An expensive brandy snifter was set down before him. As they gave him time to drink, he again tried to convince his darker side that, as satisfying as a moment’s revenge might be, it could also seal his family’s fate.
Even it, even the reptile, understood family. For now, it let him maintain control.
“Finished with your drink? Good.”
The glass was removed from his hand.
“Listen carefully. You’re a veteran, and a doctor. I respect that. So to be clear, you’re not here to do anything illegal, okay? You’re here to save a life—mine. Do that, nobody gets hurt. Heck, I’ll drop you all off anywhere you want—home, Disneyland, whatever—along with a big fat check to use for whatever weird alligator research you like. Eh? That make you feel better?”
Something glinted in the old man’s eyes. The reptile found it familiar. Any words this man used, any promises he made, would always hold a distant second to fulfilling his own desires. Complex mammalian communities based on empathy and cooperation were alien to him.
Connors could never trust Silvermane to let his family live. But he could trust him to keep them alive until he got what he wanted.
So he nodded.
“Good. Marko, take him to Wesley in the lab.”
But the creature was never completely gone. When the giant placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, it stirred. “I want to see my family first.”
Marko grabbed Connors by the lapels. The giant’s instincts were more recognizably primate in nature.
“You do what Mr. Silvermane, says when he says it.”
The speed with which the previously motionless Silvermane rose impressed the reptilian part of Connors’ mind.
“Didn’t you hear anything I just said about respect?”
Silvermane slapped the giant, over and over, until he released the doctor. Eyeing the floor in submission, Marko huffed and touched his reddened cheeks.
“You got no reason to shame me like that, Mr. Silvermane.”
Despite his words, the tone was apologetic.
Silvermane stepped back. He was huffing and unsteady himself. His hands groped behind him, reaching for the desk. “No one gives orders except me. Don’t ever…”
The coughing that followed brought a pinkish flush to his face that appeared every bit as unhealthy as the gray it had replaced. Silvermane grasped at his chest.
Meanwhile, Cicero looked like a gambler watching his horse pull into the lead. Noticing Connors was watching, he nodded toward his boss and whispered, “You got more reason to hope he makes it than I do.”
Understanding, Connors rushed over, reaching for Silvermane’s neck to take his carotid pulse. The mob boss slapped the hand away.
“I’m fine. Just a spell. It’s passing.” Catching his breath, Silvermane patted the worried Marko. “Easy, kid. We’ll speak no more of this.”
Cicero took Connors’ elbow a second time and pulled him toward an open door. There was a hallway and stairs beyond.
“The lab has a closed-circuit monitor. Every hour you work, you see your family for a minute.”
* * *
ROBBIE Robertson circled his seated son, pausing occasionally to lean against the bookshelf, window frame, or wall of his office.
“You want to be an activist, great. I’ll support you to the bitter end. But the world’s stuffed with ignorance, and education’s the only solution. Quit school, and you’re a soldier unarmed.”
A dour Randy kept his hands in his lap. “I get what you’re saying. But so many people of color put their trust in the system and get screwed, I don’t see how I can fight it and let it indoctrinate me at the same time.”
“Indoctrinate? You make college sound like a POW camp. I’ve fought injustice my whole life, with my voice and my work. School didn’t stop me—it helped.”
Randy twisted his head, struggling for the right words. “How much of a voice do you really have when you’re working for that…”
A familiar scream shattered the private bubble. “ROBERTSON! Where’s Robertson?”
Randy threw up his hands. “Speak of the devil.”
Hearing the muffled sound of an applauding staff, Robbie relaxed. “Don’t worry. It’s his first day back. He’ll have to make it through a lot of congratulating employees before he gets here. Who knows? It might put him in a better mood.”
Without so much as a knock, the door flew open. Jonah stood there in his full glory, bits of confetti clinging to his hair and overcoat.
Robertson sighed. “Or not. Welcome back, Jonah, I—”
“You! There you are, you quisling, you Benedict Arnold!” The hospital rest had apparently done Jameson some good. He brandished the latest edition with the vigor of a much younger man. “The second my back is turned, you make a hero out of Spider-Man!”
Robbie grimaced. “Simmer down, Jonah. I didn’t make him anything. Those pictures tell the story, and we’re supposed to report the truth, right?”
“Wrong! Who taught you journalism?” Jameson crumpled the paper and shook it at Robertson. “It’s about the angle, the editorial voice! You know how the Bugle feels about that web-slinging weasel. You know how I feel about him!”
Randy watched intently as his father responded.
“Jonah, it’s your paper. You can write all the editorials you want—on the editorial page. But the news is my department. I call them as I see them.”
Jameson’s face puffed and twisted. “You think I can’t fire you for this? You think I won’t?”
Randy leaned forward in his seat.
Robbie calmly crossed his arms. “You won’t have to. If you want reality distorted to suit some paranoid vendetta, I’ll quit.”
Jameson shuddered. His expression twitched from one extreme to another. “Wait, wait, wait! Hold on a minute! Quit? What are you talking about, quit? Of course it’s your news page. I don’t know what’s gotten into this place. Used to be a man could enjoy blowing his top once in a while. Fine. I accept your apology.”
“My what?”
But Jameson was already closing the door on his way out. “I’m too gentle, too sensitive for all of this!”
Once it was clear he wasn’t immediately returning, Randy grinned. “Does he really think you apologized?”
Robertson waved his hand. “Nah. But he’ll never say so. The important thing is that the news this paper prints is as close to the truth as I can make it.”
Randy was impressed. “You stood up to him. You were really going to quit.”
His father thought about it, then nodded. “I would have, but I also know the man well enough to realize it wouldn’t come to that. Sure, he experiences things from a certain perspective, but check out his editorial on white privilege last month. Jameson’s no racist—just a blowhard with a very weird grudge against Spider-Man. You want to be an effective force, you have to recognize who the real enemies are.”
“Okay, I get it. I’ll stay at ESU, if only so I can learn how to win an argument with someone like Jameson.”
Robbie slapped his son’s back. “That’ll take you all the way through grad school.”
* * *
HANGING around outside the window, Spider-Man shifted position before they could spot him.
Guess Randy’s taking the “patience” lesson to heart. Wonder if I’ll ever be able to do the same.
He made his way along the ledge until he had a view of the open workspace. A grumpy Jameson was surrounded by smiling staff. Whenever it looked like he might scream for everyone to get back to work, Betty Brant and Ned Leeds threw more confetti on him. For a second, Peter thought he caught the publisher trying not to smile.
That man could start an argument in an empty house, but I am glad to see him. Still, a gander at Jameson’s sour face isn’t why I’m here. I’ve never tangled with the Maggia before, so I wasted the night looking for their headquarters. Heck, the only member I know by name is Silvermane. But there’s nothing like getting the news in advance. Here’s hoping it’ll give me some ideas
.
As the crowd focused on their beloved leader, Spider-Man slid open the window and snatched a printout of the latest edition. Suspended from a flagpole, he flipped through, pausing at a small piece slotted for page two.
So, alleged Maggia attorney Caesar “Big C” Cicero had Fisk’s right-hand man released, huh? That’s got to have something to do with the tablet. And look! They mention the fancy address of Cicero’s law offices.
He swung from building to building, 30 stories up, heading for the Midtown location a few skyscraper-lined blocks away. This time, once he counted the floors, finding the office was easy—especially when he spotted the attorney grabbing the same coat and hat he’d worn in the Bugle photo.
I’m in luck for a change. Another few seconds and I’d have missed him.
Cicero’s back to him, Spider-Man couldn’t resist flashing his spider-signal on the wall. Cicero whirled. Despite the man’s thick brow, his eyes grew large. “Spider-Man!”
Peter opened the casement window and hopped inside. “Glad you noticed so fast. I’m never sure when the batteries in this thing will go dead. You must be the Big C. No offense, but I wish the Maggia would be consistent about the nicknames. If the Big C’s ironic, shouldn’t it be Molehill Marko?”
“What do you want?”
Usually even the Maggia’s street thugs got all defiant when confronted—but Cicero was shaken. Thinking he could use that to his advantage, Spider-Man quickly closed the distance between them. The attorney looked ready to leap out of his coat and his skin.
“Just a little conversation. All that web-slinging can make a fellow lonely. How about answering a few questions, like why’d you have Wesley released?”
Cicero straightened, but couldn’t stop shaking. “That falls under client-attorney privilege.”
Spider-Man moved forward. Cicero backed up, feeling his way along the bookcases. “Seriously, do I look like a court of law? But okay, how about you tell me how the tablet fits in—or, better yet, where the Maggia’s HQ is at?”
Caesar managed a sneer. “If I did know, you think I’d be stupid enough to betray the Maggia?”
Spider-Man stared into his beady eyes. “Yes, yes I do.”
A small click made him look down. Cicero’s finger was on a button hidden beneath one of the shelves. Knowing his spider-sense would have warned him if the threat was imminent, he lifted the attorney off the ground by his fur lapels.
“Why’d you have to go and do that? Now you have to tell me what I want to know even faster!”
Cicero squirmed. “I told you, I’m not blabbing.”
Then his spider-sense did prickle, nice and harsh. Letting go of the attorney, he turned just as a panel on the opposite wall slid open. It revealed a hidden passage along with the silhouettes of the armed men inside it.
One shouted, “Take cover, Big C. We’ve got enough muscle to nail him.”
Cicero dove, giving them a clearer shot. “Talk is cheap. Do it!”
By the time the first bullets were fired, Spider-Man was bounding off the wall and headed for the attackers. How many were there—four? Five? A bullet shattered the window.
“What’s he even doing here?”
“Who cares? We could be the guys who whacked Spider-Man!”
They were eager, but not complete amateurs. Two came forward to flank him while the others stayed back and kept firing. Fingertips securing him to the plasterboard, Spider-Man kicked one advancing mobster into the other.
Before he could take out the trio at the door, they split up. Landing in front of the nearest mobster, he balled up his fist.
“How’d he know we’re keeping that Connors dame and her brat here?”
Spider-Man stopped mid-blow. “Wait, what? You have Doc Connors’ family here?”
Cicero face-palmed. “Idiot! He didn’t know until you told him!”
No wonder he was so antsy!
Desperate to make up for his mistake, the thug fired haphazardly, spraying the room with bullets. Spider-Man snagged a heavy law book with his webbing and used it to knock the gun away.
Spider-sense tingling, he leapt as a heavy chair cracked the wall beside him. Wrapping his legs around the neck of the bruiser who’d thrown it, Spidey twisted and took him down.
“Pay attention, boys. I think they call that a standing head-scissor!”
More mob-soldiers entered from the passageway, filling the office. Cicero climbed out from under his desk and used them as cover. Holding his fur-lined hat to his head, he sprinted into the secret corridor. A web took down three more gunmen, but by then the hidden panel was closing.
Dammit! I can’t let him get away.
Twirling sideways through the air, Spider-Man body-blocked two men, then grabbed another’s shooting arm and threw him at the group still on their feet. That bought him enough time to tear open the fake wall and leap into the narrow space beyond.
At the base of a long staircase, a steel door was descending from the ceiling to seal the path. Before it could close, Spider-Man dove down the stairs and managed to get his fingers under the lip. His strength was barely enough to keep the heavy metal from breaking his bones.
Another fine bit of advice from Uncle Ben. Lift with your knees!
Squatting, Spider-Man held on to the door and straightened his legs. Hidden gears groaned. After several grueling seconds, the door’s mechanisms snapped, allowing him to raise the door with ease. Beyond, there were more stairs leading down—lots of them, with landings every 15 feet. Remembering how high the office was, he guessed there were 30 stories’ worth.
For speed, he took to the wall. His flexible joints allowed him to pull with his clinging hands, push his legs ahead beneath his chest, then pull again, this time with his feet, propelling himself faster and faster downward. A fleeting shadow ahead told him he was catching up to Cicero.
Then a plaintive cry made him stop: “Help! Help us, please!”
“Mrs. Connors?”
Had Cicero let them go to ensure his own escape? Pivoting back, Spider-Man spotted the digital recorder on the previous landing—and realized the trick. The delay had cost seconds, but that was more than enough to change the course of lives. He dropped down from the final landing, where the stairs ended in a small hallway.
Ahead, he heard an engine rev and a garage door clanking open. Not wanting to repeat his mistake with the Kingpin, he tugged a spider-tracer from his belt. Barreling along, he reached a small private garage just as a dark sedan, tires screeching, headed for the street.
Still running, he hurled the tracer.
Before he could see whether it reached his target, his spider-sense flared—but there was no place to go. Multiple bombs erupted in the hall and the garage, their brutal concussive force pushing him four ways at once. Heat and flame followed. He danced as best he could among the raining chunks of concrete until a heavy slab connected, nearly taking him down. He was sure his shoulder was dislocated, a few ribs cracked.
Having narrowly missed being buried, he pushed through the wreckage into a smoky hollow. As far as he could tell, no one else had been caught in the blast. All that was left of the private garage was a smoldering crater. Wounded, his entire nervous system screaming, he barely noticed the soft tingling beneath the pain, telling him something else had survived the explosion.
Ten feet away, on a bit of undamaged concrete, the small red light on his spider-tracer blinked.
Yep. Lost him.
ELEVEN
WHEN Peter Parker woke, the totality of his heart and mind was consumed by one thing: pain.
Am I strong? Sure. Fast? Better believe it. Drop a half-ton of concrete on me, though, and I’m definitely going to hurt in the morning.
It is morning, isn’t it?
Sunlight seeped around the edges of the closed shade, confirming it was daytime. But for all he knew, it could be afternoon already. He had a vague half-memory of Harry saying goodbye on his way out, but that might have been hours ago.
A
t least he could move, if not quite stand. His joints were stiff as a board.
He tried some stretches, but that only heightened his awareness of the bruises. Thinking a warm shower might soothe him, he crawled into the bathroom. The rush of water against his cuts nearly made him scream.
Agh! Why couldn’t my spider-sense warn me about that?
After half an hour he was able to hobble like an old man. At least he was on his feet.
Doc Connors and his family were out there somewhere, but there wasn’t a lot Peter could do about it in his current condition, even if he knew where they were.
He was getting better, though, not worse. He looked at the clock: 9:17 a.m. Maybe by nightfall? Meanwhile, since Captain Stacy had told him about the kidnappings, he could be sure the police were on the lookout for the Connors family.
May as well limp over to a class or two. I just hope the professors don’t call on me—if they remember who I am.
Walking was a challenge, so he caught a bus. As he shuffled across the plaza, he kept his head down, his shoulders scrunched. Josh and Randy were hanging with friends on the steps of the Physical Sciences building. He pretended he didn’t see them, earning a dismissive glare from Kittering.
“What? You too good for us?”
Randy defended him. “Easy, Josh. Just because you say jump doesn’t mean everyone has to ask how high.”
Kittling chuckled. “Whoa, what did the newbie eat for breakfast? Sticking up for a friend, huh? Good for you.”
Peter muttered hello, but kept his eyes focused on the stairs. He was about halfway up when a pair of familiar sneakers stopped in front of him.
“Gwen?”
Cocking her leg to put one foot on a higher step, she started talking, but his enfeebled mind was racing too fast for him to pay attention. He felt like the proverbial deer in the headlights.
When was the last time I saw her? No, when was the last time I saw her as Peter Parker? Have I even texted her since she told me about the attack on her dad? It’s hard enough keeping track when I’m healthy. What if I muddle things, repeat something I heard when I was eavesdropping as Spider-Man?
“Peter! Did you hear a word I said?”
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