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#1
SEP 09 |
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*The events depicted in this issue take place shortly after Marvel’s Daredevil #8 (Vol. 2) in a 12-month time span before the official launch of Daredevil, Darkhawk, Deadline, Heroes For Hire and Master of Kung-Fu.
Fisk Tower stood triumphantly amongst the Manhattan skyline, an ivory tower that appeared to have bullied its way into the spot that it occupied. The other skyscrapers in its immediate vicinity almost seemed to cower at its mere presence and, in the New York breeze, you could almost feel them shudder. Though not the tallest structure on the block, it was indeed the most imposing, much like its owner.
Wilson Fisk, flanked by a mousy secretary in a magenta skirt and his bodyguard, a blue suited blonde man in sunglasses named Owens, trudged down the down the long corridor that stretched from the elevator at the rear of his building’s penthouse to his office. “Ms. Winters, what is the status of our Colombian shipment?” Fisk questioned, glancing at the woman to his right. The secretary adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses and flipped through pages in her planner.
“We’re looking at a late arrival Monday night, Mr. Fisk.” She replied as her glasses once again slid down her nose, causing her to quickly push them back into place with her forefinger. Fisk nodded and looked to Owens at his left, knowing that the blue suited man was giving him his full attention even though the dark lenses of his sunglasses masked his eyes.
“Mr. Owens, if you would supervise unloading of that shipment, I would be pleased. We wouldn’t want to lose any of it, now would we?” Fisk smiled slightly and Owens shook his head no. They stopped short of the office double doors and Fisk turned to his company. “Excellent. Ms. Winters, please inform the ship’s crew of Mr. Owens presence and that they obey his every order.”
Winters quickly scribbled her employer’s instructions into her planner. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes,” Fisk answered, placing his hand on his office door. “You are both dismissed.” Owens nodded and Winters wished her boss a hushed goodnight before both turned and began to walk back to the elevator at the end of the hall. Wilson Fisk turned and pushed his way into his office and closed the door behind him. It had taken every last bit of strength he had, but finally, the Kingpin of Crime was beginning to secure his position at the top of the New York underworld once more.
He was only slightly caught off guard when the lamp on his desk clicked to life, dimly illuminating his posh office. He smirked and turned slowly from the door, knowing exactly whom he’d find at his desk. The voice only further confirmed his identity. “Kingpin, we have to talk.”
Standing behind Fisk’s desk was Daredevil, hunched over on his palms, ready to talk business. Fisk was amused, as some of his adversary’s previous visits had the masked man acting glibber than his now more serious demeanor. “Murdock,” the Kingpin sneered, unflinchingly taking a step towards his desk. “I expected you sooner. “
“Then you know why I’m here,” Daredevil said, not moving an inch from his position. Fisk, likewise, stood his ground.
“I believe you wish to discuss the recent events caused by the late Mr. Quentin Beck,” the crime lord replied, adjusting his lapel pin. “May he rest in peace.”
“Why, Wilson?” the man without fear asked, through clenched teeth. His hands balled into fits on the desktop. He had promised himself he wouldn’t get angry, but the air that Fisk was carrying himself with was irritating him, to say the least.
“Mysterio’s money went a long way. I have an enterprise to rebuild, Murdock,” the Kingpin answered, now at the front of the desk. He leaned in close to costumed man’s face, allowing Daredevil’s radar sense to almost completely feel its composition. Hairless round scalp, the raised cheeks of the man’s smirk, but left his eyes empty hollow sockets, soulless as their owner. “After all,” Fisk continued, “I’m no longer the man that I once was, thanks to you.”
“Fair’s fair, Wilson,” Daredevil said pushing himself off the desk into a standing position, folding his arms across his chest. “You took away my life once, too.” He paused, taking it into consideration. “Twice, if you count what Beck did with what you told him.”
The Kingpin let out a hearty, amused laugh, much to Matthew Murdock’s chagrin. “You refer to Bullseye’s encounter with Miss Page, I assume. Tell me, Murdock, didn’t she sell you out once, too?”
Daredevil’s eyes narrowed and his fists tightened once more. He could feel himself quivering with rage. The Kingpin crossed around the desk and nonchalantly sat in his leatherback chair, which sank under his heft. He looked up into the blind man’s eyes and the blind man stared back into his. “Besides, what Mysterio did with what I told him was amateur at best. A bag of B movie tricks with delusions of grandeur. Pathetic.”
Daredevil held his stare at Fisk for a moment. He had said the same to Beck when the villain was attempting to chide him into a climatic final confrontation. And final it had been, as Murdock’s words had driven the fight from Mysterio, causing the villain to take his own life. He noted the similarity he and his nemesis’ opinion and it furthered his resolve to say what he had came to say.
“I came here to offer a truce, Wilson,” Daredevil said, turning and walking towards the penthouse window. “What happened with Mysterio only proved one thing to me and that’s that you and I…we can’t go on like this forever.”
The Kingpin slowly rotated towards the window, his eyes following Daredevil’s path. The man without fear paused before the window blinds and turned back to the larger man. “If we keep doing this, one of us…probably both us…are going to die. We’re going to end up killing each other. Do you understand that?”
The Kingpin said nothing, but just sat there listening carefully to his enemy’s words. Daredevil continued, “I came here today to make this offer: that I’ll stop if you stop. I’ve made my difference, Mysterio proved that. If you can quit, if the Kingpin of Crime can retire, and I’ll take off my mask and walk away.”
The silence hung thick in the air between the two men, the only audible tension to Daredevil who could hear the pounding of Wilson Fisk’s heart, which would sound like bombs bursting beneath water to any normal man. Thirty seconds passed and the Kingpin’s heartbeat stayed steady. Daredevil yanked the cord to a section of the blinds, letting in a flood of night light from outside and Fisk sat silhouetted by the devil’s shadow. The larger man spoke, sternly, spotlighted by this illumination.
“No. This goes beyond you and me, it always has. I was this before you and you, Murdock, were Daredevil before me. It’s unfortunate that our paths had to cross, that things have to have gone the way they were, but in the end, I will not forego my identity and I doubt you could leave yours behind for long. If you could, you would have a long time ago.”
Daredevil stared at the man he had intruded upon for a few seconds, then turned his gaze away and hung his head, staring at the busy street below. Fisk was right. Jack Murdock had been avenged long ago, and yet he still played the hero. Daredevil pushed on the pane of glass, letting it swing open into the night. “That’s too bad, Wilson. Someday, there will be reckoning. I know it and, now, so do you. Just remember, Kingpin, you could have stopped it.”
Daredevil climbed onto the window ledge and pushed himself off into the void, leaving Wilson Fisk alone. Fisk turned back to his desk, lit a cigar, and never once regretted his decision. It was Murdock’s naïveté that had begun their conflict all those years ago and it would be that same trait that would ensure his downfall.
Shang-Chi sat on the warm sand of the beach. The waves washed over his bare feet as he inspected his fishing net. Whenever necessary, his fingers quickly repaired the holes that they found. He smiled as the sun shined down on him.
“He’s over here,” a familiar voice said from behind him. Grumbling confirmed Chi’s instincts about who the second man was. He quickly finished his repairs for now, set the net down, and stood.
There, as expected, stood Clive Reston and Black Jack Tarr. Reston looked like a tourist from a brochure, dressed in a business suit with no tie and the jacket over his shoulder. Tarr’s jacket was clenched in his fist.
“Hello, Chi,” Reston said, striding forward and clasping Chi’s hand.
“I will not return with you,” Chi warned.
Reston stepped back. “You misunderstand,” he said. “Tarr and I just wrapped up a job and we wanted to stop by and visit.” Reston paused a moment. “And Leiko wanted to see how you were.”
Chi paused a moment. Leiko Wu, the woman who had stolen his heart years before though neither of them could allow themselves to love. He had been afraid that his father’s men would see her as a target to attack him, and she had been too well-trained by Britain’s MI-6 to allow herself to open up fully.
“How is she?” he asked.
“She’s well,” Reston said. “If you wish, I can give you a satellite telephone and you can speak with her.”
“No,” Chi said. “I cannot. My life is here now.”
“That’s wonderful,” Tarr finally said. “You got anything to drink, Chinaman? It’s hotter than Lucifer’s sauna out here.”
Chi smiled, remembering the hidden friendship below Tarr’s harsh words. “Perhaps,” he said. “If your stomach can handle it. After all, you are used to that water that the British call liquor.”
Tarr smiled and Reston laughed as Chi led them to his hut a short distance away on the sand.
The sun was beginning to set as an empty bottle slammed back onto a table. “Not bad,” Tarr grudgingly admitted.
“I should say not,” Reston said. “You’ve finished half of that bottle yourself.”
Chi permitted himself a smile. “It is good to see both of you again,” he said.
“Without our… how did you put it…`Games of deceit and death’ involved?” Reston asked.
Chi nodded. “That is one aspect of life here that I greatly enjoy. Things can be taken at face value here. It is a much simpler existence.”
“Hear hear,” Reston said as he raised his glass.
Chi was drinking when a sound like thunder echoed through the cabin. “Was that…” he began.
“Explosion,” Reston said. “Big one, too.” He set down the glass and grabbed his jacket. “Is there a fuel depot or anything near here?”
“No,” Chi replied as his eyes narrowed.
Other sounds now filled the air – screams and gunfire. “Let’s go,” Tarr said as he stood.
“I am coming with you,” Chi said. “This is my home and I will defend it.”
Tarr and Reston pulled pistols from their suit coats and nodded. Together, the three friends left the hut.
The peaceful village had been transformed in moments. Burning huts cast a hellish glow that was only accentuated by the corpses on the ground.
Anger burned behind Chi’s eyes as he saw the carnage. Reston and Tarr, however, were surveying the horizon. When footsteps approached, Reston grabbed Chi and the three ducked behind some debris. They watched as three sets of feet walked past. A quick glance at Chi confirmed that they were not villagers.
The three jumped to their feet and took out the attackers – Chi with a powerful kick, while Tarr and Reston chose their pistols. Ignoring the others, Chi set off through the village.
As the gunfire died away, Chi hurried to the temple, dispatching attackers on his way. A bullet that clipped his arm did not break his concentration as he took out the attacker and continued walking.
Finally he entered the empty temple. He pulled the heavy door shut and bolted it. \Chi then approached the altar and moved a rug, revealing a trap door. He opened it to reveal the frightened faces of villagers who had made it to this hiding place. He smiled.
“Remain here and be silent,” he warned. “You will be safe.” Chi closed the door and replaced the rug before again venturing out into the village.
This time, however, the scene was different. It appeared that Chi and his allies had turned the tide. The gunfire had stopped. Reston and Tarr were standing over fallen attackers, with Reston taking photos on his cell phone while Tarr was calling for an evacuation. They both turned when they saw Chi.
“You need to come over here,” Reston said. “You need to see this.”
Chi walked over and, for the first time, took a good look at the attackers. His pulse began to race and his eyes went wide as he recognized their green uniforms. “Si-Fan,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Tarr said. “Looks like your father’s private army’s back in business.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Reston said. “The Si-Fan’s never been this ruthless before. I can understand that they would be after you, but I’m surprised they would attack an entire village to do it.”
Tarr shrugged. “Times change. If Fu’s alive and back in business, maybe he has, too.”
Reston answered his cell phone and held a quick conversation. He turned back to Chi. “I’ve been in touch with the authorities,” he said. “They’re sending medical aid now. When they arrive, Tarr and I have to go. We have to get this information to MI-6.”
“Please wait,” Chi said. “I will return in a moment.” Chi walked through the village and returned to his hut. He closed the door and opened a trunk. Inside lay a folded red cloth. Chi pulled the first piece of cloth out. He held the tunic and studied it a moment, immersed in memories, before he pulled out the pants and headband. He laid the outfit on his bed and looked at it again for a moment. When he heard helicopters nearing, he quickly stripped and donned the red and gold gi. He tied the headband on and left the hut.
Tarr and Reston turned as Chi approached. “I am coming with you,” he said. “My father must be stopped.”
“Good to have you, Chinaman,” Tarr said as he clasped Chi’s hand.
“All right,” Reston said as the first chopper landed. “I’m sure that Leiko and Sir Denis will be pleased to see you again.”
Chi stopped the medical personnel, switched to Cantonese, and explained where the survivors were hiding. He climbed into the chopper with Tarr and Reston.
Chi watched the village dwindle as the helicopter lifted off and began its flight to the base where a plane waited to shuttle them to their MI-6 briefing. As he watched, one thought kept bubbling up in his mind – despite his numerous trials to escape these games of deceit and death, he had been pulled into them once more.
Although he tried to fight them down by telling himself that once Fu was defeated he would return home, Chi felt like he was seeing the village for the last time.
Felipe Marzano was not a nice man. Growing up in the brutal streets of the Bronx, he had turned to petty crime early on, engaging in theft, rape and brutality. By the time he’d reached 21 years of age, he’d become an enforcer for an organized crime ring with ties to the national mafia. He’d taken to his work with glee, loving the perks that came with the job.
Now in his late twenties, Felipe looked far older as a result of too many drugs and late nights. Leaning against the hood of his Maybach 57 S, he tried to imagine himself as looking a bit like Al Pacino in Scarface, though most of the resemblance was imaginary. Dressed in khaki slacks and a button-down Hawaiian print shirt, Felipe seemed calm and collected, despite the scene he was watching.
Felipe’s car was parked in an open garage, located several miles from the heart of the city. A full moon hung bloated in the sky, casting a strong illumination over the horrific violence taking place below. There was a chill in the air, the first hint of a major cold front that was about to move in to the East Coast.
Two of Felipe’s best men were delivering a lesson to one of the crime ring’s drug runners, reminding him that skimming off the top could be fatal.
The drug runner was tied to a chair, nearly blind by the headlights from the Maybach. The two enforcers were stripped down to slacks and white tank tops, covered in sweat from their exertions. They’d been beating the man for nearly twenty minutes and blood was pouring from a number of wounds.
“That’s enough,” Felipe said, walking towards his victim. The brutes backed away, nudging each other over a job well done. Felipe engaged in one of his personal habits as he looked over the wheezing drug runner – his fingers danced and rubbed along the underside of his nostrils. A dedicated cocaine addict, his nose was perpetually itchy. “So, Bobby… you learned your lesson yet?”
Bobby struggled to look up, squinting against the glare of the headlights. All he could see of Felipe was a dark silhouette but he could smell the man’s musky cologne clear enough. It smelled like Felipe had taken a bath in the stuff. “It won’t happen again,” Bobby tried to say, but his mouth was so full of blood and his lips were so swollen that the words were barely coherent.
Felipe backhanded Bobby so hard that his chair nearly tipped over. Blood flew in a thick crimson spray, splattering on the cement floor. “Don’t garble your words,” Felipe said with a laugh. He glanced over at his companions, who joined him in his good humor. Bringing his face close to Bobby’s, he whispered, “Enunciate, my friend. The key to success is ability to speak clearly and with purpose. Now, do you understand?”
Bobby swallowed hard, forcing down blood and something small and hard – a tooth, perhaps? He wasn’t sure. Speaking very slowly, he struggled to make sure that every syllable was perfectly understandable. “I swear I won’t do it again. I’m sorry. I swear.”
Felipe straightened up and looked thoughtful. He snapped his fingers and a moment later one of his men was offering him a lit cigarette. The smell of marijuana began to fill the air as Felipe began puffing away. He exhaled a long plume of smoke straight into Bobby’s face, eliciting a series of painful coughs from the bound man. “I believe you, Bobby. I think you have potential in the organization. To be honest, you even remind me a little bit of me when I was your age. A little dumber maybe and a whole hell of a lot uglier, but still… you remind me of me.”
Bobby looked up, his eyes shining with hope. They clouded over at the sadistic criminal’s next words, however.
“That makes what’s about to happen such a damned shame.” Felipe reached into his right pants pocket and pulled out a 40 SW-B handgun. The gun’s black powder coat gleamed in the moonlight and Felipe loved the gun almost as much as he loved his car. Placing the muzzle of the SW-B against Bobby’s forehead, Felipe tried to explain his position. “The big boys want me to send a message and you’re the ticket to doing that. Skim off the top…and you lose your head.”
Bobby started to protest but it was too late. Felipe quickly thumbed off the gun’s safety and pulled the trigger, pumping three of the magazine’s ten shots straight into the man’s skull. The impact sent Bobby’s body flying backwards and the front legs of the chair left the ground. Bobby slammed to the ground and Felipe raised the gun to his lips, playfully blowing across the barrel.
As his two men began to deal with the body, Felipe gave his clothing a quick once-over to make sure that no blood had splattered onto him. He was turning away from Bobby’s corpse when he came face-to-face with a man dressed in night-black penetration clothing. The stranger held a gun in each hand and Felipe, who studied guns the way some men perused the sports pages, recognized each: a Beretta 93-R was held in the man’s left hand and a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle in the right.
“Who the hell are you?” Felipe muttered, drawing the attention of the thugs who worked for him. They started to abandon Bobby’s body for the moment and reach for their own concealed handguns but the man in black was far too quick for them.
Christopher Powell raised both guns and opened fire. Felipe threw himself to the ground, screaming in shock. The handguns spewed forth 9 mm and .44 magnum missiles, ripping into the two men who stood over the smoking remains of the drug dealer. Their bodies jerked wildly as the bullets ripped through them and, as soon as the guns stopped firing, both men fell to the ground like marionettes whose strings had been unceremoniously cut.
Had Felipe known who it was that he was facing, he might have wondered at the fact that Powell was using handguns at all. The young man dressed all in black was known amongst criminals by a far more flamboyant identity: the armor-wearing Darkhawk.
Felipe had recovered enough of his wits to realize that he was in grave danger. He pointed his 40 SW-B at the man in black and returned fire.
Powell was a blur of motion, however. Even as he was wiping out Felipe’s henchmen, Darkhawk had broken into a run, sprinting for the cover of the Maybach sports car. He crouched behind it as Felipe’s shots tore holes in the automobile’s body.
Felipe cursed, seeing the damage to his beloved vehicle. He scrambled to his feet and looked around wildly for a place to hide. If he could reach his cell phone and call for help, all he’d have to do is hold out for the cavalry to arrive…and then he’d tear this man in black a new one for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.
Darkhawk heard the scrambling footsteps and stood up. He’d holstered both guns in favor of his Hell’s Belle Bowie knife. He held the blade’s tip in his fingers, readying the weapon for throwing. The eleven inch steel blade whistled through the air as Chris hurled it with unerring accuracy. The weapon embedded itself in Felipe’s back, causing him to cry out in alarm. He staggered to his knees, trying in vain to reach the knife so he could pull it out.
Darkhawk coolly glanced around, making sure that gunshots and screams hadn’t attracted any attention. As he expected, if anyone in this neighborhood had heard anything, they were wisely keeping it to themselves.
Powell strode towards the whining Felipe with a calculated air. The scum awkwardly turned to face Powell as he approached and Felipe pointed his handgun at Powell’s chest.
“I’m gonna kill you, you bastard,” Felipe muttered.
Powell kicked out with a foot, knocking the 40 SW-B from the man’s hand. Felipe fell onto his palms, groaning in pain. Like most street criminals, he was far better at dishing it out than he was at taking it.
Darkhawk reached down and gripped the hilt of his knife, cruelly twisting it before yanking it free. Felipe’s howls of agony echoed in the garage and thick red blood began flowing freely, staining the back of his Hawaiian shirt.
Powell let Felipe sob for a moment, taking the time to carefully clean the knife before putting it away. Chris had long ago learned that he had to treat his weapons with devotion…like his alien armor, they were frequently the only true friends he had.
“Felipe Marzano,” Powell said, crouching in front of his enemy. Darkhawk’s hands were free at the moment but he could easily draw his guns again if need be. “Do you know who I am?”
Felipe looked up into the man’s face, seeing a man approaching middle age if not already there…but with a strength and vitality that seemed to be long to someone half his age. “No, but I bet you’re gonna tell me, aren’t you?”
“Men like you know me as Darkhawk.”
Felipe swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly going dry. Everyone on the streets knew about Darkhawk…a costumed vigilante who had popped up a few years ago to wage a one-man war on men like the Hobgoblin, Tombstone and Bazin. Of course, Felipe found it hard to match what he’d about Darkhawk with the grim young man next to him… but he was in position to argue the man’s identity. If he wanted to be Darkhawk, Felipe was fine with that. “I’m a small fish in a big ocean,” Felipe said. “But I can help you, man. I can tell you things you’d like to know. Names, places…I know about some important people!”
“I bet you do,” Powell said, “but right now I want to know if you’re familiar with this.” He reached into a pocket on his ebony shirt and pulled out a laminated playing card: on its surface was the image of a black diamond.
“That’s your signature,” Felipe said, confused but willing to play along if it prolonged his life. “You used to wear something like that on your armor and lately you’ve been leaving those behind after you hit a mob house or something. So people know you did it.”
“That’s right,” Powell confirmed. “But lately these have been showing up in places I haven’t...and even if I had been in those places, I wouldn’t have left behind a playing card to announce I’d been there. Understand?”
“No….”
“Last week, a Triad meeting was interrupted by someone with a suit of armor. My armor. Fifteen people ended up dead and not all of them were Triad members. The waitress and the restaurant manager were both killed, too. Innocent people. And you know what was left behind at the scene?”
Felipe’s eyes flicked to the playing card in Darkhawk’s hand. “One of those cards?”
“Smart man.” Powell grabbed Felipe by his collar and pulled him to his feet. He saw the man wince in pain but there was no pity for him in Darkhawk’s heart. “Now, what do you know about it?”
Felipe’s eyes widened and suddenly he understood. “Look, man, I was there, okay? But I left before anything happened. They’d invited me because they wanted somebody to be their inside man, they’re looking to take over the gangs here in the city. They made their pitch to me and I told them I’d think it over. And then I left.”
“And twenty minutes later they were all dead,” Darkhawk said. He tucked the ace of spades into Felipe’s breast pocket. “You’re telling me the truth? You don’t know anything about this?”
“I swear. But I do know you’re right – there have been other hits throughout the city in the last few months, some in Jersey, too. But we all thought it was you.” Felipe stared straight into Chris’s eyes and Powell felt certain the man wasn’t lying to him.
“Someone’s stolen my armor. I want to know who it is and I want you to help me do that.” Powell let Felipe go, pushing him roughly away. “I’m willing to let you live…for now…if you agree to turn informant if you hear anything new. You willing to play along?”
Felipe took one look at the holstered pistols Darkhawk wore and he nodded briskly. He opened his mouth to give voice to his decision when the crack of a sniper rifle rang out.
Years of living on the outskirts of danger had honed Chris Powell’s reflexes. He ducked down and rolled, making himself a harder target for whomever was firing. When he came up out of his roll, he held his Desert Eagle in his hand.
But the shot hadn’t been intended for him at all.
Felipe lay on the ground, his head a ruined mass of white bone, red blood and gray matter.
Darkhawk stood up, pressing his back against a steel beam, and eyed the direction that the shot had come from. The building directly facing the open garage was a desolate tenement building with a high rooftop, the perfect vantage point for the shot to have come.
There was a figure there, barely discernible in the darkness. As Powell watched, the sniper unscrewed the barrel of his rifle and hurriedly packed it up inside a carrying case. Darkhawk spotted a fire escape that ran the length of an alley wall and he sprinted towards it, aiming to cut off the man before it was too late.
As he reached it, the sniper was halfway down. Spotting Powell on the ground below, the dark-clad figure threw himself over the stair railing, landing in the alleyway with a grunt. The bone-jarring landing would have staggered almost any man but the killer seemed to shrug it off with ease.
Like Powell, he wore shadow-blending clothing but unlike Darkhawk, his face was hidden behind a black cloth mask, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed.
Darkhawk didn’t bother speaking, instead choosing to engage his enemy quickly. He charged, slamming hard into the sniper and knocking him up against the side of the building. He followed this with a punch to the man’s midsection but pain lanced through his knuckles as he did so. The sniper was wearing body armor under the black shirt and Powell’s hand had paid the price.
The masked man brought up the rifle case, catching Powell under the chin. Chris’s teeth slammed together, catching the tip of his tongue between them. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, but Darkhawk answered with an elbow to the side of the man’s head.
Like seasoned fighters, the men exchanged several blows and for long minutes the alleyway was quiet, save for the grunts and dull thuds of the combatants.
Darkhawk found himself becoming impressed. Whoever his opponent was, he was highly trained and very strong. Chris suspected that this was someone with a military or mercenary background, several years older than himself. Darkhawk had been a member of the Avengers and the New Warriors and he’d sparred with some of the greatest fighters alive, including Night Thrasher and Hawkeye. He recognized training when he saw it.
A sudden gust of wind blew up debris all about his feet and Powell suddenly backed away as a powerful searchlight suddenly flared to life all around him. He looked up to see a black stealth helicopter, military issue, hovering above. The copter’s rotors moved almost soundlessly but there was no ignoring the force of the winds being generated. As Powell watched in confusion, a man in dark fatigues leaned out of the helicopter’s door and dropped down a ladder.
It was in that moment that the masked man struck again. Powell felt a hard kick to his stomach that knocked the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, his opponent raised the rifle case high and brought it down fully upon Darkhawk’s head. Chris staggered to his knees, barely able to breathe or think straight.
The masked man took hold of the ladder and stared down at Darkhawk. “The Lady Octopus sends her regards,” the man said and Powell tried to memorize every nuance of the man’s voice and speech pattern. “Your armor was meant for more than you could accomplish with it... You should be grateful that she’s found someone who can utilize it to its fullest capabilities. In exchange for all you’ve done for her, the Lady Octopus has asked me to let you live… for now.”
“Tell me your name!” Powell growled, reaching vainly for the bottom of the ladder.
“You can call me Mayne. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop pretending to be the Punisher and get on with your life!”
Powell coughed, looking up as the masked man ascended the ladder, the helicopter already starting to pull away. As Darkhawk stared, a grim expression on his face, something fluttered down from the masked man’s hand. Chris reached up and grabbed it from the air, his frown deepening. The man had dropped down a laminated playing card: it bore the Darkhawk symbol.
Chris knew that the police would be coming soon…even in this neighborhood, they couldn’t ignore low-flying helicopters and major gunfights. He had to get out of the area before then. He had to regroup and decide what was coming next for him.
And he had to get that armor back.
Carolyn Trainer soaked in the hot tub, her metal tentacles lying nearby, next to her clothing. She groaned as the warmth of the water spread through her tired muscles and she didn’t even open her eyes as an armored man entered the room.
“Is Mayne back yet?”
“Yes,” the man in the Darkhawk armor answered, “and he encountered the target and engaged him in battle.”
“How did Mr. Powell do?”
“He was just as impressive as we’ve been hearing. He was fast, deadly and possessed a killer’s instinct.”
Lady Octopus turned her gaze on the armored man, a smile touching her lovely but very cruel lips. “We’re molding him into the perfect little warrior. His friends wouldn’t even recognize him, I bet.”
The armored man said nothing and Trainer sensed he was ill at ease.
Hoping to take his mind off the situation, she pulled herself up out of the water, allowing her breasts to come into view. “Why don’t you strip down and join me?” she purred. “Let’s celebrate.”
The man nodded and reached up to tap the diamond at his chest. There was a brief flash of light and the armor vanished, leaving behind a twenty something year old man with a handsome face and dark hair.
It was a familiar face to anyone who knew Darkhawk….
For it was Chris Powell himself.
The coffee shop was an open secret. Best-or worst-coffee in Manhattan, depending on how you looked at things. It sat at the corner of two streets and had had the same posters and flyers in the windows since it had opened in the Seventies.
“Franchises,” Luke Cage said, pounding the table with his palm. Liquid slopped over the edges of cups, sprinkling the table with coffee. He leaned back, crossing his arms, a look of satisfaction on his face. Broad, bald and stylishly dressed, Cage caught glances the way cats caught mice.
“Franchises?” Colleen Wing asked, taking a sip from her drink. She looked at the woman beside her. “Franchises.”
“I heard him.” Misty Knight leaned forward, her arms crossed on the table. “Seriously?”
“When have I ever not been serious?” Cage asked, tilting his head. They were sitting beside a window. Outside, New Yorkers hurried in a hundred different directions, pulled by a hundred different stories.
“That time you--” Wing began.
“And when we were--” Knight interrupted.
“I’m serious this time,” Cage said, holding up his hands. “Cross my heart.”
“Oh, well that’s different,” Wing said. She leaned back in her chair, her long legs popping up to rest on the table. A towel snapped out and caught her on the thigh, eliciting a shriek and a near loss of balance. Wing’s arms spun in swift circles as she righted herself.
“Feet off the table, girl,” the owner of the coffee shop said. She was a short, caramel-skinned woman with more gray in her hair now than black and a figure Stone Age tribesmen would have found artistically inspiring.
“Ow!” Wing said.
“Sorry, Ms. Landers,” Knight said. “I’ve been trying to teach her how to act in public, but, you know…” She trailed off and gave and expansive shrug. Wing glared at her, but said nothing.
“Gena, you can’t just be hitting customers like that--” Cage began, mildly. The towel snapped out and caught him on the arm. He looked down, then up at Gena. “Ow.”
“That didn’t hurt. You going to order something or nurse that pot?” Gena said, pointing at the half-empty coffee pot on the table between them.
“More coffee?” Cage said. He lifted the empty pot and shook it hopefully. The woman snatched it from his grip and stomped away, muttering imprecations to herself. Cage watched her go, then turned back to Knight and Wing.
“Franchises, hunh?” Knight said.
“Franchises.” Cage leaned forward. “One in every major US city. To start.”
“Where’s the money?” Wing said. She traced a shape in spilled coffee on the table. Cage looked at her.
“You saying I don’t have money?”
“Pretty much.”
“I’ll have you know I found an investor.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” Cage looked smug.
“Really.” Wing raised an eyebrow.
“Yes!”
“Is it Danny?” Knight said. Cage looked at her, opened his mouth, closed it, then rolled his eyes. He raised his hands in surrender.
“Yes. Fine. Danny is helping. Okay?”
“Touchy.” Wing looked at her partner. Knight shrugged.
“He always has been.” She looked at Cage. “Why us?”
“Why not? We’re friends--”
“Bad reason to hire somebody, Luke,” Wing said.
“You saying you wouldn’t take the job?” Cage retorted.
“Nope. Saying it’s a bad reason.”
“Be that as it may, the question stands.” Knight knocked on the table with her artificial hand. She cocked her head. “Ain’t for our looks, is it?”
“Lovely as we may be,” Wing murmured.
Cage sat back. “You’re both good--too good, maybe--and you got skills we can use. Contacts.” He looked at Knight. “We’re going to do this right this time. No mercenary bullshit.”
“Kinda makes the ‘for Hire’ bit unnecessary then, don’t it?” Wing asked. Cage rolled his shoulders, stretching.
“Brand recognition. We’re going to offer our services to community organizations.” He held up a hand. “Nothing political. PTA, neighborhood watch, that kind of thing. Pro-bono.”
“So no money?”
“Oh, hell no, we going to get paid. Just from folks who can afford it.” Cage smiled. “City and county councils. Police. That kind of thing.”
“Government?” Wing said. Knight nodded and looked at Cage.
He shook his head. “Nothing above local level if we can help it. No missions for Uncle Sam, none of that crap. That’s what got us into trouble last time.” Cage tapped the table with his forefinger. “Maybe corporate work, though, if they ask nicely.”
“Define nicely.” Knight frowned.
“Money,” Wing supplied.
Cage ducked his head. “Most definitely.”
“Luke, I think--” Knight began. She looked up. “Anyone hear that?”
“Hear what?” Cage said. An energy blast crashed through the window and caught Cage, spinning him around like a rag doll and sending him crashing through the counter of the coffee shop.
Knight and Wing leapt backwards as a furry form crashed into the table and swung to face them, crouching on the formica. Razor teeth glistened in an orange and brown face. Eyes narrowed.
“Ladies. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Mongoose! And I have come for the head of Luke Cage!”
Uptown. The Manhattan offices of the Rand Corporation
Daniel Rand, tall, blonde and athletic, sat behind his desk, hands pressed together beneath his chin.
“So, can I call you Hobie? Or would prefer more formality?”
“Either, or…whatever suits you, Mr. Rand,” the middle-aged African-American man said. He was a solid looking individual, his shape muscular beneath a slightly ill-fitting suit.
“Call me Danny.” Rand tapped the papers that sat on his desk. “Business references from Silver Sable Industries, as well as a host of engineering firms. Character references out the wazoo. Quite impressive, Hobie.”
“I strive to make an impression.”
“Nervous?”
“A bit.”
“Don’t worry, you’re doing well.” Rand smiled. “Follow me.” He stood, came around the desk and headed for the wall. He touched the edge of a light fixture and the wall slid aside, revealing a private elevator. “So, how long have you known Spider-Man?”
“I--what?” Brown blinked, looking from the elevator to Rand and back again.
“Spider-Man? I’ve known him for maybe five, six years. I was just curious.” Rand glanced at him. “He speaks highly of you. You and your, ah, alter ego.”
“Oh,” Brown said. “So you know-”
“Yeah. Swell guy.” Rand paused. Then, “Bad jokes, though.”
“Yeah,” Brown said. He shook his head. “I keep telling him needs to steal new material, but he ain’t hearing it. I guess that means you know I’m, ah, who I was, then?”
“The Prowler? Yeah, I heard about your accident. I’ve had a few of those, myself.”
“So, you’re really…” Brown made a complicated gesture, whipping his hands around.
Rand smiled. “Yep. Funny slippers and all.”
“And now?”
“Lately, I’m wearing ties instead.” Rand looked down ruefully. He shrugged. “That may change in time, though.” The elevator opened with a quiet ding and Rand gestured. “After you.”
The doors closed behind them and the elevator began to descend. “Like it? I just had it installed.” Rand grinned like a kid at Christmas. “It leads to your new work station.”
“My--I got the job?” Brown’s eyes widened. He rubbed his face. “Wait. Okay. What’s going on?”
“You have a new job, courtesy of Rand Corporation.” Rand crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall of the elevator. “Did you really reverse engineer one of Tony Stark’s designs?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.” Brown ran a hand over his close cropped hair. “Just for fun, I mean.”
“Even better.” Rand nodded. “Silver Sable told me you were one of the best theoretical engineers she’d ever seen.”
“You know Sable?”
“We go to a lot of the same parties. She also tried to shoot me once.”
“Me too,” Brown said. He frowned. “Spider-Man said we should start a club.”
“I think he’s right--ah.” The elevator doors opened with a hiss of displaced air. As the two men stepped out, automatic lights hummed to life, revealing what resembled nothing so much as a Victorian railway station. On the tracks sat an archaic looking train, with odd additions that disrupted its angles in unsettling ways. Racks of strange machinery hung along the walls and dozens of work benches groaned silently beneath the weight of unfinished, cobweb covered projects. Brown’s mouth sagged open.
“Wha--”
“Hobie Brown, welcome to the Empire of Hypothetical Science!” Rand said with a flourish.
Downtown
Luke Cage peeled himself out of the counter, brushing splinters off of his shoulders. His coat was hanging in shreds from his arms and his shirt was in an equally tattered state. With a sigh, he peeled the remains away.
“That was brand new,” he said.
“Die!” the Mongoose snarled, lunging for the large man too swiftly for human eyes to follow. Claws raked across Cage’s stomach, drawing sparks. The Mongoose’s eyes widened. “Wha--?”
“If you’d bother to check out my business cards you’d know I got damn near impregnable skin, chump,” Cage said, bringing both his fists down on the Mongoose’s head and shoulders, driving him several inches through the floor.
Near the window, Colleen Wing had snapped two of the legs off of her chair and was trading clattering blows with a woman clad in yellow and black battle armor. Dark hair flying, the woman gave a bark of laughter as the sizzling staves in her hands chewed chunks out of Wing’s improvised weapons.
“Give it up, baby, I’m the best there is at this game,” she said, lunging smoothly. Wing danced back, her legs sliding wide in a split, head sinking as the other woman’s blow swooped over. She slammed the chair legs forward, catching her opponent in the belly and knocking her backwards.
“Debatable,” Wing said, popping to her feet.
“Where’s Misty?” Cage barked. Wing didn’t spare him a glance.
“Getting the civilians out the back. Watch out.”
“What?” Cage turned as the Mongoose, bits of broken tile cascading down his orange fur, lunged for him. Cage fell back, carried by the other man’s momentum. He grabbed a handful of fur and tossed the Mongoose away, out through the shattered window. Even as he rolled to his feet, the woman in yellow was on him, her legs scything around his thick neck.
“Hey, big fella! Name’s Joystick!” Crackling energy batons slammed down, catching the nerve clusters between his shoulders and neck on either side. Cage grunted and fell forward, crashing through the remains of the table. Joystick bounded off, whipping a baton towards Wing.
Wing dove through the window as the baton exploded. She hit the pavement and rolled, glass and splinters showering her.
Cage shook his head. “What the hell is going on?” He levered himself up, sensation returning to his upper body quickly. Joystick bounded forward like a human rubber ball.
“It’s the Game, baby! And you’re the prize!”
“What game? What’s--stop that!” Cage caught the stave as it swung towards him. He crushed it, releasing a surge of energy that crawled up his arms. “There a price on my head I don’t know about?”
Joystick spun, her foot cracking across his jaw in reply. Cage stepped back, blocking her next blow. Joystick laughed and swept his legs out from under him. Cage fell and rolled aside as she slammed her gauntlet through the floor.
“Stop playing with her, Luke.”
Cage looked up at Misty, crouched on the shattered countertop. “Playing?”
“Playing? Who’s playing? I’m winning,” Joystick said, driving her armored fist towards Cage’s head again. He caught her hand inches from his face and drove a booted foot up into her belly. She flew up and over, hitting the counter and careening into the kitchen. Knight followed her, leaping down from her perch and drawing a SHIELD issue heavy-bore pistol from the underarm holster hidden beneath her leather coat.
Outside, Wing settled into a wary stance. The Mongoose had hit a parked car, but he wasn’t showing any signs of slowing down. He peeled himself off of the hood and dropped to his hands and feet. Teeth bared, he shook his head to clear it and then focused on her.
“You. You’re not worth anything. You may go, woman.”
“Think I’ll stay,” Wing said, the sole of her track shoe scraping across the shattered glass that littered the pavement.
The Mongoose lunged.
Uptown
“What is this place?” Brown asked, his voice a whisper.
Rand smiled. “It came with the building.”
“Really?” Brown turned. “That’s--”
“Your job. Think you can handle it?”
“Handle what?”
“Figuring out what all of this is,” Rand said, walking forward. He gestured at the strange devices and ornate mechanisms. “This stuff was way ahead of its time…heck, some of it is skirting the edge of being ahead of this time!” He turned in a slow circle. “And, thanks to some very dodgy inheritance laws, it’s become my problem.”
“It doesn’t look like a problem from here.”
“Two weeks ago, a piece of it woke up and I had to kick it in the face until it turned itself off again,” Rand said, gesturing at a vaguely humanoid lump covered by a sheet. “I think it was supposed to be a policeman. Either that, or it was an early Sentinel prototype.”
“Any other problems?” Brown sounded amused. Rand grimaced.
“Holes.”
“Holes?”
“In--ah--time. And space. Both at once, I think.”
“You think?”
“Robot dinosaur.” Rand looked embarrassed. “I think.”
“You think?”
“It might’ve been a cyborg.” He ran a hand through his hair. “In my defense, the thing that made the hole looked like an alarm clock.”
“An alarm clock.”
“I’m no longer comfortable doing the inventory on all of this, is what I’m saying.”
“So basically,” Brown said, slowly. “You want to pay me to play with all of this and then tell you what it does?”
“Got it in one.”
“This may just be the best day of my life.” Brown interlaced his fingers behind his head and took a long look around. “Damn.”
“There may be some other, technical, work, but yeah. This is it.” Rand held out his hand to Brown. “So, you up for it?”
“Damn straight!” Brown grabbed the offered hand and pumped it.
Rand grinned. Then frowned. “Oh…ah…” He looked sheepish. “The dinosaur is possibly still around. Maybe.”
“Really?”
“It also may have ‘possibly’ laid eggs.”
Brown looked away for a moment. Then, “Can we go back upstairs now?”
Downtown
Felicia Hardy, better known as the Black Cat, watched the Mongoose cut a gash across the brunette’s side. She recognized Colleen Wing from a magazine article she’d read once, but was so far unimpressed. The woman was holding her own against the Mongoose, but only barely. Granted, the Mongoose had given Thor a hard time, but still--
“Damn.” She stood, running her hands down the smooth surface of her black bodysuit, then began to run. When she hit the edge of the roof, she leapt, twisted and triggered the built-in grapple line hidden in her fur-lined glove. The grapple bit into stone and the line went taut as she swung around and down. White hair flying, her feet slammed into the small of the Mongoose’s back, knocking him off balance. He stumbled forward, then turned, snarling.
Wing didn’t blink, but instead took the opening for all it was worth. Her fists blurred, snapping forward like twin bullwhips. Two blows and the orange furred criminal slumped.
“Thanks.” Wing stepped back, still ready to fight.
The Black Cat shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood. So, I-”
A blur of yellow and black hurtled between them. The Black Cat leapt backwards as Joystick struck a lamppost and swung around, landing lightly on her feet. She looked at the two women, her eyes widening as she caught sight of the Black Cat.
“You--”
“Freeze, you goddamn jumping bean!” Knight shouted, taking a shooter’s stance in the window of the diner. Cage moved past her, broken glass popping like gunshots beneath his tread.
“This ain’t over,” Joystick said. She pointed at Cage. “You’ve been marked, pal, and I aim to collect. No matter who gets in my way.” She leapt up on the top of the lamppost, then away, bouncing between buildings, Knight’s shots following her.
“What the hell did she mean ‘marked’?” Wing asked, lowering her fists. “Luke?”
“Do I look like I know?” Cage shrugged. “This stuff happens to me once a week.”
“No wonder you want back-up,” Knight said, holstering her weapon. “Only way to keep people in funny outfits from kicking your tail. And speaking of funny outfits…” She nodded at the Black Cat. “Felicia.”
“Misty.” Hardy stretched and looked around. “And I got this outfit in Milan, thank you.”
“That in Iowa?” Wing asked, snapping her fingers at Knight. Misty threw her partner a pair of security cuffs.
Cage shook his head. “You just happened to be in the area, hunh?” he said.
Hardy cocked her head, smiling. “Lucky you.”
“How would you like a job?” Cage inquired suddenly. Misty looked at him, eyebrow raised. She said nothing, however.
The Black Cat blinked. “Does it pay?”
“It will.”
She hesitated then smiled. “Why not?”
As they waited for the police, Hardy leaned against the lamppost and watched Cage yank the Mongoose to his feet. She tensed instinctively as his glittering eyes found her. He looked away, his mouth shut tight.
Good boy.
She relaxed slightly. He’d keep his mouth shut. She looked up, catching sight of the tiny orb that hovered in the shadows of the cornices above. It blended in with its surroundings, but she knew where and what to look for.
Dozens of eyes were watching via the device’s sole crimson-lensed camera. Dozens of eyes attached to dozens of bank accounts, with dozens of bets riding on the outcome of the Game.
She’d always been good at games. Even as a girl. She was still good at games.
They’d get the Mongoose out of lockup, somehow. Someway. It was one of the perks of the Game. While you were involved, you always got a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card, no matter how badly you screwed up. Unless, of course, you endangered the Game. Then all bets were off.
But if you won-ah. Money. Power, maybe. The parting gifts were to kill for. She grinned, and fluttered her fingers at the camera. She was glad she hadn’t joined in, when the other two participants in this round had attacked Cage.
It wasn’t that she was squeamish, but it’d be easier if he didn’t know it was coming. Smile fading, the Black Cat made a gun out of her fingers and pointed at Cage’s broad back.
Some Games were easier than others…
“Has anyone had contact with Ben Urich in the last three days?” Robbie Robertson scanned the room waiting, hoping for an answer. None came.
“Do any of you know where he was going when he left on Monday? What he was working on?”
“He called Parker Monday. Something about a photo op he had for him. Don’t know exactly what,” Kat Farrell answered in a quiet, scratchy voice.
“I want to know where Ben is. I know he’s gone at times chasing a story but it’s not like him to not tell anyone about it, especially Doris. If she’s concerned, then so am I. Push your people on the street. Find out who knows something. Ben is one of ours, and I want to know where he is.”
“Want me to talk to Parker?” Kat offered.
“No, I’ll talk to Peter,” Robbie replied. “Hustle on this one. I want some answers. Ben’s ticked off too many people in this city, and we need to find him.”
Robbie Robertson let the idea sink in before he asked, “What have you got for me today?”
“I’d like to follow up on the death of one of the Avengers.”
“NO.” The order was highlighted by the slamming of the door.
Charlie Verreos looked into J.Jonah Jameson’s face and resisted the urge to swallow. He had stepped into the daily four o’clock meeting, but that hadn’t stopped him shooting down Karl’s story with a single emphatic word.
Jonah marched into the center of the room and Robbie Robertson stepped to one side to give him the floor. The differences between the two men were immediately obvious. Jonah was the taller of the two and projected an air of menacing authority. Robbie on the other hand gave the impression that he was calm and relaxed. Many reporters who joined the Bugle had mistaken his deference to Jonah as weakness. Whereas Jonah was a slap in the face, Robbie was a fist in a velvet glove. If they had been cops, they could have pulled off the good cop, bad cop act with ease.
Jonah turned and confronted another reporter who, it appeared, had chosen the wrong moment to grin at Charlie’s misfortune. “You,” he said with a stab of his cigar, “have nothing to be smiling about. The “story” you turned in on the destruction caused by the latest attack on the Fantastic Four could have been written by my five year old niece.”
Jonah turned and directed the force of his personality at the room. “How many times do I have to tell you that we are in the NEWS business? We aren’t some fanzine for the vigilantes! You want to get a story into my paper about one of them, you’d better have a very good slant on it. Are we clear on it this time?”
He was answered with silence and several of the newer people in the room nodded their understanding. Charlie spoke into that silence, “Mr.Jameson, you asked for a new slant on things, so why is a follow up on the death of a major fashion icon not something you want to report about?”
Jonah leveled his glare him. “Explain.”
Charlie rushed into the explanation. “Janet van Dyne. She may be an Avenger, but she was also the CEO of a major clothing brand and a talented designer ...”
“I know who she is. What’s your point?”
“The Avengers have reported that she died in the attack on their mansion. Shouldn’t we take a look at what that’s going to mean for her company and the reaction of the people who bought her clothes?”
Jonah paused for a bare moment. The sparkle in his eye caused Charlie’s heart to sink before he even said a word. “You’re right, that would be a good story, but it’s predicated on an unsubstantiated story – that she’s dead. So, I want you to write up two versions of it. One, exactly as you described it. If we can get a confirmation that she really is dead, then we’ll run it. Then I want a broader piece looking at her place in the world, and the effects her death would have on it. Talk to people at her company. I want to know what would happen if she died. Talk to those clowns in the fashion business. See what their reaction would be. People on the street who buy her stuff. Got it? Good.”
He focused on the room again, but before he could say anything, the intercom beeped. “Mr. Robertson?”
“Yes Glory?” Robbie answered, his smooth voice at direct counterpoint to Jonah roughness.
“Miss Andrea Wu is here for her interview.”
“Thank you Glory. I’ll be there in a moment.” The intercom went dead and Robbie said, “Jonah, looks like you have things covered here.”
As he closed the door behind him he heard Jonah start on the next story. “This story linking corruption in the police department to Wilson Fisk…”
Even with the reporters all closeted in the meeting room, the Daily Bugle had a hum of activity. The reporters made up a significant portion of the workforce, but there were plenty of others who helped put out the paper each day.
“How’s Sarah doing Paul? College working out?”
Robbie listened to Paul’s answer, nodding as he continued towards his own office. He and Jonah shared Glory Grant’s time. If the truth be told, she worked about eighty percent for Jonah. Robbie still preferred to do most things himself. She smiled up at him and indicated the young woman sitting in his office.
“Thanks Glory. No calls until I’m done.”
Glory Grant was a tall, slim black woman in her mid-thirties. Her smile was bright, and she was one of the few people who could manage Jonah and wasn’t intimidated by him. It was the main reason she had held her job as long as she had.
She watched as Robbie entered his office and offered his hand to the young woman who waited for him.
“I’m glad we changed the hiring process so that Robbie handles most of it now,” she murmured quietly. “I have to buy so many fewer boxes of Kleenex’s now.”
She touched a key on her keyboard and said, “Daily Bugle.”
She listened to the caller and her face drained of color. “I’ll let them know John. Thank you. Don’t go far, I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you.”
Glory stood, swayed around the edge of her desk and hurried into Robbie’s office. His look of surprised irritation changed immediately to one of concern.
“What is it?” he asked standing.
“I just took a call from our Washington bureau. He told me that the President has been kidnapped.”
Robbie’s shock lasted all of two seconds. “Glory, please take care of Miss Wu,” he told her as he slipped past her and ran for the meeting room.
Every head on the floor turned to watch him, most bearing the same look of surprise. He grabbed the door handle, twisted it and shoved the door open. Jonah’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing and his jaw clenching. Robbie spoke before he could.
“We have a big one. The President has been kidnapped.”
Jonah reached up and snagged the cigar from the corner of his mouth before turning to face his assembled reporters.
“Here’s what I want,” he barked, and he and Robbie, like a well-oiled machine began to issue orders.
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To Be Continued In:
· Daredevil, by Nate Charles
· Darkhawk, by Barry Reese
· Deadline, by Des Davies
· Heroes For Hire, by Josh Reynolds
· Master of Kung-Fu, by David Brashear
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