METEOR MAN 2.0
Detective Michael Anderson dragged his fingers through curly black hair as he stepped out of his unmarked sedan.
As usual when on assignment, he wore dark brown slacks and a freshly pressed white shirt. Reaching back into the car, he snagged the matching jacket and shrugged into it.
Five steps carried the veteran policeman within arm length of a uniformed office at least ten years Anderson's junior.
"Officer," Anderson started. The young man snapped to attention and lowered the pad he had been scribbling notes on to his side.
"Thomas, sir," the officer finished. Anderson gave his colleague a quick assessment. In contrast to the deep creases on Anderson's forehead, Thomas had the youthful appearance of a high school senior that had yet to be aged by the demands of their profession as Anderson had.
The clean cut man was lean, with sharp features and would not be out of place in a room full of underwear models.
"This him?" inquired Anderson with a subtle tilt of his head.
"Affirmative," the junior officer replied. "Says his name is Jimmy Lane." Anderson nodded and approached the man.
Still seated on the curb, Jimmy Lane looked up and caught Anderson's gaze. "Detective Anderson?"
"At your service. I've been told you have a statement to make."
"The flying man told me confession was good for the soul, so I want to turn myself in."
Fifteen minutes later on the traffic choked streets of downtown Atlanta, the four occupants of a black SUV tried to distract their collective attention from their surroundings.
Kyle Jordan was a beefy man, the sort of guy that was not embarrassed to take off his shirt after a hard day's work, but would never grace the cover of a muscle magazine. His black hair was thick and naturally curly and at his girlfriend's insistence, he often allowed a bang to hang just above his eye.
She liked it and he would do anything for her; which was why he had been sitting in traffic day dreaming about cartoon characters he would draw once he got home from tonight's high paying fare. He smiled as the theater of his mind depicted his protagonist dead panning a clichéd tough guy line while dressed as a clown.
Jordan's client for the evening, Brian Reid, was seated comfortably in the backseat.
Reid was the picture of financial power. Lean and fit from tri-weekly sessions of tennis and a personal chef, he had a sharp, angular profile with what seemed like a permanent five o'clock shadow that that many women found irresistible.
He was the Chief Financial Officer for a healthcare conglomerate headquartered in a fourteen story building in the heart of the city and flaunted the company's success at every opportunity. Tonight his black cotton linen blazer, pleated pants, and oxfords retailed at three thousand dollars and it was one of his less expensive ensembles.
To Reid's right sat Sonia Sadler. The thirty-four year old woman was his personal assistant and kept all his affairs in order. If pressed, Reid would confess to being attracted to the woman. She had corn silk blonde hair that he realized he had never seen out of its neat ponytail. She was a slight woman, and more than one man had joked about her being carried off by a strong wind.
Her green eyes were her best feature by far in his mind. Reid had nearly drowned in those eyes before and tonight he swore he had glimpsed jealousy glide over the emerald pools when he revealed his plans to treat the aspiring singer at his left to dinner.
Sonia ignored him and occupied her time talking in hushed tones on her cell phone.
The painfully skinny singer, Jasmine Young prattled about some insignificant teenage drama then quickly steered the mostly one-sided discussion towards which celebrities they might encounter at the restaurant.
"For you," Sonia said, holding out a second cell phone he had not noticed. She had painted her nails a salmon color, which he had always found a pleasant shade.
He grabbed the phone and listened a few moments.
"Can it be traced back to me?"
Blue LED light shined on Casey Kent's face. An instant later, he was awake, clutching his head as if someone had detonated a bomb inside his head. The sudden, violent movement of his awakening also disrupted the slumber of his companion Delicia Barber.
Delicia was a delicious shade of dark caramel, and he constantly threatened to nibble on her.
She moaned; her body innately aware that it would not achieve a sleep as deep as the one that had abruptly ended until after work.
Her hand groped his thigh and Casey quickly placed a hand on top of it as his other fumbled blindly for the device. Drawn by the warmth of his body, Delicia scooted towards him and rested her head in his lap.
He held the pager over his head and sighed at the number shining insistently at him.
Gently, he lifted her head from his lap and swung his legs off the side of the bed.
"Where ya going?" she asked groggily, a roaming hand again groping for some part of his body and finding nothing. Casey was on the floor kneeling and reached back to grab her hand.
"Duty calls." He kissed the knuckle of her index finger.
"Couldn't someone else go?"
"They need the best," he replied. A smile tugged at his lips at the sound of her adorable sleepy voice and gave her hand a quick squeeze. "I'll pick you up from work later."
An hour later, Detective Anderson stood outside of his best friend's apartment rehearsing how he was going to ask the man a very odd question. By the time the other man answered the door, Anderson dropped all pretenses and went with the direct approach.
"Did you get your superpowers back?"
"Good evening to you too Mike. Come in."
Jefferson Reed stepped aside and let his friend of over twenty years enter his home.
"What's going on Mike?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out. An hour ago, I got a guy to confess all sorts of things because a flying man told him to. In twenty years, I've only known a couple of people that could pull that off. So, Jeff, did you get your powers back?" stood
"Not saying it wouldn't be fun for a bit, but no, I'm not your guy. Besides, I hated flying, remember."
"If I recall correctly, you were scared of heights."
"Semantics. You weren't exactly lining up to do again after that time at the mall. Whatever happened to that reporter you were trying to impress?"
"She got married to some billionaire, divorced him and split his bucks."
"Good thing that never went anywhere. So, DC's has a new flying man. Interesting timing."
"What do you mean?"
"In two days, it's Community Garden Fest."
"Dang, already? Can't believe I almost forgot."
"Twenty years ago. Where does the time go?"
"I know. We were just a couple of kids, back then."
"No, I was a kid; you two were grown ass men."
Both men turned in the direction of Aisha Reed's voice. The stunning thirty year old stood in the doorway that separated living from kitchen holding two large glasses of lemonade.
"Aisha, you know I want you so bad…"
"Remind me to tell Grace you said that."
"How ya doing kiddo?" Mike stood up and hugged the younger woman tightly after she handed the glasses to Jefferson.
"I was doing just fine until you came bustin' in my house like the police. What did my husband do?"
"How do you know this is about him?"
"Please, I'm a good girl. I've heard the stories about you two."
"All in the past, I assure you love of my life. Mike's just here to accuse me of vigilantism. Don't you just hate profiling?"
"2013 and I still have a hard time hailing a cab." Aisha fell into Jefferson's lap then took his glass from him.
"Jeff, you know I have to cover my bases. Even if you were moonlighting as a suntan superman, it's not like I'd bust my own friend. I just wanted to check. Those were some crazy times, potna."
"Yeah, they were. But the past is the past."
Across town, Darlene Smith painfully dragged her body along the small area of carpeting outside of her apartment that had yet to burst into flames. If her leg was not broken, it may as well have been for all the usefulness it offered.
Tears streamed down her face as smoke stung her eyes and the possibility of her death was becoming more inevitable.
A violent cough shook Darlene's entire body and halted her progress. The sharp pain of her leg injury grew even less tolerable and she just wanted it to stop.
Through blurred vision, she glimpsed what she imagined to be a pair of boots approaching her. In the time it took her to blink again, she had been lifted from the ground by a pair of powerful arms.
"You'll be okay," a voice, obviously belonging to her rescuer, assured her. The next thing she felt was a weightless sensation, as if she were flying. A moment later she tried to pierce the veil of her blurred vision once more but could discern nothing.
The scream of a siren was the second most comforting sound she had heard that night.
Even as she tried to sit up, a pair of EMTs offered their assistance. One of them strapped an oxygen mask over her face and instructed her to breathe slowly. She coughed several times, expelling the smoke from her lungs. Darlene blinked back several tears and managed to see other EMTs attending to several other people she had not noticed.
From another rooftop, Jamaal Mitchell watched as the firemen combated what remained of the fire.
"Good old fashioned heroics," a voice behind him remarked. Jamaal turned to face the voice, bewilderment etched on his face.
"How…"
"Did I get the drop on you?" finished the slightly older man standing before him. His black hair was neatly trimmed and combed back. He wore black jeans, a hunter green sleeveless shirt and black boots.
"Yeah," Jamaal confessed, curiosity getting the better of him.
"It's a gift. So, judging by how shocked you are to see me floating her, I'm guessing you don't know what's going on right now?"
"I can honestly say, that I don't."
"Don't worry about it, that's why they pay me the big bucks." The man reached into his pocket and retrieved a card. "So this is how this works. You talk to the guy at this address, if you like what he has to say, fine. If not, you walk away. Either way, welcome to the club, Meteor Man."