Chapter Fourteen
Smithy teleported all six of us into a small hardware store on the second floor of the mall.
He did that thing again, where, after he had teleported, he clutched at his chest, leaned against a wall, gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, as if he were in pain. I thought about saying something but he straightened up after a moment and pretended it had never happened.
Luke grabbed two packs of rolled up rope and, before exiting the store, placed the money for the rope on the counter.
"We're the good guys," he explained. "We don't steal."
Then the boys set out to do their respective roles in saving the day while Robyn and I had to hang back, "out of harm's way."
The second floor of the mall was completely deserted. It was like a ghost town. All the little and big stores alike had their bright lights on with their displays sitting, readily, outside their open doors but there were no sales personal, no cashiers, no restocking staff and especially no customers.
Robyn and I wandered over to the escalators. They were still running, but no one was riding them, impatiently waiting to reach the bottom or top; no busy executives in a hurry, walking up/down the escalators, rushing to get to their destination; and no little kids trying to run up the going down escalator.
The area around the escalators was rather big, and we could easily peer beneath us at the situation on the second floor.
And... it helps when you've got a superpower like stretch.
My hands firmly gripping the cold, ceramic railing, I bent over the railing and stretched the length of my upper body to see underneath.
"How do you get your clothes to stretch with you?" Robyn asked.
"I dunno," I replied, sounding a bit strangled.
The blood rushing to my head, I surveyed the scene beneath me.
It was the food court. But this food court didn't sport the standard scene of bustling people, scanning the packed court for a table; queuing to buy tacos, milkshakes or burgers; trying to figure out if they want special sauce or not; and some rowdy teenage boy trying to be funny by sticking straws up his nostrils.
Instead, men, women and children of all sizes, colours and ages were sitting on the floor, some hugging their knees to their chests, while three intimidating black-clad figures stood guard over them, guns held at the ready.
I estimated there were at least six hundred people altogether.
The tables and chairs had been thrown around, carelessly, and the hostages were rounded up in the middle of the cavernous room like cattle.
The little kids were crying, the teenagers were trying to be brave, the mothers were holding their children close to them for protection, the businessmen were checking their watches impatiently and one guy in a suit (he looked like a lawyer) was arguing with one of the gunmen standing guard over the vast group.
As I watched on, Smithy teleported into the middle of the crowd of people, crouching, with Ned by his side.
Teleporting is a quiet power. You don't hear a thing. You have no warning that someone is about to appear, except for a faint wisp of blue mist.
Smithy teleported right in front of a girl about our age. Her eyes widened and she was about to scream, but Smithy held a skinny finger up to his lips to indicate silence was needed. She closed her mouth and nodded, understandingly.
Ned crawled on his hands and knees through the crowds, whispering a "sorry" or "excuse me" to anyone he bumped.
A gunman saw Ned crawling towards him and aimed his gun, just in case this cocky kid was intent on causing complications.
Ned stood up and wiped his hands on his jeans.
Intrigued, I stretched a little closer to hear the conversation.
Ned stepped up to the gunman. He looked him right in the eye as if challenging him, put his head down and then proceeded to step around the armed man.
Knowing now for sure that his kid meant trouble, the gunman spun around with his gun at the ready.
The audience gasped when they heard the safety catch click. They were concerned for this kid but there was no trace of concern on Ned's face: only a wicked grin.
"What do you want?" the gunman asked Ned in a deep voice.
"I was gonna find a mop. Or maybe you could mop the floor. It's seriously dirty there!" Ned spoke with such conviction, actors everywhere would've killed to get lessons from him. But Ned's determination and ease was not taught: it was the trademark confidence that comes with a power like invincibility.
"What? Really? That's what you're worried about, kid?" The gunman, realizing Ned was nothing more than an annoyance, dropped his hands for a moment and shook his head. "You're nuts. Get back in there and keep quiet."
Ned stood his ground. "Not until you mop this place," he demanded.
The gunman grabbed Ned, roughly, by the collar, turned him around and gave him a mean shove. Ned fell flat on his back.
The gunman laughed, sadistically. "Why do you wear the mask? You're not much of a superhero, you know."
A corner of Ned's mouth lifted, mischievously. "Oh, I'm not?"
The gunman thought it was funny... for now....
Ned bounced back to his feet and ran for the exit, sprinting like an Olympian.
"Huh? What?" the gunman was stunned. Why was this kid so insistent?
He soon recovered, raised his gun and shot without further thought.
The loud bang echoed through the entire mall.
The crowd of hostages gasped and turned away, unable to watch the horrific sight.
But the bullet just ricocheted off Ned's back like a trampoline.
The gunman's eyes grew wide and he stared at his gun, as if it were broken. He gave it a shake, like he was getting water out, and aimed again.
Ned turned around, another wicked grin on his face.
The gunman pulled the trigger but, once again, the bullet just bounced off Ned's chest, leaving the annoying kid without even a scratch.
The gunman, realizing his gun was not working out, dropped the usually deadly weapon and ran at Ned.
He tried to tackle Ned to the ground but Ned was practically glued to the floor. He stood upright and it seemed as if nothing, not even a fierce hurricane, could knock him over.
The other gunmen left their posts and ran over to help their fellow criminal in bringing this maddening kid to his knees.
But, try as they might, they didn't succeed. Ned was impossible to tackle.
They, too, tried shooting him but their bullets were as affective as their friend's had been. They didn't even make him flinch.