by CW Lynch
Able watched, drifting high above the scene, as the nose section tumbled downwards, bouncing off the wall of the casino and stripping away chunks of neon lighting and masonry before crashing into the street below, trailing debris with it. A wave of heat and pressure lifted Able upwards again as a second explosion, hidden from view, sounded. What little remained of the roof swelled upwards like a boil and burst with a gout of smoke and flame.
And, with that, it was over.
Screaming, burning, and sirens were what came next. But that was always what came next.
The Magpye had arrived.
ONLY ONE OF US IS GOING BACK
Taylor took the stairs three at a time, racing up the stairwell, Garrity huffing and puffing somewhere in his wake. "Hey, psycho! You know you're running towards the fire, right?" shouted Garrity.
"So are you," replied Taylor. Garrity heard it, right there in Taylor's voice. Excitement. It was the most frightening thing he thought he had ever heard.
"And the freak, you're running towards that freak?"
Taylor stopped at a door, his hand on the handle.
"You'll always be small, Garrity, you know that? It's because you lack vision. You lack clarity. You're a street rat with a badge and that's all you'll ever be."
"And what are you going to be?" asked Garrity, finally catching up with his sometime nemesis. "Cane's successor? You screwed up the night you let the freak escape from the pit and you know it. You've been marked, Taylor. You're a dead man walking."
Taylor smiled. That strange, otherworldly smile. A smile from another place, a place where smiles meant something different.
"A dead man walking. That's funny Garrity. Because that's kind of the plan."
Taylor pulled his suit jacket off, revealing a string of explosives stitched to a concealed holster. A small detonator was flashing, right over Taylor's heart.
"Holy shit, Jack, are you fucking crazy?"
"Perhaps I am," said Taylor. "Or perhaps I'm the only person who seems clearly in this whole thing."
Garrity backed away a few steps, back down the stairwell. He was a natural born survivor, but anyone would have been able to see that explosives, fire, and a total sociopath like Taylor where a bad combination.
"What the hell are you going to do?" asked Garrity. "Blow yourself up?"
"Oh, that's just the start," said Taylor. "I've been doing some reading and, well, let's just say I've got my eyes open now."
From beyond the door there was a sudden report of gunfire. Taylor twisted the handle and cracked the door. More gunfire, shouting, and the sound of breaking glass poured through.
"Are you coming?"
"Screw this," said Garrity. "Screw you, screw Cane, screw this whole fucking scene."
"If he sees you've run he'll kill you on sight," warned Taylor. "And if I see you again? I'll kill you too. Slowly."
"I'll take my chances," said the fat, piggy cop. "Right now, I think you've all got bigger problems than me."
Garrity turned and ran down the stairs as fast as his fat legs would carry him. Taylor wasn't above shooting him in the back, he knew that, but he guessed right that he was so far down on Taylor's agenda he wasn't even worth a bullet. Behind him, he heard the door slam, and the muffled sound of more gunfire. Maybe they would all just kill each other, thought Garrity.
"Nah," he mused to himself, "I ain't that lucky."
SHOOTERS
Aided by Magda and Zip, Able drifted on his parachute down the far side of the casino. Searchlights pierced the sky and fire trucks were already arriving down below. Cane's dirty cops had set up a barricade, blocking even the fire-fighters for now. Able wondered if Cane had them in his pocket too, if the whole thing was an elaborate pantomime for the benefit of the news cameras. Of course, Cane owned those as well. He owned everything.
"There," said Magda. "That balcony."
"Small…" said Zip.
"This was your plan," said the trapeze artist. "It's a little bit late to complain now."
"Just get me down," said Able. "I feel like a sitting duck up here."
Moving under the command of Zip and Magda, Able tugged on the parachute lines and began a swift descent towards the balcony. Zip had been right, it was small. Cutting the lines at the last minute, Able released himself from the parachute and hit the balcony at speed. Tucking himself quickly into a ball, he hit the glass balcony doors and crashed through them into the suite beyond.
Rolling across the carpet, shards of glass sticking into the leather of his coat, Able stopped in a crouch, his guns already drawn.
"That was great, kid," said Zip Nolan. "And I think that's my cue."
Able felt something inside himself, a warmth he'd never experienced before, either living or undead. Before he had a chance to say anything, he realised that the ghost of Zip Nolan was gone.
He was right, he'd brought the house down.
Able stopped for a moment to catch his breath.
The suite was nothing special, just a typically gaudy casino hotel room. It was the door that Able focussed on. It was not a special door, just a typical hotel room door. But, beyond it? Beyond it were whatever preparations Cane King had made for Able's arrival. Beyond it, somewhere, was Marv.
"OK," said Able, addressing his ghosts in unison. "Let's go."
Holstering one gun, Able yanked the door open and burst out into the corridor.
There were two of Cane's men already there, stalking slowly towards the door. It didn't matter. Stealth hadn't been a part of the plan. This was all about making an entrance. This was a performance.
This was the circus.
Able lifted his gun and got ready for Malcolm to take the shot.
The gun wavered in mid air. Able felt the muscles in his arm clench, then lock, then… nothing.
The Kingsmen didn't move, their eyes locked on the gun, their own sub-machineguns only half raised.
Able tried to pull the trigger, but nothing worked.
"Shit," said Able, and dived back through the open hotel room door as his two opponents finally opened fire.
***
Heading down a corridor of his own, Taylor heard the gunfire. Two, maybe three floors above.
"Damn it," he cursed, before doubling back on himself at a run.
His plan didn't work unless he was the one to kill the vigilante. He needed to kill a King.
***
Able kicked the hotel room door shut behind him before diving across the room and landing on the floor on the other side of the bed. Bullets ripped through the door as the goons outside opened fire. They were too scared to come in, at least for the moment. Able rolled onto his stomach and slithered back towards the wall.
"What the hell just happened?" he asked under his breath.
"A log jam, that's what happened."
The voice that replied was Malcolm. Since Able had first picked up a gun, Malcolm had taken every shot. He was a superb marksman and a trick shot without equal. Whatever his past was, and he was one of the few ghosts who could still keep some secrets from Able, he'd learnt somewhere how to shoot. How to shoot, and how to kill.
"What's that supposed to mean?" hissed Able, keeping his voice down as the gunfire from outside ceased.
"There's too many people trying to take the shot," replied Malcolm. "You've got a head full of coppers, Able, and they all want to be the one to pull the trigger."
Able's head filled with a cacophony of complaints from the ghosts.
"If you think I'm letting some circus act call the shots…"
"Green Beret, five years. Sniper training."
"Citation for marksmanship, tactical training."
"Enough!" hissed Able. "If we don't get our act together we're dead! We're dead, Marv's dead, and Cane wins."
Able's head cleared of noise for a moment.
"I can settle this," said Malcolm as, without warning, he released one of his preciously guarded memories and let it play out in Able's mind. Able couldn't be sure what h
e was seeing. It was dark and everything moved too fast. Gunfire, shouting, breathing muffled by a gas mask, the world seen through two orb-like eye pieces that distorted everything and painted the world in green and orange. Bodies, piling up, left and right. Men, women, children, all cut down by the most ruthless and efficient gunfire. Smoke. Flashes. Finally an insignia, stitched into a uniformed arm that briefly crossed the field of vision. Able didn't recognise it but that sent a shudder through some of the ghosts that Able could physically feel. This was Malcolm, the real Malcolm. Not the British guy who faked an American accent, not the clown in a cowboy hat and boxer shorts. Not a trick shot. Not a marksman. This was the real Malcolm, and he was a stone cold professional killer.
"That's my pedigree," said Malcolm. "That's why I'll call the shots."
Able heard the hotel room door open, slowly. Footsteps moving gingerly in.
"Can't see him…" whispered the intruder.
Able pulled his second gun silently from the holster.
"Check the bathroom."
"You check the bathroom."
The footsteps turned.
Able slowly moved from his stomach onto his knees.
"It should be a cop taking these shots."
The voice was Terry Cooper. Able knew enough about him to know that he'd say anything just for the feel of his finger on the trigger now. He was a born fighter, Able needed him, and owed him, but right now he felt like a trigger happy liability.
The door of the bathroom was kicked open. Shots fired at random.
"Shit."
"He's got to be in here somewhere."
"Maybe he went back out the window."
The footsteps moved closer. Able felt the now familiar tightness in his arms as his muscles locked, receiving too many signals. He knew he could shut them out, and he should be able to let just Malcolm in, but he didn't want to risk splitting his concentration between the real world and the world in his head. He'd been wrong, this wasn't the carefully balanced and orchestrated world of the circus. This was a free for all.
It was Rosa Blind's voice that finally cut across the others and gave Able the answer.
"Let me do it," she said. "I can organise these trigger happy idiots."
Able felt Rosa's mind impress onto his. The cool order, the mechanical structure. The efficiency of a machine. She was right, she could do it. Able smiled underneath this mask. Adam King had been right about her. Rosa Blind was dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
Before the footsteps could move any closer, Able stood, his guns raised.
This time, instead of his arms locking, they moved with a speed that was beyond anything he had ever experienced.
Malcolm took the first shot, putting a bullet right between the eyes of the nearest intruder. Cooper took the second, a square shot to the chest that sent the already dead intruder rocking back on his heels. Nutt took the third, using Able's off hand, tagging the second intruder just under the chin, the force of the shot almost tearing his head off. Rogers fired last, putting three bullets into each man in a neat triangle formation.
The bodies hit the floor, lifeless and ragged.
Able released a lungful of air, slowly.
"I'm not sure I brought enough bullets."
Holstering his pistols, Able picked up the discarded sub-machineguns from his two would-be killers as he crossed the room. In his head, Rosa managed the flow of information as each and every ghost offered up their skills, memories, and even their senses to Able through her. They saw everything, every detail, and analysed it in an instant.
"I'm an army," murmured Able as he reached the door of the room, swinging freely on damaged hinges.
He felt the dark creature, the Magpye, stir inside him. It was pleased.
Able walked out into the corridor.
"That's far enough."
At the far end of the corridor, guarding the elevators, a pack of Kingsmen were arranged into rows like a rifle battalion. Able could see the sweat on their faces as they kept their weapons trained on him with trembling hands. Most of them looked like kids. The smart criminals had found places to be that didn't put them right in the firing line, it seemed. All except one, of course. One smart criminal, with a mind unlike any other, and a smile like a shark with knives for teeth. Jack Taylor.
"It's time for me to kill you, Mr. King."
THE RETURN OF OWEN WHITE
White bumped his car up onto the kerb half a block away from the casino. The street was murky with smoke and dust and the flames from the fiery hulk of the blimp painted everything with an orange flickering light. It had looked different on the television in White's hotel room. Smaller. Face to face with it, there was no doubting the enormity of what the man White knew only as Magpye had done.
"Fuck me," White murmured, "He killed a fucking building."
Getting out, he kept his weight on a cane. The leg was still painful. The lack of depth perception was inconvenient. Everything else just ached. But none of it mattered. Right now, in White's gut, there was something that he never thought he'd feel again. It was small, and fragile, but it was there.
It was hope.
Maybe, just maybe, Magpye was crazy enough to pull this off.
White waded through the crowds of gawkers, flashing his detective's badge when a shove in the back or a crack from his cane wasn't enough to part them. It seemed like every other person in the crowd was holding up a phone, snapping pictures or taking grainy, shaky video. White smiled. Cane thought he owned the media, but times were changing. This was the media now.
That was when the tiny fragile thing in White's stomach spoke with a tiny, fragile voice and gave him an idea. Everything that was happening here was being streamed and uploaded and posted at the speed of light, faster than Cane could ever hope to control. This was something that Cane couldn't buy and couldn't bribe.
It was time for Owen White to tell his story. The real story.
Reaching the police line, he ducked awkwardly under the yellow tape and hobbled towards what he guessed was the command vehicle. The burning front section of the airship had cut off the front doors to the building. There were other exits, obviously, but for some reason no one had been evacuated yet. While the fire raged, fire engines were backed up, revving their engines and sounding their sirens periodically as the chief fire-fighter argued with the SWAT captain.
"It's a fire, we put out fires, that's what we do. Now let us through."
"It's a crime scene, and a hostage situation, maybe even a terrorist attack. You go through when I say you go through."
"What's the problem here?" said White, butting into the conversation.
The SWAT captain recognised White immediately. There wasn't a officer on the force, regardless of rank, that hadn't know Owen White before what had happened at the paper mill. Since then, and since White had turned Kingsman, his status had only increased. Regardless of rank, he was second only to Garrity in terms of power in the police force now.
"No problem, detective, just putting this hose-jockey in his place."
White eyed the chief fire-fighter. In his mid-fifties, shaven headed, a scar running across his forehead. He had the steely look in his eyes of a man who has picked his spot and is sticking to it, no matter what. The fire service weren't as deeply corrupted as the police, White had learned, unless you were talking about the parts that dealt with fire regulations or could help you hide a meth lab or two. Surrounded by cops and journalists, White realised he might be looking at the only other honest man here.
"Let them through," said White. It wasn't a suggestion, it was a command.
The SWAT captain took White by the elbow, pulled White to one side.
"Listen, detective, maybe you didn't hear but we've got orders from the top. The real top. Nobody does anything without Garrity's say so and he ain't said so yet."
White wrapped his free hand around the SWAT captains collar and pulled him in so close that their noses almost touched.
"Garrity isn't here.
I am. And I… just… said… so."
The SWAT captain swallowed. Some scum-bag a hundred yards away in his cross-hairs was one thing. Owen White, up close and personal, was a different proposition. Bum leg and one eye he might have, but this was a guy who had gone toe to toe with Cane King and Jack Taylor on the same night. Most people didn't have legs, or eyes, at all after that.
"If Mr. King finds out, I…"
"If Mr. King wanted his casino to burn to the ground, I'm sure he would have said so. Now let them through."
White pushed the SWAT captain away and hobbled off, back to the police line and towards the nearest journalist with a camera without a King Media logo on it before there could be any further argument.
"You there, are you live?"
The journalist couldn't have been more than twenty-five. Blonde, green eyed, and with a deeply earnest expression. A truth-seeker, if ever White had seen one, or at least someone who knew how to look like one for the camera. It didn't matter. She was getting the scoop of the century because she was nearest and White's leg was started to hurt like hell.
"We're live," she said, stepping into shot and pulled her cameraman with her towards White. "We're live with…"
"Detective Owen White," replied White, staring straight down the camera lens. It was a lot like staring down the barrel of a gun, except guns tended to kill you quicker and more painlessly than television could.
"Owen White?" asked the journalist. "The Owen White?"
"Yes, this is Owen White. I'm standing outside the King Casino Hotel. What we have just seen is not an act of terror, but the work of one man. One man who has been operating in the shadows for too long. A man with blood on his hands, a man responsible for countless crimes."