by Peter Darley
B.J. stood quickly. “The police?”
“I have no choice, B.J.”
Finally, B.J. conceded. “You’re right. Boy, I hope he’s OK.”
At that moment, Heather appeared in the doorway.
“H,” B.J. said enthusiastically. “Are you a sight for sore eyes, like . . . literally.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I’ll catch you kids later,” Crane said, and exited the room.
B.J. made his way over to Heather and hugged her. “You were so damn good on Fox News.”
“I was?”
“Sure. You had Archer right in the palm of your hand.”
“Well, it was fun,” she said. “So, what’s been happening?”
B.J. sat down and relayed the story about Sloane putting Project: Interceptor on ice indefinitely, his call from the mysterious girl, C.O.T., and Tito’s sudden absence.
“Oh, my God,” Heather said. “Do you think something’s happened to him?”
“I don’t know what to think, but not showing up for work, and not calling just isn’t like him.”
“I can’t believe how much has happened while I was away. What the hell is Sloane’s problem?”
“I don’t know that either. I was there when Uncle Jed almost punched him out. There was something in Sloane’s eyes that looked . . . I don’t know. Insane.”
“And you have no idea who this girl who called you might’ve been?”
“None, but she sure as hell knew who I was.”
Heather sat down in his chair. “So, what’s the plan now?”
“Now, we wait.”
Two hours passed. B.J. glanced at his Z-Watch: 1:06 p.m. His stomach in knots, he couldn’t even contemplate lunch.
He looked up from his desk as the clatter of heavy feet and mumbled chatter filled the corridor. Crane entered the office, followed by a team of police officers.
Slowly, B.J. stood with a sinking feeling in the pit of his abdomen. “Oh, no,” he whimpered. “Please, no.”
Crane came toward him with his arms outstretched. “I’m sorry, B.J. I’m so very sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Tito was attacked in his apartment last night. They cut his throat.”
B.J. sank back into his desk chair with a vision of Tito flashing before his eyes. How could it be? Only the night before, he’d been so very much alive. Tito was joyous at having made the INT-Nine resistant to E.L.F. waves. B.J. couldn’t process the fact that it would always be his last memory of his friend. “Who would do something like that? Do they have any leads? Was anything taken from the apartment?”
The cop leading the squad of officers stepped forward. “So far, we have nothing, Agent Drake. And no, nothing was taken from his apartment, as far as we can tell. That’s why we need to talk to you.”
B.J. took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. “I-I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Good. Director Crane tells us that you and Mr. Mendez were very close.”
“We were.”
“Would you happen to know if he had any enemies? Can you think of anyone who might want to kill him?”
B.J. shook his head. “No way. He wasn’t even involved with anyone. He lived alone and lived for his work. He was a technical genius, what most people would call a geek. Hell, he was even a member of the comic club. He was the most harmless, inoffensive guy you could imagine.”
The officer nodded sadly. “I’m sorry for your loss, Agent Drake. We’ll be in touch.”
“All right.”
As the police officers departed, Heather waited outside, and then stepped inside the office. “I just heard. I’m so sorry, B.J.” She walked over to him, knelt down and hugged him. Unable to contain his grief, B.J. wept.
“I’ll give you guys some space,” Crane said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Uncle Jed,” B.J. said, choked.
“Oh, baby,” Heather said. “This is just horrible.”
“Who would do that to him? He was my friend. He saved mine and Katie’s lives in Des Moines. He was always willing to cover my back.”
His sense of helplessness was becoming all-too frequent, and numbness came over his mind. I am the son of Brandon Drake, The Interceptor, the one who defeated Nucleon the Despot.
He rubbed his eyes as a flash of realization dawned on him. He questioned what the hell he was thinking? That was from the Interceptor: Vortex mini-series. He knew he was losing it. Interceptor: Vortex never happened. My dad died. He’s dead.
No. I’m not.
The voice was as audible to B.J. as Heather’s was, and he stood up, rapidly.
“Are you OK?” Heather said.
“He’s here.”
“Who?”
“My dad. Brandon Drake is here in this room. I can hear him.”
Heather came around to face him with a look of deep concern. “B.J., there’s nobody here, just you and me. You’re upset over Tito, but you need to stay focused.”
Crane ran into the room with urgency. “Turn the TV on!”
With B.J. impaired, Heather took the remote from the table and hit the sensor for the holoscreen:
“. . . now that the tremors in Dallas have begun, it’s only a matter of hours before the city becomes the latest addition to this horrific series of global tragedies. Emergency services are already on the scene, but it’s unlikely that they will avoid enormous fatalities. This is Lisa Dubois, for Fox News.”
“Mom,” B.J. and Heather chorused.
B.J. looked downward. And then his head rose slowly, his heart in the grip of determination. “I’ve lost Tito. I’m not gonna lose anyone else. This stops now.” With that, he marched out of the office.
“B.J.” Heather called after him.
Crane placed his hand on her shoulder. “Let him go. He needs to do this.”
Crane hurried out of the office, leaving Heather to her own devices. As much as he hated to admit it, she was irrelevant for the moment. He would make it up to her later.
Twenty-six years ago, B.J.’s father had been in shock after killing three Chinese slave trade operatives. Another had then grasped him on the shoulder, digging his fingers into a healing bullet wound. The pain had triggered something, and before Jed’s eyes, Brandon Drake became The Scorpion, a ferocious, unstoppable killing machine.
He’d just seen the same look in B.J.’s eyes.
He knew B.J. had none of The Scorpion in him. It was something else. His father’s Interceptor persona had been the product of a false series of memories implanted by one of Treadwell’s mind control experiments. According to what Belinda had told him, The Scorpion was the result of childhood abuse.
Crane recalled what had happened back then. The Scorpion had been a killer whom the army had captured, and then handed over to the CIA. Drake had escaped during the war with Operation: Nemesis, and destroyed Langley headquarters in the process. Nothing ever stopped Drake except—himself. Belinda had said Drake’s Interceptor persona finally returned. He’d taken his own life in order to protect her from The Scorpion’s inevitable return.
Whether he was The Scorpion or The Interceptor, both personas had one common denominator: an indomitable drive and determination that had to have come from something independent of any outside influence.
And B.J. had it too. In that moment, Jed knew. It was a force that could not be stopped, and neither did he want to stop it. The world needed The Interceptor.
Crane realized the ramifications of what was about to happen, and what had to happen. He had to help B.J. as long as he could.
He ran into his office, pulled open a drawer, and took out a particularly sophisticated-looking Z-Watch. A sting of sadness hit him as he gazed at it, momentarily. Tito had given it to him only three weeks ago.
With the watch in his hand, he ran out of his office.
The elevator door opened, and he walked briskly along the subterranean corridor. He came to the lab door and placed his key card a
gainst the scanner. The door opened.
B.J. stood at the far end of the lab wearing the INT-Nine with the helmet in his hand. The determined look he shot him indicated he saw Jed as some kind of threat.
“Easy, B.J.”
“Don’t try to stop me. My family is in danger!”
“I know, and I’m going to help you.”
“What?”
Crane walked across the lab and handed him the strange Z-Watch. “This is a signal scrambler watch. Tito created it. I have the number, and you can contact me on it. The NSA will have no idea where you are when you do. It scrambles the transmission signal.”
B.J. took the watch with a vacant look in his eyes and placed it in the armor’s electronic groin pocket. “Thank you.”
“I’ll keep you apprised of what’s going on, and I’ll support you in any way I can. But you have to know, Project: Interceptor is grounded by Congress. Once you’re seen by the media, the orders will go out. The police, the FBI, the National Guard, and the army, will be compelled to hunt you down. You’ll become a fugitive.”
B.J. held his gaze for a brief moment and then put the helmet on. “Then let them bring it on. If they want a war with me, they’ve got one.”
Crane watched as he ascended the steps toward the exit ramp, and a sinking feeling struck his heart. He’d never heard B.J. speak that way before. Grief and desperation had brought out the worst in him.
And war might be exactly what he was heading into.
Eighteen
A Courage That Will Never Die
Faraday Ranch, Fort Worth, Texas
October 14th, 2023
Numbness came over B.J. as he sat up in his bed. He could hear the mumbled chatter of conversations downstairs. The mourners were concluding their solemn day over a few drinks. He struggled to process the meaning of death. He would never see his Uncle Charlton again. Only a week earlier, Charlton had been pushing him on the swings over by the guest house. He’d always been extremely kind to him. Uncle Charlton’s eyes used to light up whenever he came home from school. B.J. knew his uncle loved him, and that love was reciprocated, to the extent that a six-year-old could show it.
Now, a titanic, powerful figure of a man was gone. A massive coronary had taken him swiftly and without warning. B.J. didn’t know what to say to his Uncle Tyler, who had barely spoken a word to anyone since it happened. He’d also noticed Tyler’s girlfriend, Nikki, had been avoiding him in his grief.
He heard footsteps outside. Within moments, his mom opened the door and stepped inside, still wearing her black skirt and jacket. “Are you OK, sweetheart?” she said.
He shook his head.
Belinda’s eyes were still a little puffy from her tears. “I know you’re sad, sweetheart. We all are. It’s been such a shock for everyone.”
“Why did he have to die, Mom?”
“I don’t know. Why does anybody die?” She came closer to him and sat in a chair beside his bed. A copy of a comic book—Interceptor: Vortex #4—rested on a small table beside the chair. Smiling sadly, she picked it up.
“Would you read it to me, Mom?” he said.
Before answering, she seemed to be studying the cover. The Turbo Swan was crashing into a jeep in the midst of a fiery explosion, with a dissolve of The Interceptor looking on as a spectral observer. The slogan: ‘Nothing Will Ever Be the Same’ punctuated the dramatic illustration.
She flicked through the pages and closed her eyes just as quickly.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“I . . . I was there when all of this really happened.”
He felt a surge of excitement grip him. “Really? This one too?”
“Yes.” She held the comic book at an angle where they could both read the panels. Once all was in position, she began reading it to him.
The story in the comic, the final issue of a special four-issue mini-series within the semi-fictional Interceptor canon, began by resuming the previous issue’s cliffhanger. The Turbo Swan had crashed into a jeep and exploded. The Interceptor’s sidekicks, Brenda and Tommy were running to the scene with looks of horror on their cartoon faces.
Belinda read the story, and B.J. sat up, completely engrossed. The fire engines arrived and put out the fire. The police and the soldiers tried to discern through the smoke what remained inside the craft.
Then the chief of police announced in a bold print balloon, “THERE’S NOBODY IN THERE!”
One of the firemen said, “He must’ve been incinerated in the fire.”
“No!” B.J. said. “It’s not true is it, Mom? He’s still alive.”
“Wait and see.” She turned the pages and read through the scenes of the people of Los Angeles mourning The Interceptor’s death.
Then, with another turn of the page, she reached the epilogue. The Interceptor stood alone in his underground, tech-filled cave. His thought bubbles conveyed the secret that he’d remote-controlled the Turbo Swan to crash, in order that the world would believe he was dead. Now, nobody would be searching for him, or expecting him. He would become a shadow-like vigilante whom no one would see coming.
The comic ended with the caption: ‘The new adventures of The Interceptor begin in Interceptor: Silent Strike #1, out next month.’
“Do you know where the cave is, Mom?” B.J. said. “Can we go visit him? He’ll be lonely. He needs us.”
Belinda stroked his hair with the saddest expression. “Sweetheart, they got it all wrong. There is no cave.”
“So, where did he take you to? Where does he live?”
“Well . . . we actually went to a very beautiful cabin, far away. It’s surrounded by snow in the mountains.”
“Can we go there to see him, then?”
She looked away, and he knew she was trying not to cry. “What’s wrong, Mom? He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
She looked up sharply. “Oh, yes. He’s still alive. The Interceptor has a courage that will never die.”
“So, why doesn’t he come back?”
“I think . . . he’s trying to find himself again,” she said, as though struggling to find the right words. “He’ll come back when he’s ready, but it won’t be for a long time.”
“Is he in the cabin?”
“No.”
“So, where is he?”
She kissed him tenderly on the forehead. Tears finally came to her eyes as she looked into his. “He’s a lot closer than you’d ever expect.”
***
B.J.’s mind came back to the present. He’d been flying southwest at the speed of sound for the last ninety minutes. Finally, Dallas appeared ahead of him. Turning his head to the west, he activated the zoom in the helmet’s photoreceptors. Downtown Dallas was falling apart and the quake was heading west, but he could see it hadn’t yet reached Fort Worth.
He looked straight ahead and zoomed in on South Dallas. The area didn’t appear to be faring well, and he knew he had to get there as a priority. Heather’s mother was in danger.
As he flew across a city in ruins, he realized the impossibility of the task he’d set for himself in his emotion-driven impulsiveness. Despite the armor, he was still just one man. He couldn’t be in more than one place at any one time. He still couldn’t save them all.
Within a minute, he came in over South Dallas, and descended toward Main Avenue, the impoverished street where Heather had grown up. The jets gradually slowed to a stop, bringing him down to a smooth landing. He immediately felt the unsteadiness of the ground beneath his feet as the quake raged in the humble street.
Devastation surrounded him. There was no sign of life, and Heather’s mother’s home looked almost demolished.
A familiar older woman appeared from the back of the house next door. The property seemed to have sustained less damage than Mrs. Addison’s, but showed enough for him to realize a heavy insurance claim would be on the horizon.
He ran toward the lady as she staggered across her lawn. “Mrs. McIntyre, are you all right?”
She ga
zed at him with a bewildered look. “You’re The Interceptor, aren’t you? I’ve seen you on TV.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How do you know my name?”
He paused in mid-stride. Another tremor almost knocked him off his feet, but he managed to hold himself steady. He looked up again, saw Mrs. McIntyre had fallen down, and hurried over to help her up.
“I’m OK,” she said. “You didn’t answer my question. How do you know my name?”
He stared at her, not knowing how to respond. He’d known her almost all his life, and her name had just come out autonomously. He hadn’t even been conscious he’d said it.
But then he realized the professional dynamics of his role as Interceptor were no longer the same. He was a fugitive, and his only enemies were the authorities—who already knew who he was. Mrs. McIntyre was a lady who had long-since earned his trust. He gripped his helmet, touched the release sensor, and pulled it up over his head.
He watched as she looked into his eyes. She shook her head, as though she was questioning her own sanity. “B.J.?”
“Yes, Mrs. McIntyre. It’s me.”
“Are . . . are you really The Interceptor?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s been me all along.”
She placed her hand over her mouth to suppress her emotion. “I am so proud of you.” She threw her arms around his metallic shoulders and kissed his cheek.
“Mrs. McIntyre, I need you to tell me, is Heather’s mom all right?”
“She’s not here. She went to Houston a few days ago to spend some time with her parents. They’re very old now.”
B.J. exhaled with relief. “Yeah, I guess they would be. What about everyone else?”
“Most of the people evacuated the area when the tremors started.”
“But not you?”
She glanced in the direction of her house. “I couldn’t. My home is my life, and it’s been a good one. I decided if my time was up, I would go down with it.”