To the right was the bar. Three familiar figures sat there, backs to him, sipping shot glasses full of whiskey in silence. None of them looked up at first, but he recognized them all just the same. The woman was Arclight, a powerhouse of a female he had never expected to see again. There was another bruiser, a huge, grossly muscled man known as Blockbuster. Finally, the third, the man who had called him here: Scalphunter. His metallic armor was festooned with gleaming steel parts which could be put together to create more than one hundred different weapons, all deadly in his hands.
Scalphunter turned from the bar and offered a chilly smile.
“I’m glad you came, Harpoon,” the gleaming killer said. “I wasn’t sure if you would. But then, it’s not as if we have any place better to go these days, is it?”
Harpoon grimaced. Scalphunter was right, of course. None of them had any real purpose, nor had they had any contact—at least he had not been in contact with any of them—since Mr. Sinister had disbanded the Marauders. It had amused Harpoon at the time. After all, he was a criminal. They all were. Hardcore, at that. Murderers all around, and happy to do the job at the time. But they’d been fired. How did you fire a murderer? Not as if any of them would have dared go after Sinister. The man was far more dangerous, and unpredictable, that the lot of them combined.
“Hey, ’poon! How’s it hanging?” a voice cried from the back of the bar.
Harpoon spun, on guard, but relaxed as soon as he saw the blur that was fast approaching. Piles of mirror glass shards swirled and eddied in one corner as a man-sized tornado moved toward him. Harpoon smiled, both at the comparison with the Tasmanian Devil that came to mind, and in greeting. The tornado had a name, Riptide. And Riptide was a friend. The only one of the Marauders that Harpoon was glad to see. Scalphunter was a stone cold killer, but Riptide was just out of his mind.
The tornado stopped, and there he stood. Riptide was a lanky six feet, dressed in a uniform thinly striped in black and white, nearly invisible pockets hiding a multitude of throwing weapons, from knives and shuriken to weighted razors. He was deadly, he was crazy. But Harpoon trusted him.
“Come on, pull up a chair,” Riptide said. “You look like you could use a drink.”
Harpoon nodded and allowed Scalphunter to pour him a glass of whiskey. Then, as usual, he listened.
“Look, man, I ain’t gonna lie to ya,” Riptide said, a manic grin splitting his face. “Nobody here has any intention of going straight. I mean, we got a good thing going, and there are always going to be contract hits to fulfill, human dogs to leash, know what I’m sayin’?”
Harpoon nodded. He enjoyed the hunt, and the kill, as much as the next guy. But terror and oppression for its own sake was not his style. He did not need to debase innocent bystanders to gain pleasure, and that was perhaps the widest gulf between himself and the other Marauders. He knew it didn’t make him any more moral. What was morality anyway, he thought, but rules made by the prey to keep away the predators?
But Scalphunter and the others were cruel. They toyed with their victims. Harpoon believed in immediately killing his targets, finishing the job quick and clean. He was a hunter, nothing more or less. Still, these were his former comrades. He at least owed them the time it took to hear them out.
“I can tell you’re skeptical, ’poon, but just listen up, okay?” Riptide said, and Harpoon gestured for him to continue.
“We wanna get the Marauders back together,” Riptide said. “And we wanna pledge allegiance to the flag of Magneto, or whatever the hell the obnoxious windbag wants us to do.”
Harpoon narrowed his eyes in confusion, and Scalphunter interrupted Riptide to elaborate.
“Quiet a second, Rip,” Scalphunter said. “Look, Harpoon, I know you and I ain’t always been the best of friends. Still, we’re gonna have a sweet deal going here pretty soon and because you always played it straight as one of the Marauders, I figured we should give you a chance to get in on it.
“Here’s how it is,” he continued. “Magneto’s setting up a nation right here in Manhattan. Mutants are the bosses, and humans are the grunts. That means we’re nobility, get it? The humans, they’ve gotta do whatever we tell ’em, try to get through the day while we mutants live like kings. Tell him the best part, Arclight,” Scalphunter said, and Harpoon turned to where Arclight and Blockbuster had sat, speaking quietly to each other as the others tried to recruit him.
Arclight was pretty. Perhaps not beautiful, but for Harpoon, pretty was good enough. He’d always had a thing for her, and she had known it, but never showed him any real affection other than that reserved for all her teammates.
“The best part,” she said, and smiled at Harpoon in a way that reminded him just why he’d been attracted to her to begin with, “is that we can take all the contracts we like outside of Manhattan, slip out, do the job, slip back in, and even if the feds or Interpol find out we were behind it, there isn’t a damn thing they can do about it. There’s no way Magneto will let them extradite mutants from his new empire for prosecution.”
Arclight was still smiling prettily. Scalphunter was sneering his perverse pleasure. Riptide was grinning madly.
Drily, quietly, Harpoon began to laugh.
* * *
ICEMAN and the Beast were already half a block ahead of them at the TKTS booth that lay at the beginning of the intersection between Broadway and Seventh Avenue. Wolverine watched as they crossed over to the west side of Broadway, then slid into the darkened entrance to a fast food restaurant. A moment later, they appeared again and began to move south once more. Wolverine was impressed. He had not expected either of them to be so proficient at this kind of work. Their past histories—both with the X-Men and with the other teams the pair of them had worked with over the years— indicated a tendency toward barrelling in with guns blazing. Perhaps Logan’s presence in the X-Men had rubbed off more than he’d known.
It wouldn’t be long now, however, and they had to be more careful than ever. This kind of caution was time consuming, but Bobby had already said he didn’t think they had more than ten or fifteen blocks to go, and there was no way to tell what kind of safeguards Magneto might have in place. No, this way was best.
Together, Wolverine and Bishop clung to the shadows on the east side of Seventh Avenue. It was going to be difficult the further they got into Times Square, with the glare of neon stripping away most of the shadows they might have used for cover. But they would do their best. As always.
With Bishop just behind him, Wolverine moved past the entrance to a strip club. From inside came the scent of stale beer and … people. Mutants. Familiar scents that raised the hackles on his neck. Emotions roiled within him that were so powerful he could not keep his adamantium claws from sliding out and snapping into place with a snikt. His nostrils flared, eyes narrowing with hatred and he reached a hand behind him to stop Bishop.
The future X-Man’s only question was in his eyes. He was a good enough soldier to know when not to speak. Wolverine pointed into the strip club, then at himself, then held up a hand to let Bishop know he wanted to go in alone. There was a score to settle.
Still, he was no fool. If he’d been alone, he would have tried to settle the score alone. But he was with the X-Men, he was one of them. And what he owed the Marauders, they also owed. It was time to square a debt longstanding, but they would all be handicapped by the lack of room inside the club. Wolverine planned to draw them out into the street.
Maybe it would be like the OK Corral after all.
* * *
THE Beast and Iceman moved together down Broadway. While they had seen only humans, mainly looters and hard looking teens, they didn’t want to take any chances. As he scanned the streets and the buildings above for any sign of mutant activity, Hank McCoy silently wished for backup. It was a big city, quickly filling up with enemies, as if they hadn’t had enough already. In his years with the X-Men, he had become known for his optimism.
Not today.
“At
tention X-Men,” Bishop’s voice crackled from the comm-badge on his belt. “Wolverine has apparently registered the presence of some threat. He has entered an establishment here at 46th and Seventh. I expect we’ll need backup.”
“Then you shall have it,” Storm’s voice replied, and the Beast could hear the wind whipping past her, even though the volume on his comm-badge was quite low.
“Beast, you and I will backup Bishop and Wolverine,” Storm continued. “Iceman, continue tracking with that remote unit, but proceed with utmost caution. We will contact you to ascertain your location as soon as we have cleared up this situation.”
“Storm,” the Beast asked, touching a small button on his comm-badge, “is that wise, to allow Bobby to continue alone?”
“Perhaps not, Hank,” Storm’s voice crackled. “But our mission must take priority. And as we don’t yet know what threat Logan has discovered, we also need to provide him with as much backup as we can.”
“I’ll be okay, Hank,” Iceman said beside him. “You can’t babysit me forever.”
The Beast looked up, a little taken aback by his friend’s attitude, but then he saw that Bobby was merely joking, as usual. Iceman knew that of all people, the Beast was not going to underestimate his abilities. Just as Hank did not underestimate the dangers they faced.
“Watch your back,” the Beast said, and Iceman only nodded before moving on.
* * *
WOLVERINE crouched low as he inched his way into the strip club. There was a five foot barrier between him and the bar, which kept passersby from being able to see the dancers from the street. But there were no dancers inside. Only five killers. And Wolverine made six. Thing was, compared to him, the others were amateurs.
Each of their scents was indelibly etched upon his sensory memory, and on his soul. Together, they had perpetrated one of the most horrific acts Wolverine had been witness to in all of his long life, the so-called mutant massacre. They had mercilessly slaughtered unarmed mutants, with or without powers and regardless of their political affiliation. The tunnels under New York where the mutant outcasts known as Morlocks lived had run red with innocent blood.
All the work of the Marauders. And Wolverine had waited a long time to pay them back.
“Well, well,” he snarled, slipping out from behind the partition. “Ain’t this a touchin’ little reunion.”
The Marauders responded instantly. Arclight and Blockbuster stood on alert, waiting for the signal to move from whomever was giving orders. Riptide began to spin, in a blur, but did not attack, apparently also awaiting instructions. That left Harpoon and Scalphunter, and Wolverine figured Harpoon was too quiet to be the leader. A moment later, he was proven correct.
“You just made the biggest mistake of your life, Canuck,” Scalphunter said, a slow smile creeping across his face. “Coming in here and getting up in our faces, all by your lonesome. Did you forget what happened a few years back? We trashed the X-Men good, Wolverine. All of ’em. And here you are, solo.”
“Wait, Scalphunter,” Harpoon said, and Wolverine was stunned to hear him talk at all, never mind that he was taking up for one of the X-Men.
“We came here for sanctuary, not for battle,” Harpoon continued. “Magneto wants this to be a haven for all mutants, does he not? If we expect him to offer it to us, we cannot do this.”
There was a lull in the room, as if, in that moment, nobody knew what to do. Except perhaps for Wolverine.
“I got three things to tell you murderers. First off, there’s no sanctuary to be had here,” he said, gnashing his teeth with every word. “Magneto’s little experiment is temporary, and nobody is going to recognize him as sovereign of anything. Second, and this one goes real specific for you, Harpoon, if you’re worried about whether or not you should throw down with me right here and now, well …”
Something happened to Wolverine’s face in that momentary pause. It was not quite a smile, though it did bring a sparkle to his eye and reveal his sharp, gleaming teeth.
“Who ever said it was up to you?”
With a vengeful roar, Wolverine launched himself across the bar at Scalphunter, completely unmindful of any danger from the others. He slammed the claws on his left hand into the man’s right shoulder and sparks flew as they penetrated armor and flesh and sank up to his fist. He used that hand to pin Scalphunter in place and, in the space of a heartbeat, brought his right-hand claws down toward the Marauder’s heart.
Arclight grabbed his wrist before he could fulfill his murderous intentions, and as she swung him away he felt his adamantium laced bones grind. His equilibrium was momentarily shot as he sailed across the room and slammed into the wall with a thud that brought jagged shards of broken mirror crashing down behind the bar.
Wolverine was up so quickly the entire thing might have appeared to be one, fluid, intentional movement. His skeleton was laced with adamantium, otherwise his wrist would have been crushed to a pulp rather than merely bruised. One of the gifts of the x-factor in his genetic structure, part of what made him a mutant, was the extraordinary speed of his healing process. By the time he faced the Marauders again, there wasn’t a cut or bruise on him.
“You’re faster than you look, lady,” he growled low. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
Scalphunter was having trouble standing, and Blockbuster went quickly to his side, helping him remain upright despite his obvious pain. Blood poured down the gleaming front of Scalphunter’s armor, staining it crimson, and Wolverine smiled broadly.
“It’s not as sweet when it’s your own blood, is it babykiller?” he snarled.
“Kill him,” Scalphunter snapped.
Harpoon let loose with an energy-charged Slayspear, and Wolverine sidestepped it. There was no way he could avoid a joint attack, however. Even as he dodged, Riptide began to spin even more rapidly, disappearing in a tornado blur out of which projectiles exploded at blinding speed. There were small knives, Japanese throwing stars called shuriken, and metal burrs like a child’s jacks with razor sharp points.
Wolverine’s claws flashed as he moved sideways in a fluidly graceful motion that, to an untrained observer, might have looked like dancing. In truth, he had been trained intensively in Japan for many years, and was a master martial artist, equally at home fighting in a bar brawl or a formal ninja honor duel. He protected himself from more than half of Riptide’s weapons, despite their speed, then dove behind the partition again for cover.
“Oh, Wolverine, please,” Scalphunter said, and Wolverine could hear the pain in his voice. “Why drag this thing out. Can’t we just get it over with?”
“Come and get me, bub,” Wolverine said, his voice low, taunting, despite his pain. His body was in overdrive, mending the wounds he’d received from Riptide, but it would take several minutes for him to fully heal. It didn’t matter to him. It wouldn’t be the first time he had bled on a battlefield, and it would likely be far from the last.
Even as two shuriken popped from his skin, driven out by his rapidly healing flesh, and plinked to the ground, he began to get impatient. Scalphunter might actually be correct. He might not be able to take them all. Not a pleasant thought, but something he had to keep in mind. Not that it meant he would have backed off under any circumstances. Just a possibility to be registered. On the other hand, he hadn’t had any intention of taking the Marauders on by himself.
But time was wasting. Their mission was of primary importance, and these losers had taken up way too much time as it was.
“Come on you bunch of cowards,” he snapped. “Come get me!”
“Die!” Blockbuster shouted as he charged through the wooden partition.
“There you go!” Wolverine responded, even as he crashed backward, out of the strip club and onto neon-lit Seventh Avenue. “That’s the spirit.”
Blockbuster was the stereotypical musclehead, all brawn, no brains. Nothing like Arclight, who was not quite as strong but a lot more dangerous. The huge mutant’s fists pummeled Wolveri
ne’s gut and chest until Logan held up his left hand and simply popped his claws into Blockbuster’s descending arm. The foot long adamantium blades sliced cleanly through Blockbuster’s bicep, but the momentum of the punch pulled down on the claws, ripping through meat and bone.
With an agonized howl, Blockbuster fell back away from Wolverine and curled up on the ground cradling his thrashed arm. Blood ran freely from his wounds onto the pavement. Wolverine remembered the blood that had splattered the walls of the Morlock tunnels after the mutant massacre, and he felt good as he rose to his feet.
Scalphunter emerged from the club, a long, silver plasma rifle pointed at Wolverine’s head. Harpoon rushed out beside him and held a Slayspear at the ready. Riptide spun onto the street like the Tasmanian Devil, tossing old beer cans and empty paper bags into a dervish around him, cackling madly. Arclight went to crouch by Blockbuster, to comfort him, and glared at Wolverine.
“You’re dead,” she said.
“Arc, get away from him,” Scalphunter said. “No more weakness, no more individual attacks. All together, now, and we’ll dance on the little runt’s corpse.”
“Sorry, bub, it’ll take more than your lot to kill me,” Wolverine said. “And you don’t pay attention too good anyway. I said there were three things I had to tell you. The third was, I didn’t come alone.”
Scalphunter’s eyes widened in alarm, and Wolverine snorted derisively.
Lightning flashed and Wolverine squinted against the sudden brightness. The air sizzled with energy between himself and Scalphunter as lightning struck the ground, leaving cracked and melted pavement in its wake. Above them, Storm hovered on the winds at her command, imperious as always. Wolverine loved that about Ororo. Proud yet quiet on the ground, once in her element, she took control of any situation with ease.
“The Marauders!” Storm observed. “Now, Wolverine, I see why you diverted from your course. We should not take the time for battle here, but the need for vengeance is undeniable. Also, if there is any chance at all that Magneto is unaware of our approach, we cannot allow these mass murderers to go free.”
Marvel Classic Novels--X-Men Page 38