
Holy infant so tender and mild  
Sleep in heavenly peace  
Sleep in heavenly peace

Boy, how is this for irony? If War Eagle's out looking for me (and knowing that cross-eyed bloodhound in the pink booties like I do, he is) he would never think to look for me in here.

I kind of hate being "here" myself.

The kids finish, and Rey claps for them.

"That was better. That was better. Let's run that last scene one more time. Eddie? Lisa?"

Eddie and Lisa step forward, dressed as Mary and Joseph. Eddie's dad graduated from high school with Rey and me. Lisa's parents Adam and Nikki were a little older. I knew them, though. Nikki baby sat me when I was younger. Now here I was playing piano for her daughter, just a few days removed from holding the world in the icy grip of terror.

Why does this bother me so much?

Eddie and Lisa lay down, "asleep." Another little boy walks on in an angel costume.

"Joseph, Joseph, wake up. Herod is angry and wants to kill the baby." His voice is sweet, innocent.

Eddie looks up, eyes wide with fright. "What shall we do?"

"You must flee to Egypt," the Angel says. "To escape his evil."

Eddie rouses Lisa from her false sleep. "Come on, Mary. Let us flee."

"And cue music." Rey says.

Before my fingers can apply pressure to the keys beneath them, I feel a vibration in my back pocket. I pull out my phone and look at the incoming number.

This can't be good.

"Rey, I'm sorry," I say. "I need to get this."

Rey isn't the least bit upset. "A cappella, guys. We'll get Monica back in a few minutes."

I race out the side door, pressing the metal bar to open, and feel the cold hit my face as I press the answer button.

"Hello?"

"What is that watermelon doing on the counter?" a woman's voice asks.

"Tell you later, Buckaroo," I answer.

"Confirmed," says the woman. "Good afternoon, ma'am, this is Pam, and I am with UHU."

A sinking feeling hits my stomach when I hear the letters. The United Henchworkers Union. The faces of countless henchmen and women flash before my eyes as I recall the people who worked and died for my ambitions.

"Hello, Pam, how are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks," she says in a scripted manner. "The purpose of my call today is to discuss the recent fall of your secret lair, located in sector ZZ-Alpha."

"I thought so," I say, trying to get ahead of the script. "I am so sorry I did not get in touch with you first. I hope you understand."

"I do understand, ma'am, you recently had your evil plans thwarted, and the UHU recognizes this as a hardship on the men and women who make our employment possible. However, since you did survive said lair destruction, and since the destruction of said lair, by definition, means the termination of business at that location, you are contractually obligated to the surviving henchworkers and their families to provide a full disclosure of whatever assets you may still retain, be they liquid or hard, so that we may determine your liability and payouts to those unemployed or deceased."

Yes, it sounds as robotic and obnoxious as it reads.

"I know, Pam, and I am prepared to do so as soon as possible."

"And how soon would that be, ma'am?"

Her pushy behavior puts evil thoughts into my head. "Email me the forms, and I will fill them out this afternoon and email back."

"I can email the forms to you," she says, "However, our policy states we must have a hard copy signature in writing delivered to a UHU representative."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" I finally snap.

"I see by our satellite trace that you are currently in Iowa," she says. "I can have a representative to meet you this evening in Iowa City. Will you be making this drop or shall I list you as non-compliant?"

"I'll make it work," I say. As irritated as I was, I knew how severe the consequences for non-compliance could be. That's how we lost Dr. Fate two years ago in a boating "accident."

"Very good, ma'am," she says. "Now I also see your primary email address has been compromised, so I will need an alternate to send the forms."

I sigh, trying not to get more frustrated. "Okay, okay. Can you encrypt the file, make it look like a Christmas shopping bill?"

"We at the UHU take great pride in our discretion and helping those who depend on us maintain secrecy," says Pam. "What is that alternate email?"

From memory, I give her Aldo's old AOL address. It'll be easier to get it from Aldo than Mom; he will ask a lot fewer questions and probably be too busy to pay any attention at all while I download and print the file.

Or so I thought.

I place a quick call and leave a message on Aldo's machine before going back into church, just in time to play the finale, "Joy to the World." The kids sing the joyful news about the birth of Jesus, while a slideshow of dead henchmen plays over and over in my head.

Carlos. Erin. Bernard. Willard. Big Tank and Little Tank. Big Ennis and Little Ennis. Big Frank. (There was no Little Frank; he was just big.) Tripp. Marty. Nikolai. Consuela. Jeff. Travis. Randall. Scooter "Maddog" Wasson. Conrad. Deadeye. Yes, they knew what they were getting into when they signed on, but I felt horrible knowing they died because of me.

The UHU would take care of their families, and they would do so at my expense. A few days ago, the thought some union raiding my assets would have disgusted me. Right now, I don't care. They can have it all. It won't be enough because it can't bring a single one of them back.

My guilt consumes me. Somehow, my body goes on auto-pilot, following Rey's cues and keeping the music going in spite of the turmoil inside me. I don't notice when Rey prays or when he dismisses the kids. The next thing I know, he is sitting beside me.

"Penny for your thoughts," he says.

"Gonna cost more than that," I say.

"Just to hear how the kids did?" he says.

"Oh," I say. I wish I had a thought about the kids. It would certainly be more pleasant than the places I've been the last few minutes.

"Is everything okay?" he asks.

"I'm okay," I say. "I'm sorry, it's just some personal things."

"Anything I can do?"

"No," I say. "Actually, yes. I need a ride."

"Where to?"

"Iowa City."

It's winter. It's cold. It snows constantly in Iowa this time of year. An evening drive to Iowa City from Smalltown can easily change from a three hour tour to being stranded in a snow bank overnight. He gets a funny grin on his face, then he stammers a bit. "Iowa City. Sure. We can go."

"Really?"

"Sure," he says. "I could do a little Christmas shopping."

"There are places to shop here," I say.

"Yeah, but there's only so much you can buy at the Quik Station and the comic shop," he says.

I'm suspicious. It's too convenient. But this is Rey, and I'm too grateful - and desperate - to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Thank you," I say.

"When do we leave?"

"Give me an hour," I say. "I'll meet you at Aldo's."

"Aldo's in an hour, perfect."

We say our goodbyes and I head for the exit, glad to be leaving the church. I don't like how this place makes me feel. There's guilt, to be sure, but also a vulnerability that frightens me. I can't afford to let my guard down. There are people depending on me, and I am certain, people still looking for me.

I forget about the carpenter, the virgin, and the baby as I make my way to the pizza shop.
WAR EAGLE'S WAR JOURNAL  
DECEMBER 22, TEXARKANA, TEXAS 1600 HOURS

MY RELENTLESS PURSUIT OF THE GREAT SATAN KNOWN AS ZORANA LED ME TO THE THE HEARTLAND OF AMERICA, WHERE STRANGE AND UNUSUAL NEWS STORY CAUGHT MY EYE. I HEARD ABOUT IT ON THE MORNING NEWS IN DALLAS, HOW POLICE FOUND A MAN IN A BUS STATION BATHROOM WHO APPEARED TO HAVE BEEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING. THEY FLASHED A PHOTO OF THE MAN'S INJURY ON THE NEWS, AND THE BURN PATTERN WAS CONSISTENT WITH WOUNDS I HAD SEEN BEFORE, WOUNDS INFLICTED BY A CERTAIN KIND OF LASER GUN.

ONLY A FEW VILLAINS IN THE WORLD HAD ACCESS TO SUCH TECHNOLOGY. ZORANA HAD TWO OF THEM.

THE TOWN SHERIFF IS TYPICAL OF THE TEXAS LAW MEN I HAVE MET IN MY DAY: ARROGANT AND PRIDEFUL, WITH NO USE FOR A MAN OF EXTRAORDINARY GIFTS SUCH AS MYSELF. WHEN I ASKED ABOUT SPEAKING TO THE VICTIM, THE SHERIFF SHOOK HIS HEAD.

"NICE OF YOU TO TAKE AN INTEREST, FELLER," HE SAID, CHOMPING ON HIS CIGAR. "BUT THIS IS AN OPEN-SHUT CASE. THIS BOY WAS STRUCK BY LIGHTNING."

"DEAR SHERIFF," I SAID TO HIM, TRYING NOT TO CHUCKLE AT HIS SMALL-MINDED REASONING, "HOW COULD THIS MAN HAVE BEEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING WHEN THERE WAS NO THUNDERSTORM?"

"WELL..." HE SAID, CHOMPING ON THAT CIGAR.

"AND HOW COULD HE HAVE BEEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING WHILE INSIDE YOUR BUS DEPOT?"

"OKAY, MR. SUPER GUY," HE SAID BACK, "YOU TELL ME HOW HE GOT 'LECTROCUDED LIKE THIS."

I PULLED OUT MY PHONE AND FLIPPED TO A PHOTO I HAD SAVED ASIDE FOR JUST SUCH AN OCCASION. "TAKE A LOOK AT THESE BURN MARKS, SHERIFF. IS THIS WHAT YOUR VICTIM LOOKS LIKE?"

"YEP," SAID MY REDNECK COLLEAGUE. "LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE THE BOY WE GOT IN THAT HOSPITAL."

"THIS GUY GOT SHOCKED," SAID I, "BUT IT WASN'T LIGHTNING. IT WAS ZORANA."

POOR OLD GUY NEARLY CHOKED ON HIS CIGAR. "B-B-BUT YOU WAS SUPPOSED T'HAVE COLLARED HER!"

"SHE'S A WILY ONE," I ADMITTED, "SHE GOT AWAY."

"YOU INCOMPETENT! AND NOW SHE'S RUNNIN' LOOSE IN MY TOWN?"

"TAKE IT EASY, SHERIFF," I SAID, "SHE'S PROBABLY LONG GONE. BUT I'LL NEED TO SPEAK TO YOUR PATIENT."

I DIDN'T GET MUCH OUT OF THE BOY IN THE HOSPITAL. THE SHERIFF TOLD ME THE KID HAD A RECORD A MILE LONG, AND IT DIDN'T TAKE LONG FOR ME TO REALIZE HE WAS UP TO NO GOOD WHEN HE HAD HIS ENCOUNTER. HE WAS FOUND IN THE LADIES RESTROOM, SO HE HAD PROBABLY FOLLOWED HER IN TO ROB HER. IT WAS THE WRONG GIRL AT THE WRONG TIME, AND HE NOW HAD THE SCARS AS A PERMANENT REMINDER.

THE MAN COULDN'T GIVE US A GOOD DESCRIPTION OF HER FACE, BUT HE DID HAVE ONE GOOD CLUE. HE KNEW WHICH BUS SHE WAS ON WHEN SHE ARRIVED.I MADE A PHONE CALL TO THE BUS DEPOT AND WAS ABLE TO LEARN WHERE THAT BUS WAS HEADED AFTER LEAVING TEXARKANA.

ZORANA'S BUS WAS HEADED NORTH, WITH SEVEN STOPS BETWEEN TEXAS AND MINNESOTA. I WASTED NO TIME GETTING BEHIND THE WHEEL OF MY FERRARI AND HITTING THE ROAD, CONFIDENT MY QUEST WAS COMING TO AN END.
EVERYONE HAS SECRETS

"You sure you're not too warm?" asks Rey.

"I'm fine," I say, roasting inside my winter coat. Rey has the heat cranked up in his truck to stave off the cold, but I can't unzip my coat because the manila envelope with the UHU paperwork is hidden beneath.

It's miserable hot, but we're making good time. The forecast calls for 40% chance of snow, but so far, there's none in the air and we're meandering along the Iowa backroads. We make small talk about school memories, but my thoughts are already looking ahead to Iowa City.

How in the world am I going to ditch Rey?

I don't need very long. Twenty minutes, tops. But there's no way I want Rey to see what's happening, and I can't allow Rey to be seen. If ordinary citizens knew how pervasive and vast the criminal underworld really was, they would freak. Super-villains and the organizations that support them go to extreme measures to protect that secrecy, and by extreme, I do mean murder. Even a low level courier for an evil henchworker's union is authorized to use deadly force to keep their existence a secret. The man waiting for me in Iowa city will shoot Rey in the head and not even blink.

I just hope there are no questions on the documents. I gave a full account of remaining my oversea assets, and I wrote my lair and all that was in it off as a total loss, including the Vega-Virus. I knew I was taking a risk by listing it as lost asset, especially since I had yet to make an insurance claim on the device. The device would fetch a handsome price in an open auction, but I have no desire to hand it over to the UHU.

It's not that I have immediate plans to use it myself. But for some reason, I don't want anyone else getting their hands of it.

Am I afraid if seeing countless people die? Right now, yes. Collateral damage was a part of my life prior to a few days ago, but being home has given me temporary pause. Perhaps when the holidays are over, I will put the device on the auction block - anonymously, as I can't let the UHU know I lied about it. Or maybe, just maybe, I'll take the insurance payout and revisit my plans for a base on the dark side of the moon and rebuild.

It's hard to think about such things when I'm laughing about the football game we watched during a torrential downpour when we were sophomores. It was early September and still warm, and by the third quarter we no longer cared about the game. We were a rain-soaked, muddy mess, running and laughing...

Was that really the same girl who financed and built her own island lair staffed with hundreds of henchworkers?

I had no trouble getting the email at Aldo's. He didn't ask any questions at all; just let me have at the computer while he went on making pizzas. I even filled out most of the paperwork in a booth and grabbed the envelope from his back office.

"Here we are."

Rey's parked on the curb at the open end of the downtown Ped Mall. I look out the window at the college students and shoppers milling around in the cold, racing in and out of bars, restaurants, and shops.

"You're not going to park in the ramp?" I ask.

"No, I need to run an errand," he says.

I blink. "Since when?"

"Hey, you're not the only person with Christmas shopping to do," he says.

"True," I say. "But Prairie Lights is down there, and that pizza place we always go to. And the Haunted Bookstore's only a few blocks away. We can walk it." I don't want Rey anywhere near me when I make the drop, but I can't imagine where he's going.

"I'll catch up," he says. "I might be a bit, but I'll come back."

"Where will I meet you?" I ask.

"I'll find you," he says.

"Okay." I get out of the truck and step onto the curb. Rey waves at me before checking the traffic and pulling out. Rey said nothing, nothing at all, on the drive here about any errands. Far as I know, he only drove me as a favor.

Where are you going, Rey?

It doesn't matter, I tell myself. Take care of business and be ready when he comes back.

I unzip my coat and pull out the envelope as I start to walk down the street. I told my contact I would be at Prairie Lights by 7 PM. I'm fifteen minutes early.

My contact turns out to be even earlier than I. He's easy to spot, sitting in the midst of the children's books area reading a copy of a new holiday picture book titled, Frank Jordan: Evil Snowman. Even if he hadn't been reading the agreed upon signal book, he would have been obvious. He was in a black trench coat and a Bogart fedora, still wearing sunglasses.

A low level administrator thrilled to be on a field assignment, wanting to feel like a real operative. A week ago I'd have found it repulsive. Today, it's kind of cute.

I sit beside him on the bench. He knows it's me, and I see a grin on his face.

"Were you followed?"

"No," I say.

"What about your ride?"

"He's gone," I say. "He knows nothing."

"I'll have to kill him if you're lying." It's all bluster; again, a desk jockey trying to feel like a field agent. It's very unprofessional, and if he were one mine...

He's not one of mine, and laying a hand on him would only cost me.

"You have the package?" he says.

"Not here," I say. "Buy the book, and follow me to the sandwich shop next door."

He nods. I stand up and walk away.

I slip downstairs to the first floor. Grabbing the latest novel from my mother's favorite writer Mike Duran, I pay cash at the counter and head out of the store. I see the courier as he makes his way to the front, but I refuse to make eye contact as I take my bag and head out the door.

There's no reason for the extra precautions or theatrics. No one here knows who I am or who he is, and under normal circumstances, I'd have handed him the paperwork and left. But it's Christmas, and I feel like giving the man a present.

I race out of the store and position myself a few doors down, just past the sandwich shop. As soon as the man emerges, shopping bag in hand, I make my move. We bump into each other and make brief eye contact just before the sandwich shop.

"Pardon me," I say.

He stammers, confused.

"Merry Christmas," I say. And I walk on.

I continue on my route, passing Prairie Lights and another shop before turning back to see that he's finally caught on. The envelope is in his bag, a textbook perfect dead drop. He looks up and grins, then he races off to wherever he's parked.

Smiling, I make my way into the comic shop, where I'm not surprised to see my face posted on a bulletin board with the headline, "WHERE IS SHE?" If the guy standing behind the counter appraising a young boy's Pokemon cards had any idea "SHE" was right here, he'd probably fall through the glass case of vintage Transformers in a dead faint.

I browse around a bit and finally find the perfect thing for Rey, a mint copy of the coolest comic I ever read, GI Joe #21. I always believed Larry Hama had, at one time, been in the super-villain game because the way he wrote the dynamics between Cobra Commander and Destro reminded me of a lot of super-villain collaborators. Issue 21, wasn't about that struggle, however. It was the famous "silent" episode all about Snake Eyes rescuing Scarlett from their clutches. It's as great a piece of visual storytelling as you'll ever read - but I digress.

I carry the comic to the counter, and after haggling just a few dollars on the price, I make my purchase in cash. I'm not sure where to go next, and I'm just beginning to wonder where Rey is when I see the flier in the window.

I smile.

I laugh.

I walk outside to look at the flier from the front, and I laugh some more.

I know exactly where he is, and I hope I'm not too late to see it.

Only question is do I run, or try to hail a cab on my way to City High?
LOCO

"You're limping."

It was almost cute the way he tried to hide it. Rey was favoring the right leg as he staggered up to me. I was seated on one of the benches outside the hotel, eating a slice of pizza, when he found me. I could tell from the expression on his face he was anticipating my noticing, and he went into his prepared excuse.

"I hit a patch of ice in a parking lot," he says.

"Which parking lot?" I ask.

"Target."

"You went to Target without me?" I say.

"I had some shopping to do," he says. "So did you."

"You didn't say you were going to Target," I say.

"Maybe I was shopping for you," he says.

"Maybe," I say. I know he's lying, but I'm not ready to call him out on it. And no. I am not upset. Not in the slightest. I know where he's been and I have a good idea why he's not telling me. And I know darn well why he's limping. You'd be limping too if you went over the top rope and caught your leg on a metal barrier wall before hitting the hardwood floor of a high school gymnasium.

I made it to City High in plenty of time to see the bump. I missed the earlier match shown on the poster of the comic shop, a grudge match against a mask known as The Cyclone, but I was there when El Loco Hawkeye and nineteen others made their way out for the semi-main event, the battle royal.

It was clear from the outset that a giant monster around six and a half feet tall called Kip Monster was going to win the battle royal. He was a head taller than any of the other competitors, and he worked well with the smarmy manager outside the ring who helped him dispatch the other nineteen contestants. Odds are he'll be challenging the local champ for the title in a month or so. None of this diminished my joy at getting to see the great El Loco Hawkeye in action.

I don't know how well the locals knew El Loco Hawkeye and his history in Mexico. It didn't seem to matter. The yellow and black tights paired with the name made him an unquestioned good guy in Iowa City. He eliminated two other wrestlers and hit a stunning hurricarana on a third before Kip Monster lifted him high over his head and sent him falling at least ten feet down to the barrier. A ref ran over to check the leg, but Hawkeye got up, gave Monster's manager a whip into the corner post, and staggered out on his own two feet, fist raised in triumph.

It was priceless.

I have the video on my phone.

I want to tell him I know, and how proud I am. But I don't. It's not time.

Besides, who am I to badger him about secrets? He has no idea who I really am.

Rey nearly caught me watching the footage when he walked up. I've watched it six times now, all the way through. My battery's almost gone on the phone. I even ignored a 911 email from Pops - which means my head is not in the game and I'm setting myself up for trouble. When the Smirnov Shuffle comes, I don't even see it until its too late.

We're driving down a two lane Iowa road through flurries at 50 miles an hour when Rey sees something dart out onto the road. It's dark, and the figure flying in front of the truck is dressed all in black. I hear the tires squeal and see the black shape bounce off the bumper. Rey's already unbuckled and half out the door when I recognize the danger.

"Rey!"

A second dark form grabs Rey from behind as he steps out of the vehicle. Mercifully, he applies a quick-sleep hold and simply knocks my childhood friend unconscious, leaving him to drop on the pavement. He's keeping Rey alive, not out of mercy, but in case he needs leverage. Classic Russian spy craft, just like the false body in the road. It's no surprise when he rips off the mask and reveals himself to me with overly-dramatic Russian flair.

"Hello, Twinkle Toes," I say.

"Zorana," he says, scowling as I remind him of his nickname. (His real name is Dmitri Konalev, but he's known the world over a Twinkle Toes because he walks on his tiptoes. Makes him really easy to identify on security videos.) "You have something my bosses want," he says in Russian.

"I do not know what you are talking about," I say in flawless Russian with a Minsk accent.

"The device," he says. "We know it left the island. We know you are the only person to escape the lair alive. We know you have it."

"Do you think I'm a fool?" I say to Twinkle Toes. "I destroyed the device myself before I left!"

"We have ways to make you talk," says Dmitri.

"Dmitri, I taught you everything you know about torture and interrogation," I say. "But I didn't teach you everything I know."

"I have learned much since I left you," he hisses.

"So you checked the bed of the truck to make sure our other friends are asleep, huh?"

He buys it. When he looks behind him in the truck bed, I slip out the passenger door and race around the back of the truck, putting myself and him on solid ground. He has the drop on me, if he has a weapon, but at least I'm in a defensive posture.

"Where are you going?" he says.

"No where," I tell him. "Been a long time, I just wanted a better look at you. When was it, Venice?"

"Madrid," he says. "You didn't see me, but I saw you."

"I looked good in Madrid," I say, recalling the flashy red dress I wore the night I poisoned the Sri Lankan ambassador to Spain.

"Where is it, Zorana?" he says.

"What are you gonna do, make me say uncle?"

"Maybe I'll make your friend say uncle," he says.

"Should have brought back up," I say. "You can't lay a hand on him without me getting a hand on you."

"So let's talk price," he says.

I laugh. "Fat Ivan wants to buy the device? Are you joking?"

"Fat Ivan is prepared to set you up for life," he says.

Let's be clear about this, dear reader: Fat Ivan doesn't pay for anything. If he can't barter for it, he kills for it. He's the tightest crime lord you'll ever meet. But he's also always had a crush on yours truly. Odds are Dmitri was in Madrid specifically to get photos of me for Ivan. Not for any strategic purpose, but just because he wanted some updated photos.

"I know what Fat Ivan wants," I say. "And the answer is still no."

"Ivan doesn't take no for an answer."

"Then tell him what I've always told him. I like him as a comrade. Nothing more."

"May I remind you I've never been as fond of you as he is," says Twinkle Toes.

"I'm well aware," I say, sensing violence is afoot. "Do you want to skip the banter and just get to the fighting? I really don't want my friend to see this side of me."

"So he doesn't know?" says Twinkle Toes.

Before I can answer, Dmitri cries out in pain. His arm vanishes behind his back, and I hear the sickening crunch of bones snapping in half. Twinkle Toes drops to his knees, and I can see Rey taking the gun from his mangled, now severely fractured gun hand.

"Wrong truck, mister," says Rey.

Twinkle Toes crumbles to the road. He pulls out his cell phone and dials 9-1-1, calling in an approximate location as Dmitri cries like a girl. I walk up to my fallen student and slip my arm around him, helping him up.

"What are you doing?" says Rey.

"We can't leave him in the road. He'll get hit," I say. I drag Dmitri to the other side of the road as Rey gives the operator more information.

"Tell Ivan it's still a no," I say. "And there's no device."

"What is he?" whimpers Dmitri.

I gingerly feel poor Dmitri's arm, admiring Rey's work. I smile. He's not some spot monkey wrestler who only knows the gimmicky stuff. I realize now Rey is a Shooter, trained in the art of not only legitimate wrestling, but breaking bones.

Dmitri really did pick the wrong truck.

"Stay away from him," I say. "Your beef is with me."

Dmitri nods. I pinch the nerve in his neck to put him to sleep and lay him gently in the ditch. Rey hangs up as I walk back to the truck.

"Were you just speaking German?" he asks.

"Russian," I say.

"How do you know Russian?" he asks.

"I'll tell you," I say. "If you tell me how you know to break a man's arm in ten places."

He doesn't tell me a thing. He grabs me and kisses me, right on the yellow line dividing the two lane road.

And suddenly, I realize I am really, really in trouble.
WAR EAGLE'S WAR JOURNAL  
DECEMBER 23, SMALLTOWN, IOWA, 900 HOURS

IT'S NOT EASY BEING THE WORLD'S GREATEST SUPER HERO. WHEN I MEET FANS AT CONVENTIONS AND AUTOGRAPH SESSIONS, THEY SAY THINGS LIKE, "WOW, IT MUST BE SO COOL TO FLY, TO HAVE SUPER STRENGTH, AND TO SHOOT LASER BEAMS OUT YOUR EYES." WHEN THEY SAY THESE THINGS TO ME, I TELL THEM QUITE HONESTLY, "YES, IT IS COOL." BUT IT IS ALSO A HEAVY, HEAVY BURDEN.

SURE, THERE ARE THE NICER DAYS. COMMENDATIONS FROM THE PRESIDENT. BEING GRAND MARSHALL IN PARADES. REGIS AND KELLY. BUT MOST OF MY DAYS CONSIST OF LONG HOURS FILLING OUT PAPERWORK AND TRACKING DOWN LOW-LIFE SCUM.

OR WORSE, DRIVING THROUGH ARKANSAS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

MY SEARCH LED ME TO HOPE, ARKANSAS, A STOP ON THE BUS ROUTE AND THE BIRTHPLACE OF WILLIAM JEFFERSON CLINTON, TO REFUEL. WEARING MY TRENCHCOAT AND GLASSES (SO AS TO NOT ATTRACT TOO MUCH ATTENTION), I STROLLED THE AISLES OF THE CONVENIENCE STORE, PROCURING A POWERADE AND AN ENERGY BAR TO KEEP ME FUELED UP. THE SANTA HATS AND THE DEER MOUNTED ON THE WALLS OF THAT FINE ESTABLISHMENT REMINDED ME THAT CHRISTMAS IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER... I HAVE SOME SHOPPING TO DO. BUT ZORANA COMES FIRST.

I ASKED ASKED AROUND AT THE BUS DEPOT, BUT NO ONE SEEMED TO RECALL SEEING A YOUNG WOMAN GET OFF THE BUS HERE. NO ONE FIT THE DESCRIPTION OF THE WOMAN WHO BLASTED THE MUGGER AT THE BUS DEPOT, SO I HURRIED ON TO THE NEXT STOP: SMALLTOWN, IOWA.

I ARRIVED IN SMALLTOWN JUST AFTER SUN UP. IT MUST BE THE WEEKEND, I CONCLUDED, AS I SAW CHILDREN AND TEENAGERS WANDERING EVERYWHERE. A GROUP OF TEENS LOOKED ME OVER. ONE OF THEM – HIS HIGH SCHOOL JACKET IDENTIFIED HIM AS "CAPTAIN" – SEEMED TO BE LAUGHING AT SOMETHING.

"WHAT'S SO FUNNY, YOUNG CITIZEN?"

"SIR, HALLOWEEN IS OVER."

"I KNOW," I REPLIED. "IT'S NEARLY CHRISTMAS."

A YOUNG LADY WITH CAPTAIN SAID TO ME, "DOES SANTA KNOW YOU STOLE HIS BOOTS?"

I GLANCED DOWN. OF COURSE! TRY AS I MIGHT TO CONCEAL MY MOVEMENTS, MY PINK BOOTS WERE A DEAD GIVEAWAY! I ASKED WHERE I MIGHT FIND A SHOE SHOP, BUT THE YOUNG PEOPLE JUST LAUGHED AND STROLLED ON THEIR MERRY WAY. I FOUND A STORE ON MY OWN AND BOUGHT A NICE PAIR OF SNAKESKIN BOOTS. NOW, I COULD MOVE ABOUT UNDETECTED.

SMALLTOWN IS QUITE THE CHARMING LITTLE HAMLET. MOMS AND DADS MOVING ABOUT WITH THEIR KIDS. GIGGLING HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS RUSHING TO THE PIZZA PLACE. FOUR TALL, MEN IN IDENTICAL SUITS WITH SERIOUS FACES WALKING TOGETHER IN A GROUP. PROBABLY THE TOWN BANKERS. THEY GLARED AT ME AS I WALKED PAST. PROBABLY CONCERNED THIS MAN IN A TRENCHCOAT AND MASK MIGHT BE A BANK ROBBER.

FEAR NOT, CITIZENS, YOU ARE SAFE. SAFER THAN YOU CAN KNOW AT THIS MOMENT.

NORMAN ROCKWELL MUST HAVE VISITED SMALLTOWN ONCE. IT IS EXACTLY THE KIND OF TOWN THAT OLD GEEZER LOVED TO PAINT ON MAGAZINE COVERS. IT SEEMS IRONIC THAT A WILY VIXEN LIKE ZORANA WOULD SEEK SHELTER HERE. AND YET, MY SUPER-TRAINED SUPER HERO MIND KNOWS THIS WAS JUST THE PERFECT PLACE FOR SUCH A VILLAIN TO HIDE. SUPER-VILLAINS ARE CITY FOLK, USUALLY FOREIGNERS. A FARM TOWN IN IOWA IS THE LAST PLACE YOU'D EVER CATCH LEX LUTHOR, THE KINGPIN, OR DR. NO.

ALL THE BETTER HIDING PLACE FOR ONE OF THEIR ILK.

TRY AS SHE MIGHT, HOWEVER, SHE CANNOT HIDE FOREVER. A SUPER-VILLAIN IS TOO FLASHY FOR IOWA. SHE'LL STICK OUT LIKE A SORE THUMB, AND I AM JUST THE ASPIRIN THIS TOWN NEEDS TO TREAT THAT SORE THUMB.

(NOTE TO SELF, REVISE LAST PARAGRAPH BEFORE SENDING TO PUBLISHER FOR PRINTING IN MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY, "WAR EAGLE, MY STRUGGLE.")
COUNSELING

"Hello?"

"Pops?"

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Pops, it's me. Monica."

"I do not know any Pops."

"Sorry, Pops. Darn it, what was the code phrase?"

"You have the wrong number. Goodbye."

"No, Pops, wait!"

Click.

I press the end call button and groan. I need coffee but that's no excuse for my horrible breach of etiquette. Pops requires his clients to use a specific phone protocol, for his protection and ours. I rack my caffeine-starved brain a moment, trying to recall the code phrase, and I hit redial the moment it does.

"Hello?"

"Telephone call for Senator Claghorn," I say.

"I'm sorry, the Senator is indisposed," says Pops. "Would you like to leave a message?"

"Tell him Allen is in the alley," I say, completing the code protocol.

"That's more like it," says Pops. "How are things at home, Monica?"

"Things were going fine until last night," I say.

"Did you kill anyone?" he asks.

"No," I say. "But I had an unexpected visit from Twinkle Toes."

"Really?" says Pops. "Home visit?"

"I was on the road," I say. "Dropped some documents in the city with the UHU."

"Yes, I got a copy this morning." I never have been able to figure out how Pops gets the information he does, but I am not surprised he has a copy of my statement. "There's an item missing from your list of current assets."

"How did you know about the doomsday device?" I ask.

"I didn't," says Pop. "But you just told me."

"I did, didn't I?" I trust Pops, but I know better than to give up secrets so easily. He's reminding me even as we talk.

"You claimed to have it in your video. You didn't file a claim with insurance, but you did declare it missing to the union. you're playing with fire, you know, whether you're lying to insurance or the union."

"I'm not ready to give it up," I say.

"Does anyone else know you still have it?"

"No," I say. "But Fat Ivan is looking for it."

"Everyone is looking for it," he says. "There have been three searches of what's left of your lair, not counting the authorities. They know it's not there, and everyone believes you have it."

"Even the UHU?" I ask.

"They know you have it. They're waiting for you to slip up so they can really nail you. More money for their people."

"And themselves."

"Why did you lie about it?"

"And put an even bigger target on my back?"

"You could have handed it over."

"And let someone else would get their hands on the device?"

"Are you planning to use it?"

Pause.

"Hello?"

"I don't know, Pops."

"You don't know?"

"I know I don't want it falling into the wrong hands."

"You're a super-villain. You are the wrong hands."

"Pops, I don't know what I am any more."

"Hmm."

"I know it sounds stupid, considering only a few days ago I was ready to pull the trigger. But now I'm home, I've seen my family, I've seen old friends."

"Is there an old boyfriend?"

"What? No! Well, there's an old interest, but I never liked him that way and he knows it."

"And now?"

"Still feel the same way."

"Okay."

"It's a different friend that has me confused."

"I knew there had to be someone."

"You did, huh?"

"You're not the first to go back to their hometown and see things differently after rekindling an old flame."

"He's not an old flame. He's an old friend."

"Even so."

"It's the wrestler. Mexico City."

Pops laughs. "Oh this is fun. So you and the wrestler, huh?"

"Yes."

"And he has no idea who you really are?"

"No."

"But you know who he really is."

"Yes."

"He may know you better than you think."

"Doubtful."

'Where was the wrestler when you saw Twinkle Toes?"

"He was there. Unconscious."

"He was there?"

"Twink took him down and then came after me. He actually saved me at the end."

"How?"

"Broke his arm in ten places."

"He's a shooter?"

"I think the industry term is hooker."

"Oh yes, my mistake. Wow. I like the guy."

"I do too."

"Then you better thing twice before you let this turn into anything. If you care about him, you won't let it turn into a romance. Not now."

Long pause.

"You kissed him."

"He kissed me."

"And you kissed back."

"What else could I do? I like him!"

"And as long as you have that device, or as long as anyone knows you are on the loose, you are putting him into harm's way!"

"I can't turn it over, Pops. It doesn't feel right to me any more. I want to get rid of it."

"You invested billions in that device. Not to mention the years in research. Are you ready to call it a loss? Let all that money and time go to waste?"

"I know you think I need to use it for evil."

"I never said that."

"But that's what you do, right? You tell people how to be evil."

"I'm not an advocate of evil," he says. "I'm merely a life coach with a niche market. If you want to be evil and do it right, you call me. I'm the guy who keeps you from making stupid mistakes, the guy who tells you to put down the monster costume and pick up a gun when four meddling kids show up looking for clues. I have no agenda, other than making money by giving my clients sensible, common sense advice."

"So you don't think it's wrong?" I say. "Having these feelings? Wanting to change?"

"Monica, it takes more courage to do good than evil in a world slanted towards evil," he says."People who do good with no agenda and no thought of reward are rare and beautiful gems in my eyes. But Monica let's be real. You have much to answer for. You rivals around the world who will not rest until that device is in their hands. And you have enemies that will not rest until you are dead."

"You're right," I say. "I know you're right."

"You're not the first person I've coached who had second thoughts or wanted a second chance. As much as I hate to tell you this, you would be the first to pull it off."

"Just because no one's ever done it doesn't mean I'll fail too."

"Our hearts are too evil. Not just us villains, but all of us. Right down to the punk who always throws my newspaper into the bird bath out front. I don't believe it's impossible, but it would take a miracle."

"You believe in miracles, Pops?"

"I'm a hockey fan. Of course I believe!"

I laugh. "That's not much to go on."

"If I had more answers, I'd give them to you. You're in uncharted territory, and everyone I've ever known to take that road has turn back or turned up dead. For what it's worth, I hope you find a different fate."

"Thank you."

"But for the sake of that boy, be careful. If anything happens to him, you'll never forgive yourself."

"Thanks, Pops."

"Merry Christmas, hun."

The line goes dead.

I put down my phone, more conflicted and confused than ever.
DISTRESS SIGNALS

A few hours later, I'm back at the piano in the church where I grew up. The kids are back on stage. Rey's walking better but clearly sore all over. It's cute how he tries to hide it.

But I can't enjoy that cuteness. My mind is elsewhere, far from the birth of the Christ child.

I spent the entire morning trying to think through the logistics of going straight. The more I thought about it, the more hopeless it seemed. Too many people knew my face. Too many owed me payback. And there were too many loose ends for me to simply vanish into Iowa.

O Holy Night, the stars are shining brightly  
It is the night of the dear Savior's birth.

I had insurance claims to see through and a union to deal with. I had bank accounts in numerous places around the world. There was the weapons cache in India and half-built secret lair in the Congo that would need to be disposed of.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining.  
Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth.

And how would I ever tell Rey? How could I tell someone who has done so much good for so many that I am responsible for the deaths of countless thousands around the world?

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,  
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

I look up on stage at the child sent to Earth to save it from sin. A hero from another world, like Superman. He came to save the world. It's a lovely sentiment, and it sounds simply precious coming from children. But it's a salvation that I can never attain. I realize that child did not come to save me, but save others from the actions of people like me. There's no way I could ever have a second chance. Not with all I've done.

I deserve prison.

No, I deserve to die.

As baby Jesus flees to Egypt it occurs to me that all of these children would flee if they knew the secret the girl at the piano keeps.

To them I'm Mr. Rey's friend. A girl who grew up in town, who went to school with so many of their moms and dads, who left town, only to become the world's deadliest super-villain, a woman who three days ago could have launched a virus that would have slaughtered these little lambs without losing a minute of sleep.

Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!  
O night divine, the night when Christ was born;

The singing continues. The piano does not. Almost in a trance I get up from the bench and head for the door. Rey hobbles over to intercept me.

"Monica, are you okay?"

"I can't do this, Rey," I say.

"You're doing just great," he says. "If you want a little more practice—"

"I don't want practice!" I yell. "I don't want to do it!

The singing stops. The children look over. I feel as if they can see right through me, see the mask that would reveal my true identity. I wait for them to run and scream in terror.

"Monica, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Rey," I say. "I never should have come back. I don't belong to this world any more."

Rey tries to stop me with words but I shake him off and race out the side door of the church.

The wintry Iowa air takes my breath away. I don't get far, but mercifully, Rey doesn't give chase. A few blocks away, I stop and pause, hands on my knees, breathing deeply. A cool sensation graces my cheek; are these really tears?

I think about what Pops said, about the others who, like me, thought they could change. We're too evil, too corrupt to ever change ourselves. That's why so many try and fail. That's why there are villains in this world, not just in evil lairs but in offices and classrooms and houses.

But isn't that why there's Christmas? Isn't that why God sent his Son?

I don't know where the thought came from, but I shake it off. This has nothing to do with God. If there were really a God, there would be no injustice and no super-villains.

I didn't always think this way. I grew up in church. I grew up believing just as my mother did. But something changed between Smalltown and the secret island lair. You can't do the things I did and believe in God. No one could.

It was all so easy before I came here. Belief in God was not rational. How could anyone believe when evil runs rampant? How can anyone believe when so much war and famine plagues this planet?

How can anyone believe in a loving God when evil escapes justice to live another day?

It's not possible. God can't be there. He can't. I need to hear myself say it aloud.

"If there is a God, by all rights I should be dead."

"And you will be."

At first I am terrified. I think of Rey – then I think where I've heard that accent before. I turn to see four men in identical grey suits staring at me.

Scary, but not as scary as seeing Rey.

"Hallo, Zorana," the leader says.

"Heidenreich," I say back.

"Five years," he says. "Five years we have waited for you, Miss Barkley. Aka Zorana. Aka Monica Deluna." He smiles with sadistic glee that tell me he's been rehearsing the speech that's coming for a while.

I use my peripheral vision to scan for an escape as they close in. "Look, guys, I'm sorry what happened in Mexico City. I didn't mean..."

"Please," Heidenreich interrupts me. "Do not be afraid. We are hear to bargain."

"What do you want?"

"The virus," says the slightly more impatient guy to Heidenreich's left.

I had nearly forgotten the virus... the virus that even now, sits in a bio-safe container inside my luggage beneath the bed I slept in from sixth grade through senior year.

"I don't have it."

"We know you have it," Heidenreich growls. "We had a man on the scene when they took your lair apart."

"Give us the virus, and your death will be instant," the grumpy one chimes in.

"And if I refuse?"

"You will still die," sneers Grumpy, "After watching your mother die a slow, agonizing death."

I kick the jerk in the face. Blood spurts from his still gaping mouth. I try to run, but the other three are on my almost instantly. I jab one guy in the eyes hard enough that he falls off, but Heidenreich and the fourth Musketeer pin me to the ground, my arms twisted back, throbbing in pain. Then the pummeling begins.

So this is how it ends, behind the church, done in by thugs I screwed over in Mexico City. My life flashes before my eyes. I see the little girl that sat in church, singing to God. I hear her prayers at night, asking God to protect her from monsters. I start to wonder if there's a God after all, delighting in the demise of one who had sinned so much.

The load on my back becomes lighter. I hear Grumpy screaming in agonizing pain. Two other guys peel off me. I hear punching and kicking. Heidenreich puts a knife to my throat, attempting to use me as some sort of shield. The arm with the knife cracks. The German screams like a girl. He smashes into the wall, ribs cracking.

I see the pink boots.

Then I see him looking down on me.

My arch-enemy.

War Eagle.

Of all the back alleys in all the farm towns in all the world, he walks into mine.
WAR EAGLE'S WAR JOURNAL  
DECEMBER 23, SMALLTOWN, IOWA, 1500 HOURS

A CRIME FIGHTER MUST BE ALERT AT ALL TIMES. YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN THE SEEDY UNDERBELLY OF EVIL WILL REAR ITS UGLY HEAD. IT USUALLY HAPPENS IN MOMENTS WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT. TODAY, IT HAPPENED JUST AS MY ONION AND ANCHOVY PIZZA WAS DELIVERED TO MY CORNER BOOTH.

I WAS ABOUT TO ENJOY THE OFFERINGS OF A FINE, LOCAL PIZZA ESTABLISHMENT WHEN THE FOUR BANKERS IN GRAY SUITS I SPOTTED EARLIER WALKED IN. THEY TOOK A BOOTH IN THE BACK, SITTING TWO ON A SIDE, AND SAT IN SILENCE, ALMOST AT ATTENTION. I COULD TELL THESE WERE NOT BANKERS, BECAUSE AS I OBSERVED THEM, NOT A ONE OF THEM SPOKE ABOUT THE MARKET OR STOCKS OR BONDS.

THE PROPRIETOR OF THE PIZZA JOINT, A KINDLY FELLOW BY THE NAME OF ALDO, WALKS OVER TO TALK TO THE MEN. USING MY SUPER-SENSITIVE EYE SIGHT, I STARTED TO READ THEIR LIPS. I COULDN'T MAKE EVERYTHING OUT. JUST A FEW WORDS... "ZORANA... VIRUS... PEPSI."

I DIDN'T KNOW WHO THESE BOYS WERE. BUT I KNEW THEY WERE THE KEY TO FINDING ZORANA.

MY SUPER-STRONG DIGESTIVE TRACT ALLOWED ME TO CONSUME MY PIZZA – DEFINITELY A HIGH QUALITY PRODUCT – IN SECONDS. THEN I WAITED. I ORDERED TWO MORE MOUNTAIN DEWS AND WAITED, WATCHING FOR THESE FAKE BANKERS TO MAKE THEIR MOVE. AFTER SIPPING THEIR PEPSIS AND CONSUMING A FEW ORDERS OF LASAGNA, THEY LEFT IN SINGLE FILE. I WAS OUT THE DOOR A MOMENT LATER, JUST FAR BACK ENOUGH TO SHADOW THEM UNDETECTED.

I DIDN'T HAVE TO WAIT LONG FOR THESE NEFARIOUS MONSTERS TO MAKE THEIR MOVE. I TAILED THEM TO THE BACK ALLEY OF A LOCAL CHURCH, WHERE I SPOTTED THEM HARASSING A LOVELY YOUNG WOMAN – ANOTHER RANDOM, INNOCENT VICTIM OF CRIME.

I MOVED IN WITH SUPER SPEED AND BEGAN TO GIVE THOSE VANDALS WHAT FOR. I WENT IN WITH HI-YA! AND A CHOP! AND A KICK! THEN I USED THIS REALLY NEAT-O MOVE THAT I HAD JUST SEEN ON SMACKDOWN THE WEEK BEFORE, THROWING ONE GUY ALMOST THROUGH A WALL. I DIDN'T KILL HIM, BUT BOY I HURT HIM GOOD.

THE SLIMY WORMS BEGAN TO SCAMPER OFF. I TURNED TO CHECK ON THE POOR VICTIM. SHE WAS GORGEOUS, IN HER LATE TWENTIES, AND SCARED OUT OF HER WITS. WHO WOULDN'T BE AFTER SUCH AN ORDEAL? YOU SHOULD HAVE HEARD THE JOY, THE ELATION, THE EXULTATION IN HER VOICE AS SHE SAID MY NAME.

"WAR EAGLE!" SHE CRIED.

"NO NEED TO THANK ME, GOOD CITIZEN," I ASSURED HER. "I'M JUST DOING MY JOB."

"YOUR JOB?"

"I KNOW YOU WANT TO MAKE A BIG FUSS ABOUT IT," I SAID IN MY MOST HUMBLE TONE. "AFTER ALL, NOT EVERYONE CAN SAY THAT WAR EAGLE HAS SNATCHED THEM FROM THE JAWS OF DOOM. BUT I BEG YOU, PLEASE, DO NOT ALERT THE MEDIA."

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" SHE SAYS, STUNNED AT MY MODESTY. "DON'T YOU KNOW..."

"OH I KNOW," I TELL HER. "I KNOW THE WORLD LOVES TO HEAR OF MY EXPLOITS. I KNOW THEY LOVE TO HEAR NEWS OF THEIR SUPER HERO. AND I KNOW YOU JUST WANT TO SHOW YOUR GRATITUDE. BUT I AM HERE ON A SECRET MISSION. GOTTA BRING AN EVIL MASTERMIND TO JUSTICE."

THE YOUNG WOMAN LOOKS AT ME IN AWE. I LOOKED BACK INTO HER EYES. I KNOW THAT LOOK. I'VE SEEN IT BEFORE.
CONFRONTATION

I can't believe the stupid moron has no clue who I am.

I'm still on the ground, eyeball to eyeball with a man who has successfully tracked me from an uncharted island to my hometown of Iowa – and he thinks I'm just some innocent waif who got mugged.

"Who, uh, who are you looking for?" I say.

"The most foul and vile and repulsive worm ever to crawl on the face of the Earth – Zorana!"

"Zorana? Here? In Smalltown?"

"Yes, my good lady," he says. "Any idea where she might be?"

He's clueless. The hero who foiled my evil plan has no clue who I am. I don't know whether to feel relieved, or completely shamed that this buffoon thwarted my ingenious evil plans.

"Not to frighten you," he says, "But she got off a bus in this town. I suspect she might be one of your citizens!"

"Really?" Might as well play along. Sure, I've had some guilt, but I don't wanna go to jail. "What should I be looking for?"

"Just keep your eyes open, you can't miss her. She's got huge fangs, snakes living in her hair. Nasty boils on her ugly face."

"Really? I heard she was quite beautiful." Careful, girl, don't let him get to you.

"Zorana? No way. That old hag is so ugly, grown men have vomited at the sight of her."

If I had my bracelets, I could fry him right here. No one would ever know. Unfortunately, they're back at the house. "Really? She must be really ugly."

"Oh yeah," says the jerk in the pink booties. "I myself have to drink Milk of Mag just before going into battle with her."

That did it. "Oh come on! I'm not-"

A ringing phone save me from blowing my cover. "Just a moment, citizen. I need to take this." War Eagle whips out a phone from his utility belt.

"Hold that thought," he says. "Hello?"

A woman's voice, harsh and grating, comes screeching from the speaker on the back of the cell phone. "Joseph Wainwright Cooper! Where are you?"

War Eagle turns pale. He looks frightened. He gives me an awkward smile, and turns his back.

"Honey, you're on speaker. How many times have I told you not to call me by my real name on this phone?"

"Don't start with your secret identity crap!" his wife snaps back. "Have you done what I ask you?"

"I'm a little busy trying to save the world." He winks at me. I'm enjoying this so much.

"It's three days 'til Christmas! You have three children expecting gifts, so unless you're on special assignment at the Mall of America, you have some explaining to do!"

"But Marge, I told you, I have to track down Zorana!"

"Then she better be in a toy store, because you have shopping to do! And don't forget the stocking stuffers!"

"I want a Batmobile!" a kid yells into the phone.

"You hear that?" asks Marge.

"A Batmobile?" War Eagle looks wounded, like he could cry. "Come on, Sport, wouldn't you rather have a War Eagle Deluxe Action Zord?"

"No way!" the kid yells back. "War Eagle is for babies!"

"Hey!" War Eagle snaps back. "Santa Claus can hear you, you little—"

"Watch your mouth, American hero!" yells Marge.

"Marge!" the hero whines. "Are you going to let him talk to me that way? I'm his father."

"Huh! That's rich. A father doesn't miss his daughter's snow princess ball. A father doesn't miss his son's basketball games."

"Marge, I have to fight crime."

Marge responds by singing the chorus of "Cats in the Cradle."

"I'm a super hero!"

"Try being a hero to your kids for once," she answers. "We need a Batmobile, and a Tickle Me Fonzie for Natalie."

"Tickle Me Fozzie, got it."

"And remember: no presents, no turkey."

"But Marge!"

"Goodbye, Joseph!"

War Eagle hangs up. He looks over at me, eyes like a scolded puppy. He puts on a brave face. "Say, good citizen, you wouldn't be able to tell me where the nearest Wal-Mart is, would you?"

As I start to give directions, the vultures arrive – Sally O'Nally and the usual War Eagle press corps in their mini-vans. I decide it's better to sneak away than to get caught on camera. War Eagle may be too stupid to know me, but not everyone will make the same mistake. Heidenreich proved that.

My head spins as I walk down the street. I can't go back into church. I can't bear the thought of going home and seeing Mom. I'm terrified I might spill everything to someone, and I do not want Rey or my mother to know the truth.

I spy Evan watching me through the front window of the comic shop. That grin... there's something about it. It's not evil, but it frightens me. It's almost as if he can see through me, reading my secrets. I smile. He nods and grins a little wider. I turn my head and head for the one place I feel safe and the one person I trust.

Aldo is at the counter as I walk in the restaurant. He knows the look on my face. "My dear Monica!"

"Aldo, I'm in trouble."

"Come," he says. "We talk over pizza."

I walk around back to the little table in the kitchen, the place where so many secrets and dreams were shared. My own private confessional. It's been ten years since my last visit. All these years on the run... I had to come clean to someone.

Thirty minutes later, a decade of destruction was on the table, and a whole cheese pizza in my belly. I finish my tale with the fight in the alley, then I finish the last slice. Aldo sits back, takes it all in.

"Wow, that's-a some story."

"My mentor says there's no escaping my fate. No one ever gets to walk away and have a second chance. But I don't want to be the villain any more. How do I escape my fate?"

Aldo leans forward. "You can't."

"What?"

"You are who you are," says Aldo. "A leopard can't change his spots. Nor a tiger his stripes. Nor us super-villains our ways."

An icy chill runs down my back. "Did you say us?"

Aldo smiles. "You think those fool Germans could have found you on their own? Is no coincidence! I called them here!"

"Aldo?"

"They were under my orders, as they were five years ago when they gave a down-on-her-luck femme fatale a chance in Mexico City."

"You're one of them?"

Aldo laughs. It's a scary laugh, a villain's laugh. "They are commoners next to you and me. Twenty years ago, I nearly brought the world to its knees. Like you, my plan was foiled by super hero interference. With a good attorney, a plea bargain, and some compromising information, the DA found it politically advantageous kept me out of the gas chamber."

"I don't believe it," I say.

"Believe it," he sneers. "I've been in this no good town twenty years now, waiting for my second chance. Always with an eye on the underworld. I never expected to see you follow that path, but when your name popped up, I knew you had the potential."

I don't know what to say. It's too horrific to believe.

"I have always believed in you," he says, "Despite what happened in Mexico City. Now, you and I will have what so few villains get. A second chance."

"No!" I tell him. "I'm done with the life."

"It is unavoidable! Twenty years, I have waited for my second chance. Now, we will seize it. Bring me the virus. And I will take care of War Eagle."

"Tell you what Aldo," I say. "How about I walk out of here, and you and me pretend this conversation never happened, and I'll pretend you're not a psychotic loon."

Aldo grabs my wrist; bad move. I take hold of him and flip him over my head. He's older, but fast, scrambling to his feet. I gaze into the eyes of the man who was so kind to me. He stands between me and the door. I hesitate to take him out, but then he threatens me with the pizza cutter. It makes it easier to roundhouse kick my old mentor in the face. I hurdle the counter and sprint out of the restaurant.

I have to get home, get packed, and get out. There's no hope for me here. Not even in my home town. I hear the voices of children at play as I race past the playground, still mimicking their hero War Eagle.

"That's right, Zorana! You can run, but you can never hide!"

I still can't believe the one man I thought could be my good confessor turned out to be... Aldo was a father figure to me. Turns out he was more of a father than I realized.

I came here in search of... I don't know what I expected to find. Part of me wanted redemption. Part of me knew there was no hope. A leopard cannot change its spots. A super-villain cannot change her ways.

I watch the girl in the windows as I run by the shops. It is no longer Monica Deluna I see. But this frightened waif is not Zorana either. Perhaps I can forge a new identity, in a new town. I can start over. Reboot. Maybe this time, I'll do something right.
SURPRISE TWISTS

The self-reflection ends as I round a corner and plow into the arms of Clay. I fall on top of him on the cold sidewalk. He looks in my eyes like he sees a ghost.

"Monica!"

"Sorry, Clay. I was just..."

"It's okay," he says. "It's cool. In fact better than cool."

"No, I shouldn't have been in such a rush," I say.

"No, please," says Clay. "Don't apologize. I should apologize to you. I was rude the other day."

I start walking down the street, headed home. "Water under the bridge," I assure him. "No sweat."

He smiles, shifting his feet. "Hey, um, Have you got a minute?"

"Why?"

"I, uh, I just wanted to talk to you."

No, not now. Please, Clay.

"I know you're probably busy, or on your way to see Rey. But there's something I need to tell you."

Don't do it. Please, don't do this. "Listen, Clay, I—"

"No, please. Let me go first." He pauses and takes a breath. Why is he doing this?

"When I saw you the other day, I felt something I hadn't felt in ten years. I felt joy, I felt love. I felt hope that maybe, this time, I'd have a chance. Then something else took over. I saw you with Rey, and just like high school, I got upset. I was so jealous of him. I wanted you. But Monica, I'm not that guy any more."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"It was wrong for me to get jealous," he says. "Then or now. I don't have any right to be angry. If I'm your friend, I should want you to be happy. Rey's a great guy. I made my peace with him when he came home. I don't want to ruin that. And I don't want to go on not being your friend."

Well, this is unexpected.

"That's really big of you."

"It's not me," says Clay. "Last few years, I got a little stupid. I was drinking a lot. Got into quite a bit of trouble. I did some terrible things to people I loved.

"Then Rey came home. We got to hanging out, and he helped me get my life together. I was pretty messed up, Monica, but Rey was a real hero. He saved my life.

"I still had my struggles, and I still do, but Rey introduced me to another hero. It's gonna sound stupid, I know, but God helped me take control of my life. I'm off the booze and I've walked away from the people and places that held me down. I'm a different man, and I'm not going to let anything take me back to who I was."

He pauses. I look at him in wonder. "Why are you saying all this?"

"It's my way of saying that I'm sorry for all the things I did, and I hope you can forgive me."

I can't even say the words to forgive Clay, much as I want to. I hug him, and hold on for a long time. Finally, I'm able to eek out two words.

"Thank you."

Clay goes on his way. I continue on mine, back to Mom's.

I can't believe what just happened. Not Clay's story. Not his apology. Never would I have dreamed the words I needed to hear would come from Clay.

If God can give Clay a fresh start, can he give me one?

Could I be Monica Deluna again?

The thought that I could be forgiven, or "saved," seems absolutely ludicrous. Long before I reached the height of my power, I lost the ability to even feel guilty about my actions.

So why was I now bawling my eyes out, racing for home?

Even now, I'm not sure I feel sorry for anything. And sorry, but I'm not near ready to repent and be baptized and join the chorus of Christmas Hallelujahs. Believing in God goes against everything I've been taught and accepted since I left Smalltown. It's irrational, unscientific, and illogical. But right now, looking back on all I have done, I wanted to believe more than ever, because I needed a hero.

Hero. What an over-abused word. The "heroes" I had faced in my day were usually little better than the people they sought to bring down, myself included. They were big headed egomaniacs looking for headlines.

And toy deals. All heroes wanted action figures.

I didn't want a pink-booted hero with an action figure. I wanted a real hero, one who loved me enough to die for me long before I was even born. One who truly cared about me.

If there was a real God, there was hope, however small it might be, for a second chance. Maybe I could start over. Maybe I could lead a life that doesn't lead to maximum security incarceration or death at the hands of a pink-booted vigilante.

I reach home and head to my room, determined to destroy the doomsday capsule. As I pull it from the secret compartment in my luggage, I can see the solution swirling inside with that deadly Vega-Virus. So many years of work about to be destroyed forever.

"Okay, God," I said, uttering the first words to Heaven I've spoken in decades. "I'm in a jam. And I have no one to blame but myself. I don't know if you still love me or not, but if you help me cut ties with the woman I've become so I can save the town and the people I love... we'll talk."

I press the self-destruct button.

Then I remember the instructions I gave the boys at Malius Labs:

"I don't want some cheesy self-destruct feature on this bad boy. If some do-gooder decides to undo my work, I want them to pay. Put a fail safe on the device."

A timer pops out of the top of the capsule. Two hours appear on the timer. The numbers slowly begin to count down.

"Poopie."

Of course, I didn't say, "Poopie." I swore. I swore big time. In my defense, for all you holier-than-thou types, I was still a few months from truly believing in God again and becoming a Christian. And besides, I had just activated the deadliest, most terrifying weapon ever conceived by mankind. Put yourself in my shoes and tell me you wouldn't swear too!
WAR EAGLE'S WAR JOURNAL  
SUPPLEMENTAL ENTRY

I SHOULD PAUSE HERE IN MY TALE TO TALK A MOMENT ABOUT THE CHALLENGE OF BEING BOTH A SUPER HERO AND A FAMILY MAN. THROUGHOUT MY CAREER, NOTHING SEEMED TO SURPRISE MY ALLIES, ENEMIES, AND PRESS MORE THAN MY COMMITMENT TO FAMILY. EVEN SALLY O'NALLY, PERHAPS MY CLOSEST FRIEND (OTHER THAN MY WIFE, WHO, FOR THE SAKE OF HER PERSONAL SECURITY, I SHALL REFER TO IN THIS ENTRY AS "TEELA") WAS COMPLETELY SHOCKED WHEN SHE LEARNED I WAS A HUSBAND AND FATHER. I NEVER GAVE SALLY ANY REASON TO THINK I WAS ANYTHING OTHER THAN A MARRIED MAN, SO I REALLY AM SURPRISED THE WAY SHE TOOK THE NEWS SO POORLY.

IN TRUTH, MARRIAGE AND FAMILY IS FROWNED UPON IN THE HERO COMMUNITY. YES, THERE ARE SOME "SUPER COUPLES" WHO HAVE MADE IT WORK, BUT BY AND LARGE, SUPERS AVOID THE TRAPPINGS OF FAMILY. THE REASON ISN'T A FEAR OF COMMITMENT OR A LACK OF FAMILY VALUES. IT'S MORE ABOUT KEEPING INNOCENT LIVES FREE FROM DANGER. IF YOU'RE A MARRIED HERO, YOUR FAMILY BECOMES AN OBVIOUS TARGET FOR KIDNAPPING AND/OR MURDER. SO WHY RISK LOVING SOMEONE WHEN DOING SO WILL PUT THEM IN SERIOUS PERIL?

IN MY EARLY DAYS, I DISCOVERED FIRST HAND HOW DANGEROUS THE LIFE OF A SUPER HERO'S LOVED ONE COULD BE WHEN I LOST MY FIRST LOVE ANNIE. I SWORE OFF LOVE AFTER ANNIE, A VOW THAT LASTED ALL OF FIVE MONTHS. I FOUND MYSELF IN AN ONLINE CHAT ROOM ON VALENTINE'S DAY EVE, WHERE I MET TEELA. THE TWO OF US AGREED TO HAVE DINNER TOGETHER THE NEXT NIGHT – MORE OUT OF LONELINESS THAN ANY LINGERING DESIRE TO FIND TRUE LOVE. BUT THEN AN INCIDENT – KNOWN IN FAMILY LORE NOW AS "THE INCIDENT" OCCURRED.

THE OFFICIAL VERSION IS AS FOLLOWS: ZORANA TRACKED ME TO TEELA'S HOUSE, WHERE SHE ATTEMPTED TO TAKE ME DOWN AFTER LURING ME INTO TEELA'S BACKYARD. I WAS ABLE TO FIGHT HER OFF, BUT NOT BEFORE ZORANA KILLED TEELA'S BELOVED CAT ALEXANDER.

TEELA WAS CRUSHED. I FELT SO HORRIBLE, WATCHING HER CRADLE HER DEAD KITTY IN HER ARMS. I WANTED TO DO SOMETHING – ANYTHING – TO MAKE HER FEEL BETTER. I PROPOSED TO HER ON THE SPOT, AND TO BOTH OUR SURPRISE, SHE SAID YES.

THE ACTUAL TRUTH OF "THE INCIDENT" VARY SLIGHTLY FROM THE OFFICIAL VERSION. WHILE WAITING FOR TEELA TO PUT DINNER ON THE TABLE, I SPOTTED A SUSPICIOUS PAIR OF EYES STARING AT ME FROM THE BACKYARD. I TERMINATED THE SUSPECT WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE – I.E. MY HEAT RAY VISION. RATHER THAN TAKING DOWN ZORANA, I KILLED ALEXANDER THE CAT.

I FINALLY TOLD TEELA THE TRUTH AFTER SEVEN YEARS OF MARRIAGE, THINKING ENOUGH TIME HAD PASSED THAT WE COULD BOTH HAVE A GOOD LAUGH. ENOUGH TIME HAD NOT PASSED. TEELA CONSIDERED LEAVING ME. SHE HAD EVEN HIRED A LAWYER, BUT THEN, SHE CHANGED HER MIND. I'LL NEVER FORGET HER EXACT WORDS WHEN SHE TOLD ME SHE WAS STAYING. "IF I LEAVE, I CAN'T GIVE YOU THE LIFE YOU TRULY DESERVE AFTER ALL YOU DID TO ME."

ISN'T SHE JUST A LOVELY WOMAN?

YES, BEING MARRIED IS A CHALLENGE, BUT TEELA HAS MADE SURE THAT, THROUGH IT ALL, I KEPT FAMILY FIRST. YES, THAT DOES MEAN THERE WERE TIMES I WAS A BIT LATE TO SAVE THE DAY. I COULD HAVE SAVED THE PRESIDENT OF PARAGUAY. I ALSO COULD HAVE SAVED THE PEOPLE OF SWEETSER, INDIANA FROM DR. CAT-TASTROPHE AND HIS SINISTER DEATH RAY. BUT WOULD IT HAVE BEEN WORTH MISSING OUT ON THE PARENT TEACHER CONFERENCES AND ORTHODONTIC APPOINTMENTS I KEPT INSTEAD?

I'LL TELL YOU ONE THING – IT WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN WORTH MAKING TEELA ANGRY.
RESCUE

Life's a funny thing. One minute, you're on top of the world, a new creation ready to start your life over. The next you're running out into the night trying to dispose of the deadly virus you created when you were still evil. My one shot at redemption foiled by my own fail safe.

I'd love to tell you that I went right to work trying to undo the evil that my own hands had brought into this world. I'd like to tell you how I, in my new found love for God and man, thought about how I would sacrifice myself to save my hometown. I'd love to tell you these things, but that would be a lie.

The moment I see that clock ticking, my villainous instinct for self-preservation kicks into high gear. I leave the doomsday device in my room, head for the door, and run for it. I get all the way to the edge of town, right out to the Welcome to Smalltown sign that greets visitors who pass through our little community. Only then do I stop, think about my mother, my friends, and the innocent lives that are at stake. I don't know how I can to stop the device, but I know I couldn't just walk away and give up.

As crazy as it sounds, I have to try to be the hero.

My one hope is my former enemy, War Eagle. Only he, with his super powers, can defuse the doomsday device. I hurry back downtown. The egomaniac's ride shouldn't be too hard to spot.

It isn't.

I never understood why a super hero who could fly would waste money and gas on a Ferrari. Yet there it was, in my hometown, in front of Murphy's bait and tackle store. The goon is nowhere in sight. I can slip the device onto the car, and no one will ever be the wiser. Eyes scanning all around me, I make my move quickly, using techniques I learned long ago running information through Prague for the Chinese.

I walk into Murphy's to watch and wait.

I hear them before I see them.

"War Eagle! Is it true Zorana is living in this tranquil little town?"

"Does she still have the deadly virus?"

"Who do you like in the Aloha Bowl?"

"My friends, my dear friends," War Eagle says, turning to the throng of reporters. "First of all, the Orangemen are going to stop the Wildcats on Christmas day. Second, I will brief you on my hunt for Zorana this evening. I've uncovered some leads that are about to blow the case wide open. But in order to do so, I must take this part of the journey alone."

The reporters all groan with disappointment. Bunch of puppets.

"Can you give us any hints?" Sally asks, eyes beaming.

"Sorry, Sally, not even a teeny one." War Eagle turns toward the blue Iowa sky, then turns back. "Err, anybody know where the nearest Wal-Mart is?"

"Fort Dodge," says a guy from Des Moines.

"Thank you, good man!" With a blast of supersonic power, War Eagle soars up into the sky – leaving his Ferrari and the doomsday device sitting on the side of the road.

What a knucklehead!

My stomach rises up into my throat. Surely he's not this stupid. Doomsday and death and mayhem were mere feet away – and he goes flying off to Wal-Mart.

I step out of the bait shop and grab the device, hiding it under my jacket. I can hear Sally O'Nally gabbing to her loyal viewers as I pass.

"There he goes, America's hero, a man whose dedication to fighting terror is only superseded by his belief in the holiday spirit. This reporter, for one, is inspired."

"You know he's married, right?"

The normally unflappable Sally O'Nally looks at me like I just ran over her kitten. "He is not!"

"Trust me, he is," I say, and walk on by.

I've wasted almost an hour on War Eagle, but he's still the only shot any of us have. Fort Dodge is close enough I can get there and have him defuse the device, but I need wheels.

I see Rey's car outside the church.

Rey... he's probably worried to death about me. He'll want to know. I'll tell him. I'll tell him everything – but in the car, on the way to Fort Dodge.

I walk inside the church. Rey's up on a ladder, setting lights for the Christmas program.

"Rey?"

He looks down on me – and smiles. "Hey, Monica. Just in time. Any chance you can help me fold programs for tonight?"

"I need to get to Wal-Mart."

"When?"

"Right now."

"Can it wait?"

"No, Rey, it can't."

"You know, Monica, anything you need at Wal-Mart you can get in town. Sure, you have to pay more at a Mom and Pop, but considering what gas will cost going to Wal-Mart-"

"Rey, just trust me! I need to get to Wal-Mart!"

Rey looks down, concerned. "Why?"

"Because she no longer believes in small town values."

Rey and I turn to the door, where Aldo stands, holding a gun. Gone is the grease-stained apron and T-shirt. He's dressed rather dapper in his purple pin-striped suit.

"I want the virus. Now."

"It's no use to you now." I pull out the device, showing Aldo the timer. His eyes grow wide in horror.

"You fool! You set it off??

"I didn't mean to! I was trying to destroy it."

Rey scratches his head. "Can someone please fill me in here?"

"Rey, there's something I need to tell you. It's a long story."

"She's Zorana," says Aldo, cutting right to the chase.

"I know," say Rey.

I look at him, stunned. "You do?"

"Come on, it was always obvious," he says. "When you were a kid and we played GI Joes, I was Zartan, you were Zarana. It had to be you."

I feel like such a fool. All this time, I thought I was so clever by taking the name of someone I hated, never thinking that it was just one letter away from my favorite, pink-haired action figure.

"What's that thing in your hands?" says Rey, nodding to the device.

"The Vega-Virus," says Aldo. "It means death for everyone in this town, and most of the Midwest. I'm sorry, Zorana."

"My name is Monica," I tell him.

"You can't change who you are," Aldo says. "Now quick, both of you, downstairs. I'll tie you up with the device and be long gone before it goes off."

"You would destroy this town?" I say.

"Are you kidding?" says Aldo. "I hate this town! And everything about it! Especially you. At least this way, we'll finally be even for Mexico City!"

"This is a good town with good people!" I say.

"Then why did you leave?" he says. "Huh? If this-a town's so great, why did you leave? Because you are better than this-a town! You are not one of them. You are like-a me."

I'm stunned by what happens next. Aldo lowers the gun. He places a hand on my shoulder and another on the device.

"This is who you are," he says. "Let it go off. Let it make a crater. You'll be great again. You'll be the greatest villain in the whole world!"

As surprised as I was by Aldo's words, I am even more surprised how seriously I consider taking his advice. For a brief moment, I am back in my lair, seeing the world bow before me. I see War Eagle disgraced, defeated, unable to stop me. I see myself laughing with evil pleasure, having finally succeeded where so many had tried and failed.

And then, I surprise myself once more.

"I can't do it, Aldo," I say. "I'm not Zorana. Not any more."

Aldo starts to lift the gun. Rey takes two steps on the floor, one on the arm rest of a nearby pew, and leaps into the air. His legs wrap around Aldo's neck, and he spins him, launching him into the pews with a flawless hurricarana. The gun flies out of his hands and skids to my feet. I grab the gun. Rey grabs Aldo.

"You got the gun?"

I nod. "Rey, I don't recall you using those moves in high school. You pick something up in Mexico?"

Rey cracks a smile. "We all have our secrets, Monica."

I look at my watch. "So Wal-Mart, forty-five minutes?"

Rey nods at the capsule. "What's at Wal-Mart that can stop that thing from doing what it does?"

"War Eagle," I say. "He's the only shot we've got."

Aldo laughs weakly in pain. "You'll never make it. By the time War Eagle knows what he missed, it will be on the evening news."

I see the grin on Rey's face.

"Maybe we don't need to go to him," he says. "Maybe he will come to us."

"How are we gonna do that?" I ask.

"Stay here and watch him," said Rey. "I'm gonna go find Sally O'Nally."

"What for?" says Rey.

"We're gonna give War Eagle the one thing he wants most. Zorana."
WAR EAGLE'S WAR JOURNAL  
DECEMBER 23, FORT DODGE, IOWA, 1800 HOURS

DISASTER LOOMS IN THE AIR. CATASTROPHE IS IMMINENT. I STAND IN A WAL-MART STORE, A LOOK OF ASTONISHMENT UPON MY FACE. I TURN BACK TO THE WAL-MART ASSOCIATE AND ASK ONCE MORE, "WHERE CAN I FIND TICKLE ME FOZZIE?"

"THEY DON'T MAKE TICKLE ME FOZZIE," SHE SAYS.

"THEY HAVE TO!" I SHOUT. "MY DAUGHTER WANTS IT FOR CHRISTMAS."

"LOOK, WE HAVE TICKLE ME ELMO, TICKLE ME ERNIE, AND TICKLE ME COOKIE MONSTER. WE DO NOT HAVE TICKLE ME FOZZIE BEAR!"

"DON'T PLAY GAMES WITH ME!" I SHOUT BACK. "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I'M WAR EAGLE!"

"I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE THE PRESIDENT," SHE SAYS. "YOUR KID'S JUST GONNA HAVE TO GET SOMETHING ELSE FROM SANTA."

"THERE IS NOTHING ELSE!" I SAY.

"JUST GET HER TICKLE ME COOKIE MONSTER," SHE SUGGESTS. "I THINK THE SAME GUY DOES BOTH THEIR VOICES. SHE'LL NEVER KNOW THE DIFFERENCE."

"FOZZIE IS YELLOW! COOKIE MONSTER IS BLUE! MY DAUGHTER'S INCREDIBLY ADVANCED FOR HER AGE. SHE WILL KNOW."

"YEAH?" SAYS THE WOMAN IN THE BLUE VEST WITH THE SMILEY FACE. "HOW OLD IS SHE? TWO? THREE?"

I PAUSE, TRYING TO REMEMBER THE ANSWER TO THE QUESTION. HOW OLD WAS NATALIE NOW? THREE, I THINK. OR MAYBE FOUR. I'M SO BUSY FIGHTING CRIME AND TRAVELING THE WORLD, IT'S HARD TO KEEP UP. AND TEELA IS NO HELP. EVERY TIME I ASK HER, SHE STARTS SINGING THAT STUPID CAT AND CRADLE SONG.

I FEEL A TAP ON MY SHOULDER. I TURN TO SEE A TEENAGE BOY WITH A PATHETIC LOOKING EXCUSE FOR A MUSTACHE, ALSO DRESSED IN WAL-MART FATIGUES.

"EXCUSE ME," HE SAYS. "AREN'T YOU WAR EAGLE?"

"NO TIME FOR AUTOGRAPHS, CITIZEN," I SAY. "I'M CHRISTMAS SHOPPING."

"DO YOU HAVE A MINUTE TO SAVE THE WORLD?" THE KID POINTS TO THE NEARBY TV MONITOR. I SEE MY GOOD FRIEND SALLY O'NALLY STANDING IN FRONT OF A PIZZA JOINT. I RECOGNIZE THE LOCATION IMMEDIATELY – SMALLTOWN, IOWA.

"...EYEWITNESS HAS CONFIRMED THAT THE VILLAIN HOLDING HOSTAGES INSIDE THIS PIZZA PLACE IS, IN FACT, WAR EAGLE'S NEMESIS, ZORANA. WAR EAGLE WAS IN TOWN JUST AN HOUR OR SO AGO, HOT ON THE TRAIL OF THE WORLD'S MOST EVIL WOMAN, BUT HE HAS NOT YET ARRIVED ON THE SCENE. IF HE DOES NOT ARRIVE IN THE NEXT TEN MINUTES, ZORANA IS THREATENING TO UNLEASH THE DEADLY VIRUS."

TICKLE ME FOZZIE DEBATES WILL HAVE TO WAIT. I LAUNCH STRAIGHT UP THROUGH THE CEILING AND FLY LIKE A MISSLE TOWARD SMALLTOWN.

AS I SOAR OVER THE FARM LANDS OF IOWA, THE CAT AND CRADLE SONG IS IN MY HEAD. FOR THE FIRST TIME, I STOP TO PAY ATTENTION TO THE LYRICS – AND I AM DUMBSTRUCK. THAT SONG IS ME! A FATHER WITH NO TIME FOR HIS KIDS? WHAT KIND OF FATHER IS THAT? ONE WHO RAISES CHILDREN WITH NO TIME FOR DEAR OLD DAD.

AS I PASS OVER THE TINY BURG OF LOHRVILLE, I GLANCE DOWN TO SEE A GAGGLE OF KIDS PLAYING WITH THEIR DAD. I AM ASHAMED OF WHO I HAVE BECOME, AND I VOW TO CHANGE MY CAT AND CRADLE WAYS.

SOON AS I SAVE THE WORLD FROM ZORANA ONE MORE TIME.

I DIVE INTO SMALLTOWN, OVER THE CROWD OF REPORTERS AND BYSTANDERS AND STRAIGHT INTO THE PIZZERIA. IT IS DARK, BUT MY SUPER VISION IS ABLE TO SEE INTO THE SHADOWS.

ZORANA IS WAITING FOR ME.

"WAR EAGLE," SHE GROWLS.

"HELLO, UGLY," I SAY. "PREPARE TO DIE!"

I GRAB MY ARCH-ENEMY AND THROW HER THROUGH THE DOORS OF THE KITCHEN. SHE CRASHES INTO A PREP TABLE AND CRUMBLES TO THE FLOOR.

HER MASK FALLS OFF.

SO DOES HER WIG.

WIG???

"WHA-WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?" HE SAYS, EYES WIDE IN TERROR. "WAR EAGLE? IS THAT YOU?"

I CAN'T PROPERLY RESPOND. I AM IN SHOCK, HAVING DISCOVERED THAT ZORANA IS NOT THE HOT, SLINKY FEMALE I ONCE BELIEVED HER TO BE, BUT THE KINDLY, MIDDLE-AGED PIZZA MAKER, ALDO.

"YOU'RE A DUDE!" I SHOUT. "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE A DUDE! AND TO THINK I ONCE HAD A BATMAN/CATWOMAN CRUSH ON YOU." I STRUGGLE, RESISTING THE URGE TO VOMIT.

"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" SAYS ALDO/ZORANA. "WHAT AM I DOING IN THESE CLOTHES?"

"COMMITTING A FASHION DON'T," I SAY. "NOT TO WORRY. WE'LL HAVE YOU IN BLACK AND WHITE PRISON STRIPES SOON ENOUGH. NOW WHERE'S THAT BOMB?"

I SEARCH THE MAN, LOOKING FOR SOME SIGN OF THE DOOMSDAY DEVICE. I FIND A WALKIE TALKIE INSIDE HIS TOP, THEN DOWN ON HIS BELT I FIND THE DEVICE. THE SECONDS TICK DOWN.

FIVE... FOUR... THREE...

ONE QUICK BLAST OF MY LASER VISION INCINERATES THE DEVICE. THE WORLD IS SAVED.

EASY PEASY.

I DRAG MY ENEMY OUTSIDE AND HAND HIM OVER TO THE POLICE. HE CONTINUES TO SCREAM AND SHOUT, PROTESTING HIS INNOCENCE. BUT I KNOW THE TRUTH. ZORANA HAS BEEN CAPTURED.

SALLY AND THE OTHER REPORTERS RACE OVER TO ME. MY DEAR FRIEND AND BIGGEST FAN IS FIRST WITH A QUESTION.

"WAR EAGLE, IS THIS REALLY THE END OF ZORANA?"

"YOU CAN COUNT ON IT, SALLY."

"ONE MORE THING," SHE SAID. "IS IT TOO MUCH FOR YOU TO TELL THE GIRL WHO HAS BEEN MADLY CRUSHING ON YOU FOR NEARLY A DECADE THAT YOU ARE MARRIED?"

SHE STOMPS ON MY FOOT, THEN STORMS OFF. I GUESS I HAD IT COMING.

THE REPORTERS PRESS IN FOR MORE QUESTIONS, BUT I HAVE OTHER MATTERS TO TAKE CARE OF. I TAKE TO THE SKY ONCE MORE, HEADING BACK TO FORT DODGE, ONE MORE BATTLE TO FIGHT.

GOTTA FIND THAT TICKLE ME FOZZIE BEAR!
AFTERMATH

Rey's plan worked beautifully. After dressing Aldo in my old costume, Rey tied me up in the large refrigeration unit, leaving a walkie talkie in my hand. He then got Sally O'Nally to go on the air with the Zorana story, claiming to be a released hostage. War Eagle arrived just in time. One word from me over the walkie talkie was all he needed to believe Aldo was the one he wanted. He captured the bad guy, destroyed the doomsday device, and saved the day.

There was only one hitch: the big, spandex wearing dummy forgot to release the hostage!

It was for the best. There was a risk he'd see the walkie in my hand and put two and two together. Plus a hostage rescue would undoubtedly have meant having my face splashed all over the TV. I still have plenty of enemies around the world that would love to take a shot at Zorana. The less exposure I have, the better.

By the time Rey comes back to untie me, I am nearly frozen. But Rey is prepared. He wraps me in a blanket, then sits with his arm around me in the empty pizza kitchen.

"This town won't be the same without Aldo," Rey says. "This was the only decent place to eat without a drive thru for a hundred miles."

"Aldo always talked about me taking over," I reply. "I do know where he kept his secret sauce recipe."

"Sounds nice," he says. "But..."

"But what?" I say.

"It takes more than one person to run this place. It's really better suited for a husband and wife."

"Whoa, slow down there," I say. "One step at a time. Besides, you want to marry someone who only a week ago was the world's most wanted woman?"

"I won't judge," he says. "Your secret is safe with me."

"It better be," I say.

"You have nothing to fear," he says. "I'm the only person in the world who knows."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Evan Miller, gazing at Rey and me from across the street. He gives me a wink and a thumbs up before disappearing into his shop.

"You might not be the only one," I saw.

Rey turns and catches a glance of Evan slipping inside his shop. "You know he's the only guy in the county who's had a close encounter with a Sasquatch?"

"Is he really?" I say.

Rey turns back. "Don't worry. No one would ever believe him."

I let out a small sigh of relief. "What do you say we start this reunion over?"

Rey smiles and and offers me his hand. "Monica Deluna, it's been forever. I haven't seen you since high school."

I shake his hand. "I know! It's so good to see you again, Rey."

"What brings you home?" he asks.

"It's Christmas time," I say. "I came home to visit my Mom."

Rey takes my hand, and we start to stroll down Main Street.

"I still can't believe you've been gone so long. Where have you been?"

"All over the world," I say.

"How exciting. What was the most memorable place you've ever been?"

"That's easy," I say. "Mexico City."

"What a coincidence," he says, "I've been to Mexico City too. What were you doing down there?"

"It's a long story."

He checks his watch. "I've got time. Spill."

I look into his beautiful eyes. "Ever heard of a wrestler named El Loco Hawkeye?"

I spend a wonderful Christmas with my mother and Rey. When the New Year comes, I receive some good news in a text from Mallory. Seems Virgil Tucker disagreed with something that ate him down in the Florida Keys, and by some strange fluke, Mal ended up in his desk. My account is settled and my claim paid in full, minus my $500 deductible.

The UHU is pretty upset to learn I had lied about the Vega-Virus, but the insurance money Mal sent me is more than enough to get me off the hook. I hand over my few remaining bank accounts to the UHU as well, asking them to please pass it all to the henchworkers' families. It's not enough, and I know it won't all get into the hands of those who need it. But it's everything I have.

I surprise everyone by taking out a lease on an apartment in town, just over Evan Miller's comic shop. Evan still gives me the stink eye from time to time, and he keeps asking questions about my past. Maybe I'll tell him one of these days. Maybe.

Rey seemed a little disappointed that I chose to get an apartment. He's worried that an independent spirit like me isn't interested in commitment, even though I'm already hard at work on restoring the pizza shop and reopening under new management. Rey also thinks I don't know that he's put a down payment on a ring, but I have my ways of finding these things out.

Lucky for him I have one more secret. I also have a month to month agreement on the rent with Evan.

As Pops Bender liked to say, "Alway stay two steps ahead."

I guess some habits die hard.
SPECIAL BONUS #1

POPS BENDER:  
DIARY OF A SUPER-VILLAIN LIFE COACH

On December 21, 2007, a black hole vanished from our world. He was not known to the public at large, but to super-villains everywhere, he was an inspiration, and their best hope. He was known to his neighbors as Arnold Bender, but to Lex Luthor, the Green Goblin, Ernst Blofeld, and other great villains, he was known simply as "Pops."

Pops Bender was the one who made it. He alone had held the world for ransom, gotten his price, and made off with the money. His success paved the way to a new career as a life coach for the world's most dastardly villains.

Pops kept a diary for more than fifty years, writing down his thoughts on the people, places, and ideas he encountered. He espoused his views on everything from designing the perfect lairs to the fair and equitable treatment of henchmen.

The following are excerpts from Pops Benders memoirs, soon to be published by Wolf & Hart. Proceeds will go to benefit the International Pension Fund for Orphaned Henchmen, a charitable organization that benefits Henchmen who have become "orphaned" by the loss of their fearless leader either by death or imprisonment.

Plan Ahead

There's a reason most super-villains fail, and it has nothing to do with their ability to thwart a hero. It's all about your end game. When I sit down with a super-villain, the very first question I ask is, "What next?" After you get the ransom, after you nuke the planet, what will you do with the remaining 30, 40, 50 years of your life. Nine out of ten have no answer.

The extortionist might say, "Well, I'll just live on a beach." What beach? You going to leave the country? Where will you flee? How will you hide the money? One hundred trillion dollars is a lot of cash.

The bringers of doom talk about ruling the ashes, being king or emperor. Of what? A third world wasteland? These guys don't realize that if their plans succeed, there will be no infrastructure, no technology that will allow them to subdue and subvert. And hardly any of them have enough henchmen on the payroll to enforce their power. I tell them to watch the Road Warrior, then get back with me when they have an idea how they're going to establish their totalitarian state.

Lairs

People often ask me for a checklist when designing a lair. Here is what I tell them:

Fire exits should be clearly marked, and fire drills a regular part of lair life. Install fire extinguishers and test them regularly. Install smoke detectors and keep fresh batteries in them. Use eye protection around dangerous machinery. Use ear protection around loud machines. Keep walkways clear of obstructions, and mop up spills. Do not leave extension cords loose; tape them down. Use proper safety gear when handling plutonium. All vehicles should have safety belts, air bags, and ejector seats. Anyone using weapons should be trained and certified to fire whatever weapon it is you hand them, be it a pistol, a rocket launcher, or a laser. If you have high balconies, it doesn't cost that much to put a railing up there; chest-high railing, not waist-high railing that is more cinematic to flip over and fall to your doom.

Just because you're evil doesn't mean you have the right to skirt proper safety.

Lex

Ran into Luthor the other night in Toronto. We grabbed some dinner, then took a tour bus full of seniors hostage so we could play chess with real people, with a slight change to the rules: whenever one of us moved a piece to take another, we let them fight to the death to see who would come out on top. What a card. The guy could really be something if he'd only get over his fixation on Superman. He could be ruler of a hundred small countries in Africa or Asia, but he wouldn't hold up a Kentucky Fried Chicken unless Superman was inside. It's like he has a man crush or something.

Details

Met with a nice young fellow from Africa the other day who wanted to make the Western world pay for letting his people suffer. He told me about this grand scheme he had for building a lair, creating a super weapon. He had blueprints, a time table, and a lot of charisma. He just had no clue what it takes to get a lair up and running.

After you design your lair, ask yourself these key questions:

Where are you going to get electricity from? You gonna use nuclear power or gas-powered generators? Where are those supplies coming from? Unless you land on an island with a huge, untapped reserve, you're going to need to shop for deals. And that's not all.

Where will you get groceries from? Henchmen have to eat, and so do you. It's not like you can get McDonalds to open up shop on the island. If you're lucky, you might be able to get a Chick-fil-A, but then what are you going to do on Sundays?

How about cleaning supplies? A lair gets dirty real easy. Have you budgeted for a janitorial staff, mops, buckets, etc? I can't tell you how many guys failed because their Henchmen quit or died thanks to dirty working conditions.

It's not enough to have a good location and a great weapon. Not any more.

Camera Work

Caught Dr. Mephisto on CNN the other night. The guy had so much potential, then he goes on camera in front of millions of people and freezes up. People feared him. Now they're mocking him on Saturday Night Live.

If you're not comfortable on camera, don't go on camera. The Riddler was a shy kid with an evil mind and no people skills. He didn't have the charisma people associate with a super-villain. So what did he do? He found an actor, J. Reinhold Howard, who did have the skills. It was Reinhold who provided the face and voice that terrorized a city. Only Batman, the Riddler, and I knew who the real mastermind was a shy, awkward kid who never had the guts to ask out a girl.

Maybe now Mephisto will take my advice and enroll in that public speaking course.

Networking

SMERSH developed the propulsion system that powered the Green Goblin's flier. Kingpin developed the formula for Penguin gas. Poison Ivy bought the rights to her gimmick from someone who tried and rejected it: Dr. Doom. The right tools for the right villain are out there. It's all in who you know.

Meddling Kids

If four teenagers and a Great Dane show up while you're in the middle of a caper and start snooping around, resist the urge to dress up like a monster and chase them. Get a gun and shoot them.

Space

Space is cold. There's nothing to see, nothing to do, and zero G gets old after about five minutes. And there's no TV. You can't pick up satellite television when you're up floating around next to the satellites. We have a beautiful world full of unexplored territory. Unless you're a five hundred pound fatty who would benefit from space's lack of gravity in a fight, there's just no reason to go to space.

Employee Relations

Amos Octobrain called. He's in Vienna putting together another plot to hold the world ransom, but this time out he's having a little difficulty recruiting help. He asked for advice. I told him the same thing I tried to tell him before: don't shoot your henchmen.

All super-villains are greedy. No one wants to share the spoils. But if there's a chance you might be pulling off another heist, the worst thing you can do is execute all your men when their work is complete.

Take care of your people, and they will take care of you. Shoot them, and hiring more becomes a little tricky.

Invest Now, Spend Later

Kids today. They hatch a scheme to take over the world, they find a dummy corporation to invest in them, and they blow half of it on cars, stereos, and Xbox. They don't know how to think long term.

Invest in your super weapons, your lairs, and your infrastructure. If you win, you'll have the rest of your life to play Xbox... unless you plan to send the world back to the stone age, which would put a crimp in your dream of playing Xbox the rest of your life.

One more point: invest in your people. An Xbox in the break room or a nice TV and some movies will go a long way to boosting morale on an uncharted island. I can't say this enough: invest in your people, and they will pay you back with interest.

Catwoman

I ran into Catwoman in Chicago last weekend. We rolled a few frames at Lucky Strike, then we held up the snack bar for old time's sake. Sweet gal, but geez, she has men issues. Seriously, Dr. Phil would have a field day with that woman.

Names

Don't call yourself Doctor if you're not one. Don't call yourself Professor; no one's afraid of college teachers any more. And if you're going to be (Something) Man, for heaven's sake, have a purpose in it. Lizard Man didn't look, talk, or act like a lizard. He just liked the name. The guy didn't even like lizards. He was scared of them.

Gag Writers

Some guys have the gift for ad libbing. Some don't. That's why there are writers. A simple ad in Variety or on Craig's List will net you half a dozen starving comedy writers who would sell their souls for a paycheck and a credit. They don't even have to meet you or know you're really evil. Just tell them you're producing a movie, give them some plot points, and ask them to write a few good lines for the villain.

Blofeld

Ernst called me last night. Once upon a time he was the most feared man on the planet. Now he's running a fantasy football league online. How the mighty have fallen.

Employees vs. Hostages

Never hire anyone smarter than you. A smarter person who believes in your cause will find a way to toss you out the window and take over.

Hire henchmen, computer techs, and lackeys. Kidnap scientists. If the scientists don't want to do your dirty work, kidnap their attractive daughters. If they won't do your dirty work to save themselves, they will for their daughters.

No Girls in the Lair

Don't use your super-villain status to pick up women. If you have to go after hot chicks, use a second identity. Girls talk, and girls are easily seduced by slick spies who can make them talk. Learn from James Bond movies, people. And while we're on the subject, can we stop with the creative death scenarios? A bullet in the head is not as exciting as being eaten by sharks, but it's quicker, and it gets the job done.

Hero Drills

I always encourage lair owners to run Hero Drills. It's like a fire drill, except you're practicing for an invasion by a super hero/spy rather than a fire. Make sure your men know how to properly seal exits, establish a defensive front, contain, and then eliminate a threat. The best way to prevent a well-trained spy from bringing down your evil empire is to confront them will a well-trained response force.

You might also want to plan on having a gun range in the basement. Make sure your guys can shoot straight. In the long run you'll save on bullets. And embarrassment.

Union Lairs

I understand the frustration working with the United Henchworkers Union, but the truth is they perform a long overdue and necessary service for the people who work for you. They provide protection against unnecessarily dangerous work hazards. They guarantee your people insurance and other benefits. And they take care of the families left behind when your crappy plan results in the death of your union workers.

Yes, there are challenges to overcome, but if you look at your union rep as a partner and not the enemy, you can work things out to your benefit. Take break time for example. All henchworkers must take fifteen breaks every two hours and a lunch/meal every four hours. Work with your union rep to schedule and stagger your staff so that not everyone breaks at once. There's nothing more embarrassing than having to lay down your arms and surrender because some hero breaks in during the 9 AM coffee break.

Secret Plans

All super-villains have egos. The good guys know this, and they know the easiest way to uncover an evil plan is to get captured and get the bad guy talking. How many super-villains are guilty of self-indulgent speeches, revealing every detail of their plan for world domination in moments of supreme overconfidence? Then the next thing you know, the hero has stopped the doomsday device, and the villain is a grease spot on the wall of his lair.

Keep your secret plans secret. And when the good guy ends up in your clutches, don't talk to him. Just kill him.

James Bond vs. Jack Bauer

Bond is over-rated. He's a fair shot and an average martial artist at best. Bond's greatest advantage is his machismo. There's something about the suave spy that makes super-villains want to show off. They have to prove they are more debonaire, more dramatic, more clever than their foe. They concoct these overly elaborate execution scenarios and then leave the hero to his doom. Overconfidence becomes their undoing when Bond escapes the death chamber and foils their evil schemes. The first guy with courage to push his ego aside and just shoot Bond will be the man to beat him. No one has. Yet.

Jack Bauer frightens me. He has eyes in the back of his head. He has nine lives. Maybe more. The more you break him, the more deadly he becomes. He'll kill you, your whole family, your henchmen, and all their families in 24 hours or less. He will also inadvertently cause the deaths of more innocents than you ever dreamed of killing.

No, I don't want to face Bauer. If I had the choice, I'd take on the Brit any day.

Fun Fact

All the models used by super-villains to pitch their most diabolical plans over the last three decades have been made by one woman. Her name is Melanie, and she came to me when she was just thirteen years old, asking to become a super-villain. Her father Charles died defending a SMERSH stronghold, and she wanted revenge on a certain Double-O and MI-6. She had all the motive in the world, but the more we talked, the more she came to see she didn't have what it takes to become super-villain. She did, however, have an enormous gift for sculpting and model making, so with my encouragement (and a small settlement from SMERSH), she opened her own model shop, specializing in the kind of set up evil masterminds desire. She can do anything from simple, scale models of military installations, to full 3D holographic projections. The latter comprise most of her commissions these days, due to cost and the ease of concealing such things from prying eyes, but there are still some in the underworld who want a conference table that opens out or revolves to reveal an animated, physical replica of Ground Zero.

In a delightful bit of irony, Melanie did a little work on the side for some spy films in the late 1990s making \- you guessed it - models used by movie super-villains to explain their overly-elaborate plans for world domination. If only people knew how close to the real thing the models in those movie scenes were!

I still get a Christmas card from Melanie every year. She's a great example of finding your gifts and putting them to evil use in the best way possible.

Common Sense

If you're going to be handle a deadly virus, have the antidote on hand.

I had always assumed these words were simple common sense, but if it was, I wouldn't be flying to Beirut for Toxic Chaka's funeral.
SPECIAL BONUS #2

THE VEGA-VIRUS

BY AUSTIN NICHOLS

My copy editor Austin Nichols has read the story of Zorana at least three times now. After reading through the 2017 update, he was inspired to write a tale of his own. Here is Austin's account of how Zorana came into possession of the Vega-Virus.

"We need to run! We need get as far away from here as we can and go into hiding. It's the only way we stand a chance at surviving!"

Micheal was frantic, yelling as he tried to gather the most valuable lab items he could carry. "She's on her way, Reggie!" he shouted. "We go now, or we die!"

"Will you relax?" said Reggie, sitting casually at his computer workstation. "We have two hours left. We can pull this off."

Micheal refused to calm down in any way. He still hurried about trying to pack an oversized spectrometer into a travel bag.

"You told me this would take four weeks!" said Micheal. "You ran off and spent two months on a beach in Acapulco, and now here we are, 90 days later, with nothing to show! NOTHING! We're dead Reggie. DEAD! Zorana is going to kill us unless we leave NOW!"

Reggie threw his hands up in frustration. "Micheal Haines, we've worked together for what, fifteen years now? You have to trust that I know what I'm doing. We can pull this off, but you have to pull yourself together and help me."

Micheal stopped, his breathing gradually slowing as he desperately tried to calm himself. He was losing his head and he knew it. Even if he ran, Zorana would surely find him and kill him. But maybe Reggie's plan would work. Maybe they would be able to pull off a Hail-Mary and deliver a viable super-virus to their client after all.

"Alright, Reggie, what do I need to do?"

Reggie reached for the phone and dialed a number.

Zorana arrived at Malius Lab Corp exactly on time, escorted by a cadre of frightening looking men dressed in black armor and carrying what looked like laser guns. It was just a show, of course, all flair and window-dressing for simple-minded morons like those who worked at Malius. The armored men were not henchmen, but merely props. A villainess like Zorana did not need an actual army of stormtrooper types because she alone was carrying enough concealed firepower to decimate an Army base in a matter of minutes.

As the group left the helipad they were greeted by Charles, a long time attendant of the facility who escorted visiting super-villains around there labyrinthian complex. There were many divisions to Malius: tactical weapon development, bio-chemical labs, propulsion research. It was important to get each customer to their meeting site promptly and with minimal small talk. Super-villains have little time or patience for small talk.

"My names is Charles. Right this way." That was all he needed to say as he led them down corridor to the Viral Manipulation Chambers.

Reggie and Micheal looked far from being afraid for their lives when Charles opened the door, admitting Zorana and her prop army into the room. Charles engaged the scientists with a little eye contact and with a gesture of his right hand, introduced their guest. "Reggie, Micheal, may I present Lady Nocturna."

There was a quick whizzing sound, and just like that Charles dropped dead to the ground with a dart in his neck.

"How many times do I have to remind everyone, my name is Zorana?"

The offended party stepped close to Reggie and Micheal, who handled the sudden death of their long time compatriot with surprising calm. Death was an occupational hazard for anyone who worked with super-villains. True, you never got used to seeing a body with a red unitard and no head, but it never registered as persona. It was just part of the job.

"A pleasure to finally meet you in person, Zorana," Micheal said as he extended his hand.

Zorana refused to give her hand in return. "Where is the virus? I'm short on time and have an assassination in Paraguay to attend."

Reggie opened a briefcase and produced a pair of sealed glass vials. He lifted the first out of it's crushed velvet nesting place. "The virus is in a suspension that keeps it inert. Without the buffer, the very glass that contains it would be destroyed on a molecular level."

Zorana watched him intently, nonplussed. Reggie continued, returning the first vial to its place and lifting there second. "This vial contains a solution that will dissolve the inert suspension, rendering the virus completely viable and activated. Per our specs, we requested your engineers build a bio-safe capable of housing both vials, and also containing a self-destruct mechanism."

Zorana nodded, cueing one of the armored men to step forward to take charge of the briefcase. Michael cleared his throat and spoke next.

"The virus breaks down anything and everything it comes in contact with on a molecular level. As it comes into contact with the proper raw material, it will reassemble them based on the virus structure, replicating itself."

"What is the expected area of effect?" Zorana asked.

"It's hard to say," said Michael. "Once it runs out of materials to recreate, it's liable to come to a halt - but our conservative estimates put total destruction at a radius of about 500 miles. It's nothing to trifle with, I assure you."

"Neither am I," said Zorana. Her eyes narrowed as she assessed each of the scientists, searching for any sign of deceipt. She learned early on in her career to not to take anyone's word at face value and always, always verify. "I assume you have a working proof-of-concept to show me?"

"Absolutely!" said Reggie with confidence. "We've been looking forward to showing off what this puppy can do."

Reggie pressed a small button on the wall that revealed a large window looking into a testing chamber. Zorana saw a small glass beaker on a metal testing table containing the substance from the first vial. Just above the beaker was a syringe that appeared to contain the second substance, and above that, a pair of high-powered spray nozzles aimed at the table and surrounding area. Next to the beaker was a cage containing a cute, fluffy bunny rabbit.

"As you can see, we have a specially constructed test facility," said Reggie. "When the material in the syringe hits the beaker, you'll see for yourself how deadly the virus can be. The spray nozzles above contain the solution that will render the virus inert again, once the test subject is eliminated. With your permission?"

"Wait," Zorana said. "Not the rabbit." She turned and pointed to one of her henchmen. "You, into the test chamber."

"This is a little irregular," said Reggie. "We don't normally—"

"We can skip to the part where I kill you for failure, or you can test it on my man," said Zorana.

Reggie shrugged slightly. "Very well. Melanie?"

A side door opened, and a pleasant looking young woman with dark skin and hair entered. "Yes, Doctor?"

"Zorana wishes to test the device on one of her own men, if you please," said Reggie.

"Of course," said Melanie. "This way, please."

The henchman hesitated. "Boss, are you sure about this?"

"They are bluffing," she said. "Do it and I'll give you an extra week of vacation in Fiji, after I kill these two for lying to me."

"Okay then!" The henchman confidently complied, following Melanie out of the lab through the side door. A minute later, he entered the chamber with no sign of hesitation as Melanie removed the bunny and re-sealed the testing room.

"Are you sure you want to throw a life away so easily?" Reggie asked

Zorana retorted "I've learned to trust my gut, Reggie, and my gut tells me you're full of..."

"Can we get on with this?" the muffled request of the henchmen came over the speaker.

Reggie handed a black remote with a red button to Zorana. "Do you mind if we turn away? The effects of the virus can be quite... disturbing."

"Of course," said Zorana.

Reggie and Micheal turned their backs to the window. They heard the soft click of the button on the remote, and seconds later, the horrific screams of the henchman who died, knowing he would never, ever see Fiji.

Reggie and Micheal waited until the heard the hiss of the safety system, deploying the solution that would render the testing room save once more. They turned to see a rare sight: a genuine smile of pleasure from Zorana.

"I had you guys figured for bums," she said. "This will do nicely. I have your payment, plus, a little extra for the short timeline."

Zorana handed a hefty briefcase of her own to Reggie. He set the case onto a nearby table and checked the contents. Never in his life had he seen so many gold bars in person; this was quite the payout. There was also a small velvet bag in the case that Reggie found to contain a few dozen uncut diamonds and a wooden token good for two drinks at Sal's Pub in Lombard, Illinois. He gingerly closed the case and smiled to himself.

"A pleasure doing business with you," said Reggie. This time, Zorana eagerly shook hands with the scientist as he handed her a business card. "As a professional courtesy, please give us some advanced notice before deploying the weapon. We don't need to know what continent to avoid, just let us know of one that will be safe."

Zorana nodded. "Certainly, It's in my best interest to keep the two of you alive, in case i need your services again." She looked down at Charles' lifeless body, unmoved. "We'll be seeing ourselves out now"

Reggie and Micheal stood motionless, watching the evil mastermind and her pseudo-soldiers depart from the room and head back down the hall. soaking in all that had just happened. After what must have been several minutes, Michael turned to Reggie.

"How the devil did you do it?" he said. "We had nothing two hours ago! Nothing!"

"Smoke and mirrors my good friend," Reggie interrupted. "I knew there was no way for us to complete our deadly virus in time, so I called in a friend of mine that specializes in 3D holographic projections. Melanie! You can come out now!"

Melanie emerged from the side door once more with a laptop in hand. "Hiya!" she said.

"This is Melanie Ridgley," said Reggie, "One of the most brilliant computer minds in the building."

"Reggie promised me a cut of your earnings if I gave you a hand," said Melanie.

"But how did you do it?" said Micheal. "She had us put her man into the chamber!"

"We started a full body scanning and motion capture of Zorana's men the second they stepped onto the property," said Melanie. "By the time they reached your lab, I already had full 3D mockups of each one of them. It was a piece of cake to just insert the guard in as a part of the holograph."

"So where's the henchman?"

"He's dead, of course," said Melanie. "We had to kill him. We just used a quick and painless lethal injection instead of a deadly virus."

Micheal was stunned, not by the death of the nameless henchman, but the success of Reggie's scheme. Reggie really did have a plan, and it actually worked! "It sounds like you thought of everything. But what happens when she goes to use the weapon and it doesn't work?"

Reggie chuckled. "Well, Micheal, sometimes you just have to bet on the odds. And I'm betting she will either never actually use the weapon, or one of these super heroes will render the device useless. Who knows? In a few months time we may have a price on our head even bigger than what's in this case. But in the meantime, I think we need to discuss which tropical beach we want to retire on."

Micheal grinned. It wasn't the most comforting of resolutions, but they did have a crap ton of gold to enjoy whatever remained of their lives. There was just one question left to ask. "So, if you didn't put a deadly virus in those containers, what did you put in there?"

Reggie smiled. "Micheal, have you ever mixed baking soda and vinegar?"
SPECIAL BONUS #3

SUPER GIRLFRIEND

A prequel about love, romance, and heroes, featuring the legendary War Eagle.

Annie awoke to a familiar sensation. As consciousness returned and her senses reported in, she immediately knew it was steel chains that smashed her chest and held her tight to... Yes, that was definitely a steel pipe of some kind. Annie flexed her toes, planted firmly on the ground beneath her. She detected the rugged stool beneath her tush, and sighed, realizing once again that she was in the clutches of some notorious super-villain bent on world domination.

Such was the hazard of dating the world's most powerful super hero.

Her ears pricked up next, homing in on the maniacal laugh of her deranged captor. Her big brown eyes fluttered open, taking in her surroundings. The place was squalid, lit with fluorescent colors and a few torches. Large industrial pipes, maybe sewer pipes, ran the length of the ceiling. Computer consoles were scattered about with no sense of feng shui, as were a few counters covered with lab equipment. Not the dumpiest evil lair she'd ever been in, but no where near the nice places she was used to being held hostage.

Her gaze shifted to focus on the tall man dressed in black and purple robes. What was it with super-villains and robes??? Seriously, the more fabric, the easier it would be to take control of a fight situation and incapacitate the would-be conqueror.

"Welcome, Annie!" The purple and black demon turned his glowing yellow eyes (x-ray specs, no doubt; great, another pervert looking at her shapely figure) on his captor. "I hope you had a nice nap."

Annie allowed a bored yawn, but did not say a word. The dark figure seemed put off by her silence, no doubt used to getting a rise out of the young and innocent. Gosh, these guys are all the same.

The man cleared his throat awkwardly and went on. "In case you are wondering, My name is Dr. Psycho, and you are here, as my guest, because you have a special connection with a certain hero."

Annie rolled her eyes. "Yeah."

Psycho was clearly put off his game now. He loomed over her with his tall frame. "Do I frighten you? Do I fill you with terror? Your boyfriend does not stand a chance against me!"

Annie looked into the yellow eyes and started to laugh, slowly. "What's so funny??" He demanded with a shout.

"Are you kidding?" Annie rolled her eyes again. "If I had a dime for every time I've heard that crap."

"Crap?? Young lady, I am Dr. Psycho! In the next twenty-four hours I will destroy New York's greatest super hero and bring the city to its knees thanks to the Deep Psychosis formula I invented and plan to introduce into the water supply."

Annie followed Dr. Psycho's hand as he pointed to his proud achievement. It was a torpedo, maybe two tons in weight, suspended before a large sewer pipe by a steel chain, running up to the ceiling and down to a winch the wall. Such amateur posturing made Annie laugh out loud. "Poisoning the water? Gee, no one's tried that in the last three months. I swear, do you super-villains have original ideas, ever??"

Dr. Psycho snatched a beaker off the lab table and slammed it to the floor. "You will rue the day you mocked me, Annie! Do you hear what I am--"

"I hear you, I hear you." Annie interrupted, still convulsing with laughter. "I've heard it a million times. Different lyrics, but same song. "I'm going to rule this city. I'm going to kill your boyfriend. I'm going to use you as bait, blah blah blah."

Psycho's shoulders drooped. "What... What do you mean you've heard it?"

"Listen... Psycho is it?"

"Dr. Psycho."

"Right, whatever. You said it a moment ago, my boyfriend is the world's most powerful super hero, War Eagle. We've been dating for two years now, as he seeks to balance the responsibility of power with the desire of his heart. And for the last year, every villain that's wanted to get their hands on the Eagle has done it through me."

"Really?"

Annie shook her head. "Oh yeah. Every last one of them."

Psycho rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm."

"Mad Dog Makinski, The Razor, Captain Chaos, Zorana, Damien Faust, you name it." Annie looked around. "I've seen their lairs, heard their schemes, looked each one in the eye, and I gotta tell you... I don't like your chances."

"Ha," Psycho scoffed. "What would you know?"

"My boyfriend for one," Annie answered. "He's got super powers you can't even conceive. I mean real powers. Super strength and speed, laser beam eyes. He's going to kick your butt."

"Not when he walks into my trap! You see that steel door?"

"Let me guess. That room is lined with triple wall titanium with a diamond-plated door, impossible for anyone to break out, and once my honey's locked inside you're going to fill it with water and sharks, or, gas him. Well it won't work! Scotty's stronger than your stupid sharks, and he's impervious to poison gas."

Psycho laughed nervously. "Scotty, huh?"

"Did I call him Scotty?" Annie shrugged. "Oh well. Doesn't matter. He's going to kill you before you ever pierce his secret identity."

Psycho shook his head. "You, uh, you're really not worried about my chances, are you?"

"Not at all," said Annie. "I've been kidnapped by the best, and you're far from it. He's going to snap you in half."

"I see." The mad man sat down in a chair, drumming his fingers on a table as he contemplated his impending doom. Even through the yellow eyes and face mask, he looked sad. Annie's heart went out to him.

"Oh don't take it so hard. Look, you got farther far than a lot of guys do."

"Yeah?"

"Sure! Most of the crooks and vandals War Eagle deals with never make it past petty theft or assault. You know how many thugs he collars in a week?"

"Yeah, but I'm not some petty thug, I'm a..." The poor fellow. He was really getting some perspective on the thing.

"You're a super-villain," she said for him.

"I'm a loser," he said.

"Now is that any kind of attitude to take?"

"You just said yourself I have no chance."

"Sweetie, no one has a chance against my baby," Annie said. "It's not personal against you. He's just one heck of a super hero. That's all."

Psycho nodded, then looked up at her. "You've been through this a lot, huh?"

"More times than I care to remember," Annie said. "I've been snatched out of bed, from my job, off campus. It gets to be a real pain in the butt. I lost my scholarship last semester because Black Mamba decided to hold me hostage during mid-terms."

"That sucks," said Psycho.

"Yeah it does! One D on a biology test, and I'm paying full tuition. Well, Scotty picked up the tab with his reward money, but even so, that low grade might keep me out of grad school."

"What are you studying?"

"Nursing."

"Yeah? My mom was a nurse."

"Mine too!" Annie knew she was consorting with a vicious killer bent on conquering the world, but she didn't care. The conversation was too good. "My specialty's in pediatrics."

"You like kids?" asked Psycho.

"I love kids! I want about ten of them!"

"That's cool."

"Yeah." Annie sighed. "I don't know how that's going to work though. Scotty's super powers are the result of radiation he absorbed during a space walk. There's no way of knowing if we can have normal kids, or if they'll come out little green mutants."

"Space walk?" Psycho sat up, snapping his fingers. "Scott Powers, the billion dollar heir??"

Annie laughed. "That's my guy."

"Oh my gosh, I never would have guessed. I remember when he took that space vacation after inheriting his father's fortune. He seemed so small and scrawny before, than then there was the meteorite, he ended up in the hospital and when he came out... Gosh, how could I have missed that?"

"Yeah. It amazes me more people haven't caught on. Especially since he wears that stupid little mask."

"Don't like the mask, huh?"

Annie chuckled. "Gosh I hate it! He looks like Robin, and I'm like, 'Uh, honey? You sure you're into girls?' Makes him furious."

"Yeah," Psycho said, taking a more relaxed posture. "I gotta tell ya, the thing that gets me? The pink boots!"

"Oh, don't get me started!"

Psycho started to laugh. "I mean he's this macho tough guy with super powers wearing black, silver, and pink? What's up with that? Does he think he's Bret Hart or something?"

Annie burst out laughing. "He does! That was his childhood hero!"

"You're kidding!"

Super-villain and hostage laughed heartily, the mood vastly lighter in Dr. Psycho's evil lair. Psycho casually lifted his face mask out of the way to wipe a tear. Annie caught sight of his face. "You're so handsome."

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry," said Annie. "I didn't mean to over step my bounds. I just think you have a handsome face is all."

Psycho lifted the mask a little higher. "You think so?"

"Oh yeah," said Annie. "Most crooks that wear masks like that do it to hide their less than threatening looks. But you? Strong chin, strong eyes." This prompted a smile from the evil one, and earned him another compliment. "Ooh, and a great smile."

"My mom always said I had a good smile."

"I bet the ladies say it too." Annie only spent half a second wondering why she asked.

"No, no, not the ladies," he said, shaking his head.

"Oh come on!" Annie prodded him. "You mean a guy like you didn't have them lined up in college?"

"Not in college, not in high school. I had lots of girls who were friends, but uh... You've seen Pretty in Pink?"

"Sure, who hasn't?"

"To them I was Ducky."

"Get out!"

"I'm serious!" Psycho said. "I never, ever got dates. I was everyone's big brother back then, and being a nice guy has it's advantages, but it just gets so frustrating. Why do you think I first started having evil thoughts?"

"Now that's unfortunate," said Annie.

"Why?"

"Because there aren't enough nice guys," said Annie.

"Girls don't want to date nice guys," said Psycho. "Well, I guess you're the exception, right?"

Annie looked down, thinking about the question. What was she saying? Where were these thoughts coming from? And for heaven's sake, why??

Psycho broke the silence. "Scotty's a good guy, right?"

"Sure, he's nice. He's..." Why bother lying? This man would die before he could ever relate the truth to anyone else. "He's never there when I need him. You know?"

"Ah," said Psycho. "The responsibility of power keeps him busy."

"Even when he's not fighting crime. Say I have a bad day, I need to talk. Does he listen?"

"Not so much, huh?"

"Not at all. I guess the problems of a young woman working her way through nursing school don't amount to a hill of beans next to a super hero's struggle. But it's my hill of beans, you know?"

"And it matters very much to you."

"Exactly!" The dam of emotions was now fully broken, and a girlfriend's frustration flowed freely. "He loves when I help clean his hero gear, sharpen his blades, clean out the car. But when I need help studying for a test, where's Scotty? Or like a month ago when my aunt was sick, where was Scotty? She was in the hospital over a month, did he ever go see her with me?"

"Guess not."

"You guessed right! He sent flowers, but that's nothing for Scotty. I get flowers every time I'm taken hostage. Not that they mean anything. It's his secretary that sends them because he's too busy to call the florist. And she doesn't even get my name right!"

"You're kidding!"

"No! They always come addressed to Anna. My name is not Anna, it's Annie! And after a dozen dozen roses and complaining every single time, you'd think she'd care enough to get it right."

"No, it's not her. He needs to be the one to care."

"I guess," said Annie. "But anytime I start thinking how hard life is on me, I think about what he goes through in a day. Busting minor thugs and the occasional city-wide menace like you. Am I being selfish?"

"Not at all," said Psycho. "See this is the thing that always got me about my friends. They dated the jocks and these smart guys who were going to make a ton of money, but the guys never appreciated them like I did. Neglect was the price they paid to date the popular guy. And I had to wonder why, why do you take that?"

"Because we're stupid!" said Annie. "We don't want to be controlling, we don't want to be selfish, and we just assume this is how it's supposed to be."

Annie looked up at Psycho, a silent moment drawing them closer than either of them ever could have imagined possible. He smiled that winning smile at her, and she returned one of her own. "And you said my smile was great," he said. "That's an award winner."

He made her blush a little, in a way Scotty had utterly failed to do since day one. "What's your name?"

He smirked at her question. "You don't believe Psycho's my real name?"

"You're probably not even a real doctor," she said.

"Hey, I spent five years in evil grad school for that title!"

"All right, I'll guess. Steven? Michael? No, you look like a Brad."

"Alan," he said. "Alan Pepper."

She burst into laughter again. "You mean the great Dr. Psycho is really Dr. Pepper?"

He laughed with her. "I guess I set myself up on that one."

"What's your middle name?" she asked. "Come on, you won't be around long enough to regret sharing."

"You tell me yours," he insisted.

"Elaine," she said.

"William," he said back.

"Alan William Pepper," she said, savoring the way the consonants and vowels danced off her tongue. "I like it."

"Oh don't patronize me!" He said. "It's comments like that that made me go evil in the first place, remember?"

"Don't lump me in with those insensitive girls you used to hang with. I know a good thing when I see it."

"Yeah? So why are you with Scotty?"

"Touché," she said. "But, without Scotty, maybe I never would have learned to appreciate the good thing."

"Maybe," he said.

"Maybe, she echoed.

"So are you always this charming with your captors?" Alan asked.

"Nah, most of them are too wrapped up in their characters to be human."

"So that makes me special," he quipped.

"More than you know." It was another comment she questioned herself for asking, but again, not too hard. What a shame, he truly was a sweet guy. In another time and place, things could have been different. Good different. Really good different. But he was too sweet, too good at heart to be any kind of a threat to her boyfriend, the War Eagle. The unfairness of it all was overwhelming. Her boyfriend was going to kill the only decent man she'd ever met.

Unless...

"Penny for your thoughts," he said, that smile giving rise to butterflies in her stomach like she had not felt in years. She shook off the butterflies. Think, strategize... Great. A moment she most needs to be creative and crafty, her thought process sounds like a William Shatner monologue.

WHAM!!!

Something loud and powerful on the other side of the diamond-plated door. No doubt it was War Eagle, Annie's dear Scotty, springing the trap he would soon crack. Annie heard the great whoosh of huge water pipes emptying into the death chamber. Soon the sharks would be released, helpless minnows in the clutches of War Eagle. The poor sharks. Poor Alan.

Poor Alan? Yeah, poor Alan. She meant it. She watched him frantically strap his mask back in place, becoming the ill-fated Dr. Psycho again. "He's in the tank. I must open the sewer pipe, prepare to launch the torpedo!"

"Too late," she said. She nodded her head to a spot on the wall twenty feet away. It was glowing red, and starting to hum. "He's melting through the wall."

"He can do that?"

"I told you, he's powerful!" Annie's mind raced, trying to come up with a plan to save this beautiful stranger. "You have to get out of here!"

"No!" he shouted, running to the control box on the wall. He flipped one switch, opening the sewer pipe hatch, then he cranked the winch slightly, adjusting the torpedo and aiming it straight into the pipe.

"There's no time!" Annie shouted desperately. "Let it go, fight another day!"

"I'm sorry," said Psycho. "I've come too far, worked too hard. And if he thinks I'm going down without a fight--"

"You can't fight him!" she shouted over the roar of the wall collapsing. Salt water gushed into the room, drenching Annie to the waist and knocking Dr. Psycho off his feet. It was a pink-clad leg that first emerged from the new hole, as War Eagle stepped into the room, half a shark in his powerful right hand.

"The game's over, Psycho! You're all washed up."

Dr. Psycho defiantly stood to his feet, aiming a hand-held ray gun at War Eagle and firing wildly as he ran. "You'll never take me alive!"

The laser beams bounced off War Eagle's chest as he moved closer. He reached Annie in a matter of seconds and loosed her chains with one burst from his laser eyes. "Sorry 'bout this, Annie."

"Did he get away?" she asked, rising to her feet and shaking the chains off.

"Do they ever?" He moved on, scanning the room with x-ray vision unparalleled in the ranks of super heroes. His back was to Annie, and she ran quickly across the room.

"A ha!" War Eagle exclaimed. He let loose a terrific blast from his eyes, incinerating a large computer console and revealing a cowering, frightened purple and black villain. Dr. Psycho drew his ray gun, only to have that incinerated by the same ray gun eyes.

Annie knew it was now or never.

"Dr. Psycho," said War Eagle. "You're fired."

Annie hit the release button on the winch, and the doomsday torpedo fell directly on top of the mighty War Eagle.

* * * * * * * * *

It was the next afternoon before Annie had a chance to talk with her boyfriend. Earlier in the day, two deliveries arrived at her apartment. She got a dozen roses addressed to Anna. She got another dozen addressed to Annie. Sitting at her breakfast table sipping coffee, Scotty was too wrapped up re-living the tale of the one that got away to notice the extra dozen.

"How's the head?" she asked.

"It's fine," he said. "I mean, I'm a little rattled, but who wouldn't be having a torpedo dropped on their head?"

"Most people would be dead," she said.

"Not me, baby. Not me. Still it chafes me that someone so clueless is saved by his own ineptitude."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that chain, holding that torpedo in place. Clearly it wasn't strong enough to hold that torpedo. Super-villain buys the wrong equipment for the job, and in one lucky moment, it saves him."

"Yeah," Annie said. "Funny how that happens."

"Oh well," he said. "My girlfriend is safe. The city water supply uncontaminated. I saved the day." He laughed, enjoying his own greatness. "Still a good day, right?"

Annie could not contain the smile. "Yes."

Scotty sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then said, "These super-villains never learn their lesson. Dr. Psycho will strike again, and when he does, I'll be waiting."

"Yeah," said Annie. "Me too."
THANKS

The story of Zorana has been through many changes over the years. The story was It was originally conceived as a video or audio series but evolved into a novella with dual narration. The book and the main character were first known by the name Demonica, but the title was changed prior to this edition's release to avoid confusion with another book series. There were twelve chapters in the first edition, six written by Monica and six by War Eagle, but the story has grown and expanded over the years.

Thanks to the actresses and models who have taken on the role of Zorana in photos and video: Kayla Perkins, Leslie Rogers, and Shannon Hunt.

Thank you to Cristy Elaine, the award-winning photographer who crafted the original book cover featuring Leslie.

Thank you as well to Austin Nichols, who has probably read this story more times than I have and offered his two cents at every turn. He did a great job not only finding typos but finding sentences and plot points that needed clarification and out and out contradictions within the story. When you rewrite a tale as many times as this one has been rewritten, you miss things, and Austin's been invaluable keeping the continuity as together as it could be.
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Shell Games
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Cosper is an award-winning script writer and an avid fan of science fiction and comic books. Other works include Cave World, Space Monster, Martian Queen, Space Kat, The Shell Collector, Robot/Girlfriend, and Shell Game. He lives in Southern Indiana with his wife and two children.

www.johncosper.com
