“Delroy? Delroy?!” Mick shouts.
“I’m good,” Delroy grunts. “I’m good.”
Nemo blinks, but his eyes won’t focus. He tries to speak, but his lungs stubbornly refuse to draw in air. A strange taste fills his mouth, thick and coppery.
“Nice shootin’, Tex,” Delroy says.
“Thanks,” Mick says, distantly aware of how badly his hand is shaking. He’s hurt people before, many times, but never like this. Never like this.
“What do we do now?” Jonas asks.
Hospital. Get me to a hospital, Nemo thinks. He tries to turn the thought into sound — tries, but fails. Three shapes, little more than dark blurs, loom over him. Please get me to a hospital. Please...
“He said he had a car outside,” Delroy says.
“I think so, yeah.”
Nemo strains to hear what Delroy says next. His voice is so strangely distant.
“We get a tarp and some duct tape. Wrap him up, put him in the trunk, and drive the car out of town. I know a place.”
No. No no no please, please don’t, please take me to a hospital, I have to fix this, I have to, please, a hospital, please, it hurts so much...
Wait. No. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
How odd...
TWENTY-FIVE
We spend Sunday enjoying a rare and much-needed day off together. I wish I could spend it with Meg, but she’s still demolished from the raid. She insisted she was good enough for a quiet day of movies in her room, but I insisted she get all the sleep she can so she’s fresh for her classes Monday. It feels good to be the caretaker for once.
We gather at Stuart’s for a day of gaming. Matt invites Zina to join us, which prompts Stuart to ask if we mind if Peggy also comes over — which prompts the rest of us to ask if he and Peggy are a thing.
“We’re not a thing,” Stuart says. “We’re buds, that’s all.”
“Malcolm Forth is your bud too,” Matt says. “Don’t hear you inviting him over.”
“And you didn’t bring Malcolm along to the New Year’s Day feast,” I add.
“Sorry, Stuart,” Missy says. “This smells like a thing to me.”
“Shut up,” Stuart says, blushing mildly.
Once the ladies arrive, the fun begins. We introduce Zina and Peggy to the joys of Settlers of Catan, Ticket to Ride, King of Tokyo, and Munchkin. We make a point of avoiding shop talk, but Zina has a lot of questions about our raid in Southie. That was all over the evening news, but as is often the case, the juiciest details never made it on the air, and Zina wants to be in the loop. That makes me happy. Zina could have freaked out about Matt’s other life and cut all ties with him, but instead she’s embraced the role of the supportive girlfriend. Matt deserves that.
The Lumleys come home after church. Stuart’s parents aren’t regular attendees, but Sophia, who decided to make a long vacation of her trip, is, and Mr. Lumley’s not about to tell his mother he’d rather sleep in on a Sunday. They all say hello to us; we say hello back; we introduce Zina and Peggy; Sophia compliments them on their excellent taste in boyfriends; Stuart blushes; and then Sophia and Mrs. Lumley head into the kitchen to make lunch for everyone. It’s all very normal — which strikes me, ironically, as weird.
“Hey, Stuart,” I say. “How’ve things been with the parentals?”
“Pretty cool, actually,” he says. “I mean, relatively. They’re still not, you know, thrilled about everything, but ever since Grandma talked them down, they haven’t been giving me a hard time about it.”
Matt’s face tightens, which I take as a sign that his folks have yet to come around.
We game until mid-afternoon, at which point Zina not-so-subtly hints to Matt she’d like a little “us time.” “Between school and work and, uh, other work,” she says, “we’re not going to see a lot of each other until next weekend.”
“And who am I to deprive her of the pleasure of me?” Matt says to us.
“That sounded dirty and you shouldn’t say stuff like that around me because I have delicate sensibilities,” Missy says.
“You can say stuff like that to me all you want,” Zina tells Matt. “Let’s go.”
“I should get going too,” Peggy says. She rises and stretches out her back, letting out what we’ve come to call the Gamer Groan, the noise you make after standing up following hours of hunching over the gaming table. “I’ve been procrastinating on my homework long enough.”
“Thanks for coming over,” Stuart says. “Anytime you want to game with us, let me know.”
“Anytime you plan to game, let me know. See you tomorrow,” Peggy says, bowing to give Stuart a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. “Bye, guys.”
“Bye, Peggy,” I say. As soon as she’s out the door, I throw Stuart a grin. “You two are so a thing.”
“No we’re not,” Stuart says automatically.
“Nuh-uh, you totally are,” Missy says. “Stop denying it. No more denial. I deny your denying.”
“Stop.”
“What’s with the resistance?” I say. “She’s cool. I like her. And she likes you, and you like her, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So?”
“I want to be sure she likes me for me.”
“As opposed to liking you for...?”
He frowns. “Okay, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an asshat, but I want to make sure Peggy isn’t...um...”
“A super-hero groupie?” I suggest.
“Basically, yeah. I want to make sure Peggy isn’t like Zina.”
“Whoa, what?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I like Zina, I think she’s cool, but lately she’s been acting more like a groupie than a girlfriend.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t agree with that at all. She’s being supportive.”
Stuart makes a sour face.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Missy says. “Zina and Matt were dating before we went public.”
“Yeah, but haven’t you noticed that after Matt told her, she got wicked touchy-feely and everything she says has a wink-wink nudge-nudge vibe?”
“No. I mean yeah, but I thought that was normal couple stuff. They’ve been dating for, like, three months.”
Wow, they have been dating that long, haven’t they? That puts things in a whole different perspective. Three months officially makes theirs a Serious Relationship, so it makes sense they’d be increasingly affectionate. Heck, maybe Matt’s secret identity was the thing holding them back as a couple. Once Matt showed Zina he could trust her, she could return that trust without fear, and the increase in PDAs is a reflection of that.
“She has a point,” I say to Stuart. “I think you’re reading too much into it.”
“Mm. Maybe,” he says.
***
Or maybe not.
Matt picks me up Monday morning, and as I climb into the car, I can’t help but notice an exuberance radiating off him — and I mean I literally cannot help but notice. He’s on a crazy emotional high.
“Good morning!” he beams.
“It definitely is for you,” I say. “Care to share?”
“I had an awesome night with Zina. After we left Stuart’s we grabbed some dinner and then went back to her house, and her parents were out for the night so we had the place to ourselves and we...” He hesitates. “We hung out. Talked. You know. Stuff.”
Oh, I don’t like where this is heading — but I have to know. “And?”
His face miraculously finds more room to allow his ear-to-ear smile to expand. “Zina told me she’s in love with me.”
“Oh, Matt, that’s great. That’s awesome,” I say, ignoring the powerful suspicion that there’s a lot more to this story than a simple admission of love.
None of your business, Sara. For once, don’t be worried about Matt; be happy for him. I have every reason in the world to share his joy. This is horribly narcissistic of me, I admit, but I sometimes worried he’d never recover from me breaking his heart. I fea
red he’d never move on and let someone love him the way I couldn’t. He’s proven me wrong, and I’m grateful for it.
“So, yeah,” Matt says. “That happened.”
“You did say it back, right?”
“Of course I said it back. I’d been trying to work up the nerve to say it to her first. I swear I was two seconds away from saying it but she beat me to it.”
“Good, because if you did something stupid like say ‘Uh, yeah, cool,’ I would have punched you.”
“And you’d’ve been completely justified to do so.”
I reach across the seat to hug him. “I’m happy for you.”
“You won’t be when Zina and I take the title of Cutest Couple away from you and Meg.”
“Pal, you’re going to have to cute your butts off if you’re going to wrench that title away from us.”
Matt shifts the car into gear. “Challenge accepted.”
TWENTY-SIX
“Matt Steiger, reporting for duty,” Matt says.
“Who?” the dispatcher says.
“Captain Trenchcoat. I’m here for my shift.” The dispatcher shakes his head. “Captain Trenchcoat. From the Hero Squad. I’ve been on the rotation more than two weeks. Come on, Mackie, you remember me.”
“Where’s your mask?”
“In my backpack.”
“Why am I seeing your face?”
“We went public.”
“When?”
“Right before Christmas.”
“Huh.” Mackie shrugs. “All right.”
“What car do I have today?”
“I think you’re in one of the unmarked cruisers. We’re down a car — another car after the bank robbery. Check with the lieutenant.”
Lt. Rutger hands Matt the keys to an unmarked cruiser along with a request to “Please, for the love of God, bring it back in one piece. We can’t lose any more vehicles.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The cheap thrill of having a cruiser all to himself remains as strong as it did the day Chief Bronson officially cleared him to patrol alone. The chief was initially uncomfortable with the notion of handing a cruiser over to a teenager, but the benefit of having an extra car on the streets outweighed his reluctance. Concorde’s ringing endorsement of Matt’s competence certainly didn’t hurt.
Matt finds his car in the rear parking lot. It’s an impressive machine, the Ford Police Interceptor, the model that some years ago replaced the venerable Crown Victoria. It’s slightly smaller than its predecessor but sleeker, sturdier, more powerful. As the Kingsport PD rotated the new models into their motor pool, the chief wisely opted for upgrades that make the cars even more durable, such as Level III ballistic panels in the front doors and protective undercarriage plates to guard against damage resulting from high-speed chases. This is a car built to take punishment.
At 2:22 PM Matt dutifully begins his visual inspection and pre-patrol check. Lights, siren, tires, radio, laptop — everything checks out.
At 2:30 PM he slips on his gloves and rolls out onto Main Street to begin his shift.
He takes his traditional first pass down Main Street, driving down past the town green, past the block of small shops that includes the Coffee Experience, then looping around to head back into the center of Kingsport. His return path includes a small detour through Town Hall Square, an eclectic patchwork quilt of businesses and professional offices, with town hall itself sitting at the far end of the property. On one side, a real estate firm abuts a candlepin bowling alley, which shares a small employees-only parking lot with a law firm. On the other side is a long building that serves as shared office space for a variety of nonprofit organizations. After that is what Matt and his friends have come to call the Bizarre Coincidence Complex, a collection of adjoining offices belonging to attorney Sullivan Crenshaw; Dr. Bartholomew Connors, child psychologist and family therapist; and Steiger and Associates Financial Services.
Matt pauses in front of his father’s office and wonders if a surprise visit would be welcome or if the sight of his son in full super-hero regalia would only spark another angry clash.
Dispatcher Mackie takes the decision out of Matt’s hands. Multiple 911 calls reporting a disruption at the courthouse, Mackie says. Shots fired, unknown number of assailants. Matt activates the lights and siren and rolls back out onto Main Street.
“Dispatch, this is...uh. Crap, I have no idea what car I’m in,” he says. “It’s Captain Trenchcoat, I’m en route, should be there in two minutes.”
“Be careful. Closest backup is five minutes out,” Mackie says.
“Copy that.”
Traffic dutifully parts, pressing against the sidewalks as Matt guns the engine and races toward the courthouse. He banks a hard right onto Smith Road and floors the accelerator. He eases up as the courthouse comes into view on the right, quiet and still — no obvious signs of trouble. No signs of activity whatsoever.
— Until a van parked along the curb, a white van with a rust-caked roof rack and hints of a business logo hiding beneath a faded paint job, pulls away with a shriek of balding tires fighting for traction. Could be nothing, Matt thinks. Could be a contractor who bailed at the first sign of trouble, some poor guy in the building to fix a toilet or restock a vending machine. He eases off the accelerator to maintain a reasonable distance behind the vehicle, intending to follow but not pursue, and definitely not to intercept. Trying to ram the van off the road — off a well-traveled residential road — would be foolhardy. Too much potential for collateral damage.
A split-second later, that thought becomes a cruel irony. The van hurtles through an intersection in defiance of a red light. Matt screams a warning no one can hear as a crossing heavy-duty pick-up truck halts the fugitives’ blind dash for freedom. The van swerves too late. Front ends connect with a pop of metal slamming sidelong into metal. The vehicles careen off one another and spin away. The van lurches to a stop at the periphery of the intersection while the pick-up bounces up over the sidewalk. Other cars skid and swerve out of the way.
Matt stands on the brake pedal. Tires chirp beneath him, skipping along the asphalt. One hand pops the seat belt while the other searches for his facemask. He slips it on, pulls his thunder gun, and steps out of the cruiser, trusting that the teeth-rattling impact of the crash will buy him enough time to take control of the situation.
That trust is betrayed immediately. The van’s cargo bay door slides open and the Riveter, dressed in a dreary gray prison jumpsuit, opens fire. Matt ducks behind the open cruiser door. A deafening drumroll of lead punishing steel stabs his ears.
A telltale moment of silence follows — a fleeting window of opportunity while the Riveter changes magazines. Matt thrusts a hand into his coat and withdraws a flashbang grenade. He dares to rise long enough to acquire his target, which gives the Riveter a chance to acquire his. He squeezes the trigger as the grenade reaches the zenith of its arc.
The grenade detonates. The Riveter cries out. The gunfire ceases.
MOVE.
Matt springs up. Thirty feet of roadway separates him and the Riveter, the only member of Damage Inc. who’s dangerous at a distance — but only as long as he has his gun. Matt focuses on the weapon in the Riveter’s flailing hand, takes in its shape, its color, its details, and reaches into his coat. He tosses the Riveter’s gun into the cruiser as the rest of Damage Inc. bail out of the van, weapons at the ready. The big one, Hammerman, charges up the center. Chainsaw Charlie circles around to Matt’s left, Driller Killer to the right — a pincer maneuver.
Conscious thought vanishes. Instinct, ground into his brain through months of harsh, rigorous training with Natalie, takes over.
Matt counters Hammerman’s charge, concussion blasts leading the way. A close-range shot stops Hammerman cold, leaving him open for a flying knee that proves less effective.
Body armor. Didn’t have that last time.
Matt drops and lashes out with a leg sweep that puts Hammerman on his back. Matt spins,
rises, and throws a concussion blast at the pair of screaming drills heading his way. Driller Killer barks in pain and staggers back.
Chainsaw Charlie closes in. No way to steal those off him, Matt thinks, not without losing a hand.
But what he can steal, he does. Matt reaches into his coat and flings one of Hammerman’s steel gauntlets at Chainsaw Charlie. A wild, instinctive swat bats it aside with a spray of sparks, but the distraction does its job. Matt pumps the trigger, laying three tight shots into Chainsaw Charlie’s gut.
Hammerman starts to rise. Matt steals away his other gauntlet and lays it across Hammerman’s face, putting him back down.
A flash of motion catches Matt’s attention. The driver of the pick-up stumbles away from his vehicle, one hand clutching a bleeding head wound, and collapses on the sidewalk.
Victim. Innocent bystander. Potential hostage.
Driller Killer closes the gap, his weapons keening like twin banshees — and that is the only thing that saves Matt from getting impaled. He dives away, rolls to his feet, but something jerks him back. Servos wheeze and grind. Matt tries to pull free, but the tail of his trench coat is wrapped in the bit, held fast. Driller Killer cocks his free hand. A point-blank concussion blast blows him off his feet — and drags Matt, still entangled, to the ground with him. The thunder gun slips from Matt’s grasp and clatters away, out of reach.
Someone shouts an order. “Get him!”
Hammerman — up and advancing and, judging by his expression, supremely pissed. Chainsaw Charlie — almost to his feet. The Riveter — still down, but that won’t last long. Matt gives his coat one last desperate yank to no avail. Hammerman lunges.
No choice.
Matt wrestles out of his coat, sacrificing the garment in exchange for mobility. Hammerman grabs at empty air. He recovers and moves to corral Matt, to force him back into the center of the impromptu arena.
Don’t let yourself get surrounded. Keep your opponents in front of you.
Matt puts everything behind a leaping kick. His boot crashes into the point of Hammerman’s chin. He sprawls onto the ground, teetering at the edge of unconsciousness. The rest of Damage Inc. swarms. Matt weaves and dodges and scrambles away, buying time enough to weigh his chances. He still has his gloves, but without his coat to serve as a blind, their use is severely limited. His gun is out of reach. He’s a skilled fighter while Damage Inc. are untrained brawlers. They’re also uncoordinated; they don’t know how to work as a unit, a fact that could help turn their superior numbers into a liability rather than an advantage. Their greatest edge is their equipment and half of that has been taken out of the equation.
Action Figures - Issue Six: Power Play Page 21