Wilson woke from unconsciousness once again.
It was hard to imagine that his once uneventful life tending the Dry Cleaners could become this exciting.
In less than half a day, he had already been knocked out twice.
The back of his head throbbed faintly. He did not need to touch it to know there was a huge, swollen lump back there.
Of course, he could not touch it anyway.
After twisting his body a few times, he discovered that someone had taped him securely to a wooden post.
After giving his predicament a little thought, Wilson could not help growing worried.
This was nothing like his earlier act, when he had backup to rely on. His mind was blank, with none of that reassuring telepathic "team" communication from before.
That meant even White Hood and Red Hood had lost track of his location.
Worst of all, Wilson could not remember who had knocked him out.
All he remembered was instinctively closing his eyes in fear the moment the gunshots erupted.
The deafening blasts and the wild surge of adrenaline had robbed Wilson of some of his senses during that brief stretch of darkness. It was as though his sense of touch and smell had vanished along with his hearing, overwhelmed by the painful crack of gunfire.
After the gunshots stopped, Wilson had not even known whether he had been hit, nor had it occurred to him to check.
All he knew was that, through the ringing in his ears, he had faintly heard someone walking toward him across the floor, whistling, before raising a hand and casually knocking him out.
This time, without those two seemingly consummate professionals backing him up, Wilson could not help panicking.
He tried gathering lightning to break free, but gave up when the sudden heat