by Nick Svolos
The team I followed made it to the bad guys first. The lead cop came to an abrupt halt and held up a fist. From his crouched position, he took a quick look through the window and ducked back. He turned to the rest of the team and made a series of hand gestures that involved holding up two fingers, pointing at his eyes, motioning with his palm level to the ground and finishing with sweeping two extended fingers from left to right, ending at another window. I’d seen guys do this in the movies a ton of times and still have no idea what the code was. For all I knew, he could have been sending one of the guys out for pizza. The rest of the team seemed to understand the message though, and that’s all that really mattered. I settled back to watch them do their thing.
Things happened in rapid succession. While the two cops in front hid on the landing, out of sight beneath the window sill, the two in the rear quietly slipped into the building through a shattered window. Once everyone was in position, the officers up front rose up from their positions and ordered the people within to surrender. The two on the inside started firing down the hall to suppress the gunfire from an adjacent apartment. In response, a wave of viridescent fire exploded from the window, disintegrating a section of the outer wall, tearing the section of the fire escape free from the side of the building and striking the first cop in the chest, burning its way through his torso and blasting what was left of him out into space to slam against the next building over. The cop next to him was spared the effects of the fire, but the force of the exploding wall caught him and knocked him into the fracturing fire escape railing. He lost his weapon, but his reflexes saved him from a six story drop with a one-handed grab that earned him a precarious grasp on a hunk of metal as the rusting structure groaned threateningly.
Adrenaline forced me into action without thinking. I rushed down the tilting surface of the landing and threw myself into a sliding, face-first dive, making a desperate grab with my left hand for a hunk of metal that looked like it might hold and stuck my right out into space. I was rewarded with the firm grip of the cop’s hand and felt his weight threaten to pull my shoulder out of its socket.
With growing terror I realized I couldn’t pull the man up onto the landing. It would have been a challenge under any circumstance, but he was also weighed down by his tactical gear. I simply wasn’t strong enough. As if I wasn’t terrified enough, a loud ping sounded as a bolt gave way somewhere in the structure. The platform took a sickening lurch further out over the alley, and I watched the bolt roll past me, off the landing, bounce off the cop’s helmet and carom away into the night. I felt the weight increase on my arm as the cop struggled to climb his way up, and I gritted my teeth, focusing all my energy on maintaining my grip on the landing and the cop dangling below. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on, but it was starting to look like it would be for the rest of my life.
After an eternity of agony, the cop managed to work his way onto the mesh floor, and we slowly started to work our way back to a less precarious position. I was on my belly, creeping backwards, not daring to try to turn around on the failing platform, when I saw a man—the overseer from downstairs—stick his head out through the blasted exterior of the building and look down on us. His face split with a cruel grin and he extended his arm in our direction. Wisps of green flame flickered around his fingertips.
Dawson’s team saw it, too, and they opened fire on the man before he could finish us off. The bullets bounced off him, their impact marked only by the ripples they rose in his dark flesh and the holes they made in his tailored suit. The volley had its desired effect of shifting his attention away from us, however, and the overseer turned and unleashed another fusillade of green fire, evaporating that section of the fire escape as Dawson’s team crashed through the windows they were standing by and into the relative safety of the building. The melting steel glowed as it tumbled away into the darkened alley.
The din of battle, deafening as it was, was split by a battle-cry from above. I turned my head upward to see Panhandler hurl himself from the rooftop of the next building. His leap carried him into the open space between the tenements in a downward arc that ended with him slamming his sledgehammer into the overseer’s face. The force of the blow thundered through the building as Panhandler’s target was slammed through the floor and the homeless hero leaped through the hole for a follow-up attack.
There was no time to celebrate the arrival of my backup plan. Panhandler wasn’t holding back. Shouts of “Gas!” and “Masks!” echoed through the tenement, and the stench hit us at full strength as we clung to the deteriorating fire escape. My eyes stung, so I closed them tight. I held my breath, but the officer began to retch. He hadn’t been prepared for Panhandler’s arrival and got the full effect of his power. Careful not to make any sudden movements, I grabbed the officer by the back of his harness and pulled him along as I continued to work our way back into the tenement. Another bolt gave way and the landing took yet another nauseating swerve away from the building.
The building vibrated with the energies unleashed on the fifth—and later fourth—floors of the building as Panhandler battled the villain into submission. The gunfire faded off, replaced by the sounds of vomiting thugs. Carefully, I managed to get the two of us off the fire escape and back onto what passed for safety on the solid floor of the apartment. One of the cops in there tended to his fellow officer as I pulled off my balaclava and struggled to get my gas mask in place. Lying on the filthy floor and hungrily gulping down air, my mask fogged up. It didn’t matter, my eyes were watering so badly that I was effectively blind anyways. My shoulder ached and my limbs felt like lead, but I felt elated. I’d survived. I’d saved a man’s life.
So this was how it felt.
The sounds of battle below us gave way to silence. I heard Panhandler shout, “Clear,” and I finally managed to catch my breath.
X
The gang members, with the exception of the guy with the firey, green plasma blasts, were all incapacitated by Panhandler’s pheromones within seconds of his arrival, and once the hero put him down, things returned to some semblance of normal. It wasn’t quiet, by any means. Squawks from radios competed with the moans of the wounded and the heavy bootsteps of officers and EMTs as they tended to them.
As the criminals were secured and dragged out of the building, teams of policemen performed a room-by-room search of the rest of the building and proclaimed it clear of hostiles. They moved on to the other buildings, just to be thorough. At Dawson’s request, Ben Jefferson sent a containment team to the building, relieving Panhandler of his superhuman prisoner sometime later. The homeless hero rejoined us on the sixth floor as Dawson and his team were combing through the apartment where the Force extraction procedure was to take place. When the Task Force team found the room, they also found an unconscious nineteen year-old woman. Fortunately, the police attack came before they could strap her to the chair and pump her full of nanobots. She was on her way to join the two kids we’d found at California Hospital, where they had the equipment and training to treat superhuman patients.
The “procedure room,” as I’d come to think of it, survived the battle more or less undamaged. Knowing an unconscious civilian was in here, the police made every effort to avoid firing into this apartment. By the looks of it, they’d succeeded far beyond what I’d thought would be possible in a wild, chaotic gunfight like that. It gave me new-found respect for these men and women.
“So this is where it happened?” Panhandler asked as he entered the room. He was dirty and disheveled from the battle and his sledgehammer rested casually over his shoulder. His eyes were hard and fixed on the outward-broken window and the dented railing of the fire escape. Beads of sweat covered his brow as he strained to keep his odor under control in the face of seeing where his protegé spent his final moments.
“Yeah,” I replied. I didn’t really have any other words at that point, so I just added, “Thanks for the save, man.”
“I was glad to help, Mr. Conway.” Panhandl
er looked down for a moment, then at me. “Thanks for bringing me in on this. Not to mention everything else ya did.” He turned to regard the rest of the room. “So, what’s next?”
“Well, Dawson’s task force is grabbing all this stuff as evidence. Between that and the testimony of the victims, I’m figuring these guys are going away for quite a while. Now the hard work starts.”
“Tracking this back to the source?”
“Yep. They got forensics guys coming up. Hopefully they’ll get some leads out of that. Of course, these guys are going to be interrogating the gang members. They might be able to get something useful out of them. Nothing to do but wait, at this point.”
“Don’t you think we should destroy those gizmos? The ones that steal people’s powers?” He pointed at the three sets of Force extraction gadgets that the cops had gathered.
Dawson overheard this and stepped in. “We can’t destroy evidence, Panhandler. You should know that.”
Standing next to him, I noticed Panhandler’s body tense. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his sledgehammer. He lost a little control over his odor, befouling the already none-too-fresh air of the room. “With all due respect, Captain, I’m not sure I trust leaving these things in anyone’s hands, even yours. They’re dangerous. I’m damned sure I don’t trust the government to keep their hands off ‘em.” A couple of the cops sensed the impending confrontation, and I saw them watching the situation as they emptied their hands of whatever they were handling, just in case they had to go for their weapons.
Dawson tugged at his vest with his gun hand, gesturing off to one side with his left one and stepped a bit closer to the hero. “I understand that, Panhandler. At some level, I even agree with you. But if we destroy anything, a jury will wonder what else we might have destroyed. It’s called ‘reasonable doubt’. Those guys will walk.”
Dawson’s hands kept moving, and I knew what that meant. It was a misdirection technique he was fond of. He was getting ready to go for his gun if things got out of hand. He knew as well as I did, if it came to a fight, the cop’s low-load bullets wouldn’t do much more than piss Panhandler off. He wasn’t bulletproof, but very resilient. Call it ‘bullet resistant’. But that didn’t mean the old cop was going to back down, and if push came to shove, well, he’d do what his code of ethics required.
I placed a gentle hand on Panhandler’s shoulder. “Think it through, man,” I spoke slowly. “He’s right. Look, you lost someone here. I get that. They’ve lost two. They’re not going to risk their bust. They want to lock these guys away as bad as we do. Let ‘em do their jobs so they can make that happen. I trust them. I trust him.” I pointed at Dawson.
Panhandler’s muscles slackened, and he let out a long breath. “Yeah. Alright. I’m sorry Captain. I should just get out of here.”
Dawson smiled. “Forget it. We’re all a little emotional. Thanks for your help, Panhandler. This would have been a lot worse without you.”
“Come on, hero. Let me buy you some dinner and give you a ride home.”
Downstairs, we found ourselves facing another problem. The scene around the Jefferson Plaza could best be described as organized chaos. Ambulances and paddy wagons came and went, and outside the police barricades, several news vans had set up shop. Reporters were the last thing we felt like dealing with. For Panhandler, avoiding them was easy. I told him where I was parked, and he simply leaped up onto a rooftop across the street. The best solution I had available was to put the balaclava back on and pretend to be a cop, hoping that nobody noticed that the back of my vest had “PRESS” stenciled on it instead of “LAPD”.
It worked, and I drove back to Santa Monica with the homeless hero riding in the back. I swung through a drive-through and bought a few bags of burgers and fries, a diet soda for me and a big, thick vanilla shake for the super. We sat on the beach outside his tent while we ate. He brought out a bottle of wine and a couple of red Solo cups to wash it all down, saying, “If it’s good enough for the Lord, it’s good enough for me.”
I smiled and raised my cup. “To Karl.”
“To Karl,” he echoed. “And to the two cops.”
We sat in silence for a while, listening to the gentle waves lapping at the shore and the nighttime sounds of the homeless encampment a few dozen meters away. I was exhausted, and the wine wasn’t helping. Between everything that had happened in the last few hours, not to mention the aftereffects of the adrenaline flushing out of my system, I was just about done in. “I should be getting on home, man. Need to crash, big time.”
“You earned it, Mr. Conway. Thanks again. Ain’t no way I coulda run this down on my own.”
I got up to leave, but before I could go, Panhandler said, “Ah, dang, almost forgot. I got somethin’ for ya.” He rummaged around in his tent for a moment and came out with a plastic shopping bag full of stuff. “It’s Karl’s stuff. Figgered maybe you’d return it to his folks for me.”
I pushed the bag back. “I think you should do it.”
He looked surprised, maybe even a little scared. “What? Naw, they ain’t gonna want me comin’ around.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. You were Karl’s mentor. You knew him, probably better than anyone. I think it would do them some good to hear about him from you.”
“I-I don’t know if I’m up to that,” he shook his head. I could see the tears welling in his eyes.
All I could do was smile. I didn’t say it, but I knew it would be good for him, too. He needed to grieve. “Sure you can. You’re a freakin’ hero. You can do anything.”
***
It was probably around ten when I got back to my apartment. I didn’t want to look at my watch, out of fear that I’d find out it was far later. I wanted a nice long sleep, and if the damned thing told me I’d have to be up in four hours, it would have broken my heart.
Instead my heart was broken as I unlocked my apartment door and heard hard-soled footsteps coming up the stairs and towards me. “Mr. Conway, might we have a word with you?”
I turned toward the speaker. It was Janice Kirk, striding with purpose up the second floor landing with Drummond and her two assistants in tow.
Oh, for Pete’s sake, you gotta be kidding me. “Ma’am, I don’t wish to be rude, but I’m tired. It’s been a very long day. Is this something that can wait ‘til tomorrow?”
She looked me up and down with that appraising gaze that seems to be one of those superpowers all women are born with. I was suddenly embarrassed at how filthy my clothes must look. Crawling around on the floor of a drug den did that to you. “I can see that. We heard about what happened downtown. There’s quite a bit of speculation surrounding your involvement.” She smiled diplomatically. “I’m afraid this won’t wait, however. May we come in?”
She started moving through the door as if the only possible response was in the affirmative. I simply stood still, and she stopped just in time to avoid bumping into me. The expression on her face was priceless. A mix of surprise and offence at my refusal to make way for her. I got the impression that didn’t happen a lot.
“Not until I know what this is about,” I said. If Kirk’s expression was priceless, then Drummond’s was solid gold. He glared at my impudence before the almighty power of the Federal Government. Guys like him brought out my churlish side.
Aw, who am I kidding? The Feds irritate the hell out of me. It’s like bouncing a tennis ball in front of the doghouse where my immaturity lives. Any chance to demonstrate my rights and remind them that they work for me and not the other way around makes it want to come out and play.
“I think you know what this is about, Mr. Conway. I’d rather we didn’t have this conversation on the landing. Please, may we come inside?”
“There’s the magic word.” I stood aside and let them file in. Drummond tried to stare me down as he passed. He failed.
I couldn’t help but take delight in the expressions on the quartet’s faces as they took in their surroundings. My apartment is cle
an, but, with the exception of the book collection, you could probably replace everything in it with the loose change buried in the cushions on the couch. Kirk probably hadn’t seen anything like this since she dated a bad boy in college to annoy her father. Just guessing, but she seemed like the type. At least my place didn’t reek of stale bongwater.
I ducked into my bedroom and grabbed my desk chair and a couple of folding chairs for the flunkies. “Have a seat,” I said, indicating the couch as I rolled my chair to the opposite side of the spool coffee table. Just for fun, I added, “Don’t worry. With your health plan, I’m sure your tetanus boosters are up to date.”
That chide got Drummond moving, his Y chromosome refusing to be one-upped by an upstart like me, and that got the rest of them to sit down.
“Alright, Madam Assistant Secretary, fire away.”
Drummond started off. “Before we begin, I have to inform you that this conversation is covered under the Government Secrets Act—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s all Top Secret and bad things happen if I tell anyone,” I cut him off, fatigue making my voice hoarse and maybe a little harsher than I intended. “Cut to the chase. You guys are on the clock. If my head isn’t hitting my pillow in ten minutes, I’m calling the ACLU.”
Drummond looked fit to explode, but Kirk preempted any outburst by beginning her spiel. “I’m sure you know by now that The Angels were arrested by the North Koreans.” I nodded. “Late this afternoon, the following was broadcast by the KCNA.” One of the helper drones got up from her chair and set a sleek, government laptop on my spool, and hit a key. Herculene’s face appeared.
“My name is Herculene. I am a member of The Angels, a tool of the imperialist and gangster United States government.” My anger grew as I watched the woman I loved confess to a wide variety of crimes against the “peaceful and peace-loving” North Korean people and their “enlightened” government. I couldn’t imagine that any amount of torture could force those words from her mouth. She’s just too tough. There was something else at play here.