Vigilante

by Robin Parrish

  “Thor,” said Nolan, after clearing his throat.

  Just that one word escaped from his lips. Nothing more.

  Hastings stopped short. His smile vanished, and he seemed to be stuck in place, unmoving, just staring. His lips slightly parted, as if words were on the tip of his tongue but couldn’t find an exit from his mouth.

  Nolan nodded in a mechanical way, his body still sore and weak. “It’s me, Thor.” He threw back the hood from around his severely damaged face, not even sure how much of it Hastings would be able to see in the room’s low light.

  “Nolan?” said Hastings, unable to accept what he was hearing—or seeing. “But . . . You—you’re alive?”

  “Here I thought you were smart,” replied Nolan. “All this time, it never once occurred to you that it could be me under this hood.”

  A hand came up to Hastings’ mouth, then traced upward to his hair, where it stayed. His head shook back and forth, and Nolan could tell his old friend was finding it impossible to swallow this. “It was you! All this time. It is you! Of course it’s you. . . . I mean, really, who else could possibly . . . But how?”

  For a long time Nolan had pondered what this conversation might be like. So far it was exactly what he’d expected. “The idea came to me during the war. Took a long time to plan it all out. The evidence at the murder scene, my dog tags, the billboards, Times Square. I’ve been working toward this for years.”

  Hastings was shaking his head again, but his hand finally fell to his side. “Why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you bring me in on this? I could have helped you.”

  “We both know you wouldn’t have,” replied Nolan, his voice even and controlled. “When we came home after the war, I watched you ride the sympathy train straight to Washington. I really hoped that you might do some good, make some real changes there, but it was clear pretty quick that you were being held back by the same bureaucracy as every other politician.”

  Hastings had left behind the shock of this revelation and was moving on to offended. “Nolan, do you even know why I entered politics? Why I wanted to be president?”

  “ ’Course I do. It’s the same reason I’m doing this. If I stop, evil wins.”

  Their pact was forged near the end of their imprisonment together. As the days and weeks became one big blur of pain and hopelessness, their captors devised inventive new ways of trying to break their prisoners. These despicable acts were designed to rob inmates of sensory input, nutrition, dignity, and even identity. A sort of theater was held in a large room within the prison, where every day a new batch of victims was brought forward. And when he and Hastings weren’t subjected to the tortures, they were made to watch as others were. Day in and day out. On and on it went.

  Some time into their second year of captivity, when several of their fellow army captives had already died, Nolan and Hastings were placed in a pitch-dark, freezing-cold isolation chamber together for three straight days, and they made a promise to each other. There, in the absolute darkness, they vowed that if they ever escaped from this hell, they were going to change things for the better, so that no one else would ever have to suffer as they had.

  But their promise went even deeper. They weren’t out to change laws or depose wicked rulers. It was an unspoken understanding between them that their real goal was to change people. Change their minds and hearts, so that wickedness would never take hold of an entire society again.

  “I gave you your chance,” said Nolan, pushing those buried memories back where they belonged. “That’s why I waited this long to begin. I only acted once it was clear that you weren’t getting results. Thor, you did your best and I don’t fault you for being ineffective. You’re buried inside a system that’s damaged beyond repair. So now it’s my turn. All you have to do is stay out of my way.”

  Hastings turned his head up to the ceiling as if searching for the words to say, written up there. He massaged his eyes for a moment before turning back to Nolan. “I can’t believe you let me think you were dead. I’m hurt by that. But I know the real reason you didn’t let me in. You know I don’t have your faith. It’s the one thing we never could find common ground on. You’re doing what you’re doing because you think God will reward you with an eternity of bliss after you die. But isn’t it better, isn’t it nobler and more selfless, to help others because you actually care about the suffering of your fellow human beings?”

  Nolan was fighting a rising anger. “I would think that as a politician, you of all people would know better than to try to speak a language you don’t know. I’m not doing this for a reward; I’m doing it because I care about others—because God does too. And hey—you not sharing my beliefs doesn’t invalidate them.” Another thought occurred to him, and he added it before he could stop himself. “God’s not responsible for what they did to us, Thor.”

  “He’s responsible for not stopping it!” Hastings shouted back, raising his voice for the first time. “If he’s real, and he’s as good and loving as you say he is, then why didn’t he prevent it?”

  Nolan fell silent and had to look away. Unspeakable memories that he’d worked to put aside for so long were threatening to rush to the surface. He swallowed them down with everything he had. “We survived because God was there with us,” he said, his words barely a whisper.

  Hastings was breathing hot air like a bull, a war going on between his mouth and his head. “Forget the faith stuff. Do you have any idea how much your funeral cost me? And I’m not talking about money! Do you know how much I sacrificed to give you the memorial I thought you deserved?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  When he didn’t elaborate, Hastings caught on and his gaze turned dark. “Oh, I see. You know how much heat I took for it, and you think that works to your advantage.”

  Nolan shrugged. “I didn’t plan it that way, but it’s convenient. You expose the truth about me, and the media will make you out to be the foolish president who spent taxpayer dollars burying a man who wasn’t dead. Your friends on the Hill will string you up. Face it: you have a lot more to lose than I do.”

  Hastings closed his eyes and swallowed a very long breath. “I always knew you were methodical, and you know I don’t disagree with what you’re trying to accomplish, but you can’t do it this way. You’re so far outside the system, you’re starting to make others believe they can do anything and get away with it too.”

  “Guilty people walk free if they have enough money, while the innocent suffer without any recourse. Your ‘system’ is a failure in every way. It’s tired and useless, and I don’t acknowledge it. I answer to a higher authority.”

  Hastings sighed again. “Nolan. We want the same things. I want to find a way to make them a reality just as much as you do. We’re on the same side.”

  “Are we really?” Nolan shot back. “Do we really want the same things, like absolute truth? Because I’ve seen the so-called truth your administration gives the people.”

  Hastings put up both hands in a show of capitulation. “The Vasko thing was a mistake. It wasn’t my idea—”

  “Your mistake,” Nolan interrupted, “was trying to pin it on me.”

  “Nolan . . .”

  “Having the support of a politician won’t help my cause,” said Nolan, his manner suddenly formal. “It’ll harm it. People don’t trust elected officials anymore, and rightly so. They’re all corrupt, all willing to do whatever it takes to get elected and stay in office. I know you’re not like the rest of them, and I know you’re genuinely interested in changing things from within . . . but, Thor, you’re still one of them.”

  Hastings’ frown deepened, and his tone changed. “You’re not leaving me with a lot of options here. I have the power to shut you down and I’ll use it if you make me.”

  “No you won’t,” Nolan said simply.

  Hastings blinked and had to take a moment to regain his footing. His next words came out at a lower pitch. “There are very few people in this world who would presume to p
redict the actions of the president of the United States.”

  But Nolan shook his head, his voice full of conviction. “You won’t stop me. You can’t afford to. Because with all due respect, Mr. President . . . my approval ratings are higher than yours.”

  Feeling a surge of both confidence and indignation, Nolan turned his back on his oldest friend and left him in the darkened room.

  40

  Filled with righteous anger, Nolan barreled past hotel patrons and staff, through lush hallways and a grand foyer, until he burst through a set of glass double doors to find himself on Park Avenue. He turned around and looked up at the old concrete building to see the glittering gold letters that said this was the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. If memory served, he was about five blocks north of Grand Central Station.

  His skin no longer tingled with the aftereffects of the shock, but it had become numb in various patches across his body. He ignored it.

  He was getting the usual stares and even a few cheers from pedestrians coming and going from the hotel, but he was in no mood for their blind adoration. He knew he needed to reset his earpiece and attempt to reach Branford and the others, to let them know he was okay. They were no doubt frantic by now at his lack of contact. Instead, he found himself just walking, aimlessly, for the first time in years.

  Nolan didn’t know whether he was going north or south, east or west, and it didn’t matter. Hastings could have had people tailing him right now in unmarked cars, but this he also cared very little about. If he kept at this for very long, people would start to swarm around him, asking for his autograph or just wanting to shake his hand. News crews would soon appear with ambitious reporters trying their best to get him on camera. Some more aggressive members of the police may even try to arrest him.

  None of it mattered. He just kept putting one foot in front of the other, never lifting his eyes from the pavement. Something about it felt good. A private moment of rebellion from all the rigid rules and strictures of this path he’d chosen.

  Every time Nolan thought of Hastings, he felt his blood pressure rise. Was it because the man had had the gall to trick him with a false emergency and then abduct him, just to talk to him? What was Hastings expecting to get out of the conversation? Did he think he could get The Hand to join forces with the White House in the war on crime?

  Seeing his old friend had brought back a rush of unexpected memories and sensations. For a moment in there, he had almost tasted the sour urine smell of the solitary confinement chamber from his captivity. He remembered the gaunt, skeletal features of Hastings’ face when he became ill while they were prisoners, his sunken eyes and withdrawn cheeks. He remembered the pain. The endless, endless pain.

  And it had reminded him of Hastings’ stubborn refusal to believe in God. Nolan had drawn on his faith as his only source of strength during those dark days, while his friend had denounced any belief in a higher power. Nolan credited God with their survival and escape; Hastings saw their suffering as evidence of God’s absence. Or worse, apathy.

  The two of them had been strict in their avoidance of arguments during their captivity. Disagreeing was a luxury they couldn’t indulge in; it would sap what little morale they clung to, and drain their energy.

  Things were different now. They had quickly drifted apart after their escape, as the unspoken disparity between them no longer had anything keeping it in check. Without a common enemy to focus on, suddenly their differing ideological viewpoints became all-important.

  Hastings was the leader of the free world. Nolan was a symbol of goodness and hope. He almost felt bad for not trying harder to rekindle the brotherly bond they’d had so long ago. They really did want the same things, and it wasn’t like Nolan had gone out of his way to embrace his old friend. Hastings was right: Nolan had kept him out of this, very intentionally.

  Nolan couldn’t shake the guilt he felt, even though he knew his reasoning for everything he’d done, for the decisions he’d made that had gotten him to that point, were sound. He and Hastings were different. They always would be. Even if their goal was the same, their reasons and methods would always be in direct opposition to one another.

  Thor will never be my ally, he concluded sadly, and suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks.

  There it was again. The sense that he was being watched.

  To his immediate left was a building made of stone, four stories high. Acting on instinct, he pulled out the grappler and aimed it straight up at the roof of the stone building. He retracted it at its top speed, and in a moment, he was standing on the building’s roof.

  Perched less than four feet away—and taken aback by his sudden confrontation—was the last person he expected to see.

  “You!” he spat. “What do you want?”

  OCI Agent Coral Lively blanched, wilting right there in front of him. She was wearing the same gray camouflage combat fatigues that Nolan remembered from that night at Vasko’s home, but had added sunglasses over her eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail.

  When she couldn’t manage to come up with an answer, Nolan lost his patience. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you.”

  “No,” she said. “Yes. Sorry, I—”

  “What do you want, Agent Lively?” he said, his words a challenge.

  She looked surprised, so he spoke again. “I know who you are, Coral Anne Lively. Thirty-three years old. Born in West Virginia, raised in D.C. Four years detective work with DCPD, followed by seven with the Secret Service. I looked you up.”

  Coral was speechless. Apparently she’d had no idea he possessed such resources.

  Nolan was growing angry again. “So, you’re keeping tabs on me so you and your boss can think up new lies to feed the media?”

  “No,” she said, finding her voice at last. “Nobody knows that I’m . . . I mean, I had no part in that decision. I filed a formal complaint—”

  Nolan paused. “Really? You put on record a dissenting opinion about an executive cover-up? Well, that got you off the president’s Christmas card list.”

  “My partner’s furious with me,” she went on. “But I didn’t sign up to defame and deceive.”

  “Good for you,” he said, and meant it, though he was still too angry for it to come out with sincerity. “Why are you following me?”

  Coral looked away. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t. I just—I was . . . curious. About you.”

  Nolan tilted his head down, ensuring that his hood covered his entire face. “Who I am doesn’t matter,” he said. “All that matters is what I do.”

  “It matters why you do it,” she countered.

  “Okay, then why did you shoot Vasko’s wife between the eyes?” he asked. He knew it was a cheap shot the second it passed from his lips, but she had it coming. And he was still in a foul mood.

  The blood drained from Coral’s cheeks, and her lips parted, but no sound escaped them. She took a step backward, and though she worked hard to fight it, Nolan was certain he saw one of her knees buckle for a fraction of a second.

  He turned his back on her and pulled out the grappler. “Go home, Agent Lively. And put some thought into a new line of work.”

  Nolan fired the grappler and left her standing on the rooftop alone.

  41

  Despite noise-canceling headphones, the din of Yuri Vasko’s newest toy still made his ears ache. A helicopter, previously owned by one of Vasko’s rivals, hadn’t been on his list of acquisitions, but when the Feds made their arrest—aided by a truckload of evidence provided by The Hand—the aircraft had become available at a bargain price.

  The chopper buzzed low over the Manhattan skyline, hitting the base of the altitude requirement for privately owned flying vehicles. This was supposed to be merely a trial run around the city, a chance for Vasko to try out his new toy. The pilot—a former employee of his arrested comrade, who basically came with the chopper—had warned him how dangerous it was to risk the wrath of the FAA by narrowly skirting
the legal boundaries this way. But Vasko insisted on being as close to the ground as possible, to facilitate a better view of the buildings, streets, cars, and people below.

  Since the vehicle’s takeoff, Vasko’s eyes had never strayed once from the view out of his side window. It was remarkable. How he wished that Lilya was experiencing it with him; she would have relished the contrast of the beautiful sun rising over the man-made metropolis.

  Instead, as ever, his only company was Marko, who was ignoring the view entirely and focusing instead on the accounting books he’d brought along.

  “With Flanagan in jail, his people have agreed to sign on with you too,” Marko said into his headset. “It’s astounding, really; your manpower and income have more than quadrupled in just under a month’s time, and they’re still rising. There’s barely anyone left—”

  Marko’s voice stopped. It didn’t trail off or fade away, it just stopped.

  Finally, Vasko thought. He’s put it together.

  Took him long enough.

  “Yuri, do you realize what this means?” said Marko with a dawning awareness. “Did you know this would happen? All of the others have fallen to The Hand or the OCI, and one by one, their remnants have sided with you. With you taking on so many additional resources, and your fame rising to such a measure . . .

  “There is no one in the city with the power and influence you have. You have risen to the top of the city’s crime syndicate. And the public still thinks of you as a sympathetic figure. You’re all but untouchable.”

  Vasko was expressionless, accepting this information as fact without comment. He continued to scour the streets below, searching, searching . . .

  “Did you know? Did you know this would happen?” Marko asked again, in awe.

  Vasko nodded, just once.

  It was a victory he’d seen coming weeks ago, yet he felt no joy over it. He’d hoped to derive pleasure from this rise to power, but it felt as hollow as his own insides. Tactically, it was extraordinary how the tragic events of his life had made it possible for him to reach this point, almost overnight. Even the efforts of The Hand were working in his favor, eliminating the competition one by one and making it easier for Vasko to reach the top.