Ash fanned through the pages. “All we know is that Colt is after something in Manhattan, and twenty-three square miles and one-point-six million people is kind of a lot of area to cover when we have no leads.”
“And you figured,” Eve said through another mouthful of burger, “that Colt might have placed a classified ad with the headline ‘Hopi Trickster God Seeks Mythical Object to Help Him Journey through Hell’?”
Ash shot her a dirty look, but went back to scouring the paper. While she didn’t find anything that screamed “item that Colt would be after,” she felt her internal furnace freeze when she came across one human interest story on the back page: THE FIVE-BOROUGH VIGILANTE.
According to the story, for the last several nights a modern-day “superhero” of sorts had been incapacitating muggers, drunken rabble-rousers, and gang members from sundown to sunup, all across the city. On Tuesday he’d left seven suspects on Staten Island beaten, hog-tied, or in need of hospitalization. Early Wednesday morning, just after midnight, it had been eleven in Spanish Harlem, and fourteen in the Bronx on Thursday night. The mugging and assault victims saved in each of these incidents reported the Five-Borough Vigilante to be massive in stature, standing at least six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders and a threateningly muscular build. In a few situations, where he’d battled multiple gang members at once, bystanders reported that his body took a number of hard, punishing hits—in one case from the blunt end of a lug wrench—yet in all the cases, he seemed unfazed by the attack.
The few people who’d gotten a look at his face beneath his hood had identified him as a Hispanic male in his late teens or early twenties.
Holy shit, Ash thought.
The Five-Borough Vigilante had to be Wesley Towers.
The timing made perfect sense. She’d last seen Wes on Tuesday night, in Miami. Distraught by the gruesome murder of their mutual friend Aurora, the Aztec god of night had told Ash that he couldn’t bear to stay in Florida another day. Everything there—including Ash—reminded him of the horrible events that had led up to the fateful night when Aurora was sacrificed. It had just been too painful, so Wes left Ash alone with the key to his Miami penthouse and the awful, stomach-tearing feeling that she’d never see him again.
Ash had only known the Aztec god a week, but there had been something there, something more than a high school infatuation—this awe and admiration for the boy that made even her grave circumstances feel lighter. Wes had inherited a fortune, yet instead of retiring early to a carefree, self-indulgent poolside life, frivolously enjoying fine dining and piña coladas until he became a part of the tropical landscape, he’d devoted his life to protecting the people of Miami—the city he’d adopted as his home after a tragic childhood.
Now it seemed that he’d relocated to a new city, where he’d wasted no time in using his supernatural abilities to lay down the law. Thanks to his godly powers his body was uncannily strong, agile, and resilient under the cover of night.
He would make the perfect superhero, so long as the sun was down.
But as Ash read through the article, there was something dark and savage about the events described. He was saving innocent people, there was no argument about that . . . but she almost got this premonition that he was reveling in the brutality of it. Like hurting bad people was the only thing that could distract him from the agony of losing his best friend, Aurora. After all, Lily and Thorne—the two people responsible—were dead now. If he couldn’t punish them . . .
Ash was hypnotized by the newspaper article until Eve cleared her throat. When Ash lifted her head, Eve was squinting at her out of the corner of her eye, her attention only half on the road. “Either you found a lead in the paper, or you were getting really into a crossword puzzle.”
“No, it’s . . .” Ash folded the paper closed and took a deep breath. “It’s somebody I know.”
“Damn.” Eve snapped her fingers. “I was hoping you’d found Colt Halliday’s obituary.”
Ash knew that her older sister had expensive tastes when it came to just about everything—food, clothes, motor-cycles—but she was taken aback when they finally got into Manhattan, and Eve pulled the car up in front of the Plaza, one of New York’s most luxurious hotels.
Before Ash could stop her, Eve was already out of the car, popping the trunk for the bellhops to take their luggage, and tossing her keys to the red-jacketed valet.
“Eve!” Ash whispered harshly, finally catching her as she ducked past the doormen and into the extravagant lobby. “Don’t you think we should stay someplace a little more discreet? And where the hell did you get the money for this anyway?”
Eve stopped finally and blinked twice at Ash. “Stock market,” she said, deadpan. “I have a really good investment portfolio.” Then she walked up to the concierge to check in, presumably under one of the false names she’d conjured for herself.
Ash decided to let it go for now; after all, it was hypocritical to judge Eve for whatever (probably) illegal means she used to pad her bank account when they had been a bank-robbing duo in a previous lifetime. . . .
After they’d checked in and settled into their ludicrously sized suite, they sat down to brainstorm how they were going to canvas the city for Colt and Rose. “So Colt never said exactly what kind of object he was looking to steal here in New York?” Ash asked. She was curled up on one of the king-size beds with her laptop, scouring the Internet for any special events or exhibits that were happening this weekend . . . but there was a hell of a lot going on in the city.
Eve stood at the window, peering out through the curtains at Central Park below. “He referred to everything in code names. All I really know is that he said he was in search of three things to defeat the Cloak: the door, the blade, and the armor. The door clearly refers to Rose, and her ability to open portals into the Netherworld. The blade is obviously the ax. But the armor . . .”
Ash tried all sorts of searches for armor-related items that might be in the city. Everything from medieval exhibits at museums to an antiquities collector on the Upper East Side who had a private collection of battle gear from the ancient world. Nothing Ash came across, however, screamed “this could be the one!”
Ultimately, her search turned back to the Five-Borough Vigilante. According to the latest news report Wes (if it was him after all) had struck Queens last night, and the police were still calculating the number of victims he’d sent to the hospital. From the news article Ash also learned that the majority of the ruffians Wes had beaten senseless potentially belonged to a new, but rapidly expanding criminal organization that called itself Bedlam. The gang prided itself on disseminating crime and fear into all the boroughs of New York City, rather than sticking to a single home base or neighborhood. And what made them truly terrifying was how they would flood one particular, very contained region of the city—sometimes within a few city blocks—with a large number of criminals all at once. They were believed to have a membership of at least five hundred thugs, although that number had started to dwindle since the Five-Borough Vigilante crashed the party.
This article also contained a picture of the alleged Bedlam leader, Cesar del Frisco, who, until his recent disappearance, had been openly taking credit for the syndicate’s crime spree. What an idiot, Ash thought. Forgoing anonymity just for the sake of infamy. Still, the guy had to be pretty smart to unite so many gang members and convicts under a single umbrella.
On a whim Ash pulled up a map of the five boroughs of the city, each one identified with a single color. Ash traced the vigilante’s path from neighborhood to neighborhood. On Tuesday, he’d hit Staten Island. Then Manhattan. Then the Bronx. And finally Queens. Four nights, four boroughs . . . one left.
Wes was cycling through the major areas of the city to show them that no neighborhood was safe for Bedlam. That wherever they went, so too would he.
Which meant that if his pattern continued, Wes would be standing guard over Brooklyn tonight.
If I were a gan
g set on instilling fear in the defenseless, Ash hypothesized, where the hell would I go to find easy prey? Or to find a big herd of prey?
This time her search finally yielded some positive results. The Brooklyn Cyclones, a minor league baseball team, were having a grudge match tonight against their rivals, the Staten Island Yankees. The slugfest was going down at the Cyclones’ stadium, in the southern part of Brooklyn, not far from the amusement parks of Coney Island.
“Hey, Eve?” Ash said. “The whole armor thing isn’t turning up any leads, but I think I might have located a friend who can help.”
Eve was pouring herself a tumbler full of scotch from the minibar. “Let me guess—you want me to help you scour the city for your Aztec lover-turned-crime-fighter? Oh come on,” she added, and flung the open copy of the New York Times onto the bed. “It wasn’t rocket science after I found the page where your fingertips lustfully smudged the ink. And I’ve got more productive things to accomplish around here without helping you chase your rebound romance around the city.” She took a long sip from the scotch, and Ash wondered if “getting drunk” was Eve’s idea of productive.
“What if I told you,” Ash said, “that there’s a slight chance you might get to electrocute some people who really deserve it?” She twisted the laptop screen around to show Eve the Cyclones’ page.
Eve stopped mid-sip and lowered her glass. “I’d say,” she said after a pause, “that the forecast for tonight’s game just got dark and stormy.”
The crack of a bat echoed over the field, and cheers rose up from the bleachers. Ash watched from by the concession stand as a tiny white comet streaked toward the right-field fence. It clattered off the green wall, bounced back into the outfield, and the cheers redoubled as the runner who’d been on first base beat the throw home.
Ash’s phone rang right as she took the soda from the concessions cashier. When she flipped it open, Eve didn’t even wait for her to say hello. “You promised,” Eve muttered grudgingly on the other end, “that I’d get to electrocute some people.” As she said it, the clouds that had slowly been gathering over the field since they’d arrived grumbled with impatient thunder.
Ash chuckled. And people said Ash’s moods were transparent—her sister’s changed the damn weather. “Patience, oh stormy one,” Ash said. “It’s not even the seventh-inning stretch yet. And I offered to be the one who patrolled the streets outside, but you said you’d rather gnaw off your left foot than watch a ball game.”
“The actual sport, yes. But I’d go for a cold beer and a few of those concession hot dogs just about now,” Eve whined. “I’ll give it another hour, and after that, you can take the subway home by yourself.” Then she hung up.
Ash headed back to her seat, and instead of watching the game she stared out over the home-run fence. The fence provided a picturesque frame of what lay beyond: the Atlantic Ocean to the south and the amusement rides of Moon Park to the east. The magnificent roller coaster, the Tempest, had been one of Ash’s favorites during summers in grade school, and its wooden tracks blazed with lights as the sun set. But the only sounds that Ash could hear from the ballpark and the amusement parks in the distance were sounds of happiness and cheer.
Maybe this was a stupid idea. What if Bedlam opted for someplace less public? And what if they’d also deciphered the pattern of Wesley’s crackdowns and were avoiding Brooklyn because of it?
Ash shook her head. If this Cesar del Frisco asshole thought he was untouchable and infamous enough to publicly acknowledge that he’d masterminded Bedlam, then he was also governed by pride. Which meant that Cesar wasn’t the type to back down from a fight. No, he’d just up the ante to show the vigilante that this entire city belonged to him.
Innings passed, numbers filled the scoreboard as the game headed into the eighth, and Ash’s doubt was beginning to grow.
That is until just after sundown, when a blackout hit Brooklyn.
As one, the massive tower lights around the ballpark flickered off. The pitcher had been just releasing his pitch, but as the players on the field were swallowed by the darkness, there was only a loud “ow” as the batter got drilled with the ball.
With Eve’s storm clouds still blotting out the stars and moonlight, Ash stood in near blackness. The people around her were only silhouettes, shades of gray that were slowly rising to their feet and taking out their cell phones for light. In fact the screens of phones around the stadium all flickered on in rapid succession, like a nest of fireflies coming to life. Ash could feel her own phone vibrating in the pocket of her jeans—probably Eve calling about the blackout—but she didn’t take it out. Instead Ash telepathically willed the spectators around her: Don’t panic. Remain still and don’t panic. All it would take was one sudden move for a stampede to happen.
Was this a product of Bedlam? Ash wondered. Was this just a coincidental blackout, or was this some platform for the crime syndicate to instill fear and anxiety in the people of Brooklyn?
Ash got her answer just moments later when a small but loud explosion popped in the air overhead.
It was a firecracker, Ash realized, lobbed up into the air by someone in the next section over. The noise and burst of light caused the chatter around her to erupt into a frenzy.
All around the stadium Bedlam members planted in the crowd started to toss burning firecrackers over the heads of the people in the arena. They were just miniature fireworks, but the effect was as if MCU Park were suddenly being shelled by enemy forces. The bystanders across the stadium cascaded into full-blown hysteria and started pushing and shoving for the doors.
Ash was knocked backward and dropped painfully to her own metal chair, as terrified spectators climbed over the rows of seats, bypassing the stairs, which were already clogged with people trying to escape. The weaker folk—children, the elderly—were barreled over and trampled in the chaos. A fight between two fans erupted a few rows forward as one jostled the other one in his attempt to flee.
Meanwhile, firecrackers continued to shell-shock the stadium. Ash held her ground and even had to throw a few overly aggressive passersby off her. With each hit she took she grew more enraged. All the time, however, she kept her gaze fixed on the nearest Bedlam hooligan. His red Mohawk looked razor sharp, like the blade of a table saw, and he was strong enough to manhandle the one guy who tried to stop him from lighting another firecracker. The do-gooder tumbled over two rows of seats before getting trampled by the crowd.
Once the damage had been mostly done, and the hordes had started to make headway in funneling out of the park, the firecrackers stopped. Ash bent down to help an older man up, where he’d been wedged between two seats. As soon as he assured her that he was just a little shaken, she turned her attention back to Mohawk . . . only to find his stupid hair retreating with the rest of the crowd.
Ash zeroed in on his spikes and trailed him at a distance through the chaos. The masses were pouring out through the front gates and fanning out onto Surf Avenue. Several squad cars were already on the scene, with the police officers approaching the stadium, but they had to fight their way against the current. Of course, by the time they muscled their way into MCU Park, all the perps would blend into the crowds just like Mohawk had, so they were running a fool’s errand.
Which left Ash with two questions: What the hell was Bedlam’s endgame tonight? And more importantly, when the hell was Wes going to show up?
Interestingly, as the panic-stricken spectators turned up Stillwell Avenue toward the train station, Mohawk continued east toward the amusement parks. It was hard to keep tabs on him with all the streetlamps still lightless . . . which was why it was all the more impressive when Eve came up alongside Ash. “Following a lead?” she asked Ash, as they brushed past a couple of Staten Island bodybuilders.
“Literally,” Ash confirmed, nodding to Mohawk ahead in the thinning crowd.
They followed him to the entrance to Moon Park, where he jumped the gate without ever looking back. Not that he had much to worry
about, since the amusement park had been closed for an hour and all the available police officers seemed to be responding to the baseball stadium.
And that’s when something clicked with Ash. What if the blackout and the firecrackers had all been just smoke and mirrors? Like they were drawing all the cops to one bug zapper, so they could get away with something even bigger, undisturbed?
Ash and Eve both clambered over the gates to the park. It was near pitch-dark with all the rides and lights zapped by the blackout, so if Mohawk noticed them, then at least they could pretend to be with Bedlam. With five hundred members no one could know everybody in the gang, right?
Up ahead they spotted the silhouettes of four more gang members moving beneath the massive Tempest coaster. Even in darkness it wasn’t hard to see exactly what they were doing.
The Bedlam members were pouring tanks of gasoline around the wooden supports.
They were going to torch the roller coaster.
Sure enough, after they’d sufficiently doused the support beams, the guy in the center took the lit cigarette from his mouth and tossed it into a puddle of gas. A shimmering fire trickled up where the butt landed, then spread outward rapidly. In just a few seconds the flames engulfed the wooden beams they’d targeted, then started to climb into the rafters. In no time at all, it seemed, the coaster tracks were going to go up like they were made out of matchsticks.
The inferno provided light where there had been none before. Of the five men who’d been admiring the blaze, one turned around before Ash and Eve could retreat into the shadows. His face flickered a demonic red in the firelight, but with the shaved sides of his head, his long braid in the back, and the scar that puckered one of his cheeks, Ash recognized him.
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