Jackson nodded, slowly.
“The operators have spent years in the military honing their skills,” Ron continued. “Doesn’t matter if they started out in the Army, or the Air Force, or the Navy—they fought hard to gain the right to call themselves operators. There have been training courses where the entire input never completed the course. They are the best of the best...the ones who won’t quit, no matter the cost.”
He snorted. “How pleased do you think they are when they hear about superhumans with enough power to make them little more than insects?”
Jackson considered it as they returned to the safe house and joined the others around a map of the local area pinned to the wall. “One of our sources volunteered the news that there will be a meeting between Los Gringos and two of the surviving leaders of FTS tonight,” the Sergeant said. “Apparently, the losses FTS has taken have weakened them to the point where their enemies see a chance to move in and take their territory—never mind the fact that they have all been targeted by our mystery friend. The two leaders will basically pledge themselves to Los Gringos and become subordinates, rather than be wiped out in a gang war. There will be enough money and drugs thrown around to guarantee that most of their subordinates stay loyal.”
“Not for long,” Chris predicted, cheerfully. Criminal it might be, but the drug trade had a great deal in common with any other business. There were only a limited number of buyers—it didn't help that drug addicts had a high mortality rate—and the more competition there was, the worse for individual sellers. The gangs had been competing with one another like any legal business, with the added ability to actually fight their enemies directly. It wasn't good for the leaders—fighting tended to risk losing profits, and lives—but the thugs on the street loved it. They got more profit that way. “Sooner or later, one of them will realise that they’ve betrayed their race and start a civil war.”
“Not our problem,” Lane said. He sounded more amused than unhappy about the fighting. “Our friend is likely to be there; killing the leaders at a truce meeting will probably start an all-out gang war. So we’re going to be there, too.”
His finger traced the positions on the map. “We’ll deploy around the area with the new weapons—but keep the old weapons, just in case,” he added. It wasn't a necessary order, Jackson knew; they’d all keep the old weapons until they knew how the new ones performed. “When our friend arrives, we move in and take him. Any questions?”
“Yes,” Ron said. “What about the gang soldiers? They’re bound to have men there to defend their leaders.”
“If they get in the way, eliminate them,” Lane ordered. There were no objections. “If they run, let them go. They’re not our problem.”
Chapter Twenty-One
This, Jackson thought, is fucking eerie.
Moving through hostile territory was a classic military skill, one hammered into his head at Camp Pendleton and then honed in Team Omega’s Shooting House. The enemy controlled the terrain, forcing the good guys to keep their heads down, avoid contact and make their way to friendly territory. He’d read stories of pilots who’d done just that in the Second World War, along with stories of deep-penetration raids in Vietnam and operations in Korea back when North Korea’s attack had caught the United States by surprise. But he’d never imagined having to do anything like it in the United States itself. The whole concept of American territory being invaded and occupied was absurd.
They sneaked through Hell’s Kitchen as night fell, keeping their distance from any strangers on the streets. Most of the population seemed to hide inside as soon as night fell, leaving the streets to the gangs; even the prostitutes slipped into their brothels and caught what sleep they could before the sun rose and they had to be back on the streets. The handful of people they saw were all gang members, patrolling their territory...utterly unaware that eleven men were sneaking past them. They might have called themselves soldiers, but half of them were so drugged up that the entire 1st Marine Division could have marched past them in full fighting order and they probably wouldn't have noticed. Jackson wondered what his Drill Instructor would have said about anyone taking drugs while on duty, and suspected that facing an outraged superhuman would have been safer.
He checked the bracelet he wore as they moved closer to the gangland meeting point. According to the live feed from an orbital satellite, it was a crumbling Italian restaurant that had seen better days—and probably dated all the way back to Prohibition, when the Mafia had taken the opportunity to expand into a global criminal network. Jackson rolled his eyes at the thought; by banning something just about every American wanted, the government had given organised crime one hell of a shot in the arm. There was an uncomfortable comparison to be made to the drug trade, although at least that was somewhat less dangerous than Prohibition. Maybe if they taxed drugs instead of banning them, the DEA would have much better luck tracking down drug smugglers. At the very least, it would put them out of business.
The number of watching gang members grew larger as they approached their destination. There were several different ways to escape the restaurant on foot, they'd noted as they went over the data, probably explaining why the gang leaders had chosen it as their meeting point. It wouldn't have mattered; if Team One had been on an assassination mission, they could have taken out everyone and slipped away in the confusion. Perhaps striking down gang lords would help keep the scum under control, but Murdock had probably been right. Get rid of one leader, and another would take his place the following day.
“Take your positions,” Lane ordered, subvocally. They’d practiced endlessly with the subvocal communicators, both to keep their voices below a whisper and to ensure that they didn't accidentally make unwanted comments over the network. “Beta Team; inform me as soon as you’re in position.”
There was a blocked alleyway behind the restaurant, one that the guards seemed to have overlooked despite the piles of rubbish and human waste dumped there. It didn't seem to have occurred to them that someone could scramble up a pipe on the other side and climb down—and that someone didn't really need military training. Jackson smiled as he lowered himself into the rubbish and carefully slid into the shadows, relying on his uniform to hide him from any brief checks by the guards. The light-absorbing material would make him virtually invisible in the darkness. Ron joined him a second later and took up a position behind a dumpster. They’d be ready to assist Beta Team the moment the superhuman showed himself—assuming, of course, that he did show himself.
“I have an eyeball on two of the FTS bastards,” Chris said. The snipers had slipped up onto the rooftops, as per the plan; insanely, the gang members didn't seem to have considered the dangers of people hiding on the roofs. There were professional assassins who used similar tricks to get close to their targets. “I think they’re coming in now.”
“Good,” Lane said, softly. “Keep watching them...”
“Got the Los Gringos dudes on the other side,” David added. The other sniper had taken up a position directly opposite Chris, ready to pour fire down onto the superhuman from two directions. “My, this must be serious. I’ve got their number two guy in my sights.”
Jackson smiled to himself. If nothing else, the sensors some of the team had scattered about should provide proof that New York could use to charge the gangsters with involvement in criminal activities. Or would the DA object on the grounds that the evidence didn't have any fingerprints on it? He listened as the gangsters exchanged insincere greetings and entered the building, vanishing out of sight. Absently, he wondered how good the food was. It would probably be excellent, if it was patronised by gang leaders. If someone had the nerve to stay in the middle, in what neutral ground there was between the four gangs, they would be able to make a killing. Probably literally...
“Some of the soldiers are getting a little antsy,” Chris reported, twenty minutes later. “None are actually fighting, but they seem to be worried for some reason.”
“No hono
ur among thieves,” Lane observed. “Is there any reason they’re antsy?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” Chris said, slowly. “Maybe it’s a racial thing?”
“Could be,” David said. “My lot is doing it too—and they’re running extra patrols of the side streets. We may need to move if they come in closer...”
“Keep us informed,” Lane said. “Can you get anything from inside the building?”
Jackson winced, inwardly. They’d planned on the assumption that they might be discovered, but if they had to fight their way out they’d almost certainly blow the operation, as well as leave a large number of bodies behind that would have to be explained to the NYPD. Maybe Team Omega’s superiors would cover the whole thing up and blame it on the gangs.
“Negative,” Druid said. He’d been charged with monitoring the gang lords, something that had been made more difficult by the fact that they’d been unable to get bugs into the building. “They have the place sealed up tight. Even bouncing a laser off the window doesn't get me anything.”
Jackson tried to relax as time crawled by. No military force could remain on alert forever, no matter what politicians or the media claimed. Team Omega had plenty of experience with stake-outs, but even they tended to lose their edge as the hours wore on. How long did it take to hammer out an agreement between gangsters? Or had the negotiations broken down in violence, with everyone outside unaware of the shooting? There was no way to know...
...Something was wrong. He lifted his head, uneasily aware that something had changed, but unable to pinpoint it. Ron seemed to be having the same problem; they shared a puzzled glance...just before something rocketed past them at astonishing speed. Ron was knocked to the side as it passed, running directly towards the restaurant. Jackson hit the emergency switch as the backwash struck him, pushing him against the wall. How the hell had the superhuman done that? Had he simply jumped the blockade, or...?
There was a thunderous crash from the restaurant. The superhuman had apparently crashed right through the glass windows and into the building. Jackson heard guns being fired as the gangsters attempted to defend themselves, only to be outmatched by the superhuman. He pulled himself to his feet, the sense of wrongness still nagging at him as he checked on Ron.
Then he saw it. The shadows were moving.
It was so strange that he stared at it for a long moment, finally realising that parts of the shadow were darker than the rest of the alleyway. It seemed almost intelligent...and then it reached out to him.
Jackson stumbled back, fear howling at the corner of his mind. Normal superhumans were understandable; this was...utterly outside his experience, or anyone’s experience. Something alarmingly solid caught his leg and yanked him forward; he crashed to the ground. Before he could regain his equilibrium, he was dragged forward.
He fired into the shadow, but nothing happened. The bullets weren't even bouncing off away; it was as if they were being lost in the shadow. He could die, trying to grapple with an insubstantial enemy ...
Then a thought struck him. He pulled a flare off his belt, just as the shadow seemed to grow teeth and fangs right out of Alien. There seemed to be a thousand mouths lurking, ready to devour him once he was pulled inside. He unhooked the flare and threw it into the shadow, praying he was right. He put his hands over his goggles as the flare detonated. Even through his hands, the whole area suddenly seemed as bright as day.
There was a scream, one torn from a young female throat, and the pressure on his leg suddenly vanished. He staggered back, his goggles adjusting rapidly to the light, and saw a slight humanoid form prostrate on the ground. The burst of light seemed to have crippled her in some way; he pulled himself to his feet and staggered over towards her. She was young, her skin so black that it seemed darker than the night itself. It wasn't normal at all...Jackson stared at her tormented face and realised that she was barely on the verge of becoming a teenager. She couldn't be any older than ten.
He keyed his communicator, cursing himself for his oversight. “Sir, there’s two of them,” he said, grimly. “One of them appears to be a young girl, with powers”—he hesitated; it sounded silly, even in a world where the insane was commonplace—“with powers over shadow. She may be a teleporter as well; that’s how the superhuman got in without being detected.”
The girl seemed too young to be dangerous, but he remembered the mouths within the shadow and knew that he could take no chances. He pressed a capture tap against her neck and injected her with something that should keep her unconscious until they could get her into a secure room, if there was any way to keep someone like her secure. It was extremely difficult to keep teleporters prisoner; the only way anyone had found to hold them permanently was to implant a tracking device in their skulls. Once she was completely out of it, he secured her arms with a plastic tie and stood up. She would have to remain there until they could pick her up and leave the area.
“Captain, the gang soldiers are coming in,” Chris said, over the communicator link. “I think they know something’s wrong.”
Lane didn't hesitate. “Take them out,” he ordered. Jackson could hear the sounds of the snipers opening fire, mowing down the gangsters before they realised that they were under attack. “Beta Team: go!”
The former restaurant was coming apart at the seams. A body was thrown through a window—Jackson recognised, barely, one of the people in the NYPD’s files—and crashed to the ground as Beta Team raced forward, taking up positions around the restaurant. A moment later, the top of the building started to cave in as flames started to appear at the rear of the building. The kitchen staff must have been hit badly, Jackson decided, as he checked on Ron. His friend was already waking up. The armour had taken the brunt of the impact as he’d been knocked into the wall.
“I’m fine,” he grunted, as Jackson helped him to his feet. He caught sight of the girl and stared. “Who the fuck is she?”
“Our friend’s mystery partner,” Jackson said. The vigilantes had planned well, he had to admit; they’d come in from a direction the gangsters had known was blocked and sealed. Team One had used it as a position for the same reason. “Keep an eye on her. She nearly dragged me into the land of shadows.”
The restaurant finally collapsed as the superhuman jumped up and right through the ceiling, landing in front of Beta Team. He was a tall black man, with a more normal skin tone than his partner, with the same exaggerated muscles as von Shrakenberg. Judging by his tight-fitting outfit, he was a natural superhuman rather than someone who’d escaped from an underground lab and turned to crime-fighting. The later Batman movies had a great deal to answer for.
“Put your hands on your head,” Lane snapped, from his position. The superhuman didn't move. “You are under arrest for violating the Superhuman Activity Regulatory Act and...”
The superhuman threw himself into the air and came down on the edge of the alleyway. Beta Team opened fire at once, catching him with the paintballs that the engineers had devised. Jackson watched as the superhuman started to move faster, trying to scrape off the glue before it hardened enough to capture him. He saw the girl lying at the end of the alley and stared in horror, before rounding on Jackson and Ron. Jackson braced himself as the superhuman hurled himself forward, only to be caught by the glue on his legs. He stumbled to the ground, and struggled frantically for several minutes before the glue finally hardened enough to hold him prisoner.
“Let me go,” he said, finally. At least he didn't seem to have any eyebeams or any other way of projecting energy towards moving targets. “I need to help her...”
Lane came up as Beta Team fixed restraints on the superhuman and prepared him for transport. “As I was saying, you're under arrest for violating SARA; in particular the ban on unregistered superhuman activity. You will also be charged with vigilantism and several dozen cases of assault and murder. Do you understand me?”
The superhuman stared at him. Up close, it struck Jackson just how young he was, almost cer
tainly not old enough to drink or vote. Oddly, he looked more decent than most of the people in Hell’s Kitchen, decent enough to make Jackson wonder if he lived somewhere outside the area. But why would someone from outside care about cleaning up Hell’s Kitchen?
The intercom buzzed. “Boss, we have major trouble,” Chris warned. “I think the gangs are going to war. There are several groups fighting along the border lines...”
“Get the vans in here,” Lane ordered. He looked down at the superhuman. “Do you understand what I’ve told you? You...”
“And your sister,” Jackson injected. Apart from the skin tone, the girl looked remarkably similar to the boy.
“And your sister,” Lane said, “will be charged under SARA by the SDI. I am obliged to warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you at your trial.”
The superhuman shook his head, but said nothing. He didn't even break his silence when the vans arrived; he was loaded into the lead van, still covered in glue. His sister was loaded into the second van, where the medics checked her and warned the team not to inject her with anything else for at least two hours. Capture drugs were intended for adults, not girls. An overdose could kill her.
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