The nightprowler straddles his prone body and lifts him by his lapels. He growls, “Who’d they get to do it?”
“I don’th know,” the junkie lisps, whimpering through broken teeth. “I didn’th see tem leaf.”
“You what?”
“Tey laaft,” the junkie exhales; fading.
“Who laughed?”
The junkie sighs, weak and weary. “No,” he moans, “tey lehft.”
His shoulders hang limp as his head bobbles; his face drains of color.
Dark Patriot rears back, loosening his grip on the junkie.
“Are you going to vomit?” he asks.
The junkie gently nods, and turns his head to spew.
Dark Patriot looks away, grimacing at the wretch. He releases his grasp on the junkie, who clangs upon the rooftop; his head splashing into his own cream-of-wheat puddle; his hair absorbing the mess like a dish towel.
The nightprowler walks toward the edge of the roof, grumbling, with his palm over his mouth and nose. He stares out at the city skyline and, in a moment of clarity, twists his arm to check his wristwatch…
He frowns. “Shit.”
He looks back to the junkie—who lies motionless on the rooftop—and he leaps onto the fire escape, descending with an anxious haste. The iron stairs rattle with his calamitous gallop, and he vaults the final rail, hitting the cement with the balls of his feet and a leftward lean, on bent knees, into a forward roll and rising to his feet, in-stride, sprinting down the alleyway; his trenchcoat fluttering in the dark behind him.
He negotiates the asphalt jungle—fording streets and trampling sidewalks; darting in and out the shroud of shadows—and, to himself, beneath bleating breaths, he recalls, “The burden of the desert as it encroaches upon the sea; as whirlwinds pass through, born of a horrid land…
“The betrayer betrays, and the spoiler spoileth. And in their charge I am filled with pain—the most base and deep of pains, like a woman in childbirth.
“Prepare the table, ye princes, and anoint the shield, for the Lord has said unto me, ‘Go, set a watchman; let him declare what he seeth.’ And he saw a chariot with four horsemen. And he cried, ‘Babylon—
“‘Babylon is fallen! and all the graves of her gods have broken ground.’
“And the princes call to him, ‘O seer, what of the night? Watchman, what of the night?’ And the watchman said, ‘The morning cometh, but now is the night, and the night reigns.’
“So fled the people of the valley—fled from the drawn sword, and the bent bow, and the crowns of war. And he that sits the chariot, fast behind his horsemen, sees into the valley for all its worth. And the watchman cries unto him, ‘Come, o thousand-eyed angel of death, and hold aloft your flaming sword, to cut with silent vengeance the throats of all grievous sinners.’
“And I, the watchman, welcome him, as the once mighty shall be diminished—for the Lord hath spoken it, and so it shall be—by his hand, and mine.”
The nightprowler routs a bend and stops before the intersection, facing the three-block lot across the cross: a sacred ground enveloped in chainlink and orange signage; a sunken bathtub of excavated soil, and the poured relief of concrete, within which stands two towering monoliths—the foremost, largely clothed in woven steel, though still baring bones above the midway, with a family of cranes perched atop in limbo; and the other, whose skeleton is nearly whole, surrounded by piled affects that suggest more to come.
The Dark Patriot strides the intersection sidelong and mounts the chainlink fence, filling the sacred ground with the shrill echoes of rattling tin.
“I found Harmony’s killer,” he tells himself, “and this shit goes right to the top.”
He straddles the top of the fence and scales down the other side, dismounting into the dirt and shuffling down the slope, into the excavated lot.
His eyes search the substructure as he approaches. “Like the coyote who can pursue no further, I acquiesce with wooden sign.”
He tightens his hood around his ears.
“Screwy, ain’t it?”
He strides into the paved basin and routs a concrete column. “Apologies for tardiness,” he says, startling the ebony giant that leans against a ruddy post. “Office needed me to stay late.”
Radiation Brother palms his thumping sternum. “Why you gotta walk so quietly?”
“The fortress at thirty-three Liberty.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mark—doing a job tonight, less than an hour from now, at thirty-three Liberty.”
“Shit, D.P.,” Ajax inhales, wide-eyed, “you found the guy?”
“In equivalent terms, yes.”
“Who is it?”
“They’ll be at thirty-three Liberty in less than an hour.”
“Who am I looking for?”
“You’ll know when you get there. Look for the lone light.”
Ajax scoffs. “Man, why’re you being so cryptic?”
“I don’t want to be around when you realize who it is.”
Ajax goes rigid; stone-fleshed and cold. He tilts his head back. “Why’s that?”
“I won’t say any more. Go to the fortress at thirty-three Liberty.”
A pale green aura pulsates around Ajax’s neck and knuckles.
“You have about forty minutes.”
Radiation Brother inhales and nods, slowly. His eyes lose focus as they begin to glow.
Dark Patriot rocks on his heels, looking elsewhere. For a moment, he is unlike himself—as if rather a small and timid boy—and he blurts, “I have to go,” before he turns, back to the soil slope and over the fence.
Radiation Brother cracks his knuckles and trudges out the substructure of the mighty monolith, up the truck ramp and into the asphalt jungle. Skyscrapers loom over him as he moves east, to the place to get bows—the heart of manaháhtaan; the fortress of 33 Liberty Street; the Federal Reserve Bank of New York.
Imposing Italianate limestone rises strong above the tarmac thoroughfare, paying eternal homage to the Florentinian Palazzo Vecchio. Eighty feet belowground, buried in the bedrock of the island, lies the world’s largest gold repository, containing one-tenth of all bullion—seven-thousand tonnes of stretcher-stacked, thirty-pound, twenty-four karat gold bricks belonging to three-dozen foreign entities, for a total value of nearly seventy-two billion dollars.
Within the walls of 33 Liberty operates the financial machinations of the United States—and, subsequently, the world economy—in trading dollars for debts. The most extensive of exchanges are negotiated on the uppermost and twelfth floor, among the nine members of the board and their president, Alfred Hayes, a math-minded man so quintessentially American he even shares his birthday with the nation.
Inside Hayes’ office is a wide desk—a single piece of solid oak upraised by an elaborate array of drawers and paneling—a bevy of leather chairs, a standing globe, and an expanse of bookshelves saturated with a lifetime of knowledge. Arch windows span the southern exposure, and two others grace the western wall.
Outside the easternmost window, from the eaves above, descends a length of rope, knotted at the bottom.
A black-clad feminine figure slinks down the fiber, rappelling to the knot. Her billowing auburn hair falls about her shoulders. Her body is bound in form-fitting patent leather; glossy black, as flexible as rubber. The silver zipper that charts her sagittal plane is drawn halfway down her torso, unveiling her cream-colored bosom so it may glisten in the moonlight.
She unsheathes an oblong metal rod that—with a curt flick—telescopes into a double-edged stiletto blade, and she digs the knife into the upper seam of the arch window, jimmying loose its simple lock; causing the window to the fall inward—swinging down on its hinges; reaching through with agile hand to snatch the glass and save it from clattering against the larger panes.
She lets the window settle upon its hinges, and she sheathes her blade. With both hands on the rope, she straddles the window with her heeled thigh-high bo
ots and kicks-off, riding into the air and straightening her body at the apex; gliding, on her decrescendo, swiftly through the open archway; letting loose the rope and landing on her toes, as deft as a housecat.
She scans the room, relieved to neither see nor hear other activity.
She strides to the nearest bookcase—the rightmost of the row—and removes a folded paper from the breast of her catsuit. She unfurls it, studying the shelves against the diagram depicted within. In a matter of seconds, she identifies a book, on the second shelf from the bottom, whose title corresponds.
She kneels before the bookcase—her leather creaking in delight—and she removes the book from its roost. Her fingers graze the ceiling of the shelf above as she reaches within, between literature, to the back of the bookcase, whereupon her fingers find something hard and cold: a brass key, retrieved from its wooden nook.
She takes the key to the desk and feels the underside of the oak tabletop, and the sidewall of the rightmost drawers—and there, in the woodwork, she detects a keyhole. Plunging the brass inside, and turning, a panel between two drawers pops-off the desk entirely, falling to the floor with a clatter. She looks up over the desk, and listens—but she hears nothing.
Within the crevice of the drawers is a small lockbox, which she removes, and she sets it upon the desk. Her hands go to her ear, fidgeting within the curtains of her autumn hair, and return with a pearl earring, which she sets atop the lockbox, beside the combination dial.
She leans close, over the lockbox—her hair falling around her face; her catsuit retaining the girth of her chest—and she slowly manipulates the dial, clockwise, with nimble fingers and gentle touch; her eyes glancing to her pearl earring before every click of the combination.
The pearl, upon a digit’s turn, shivers in a shift so minute—so imperceptible—that its bounce, tilt, and tick against the metal lid would go unnoticed by most men’s eyes and ears—but hers are trained for exactly this.
She turns the dial counter-clockwise until the same result, and clockwise again until the final click—the latch releasing. She pins her pearl back upon her ear and she opens the lockbox, pulling from it a small red leather journal. She flips through to the most recent entry and, with pen to the reverse of her folded paper, she reproduces the numeric strings found within.
Moonlight shines through the arch windows, from the southwest, casting bright reliefs of the windowpanes across the floor, streaking sidelong over the furniture, over her task, and over the silhouette at the far end of the room.
From the corner of her eye, she sees it, and she recoils—reaching on instinct to the tube clipped to her hip; dispensing with her thumb one shaved steel shuriken; flicking with great force the triskelion star, whose swift journey ends embedded in the center chest of the silhouette.
This hulking figure, however, does not waver. Instead, it takes a step forward, allowing the lunar light to be cast upon his grimace; his ebony skin appearing blue in the moonglow.
She strains her gaze, confirming her first impression, and her jaw falls in awe.
“Ajax?” she inquires, equally elated and dumbstruck. “What are you doing here?”
His brow crinkles and his composure falls aside, to wilting cheeks and sullen eyes. He turns his labored gaze to the shuriken lodged beside his sternum, and with a heavy hand he pulls it loose, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. He speaks through shallow breath, off the top of a broken voice, “Vanessa,” and he shakes his head.
She takes pause, and a step back. “What’s wrong, honey?” she croons. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He straightens his stance, returning his gaze to her supple visage; locking his eyes upon hers.
She sheathes one arm behind her back and extends the other, palm up and fingers free. “Come,” she purrs, “it’s been too long.” He fingers curl and riffle toward her, beckoning. “Let the Vixen take your troubles away.”
He inhales, deep, and his lips buckle; nostrils flare; eyes glow a sickly green. He shakes his head, in canted sweeps, and his deep voice trembles, “You know why I’m here.”
Her brow furrows and her lips buckle, plump against the other; dripping, sweet and venomous.
The ebony giant fumes, brewing old thoughts with new; seething and breathing heavy, heavier; sucking the air through his teeth. His shoulders roll forward as his jaw shakes and nostrils flutter.
Her eyes quiver, and a drum beats loud and fast within her chest.
The lump in his throat rebounds, expelling a soft despondent gasp beset by shuttered whimpers—the crack in the mountain face that guarantees its downfall; its disintegration into dust.
His brow dives inward as his mouth contorts into a sneer, parting; gaping, with saliva strewn between his teeth; horking fury and exhaling the lion's roar.
His body clenches—eyes locked, fists clamped, spine bowed—and he vibrates with such intensity that the room trembles, and the air around him glows a dark and sickly green.
Vixen stares ahead—paralyzed by dread—until the jolt of self-preservation awakens her. With a swift stroke, from behind her back, she flings an electric dart at Radiation Brother—sinking it into his abdomen; shocking and seizing his core; forcing him to his knees for only a moment, albeit a moment long enough for her to scale her rope out the open archtop, over the eaves, and up to the rooftop.
Radiation Brother rises to his feet, staggering, and roars; charges through the wall dividing the office from the hall—a blast of wood shards and plaster dust—and he charges still, through another into the room adjacent…
As Vixen rappels the northern face of the fortress, speeding down her long black cable, Radiation Brother bursts through a large arch window—a blast of shattered glass and wrought iron bars—and he leaps aboard her cable, grabbing it with bare palms and descending in pursuit; igniting the rope with his abrasive grip.
Her feet reach the concrete and she hastens to untangle herself from her cable. Looking up, she spies Radiation Brother, loose of the rope and plummeting toward her—and she dives aside as he craters the concrete alley, like a meteor in a desert valley, sending loosed stones and silt into the air. Vixen is thrown off her feet to collide with the far wall, graffitied and brick.
She awakens, dazed, from her concussion and attempts to upright herself, steadying on weak limbs and fractured bones. As her vision returns to a state of usefulness, she notices a silhouette opposite her: Radiation Brother rising, on the edge of his crater, caked in grey dust and otherwise unblemished.
She holds out her hands between them, as if to show she's unarmed. "Wait," she starts, "Ajax, I know you're upset…"
"Upset?" he bellows. "I am not upset."
She stiffens against the brick wall, feeling for the grout and trying to hold her head up.
"Heartbroken. Betrayed. Furious—but not upset."
"It's- it wasn't- I liked her, you know that! But it was an order; I had no choice, they would've-"
"You had choice!" he points, "You showed up; you aimed the gun; you pulled the trigger."
Vixen quivers. "I don't make the decisions anymore! They bought us out; my father's firm—the whole thing. They had a list of people that stood between them and the war, and Harmony was one of them." She leans-in, animated, and pleads, "I didn't want to, I swear! But I had to—I was on contract!"
"Contract!" he steps forward.
"It was just business!"
He roars, "Business!"
"Yes!" angry now, in her defense, "They have their hand in everything! They decide everything! If I wouldn't do it, they would've found someone who would—and they would've killed me, too! The choice was clear! Harmony was fated to die, whether by my hand or somebody else's!"
Ajax buries his face in his chest as his fists clench and his spine unfurls, arcing. His nose scrunches as his snarl deepens into a roar, and his eyes clamp shut, and his very molecules tremble as the air around him glows a dark and sickly green.
Her eyes widen, thunderstruck
, as he emanates a stark heat, pulsating off his glistening skin; quickening, burning, bursting in waves, rapid like a fetal heartbeat and shimmering ultraviolet; flickering like an aurora, dancing off his silhouette; undulating like an acid trip—the colors, the light, the heat, beyond comprehension—and he pours his pain into the night with a scream that stills the air.
Vixen leans against the brick wall, forced upon it by mass and fear, as the supernova before her begs to erupt—and she screams, but it goes unheard beneath the deafening rush of imploding particles.
Ajax opens his eyes, and in the apex of his ache there is light—total, unforgiving light—that sears the sky and swallows the earth, disintegrating mankind's monuments to ruins.
A ballooning plume a hundred feet high, and just as wide, of orange-tinted atmos, precipitated by the outward burst of a radial wave; a concussive tsunami of sound and energy, levelling the vicinity.
The dust of the atomized Federal Reserve Bank—and the adjacent corporate towers—rolls down the urban avenues like a prowling wall of fog, rising into the night air; disapparating among the skyscrapers of Wall Street, Broadway, and Battery Park.
Sirens blare across the island, echoing down the steel canyons; sounding their songbird horrors.
Perched atop a midtown tower, a gargoylesque figure stares south upon his city—his troubled soundscape; his moneyed wasteland, illuminated by a brilliant pillar of poisoned energy.
“Ajax Madison is dead,” he begins, lowering the lid of his cap. “He died two years ago, in the valleys of Vietnam. It was only his ghost that walked among us, until this night, when order restored chaos; when the Lord with a thousand eyes took his soul in her warm blanket, and his body turned to dust in the city that betrayed him.”
Bent inside his trenchcoat, and shrouded in shadow, the Dark Patriot pulls the drawstrings of his hood, burying his unshaven grey visage within.
“This city is a rathole—and now she’s screaming,” he grumbles. “Sirens pour through the streets like leaves fallen in a river, and we're caught in the undercurrent, obscured by sand and choking on garbage. I am the only- I have— And in this…” He pauses and, to himself, “Note: determine snorkel metaphor.”
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