Free Super by Ernie Lindsey Page B

public with his decision to abandon the American way of life.
    He told me that Patriotman uncovered the plan and had done such an excellent job of convincing his would-be murderer that his decisions were for the greater good, he’d turned that person against the United States.
    Within a month, Patriotman was going to renounce his citizenship, publicly pledge faith to the red flag of doom, and this mystery person in my group would turn the White House, and President Palmer, into a fine mist and leave only a hole in the ground.
    Of course, I questioned it as I sat there with him. Of course, it was fantastically unbelievable that the man who is universally beloved, who has come to embody every sense of nationalistic pride, would turn his back on the people he’d sworn to defend.
    Silver told me they had no idea who the member of SASS was that had been recruited, only that they had narrowed it down to one of the twelve.
    As I rush away from Phil’s house, it occurs to me that I might have a pretty good idea of who Silver might be trying to blame, and that Phil likely isn’t going to find a connection to any other member of SASS.
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    I land at Dulles International in northern Virginia.
    It’s late, and I’m tired, but I don’t care if it’s two o’clock in the morning or not, I’m going after them one by one.
    Who? Eric Landers, Joe Gaylord, and Conner Carson, the heads of the NSA, the CIA, and the FBI; one of them has to know something. They didn’t just hand me over to the DPS without reason. They would never do it on their own. At least, I don’t think they would. We’re more than colleagues. We’re friends.
    Friends by proxy, I suppose, because they’ve asked me to do lots of inglorious shit to some of the world’s most adored superheroes, and I’ve kept their secrets because that’s what I get paid to do, but damn, they wouldn’t do what I suspect them of contributing to…would they?
    I climb into the rental car and flop down on the soft leather seats. It’s got that new-car smell, but the last person that was in here left behind a hint of perfume that reminds me of Shelby. She was the first woman I dared to reveal my job requirements to, and once wasn’t enough to learn my lesson.
    Man, I’m exhausted. I had spent most of the day back in Portland, driving in circles, thinking and coming up with no decent leads or solutions. Phil called twice and got nowhere either. I let him in on my theory, and he agreed that it was certainly plausible, which is why I’m here in northern Virginia instead of at home, sleeping in my own bed.
    I’ve been paranoid all day that I’m under surveillance, and there’s even a little part of me that’s scared to turn the key in the ignition.
    You know what? Better safe than sorry.
    I realize I must look like a fool, but now that I’m down here underneath the car, checking for flashing red blips or any wires that might lead to a bomb, I feel better. That minor surge of adrenaline gives me another boost. It’s just after eleven back home, and my body hasn’t adjusted yet.
    And, given the circumstances, if I’m awake, Eric, Joe, and Conner might as well be too, right?
    I leave the airport parking lot, heading for a super rich area of Alexandria where I know Eric Landers, head of the NSA, lives in a three-story home so large that it could house the entire population of New Guinea.
    D.C. is dead this time of night, and I love it when it’s like this. I spent about two years here, and if it hadn’t been for the pure insanity of the go-go-go world everyone here inhabits, I might’ve stuck around.
    It’s foggy, too, adding a certain gloomy touch to the quiet city and surrounding suburbs. Stoplights cast green, yellow, and red halos as they cycle through their routines, and it strikes me how odd it is that we’re conditioned to obey these things, even in the dead of night, when barely anyone is awake. This is D.C., though, and there’s enough traffic on the roads to keep