The suit itches. It always itches. Cheap polyester blend trying its best to look like wool but failing in all the ways that matter. I tug at my collar, already feeling sweat pool at the back of my neck despite the cool September air.

  Bella Notte sits on a quiet corner in Staten Island, far enough from the tourist traps to stay under the radar but nice enough that it doesn't raise eyebrows when suits like me show up. The building's red brick exterior looks just run-down enough to seem authentic without actually being decrepit. Strategic.

  I nod at the hostess as I enter. "Reservation for Matthews."

  She smiles, all teeth and no eyes. "Of course, Mr. Matthews. The rest of your party has not arrived yet. Would you like to wait at the bar?"

  "No," I say. "I'll go to the room."

  Her smile tightens just a bit. "I'll need today's confirmation phrase, sir."

  I lean in slightly. "The eagle flies at midnight."

  God, I hate this spy movie bullshit, but Mr. A insists on rotating confirmation phrases. Says it keeps everyone sharp. What it actually does is make me feel like a complete jackass every two weeks.

  "Right this way, sir," she says, grabbing a menu and leading me through the main dining room.

  Bella Notte is empty except for two couples near the windows pretending to be on dates. Kingdom security, I'd bet my left nut. They're too alert, eyes scanning everything, barely touching their food. Waste of good pasta.

  The hostess leads me up a narrow staircase to the second floor, then down a hallway to a heavy wooden door at the end. She knocks twice, pauses, then three times more.

  "Your room, sir. The server will be up shortly for drink orders."

  I step inside and immediately loosen my tie. The private dining room is all dark wood and red tablecloths, with a long table set for twelve. A large screen sits on one wall, currently dark. Heavy curtains block the windows, and I can hear the faint hum of signal jammers working overtime.

  I'm always early to these things. Part habit from my fighting days, part strategy. You learn a lot watching people walk into a room. Who scans for exits, who checks under the table, who's carrying. Information is leverage, and I never have enough of either.

  I'm the muscle in this operation, same as always. The guy they bring in when things need smashing. Sometimes that's store windows, sometimes it's kneecaps. Occasionally it's entire houses. Nine years since my powers kicked in, and all I've managed to do with them is become a fancy wrecking ball - but it's a good gig.

  The door opens, and Evan Williams slinks in - Mr. Mudslide when we're on the job. Five years younger than me, skinny guy with nervous energy. Brown paper bag mask tucked into his jacket pocket, visible just enough that I can make out the eye holes ripped into it. Ridiculous getup, but I guess we all have our thing. I turn into a dinosaur. I can't complain.

  "Blake," he nods, tugging at his own cheap suit. His is beige, somehow making him look like he's attending a Florida retirement seminar rather than a criminal planning meeting.

  "Evan," I return the nod. "Drink?"

  "Nah, not tonight." He glances at the empty screen on the wall. "This job is different, man. You feel it?"

  I grunt noncommittally. I've learned to keep my mouth shut until I know which way the wind's blowing.

  "I mean," he continues, fidgeting with a napkin, "Daedalus?"

  "You worried?" I ask, watching him closely.

  He laughs, a sharp, anxious sound. "Worried? About breaking into Fort Knox? Nah, why would I be worried?"

  Before I can respond, a glass on the table shifts slightly. Then a chair pulls out - seemingly on its own - and Mrs. Quiet sits down. I didn't even hear the door open.

  "Jesus!" Evan startles. "Make some noise, would ya?"

  She smiles, dark hair framing her pale face. "That would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?" Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it carries across the room. She brushes her skunk stripe out of her eyes.

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  "How long were you standing there?" I ask.

  "Long enough," she says, and doesn't elaborate. Typical.

  The door bangs open, and in bounces Mrs. Jellyjam - carrying an overfull tote bag that wobbles with each step. Her curly hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she's wearing a bright yellow dress under a more somber blazer, like she couldn't quite commit to the occasion. Come on, man.

  "Gang's all here! Well, starting to be. Who's excited for impossible mission time?" She grins, dropping her bag on the floor. "Anyone need snacks? I brought some saltwater taf--"

  "No food until after the briefing," comes a deep voice from the doorway.

  Mr. Nothing stands there, tall and imposing in an immaculate charcoal suit that makes mine look like something from a thrift store bin. Unlike the rest of us playing dress-up, he actually looks like he belongs in expensive restaurants.

  "Nothing," I nod to him. Now that people are showing up, I gotta start using the code-names. "Didn't know you were on this one."

  He doesn't respond to the greeting, just walks to the far end of the table and sits down, perfectly erect posture, hands folded in front of him. His dark eyes scan the room once, cataloging everything, then settle into a thousand-yard stare at the blank wall.

  "Well, he's fun as always," Jellyjam mutters to me as she takes a seat.

  The next arrival is Mrs. Synapse carrying a sleek metal briefcase that she places carefully on the table. She's dressed more practically than the rest of us, in dark slacks and a tailored blazer that looks like it might actually have hidden pockets for whatever tools of her trade she carries.

  "Blake," she nods to me. "How's the shoulder?"

  "Fine," I reply automatically. Last job went sideways when some rent-a-cop got lucky with a taser. She'd fixed me up after, doing something to my nerve endings that took the pain away but left a weird tingling for days.

  "I brought extra supplies," she taps the case. "Something tells me we'll need them."

  The door opens again, and the largest man I've ever known has to turn sideways to fit through it. Mr. Retribution nods solemnly to each of us in turn, taking extra time to bow slightly to Synapse before settling into a reinforced chair that still seems too small for his frame. Yeah, he knows where to sit. Good boy.

  "Brothers. Sisters," he says, his voice a calm rumble. "It has been too long."

  Retribution is the only one among us who treats this like some kind of honorable calling rather than what it is - criminals doing crimes for money. But his particular brand of zen keeps him steady in chaos, so nobody gives him shit about it. That, and the fact that he could crush your skull between his hands if he wanted to.

  Before anyone can respond, Mr. ESP saunters in wearing mirrored sunglasses despite it being night. Red, today. Every time I see him it's a new fucking color.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he announces to the room, "today's power du jour is danger sense. I can feel threats approximately thirty seconds before they manifest. So if I suddenly dive under the table, I suggest you all do the same."

  "That's... comforting," Mudslide mutters.

  He adjusts his sunglasses and smirks. "Just keeping everyone informed."

  "You filming this, C?" Synapse asks, looking past my shoulder.

  Mr. Camcorder shakes his head, grinning. Light glints off his bald dome. "I'm not a camcorder-themed human being, buddy. Not everything in my life revolves around video cameras."

  "Just spy movies," I cough.

  "Right, Matthew," He jabs back. "Or are we going formal today? T-Rex?"

  "Call me that again and I'll show you exactly how formal I can get," I say, not entirely joking. The name grates on me, always has. Sounds like a kid's cartoon character, not something to be feared. Tyrannosaur, that's a good name. T-Rex? Child shit.

  The door opens again, and conversation dies as Mrs. Xenograft enters, carrying a pet carrier that emits a sound I can't quite place. Not quite a growl, not quite a chirp. She sets it carefully on the floor beside her chair. Scylla obediently trods along from about ten feet back, keeping watch like any good paranoid criminal would. Has she gotten bigger? She's at least up to Lena's hips now.

  "What's in the box, Doc?" Quiet asks, peering over.

  "Insurance," Lena replies, not looking up from the carrier.

  No one asks for clarification.

  The energy in the room shifts as the door opens once more. Maya - Mrs. Zenith to the group, Boss to those of us from Philly, Councilwoman Richardson to the rest of Philadelphia - walks in with the controlled poise of someone used to being watched. Her suit is easily ten times more expensive than mine, dark blue and perfectly tailored. Hair pulled back, minimal jewelry, nothing to distract from the aura of authority she projects. Her hair is a little shorter than normal. Did she get the fro trimmed?

  But I've known Maya long enough to see the tension in her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes. She's scared. And Maya Richardson doesn't scare easily.

  "Mr. Tyrannosaur," she nods to me, then to each person in turn. "I see most of us have arrived."

  "Just waiting on the big man," Marcus says, gesturing to the screen.

  Maya checks her watch. "He'll be calling in exactly one minute. Everyone take your seats."

  We arrange ourselves around the table, an unconscious hierarchy falling into place. Maya at the head, closest to the screen. The branch leaders nearest to her. The rest of us filling in the remaining spots based on seniority or function. I end up halfway down, between Quiet and Synapse, with a clear view of both Maya and the screen.

  The staff - Kingdom employees who know enough to be useful but not enough to be dangerous - bring in drinks. Whiskey for me, wine for Maya, various preferences for the others. Retribution gets a virgin pi?a colada the size of my head, complete with a little umbrella. No one comments.

  At precisely 8:00 PM, the screen flickers to life. Mr. Antithesis appears, sitting behind his immaculate desk in his immaculate suit in his immaculate office. Even through the screen, his presence fills the room, commanding attention without raising his voice.

  "Good evening," he says, hands clasped in front of him. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice. As you may have surmised, this is not our standard operation."