A City Night - part 2
by Direwolf

Carl Torrelli's hand still ached from the slight pressure of Cold Iron's grip. He didn't let the pain show on his face. In this organization, it never paid to show weakness, He kept his face impassive while Cold Iron left the room even though his hand hurt like hell and trickles of icy sweat were tracking down his sides. That had been just too damned close. He decided anything Jack had suffered at Cold Iron's hands was only a precursor to the hell he was going to give the man for nearly bringing Cold Iron's wrath down on them all. Still, it had ended rather well.

When Cold Iron was gone, Carl sat down and took a drink of wine. He was impressed at how little his hand was shaking.

"Uh, Boss, don't all the stuff we collect from the longshoremen give already go somewhere?" one of his men asked. "The food to the restaurants, the cloths to the shops and stuff like that..."

Carl nodded. "Yeah, nice to see you were paying attention. But that's all small potatoes, no real money involved. This deal is worth a hell of a lot more."

Someone snorted in derision; Carl didn't bother looking for who it was.

"You think the bums in the Kitchen will pay us more, boss?" a skeptical voice asked.

Carl shook his head. "No boys, this isn't about money. I figure we'll drop a couple of hundred on the deal. But we'll more than make that up with Reese's new book making operation as well as the liquor store we own by the University campus."

Carl noticed the time and stood up, and took his overcoat from the back of his chair before walking to the door. "But we got something far more important, guys, something that may well prove to be priceless."

He paused at the door, not looking back. "We got one of these new hero types to cut a deal. And you can damn well bet we'll play straight with him. Anyone thinks otherwise, they deal with me. He gets what he wants and everyone's happy. And later, maybe when he needs something else, maybe he comes to us for help. That's how you grow a business, you mugs. It's all about relationships. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment at the ballet."

A round of ‘nice one's' and ‘well done's' followed him out the door.

The restaurant had returned to something close to normal after Cold Iron's invasion. Carl peeled a couple of twenty-dollar bills from a thick roll and passed them to the headwaiter. "Sorry for the fuss, Tony."

"Not a problem, Mister Torrelli. Send my best to Mister Rigotta when you see ‘em!"

"Will do, Tony. Night."

A cold wind had sprung up so the tables outside were empty; Carl jammed his hands deep into his pockets as he walked to his car at the curb. The driver opened the door.

"Where to, sir?"

Carl sighed wearily. "You know where, Joe."

"Right. Opera House it is."

Carl didn't answer, just stared out the window at the dark, windswept city without seeing anything.

The car stopped a block away from the arts center.

"Want me to wait for you tonight, Mister Torrelli?" the driver asked as he held open the door.

"No need, Joe. Go home to your family. I'll be fine."

Carl watched the car's taillights as it drove away. He was standing on the curb in the up-town part of Patriot City, the part where the police patrolled, and the streetlights all worked. Carl checked his watch. There was plenty of time. He strolled into an alleyway like he owned the place. He wasn't worried about being stopped by the police. So long as you looked like you fit in, they seldom noticed you.

The asphalt-paved alleyway ran between a pair of office buildings and was remarkably free of trash. Uptown, the garbage was picked up on time as well. As he walked, Joe reached into his coat and took out a folding steel rod with a hook on one end. He stopped under a fire escape and with practiced ease, used the rod to pull down the ladder. It moved with the quit squeak of well-oiled metal. Carl kept it that way himself.

A few minutes later, he pulled himself onto the roof, panting for breath. The full strength of the wind blowing in from the ocean struck him, making his overcoat flap like a flag. Carl tugged his coat tight around his shoulders and walked to the edge of the building. He set his foot on the carved granite cornice and leaned slightly out. The Patriot City Civic Arts Center was spread out below him.

The ballet had just ended for the night and the patrons were leaving the building, men in dark suits escorting elegantly dressed women in a rainbow of colors. Taxies and limousines waited at the curb to whisk them off to their homes or on to the first nightclubs of the evening that was apt to last until dawn. A few left on foot bound for expensive apartments here near the heart of the city. Carl watched them as they filtered away. He turned his back to the wind to light a cigarette and then looked back as the exodus continued, the stragglers standing on the marble steps to gossip. At last, they left as well. Carl lit another cigarette and watched.

"How the hell did it turn out like this," he said through a plume of smoke.

The wind didn't answer, but then Carl already knew.

It started over twenty-five years ago with a young man who was little more than a boy with big dreams growing up in the slums south of Patriot City. Back then, he'd admired the gangsters with their natty suits, brash confidence and rolls of money. They offered what seemed the only way out of the grinding poverty as well as a way into the camaraderie of their outlaw brotherhood. It was easy to see them as heroes and aspire to be what they were. When he got the chance, Carl jumped for it and caught the tarnished brass ring. It wasn't until much later that he found out once the ring went on, it never came off.

So it led to here, with him now one of the top men in Joey Rigotta's criminal empire and, by extension, one of the most powerful men on the eastern seaboard of the United States. But he was standing alone on a windswept roof, spying on his only child with an empty apartment waiting for him at the end of the night.

By now, the area around the arts center had emptied out. A lone figure emerged from further down the street and walked quickly to the fountain by the front doors to the center, taking a seat upwind to avoid the wind blown water. Carl grew more alert. This was what he was waiting for. He took a small notebook from his pocket and a pair of Zeis binoculars.

The first of the dancers were leaving the center. They left singly or in small groups. Towards the end, he spotted one with a blond ponytail down her back. Carl focused his field glasses on his daughter and her face sprang into view. A hard lump blocked his throat. She looked so much like her mother.

Carl shoved all thoughts of sentiment aside and watched as his daughter ran over to the man seated by the fountain. They talked for a few moments, and then he passed her a package the size of a hardback book that she stuffed in her dance bag. They hugged quickly and she ran off. The man at the fountain remained sitting, obviously watching her as she went. Carl watched him in turn.

Just like the times before, the man at the fountain remained sitting for nearly ten minutes. He stood up when a long black town car turned the corner and stopped in front of the Civic Arts Center. The man ran across the sidewalk and climbed in through the back door, opened by someone Carl couldn't see. As the car pulled away, he caught a glimpse of the license plate. He only saw the first three symbols, "DEL" but it matched what he had seen several times before. The car bore the license plate DELTA 1 and was registered to Doctor Leo Drake of Delta Labs. For the past three months, the same man had been making contact with Carl's daughter, Cassandra, and giving her things. This was the third time he had been picked up in that car. Most of the time, he walked away or took a cab. In one case, the driver of the cab had been one of Carl's men who told him where he took his passenger. With a detective work, Carl had learned the man's identity. He was Raymond Fisk, a mechanical engineer employed at Delta Labs.

And the three month timing corresponded with what Carl knew was a major change in his daughter's life. His little Casey had assumed the identity of Miss Mantis, most likely in an effort to atone for the sins of her father. And somehow, Drake and Delta labs were involved. Carl didn't like the way the picture was shaping up, but didn't know what to do about it.

It wasn't like he could go to the police with something like this. And if his own people found out his daughter were one of these newfangled costumed crime fighters, it wouldn't be a whole lot better. There didn't seem to be any way out.

"Just keep thinking," he muttered, "giving up won't do any good."

Carl took one long drag on the cigarette before flicking the butt over the edge of the roof. The wind took it, leaving a long red streak in the air as it fell to the pavement far below. Carl didn't see it land. He was already on his way back to the fire escape.

From the rooftop of the Patriot City Arts Center, Casey caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eye. She turned in time to see a tiny spark arc towards the pavement like a miniature meteor. It died before it hit, burnt out on the way down.

"Must have been someone smoking on the roof," she murmured, her voice muffled by the dark green cloth covering her mouth. She carefully examined the wind swept rooftop but didn't see anything. Whoever it was, they were gone now.

It hadn't taken Casey long to slip into the dark green costume of Miss Mantis. She had done so in a darkened doorway, pulling the green armored cloth on over her leotard. One long running vault with the help of her telescoping titanium staff had taken her to the roof where she could examine the new device Raymond had given her. It was an attachment to her left glove.

The titanium alloy cuff circled her wrist with a tab protruding onto her palm. The plate on the back was linked to a set of three rings that fit over her fingers, keeping the whole assembly snug, and Casey realized, would make a serviceable weapon. But that wasn't its intended function. There was a cluster of three protrusions from the back of the glove, like stubby knitting needles. Raymond had explained that they were a grappling hook that she could fire using a magnetic impeller built into the device. The slightly bulbous housing at her wrist held a spool of four hundred yards of fine cable that had a tensile strength measured in tons. The cable also allowed her to control the hook, disengaging it at will, and a winch was built in as well. At last, she could reach roofs too far to make in a jump.

Casey attached the device and tested its balance. The first thing to do was make sure she could still move with it on. She crossed a dozen blocks by running, leaping and vaulting first. It was a wise precaution; the device changed how she had to grip the staff. Losing her grip while vaulting between buildings would have been a very bad thing

In a quiet part of the city, near the waterfront, Casey decided it was time to try out the new toy. She took a firm stance on the edge of a warehouse and aimed the glove at a light fixture across the street from her. She pressed the lever firmly with her thumb. There was a soft recoil and hiss as the line played out. The hook wrapped around the fixture and cinched tight. Casey took a look at the ground, gauging distances, then collapsed her staff and stowed it.

"Here goes nothing," she murmured and jumped off the edge.

The wind dragged at her as she plummeted. She arched her body and swung, missing the pavement by only a few feet, then triggered the winch. The shock vibrated up her arm and her arc shortened. But it happened too quickly. Casey realized she was going to miss the roof and loop back over the light. She reversed the winch and more cable played out. But it was too much. She just had time to brace herself as she hit the wall a foot and a half below the roof.

The blow wrenched her shoulder and left her winded but she didn't let go. Wheezing for air, she pulled herself up onto the roof and collapsed. He shoulder ached and it felt like she had chipped a tooth. But at least nothing was broken or dislocated.

"Ok," she gasped, "this is going to take some practice."

"What was that?" Vinny asked the strikingly pretty red haired young women beside him. The small time street hood had found himself blackmailed into playing unwilling guide tonight, and his nerves were badly frayed. His head swiveled back, looking at the empty street behind them.

"What was what?" Patricia Weathers asked. Recently assigned to the "comic book beat" as her fellow reporters at the Patriot City Herald called it. Stormy had dragged Vinny out of his rundown apartment tonight to help her run down a lead.

"Could've sworn I saw someone swing down from a roof and smack into the wall of that warehouse."

"You been hitting the sauce again, Vinny?" Stormy asked fiercely, "If you're playing me, I'll make sure your ex knows just where to find you!"

Vinny held up his hands in alarm and his unshaven cheeks suddenly lost the wind-reddened color, bleaching pale at the threat. "Come on, Miss Weathers. I play straight with you. Everyone knows better than to cross you."

Patricia smiled a predatory smile, her bright green eyes lit with amusement. "That's right Vinny, I know just how far I can trust you. Now come on, no more hallucinations. I don't want to be late."

"I still don't think this is a good idea either," Vinny groused as he slouched along beside the red haired reporter, his hands jammed into his worn jacket. "Word is these guys play rough."

"Don't try thinking Vinny, it'll just give you worry lines. Come on, and if you don't do like I told you, Vera finds out you didn't hit the bottom of the harbor inside a sack like she thinks you did."

She lead the way to a ramshackle building with a single dim light in a sheet metal shade over the door. A Cardboard sign reading "BAR" had been tacked to the warped wood.

The room inside was nearly as dark as the empty street, but at least provided marginal shelter from the wind. Hostile eyes turned towards the newcomers but Vinny was known well enough to prevent an instant attack.

Stormy stopped at the plank bar. The huge bartender, his belly barely held in check by a straining canvas apron that might once have been white, eyed them suspiciously.

"We are here to meet with Mister Jones about some hardware," Vinny said, slipping the ten-dollar bill Stormy had provided onto the bar.

The bill vanished into the bartender's thick hand. "Back room."

Vinny nodded and led the way through a threadbare curtain behind the bar. Stormy had no doubt that if they had tried to get through without the bartender's ok, a half dozen men would have jumped them.

The back room was a far cry from the dingy bar. Here the walls were intact, keeping out the wind, and a fluorescent light hung from the ceiling. There was a meticulously clean gray metal desk flanked by a pair of file cabinets in the pool of light. A middle aged man sat in the chair behind the desk, his thinning brown hair carefully combed and his watery brown eyes examining the ledger book in front of him. Stormy realized this had to be Mister Jones, a shadowy figure in the Patriot City criminal underworld. Mister Jones was a middleman, someone who could arrange for anything. If you needed an out of town hit man, Jones could find you a reliable one. Have a hankering for pure Turkish hashish no more than a day out of the fields? Jones knew someone who could provide. Suddenly find yourself with a fortune in diamonds that needed a buyer? Jones had the contacts. He worked strictly on a percentage of any deal he brokered and was well connected enough that no one crossed him. Rumor was, his reach extended all the way into the capitals of more than one nation...

Jones looked up, his eyes mild behind his glasses. He reminded Stormy of her first year journalism professor at Connecticut State University. With a smile, he stood up and bowed slightly.

"I understand you are in search of something, ma'am?" He had slight European accent she couldn't place.

Stormy smiled dazzlingly. She couldn't tell if it had any effect. Mister Jones seemed to have a perpetual look of polite amusement on his face.

"I hope so, sir, "she said, letting a trace of an Irish brogue slip through. "You see, I'm looking for some guns for my brothers. Not just any guns, mind you, we have plenty of them for what good they do us. But something...special that could make troops take notice if you catch my meaning."

The same half smile never wavered. "Oh, I think I do, very well in fact. And what brings you to Patriot City in search of such things?"

"Well, your fair city has been in the world news much of late. Stories of all sorts of fantastical things, super heroes, alien invasions, killer robots. My.... brothers thought this might be the place to look for such things and everyone says you are the man to check with."

"You are in luck. I know just the thing you are looking for and the cost for such items is actually quite reasonable. In fact, another client should be taking delivery right now, out back. Shall we join them?"

Stormy's heart stuttered in her chest. Either she had been made and this was trap, or it was a real opportunity for a solid lead. She knew which one she was going to assume it was. "I'd be happy to, sir."

Another door nearly lost in the shadows of the room led them to an empty, junk strewn lot behind the bar. Stormy wasn't sure where they were, but felt sure that any number of eyes were watching her. Someone like Jones was bound to have guards somewhere, you didn't last as long as he had in the underworld relying solely on the strength of your reputation.

Two men were standing outside, shoulders hunched up to avoid the wind. They looked over as the door opened. Stormy recognized one of them, He was one of the wounded men that had been taken from the auto dismantlers after the fight with Direwolf and then been sprung from the hospital. It was a safe bet the other was part of the same gang.

"Carry on, gentlemen," Jones instructed, He seemed unaware of the cold wind buffeting them all.

They waited in the darkness. After what felt to Stormy like an eternity, she heard the sound of a powerful engine, like a delivery truck, pull up. A few moments later, an odd looking pair walked into view. The first was a white-haired man dressed in gray coveralls and a thick belt festooned with odd tools and gadgets. Beside him, a crate over one shoulder, came a figure dressed in worn street clothes. At first, Stormy thought it was a large, ugly man. Then she saw the pasty white skin and lack of facial features. It was something else.

Mister Jones stepped forward to meet all four participants. He turned to the two hoods first.

"Gentlemen, you have the agreed to funds, I assume?"

One of them licked his lips, staring at the hulking brute with the crate. "Right here."

Jones accepted the offered carpetbag and snapped it open. Stormy got a quick glimpse of thick packets of bills inside. Jones didn't bother counting and she understood why. Everyone said that double-crossing on a deal that Jones set up was quick way to buy a deep grave.

Jones turned to the man in the gray coveralls. "Everything is in the box?"

"Just as you specified," the man replied in an oddly accented voice. Without a word passing between master and inhuman servant, the white skinned thing set the crate down and wrenched off the lid. Inside, Stormy saw several longarm weapons, a few things that looked like pistols, and what might have been something like black and gray riot gear.

One of the two men picked up one of the handguns, turning it in his hands. The thick-barreled weapon looked like something from the cover of Astonishing Tales. "Can I give it a try, Techmaster?"

"As you wish. They fire much like the force rifles, though with more recoil since they project a kinetic bolt. As always, they are equipped with a self-destruct in case someone attempts to open one. My designs will remain my secret," he added with a glance at Stormy. "There are four backup power cells for each weapon and a current adapter so you can recharge them."

The man nodded and grinned. He took the weapon and glanced around. There was a broken refrigerator on the far side of the lot. "May I?" he asked Mister Jones.

Mister Jones gestured magnanimously. The man pointed the strange weapon at the rust eaten refrigerator and pulled the trigger. It looked as if a jolt of something, kind of like a heat shimmer, lanced from the stubby handgun and smacked into the old refrigerator. Stormy figured the old appliance had to weight a couple of hundred pounds at least. It crumpled in like a stomped on beer can, twisting into a torn ruin.

"Nice!" the shooter said, slipping the weapon into his pocket.

Stormy suddenly got a very clear idea of that would have done to a human body and shuddered.

"I understand, Miss," Mister Jones said, "It's rather chilly but I thought you might want to see the sort of merchandise available. Just the thing to stop a British Army unit or a rabble of provosts, don't you think?"

Stormy nodded numbly, not trusting herself to speak.

"A new buyer?" Techmaster asked as he accepted the case from Jones.

"Quite possibly," Jones answered. "The young lady represents a group of foreign freedom fighters and is assessing the options."

Techmaster regarded her with a look of cool appraisal. "I can assure you that the weapons and gear I offer are of the finest quality and well worth the price." He nodded his head at the crate. "You will not find anything like these weapons anywhere else on Earth"

Stormy mastered her fear and feigned a predatory smile. "I can see that, sir. I just need to talk to my brothers to see how much we can afford. I assume I can reach you through Mister Jones?"

"Certainly. He knows how to contact me. Though I would suggest you not wait too long. I am negotiating a... shall we say, exclusive contract with a powerful individual here in Patriot City. Once that happens, most of my resources shall be committed."

"I understand, of course," Stormy answered. "Now I should let you gentlemen get back to your business. Vinny, shall we go?"

Without waiting for an answer, Stormy walked out of the empty lot, past the smashed refrigerator. She didn't let herself run.

"Got what you wanted?" Vinny asked.

"I don't know if was what I wanted, but it was sure more than I bargained for." Stormy took a wad of bills from her pocket. In her mind, Vinny had earned a bonus. "Keep your nose clean. I may need you for another meet."

"Great. I think I'm getting an ulcer already," the street tough complained. It didn't stop him from taking the money.

The two of them parted and Stormy walked on into the windswept night, her mind awhirl with grim thoughts. She didn't like the sound of Techmaster's exclusive arrangement and there weren't a lot of individuals she could think of who would both be interested and be able to afford a deal like that.

"But what to do about it?" she muttered. That was the problem with being a reporter. Did you take a story like this and publish, or find a way to get the information to someone who might be able to do some good with it? There weren't any easy answers.

"Well, I'd better let JJ know I'm all right or he'll think Direwolf has kidnapped me." She spotted a phone booth ahead. This one was in front of the Warfield Apartment building and looked to be in working order. Stormy stepped into the booth, shut the glass doors and fished out a dime.

Curtis Conroy had found himself attracted to the Warfield apartments years ago. Not only was it an easy walk to the Patriot City Museum of Ancient History, but it offered a veterans' discount as well. An important consideration considering the size of his pension and guard's salary. So Curtis had settled in back in 1955 when he finally made it back from Europe and hadn't left.

Back in the war, Curtis had been part of the elite army light reconnaissance unit, what became the air born rangers. He had seen action all along the Italian Peninsula and then on into France. His career as well as his life nearly ended in the French town of Ramadan when SS bullets chewed up his right leg. But the field medics were able to stabilize him long enough for the relief forces to reach Ramadan and the doctors pulled the bullets out. But Captain Conroy was faced with a difficult decision. His wounded leg made him unfit for airborne operations. He could muster out with an honorable discharge or transfer to another, ground-based unit and see out the rest of the war. Curtis had never been the sort of man to turn away from a job half done. He chose the latter and was there when Berlin fell.

As the war ended, Curtis was offered another assignment that kept him in the field for a few more years. Shadow Team was part of the US Intelligence efforts in the post war continent, charged with tracking down cells of Nazis and other Fascists that had been swept over by the war. There was a very real fear these evil seeds might sprout. And the Cold War spring into existence and Shadow Team was called in to counter Soviet plots as well. Curtis realized the war wasn't over. It never really was. Freedom was always under assault from somewhere.

Curtis' last mission took him into Bulgaria to stop a Soviet weapons project. Though confronted by elite KGB commandos, the mission succeeded and a breeder reactor went up in smoke. But it was Curtis' last run. His leg nearly gave out on the final dash for freedom and cost another soldier his life. Curtis accepted retirement and came back to Patriot City and a job as night watchmen.

And Curtis had believed his days and nights of adventure were long gone.

In his room on the eighth floor of the Warfield apartment's, Curtis' eyes snapped open. He was one of those people that woke up all at once, fully aware and ready. It was a useful skill when you lived in a combat zone. The first thing he noticed was that the ceiling was far too close. It looked like it was only a few feet away form his nose. Ever since the night of the robbery at the Museum, Curtis had realized his eyesight had improved to at least as good as it had been when he was in his twenties and his company's sharpshooter. But this sure didn't look like an optical effect. Reflexively, Curtis reached for the lamp on the nightstand. It wasn't there. Neither was the nightstand.

Curtis looked around and realized he was in fact floating a good eight feet above his bed. He remembered he'd been dreaming about flying but it looked as if the dream had spilled over.

Curtis didn't panic. He'd jumped out of too many planes in his life to give into a little unexpected Vertigo. But he did run a quick mental check to make sure he wasn't delusional. As best he could tell, he really was floating in the air without any sort of support.

"Now if that just don't beat all." He flapped his arms. Nothing happened. He concentrated and felt himself settle lower until he rested on the bed. He focused his thoughts again and rose into the air, hovered, then shifted to the right and left.

"Better than an elevator, that's for sure," the veteran solder said. As another test, he tried moving a little faster. He nearly hit the wall before he stopped himself.

Curtis landed on his feet and switched on the light on the nightstand that was right on the floor were it should be. As he did so, he realized that for the first time in years, there was no pain in his wounded leg. The scars were still there, but the pain was gone.

Curtis walked into the bathroom and examined his reflection in the mirror. There was no real outward change. What ever had happened to him, it wasn't the Fountain of Youth. As best he could tell, he still looked like a reasonably fit man in his early fifties with his once brown hair nearly white. But he could fly.

You couldn't read the papers in Patriot City without learning something of the so-called super heroes that had cropped up here and scattered across the world. Curtis wasn't stupid and as a trained army observer, was able to assemble the pieces into a cohesive whole. As he walked out of the bathroom into his Spartan apartment, his blank face hid a mind spinning with thoughts, questions and ramifications.

He sat down in a comfortably worn armchair and steepled his fingers in front of his face. Most of the questions could wait. But the most important was what would he do now?

From his chair, Curtis regarded his apartment. His eyes latched onto one of the few decorations he'd added himself. It was a poster he had picked up at a junk sale three years ago. The poster was executed in the distinctive style of World War II propaganda prints. This one had been issued by a firm in Patriot City, Federated Metals, as part of the recycling drive. It showed smiling citizens pilling all sorts of metal onto a conveyor belt, old bikes, golf clubs, cookware and even tin toys. The metal trundled into a factory labeled Federated Metals and another belt emerged, bearing guns, bombs, tanks and planes to the waiting arms of smiling service men. Behind them lurked shadowy shapes with swastika emblazoned armbands or Imperial Japanese banners above them. The slogan across the top asked if you had done enough for the cause of freedom.

Curtis studied the picture and decided that he had been wrong. It seemed the adventure wasn't over, not quite yet.

The first rays of dawn shone through the window of the Federated Metals office in Patriot City. In the faint light, the curling poster asking the reader if they had done enough for the cause of freedom took on a new life as the soft light painted the dusty poster with pastel colors. The one person in the room didn't notice. The crystal lens on the worn desk transfixed her eyes.

Silver Scarab took a deep, shuddering breath and relaxed her mental hold on the crystal. This time, the ribbons of purple light held their shape. They moved and shifted in a rhythmic dance but didn't shatter into the diffuse purple glow. She took another deep breath and felt some of the night's strain slip from her neck and shoulders. God, she was tired and thirsty.

"Excellent work, Carline," the mysterious voice said from either some place around her, or within her own mind. "Rest for now. But when the night comes again, back to work. The lens is calibrated, and now comes control."

"So much power," She whispered. "I can feel it now, the threads leading out from it."

"Yes, power unimaginable. But remember, power is only one side of the equation. All the power in existence is worthless without two things. The skill to control it and the will to do so. Next, you must gain the skill..."

To be continued...