by Неизвестный
It’s for the mission, she said to herself. It’s all part of the mission. I’m a spy. This is what I do. Jack will understand, she thought as the man in the black suit punched the button for the elevator. The door slid open and they stepped inside. It had been three weeks since she and Jack had a night off together. This was supposed to be their night.
She sighed as the elevator opened on the third floor. Two men in suits guarded the elevator, with more down the hall, outside of Bird’s private suite. Walking the other way, a busboy pushed an empty dinner cart toward an elevator that would take him down to the kitchen. Walking toward them, a blonde in a red dress swiveled her hips with every step. She looked under a long tress of blonde hair at Josie and at the man in the black suit as she passed them.
Josie walked down the hall to the door with the two guards. The man in the black suit knocked on the door.
“Josie,” the man in the black suit announced her and opened the door. Josie smiled, stepping in. The room was wide, with a desk in the corner and a small light on it. Next to it was a bed. Bird kept odd hours, working two or three days straight, and sometimes sleeping for as much afterwards. Josie looked to the unmade bed and thought back to the blonde in the hallway. The door closed behind her, and she knew what Bird had on his mind. “Josie, Josie...my girl...have a seat.”
“I will, thank you,” she said, sitting down in the plush seat across from the desk.
“Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you, Bird. Not very ladylike.”
“Heh.” He finished adjusting himself and rolled himself into the light. “Josie, where I come from, the ladies have no quarrel with spirits,” he said with a roguish grin. He looked from her face to her torso, staring at her bare arms. “Did you bring it?”
“I did.” She gave him a raised eyebrow. “Did you?”
“I did.” He reached into the desk drawer and slowly pulled out a folder, lightly placing it on the desk. “Josie?”
“Bird,” she said, removing the record from under her arm. “As promised. Duke Ellington and his Orchestra with the recording of ‘Sweet Georgia Brown.’”
“You magnificent angel,” he said, picking it up. “Where did you find it?”
“By hook or by crook.”
“Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get this? It must have cost you a fortune.” He looked over the album at her. “Do I want to know what you did to get it?”
“By hook or by crook,” she repeated.
“Ah Josie. Only you, a singer, you could appreciate something like this, like ‘Sweet Georgia Brown.’ Most of these girls here? They don’t know Duke Ellington’s music from Duke John Wayne’s movies.”
“I like Stagecoach.”
“Everybody likes Stagecoach.”
“They should.”
He turned to wheel himself over to the record player, when he looked back. “Really? You weren’t one of the girls that went to see The Wizard of Oz nine times instead?”
“I got in,” she said with a smile.
“I’m sure you had your ways.” He wheeled back to the turntable. “Now, you know our deal. You’re going to sing—”
“And you know our deal too,” she said, reaching for the folder.
“Yes, yes,” he slid the record out, holding it up and examining it. He wheeled back for a second, adjusting the light to look at it. “I found the name of the Boston bomber.”
“Bird, what is this?” Josie said, opening the folder.
“Lists, photos,” he said, swiveling around. “The quality’s a little dim, but if—”
“What photos?” she tossed the portfolio on the table. In the adjusted light of the lamp, the contents were strewn about. Maps. Pages ripped from an atlas displaying Mexico, Texas, and the Caribbean, with varying close-ups and levels of detail.
Bird looked stunned. He put the record back in its sleeve and rolled over to the desk. “Josie, this...they were just here.” He began sorting through the maps.
Josie picked up the folder and looked on the inside. Seeing something in the dark, she pulled the light over. She stared at the red lipstick kiss on the inside of the folder. Below it was a simple dash next to the letters ‘V. K.’
“The blonde,” Josie said, staring at Bird. For a second, the look of the aging king was gone, as his mouth was slack-jawed.
Josie stared at him as she stood up. “Wait, Josie—BERT.”
One of the guards stepped in. He reached under his jacket as Josie stared coolly at him. “Boss?”
“The blonde that was just here, find her.”
“Right,” Bert stepped outside and he left the door open. Josie heard footsteps and shouting in the hall as the guards mobilized. Bird reached for the phone, ready to call down to the front desk. He stared at the phone for a second after putting it up to his ear, tracing the cord to the frayed end where it had just been cut.
“She’s good,” Josie said, tucking the folder under her arm. Kicking off her heels, she ran into the hall; passing the guards, she crossed down the hall to the stairs next to the elevator. Pushing it open, she sprinted down the cold steps, the metal stinging her stocking feet with every step. As she reached the bottom, she could hear the rhythm of the dance floor and the music. Turning the last corner on the stairs, she looked down the last flight. The door to the dance floor was there.
Lying in the corner, unconscious, was the man in the black suit. Next to him was a long red dress and a blonde wig.
Applause at the band’s masterful performance echoed through the hall, filling the stairwell with the patrons’ show of appreciation.
Hunter Noir stood atop an apartment building. The Dodgers game was almost over. Hunter refused to allow himself to be sucked in by the cheering crowd, the crack of the bat, and the thrill of competition in the most all-American of games.
But there was something about the night air...
He allowed himself a momentary indulgence to appreciate the freedom of the night. To see the towering architecture of New York, to feel the rumble of the trains, and to know people beneath him were always moving…it reminded him of what he was fighting for, of why he became Hunter Noir in the first place.
Hunter shrank away as the crowd cheered. The lights were bright. He paced to the other side of the building, monitoring the trains and the people waiting on the platform. Soon the platforms would be even more crowded. Last month there had been a Martian incident on a platform after a game. Since then, Hunter Noir took a more vested interest in these areas. He watched the people on the platform. They were young, just starting their lives. Hunter saw a new group come up. Two adults. A man and a woman, with a pair of children—one boy and one girl—close enough in age to be twins.
They laughed together.
Next to them, a beautiful girl squeezed the hand of her boyfriend. They shared a look. Hunter expected her to whisper something in his ear, him to smile, or maybe him to be the one to whisper. He expected to see a squeezed hand, but nothing happened.
They only kissed.
There was another cheer from Ebbets Field.
Hunter watched the lovers and the family together.
He never lost focus, but he felt something tugging inside of him. A voice wanted to talk to him about emotion, about romance, and about her.
There was a vague picture forming in his mind. The voice wanted him to go there and focus on that picture, on her. Something wanted him to talk back to that voice. To tell the voice—
“Do you miss it?”
Hunter turned, Mauser and Colt stretched out. Standing halfway across the roof, silhouetted in the moonlight, a figure stood in a fedora and black coat. A crimson scarf was artfully wrapped around his mouth and back into his jacket, creating an effective mask for the lower part of his face.
“I never miss,” Hunter said, aiming for center mass.
“I thought I would come and meet the leader. Hunter Noir himself, the great Martian Killer.” Apache Knight’s coat billowed slightly.
“What do you want?”
“You’re good...not bad at killing Martians, but it’s got to go beyond that. Something’s coming, Hunter.” There was something new in his voice. “Kalen Tengel. He’s worse than anything you’ve ever faced. We know about the Kaizer.” Hunter squinted. “Nothing away from him, but the Fallen Angel? He’s different. He’s not like the other Martians. He’s worse, and he’s coming.” Hunter eased back on the triggers. “You heard about what happened out in Alamogordo? Who do you think that was?”
“Hands where I can see them.”
Apache chuckled, holding his hands up.
“We got a tip,” Apache reached one hand under his trench coat, pulling out a folder, ignoring Hunter’s order. “It’s called The Last Judgment.” The folder blew in the night breeze. “Fallen Angel wants to launch satellites into orbit.” He casually tossed the folder on the rooftop, his hands returned to their submissive position. “Use them to attack cities, bases, and civilian targets. Do it all without ever getting near the defensive line. He gets enough of those things up? The war is over.”
“So take it out,” Noir growled, “you’re so good.”
“‘It?’” Apache chuckled. “Who’ve you been fighting? The Fallen Angel is American. You think he’d be stupid enough to just make one?”
“You want an alliance?”
“If you’re good enough to find us. We found you.”
“How about right here?” Hunter said, focusing on the triggers.
Apache’s scarf quivered, masking the smile. “The Last Judgment kicks off at the end of the month. We’re going. We operate outside bureaucratic jurisdiction, Hunter. We’re fighting for America. And if you care about her? You’ll find us.”
“I already have.”
“Wrong. I found you. Now I’m leaving you.” With a swift dash, Apache Knight ran across the roof. Hunter followed with his pistols, but his eyes glanced down to the folder, a string curling it together. Cursing under his breath, Hunter pursued Apache Knight across the roof. Apache was quick, his boots hitting the rooftop with a quick rhythm, as Hunter matched it. The edge of the roof approached.
“Apache,” Hunter yelled as his prey reached the end of the roof. Without pausing, the man jumped off, with Hunter skidding to a stop behind him. As Hunter Noir reached the edge of the roof, he looked off just in time to see Apache Knight standing on the rooftop of the train, as it made its way away from Ebbets Field. As Apache stoically looked back at the rooftop, Hunter heard the cheers from the stadium, one last time. Turning around, he walked back to the envelope. Picking it up, he went to unstring the cord.
Something heavy brushed against his hand in the darkness. Curious, Hunter Noir held up the end of the string in the moonlight, a single key on the end of the string illuminated in the silver radiance.
The Blackfire was a Predator-class command ship downed in South Dakota’s badlands. The ship had originally been damaged and in need of repairs, but Kalen Tengel had other plans. Commissioning slaves and resources to build up under and around the downed ship, Kalen Tengel converted the downed Blackfire into Fort Blackfire, a small fortress above ground, and a sprawling Martian fortress beneath it. The Fallen Angel had half a dozen of these secret bases around occupied America, where he could conduct his experiments and projects.
Lately, the Last Outlaws had been occupying most of his free time.
As Felix entered the room, the rest of the Last Outlaws followed him. Lillian hung close to Adam, who took out another piece of gum and began chewing it. She had been spending more time closer to him. Felix wished he could let his guard down, but the team had to come first. What the Fallen Angel was offering was too important to jeopardize; as leader, he had to stay focused. Behind them, the Skull walked tall, towering over the group, but still dwarfed by the Martian guard.
“Here we are,” Kalen Tengel said. He was standing in the middle of a large darkened space with a spotlight shining on him. All around him, Martians moved, carrying equipment, wiring lights, adjusting cameras, and measuring sound acoustics. “What is the expression, eh...visitors on the set? Is that right?”
Felix looked around. At the far end of the room, he noticed Martians painting a large black chair, a throne, with two human skulls etched below the armrests.
“A movie set?” Lillian asked?
“Yes,” Kalen Tengel pointed to the chair. “That’s where we’ll shoot me rallying the troops. My throne, issuing my commands, swearing how we’ll bring you Last Outlaws down at any cost. Make it seem like I’m issuing these from a castle.” He pointed to the edge of the chair. “Behind it we’re going to have all these fires going off, making it look like it’s a—”
“Throne out of Hell,” Felix said.
“Exactly. It must be working,” Kalen Tengel said, lowering his arm. “It’s going to be great. And this—” he beckoned. Two Martians brought over a long staff. One held something Felix approximated as a clipboard in his hand, while the other fiddled with an instrument. “I’ve been working on this for a while.” He held the staff. It was a little taller than he was, and the end of the staff diverged out into two large blades. “Isn’t this great?” He ruffled his brow for a second. “Does it look alien enough?” He gestured to it with his left hand. “I mean as a human...does this look like something we’d carry? Does it look like something a Martian leader would have?”
“Sure,” Felix said.
The Martian with the clipboard made a note. “And look at this.” He held out the staff. “I press a button, and I do this,” Kalen Tengel struck the staff against the floor. Electricity blazed from the top of the staff, shooting out in all directions. Lillian jerked back, clutching Adam’s hand. Felix’s mouth opened in shock as one of the dozen strands struck his chest, sliding up to his face. “See?” Kalen Tengel said over the crack of electricity. “Looks scary. Doesn’t hurt, but just imagine a photo or a video of me with this blazing all over me. Just look.” He stuck his head forward and offered a Martian paw out, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue. As the energy blazed around him, Felix could see it. Kalen Tengel looked every bit the technological Lucifer. The pose, the face, the staff...everything about it said I’ve come for your soul. I’ve come for your world.
He struck the staff again.
The air stopped sizzling. The lightning was gone.
“Effective?”
“Yes,” Adam said, chewing the gum.
Kalen Tengel checked something near the button. “It’s time. The next step in my plan is up to you. Remember, you have a chance to become legends.” He righted the staff. A door unlocked. There was a pleading sound from across the room. A Martian dragged a thin blonde woman in tattered pink clothes over to the set. She looked over at the Last Outlaws. The Fallen Angel walked over to the set as a Martian secured the writhing girl. “We’ll be shooting the executions here too, make it look like I’ve got an execution chamber or something,” he looked at the clipboard Martian, “her?”
“Test 3-1A, Emily Campbell, taken from the linen factory in Sioux Falls.”
“We think it’ll make the humans hate me more if they see me executing people myself.” He adjusted something on the staff. “Studies show attractive white women will elicit the most hate. Roll camera.” Something sounded up as the blonde tugged at her restraints.
Felix looked around the group as Kalen lowered the staff, aiming.
Martians stayed off to the side, keeping the camera rolling, operating the microphones, and directing the lighting. The clipboard Martian waited while the instrument Martian monitored the staff. “Linens, sewing,” Lillian shouted. Everyone looked at her. She stepped forward as Kalen Tengel froze. “She can sew. I need her—we need her.” The Fallen Angel looked at her, staff still aimed at the blonde. “My dresses...do you still want me wearing secondhand? We could custom design them. It’ll look better than relying on what you find.”
“Custom designed clothes...”
“Human women love fashion,” Lillian s
aid. “It’s a huge part of American culture.”
“Custom designed clothes...fashion for Violet King....Fashion based off Violet King...” he nodded to the clipboard Martian, who made a note. He looked back at Lillian. “You could use a seamstress, yes.”
She smiled, and the blonde’s shoulders relaxed just as the Fallen Angel turned back and sent a blast of energy through her body. There was a loud crack that still hung in the room as the body slumped to the floor, dead. “I still feel the heat running through the staff; get it lower, maybe the blast doesn’t have to be as big.” The clipboard Martian nodded again, writing down the notes. Adam pulled Lillian close to his chest, holding her gently as Kalen Tengel walked past. She knew she shouldn’t scream, but holding Adam made it easier. Adam closed his eyes as he quietly whispered to Lillian. Felix put a shaking hand to his forehead. The Skull stared silently as he always did. Kalen Tengel flexed his hands. “And look into finding a talented seamstress.”
Beneath Coney Island, the Martian Killers surrounded the table, staring at their collection of clues.
A faded mask with the Martian Killer logo on it.
A series of maps, ripped from a book.
A key.
A sequence of photos that showed inhuman creatures readying a device that would rain death down upon humanity from the stars.
Colonel Jewkes sat back in his seat. Hunter turned to him. “So they don’t know.”
“We’ve got the best minds still alive in the country working on this,” he nodded to the photos. “Everyone comes to the consensus that these photos are inconclusive. The Krauts were head and shoulders above us in rocket science even before the invasion. Satellites look workable, but it’s guesswork.”
“I have a contact, a cabaret dancer in Munich.” Josie said.
“I’m sure you do, doll,” Jack said. Josie couldn’t help smiling.
“She knew some scientists before the war. They were developing this kind of propulsion. If the Germans had it...”
“Then why wait until now to use it?” Hunter said. “And why the Fallen Angel now? Why not the Kaiser?”