by Nick Svolos
His argument was good. A real consensus builder. With muffled grunts of “Sorry,” the Bumblemen turned and started for the door. Only Reggie maintained his self-appointed post, sitting by Sinfonie.
Femme Fatale called after them. “You can’t leave, guys. People are gonna die. We can’t let that happen.”
“Watch us, sister,” one of the men joked. A couple of them laughed.
I didn’t. Everything Fatale said was right, but it wouldn’t work on men like these. She was a hero. She didn’t think the way these guys do.
Me? I’m not a hero. Time to remind them of that.
“The first man who reaches that door dies by my hand.” I said it low, just loud enough to be heard. Seven pairs of booted feet stopped in their tracks. I slammed my fist into my palm as a reminder of just what I could do to them. A meaty slap filled the room, echoed off the walls and rattled the chandelier. “The second will also die by my hand, but it will take longer. I’ll leave you to do the math for what happens to anyone foolish enough to test me a third time.”
I walked over to the cluster of absurdly dressed crooks, matching the gaze of each man until they looked away. “Let’s get one thing understood. Each of you has my money in your pocket.” Well, technically, it was Sinfonie’s money, but when you’ve got a good megalomaniacal rant going, you just roll with it. “Money that you have not yet earned. Until you’ve completed your contract, you’re mine.” I gave them another dose of The Glare. “Are there any questions?”
There weren’t.
“Excellent. I’m pleased we’ve arrived at an understanding.” We were now at the point of the rant where I was supposed to start issuing orders. Show everyone I was in charge and had a plan to lead us to victory.
Only, I didn’t have one, so I improvised. I turned to Femme Fatale. “I need as many copies of that thumb drive as you can make. Sin’ll have blanks in her bag.” Fatale went straight to work, found a handful, and started cranking out the first copy. Good. If I’d missed my guess, it would have brought my house of infallible cards crashing down. I couldn’t afford that.
I turned back to my henchmen. “Now, outsiders have come to my town. They have violated the customs of our profession.” I let my voice rise a few decibels, walking up and down the line of criminals. “They hurt my friend. There she lies. But that’s not what pisses me off.” A few more decibels. “No. What has earned my anger is this: they think they can get away with it!”
The men were getting into it. They were already standing straighter. Fire returned to their eyes. I let my voice rise to a crescendo. It echoed throughout the underground Viking longhouse. “I say, ‘No!’ Not this day or any other! This day, they feel our wrath!”
Cheers erupted from my henchmen. Fists pumped the air. They were ready. I joined them.
“Alright, gentlemen, let’s get to work.”
***
I finished the call, crushed the burner phone in my hands, and tossed it into the hearth. Blue and green flames sprang into being, dancing with their orange and yellow brethren. “Okay, the parley’s set. Go.”
Bumbleman Three took a thumb drive from Femme Fatale’s pile of copies. His destination was the San Pedro police station. Dawson would be waiting for him on the roof, and I’d just arranged safe passage. By now, the captain was probably on the phone again, gathering every EOD team in the county to act on the coordinates when my man delivered them.
Of all the things to overlook, why in the world would Mickey fail to put internet access into this place? The burner phones were too old and slow to transmit the data over cellular towers. If we tried, the FBI would be on us before the first stage of my still-evolving plan even got off the ground.
Our only choice was hand-delivery. Already, I had guys delivering copies to the Beacon and the mayor’s office. That left me with two extra, which I sent to Telemundo, because my buddy Rich worked there, and to Channel 5, just out of spite. They’d been all too eager to pin this thing on me, and now I could force them to tell the truth. I reserved the original for myself.
I’d gotten a little bonus from my call with Dawson. He had the autopsy reports from the goons at the airport. Both of them had some sort of chip attached to their brain stems. The details were still sketchy but the medical examiner was pretty sure somebody’d sent them a signal and they’d burned out the thugs’ brains. It explained a lot. Like how Forney died so suddenly. And what that thing on Wells’ arm was for. While all of that was good to know, I didn’t have an immediate way to act upon it. I set it aside and got on with the plan.
With the first step in progress, I started on the second. I looked over Femme Fatale’s shoulder. She was just starting the last copy. “Can you dig up Alvarado’s file while that’s running?”
She opened another window and started a search on the files. “That was a good speech.” She covered her grin so the henchmen wouldn’t see. “You wouldn’t have really killed them, would you?”
“They disrespected my woman.”
She glanced at me like she was trying to figure out if I was joking or not. I’m not sure she liked what she saw. A file popped up, drawing our attention back to the screen, and after a bit we found the section with the deputy director’s personal data. Just what I was looking for. I copied down what I needed and put it away in my pocket.
“Oh, there’s something else I wanted to show you,” she said, opening a minimized window. A stream of nonsense filled it. Random letters and numbers, as far as I could tell.
“Well, that’s just wonderful, babe. What is it?”
“That, my dear Doughboy, is the activation code for the devices.”
“Okay….”
“Sinfonie changed it.”
I felt my face break into a grin. Finally, a break! “Awesome! So, they’re useless now, right?”
She shook her head. “Not quite. I’m sure when they send the code, they’ll realize something’s up and eventually figure it out. All they’ll have to do is dig it out of last night’s backup, but it should buy us some time.”
“Enough?”
“No. I’m not sure about my calculations, but I don’t think the cops can get them all disarmed in time. We need more people.”
I took stock of our remaining resources. Femme Fatale, me, three henchmen, and two burner phones. Sinfonie was out. The Angels were stuck in their base. I thought of calling some of the solo heroes in town. They could account for a couple of the devices, couldn’t they?
Dammit, so close and yet so far.
Well, Ultiman says if you can’t stop a disaster, you minimize the damage. Fatale’s copy still had a few minutes to go, so I asked for her burner and grabbed Sinfonie’s out of her sack.
I called Panhandler first, told him what was going on and gave him the locations along the Santa Monica Freeway. He agreed to do what he could, and I gave him Dawson’s number so he could coordinate his efforts with the cops.
Golden Crusader was a different story. He refused to believe me. Hell, he wouldn’t even talk to me. The only thing I could get out of him was a curt order to turn myself in. Even Herculene couldn’t get him to change his mind. Dammit, what the hell was the matter with this guy? I knew he could be thick-headed, but this was ridiculous.
I growled in frustration as my last burner phone blanked itself and went dead. I threw it into the hearth so hard it chipped the stonework. I should have called Peacemaker, but with only his old pickup truck for transportation, he’d be lucky to get to two of the bombs.
That would have been two more than I was going to get now. How many lives had that choice cost?
My fury grew as I watched the phone burn, a fire of my own growing in my chest. This was insane. Bedlam’s frame-up was too good. They’d turned most of the city against us. Already, I’d done things that, no matter how this turned out, would land me in Lompoc. There was a good chance Helen would be in the next cell over. That rankled me most of all. She deserved better.
I glanced at Sinfonie. So still. They
’d almost killed her. I had hope, but there was no guarantee she’d recover.
We had a partial solution. Some lives would be saved. Some people—people who didn’t even know they’d been marked for death—would make it home tonight. Help their kids with their homework. Eat dinner. Go to bed and fall asleep watching the news about the terror attack Captain Stand-In wrought on their city.
They’d be the lucky ones. The others—the ones Dawson and Panhandler couldn’t get to—would die.
VX acts fast. It affects the enzyme that turns off your glands and muscles. Seconds after exposure, your mucus membranes go haywire. Your saliva glands follow suit. Your muscles start to spasm. You go into convulsions, foaming at the mouth, and the only question is whether your heart or your lungs will give out first.
It’s an ugly way to go.
I imagined sitting in my car. The traffic is at a standstill. I’m listening to the radio. A mist, out of place on a hot, sunny day like this, wafts across the freeway. The guy in the next car goes into conniptions, grasping his throat as his spit turns to froth. I wonder what his deal is until the mist hits my lane. Then I join him in that twitching dance of death.
I imagined Alvarado, reporting his success to his masters. Despite the evidence I’d sent out, the lie withstands the storm. He’s gotten away with it. Wells is at his side, and they are laughing, celebrating their rewards. Promotions. Money. Plumb assignments. The baubles Bedlam bestows upon its servants for a job well done.
In the hearth, the fire burned. Standing before it, so did I.
No. There was still a way to beat them.
I started to laugh. Loud and joyful, my laughter filled the hall. Femme Fatale and the Bumblemen looked at me as if I’d gone mad.
It wasn't madness. It was joy. I had the answer. In fact, I’d had it all along.
It was so simple.
***
“Ah, there you are, my poor, unsuspecting friend.”
Through a pair of military-grade binoculars I’d liberated from Teuton’s stash, I watched an ERD agent complete his lazy orbit of the Angel Tower. His counterpart was on the other side. At street level, teams of FBI agents surrounded the building with clear fields of fire on all the exits.
The two superhumans completed their patrol route on a predictable, three-minute, counter-clockwise cycle, nice and slow. There’d be no way The Angels could get out without being noticed, and the ERD men would make sure it cost them if they tried.
Time to turn the tables.
“Which one do you want?” I asked Femme Fatale, setting the field glasses aside.
“I think we get the guy with the flaming fists, first,” she replied. One of the agents wasn’t wearing gloves, and based on our limited intel, we figured that to be his power. At the Coliseum the previous year, there had been an ERD man with the same ability going toe-to-toe with Ultiman. If this was him, he’d be a challenge. As for the other guy, we had no clue what he could do. That was even more dangerous. “We take him together. Put him down before his partner can react.”
I liked her logic. “Sounds good. I’ll go first; try to get him on that rooftop there.” I pointed at the building caddy-corner from our perch under the helipad atop an office tower at Fourth and Grand. There’d been a two-man FBI sniper team here when we arrived. They were now sleeping off a pair of superhuman love-taps, bound and gagged, tucked out of sight.
I probably should have felt bad about that. I didn’t. I was beyond such petty concerns. I keyed my mic. “Alright, gentlemen, launch in eighty seconds. Mark.” Reggie began the countdown.
The agent with unknown powers continued his route, and the barehanded one came into view on the left side of the Tower. Reggie’s count was at thirty-five.
“You know, you’re starting to scare me,” Fatale said as the count hit ten.
“I know,” I replied, and shot into the air. I covered the space between the agent and me in seconds, as the Bumblemen initiated their attack on the FBI agents on the far side of the Tower. Through my comm, I heard the terse commands of men in combat, punctuated by the distinctive sounds of their stunners. The pap pap pap of gunshots bounced their way through the concrete canyon, reaching my ears just as I slammed my fists into the back of the barehanded ERD man.
He grunted in agony. I avoided the man’s spine out of professional courtesy and went for his ribs instead. My right struck a little low, hitting soft tissue and possibly turning his kidney into mush. I didn’t care. He dropped like an ugly kid’s hope of getting a date for prom night.
I focused downward and grabbed him, my right hand gripping his communicator and tearing it away. His face-covering ERD mask came with it.
The man had a look of bewildered terror. That’s what it’s like being blindsided like that. Your brain—the primal, reptilian center—takes control and pumps you full of adrenaline. The fight or flight mechanism takes over, and the rest of your brain, the part so used to the illusion of control, has nothing to do. It struggles to comprehend what’s going on. To regain control. Restore order. To decide whether to tough it out or head for the hills.
I liked that look.
I twirled him around a couple of times, disorienting him, and let go. He plummeted to the rooftop where Femme Fatale waited. He sailed right into her fist.
The shock wave from the blow rattled windows up and down the block. A normal guy would have disintegrated. But a normal guy wouldn’t be flying around in an ERD uniform. This guy bounced up thirty or forty feet and shook it off.
His fists burst into flame, and he shot back down at Femme Fatale. She leaped away just before he hit, like a flea jumping off a dog’s back, and the ERD man’s fiery punch slammed into the roof. Fatale rebounded off an air-conditioning unit and seized him in an iron grip around the waist. They rolled along the rooftop, slugging at each other with all they had, their combat tumbleweed tearing up tar paper and concrete in its wake. The ERD man’s fists were hot, igniting some of the sheets as they passed.
I sped down to join the fray. This part was always tricky. You had to pick your shots very carefully, or you’d end up striking your teammate. It was something I wasn’t very good at.
Fatale knew this. She grunted over the comm, “I got this. Go.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I called for a sitrep as I rounded the Tower.
Reggie responded. “We’re taking heavy fire. The super’s throwing lightning at us!”
“You’re done here. As soon as you see me, scatter and regroup at rally point beta.”
“Roger that.”
I could see them now, the Bumblemen playing cat and mouse with a the ERD agent amongst the towers, while the normals fired up at them from rooftops and the street. My men saw me and sped off in all directions.
The flying agent halted, hovering above Flower between Fifth and Sixth. I didn’t need telepathy to know what he was thinking. His partner hadn’t joined the fight, and chasing the henchmen would lead him away from his post. He probably had that old Clash song running through his head: “Should I stay or should I go?”
I flew up another hundred feet and took the decision away from him. “Hey, Sparky,” I called out. “What’s a guy gotta do to get into a fight with a superhero around here?”
His mask covered his entire face, so I couldn’t see him snarl as he turned and let loose a blast of electricity, and anything he might have said would have been lost in the accompanying thunder anyway. I was prepared, with just enough distance to dodge the crackling bolt. Good thing it was a dry afternoon, though. Any more humidity in the air and I’d have been caught. I wouldn’t get so lucky a second time. It was my turn to run.
Electrical guys are such a pain in the ass. You can be bulletproof all you want, but your body still runs on electrical impulses. The only defense is to not get hit. And God help you if you try to punch them. You'll just be electrocuting yourself.
I needed to even the odds. Everything depended on how long it took him to recharge his body for another blast.
Without that, I’d never know when to dodge. I fled back toward Fifth Street, my path erratic like a drunk on payday.
Another burst rent the air to my left, filling the space with the odor of ozone. How long was that? Eight seconds? The lightning’s chaotic path shot past me and blew out the windows on the Angel Tower’s twenty-third floor.
I remembered what was on that floor. The training room.
Oh, you poor, misguided bastard.
I started an eight-second count and sped for the opening. Before I got to four, I was inside and pressing my back against a station built into the back wall. Robotic arms sprang from panels, and I closed my eyes and held my breath as they sprayed me with a thick, liquid substance.
Two seconds left.
I heard the agent land on the floor. The arms withdrew, and I opened my eyes. The agent raised his arms. I cringed and cried out, “Not in the face! Oh, Lord, don’t shock me in my face!”
The overhead fire suppression system kicked in, soaking Sparky as he unleashed his next bolt of lightning. The water grounded out the energy as soon as it left his hands.
Thanks, Archangel. Allow me to finish the job.
I sprang at the surprised agent and landed a gentle uppercut with my liquid silicone-covered fist, ready to follow up with my left.
I didn’t need it. The man tumbled over backwards and sprawled, unconscious, on the deck.
I touched him with a cautious hand. When I wasn’t jolted into dreamland, I pulled his communicator off and crushed it. I grabbed the agent and started for the stairwell. SpeedDamon appeared in front of me, accompanied by a burst of displaced air. “Whatthehell,man?”
“I’ll explain later.” I tossed him my copy of the FBI data. “That’s got the coordinates of fifty nerve-gas dispensers. Get it to Archangel and get them disarmed. I’ll take this guy to the Vault.” I could hear more of the team coming down the stairwell. “Any word from Herculene?”
“Right here.” She bounded past SpeedDamon, her own agent unconscious in her arms. I followed, threading my way through the landings in my downward flight.