The two detectives moved into the apartment. Both kept their guns pointed at Tony as the heavily armed cop who had given the order gestured for his colleague to explore beyond the room. Behind, the male detective backed off a little, and started looking around the room. His companion's gaze never shifted from Tony.
"Where's Jean Ravenholt?" she asked.
Tony coughed. The question was something of a surprise. Apparently, they weren't here for him, they were here for… wait, what?
"You mean Jeannie? What do you want with her?"
The male detective paused in his survey of the room. "This your apartment, Mr Prosdocimi?"
Tony nodded. The female detective adjusted her grip on her gun. "We don't have time for this. Is she here? We'll turn this place upside down if we have to."
Tony's mouth twisted into a smirk. He just couldn't help it. He saw the reaction it provoked in the detective, one of surprise and suspicion, her head moving back a little as her eyebrows dipped together over the bridge of her nose.
Three guns? Easy.
"Something funny?" asked the male detective, casually stepping closer.
Condescending prick.
There was a cry from the kitchen. Tony turned to see the armored policeman return to the front room, machine gun in one gauntleted hand, the other wrapped around Jeannie's upper arm. She looked pissed, but didn't struggle.
The female detective adjusted her aim, moving her gun from Tony to Jeannie.
"Jean Ravenholt, aka Blackbird, you are under arrest for murder, conspiracy to commit murder, terrorism, conspiracy to commit terrorism, treason, conspiracy to commit treason…"
"Blackbird?" Tony interrupted the detective's recitation of charges. Nobody spoke. The detective's eyes flicked up and down Tony, standing barefoot in pajama bottoms and black T-shirt.
"Somehow I don't think you're the Cowl, but we're taking you in as well. We have you on CCTV from the California Cooperative Bank."
Tony ignored her, and took a step forwards. All four guns instantly moved in his direction. The policeman who had used the battering ram appeared in the apartment's doorway, his own gun now raised.
Tony glanced sideways at Jeannie. Her demeanor had changed, her face now white, eyes wide, her whole body trembled gently in the policeman's grip. Tony's expression had turned from surprise to anger.
"Tony, it's… I…"
"You're Blackbird? You're the Cowl's bitch? What the fuck, Jeannie? Please tell me she's full of shit." He jerked his head towards the female detective.
Jeannie took a step backwards. Tony watched the fear spread over her. Things began to make sense: her schedule of training, her mysterious job, how she had access to the tech required to make his Justiciar costume. All of it. It all made sense. Clearly his new superpowers – which, somehow, she must have had a connection with – including gullibility and falling for any old made-up shit.
Tony clenched his fists and Jeannie flinched. Tony saw the look in her eyes. She was afraid, not of the police. Afraid of him. She knew what Tony was capable of now.
Huh. Superpowers. It had to be her. This might have been a strange city where weird shit could happen, but it couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Tony shook his head, amazed that he could have been so blinkered.
The male detective sniggered. "Hold on, lovers, save it for the station. Officer?"
The first armored policeman stepped towards Jeannie, unhooking a set of powercuffs hanging from his belt as he did so. The restraints were wide manacles, complete with mini keypad control and winking LEDs, and had been developed by Hephaestus for restraining superpowered criminals. Given that Blackbird and the Cowl were the only two left, and had been for a couple of years, Tony realized this must have been the first time they'd be used in quite a while.
Tony kept quiet, ignoring the cops, and returned his stare to Jeannie. A hundred emotions coursed through him: anger, jealousy, love, and fear were just a selection.
"Tony, we need to get out of here." Jeannie's voice was low, not a whisper, but quiet and slow, emphasizing each word clearly so there could be no misunderstanding. "I know somewhere we can go," she continued. "I can explain everything."
Tony just shook his head. The cop with the cuffs paused, then raised his gun again and took another step forward.
Jeannie looked at Tony. Her eyes were wide, pleading, but otherwise she seemed calm.
"Please, Tony. Please."
"Enough already," the female detective snapped. "Let's go."
"Fuck you." Tony's hands flew towards the cop with the cuffs. One hand grabbed the gun, the other the man's forearm. He flicked upwards, bending the gun barrel and snapping the man's hand almost off. The policeman screamed and hit the floor on one knee. As his helmeted head got close to Tony's right knee, Tony kicked outwards, sending the man careering full across the apartment to slam into the wall. The man slumped in the corner, and didn't move again.
One down.
The two less-protected detectives stepped backwards as one, towards the front room's large main window. Showing years of ingrained police training, they raised their pistols in unison, and after a perfunctory warning shout, began firing, not even pausing for surrender. At the same time, the cop in the doorway opened up, sending high caliber rounds two at a time, almost experimentally, perhaps realizing that Tony was no ordinary civilian but unsure how much punishment he could take. The one holding Jeannie spun her around and forced her to the floor on her front, shielding her with his own body.
The bullets were hitting Tony, there was no doubt about it. In a few seconds his black T-shirt was torn and smoking. He took a moment to focus on the hot water tapping on his skin as the slugs were compressed to molten slag, and dripped off, burning away his thin clothing as they did so. The pistol rounds were surprisingly sharp, but felt small, like someone flicking his skin with a fingernail. The automatic weaponry packed more of a punch, each burst of paired bullets more like being hit by a fast-thrown tennis ball. He closed his eyes, counting the shots, nostrils flaring as the tangy smoke from the burning cloth of his top curled around his face.
The detectives stopped shooting first. Sensible. The woman was on a radio. Standing ten feet away, Tony reached out with one arm, and the radio's plastic casing split in the detective's hand before the device was wrenched from her grip and tossed against the wall.
They really weren't prepared for anything like this, Tony thought. As he accelerated towards the cop in the doorway at half the speed of sound, he considered how botched the raid had been. They clearly lacked any more operational intelligence than a basic connection between Jeannie, Blackbird, and − somehow − Tony's apartment. Blackbird was only moderately powered, and they'd come with powercuffs and small arms. That was it. Which meant they had no idea that the Cowl's girlfriend was also shacked up with the Justiciar. They had no clue who Tony was. The female detective had recognized him from the CCTV footage, but there had been something in her eyes, a sign of sudden recognition, of hesitation. They hadn't been expecting him.
Tony brought his arms up and hit the policeman with his own body at Mach 0.7 before stopping almost instantly. There was a surprisingly loud and wet crunch as the man's chest imploded, his head thrown back and helmet knocked clean down the corridor with the force of the impact. Tony spun and flicked out three globes of blue plasma, the force of their impact sending the policeman's burning body after it.
"Tony!" Jeannie's cry for help refocused him. He was beginning to enjoy himself, but he snapped out of it. Destruction was addictive, it seemed.
Already the male detective was radioing for superpowered assistance − Tony swore as he realized he'd overlooked the second detective's radio − and there was a very real possibility that the officer pinning Jeannie to the floor would get nervous and not look when he started shooting.
Tony took three steps forward, his bare feet sticking slightly to the melted carpet which had been seared an inch into the floor by his burst of superspeed. The officer was ly
ing directly on top of Jeannie. Without a second thought he reached down, grabbed the man by a booted ankle and, swinging him directly upwards, embedded him in the ceiling. He was still moving, so Tony pulled him back down, snapped his automatic weapon clean in half, and broke his neck in one clean sequence of moves. Dumping the body, he carefully helped Jeannie up, concentrating on winding his superstrength down so he didn't throw her across the room too.
Tony looked Jeannie in the eye. She smiled, looking almost apologetic. Tony sighed, and shook his head. The cops had got it wrong, there was no way Jeannie was the Cowl's dumb bitch. No way.
Right?
"We have to leave," she said at last, quietly. Tony nodded.
The pair turned around. Behind them, the two detectives had retreated into the corridor, but if help was on the way, the front door was not the best exit. Tony turned, glanced around the apartment, and decided on the main windows that led out to the street below.
"Mr Prosdocimi," called the female detective from the corridor. "I don't know who you really are or why you're protecting her, but Blackbird is wanted on multiple counts. We need to take her in, to stop the city being torn up. It's just one step from her to the Cowl."
Tony smiled. "You really don't know who I am?" He looked at the wrecked bodies of the two armored cops. Smoke curled around the apartment's front door as the body of the third continued to smolder out of sight.
"You're not one of the Seven Wonders," she said. "You're not the Cowl either."
Tony puffed his chest up and addressed the empty room.
"How do you know I'm not the Cowl? If I'm shacked up with Blackbird…"
There was a sound from the corridor. Tony turned his hearing up and caught the end of a whispered conversation between the two detectives. The Seven Wonders, apparently, had acknowledged their call and were on their way. Then the female detective answered Tony's question.
"We know you're not the Cowl, Tony."
Jeannie pulled on Tony's arm, but he shook it off and glared at her. So he wasn't the Cowl. Well, he'd be something else. Something worse.
"And how do you know that, exactly?"
The detective's snort echoed down the corridor. "Come on. You're too short, too young, just for starters. Don't flatter yourself."
Tony's lip curled. "You're right, detective. I'm not the Cowl. I'm the Justiciar."
There was a pause. Tony had hoped for some reaction. The silence was insulting.
Then the male detective spoke up. "The Seven Wonders are on the way. All of them. Give it up before they teach your sorry ass a lesson." The words were slightly braver than their delivery.
Jeannie grabbed Tony's arm again. He flinched, irritated at the interruption to his thoughts. He was calculating an escape, working out whether the detective was right or not. Maybe he was… it would only take a second to kill the pair, evaporate them with a plasma blast perhaps, but if that second was enough for the superheroes to arrive, they'd be finished. So much for becoming the Eighth Wonder. In his haste he'd killed three police already. But… he'd had to, hadn't he? It was necessary, to control the situation and to stop them all making a big mistake, thinking that his girlfriend was Blackbird.
A… mistake, right?
He turned to Jeannie.
She looked him in the eye, and nodded at the window. Tony grabbed Jeannie in a bear hug that buried her head in his chest and under his arms, and exited the apartment via the apartment window. The force of the impact tore half of the exterior wall open as well.
The Justiciar and Blackbird made their escape.
Detectives Sam Millar and Joe Milano gingerly walked back into the apartment, now half in the open air. The pair stood there, unmoving for a moment, then lowered their guns. Sam ran to the hole in the wall in time to see Tony and Blackbird speeding across the sky. Then the wind from the opening changed direction and caught her hair, pushing it in front of her face. She brushed it away, and gasped. Floating in the air outside the apartment were Aurora, Bluebell, Linear and the Dragon Star. Aurora's arms were folded and his face set as he floated forward, stepping onto the apartment floor, the others following. Sam stepped back, giving the team room and trying to get away from the heat of Aurora's rippling corona.
Joe slapped his thigh. "Gee, thanks for coming, but you're too late!" He waved at the partially demolished wall in frustration. "Pardon me for saying this, Mr Aurora sir, but Blackbird and that new creep with superpowers just took off, and you don't seem to give a shit. You should be chasing after them right now!"
Aurora stepped closer to Joe, his gray hair swimming with agitation in the plasma that flared off the top of his head. Still his mouth was set in the expression that wasn't quite a smirk, his eyes empty white ellipses in his half-mask. Now the context of the conversation had changed, Aurora didn't look quite as friendly as the noble leader of San Ventura's finest should.
"Don't worry, Detective Milano," the superhero said after a beat. "Hephaestus and SMART are tracking the felons, and even now are moving to apprehend the pair with Sand Cat." He glanced at his team, then turned back to Sam and Joe.
"I think, detectives, we need to talk."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Humility.
Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven.
He'd hidden during the day, afraid of being seen, afraid of the fact that it was all out of control. He'd seen the headlines on the newspaper displays on nearly every major street corner. Geoffrey Conroy had vanished: medical leave, a mystery illness, the famous businessman was in Mexico seeking alternative therapies or had gone to Canada to seek a renowned doctor.
He knew he couldn't be seen, so he'd kept a low profile, waiting for the night. The night felt comforting, homely somehow. He wanted to see the city at night. In the meantime, he sat in the shade behind a closed-down factory and said his prayers and counted his rosary beads until the sun went down.
He'd made a mistake, taken the wrong path. But he knew there was hope, somewhere, deep down. Hope, forgiveness, salvation. And then justice and punishment.
But it was… the right thing.
It was after midnight when Geoff Conroy found himself in Moore– Reppion Plaza. Someone said something and he scooted to one side, realizing too late that he was walking far too slowly along a sidewalk that was bursting with life despite the hour. A drunken hen-night swaggered by, ignoring him completely, while a not-so-drunken couple power-walked across the street, heading in the direction of a tall parking garage. With Conroy out of the way, the traffic on the sidewalk picked up the pace appreciably, and the street itself was as busy now as on a Saturday shopping morning. San Ventura was a big city. It was called "night life".
Conroy knew all this. Most of his work as the Cowl took place under cover of darkness, usually in a seedy corner of the city populated by freaks and crackheads and police patrol cars nervously crawling the curbs. But not always. Sometimes an audience was important – you couldn't instill fear if there was nobody to see. He'd loosed killer robots on San Ventura's club scene back in 2009. Just last year, Sand Cat had uncovered Blackbird mapping the sewer system under Maass and Decker, and their fistfight had exploded into the middle of the Gaslight Quarter at ten on a Friday night. The Cowl had cruised in and forced Sand Cat's retreat, but he remembered the sizeable bar crowd out in the street, jeering and hooting at the superpowered catfight.
But this… this was different. People walked, talked, ran, sat, laughed, drank, ate. People were noisy. People were quiet. But all of them were getting on with their lives. None of them, as far as he could tell without superhearing, were talking about the Cowl. None of them wondering where the next attack would come from. None of them were looking over their shoulder in fear. None of them were creeping slowly under the brightly lit streetlamps.
Business − life − as usual.
And the Cowl realized just how wrong he'd got it.
He thought he owned the city.
Ruled it. He was the country's number-one terrorist, a home-grown superthreat. People feared him. Even the Seven Wonders were too scared to take him on, content instead with a policy of appeasement, happy to let him get on with his business, and only limiting his more audacious schemes. As Geoffrey Conroy, billionaire industrialist and charity king, he was known among the city elite, although not quite famous enough among the general populace for anyone to take that much notice here. A few heads turned here and there as they passed him, but the newspapers said he was out of town and the stock photo they'd used of him was a few years out of date. And besides, everyone was more concerned with their drink, or the next club, or to get home, and it was more likely they were just glancing at a guy in an expensive linen suit counting rosary beads absent-mindedly with one hand, rather than the sick Geoffrey Conroy. Just another weirdo, albeit one with better taste in clothes than most.
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