Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3)

by Ben Bequer

  Then his face went dark with rage and he leaned forward, using the shadows and lighting for maximum effect.

  “We’ve made certain corrections,” Brutal said. “So it’s not likely to happen again. And those that took such delight in putting me away…well; they’re not so cocky now, are they? Most are at the other end of torture session that didn’t go their way.”

  He leaned back, waving off another drink offered to him, and adjusted his tie.

  “Sorry,” he said, with a playful glee. “Even I get mad. I hear you get very mad, too. I would give anything to have been a fly on the wall when you put down Lord Mighty. I know, you think I’m mad at you. I’m not. I just regret not having been there to see it. To see his big stupid face in the last few minutes, as he was slowly bleeding out,” he said, growing more and more impassioned as he went on, his voice culminating in a near climax as he finished.

  Brutal waved to his off-camera assistant and was handed a curved item that at first I couldn’t identify. The video had moments of blurriness as he shifted to receive the item, but after sitting back in the lights, he held the item up for the audience to see.

  It was Mighty’s jawbone.

  “I still have my trophy,” he said, his voice twisting into childish glee.

  He mocked eating with it, making munching noises, then smiled and tossed it off camera at his aide.

  “I was going to thank you for that one, Blackjack. I mean, you spared me a nasty little tumble, and as you probably know now, Mighty wasn’t the nicest guy in the world.”

  He shook his head and reached for a cigarette. The aide came on camera, lighting it and walking off. “Thanks, darling,” he said, and took a few drags. “Anyway, I was going to be nice, but this shit you pulled in Brazil isn’t so nice. I have plans, okay? Step one is to deal with the rabble that frothed at the mouth when bad old Brutal went to jail. I’m almost done with that one, just one little bastard that’s tricky to find. But after that I have plans, you see? And I can’t have you and your stalwart team mucking them up.”

  He smoked in silence, careless in each pull from the cigarette, blowing the air up into the lights and delighting in the smoky patterns that formed.

  “I don’t like doing this, Blackjack, but I have to threaten you and your family. It’s the only way to make sure. An agent of mine will be in the open courtyard of the Sofitel Legend in Amsterdam twenty-four hours from now. My agent will be there for one hour and if you come, they will make contact with you. Come alone,” he said, suddenly serious then just as quickly returned to a whimsical tone. “I won’t be alone, but that’s only because I need people to open the doors and drive me around and whatnot,” he giggled. “If you come, we’ll figure this thing out between us once and for all.”

  “If you don’t come,” he said, still lighthearted. “I kill your brother Jason. And his wife. And his two daughters. And his maid. And their two King Charles Spaniels.”

  Brutal stared at the camera, smiling, and took a long drag, again toying with the smoke.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said and the footage cut out.

  I noticed Bubu was looking at me as if I was holding a live grenade.

  “Great,” I said. “Like we have time for this.”

  “You have to go,” he said, closing the video window.

  I walked away, returning to the lab. The stupid printer was still sitting there, churning out my maker machines, slow as hell. I had no time for distractions, regardless of the threat. Haha was after me, probably well on his way to finding out my plans, and this relic from a forgotten age was playing stupid games with my life. Threatening my brother, of all people. It was an unwritten rule that you didn’t fuck with civilians. Then again, it was all over the news these days, heroes and their families getting dragged out of their beds late at night by their former nemesis, murdered in the street.

  Bubu came into the room, his eyes on the dusty floor, as if he was trying to find the words.

  “I know,” I said, heading him off. “I have to go.”

  “You have to,” he said. “If he has your bro, you have to.”

  I thought of calling my brother, to make sure he was okay, but we’d lost touch along the way. We didn’t talk any more. Last I’d heard, he was living in mid-America, reaping the benefits of wise investments during the dot-com bubble with a wife and kids. I’d have to do a search to find him, all the while knowing that Haha would have his place monitored.

  “How can I get to Amsterdam as fast as possible, with the least fuss from the authorities?”

  Bubu leaned back against the arm of the couch on the far wall, thinking. I could always use my new rocket boots. They were fresh off the printers, but the throttle was touchy – initial acceleration was faster than a catapult on an aircraft carrier. I’d also stand out like a sore thumb on radar.

  “Private jet,” he said, after long thought. “Anything else will draw too much attention. Passports, visas, papers.” He paused, looking at me, noting the concern on my face. “Romania is in Europe, bro, but it’s like Africa sometimes with all the bullshit. But a private plane can fly out easy. And we find a small airport near Amsterdam and bribe the people there.”

  “Okay,” I said, returning to the task at hand.

  “Bro, if you want to get to Amsterdam in…” he looked at his watch. “Nine hours, we have to go right now. Go pack your shit and let’s go.”

  “I don’t need to pack anything,” I said.

  “Well, I do. Unlike some people, I like to look good.”

  I stood and tossed the wrench I was using on the table. “You’re not going.”

  “Why?”

  “I need you to keep an eye on things,” I said, heading out the room. He stepped in my way.

  “Keep an eye on things,” he said. “Come on! Who’s going to steal all this?”

  I smiled and patted his shoulder, “This is Romania, Bubu.” I walked past and up the stairs, heading for a bath and a new set of clothes. In a way, I hadn’t been straight with Bubu; I did need to pack. In my downtime working on the second printer, I had tested the first by making the boots, but also printing what I needed to build some of my old gadgets. Whether it was Haha or Brutal, I wasn’t going into any kind of confrontation in my current condition unprepared.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bubu almost cried as I boarded the Gulfstream jet he’d procured for me. He actually came onto the plane, helping me up the ramp as an excuse. I could have managed fine, but I let him guide my bulk up the steps and into the plane. I was bringing a small bag, including a few toys and my laptop and intended to use the four hour flight to run through the whole plan and put the final touches on the code for my private network.

  My Romanian friend was taken by the touches of leather and polished mahogany in the plane, and I almost had to forcibly remove him when the pilot came back and told us he was ready. The plane belonged to the Parliament of the country, borrowed for the day or so it would take me to get to the nearest regional airport to Amsterdam and back. Borrowed without his knowledge, or that of his security detail. I was starting to like Romania more and more.

  “You be careful, bro,” Bubu said, as he was about to step off, making the final moments a bit more awkward since the pilot was right there to close the door.

  “You too, honey,” I joked. “Remember you’re in charge while I’m gone.”

  He nodded and stepped back as the pilot swung the door closed and locked it.

  “You ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, and headed back for my seat.

  * * * *

  Bubu made Lala pack aluminum foil wrapped sandwiches and bottles of water, and a few hours into the flight, I realized why. The only people onboard were the pilot and I, and while I had a ton of space in the back for myself, there was no one else aboard to serve me food or drinks. The pilot’s name was Stellian and his English was impossible. He put the plane on autopilot at one point and came into the back cabin to use the bathroom,
noticing my rolled up sandwiches and sat in front of me.

  “You mind,” he said, motioning to the stack. There were a dozen of them, splitting at the seams from the meat and cheese Lala had stuffed them with, and I had intended to eat them all.

  “Go ahead,” I said, and he speared one and went to work.

  We talked a bit, as much as was possible, and he made it seem like arrival in The Netherlands would be a breeze. The plane was from the Romanian diplomatic fleet, which would help getting me in and out with as few questions as possible. To his credit, Stellian knew I wanted to be alone and left me soon after he finished his sandwich. I gave him another for the trip and reached for my laptop when he was gone.

  * * * *

  I spent the majority of the flight researching Brutal but the information was scarce, strange given all the sites devoted to supers. What I got were vague reports of him being tough, with some wild powers, but no eye witness accounts, no after battle reports. Nothing. Then again, he had spent the last twenty-something years in jail. His heyday was pre-internet.

  Stellian announced that we were arriving soon and I suited up with what I had so far. My boots, a belt harness loaded with gadgets and my special combat gloves, the right one with a harpoon hook, and the left with an electrified charge connected to a battery pack along the back of my belt. I threw on my suit jacket and strapped in for landing.

  The plane touched down, steering to a small waiting area where a customs van was waiting. A woman stepped out, her face pinched from the cold as the breeze tugged at her thick coat, and came up to the plane just as Stellian threw down open the doorway and dropped the electrical ramp.

  The customs agent came aboard, pausing at the doorway.

  “English,” she asked in a singsong voice. The nametag on her heavy coat read ‘Neuens”.

  I nodded.

  “Paperwork?”

  Stellian was ready and handed them over. The picture on the entry request was a badly overexposed photocopy. It was definitely me, but would baffle pretty much any facial recognition software. The customs agent studied it, her lips upturned in a condescending smile, mumbling to herself in Danish.

  “This will be five thousand dollars,” she said. I had the money ready in an envelope, and handed it to her.

  The woman counted, and pursed her lips, putting the money in her coat pocket before stamping my paperwork and returning it to Stellian.

  “Enjoy your stay, Mister Steanescu,” she told me, using my alias, which we borrowed from the Prime Minister of Romania’s eldest son. I didn’t want to break character and tell her that Petru Steanescu was only nine years old, though I doubt it mattered with the five thousand weighing heavy in her pocket.

  I grabbed my wool coat and a small haversack and headed out.

  A taxi brought me to downtown Amsterdam, almost an hour from the airport, and I arrived at the hotel with only thirty minutes to spare. He was sitting in the interior courtyard, a moody lit modernist-decorated affair, every table filled with hushed couples or families.

  Brutal was hard to miss, standing as I was escorted in, wiping his mouth as he waved me over.

  “You are almost late,” he said, motioning for me to sit. The maître-d pulled my chair and threw the napkin on my lap. A glass of water sat at my space on the table, condensation sliding down to pool around its base, drenching the tablecloth. He was having dessert, a large ice-cream sundae with whipped cream and melted fudge lathered all over.

  “You didn’t give me much time,” I said, sipping the water.

  “Oh really? Well, you were in Brazil a few days ago, making a mess of things. And this morning, was it Beijing? That’s what the news is saying. I know, you’re going to feign innocence, but we both know better.”

  This close to him, his dossier started coming back to me. During those periods when Retcon was either in prison or taking his meds, Brutal was one of the big boys. He tried the global domination track in the seventies, with Lord Mighty swooping in to oppose him. Sometimes he tangled with Valiant or Nostromo, but Lord Mighty was his guy. Their last fight had left half a city block in shambles, but Brutal had been captured and dumped…somewhere. There was never a good take on his power set, only that they were energy based.

  “There’s another guy out there, pretending to be me,” I said as plainly as I could. The waiter came over, and I ordered a salad and the scallop entrée.

  “That’s what you expect me to believe?”

  “Or come at me,” I said.

  I had to project strength, make him believe that I was at my best, or I was dead. He did nothing and I let a fiendish smile play on my face. “I didn’t think so,” I said. “Anyway, I hear this place is the best in town. It would suck to break the furniture.”

  His face wavered near full menace, and a moment later he winced. “Actually, the food here is as atrocious as the wine list. I’ve been better fed at a Jack-in-the-box.”

  “Ah, what I’d give for one of those greasy burgers just about now,” I said grabbing a piece of bread and stuffing it whole into my mouth, chewing with a big grin. He was off his game, tossed there by my bravado, now I had to go for the kill.

  “So now that you know what’s what, let’s make sure you never threaten my people again. Are we clear?”

  “About that-“

  “No,” I snapped. “I want your assurance that my brother and his family won’t be touched.”

  “Listen-“

  “It’s you that’s going to listen to me, bud. I don’t take to threats. You’re an old-timer, – yeah, I know all about you. You might look like you’re twenty, but that’s the effect of the power. It kept you young. You’re smarter than this.”

  “Can I say a single word?”

  “Start with ‘sorry’,” I said.

  He smiled and dipped his spoon into his desert.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I am and I apologize for the threat. It’s not my thing. Honest.” There was a lilting cadence to his delivery that was disarming. I could never tell when he was finished speaking. “But this ‘other’ Blackjack keeps trying to ruin my plans.”

  I shrugged, waving the waiter over, “So kill him. I don’t care. It’s not my problem.”

  The waiter ran over. “Yes, monsieur?”

  “My order will be to go.”

  “That’s not true,” he said and looked over at the waiter. “The gentleman will be eating with us. I’m not done with you.”

  “I don’t see what else there is to talk about.”

  He chuckled, taking a sip from his wine. I didn’t know whether my façade was holding, but it was my only play against a guy like this.

  “Say this is all true, and there’s another one of you running around causing me all these problems, then it all reflects poorly on you.”

  I opened my arms wide, “I don’t care anymore. I’m done with the whole business. I found a nice little cave in the side of a mountain in Afghanistan and I’m hanging up my cape. You and your kind can go play villain all you want.”

  “I don’t believe you, Blackjack,” he said. “Not for a minute.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  “Well, I’m starting to believe the doppelganger part,” Brutal said, going back to his ice cream. “But not the part about not caring. I mean, there’s the girl, after all.”

  “Apogee?”

  He smiled, pointing the spoon at me.

  “She despises me.”

  Brutal laughed and swirled his ice cream around, mixing the components.

  “That’s not what I hear,” he said. “If not for Senator Asshole, she would have demanded an audience with the court at The Hague. Imagine the power of having Apogee speaking at your trial the first time around.”

  “Senator Asshole?”

  “That’s what I call him,” he said, waving his spoon dismissively. “Theodore Jonas Ashbourne. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. To be accurate, he was a state-Senator from your state of Michigan for six years, then U.S. Senator fo
r five terms. Co-author of the Wattley act with Glen Allan Wattley, Senator from Delaware. Founder and head of the NAS, the National Administration for Superhumans during the Reagan and first Bush administrations. He has since retired from public life and is presently Chairman of the Steering Committee of the Bilderberg group. Oh, and lest I forget, he is also a founding member and for a time, head of the Trilateral Commission.”

  Brutal sat back and dipped his spoon into the mashed ice cream, bringing the dripping mess into his mouth. “I like mixing it up like this, first, then, when it’s almost a soup, that’s when I eat it. Ever since I was a little boy. Though I didn’t get many chances at it, you see.”

  I was about to speak but he jumped in, “I wasn’t born to privilege. I’m Irish, originally, if you haven’t guessed. I hide the accent, but it’s there, always there. I can’t escape it any more than I can escape the streets of Dublin.”

  Indeed, the more he talked, the more agitated he got, the more his Irish flair emerged.

  “Now, Senator Asshole was. His father was Justice Asshole, from your United States Supreme Court. His mother was Miss Asshole from the oligarchs of Park Avenue. They weren’t just entitled, they were guaranteed success. It wasn’t enough for them to have everything, but they also have to assure themselves that we would never have anything. That we are all beholden to them, like slaves. Even the supers. And why should we bend a knee to some fool just because his father was respected. Why should we fear them when it’s they who fear us?”

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with me,” I said.

  Brutal giggled with a mouthful of ice cream. “Ashbourne,” he said. “That name sound familiar?”

  “You’re saying that Senator Ashbourne is something to Pulsewave?”

  He nodded, enjoying the moment. He’d been preying on my ignorance since I sat down, setting me up for this. Now the web was unraveled, ensnaring me without my knowledge.

  “Father and son,” he said. “I wish I had been there, the day he found out, just to see the stupid look on his face when they told him – the man who is most responsible for the fascism against my people – that his own son was one of us. That his boy was a monster like you and me. You think they knew he was one of us? I hope not.”