Tracker had been involved with the near-disaster in New York. “I do the mission,” he said. “And God help us if Hope takes exception to it.”
Chester nodded. “May God help us,” he agreed. “Or else we would be screwed.”
Chapter Nineteen
There was a rap at the door. Lane looked up from his paperwork. It was Polly. She didn’t look happy.
“What can I do for you, Polly?”
“Who would you say is your best gunslinger?”
Lane scrunched up his brow for a moment, before tapping a button on his desk. “You got a moment, Shrake?”
“Just a sec.”
A moment later, the Sergeant appeared in the doorway. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Miss Polly would like to know… who is our best gunslinger?”
“Oh?”
Polly cleared her throat. “Remember how I said several months ago that I might have opened Pandora's Box?”
Both men nodded sagely. That had been an unpleasant conversation. Even General Kratman had come out of the room pale as a ghost. Anything that scared that man meant it was truly bad.
"I've come up with a prototype,” Polly told them. “And I need a tester.” She set the case down on the desk, spun tumblers, lifted the lid carefully.
Lane whistled in appreciation.
Von Shrakenberg's eyes widened noticeably before he found his voice. “Jackson. He’s the best with revolvers.”
He briefly related the incident at the range. When he was finished, Lane was smiling.
“Make it so, Sergeant,” he ordered. “Polly, the most, absolute most you are to tell Jackson at all, is that you need a tester for a new revolver. It can fire regular rounds, can't it?”
“Yes,” Polly said, “but I have no idea how bad the recoil …”
“Don’t worry about it,” Lane said. “Jackson’s a big boy. He’ll adapt.”
Polly nodded, then closed the case and walked out the door.
Von Shrakenberg closed the door behind her, then let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Take a seat, Sergeant,” Lane said, clinging to formality.
“I do believe I shall, sir,” Von Shrakenberg said, equally formally.
“I really hope she is kidding,” Lane said.
“She rarely is, sir.”
“I know,” Lane said. “That’s what scares me.”
He leaned back in his chair, trying to relax. “You think he’s ready for it?”
“Jackson looks like a troublemaker on paper, but that was the environment, sir,” Von Shrakenberg said. “He’s a good troop.”
“Explain.”
“He takes himself and his work seriously,” Von Shrakenberg said. “He has problems with anyone who doesn’t prove himself as dedicated as he is. Every Article 15 he has involves someone who hasn’t been deployed like he has. He’d have been promoted years ago if he managed to hold his temper. As it was, he’s certainly pushed the limits of outright insubordination right to breaking point.”
Lane frowned. “Remember the OPD General Kratman put his lieutenants through?”
“Vaguely, sir,” Von Shrakenberg said.
“Call Commander Sergeant Major Macintosh and tell him you need a copy of the program,” Lane said. “He’ll give it to you. Start implementing that with Jackson.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
“Learning curve is steep on this one, so stay focused,” Sergeant von Shrakenberg said, once the team had assembled in the briefing compartment. “Jackson—you were in New York a week ago; how much local knowledge did you pick up?”
“Enough to decide that the last ten Mayors had to have been insane to invite so many superhumans to their city,” Jackson said, after a moment. “And I memorised a couple of maps...”
The Sergeant snorted, then turned to face Lane. “Sir?”
“Team One will be deploying to New York this afternoon,” Lane said. He tapped a remote and a projector lit up. “Some of you already know this, but it never hurts to go through it again. We have an unregistered superpowered vigilante operating in New York.”
He clicked the switch and an image of a middle-aged black man appeared on the screen. “This gentleman used to be a registered hero in New York and a national hero, formally a member of the SDI’s overt team,” he said. “You won’t recognise him from the publicity shots because he always wore a mask. After he retired from the SDI, he acted as protector of Hell’s Kitchen; by day, he tried to bring young kids out of the ghetto and by night, he stopped drug smugglers and gangsters from operating on his patch. But he was murdered under mysterious circumstances two years ago.
“It wasn’t too long before the gangs started to push their way back into Hell’s Kitchen,” he continued. “The school this guy had convinced the city to establish became a hellhole, while the gym he funded with his own money was burned to the ground. Some of the smarter kids and their parents got out of the area, some by joining the military, but most of the rest never stood a chance. The murder rate in Hell’s Kitchen quadrupled over the last two years, mostly junior gang members and prostitutes who tried to bargain with the wrong people. In other words, Hell’s Kitchen reverted to type.
“The NYPD did nothing about the situation, for political reasons. Someone else, however, has been doing something, as you can see.”
He tapped the remote. A set of mutilated bodies appeared on the screen. They were used to horror, but this was extreme even when superhumans were involved.
“The NYPD were directed to this scene by a tipster and took the bodies back to the lab,” Lane said, ignoring the shocked reactions from some of his men. “They confirmed that a single man inflicted those injuries with superhuman strength—arms were torn off, instead of being cut with a blade. The NYPD were still flapping about it when they discovered the second set of bodies, and the third. It seems that the killer started with minor criminals and worked his way up to the local drug lords. And those were just the major incidents.
“It isn't anyone we already know,” he continued. “None of the registered superheroes operate in that area—and even if they did, they’d know better than to kill humans who couldn't stop them. No, what we’re dealing with is an unregistered superhuman who thinks that he can clean up Hell’s Kitchen by murdering all the scum in the area.”
Ron stuck up a hand. “Maybe it’s just me,” he said, “but this guy seems to be killing people who thoroughly deserve it. Shouldn't we be giving him a round of applause?”
Lane fixed him with a sharp glare. “We don’t know anything about this guy’s personal life, or his stability, or anything else we would need to register an active superhero,” he said, flatly. “We do know that he has no problems with killing people—how do we know what will happen the next time he feels like killing someone and there aren't any criminals around?”
His gaze swept the room. “The whole idea of superhero registration is to provide a framework for allowing superheroes to operate while upholding the rule of law,” he continued. “This guy isn't bringing the crooks into the police station or anything else that might allow the police to charge them properly; he’s simply killing them. If nothing else, it will be easy for the relatives to scream wrongful killing, if not outright murder. Finally, perhaps most importantly, if we close our eyes to this, we will simply encourage others to do the same thing.
“This guy isn't going after supervillains, as far as we can tell; all of his victims have been normal humans. There’s no legal grounds for extreme force, let alone killing the criminals rather than bringing them into the nearest police station. And New York probably wouldn't hesitate to deputise another superhuman and allow him to work in Hell’s Kitchen. Buying a gun is damn near impossible, but if you happen to be a dangerous superhuman New York will happily register you. No, this guy is deliberately operating while refusing to register—and that makes him a criminal. We have to take this guy down.”
Jackson nodded. He’d skimmed through
the superhuman laws in New York while waiting for Harrison to finish his second meeting and he'd been shocked at how lax they were. Registry was supposed to be a federal responsibility, but New York handled it directly and rarely carried out any background checks. Their status as the city of superheroes demanded that they attract as many superheroes to the city as possible and to hell with public safety.
“There's a second issue,” Lane added, grimly. “For the moment, the media hasn't gotten wind of this guy’s existence, but someone will probably leak from the NYPD sooner or later. Once that happens, the Mayor might have to ask one of his tame superheroes to deal with the problem, which might mean a superhuman battle in Hell’s Kitchen. We need to put this guy in the bag before a large chunk of New York gets destroyed.”
He passed the remote to the Sergeant and smiled, humourlessly. “Flight is at 1600, directly to our operating base outside New York,” he concluded. “Until then, our tame eggheads have some gadgets for us. Study them carefully; they might save your life.”
***
Jackson had seen Polly Hayworth from a distance, but he’d never had a chance to speak to the former CIA officer until now. She was blonde and alarmingly bubbly—and a genius with technology. From what he’d been told, she was one of the few technical experts who refused to allow the mysteries of superhuman biology to defeat her and worked constantly to devise new devices that allowed humans to stand up to superhumans. Some of her work had produced the M-22, although no one would tell him what had happened to the first twenty-one designs. He suspected that they had either not worked at all or hadn't worked outside the lab.
“From all the evidence, your target is probably a Level 3; he has strength, probably increased toughness if not outright invulnerability and maybe enhanced senses,” Polly said. Team One was standing in front of a long worktable, with her on the other side smiling at them. “We’ve always had some problems identifying the subtler forms of superpower, but this guy has good reason to be confident. Pretty much everyone he’s killed has had a rap sheet as long as my arm.”
She smiled at them, brightly. “So I think there’s a good case for him having super-hearing and probably super-sight,” she continued. “Problem with that is he will probably be vaguely aware of anything even slightly wrong in Hell’s Kitchen, including a bunch of musky soldiers from out of state. You pop up in the area, and he will either avoid you or assume that you’re assassins sent after him. Either one isn't good. There’s no sign that he can fly, or project energy, but he’s still deadly.”
Jackson nodded as she picked an armband off the table and held it up in front of them. “The Whisper,” she said, as proudly as if she was showing off her newborn child. “There’s a great deal of technobabble behind it, which you can read in the files if you like, but the idea is that they counteract your heartbeat and basically render you completely silent. No superhero will be able to hear you coming as long as you’re careful—and quiet. Use subvocal communicators only and hope that your target isn't sensitive to electromagnetic pulses.”
Ron frowned as he studied the device. “What happens if we speak normally?”
“Your target will probably hear you,” Polly said. She put the device down and leaned forward, still smiling. “It doesn't compensate so well for anything trending towards normal hearing, so keep your utterances subvocal. And if you decide to go out in the open, you may need to leave the devices switched off. Someone might notice a man without a heartbeat.”
Jackson scowled. “How do they process all that information?”
“Good question,” Polly said. “Let me know if you ever find out the answer.”
She took one of the devices and passed it to him. “More practically, it depends on the superhuman in question,” she added. “Some have had real problems dealing with a torrent of noise as their ears suddenly became superhumanly sensitive. Others...others seem to treat it as a subconscious processing problem, a little like 'woman’s intuition'.”
She rolled her eyes as the men chuckled. “I’m serious. They put the information together without realising what they’re doing, let alone how they’re doing it. All they get is the right answer, something they can’t justify to sceptical men.”
It sounded like nonsense, but Jackson had come to appreciate the powers of observation he’d honed in the Shooting House. The tiniest detail out of place could mark anything from an emplaced IED to an ambush right up ahead. It had been drummed into his head that anything could be important, even a faint change in the local environment, a hint of someone breathing hard...or even a smell reaching his nose. Everything had to be treated with great suspicion until they decided it could be safely dismissed.
“In addition...this guy probably needs to breathe,” she continued. “How many of you used to play paintball when it was first introduced?”
“We have the Shooting House,” Chris pointed out. “We don’t need to play paintball to get our kicks.”
“And we’d pick up bad habits,” Ron added. “Inflatable plastic walls do not provide good cover when your enemies are packing AK-47s, or superpowers.”
Polly laughed. “This is the X-23,” she said, producing a larger version of the M-22 from under her table. “You’ll notice that the ammunition magazine has been removed and replaced with a paintball container. Unlike regular paintball, this liquid is sticky as hell; get him in the mouth and he’ll find it damn near impossible to breathe. It’s also faintly radioactive”—she laughed as they stepped back—“so it can be tracked for several days by a UAV—and believe me, even a Level 5 superhuman would have problems removing it.”
Ron carefully picked up the weapon and examined it. “The last paintball gun I saw was pretty inaccurate,” he said, dryly. “I’d hate to depend on them in combat.”
“I’ve modified the shooter; instead of using a gas burst, it uses a magnetic accelerator,” Polly said. “I suggest that you don't clown around with it because the paintballs will be moving with colossal force. Anyone who gets hit with a paintball will take more than a painful bruise. You can probably use them to stick your target to the floor if necessary. I’ve also designed sticky grenades that should give you an added advantage, but someone with enough power could probably pull away half of the sidewalk before you managed to choke him to death. Watch yourselves.”
They went through the weapons drill quickly and efficiently. The X-23 seemed to work as Polly had insisted, although there were only three of them ready for deployment and the Sergeant informed them that they would be taking their normal weapons as well, just in case the new weapons didn't work as advertised. Each of them was outfitted with a Whisper device, one configured to their individual bodies. It was harder to test those without actually putting them into operation, something that would have to wait until they reached New York. The sensors couldn't hear them, but no one knew for sure just how capable the most powerful superhuman senses actually were.
“I could get to like these,” Ron said, after test-firing a sticky grenade. “You think they could be used against rioting assholes in the streets?”
“I think the lawyers would have a field day afterwards,” Chris countered. “But imagine using them as a hose, aimed at their legs. All of a sudden, they get gummed up and they can't escape, no matter what they do.”
He looked over at Polly, suddenly. “Is there anything we can use to free someone, if we got the wrong person?”
“I’m providing you with bottles of solvent,” Polly informed him. She smirked at the disconcerted operator. “I was wondering who was going to ask that first.”
She chuckled as she walked back to her desk. “In the event of you running out of solvent, an application of hot water will weaken the sticky glue, allowing someone to pull themselves free of the muck,” she added. “I’d suggest being very careful as the temperatures you would need are alarmingly close to boiling. Melt the glue on their feet and then cut away their clothing rather than trying to clean it. I wouldn't want to have to explain savage bu
rns to the lawyers afterwards.”
The next two hours passed slowly. Too slowly. Jackson spent it studying the maps of New York, in particular the layout of Hell’s Kitchen, as well as its history. They’d wanted to rebuild it years ago, according to the files, but New York had too many other problems to make the investment in time and commitment it would need to clean up Hell’s Kitchen. Besides, reading between the lines, Jackson had a theory that some of the city councillors were deliberately stalling. He couldn't think of any logical reason why, which puzzled him. One could normally count on politicians to do whatever was in their own best interest, even if it was diametrically opposite to whatever their electorate wanted from them. Perhaps they were buying drugs from the drug lords.
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