Stuart charges. He’s low, primed for a running tackle. No good, Matt thinks. Stuart’s forgotten rule number one of fighting mechs.
“‘Beast! Sweep the leg!” Matt shouts.
Stuart turns his strategy on the dime of Matt’s command, and the tackle becomes a baseball slide into the mech’s ankle. The limb buckles with a screech of twisting steel. The suit topples. Rockjaw, his ego more bruised than his body, grabs the endoskeleton, presses it overhead like an Olympic power lifter, and returns it to the floor with extreme prejudice.
“Jerk,” he mutters.
“One more! We got one more!” Matt shouts. “Where is he?”
“I have him,” the Entity says, dragging his captive into the open. “I caught him screwing around on a computer terminal.”
“Where?”
The Entity tosses his man to Stuart for safekeeping before leading Matt to a distant, secluded corner of the warehouse, to a small cubicle of an office that stands out for its normalcy. Matt slips in behind the desk. The screen before him is blank, save for a countdown timer that has four and a half minutes left on it.
“Oh, mother pus bucket,” he says.
“Is that what I think it is?” the Entity says.
“Let’s assume it is. Get everyone out of here, now. Concorde, do you copy?”
Matt’s comm crackles with light static. “I copy,” Concorde says. “Status?”
“All hostiles down, no sign of the Foreman, but we might have a much bigger problem. I need you in here ASAP. Bring Kilowatt with you.”
Matt spends the time waiting for his teammates experimentally clicking the mouse, pressing the escape key. He and technology may be friends in general, but the extent of his hacking expertise extends no further than making lucky guesses at passwords. He checks for cords in the back. None; an internal power source, he reasons.
“Let me see,” Concorde says, cramming into the cubicle.
“What is it?” Kilowatt says. “What’s going on?”
“Countdown timer,” Matt says.
“Those are never attached to anything good,” Concorde says.
“No kidding. The system’s locked. I figure our only chance to stop it for sure is for Kilowatt to fry the whole building.”
“Hold on. I want to try something.”
Concorde goes still and silent. Matt unconsciously beats a nervous rhythm on the floor with his foot. A minute passes. Ninety seconds. Two minutes.
“Concorde,” he prods.
“Dammit! I was hoping to hack the wireless signal and sneak in but this thing’s sealed up tight,” Concorde says.
“We need to fry it.”
“If we do that, we lose every computer in here, which means we lose the Foreman.”
“And if we don’t and the place is in fact rigged to blow, we’ll lose, what? The entire block, maybe?”
One minute, forty-seven seconds.
“Do it,” Concorde snarls at Kilowatt
“I need Meg if I’m going to do it right,” Kilowatt says.
Matt opens up the comm. “Megawatt, get over here right now. Everyone else, clear the block and on my mark, shut down all electronics, including the comms. Repeat, on my mark, I want all electronics to go black for one minute.”
Megawatt arrives with one minute, thirty-two seconds to go. “What do you need?”
Kilowatt holds out his hand. “A boost.”
“Oh, man. This always sucks so hard.”
“So does getting blown sky-high,” Matt says, “so less gripey, more zappy.”
The twins clasp hands. Matt calls for the electronics blackout. Concorde shuts down his suit and settles into the corner to curse under his breath. So close...
“You ready, Monkeywrench?” Megawatt says.
“Whenever you are, Sparky,” Kilowatt says.
Matt’s hair stands on end. A tickling sensation crawls over his skin. It grows to become a tingling, a prickling, a burning as the Quantums’ power builds to critical.
“Hold onto your butts,” Kilowatt says.
***
“Honestly,” Meg says in a breathless whisper, “the buildup was more exciting than the climax.”
“That’s for sure,” Matt says. “There was no dramatic spray of sparks, no explosion — nothing.”
“I thought the entire point of hitting the place with an electromagnetic pulse was so there’d be no explosion,” I say.
“Fair point.”
And oh, what an explosion it would have been. After Kilroy zapped the place, the big brains ran a sweep on the building and found bricks of C-4 embedded in the walls and veins of thermite integrated into the steel infrastructure. The resulting blast would have cratered the block and reduced the warehouse itself to a puddle of molten slag. Someone did not want this place and its content falling into the wrong hands. Well, sucks to be them. The police are in the process of emptying the warehouse into our box truck, which will carry everything to the Quantum Compound for deactivation, examination, cataloging, and dismantling.
Unfortunately, it isn’t all sunshine, unicorns, and rainbows for us either. For starters, the Quentins’ turbo-charged EMP stunt leaves them both wiped out. Kilroy is fast asleep in the back of our van, and Meg isn’t far behind. It doesn’t cause any permanent damage, thank God, but it’ll take them a day or two to fully recover.
Then there’s the loss of any data that was on the workshop’s systems. Concorde plans to take the computers back to Protectorate HQ to see what he can salvage off the hard drives, and he’s hopeful at least one computer was off when Kilroy set off the pulse — hopeful, but he’s not counting on it.
I would say we can at least be grateful we have some suspects to question, but if the past has taught us nothing else, it’s that whoever is behind this operation somehow instills an almost fanatical sense of loyalty in their people. Or maybe it’s a healthy sense of fear. The people we apprehended following the raid on the Boston base last year all pled the Fifth and went to prison with smiles on their faces.
“What do you think?” I ask Matt. “Was this worth the hassle?”
“Let’s see. We didn’t nab the Foreman, we probably destroyed any evidence that might have helped us track him down, our suspects might not talk, and your girlfriend is going to sleep half your weekend away,” he says with a nod toward Meg, who has indeed fallen asleep leaning against me. “But no one got killed, no one got seriously injured, we crippled an illegal outfit providing high-end weapons to dangerous criminals, and when the Foreman finds out about this? He is going to be soooo piiiissed. I’m going to call it a win.”
I can’t quite bring myself to agree. He’s right about one thing: the Foreman is indeed going to be ripped. The problem is, he’s the kind of man who wouldn’t hesitate to express that anger in the form of serious payback.
And we don’t have secret identities to protect us anymore.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Sir? Mr. Nemo is here.”
The Foreman waves at his grunt — a vague instruction. His underling slips out, closing the office door behind him. Mr. Nemo enters without the courtesy of a knock.
“You’re late,” the Foreman says by way of a greeting.
“I came through Logan Airport. What would you expect?” Nemo replies, taken aback by the Foreman’s curt manner. They’ve never been friends, true, but they’ve always made a point of remaining civil toward each other, for the most part. “Thank you for sending the car for me.”
“I wanted to make sure you arrived.”
Nemo sits. “Where would you like to begin?”
“Let’s save the worst of it for last. I want a full status report on all of your recent recruits. Is there anyone else we have to worry about?”
Nemo removes a tablet from his briefcase and pulls up his files. “I’m pleased to say the vast majority of our prospects are performing as expected, if not admirably,” he begins. “Typhon and Echidna are showing considerable promise.”
The Foreman sighs. “Som
eone needs to tell marketing their obsession with Greek mythology has grown tiresome.”
“They had an encounter with Deuce X. Machine about two weeks ago. There was a brief fight, Typhon and Echidna prevailed handily, and made a clean getaway.”
“Deuce X. Machine is a third-tier super-hero at best. Hardly a victory worth crowing about.”
“Everyone must start somewhere,” Nemo says, bristling. “If I may continue?” The Foreman gestures: proceed. “I’m considering sending Typhon and Echidna to New Hampshire on a more focused mission. As you may have heard, a new super-team has emerged in the Manchester area. Another band of youths, I believe.”
“Yes, and one of them appears to have in his possession a suit that sounds suspiciously like our missing Skyblazer armor. Another one of your mistakes, I believe.”
“Whether it is indeed the Skyblazer suit is unconfirmed at present,” Nemo counters. “All the more reason to send operatives up there to investigate. Are you going to spend all day undercutting everything I report to you?”
“I’m going to point out every problem that’s arisen, or threatens to arise, from your questionable judgment as of late,” the Foreman replies coolly, “which means, yes, it most likely will take all day.”
Nemo slaps his tablet down on the Foreman’s desk. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why you’re behaving so belligerently?”
“Because one of your recruits is directly responsible for the raid on Hephaestus’s workshop two days ago.”
“Excuse me?”
“A source of ours reported that one of those men you recruited last month — a member of Damage Inc., I believe? — was arrested following a botched bank robbery. He subsequently rolled on us and told the Protectorate about the workshop in exchange for clemency.”
Nemo slumps in his seat. “No...”
“Oh, yes — and Hephaestus is absolutely livid. She’s vowed to never freelance for us again. Do you understand what a loss that is?”
Nemo mumbles his response in the general direction of his shoes. “I am aware of Hephaestus’s contributions to the organization, yes.”
“Are you also aware that until this debacle, she was assisting us with the Thrasher upgrades? She was in fact here, returning the alien technology we loaned her to this facility, the very day her workshop was raided. She understands that tech better than any of our staff. Without her, the project is facing a setback measured in weeks, perhaps months. Months, Nemo. Sharona is attempting to mollify Hephaestus with a generous settlement that should compensate her for the loss of the workshop, but it’s hardly a done deal.”
“What do you expect me to do about any of this? Hm? The matter’s out of my hands.”
The Foreman settles back in his chair. “I don’t expect anything from you, Nemo. I don’t expect anything at all.”
John Nemo bites back a retort. Debating with this insufferable man, so high on his own authority, would solve nothing. It certainly wouldn’t redeem his reputation in their mistress’s eyes. That’s the worst of it. He’s worked so hard for this organization, dedicated his entire adult life to the cause, and one disaster has undone it all — a disaster for which, yes, undeniably, he is ultimately responsible.
“It’s my opinion that you can’t be trusted to continue as a recruiter without strict supervision, and I intend to share that opinion with Sharona,” the Foreman says dispassionately. “It’s nothing personal, you understand; it’s for the good of the organization.”
“Yes,” Nemo says. “Of course.”
“Why don’t you upload your report to the system? I’ll read it when I have time.”
“Yes. Of course,” Nemo says again.
“And take some time for yourself, to clear your head,” the Foreman says as though issuing a royal edict. “There’s an excellent seafood place in town. It’s open year-round and has an extensive wine list.”
“Sounds delightful.”
Nemo slinks out of the office, through the staging area and past technicians, pilots, and guards who pay him no mind — just as when he entered — and then out of the complex. He stares back at the house in silent accusation, as though the counterfeit structure itself had been the one who dressed him down so thoroughly, and briefly ponders the Foreman’s suggestion of seafood and copious amounts of wine.
A better idea reveals itself, far better than a day spent wallowing in self-pity. Nemo takes out his phone and pulls up the tracking app. He scrolls through the list of recent beneficiaries of Hephaestus’s handiwork and presses the entry labeled DAMAGE INC. and then syncs it to his GPS app.
Destination: Kingsport.
***
“All right, boys, what do you think?”
Delroy steps back from the table, allowing Mick and Jonas to lean in and scrutinize his hand-drawn map. Delroy liked to brag about his many talents, only a handful of which had ever lived up to the hype, but his skill at recalling floor plans was truly impressive. He could enter any home or business or office, look around for a few minutes, and produce with uncanny accuracy a map of the place that included every door and wall and window. On a good day, he could place major objects that weren’t part of the architecture — tables, chairs, desks, et cetera — and estimate distances with an average margin of error of six inches.
Having been through the Kingsport District Courthouse on more than one occasion, Delroy knew the place cold. The map he’d drawn on a sheet of newspaper was intricately detailed, noting such minutiae as wastebaskets and water fountains. Delroy noted every possible obstacle, anything that stood the tiniest chance of causing a problem — not that something as trivial as a wastebasket was likely to trip them up. No, the real concern, as always, was the human factor.
“Mornings are usually all about arraignments,” he says, “so Van probably won’t get in until the afternoon, which is what we want. There’ll be less cops there so all we’ll have to deal with are the security guards. They’re armed but they don’t got the training cops have.”
“How will we know when to move?” Jonas asks.
“I’m going to go inside. They don’t let people bring phones in so as soon as they call Van, I’ll run out, gear up, and then we charge the place. Anyone gets in our way, we cut ‘em down. We’ll have to move fast. I don’t want to deal with cops again, I don’t want to deal with super-heroes again, I just want to grab Van and get the hell out.”
“Dig that,” Jonas says.
“Is there any way to let Van know about this?” Mick says.
“Can’t think of one. We’ll just have to hope he catches on and —”
A screech of rust-encrusted hinges cuts Delroy off. The men rush to the edge of their makeshift living area and peer over the railing. Mick pauses long enough to grab Van’s gun, the one thing he was able to salvage before fleeing the bank.
“Gentlemen. I’d like a word with you,” Nemo says.
“Who the hell’s that?” Mick says.
“Don’t know,” Delroy says. He snatches up his body armor and manages to shrug into the vest by the time Nemo joins them on the mezzanine. “You mind telling us who you are, buddy?”
Mr. Nemo rolls his eyes — like he’s sick and tired of hearing that question, Mick thinks. “My name is John Nemo. I’m here on behalf of the woman who provided you with your equipment. Consider my role today that of a repossession agent.”
“A repo man?” Jonas laughs. “Never saw a repo man as fancy-looking as you.”
“Nevertheless, I am here to reclaim Hephaestus’s gear and you’re going to hand it over, without any argument, if you please.”
Jonas slides a hand into one of his gauntlets and cinches the straps tight. “Uh-huh.”
“And why would we do that?” Delroy says.
“Penance. Your associate, Mr. Van Zandt, betrayed Hephaestus’s workshop for a chance at freedom. As a result, she lost her business and my organization lost a valuable associate. We plan to return her equipment as a sign of good faith.”
“We?�
�� Delroy makes a show of looking around. He counts himself, Mick, and Jonas, and then glances over the railing and scans the floor below. “I don’t see no we here. I only see you, and you don’t look like you can handle the three of us.”
Jonas activates his gauntlet. The drill comes alive with a shriek. Nemo takes his phone out from within his suit jacket — calmly, as if to simply place a call — and pokes the screen. The weapon’s squeal dwindles to a pathetic whine, then a soft whir, and then falls silent. Jonas gives it a shake, smacks it in irritation.
“In addition to a tracker, Hephaestus equips all her weaponry with remote kill switches,” Nemo says. Its job done, he returns his phone to his pocket and exchanges it for a silvery handgun. “Now, gentlemen. Pack up the equipment and bring it down to my car, and we can all put this unpleasantness behind us.”
Delroy smirks. “Bro, I’ve been around some hard mothers in my time, and I can tell you ain’t never held a gun in your life.”
“I assure you, Mr. Nolte, you’re quite wrong about that. I happen to be a rather good shot.”
“Oh, you’re rather good? You hear that, boys? He’s rather good,” Delroy mocks. He picks up his helmet from the gang’s makeshift dining table, a wooden door resting on a pair of sawhorses, and holds it up like Hamlet considering his poor friend Yorick. “Maybe you’re rather good at hitting a paper target on a range,” he says, slipping the helmet on, “but I’m betting you’re pretty damn bad at hitting a moving person.”
Nemo gleans Delroy’s intent too late. Delroy feints to his left. Nemo’s first bullet pings off a far wall. Delroy charges and cuts a sharp right, his old high school football instincts kicking in. Two more shots miss. The fourth strikes true, hitting Delroy square in the chest. His body armor prevents a kill shot, but the impact is enough to stop his advance cold. The next bullet drives him back.
A deafening belch of gunfire follows. Nemo’s body jerks. The shock and the pain rob him of the chance to scream. He staggers. The world spins.
Action Figures - Issue Six: Power Play Page 20