“Those reports are unverified,” said the press secretary. “Next question.”
An elderly woman from the New York Times stood next. “If the Organized Crime Intelligence had no involvement in the disaster that took place at Yuri Vasko’s home, then do the police have any leads on who was responsible?”
The press secretary shook her head. “Any and all leads the police are exploring are of course confidential, lest we tip off the persons of interest. As I said in response to the last question, we have no concrete evidence as yet, but reports of a mysterious individual on the scene during the destruction of Vasko’s residence are mounting. The president of course condemns any and all unlawful vigilantism in this nation. Regarding Mr. Vasko’s home, citizens with information about the events of that night are urged to report what they know to their local police—whether it involves any rogue crime fighters taking the law into their own hands or not.”
36
Ellerbee,” started Lynn Tremaine. The word came out in the only tone of voice she possessed, which made Agnes think of the mew of a bored Cheshire cat. “Your Vasko piece was . . . adequate.”
Agnes blinked and was unable to hid her surprise. Praise from Lynn Tremaine was a rare thing. At least she thought it was praise.
“How so?” she probed her boss, turning off the computer screen in front of her. She’d just noticed—to her great shock—that the number of people following her on her favorite social network had jumped to over a hundred thousand in just a few hours’ time. This morning, she’d had fewer than four hundred followers.
“Apparently, it was good for the paper. Though personally, I found your use of the tragedy to launch a screed against The Hand, to cast doubt on his motives, the kind of grandstanding that gives journalism a bad name,” said Tremaine. “But I was just informed that today’s edition had a circulation seven times our normal volume, and reader response has been off the charts. The office switchboard has sustained a maxed-out call volume all day long.”
Agnes couldn’t believe it. It was true she had taken the Vasko assignment and used it toward her own ends. But she wasn’t trying to denounce The Hand; she merely wanted to provide some balance to the unending praise that the rest of the media so willingly awarded him. Objectivity was the bedrock by which journalism operated, yet somehow it didn’t seem to apply to The Hand because of his apparent good deeds.
“Well,” she said, struggling to find an appropriate response to her boss, “that’s great news. Thank you for telling me.”
When Agnes turned back to her desk, Tremaine didn’t move. “There’s something else.”
Of course. There was always something else.
Tremaine cleared her throat. “The board of directors has instructed me to give you your own weekly column. You will follow The Hand’s activities and provide a different . . . perspective . . . from what other journalists write. Congratulations. You’re getting a 15 percent raise after your fourth column is published.”
Agnes was doing somersaults inside but had to try not to show it. She couldn’t resist letting a gloating smile escape, though. This couldn’t have possibly come at a better time, now that she was making real progress at unmasking The Hand.
Tremaine stood, scowling at her.
“I’ll expect your first piece in my in-box Friday morning,” said Tremaine. “Also . . . you may want to watch your back. Your article is popular because it’s provocative, but it’s not particularly endearing. Not to the public—or to your co-workers.”
Tremaine made her exit.
Slowly, Agnes rose to her feet, just enough to look over the top edge of her cubicle. The newsroom was bustling with activity, looking just like every other day she’d worked there. The three or four dozen other employees were working at their desks or zipping about to and fro. She didn’t spot a single person giving her the evil eye or wringing their hands maniacally with wicked grins on their faces, plotting her downfall.
She sat back down, relieved that her life was not in immediate danger. Suddenly, a dozen or more wadded up balls of paper were lobbed into her cubicle from all directions, and Agnes ducked. When the paper rain ended, she picked up one ball that had landed just behind her keyboard and flattened it out. In big black magic marker, a single word had been written: SELLOUT.
She balled it back up and threw it out of her cubicle in a random direction.
Whatever. She had work to do and a column to prepare. She already knew what her first column would be about: the scars on The Hand’s face. But first, she would need a little more to go on. . . .
And this was just the beginning. If her job was to provoke, imagine the response when she made the world-exclusive announcement of The Hand’s true identity.
———
Two hours and one bribed prison guard later, Agnes was sitting across a reinforced glass window from a man named Chas Graves. Graves was a recent addition to the inmate population, courtesy of The Hand.
And as Agnes suspected, he was only too willing to talk about what he’d seen of the crime fighter.
“His face—it was just wrong,” said Graves into the phone receiver. “Like it had been through a blender.”
Agnes tried to play cool her level of interest, but inside she was celebrating. “How much of his face were you able to see?” she asked into the phone.
Graves held up a hand and held his fingers apart about an inch. “His hood covers most of it. But what I saw was pretty nasty.”
She nodded and noted what he’d said so she could quote him in her article. Then she pulled out her phone to update her social network status.
“So did I help you?” Graves asked. “What are you going to do with this?”
Agnes dropped her phone back inside her purse and looked up into the criminal’s eyes. “I’m going to tear that hood of his off.”
37
Thornton Hastings leaned back, resting his tired bones in the comfortable plush leather chair that only the president was allowed to sit in. It lived behind the enormous wooden desk that he’d picked out for himself shortly before he’d taken the oath of office.
The Oval Office was empty at this late hour save for the standard Secret Service agents stationed outside. He felt a little silly being here in his long robe and pajamas, and wasn’t even sure why he’d walked all the way down here in the middle of the night. Other than his inability to sleep.
The latest edition of the New York Gazette was all alone on his desk, having already been read cover to cover. He picked it up again and turned it over to find the column on the bottom of page one. There it was. “The Hand That Hides the Face,” by Agnes Ellerbee. A piece about the scars that some claimed were visible under The Hand’s hood.
He didn’t particularly like the tone of the article. It was diplomatically written to appear to showcase both Hand supporters and detractors, but he’d been in politics long enough to recognize a veiled attack. Maybe something about The Hand had gotten under this Ellerbee woman’s skin. Maybe she was just using him to advance her career.
But then, if that’s the case, she’s not exactly alone. Is she.
Hastings knew that it wasn’t like he was doing any better by this selfless hero of the people. He’d signed off on the equally passive-aggressive attack that his press secretary had fed to the media a few days ago, calling into question The Hand’s character by linking him to the “mysterious” figure behind the destruction of Yuri Vasko’s home. It was a calculated lie, pure and simple.
What kind of man did that make him?
He’d done it for the greater good. The OCI stood a better chance of taking down the major players in modern organized crime than any other government agency in recent memory. If the OCI was no more, millions of Americans would pay the price, suffering under the boot of mob bosses, drug cartels, even homeland terrorists.
Was one good man’s reputation worth sacrificing if it meant saving countless others?
He folded up the newspaper and threw it in the garbage.
After staring at it there for a moment, he searched his desk for the remote control. With a single button, a large TV appeared behind the wall to his left and swiveled to face him. Instantly it blinked to life, already tuned to a twenty-four-hour news network.
He wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or not that Agnes Ellerbee was the topic of conversation among a roundtable discussion of four journalists and pundits. A heated debate was unfolding on the screen as two members of the panel ardently disapproved of Ellerbee’s “attention-grabbing” work, which they said was written “solely to sell newspapers.” The other two showed stronger interest in what Ellerbee had written, suggesting that a balance of skepticism and integrity was healthy for journalists—something that many members of the media seemed to have forgotten when The Hand appeared on the scene.
The show’s host returned to the screen, interrupting a spirited round of discussion. “We’ve conducted a new poll among New Yorkers, in which the disparaging comments of Ms. Ellerbee’s exposé article are the primary focal point. I’m sure it will interest all of our panelists to find out that the vast majority of those polled—89 percent—said that Ellerbee’s articles had no impact on their opinion of The Hand. A separate poll indicated that The Hand still commands a positive opinion from an astounding 97 percent of New York natives. This is effectively the same level of approval the hooded crime fighter has maintained since he initially appeared on the first of July. So it would seem that the New York Gazette’s article—as well as the implied accusations of the White House—has had no discernible effect on The Hand’s popularity.”
Hastings let out a short burst of air that was almost a laugh. Whoever he was, this Hand guy wasn’t just bulletproof, he was scandal proof.
But he was actually relieved that the OCI’s ruse had had no impact on The Hand and his standing among the people. It was proof that he should never have signed off on the idea. Trying to connect The Hand to the disaster at Vasko’s house was a bad call from the start, and Hastings had felt it in his blood. He should have trusted his instincts and put a stop to it before it started. That sort of political maneuvering was not appropriate for the kind of man he was, and not for the kind of president he was elected to be.
Maybe he should take a page from The Hand’s playbook and just be good. In every way, in everything he did. Never let anyone talk him into compromising. Not ever.
Maybe Hastings could do even better. This Hand guy had done so much for the people of New York—and the entire country, as the numerous Hand copycats popping up all over the nation were proof of—and had asked for nothing whatsoever in return. Instead of gratitude, the police and even the FBI had labeled The Hand an unlawful vigilante and were incessant in their attempts to find and stop him.
That was one thing Hastings had the power to do something about.
38
Nolan descended the stairs into the beautiful bronze interior of Grand Central Station’s main concourse. The vaulted “sky ceiling” seemed impossibly high, and the famous four-sided clock at the very center of the concourse was instantly recognizable.
He’d been there before, of course, but while he appreciated the historic architecture and grandeur of it, at any given time the big open space could be filled with so many people it was difficult to get from one spot to another. He didn’t imagine he’d ever get past the claustrophobic panic that so many people in one place caused him. Another gift from his merciless captors during his overseas imprisonment.
As always, he changed the subject to compartmentalize those emotions. “Zipping around the city is quite a rush, but it’s very demanding physically. Maybe I should have a motorcycle. Or a car.”
He heard Branford hmph in his ear. “Don’t you dare tell me you want Arjay to make you a Handmobile.”
Nolan scanned the area, hoping to pass with a minimum of attention. Not an easy thing to do when you’re dressed like a battle-ready monk.
“It’d make it a lot easier to get around New York,” he replied. “Wouldn’t have to constantly be hitching rides on trains and such.”
“You honestly think it would be easier navigating through New York traffic?” Branford deadpanned.
Nolan smirked. “Yeah, maybe not. So where was this big ‘public disturbance’ you mentioned, again? Because I’m not seeing anything.”
“Lower concourse,” said Branford. “That’s what the police dispatcher said. You’d better hurry, they’re almost there.”
Some kind of public demonstration had been called in to NYPD, and the caller claimed it was nearing riot proportions. Something about a union dispute with the subway drivers. They’d been delaying trains, and the natives who relied on the tightly kept schedules were growing agitated. Several people had already been trampled, and the crowd was getting angrier by the minute. The local terminal cops were horribly outnumbered.
The big staircase at the back of the hall led down to the lower terminal, and Nolan sprinted toward it as fast as he could, ignoring the stares he drew. A few flashes even went off from pedestrians with cameras, but he sped past them all.
Suddenly, he drew back and froze. He turned and looked back up at the top of the stairs, and for a second, he thought he’d caught a glimpse of someone watching him. It was an afterimage, the last moment of someone already turning away from him and then disappearing from sight.
It might have been his imagination. But it was the second time he’d felt this pair of eyes on him; the first was at Coney Island. He wanted to turn around and run back up the stairs to find his mysterious stalker, but there wasn’t time. Someone was going to get killed downstairs in this angry riot if he didn’t get there fast.
He’d stepped off the last stair when something jabbed him in the head from behind. His fatigues lit up and surged with electricity, and he lost consciousness.
———
Drifting in and out, Nolan caught snatches of imagery as the world passed by. He was in a subway tunnel of some kind, a smallish one that the public didn’t seem to be using, in some kind of old fashioned–looking rail car. There were at least a dozen men in black suits standing around him and throughout the car.
But why was his hood still up around his face? They’d gone to all this trouble to acquire him but didn’t care to find out who he was? Not that seeing his mangled face would help them all that much, but still.
The train zoomed through the narrow tunnel, but the ride didn’t last long. He wanted to move, to act, to escape, but his body was tingling, nearly numb and unwilling to respond. It felt like every inch of his skin had been fried by lightning; he half expected to look down and see his body smoking from the massive current.
He knew he’d been hit with some kind of electricity, and somewhere in his memory he had a vague recollection of Arjay saying something about how graphene was a highly conductive material. If someone had hit him with a Taser from behind, they wouldn’t have realized his suit would carry the charge. Whatever it was, it had apparently knocked out his communications as well, so he was unable to hear Branford in his earpiece. Imagining the old man frantic over losing contact with him was a worrisome thought, yet one that also gave him an odd chuckle.
Now he was being carried—or rather dragged—by the arms, by a pair of large men in black suits. The others walked in tight formation behind. He wasn’t in the subway anymore; he was in some kind of small underground tunnel that was just wide enough to accommodate him and his two escorts. It was decorated with sconces on the warm-colored walls, and ornate burgundy carpet.
When next he awoke he was riding in a gold-colored elevator with five of his captors. He was relieved to notice that he was regaining feeling throughout his body now, but he kept up the ruse that he was unconscious. That he could take all five of these men was not an issue. But whoever these guys were, they’d gone to a lot of trouble to abduct him—was that public disturbance at the train station even real?—and he had to at least find out why they’d done this before making his escape.
The elevat
or stopped and the doors opened to what looked like a hotel hallway, with numbered doors on both sides.
The other half dozen or so men joined up with the ones surrounding him, and as one, they carted him inside an empty hotel room, where they dropped him on the carpet.
Nolan dared to raise his head—lazily, to keep up the appearance of being incapacitated—to get a look around, but it was dark and without his glasses he was left staring at shadows.
He guessed they had brought him there to wait on whoever had ordered his abduction. But Nolan had no interest in such games. It was time to pounce, to turn the tables and get some answers.
As he coiled in a heap on the floor, ready to spring, a single lamp in the room was illuminated and the suits filed out without warning. Not a word was said between them; they simply moved as one to the door and exited. All but one of them—a man Nolan hadn’t noticed before, who was also wearing a suit but looked decidedly different from the others.
Standing as the remaining man walked toward him from across the room, Nolan found himself staring into the face of President Thornton Hastings.
39
Nolan fought to maintain his equilibrium. He made a show of brushing himself off so that it would be clear he didn’t appreciate the way he’d been treated. If Hastings wanted to meet The Hand, that was fine, but did he really have to do it like this?
Frankly, the thought of Hastings discovering his identity was of no concern; he’d always assumed that his old friend would find out the truth sooner or later.
“Hello,” said Hastings, smiling. His voice was carefully modulated to sound light and jovial. “I want you to know that you’re not under arrest, and you’ll be free to go when we’re done here. I just thought it was time you and I met. Forgive the less than cordial welcome. Our Tasers apparently interacted with your . . . costume in an unexpected way. This was the only private way that you and I—”
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