The Pirate Queen Enlists Help from the Mob to Save Her Superheroes

When I finally awoke, I was alone in Room 117. The lights were off except for the ones in the office and the Saltmine was silent except for a slight hum from the air filtration system and a low, continuous rattling of pipes and ductwork. The air smelled slightly coppery; though the blood had been shed in the hall, its metallic odor seemed to be everywhere.

I was still trussed up like a mummy ready for placement in a sarcophagus and I felt about that lively. My head ached, my hands and feet were numb from bondage and my hip hurt from lying on the horrible smelling indoor-outdoor carpeted concrete that the Saltmine considers the height of interior decorating.

I attempted to contact Seymour but it was useless, the only thing I received when calling his name in my head was a jolt of pain and a brief red flash. I lay completely still and considered my options…

After taking a few deep breaths, I tried to steel myself against the pain in my head and bent at the waist so I could pull on my pant leg. I knew that if I could only bend in the right way I could reach the knife I always keep in my boot. Thank Carlos the ninjas hadn't searched me or I probably would have died of dehydration long before anyone came back to the Saltmine and found me. After about 20 minutes of agony, during which time I came perilously close to passing out a few times, I freed myself. After When the bonds were cut I simply rolled over on my back and lay staring at the ceiling, praying for some sort of divine intervention… Or, failing that, divine inspiration.

Whichever deity happened to be in the celestial office that day failed to respond to my plea, no doubt writing me off as a completely lost cause… Probably a decent call, given my circumstances.

Eventually, when I could stand up without my head actually exploding all over Base camp in a red and grey shower of blood, bone and brain matter, I teetered over to the phone, cursing myself for my penchant for high heels. When I reached it, I knew that there was only one person I could call… I had never before been desperate enough to ask for his help but I knew he would answer. I could only hope that whatever strings were attached to his assistance would be worth the price of what he could offer me in return.

I called Vito Cantara.

I realize that I've never talked about him before, so here's some back story…

Once upon a time I was an innocent college girl. This was long before the days of attempted world domination, super powers, or even lightening quick grammarian reflexes. I was young and stupid and I ended up trying to help a friend who'd gotten herself into some trouble with a house full of angry, drunken fratboys. Well, the long and short of it was, I managed to hold my own against the louts only briefly before she and I were soundly beaten and left for dead on a back road in Swanzey, NH. Through some effort of will that I was unaware I possessed, I managed to carry my even more beaten and bruised friend to a small country store with a pay phone.

The next day I woke up in the hospital. My friend was in intensive care and I was only faring slightly better… But when I woke, after my parents left, a man came into the room. I had never seen him before and frankly, he scared the hell out of me. He was built like an oil tanker in an Armani suit. From my position on the gurney he looked to be 8 feet tall, with jet black hair graying at the temples, eyes so brown they were nearly black and a mustache that appeared to have been borrowed from Omar Sharif.

He didn't say anything to me for the first few days but whenever I woke up he was there, either at my bedside or lurking somewhere in the background. He got me ice water, he had me moved to a private room, he even got me food that wasn't the standard hospital goop they usually pawn off on peons like me. Every time I woke from my troubled sleep there were more flowers, candy and luxuries around me.

On the third day of my convalescence he told me who he was. It seems that my friend Amanda had a "dirty little secret" she'd never told anyone. Her mother had been a show girl in Atlantic City back in the 70's and had a brief fling with Vito Cantara, then a mid-level knee-breaker in Jersey. When she'd discovered her failure to use suitable birthcontrol and its consequences, she'd run for the hills. Vito had allowed her to go but had kept tabs on his daughter for years, via PIs and guys with telephoto lenses on their cameras.

Amanda never fully recovered from her beating, however, Vito considered me to be the one responsible for saving her life regardless of how limited it would become if she ever came out of her coma. We talked for hours, mostly about her and what a great person she was. He never asked me any questions about what happened and even held my hand when I cried.

On my final day in the hospital he told me that if I ever needed anything I was to call him, no matter what, no questions asked. He swore he would help.

Privately, I swore never to call. Although he'd been nothing but kind to me, I knew that getting involved with anyone who had those kind of connections was nothing but a bad idea and worse karma. To this day, no matter what has come my way I've managed somehow to struggle through on my own.

I'm tough. I can take it.

But not this time... It wasn't just about me anymore.

The phone rang once before it was picked up. Into the silence I said,

"Mr. Cantara, this is Virginia Warren. I need your help."

There was a brief pause before the familiar voice responded,

"I'll find you. Stay where you are."

There was a click. I replaced the receiver in its cradle and stared at the phone.

It was done.

I would get my Superheroes back no matter what… Consequences be damned.