The second set of weights crashed into the ground below.
She stopped with a shudder, her hand only a few inches shy of the pulley, her body swinging six stories in the air. Nova threw her bag onto the rooftop, then grabbed the ledge and hauled herself over. She dropped down into a crouch and riffled through the bag, pulling out the uniform she had designed with Queen Bee’s help. She slung the weaponry belt across her hips, where it hung comfortably, outfitted with specially crafted pockets and hooks for all of her favorite inventions. Next, the snug black hooded jacket: waterproof and flame-retardant, yet lightweight enough to keep from inhibiting her movements. She zipped it up to her neck and tugged the sleeves past her knuckles before pulling up the hood, where a couple of small weights stitched into the hem held it in place over her brow.
The mask came last. A hard metallic shell perfectly molded to the bridge of her nose that disappeared into the high collar of the jacket, disguising the lower half of her face.
Transformation complete, she stooped and pulled the rifle and a single poisoned dart from the bag.
“Where are you, Nightmare?” Phobia rasped.
“I’m here. Almost in position.” She approached the edge of the building and looked down on the celebration below. It was quieter up here—the noise of the crowd dulled beneath the whistle of the wind and the hum of rooftop generators. The street was a mess of confetti and color, balloons and costumes, laughter and music and cheers.
Nova loaded the dart into the gun’s chamber.
Ingrid had concocted the plan, and it was beautiful in its simplicity. When she’d told the group, Winston had griped about not being included, but Phobia had sagely pointed out that Winston, who most people knew as the Puppeteer, wasn’t capable of keeping anything simple.
So it was only the three of them on the field today. They didn’t need the others. Nova had one dart handcrafted by Leroy Flinn, their own poisons master. She only needed one. If she missed, she wouldn’t get a second chance.
But she wouldn’t miss.
She would kill the Captain.
Once he was hit, Ingrid, the Detonator, would emerge from hiding and hit the Council’s parade float with as many of her signature bombs—made from a fusion of gasses in the air—as she could launch. Phobia would focus on Thunderbird, as she usually took to the air during a battle, giving her a frustratingly unfair advantage. They’d heard that Thunderbird was deathly afraid of snakes, which was one of his specialties. They were banking on the rumors to be true. Worst-case scenario: Phobia startled her long enough for Nova or Ingrid to take her down. Best-case: He gave her a midflight heart attack.
And that was it. The Council—the five original Renegades—all eradicated at once.
But it started with Nova getting past Captain Chromium’s supposed invincibility.
“Say … Nightmare?”
“I’m here, Detonator. Relax.”
“Yeah, I can see you up there. But I’m pretty sure Phobia wanted you at the west station?”
Nova froze. She glanced at the rooftop behind her, then across the gap to the apartment building on the other side of the alleyway, where her second weighted rope sat waiting, unused. She squinted up into the midday sun and cursed.
Phobia drawled in her ear, “Tell me she didn’t get on the wrong building.”
“I was distracted,” she said through gritted teeth.
Phobia sighed heavily.
“She can’t hit the target from the west rooftop?” asked Detonator.
After a brief silence, Phobia said, “She might have a fair shot at Tsunami or Blacklight, but not Captain Chromium. The parade route will have them turning before she’s in alignment.” He hummed thoughtfully. “She can end one Council member, and we shall have to concern ourselves with the others at a later date.”
“Our priority was the Captain,” said Ingrid. “This entire mission was built around taking out the Captain.”
“One Renegade is better than none.”
“It still makes this mission a failure.”
Licking her lips, Nova looked across at the opposite rooftop, estimating the distance over the alley. “Everyone calm down. I can get to the other side. Phobia, how much time do I have?”
“Not enough.”
“How much?”
“Ten seconds before the float enters your prime target area, then perhaps forty-five to make the shot.”
Nova picked up the duffel bag and heaved it across the gap. It landed with a thud on the other rooftop.
Phobia’s voice crackled. “This seems inadvisable.”
“Let her try,” said Ingrid. “It will be her own fault if she falls.”
“I won’t fall,” Nova muttered. She slung the rifle onto her back and released a pair of gloves from a hoop on her belt. She shoved her hands into them and buckled the cuffs, securing them in place, then pressed her thumbs into the switches on her wrists. A jolt of electricity shot through the black fabric, forming pressurized suction cups on her fingertips and palms.
She reviewed the distance one more time. Paced back to the far edge of the building. Inhaled.
And ran.
Her boots thudded. Air whistled past her ears, knocking back her hood. She planted her right foot and leaped.
Her stomach hit the ledge of the brick wall on the other side of the alley. Pain jolted through her bones. She groaned and pressed her palms against the concrete to secure herself in place before she started to slip.
Ingrid whooped shrilly in her ear.
Phobia said nothing until Nova had hefted her body onto the east rooftop, and then merely, “Four seconds to visual.”