Chapter 179 Surprise.

Chapter 179: 179 Surprise.

We stepped through the heavy security doors, and I took a long look around the showroom floor.

Damn. The place was absolutely massive, effectively a subterranean Costco completely stuffed with exactly the sort of hardware the Geneva Conventions were specifically written to prohibit.

In one corner, I spotted a gigantic bipedal combat mech with its pilot’s cockpit split open for inspection.

In another, I saw a pallet of heavy, lead-lined barrels that I desperately hoped weren’t actually holding the radioactive isotopes their bio-hazard stickers were advertising.

Dozens of booths filled the open floor, manned by dealers hawking wares of deadly purpose. Gunmetal gray was the undisputed color palette of the day, with almost everything possessing that unpainted, off-the-assembly-line blandness that screamed military-grade machinery.

The low drone of hushed conversation rose and fell across the warehouse. Men in sharp, dark suits who looked like they paid for their groceries with shrink-wrapped pallets of unsequenced bills moved slowly from booth to booth.

There were a few obvious, theatrical villains in the crowd—because anyone who unironically wears a high-collared cape and gold epaulets in public is either out to conquer the tri-state area or just robbed the local theater company—but there was an underlying grim professionalism to the market that I actually found reassuring.

"Oh, shit! Discount freeze rays!" Rhea gasped, her eyes going wide.

Before I could stop her, she was already pulling me toward a folding table run by a sketchy-looking guy in a heavy arctic parka with literal icicles forming on his hooked nose.

"Rhea, we are strictly here for a car," I reminded her, even as my magnetic fields passively dragged me along behind her. "Besides, can’t you just build your own freeze ray in the basement?"

"Well, yeah, obviously. But look at this vintage casing!" Rhea cried, reverently picking up one of the displayed weapons and stroking the brushed steel surface.

I took a closer look at it, and I had to admit, it was a damn fine freeze ray. It had a perfectly smooth, retro-futuristic casing that resembled those classic sci-fi rayguns from the nineteen-fifties, complete with a spiraling glass muzzle. The pristine blue-and-white enamel paint job was a really nice aesthetic touch.

"It is very nice," I agreed patiently. "But remember? Car?"

"Pff. We can totally still get that," Rhea said dismissively. Then, she gasped, pointing a finger wildly across the floor. "Sweet zombie Jesus! Is that a genuine Modular Raytheon Kill-Bot!?"

I sighed heavily. "Rhea."

"No, Miles, you don’t understand! Those puppies were the absolute zenith of the market! Prime British engineering! And they came stock with external sub-woofers! You could blast kickass punk rock while actively beating the crap out of your enemies with a pneumatic hammer-fist! They federally outlawed them after the third Anglo-Atlantean skirmish!"

"Looks like the actual cars are that way, boss," Psyren chimed in, pointing a black-nailed finger toward the far side of the warehouse floor.

Finally.

"Come on, Rhea," I said, grabbing her by the shoulders of her lab coat and physically turning her away from the tools of mass destruction.

"Awww," she whined, her wolf ears drooping sadly, but she allowed me to guide her away from the booth.

A massive, cleared-out corner of the warehouse had been entirely given over to the dealers of various high-end villainous vehicles, and I had to admit, the selection was impressive.

There was a lot of mad-science automotive surplus parked around here. I scrutinized the lots carefully as we navigated through the aisles.

"Look! A Doom Dirigible! That’d be absolutely perfect for you, Miles," Rhea suggested, instantly distracted again.

"How?" I asked, eyeing the massive, armored airship tethered to the ceiling girders. "I can already fly."

"Yeah, but come on. Nothing says ’fear me and despair’ quite like a pointlessly massive bag of highly flammable gas with your syndicate logo painted on the side. It works for Goodyear."

"I can’t exactly take an armored Zeppelin through a McDonald’s drive-thru, Rhea."

"That sounds like quitter talk to me," she huffed. "Besides, I could easily load it up with a shitload of incendiary bombs you could drop! Kirov reporting, baby! Who could possibly turn down a giant airship of doom?"

"Me," I said flatly. "Because I just need a car. Not a mobile command center."

"Well, I think they have doom-wheels over there," Rhea said, nodding toward a line of heavily armored mono-cycles. "Vintage models, too! Great structural design. Just one big-ass armored wheel with a bunch of heavy machine guns strapped to the sides. Fantastic stuff! No wonder the Nazis used them so much in the war."

"I’d really rather not commute using eighty-year-old Nazi tech," I said.

"Is that why we’re not shopping for a Volkswagen?" Psyren quipped. "Hey! Boss, what about this one?"

The psychic’s voice called my attention to a particular vehicle sitting on a raised display platform near the back corner.

It was sleek, matte-black, and built to seat five. It wasn’t quite as long as a limo, but it had a viciously aggressive, aerodynamic design to it, with shining, reinforced wheel hubs and a predatory curve to the front grille. It looked like a European vanity supercar had successfully mated with a stealth bomber.

It was definitely eye-catching. Sporty, but undeniably intimidating.

"Not bad," I had to admit, looking over the seamless armor plating.

"And just look at the hood," Psyren said.

She hopped up and set her firm ass down directly on the polished hood of the car, leaning back on her hands and shooting me a wicked, flirty smirk. She crossed her ripped fishnet legs, perfectly framing herself against the sleek machinery.

"Primo stuff right here, boss. Just think of it. Cruising around the Metropolis skyline with your favorite girls in the back."

"An excellent choice."

I turned around sharply, my magnetic fields instantly flaring at the sound of the deep, echoing voice.

A highly familiar figure was standing just a few feet away, his hands clasped casually behind his back. He was dressed in an immaculate, pinstriped black suit that absolutely had to be custom-tailored, because no off-the-rack suit would ever fit the literal mountain of a man standing before me.

Arman Glint smiled, and when he did, the ambient glare almost blinded me.

His entire body was composed of solid, flawless diamond. The smoky, translucent stone heavily distorted the overhead lights, and if it wasn’t so gloomy in the subterranean basement, I sincerely doubted I’d even be able to look directly at him.

"The Armenian," I said, keeping my tone perfectly level and my posture relaxed. "What a pleasant surprise."