“Really, Burchell?” Luke Cage lifted his arm and glared at the purple-costumed man whose cybernetically enhanced jaws were closed awkwardly around his wrist. Shaking Cottonmouth slightly, Cage said, “Honestly? When have your funky teeth ever been able to penetrate my hide?”
Cottonmouth mumbled something. Cage hammered his free fist into the mercenary’s belly, sending him flying. “Didn’t your momma ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”
“I think he said, ‘there’s a first time for everything’,” Electro said, from above. He walked across the air, balancing on invisible electrical currents, lightning crackling between his yellow fingertips. “And he’s right. Life’s a bounty of firsts.”
Cage looked up, eyes narrowing. “Dillon.”
“Cage. How’s tricks?”
“Tolerable. Let me guess…you’re here to kill me.”
“Bingo-bango, have a prize,” Electro said, extending a hand like a pitcher on a baseball mound. A burp of energy sprang from his fingers and tore apart the floor, just beneath Cage’s feet. Cage flew back, crashing into a stack of crates. Weapons of all makes and models spilled across the floor.
“Wham. Pow. Right in the kisser,” Electro crowed. Then he yelped as a ruined crate sailed past his head. He looked down at Cage as the latter pulled himself free of the debris.
He looked up at Electro. “Still waiting on that prize,” he said.
“Man, I always forget what a tough guy you are, Cage.” Electro shrugged and spread his hands, bands of electricity dancing between his palms. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”
“Stop flirting with him and kill him,” Cottonmouth hissed, crashing into Cage from behind. He locked an arm around Luke’s throat and dug fingers for his eyes.
“Jealous?” Cage said, ripping Cottonmouth off of his shoulders and slamming him down flat against the floor. “I got enough love to go around, sweetness.”
“Keep your love to yourself,” Electro said, tossing another stream of energy towards Cage.
Cage sidestepped and looked up, smirking. “Missed me.”
“Wasn’t aiming at you,” Electro said, arms crossed. Cage turned as another stack of crates, these of an altogether heavier make than the others, toppled towards him. His eyes widened as the shadow enveloped him.
“Oh Sweet Christ—”
The crates smashed into the floor, and, in some cases, on through into the river below, carrying Luke Cage with them!
|
#4
JUL 10 |
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“Thunderbolt Brown and the Lightning Dogs”
Misty Knight swung behind a crate and reloaded her pistol. Slapping a clip home, she chanced a look around the corner. The Arms Dealer’s goons were keeping up a surprisingly professional field of fire, but there weren’t enough of them standing to be much of a problem.
Paladin, on the other hand…
The purple-armored mercenary was leaping from crate to crate on the fringes of the warehouse, moving steadily towards her, but keeping out of range of her weapons. He was smart--smarter than either Danny or Luke gave him credit for--and he was lethal when you weren’t kung-fu fancy or invincible. And since those in the group who were those things were tied up elsewhere--and hadn’t THAT been a surprise?--that meant it was down to Misty.
As usual.
She pulled a gas-grenade off of her combat rig and armed it. Counting to three, she chucked it out in a general fashion. When she heard the tell-tale hiss, she began to climb up the pile she had been taking shelter behind. It rocked beneath her weight, but held steady until she reached the top.
Unfortunately, Paladin had beat her there. Stun-pistol spinning around his finger via the trigger guard, he threw off a lazy salute. “Hey Misty.”
“Paladin,” she said, muscles tensing. Not many options—
“Got the band back together, hunh? I heard about that, down the way.” Paladin smiled. “I got an intern, did you hear?”
“The scared looking little librarian who bolted out through what I’m assuming was a trapdoor about five minutes ago?” Misty said.
“Yeah; handles the computers and everything. Pretty awesome.” Paladin cocked his head. The butt of his pistol slapped into his palm. “I saw your wrist twitch, by the by.”
Misty dropped the pistol. “Damn.”
Paladin tapped the side of his head. “Fast reflexes, kid; you should know that. Anyway, to what do I owe this visit?”
“You stole something. Our client wants it back.”
“Stole-hunh. Khepri Foundation? You’re working for them?” Paladin looked surprised.
Misty spread her arms. “Yeah. Got a problem with that?”
“No, no, you work for who you want. Just saying,” Paladin said. “If you want what I stole, there’s a mini-sub under the warehouse. They’ve been loading it while you played shoot ‘em up.”
“They already paid you.” Misty said.
Paladin grinned. “Natch,” he said.
Far above, among the roof beams, Misty’s partner Colleen Wing danced a deadly dance with the yellow-clad super-villainess known as Joystick. Crackling energy staves cracked against the blade of Wing’s sword, leaving bluish-black marks on the metal.
The two women moved back and forth with feline grace, trading lightning-quick blows. “Lot different when it’s just us, ain’t it, Wing?” Joystick said, spinning over a slash from the sword.
“End result will still be the same, Janice,” Wing said, backing up. Her wrists and shoulders were beginning to ache. Joystick had moderate super-strength to go with her speed, and she was better at using it than Wing had thought.
“Rrrright,” Joystick said, leaping over the other woman and landing behind her. Wing whirled, but not quick enough. Two staff ends connected with her side and hip and Wing’s balance slipped. She fell from the beam.
She lashed out with her sword, chopping it into the wood. Using the momentary halt to her plunge to her advantage, Wing twisted her body and hurled herself sideways, the sword coming free in a spray of splinters. The soles of her trainers hit a crate and she was thrust forward like a human cannonball.
Flipping, she kicked off from another set of crates, rebounding between the two stacks until she landed on all fours on the floor. Sweat coated her and she was breathing heavily, every muscle screaming as she stood, using her sword as a brace.
“Cool,” Joystick said, landing a few feet away. She wasn’t breathing hard at all, Wing noticed dismally. “Not good enough though,” she continued, charging forward.
“Just right, actually,” Felicia Hardy, the Black Cat, said, springing out from the ruins of another stack of crates, the Vibranium sole of her boot crashing across Joystick’s jaw. The force of the blow spun the other woman around and she collapsed like a house of cards.
The Black Cat rose from her crouch, frowning. “Hunh. Glass jaw. Who’d have thought?”
“Where’s Danny?” Wing said.
“A thank you would be appropriate, I think,” Hardy said. Something red was smeared across her claws.
Wing’s eyes narrowed. “Danny,” she said.
“Back there. I think he hit his head.” The Black Cat waved a hand at the ruined mass of crates that had earlier broken her and Iron-Fist’s fall. Wing darted for the boxes.
The Black Cat went the other way.
Rand Industries. The Empire of Hypothetical Science
“Damn. Damn, damn, damn,” Hobie Brown said as he ran through the cluttered ‘streets’, pulling on his purple mask. Behind him, lean, crackling shapes loped in pursuit.
The Zzaxlings pierced the air, trailing an ozone stink. They had grown from baby-blips into caninesque nightmares-long shapes that moved on four, or six or even eight legs. Their howls were television static, and the ancient equipment of the Empire sparked and roared to life as they passed. Brown didn’t look back.
Instead, he took stock of his situation. He had on his gloves and his mask, the only two items of his Prowler costume he’d had at hand. They were insulated, but without full-body protection, his chances of survival in knock-down drag-out fight were slim to bupkiss. So he had to figure out another way of—
A Zzaxling, running across the vaulted ceiling, hurtled down towards him. Well-trained muscles reacted instinctively and Brown was rolling across the stone floor as the lightning hound splashed across the flagstones like burning water.
On his feet, Brown spun and fired a flame-retardant chemical from his gauntlet. It did little to hamper the creature as it reformed. Brown took to his heels again, jumping over a work table groaning beneath the weight of an immense clockwork arm.
There had to be something in here he could use. Some bit of old tech-Zzzax. What did he know about Zzzax? Energy being. Artificial. A thinking lightning bolt. What are the properties of lightning?
A Zzaxling lunged for him and Brown hit the floor, sliding beneath another table, his claws trailing sparks. The lightning hound came after him, warping the table with its passage.
Brown caught its jaws, wondering how energy could have substance even as he tried to hold the creature back. His shirt sleeves began to smoke and blacken.
He risked reaching out and snapped a steel leg off of a nearby table. He drove it through the creature’s gaping maw and drove it into the floor, grounding the monster. Brown staggered back, smoke rising from his shirt and trousers. The insulation on the bottom of his shoes was melted as well.
“Not going to try that again,” he muttered, staggering towards the private elevator, the Zzaxlings snapping at his heels. Something caught his eye as he rounded a jutting shelf. Doubling back, he skidded under a swooping flash of living electricity and scooped up the object. He wasn’t sure that it did what the accompanying notes claimed it did, but it was a risk he was willing to take.
How smart were they? The thought hit him just as he got to the elevator. Zzzax, by all accounts, hadn’t been much of a genius. He rammed a claw into the elevator’s control panel, ripping out power cables and wires. Deftly, he snipped the ends, leaving them spitting and hissing.
A Zzaxling hit the elevator doors, washing over Brown. He screamed as the volts shuddered through him and then he was flying backwards, the nascent plan that had been developing in his mind lost in a haze of pain.
The Hudson River. Beneath the warehouse
Luke Cage was drowning. Or, at least that was what Cottonmouth was obviously hoping as he tried to strangle the other man. Cage, for his part, felt a grudging admiration for Clemens’ persistence. Not that it made any sense. On top of super-hard skin and tougher-than-normal organs, Cage had a lung capacity second to no one who didn’t list Atlantis as a residence or have gamma-altered genetics.
Ten minutes was his best, though he could get it to fifteen with enough prep-time.
Cage dropped both fists on the back of Cottonmouth’s head, the force of the blows only diluted a bit by the water. Cottonmouth writhed away, but not quick enough. Cage hit him again, with an uppercut and Cottonmouth flew upwards and out of the water.
Cage was about to follow him when he saw the submarine. He began to swim towards the vehicle with broad strokes. It was pretty obvious what it was there for. Unless Paladin’s client was getting the merchandise out by air or some funky teleportation gimmick, it had to be by water. And underwater was even better.
At least until someone punched a hole in your little yellow submarine. Fingers capable of bending girders dug into the submersible as Cage braced his feet against the lower hull. Muscles and lungs straining, Cage ripped a hole in the vehicle and allowed himself to be carried inside by the water.
Upstairs, Misty Knight was approaching the same problem from a different angle. She and Paladin were laying flat on top of a stack of crates as the Arms Dealer’s men shot the top crate to pieces around them.
“Four,” she said.
“Eight, not a penny under,” Paladin said. “That’s with a friendly discount, by the by.”
“Six,” Misty countered.
Paladin snorted. “Where are you getting this money?” Then, “Seven and a half.”
“I’ve got a blank check with the Rand Enterprises watermark on it. Seven thousand for ten minutes work, Paladin,” Misty said.
Paladin hesitated, then reached out a hand. “Deal.”
A moment later, the mercenary was rolling off of the stack and dropping lightly to the floor. The gunmen ignored him, reasoning that he was still bought and paid for. Paladin swiftly disabused them of that notion, his stun-pistol snapping. Three men dropped. The others turned in confusion. By then Paladin was in among them, cracking skulls with a flurry of punches and kicks.
Meanwhile, Knight scrambled down and headed for the trap-door Paladin had indicated, pistol in hand. She didn’t see Danny or Luke anywhere, but it didn’t concern her unduly. They were either already aboard the submarine, or busy knocking heads. Either way, she knew what needed to be done and had the tools to do it.
She hit the trap-door at a run, dropping down onto the top of the floating submarine. There was a cargo hatch a few feet away gaping open. Two armed men spun as her feet connected with the hull and opened fire. Misty’s first shot plucked one off the hull, sending him flailing backwards.
She didn’t get a chance to do the same to the second, as a long, dark arm snapped out of the hold and wrapped around the man’s throat.
Cage hauled the struggling gunman back into the submarine, his grip tightening until the man passed out. He grinned at Knight. “Found the thing.”
“You gonna bring it out or are we going to just hang around congratulating each other?” Knight snapped.
Cage grimaced. “Actually, I suggest we head back upstairs. I kind of—ah—punched a hole in the bottom.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“You’re a cynical woman, Knight. Anyone ever tell you that?” Cage said, rubbing the back of his head. There was a burp of water from somewhere inside the hold. “Might want to start climbing.”
“Or, you know, not.”
Misty and Cage looked up through the open trap-door. Electro smiled down at them, his form wreathed in lightning. “Hey Cage. Forget about me?”
Not far away, Wing tossed aside a chunk of shattered crate and stifled a groan. Danny Rand’s body lay limp and bloody in front of her. Quickly she knelt beside him, checking for a pulse. She breathed a sigh of relief…he was breathing, if shallowly. His chest was a bloody mess, but it was his head that concerned her more. The yellow face-mask was sopping with blood.
“Damn it. I told you,” she said.
“No one ever listens, do they?” someone said. There was a sudden hum. Wing turned. The Arms Dealer looked down at her, a bulky looking pistol clutched in one hand. Despite the cowl, she could tell he was frowning. “It’s a flaw in the nature of humans, I think. The not listening thing. Please don’t move. I’m a very good shot.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wing said.
“Good. We’re going to go out there, I think, and we’re going to call off your friends.”
“Or you could drop your gun,” Paladin said, stepping out from around a crate, pistol aimed.
The Arms Dealer hesitated. “But-”
“Let me save you some time. Our arrangement ended the minute you promptly wired me my payment—thank you, by the by—and someone else has engaged my services in apprehending you.” Paladin shrugged. “Have I left anything out?”
“Yes. I’m a faster shot!” the Arms Dealer barked, firing. Paladin fell forward and fired even as he hit the ground. The Arms Dealer staggered and fell, unconscious.
“But I’m a better shot.” Paladin hopped to his feet. He blanched when he saw Rand’s unconscious form. “Holy crap. What happened to him?”
Rand Enterprises. The Empire of Hypothetical Science
Brown felt like an overcooked hotdog as he rolled onto his hands and knees. The Zzaxlings circled him, crackling eagerly.
Sluggishly, he got to his feet. He had overturned a set of shelves and loose papers wafted through the air. The creatures were between him and salvation. He looked down. He was still clutching the sphere he had scooped up. It was perfectly smooth and felt as if it were made from ceramic, which it was, in part. It was also made from raw Vibranium ore, shaped into the thin wires that gave the sphere its shape. The only marring of its surface was the primitive connection point where wires would be plugged in on one side and the thin metal dart head opposite it on the other.
Taking a chance, Hobie dodged towards the elevator, carrying his prize. If he could reach the wires he had yanked out of the elevator control panel—
The Zzaxlings followed him, howling in eagerness as they swam through the air towards him. A paw composed of pure energy fastened around his leg and Hobie screamed as his flesh began to sizzle. He twisted, his shoulder striking the floor as he fired a steel dart from his gauntlet. The lightning dog squealed as the metal in the dart conducted it backwards.
Brown got to his feet and hurled himself at the elevator, grabbing for the wires he’d loosened and stripped. Twisting the copper ends together, he jammed it into the sphere’s plug. Then, he activated the elevator’s emergency system and swung the entire mess around even as the Zzaxlings dove at him en masse!
The air turned bright, blazing blue as the energy beings were drawn through the steel dart into the sphere as the elevator ground upwards, showering Hobie with sparks. The sphere grew hot in his hands and the muscles of his arms went numb as the Zzaxlings disappeared, drawn into the sphere and filtered into the building’s electrical grid.
Brown slumped, leaning back against the wall, his body aching. The sphere was the prototype of a primitive resistant inverter. Hooked into the building’s power supply, the attractor on the end had drawn the Zzaxlings into the sphere, where they were transformed from one type of electricity into a more harmless kind and shunted into the building’s power grid.
He’d probably blown a few circuits and knocked out a few computers, but it was worth it. Especially considering that he was still in one uncooked piece. He slid down the wall and looked at the sphere.
“Well, I guess Danny will be happy to hear that this works.”
The warehouse on the Hudson
“So, Cage, if you’ll just hold that pose, I’ll fry you without crisping your lady friend there.” Electro hovered just over the trap door, smirking. “Then, I’ll be on my merry way.”
“Answer me this Dillon,” Cage said. “Why are you after me? I insult your momma or something?”
“Probably, but I’m in this for the money, baby,” Dillon said. “Your bad luck, I guess.”
“Yeah. Ain’t it always the way?” Cage said, shooting a look at Misty. Then he jumped straight up, hands reaching for Electro’s ankles. The green-clad villain laughed and rose, releasing a sheet of electricity that enveloped Cage and drove him down through the sub in a shattering explosion!
Misty had taken advantage of Cage’s leap to grab for the ladder leading down from the trap-door. She clung to the rough wood and fired her SHIELD-issue plasma pistol. The shot pierced Electro’s field and creased his skull, clipping two of the lightning bolts off of his mask.
“Gah!” Electro spun aside, hand flying to his head. His field wavered and surged towards Knight. Then, just as it was about to wipe her off the ladder, the point of a katana emerged from his side. Electro looked down in shock. A drop of blood slid off the tip of the blade.
“Oh,” he said. “That’s—ow—” He sank towards the ground, his eyes rolling up into his head.
Wing withdrew her sword carefully. “You okay?” she asked Misty.
“Fine. Luke’s probably on the bottom of the river though,” Misty said, pulling herself up through the trap-door. “He’s probably fine, but—” she looked down at Electro. “He dead?”
“Nope. Be peeing through a tube for a bit, though. I might have nicked a kidney. Misty-”
“I think the thing we came for is down there with him. Where’s Danny?”
“Misty.” Wing’s tone was harsh. Knight looked at her, her eyes widening.
“Oh no. No, no, no.” She shoved Wing aside and ran towards Paladin, who was carrying the limp, bloody form of Iron Fist in his arms. “Danny!”
The Black Cat heard the scream, but she didn’t stop. She put Misty’s car in gear and tore out of the vacant lot, cursing the entire way. On her wrist, the timer reached zero.
Round Three was over.
The spherical camera that had been following her for the entire altercation buzzed past her head. She glared at it. “I got one of them. That better count for something!”
On the other end of the camera, the Enforcer turned to look at the gathered group of high-rollers. “Well?” he said, smiling behind his mask. The men and women in the room where among the richest and most ruthless in the entire world…celebrities, bankers, dot-com billionaires, spice-merchants, olive-oil importers and, of course, criminals.
It was in the latter category that the original organizers for the competition known as the Great Game fell. Of those original men and women, only one remained. It was to this man that the Enforcer was directing his question.
“Well, sir? Should we pay her?” he continued.
“No. Not yet. No credit without confirmation. In the interests of fair play, though, let’s put a little extra time on the clock, shall we?” The man was thin, but lithely built, with the hard, sharp features of a born gambler. He was dressed well in a quality suit and had a tropical tan. “Give our kitty cat a chance to make good.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Kingsley,” the Enforcer said.
Roderick Kingsley, smiling, sat back in his seat and took another sip of his martini. Swirling the spitted olive, he said, “This will prove quite entertaining, I think.”
To Be Continued...
Next Issue: In Heroes For Hire #5: Iron Fist is dead! Or, he will be if the Black Cat has her way! But is she the only one the good guys have to worry about? Find out in ‘DIAGNOSIS: DANGER!’
Previous Issue | Next Issue
Paladin, on the other hand…
The purple-armored mercenary was leaping from crate to crate on the fringes of the warehouse, moving steadily towards her, but keeping out of range of her weapons. He was smart--smarter than either Danny or Luke gave him credit for--and he was lethal when you weren’t kung-fu fancy or invincible. And since those in the group who were those things were tied up elsewhere--and hadn’t THAT been a surprise?--that meant it was down to Misty.
As usual.
She pulled a gas-grenade off of her combat rig and armed it. Counting to three, she chucked it out in a general fashion. When she heard the tell-tale hiss, she began to climb up the pile she had been taking shelter behind. It rocked beneath her weight, but held steady until she reached the top.
Unfortunately, Paladin had beat her there. Stun-pistol spinning around his finger via the trigger guard, he threw off a lazy salute. “Hey Misty.”
“Paladin,” she said, muscles tensing. Not many options—
“Got the band back together, hunh? I heard about that, down the way.” Paladin smiled. “I got an intern, did you hear?”
“The scared looking little librarian who bolted out through what I’m assuming was a trapdoor about five minutes ago?” Misty said.
“Yeah; handles the computers and everything. Pretty awesome.” Paladin cocked his head. The butt of his pistol slapped into his palm. “I saw your wrist twitch, by the by.”
Misty dropped the pistol. “Damn.”
Paladin tapped the side of his head. “Fast reflexes, kid; you should know that. Anyway, to what do I owe this visit?”
“You stole something. Our client wants it back.”
“Stole-hunh. Khepri Foundation? You’re working for them?” Paladin looked surprised.
Misty spread her arms. “Yeah. Got a problem with that?”
“No, no, you work for who you want. Just saying,” Paladin said. “If you want what I stole, there’s a mini-sub under the warehouse. They’ve been loading it while you played shoot ‘em up.”
“They already paid you.” Misty said.
Paladin grinned. “Natch,” he said.
Far above, among the roof beams, Misty’s partner Colleen Wing danced a deadly dance with the yellow-clad super-villainess known as Joystick. Crackling energy staves cracked against the blade of Wing’s sword, leaving bluish-black marks on the metal.
The two women moved back and forth with feline grace, trading lightning-quick blows. “Lot different when it’s just us, ain’t it, Wing?” Joystick said, spinning over a slash from the sword.
“End result will still be the same, Janice,” Wing said, backing up. Her wrists and shoulders were beginning to ache. Joystick had moderate super-strength to go with her speed, and she was better at using it than Wing had thought.
“Rrrright,” Joystick said, leaping over the other woman and landing behind her. Wing whirled, but not quick enough. Two staff ends connected with her side and hip and Wing’s balance slipped. She fell from the beam.
She lashed out with her sword, chopping it into the wood. Using the momentary halt to her plunge to her advantage, Wing twisted her body and hurled herself sideways, the sword coming free in a spray of splinters. The soles of her trainers hit a crate and she was thrust forward like a human cannonball.
Flipping, she kicked off from another set of crates, rebounding between the two stacks until she landed on all fours on the floor. Sweat coated her and she was breathing heavily, every muscle screaming as she stood, using her sword as a brace.
“Cool,” Joystick said, landing a few feet away. She wasn’t breathing hard at all, Wing noticed dismally. “Not good enough though,” she continued, charging forward.
“Just right, actually,” Felicia Hardy, the Black Cat, said, springing out from the ruins of another stack of crates, the Vibranium sole of her boot crashing across Joystick’s jaw. The force of the blow spun the other woman around and she collapsed like a house of cards.
The Black Cat rose from her crouch, frowning. “Hunh. Glass jaw. Who’d have thought?”
“Where’s Danny?” Wing said.
“A thank you would be appropriate, I think,” Hardy said. Something red was smeared across her claws.
Wing’s eyes narrowed. “Danny,” she said.
“Back there. I think he hit his head.” The Black Cat waved a hand at the ruined mass of crates that had earlier broken her and Iron-Fist’s fall. Wing darted for the boxes.
The Black Cat went the other way.
Rand Industries. The Empire of Hypothetical Science
“Damn. Damn, damn, damn,” Hobie Brown said as he ran through the cluttered ‘streets’, pulling on his purple mask. Behind him, lean, crackling shapes loped in pursuit.
The Zzaxlings pierced the air, trailing an ozone stink. They had grown from baby-blips into caninesque nightmares-long shapes that moved on four, or six or even eight legs. Their howls were television static, and the ancient equipment of the Empire sparked and roared to life as they passed. Brown didn’t look back.
Instead, he took stock of his situation. He had on his gloves and his mask, the only two items of his Prowler costume he’d had at hand. They were insulated, but without full-body protection, his chances of survival in knock-down drag-out fight were slim to bupkiss. So he had to figure out another way of—
A Zzaxling, running across the vaulted ceiling, hurtled down towards him. Well-trained muscles reacted instinctively and Brown was rolling across the stone floor as the lightning hound splashed across the flagstones like burning water.
On his feet, Brown spun and fired a flame-retardant chemical from his gauntlet. It did little to hamper the creature as it reformed. Brown took to his heels again, jumping over a work table groaning beneath the weight of an immense clockwork arm.
There had to be something in here he could use. Some bit of old tech-Zzzax. What did he know about Zzzax? Energy being. Artificial. A thinking lightning bolt. What are the properties of lightning?
A Zzaxling lunged for him and Brown hit the floor, sliding beneath another table, his claws trailing sparks. The lightning hound came after him, warping the table with its passage.
Brown caught its jaws, wondering how energy could have substance even as he tried to hold the creature back. His shirt sleeves began to smoke and blacken.
He risked reaching out and snapped a steel leg off of a nearby table. He drove it through the creature’s gaping maw and drove it into the floor, grounding the monster. Brown staggered back, smoke rising from his shirt and trousers. The insulation on the bottom of his shoes was melted as well.
“Not going to try that again,” he muttered, staggering towards the private elevator, the Zzaxlings snapping at his heels. Something caught his eye as he rounded a jutting shelf. Doubling back, he skidded under a swooping flash of living electricity and scooped up the object. He wasn’t sure that it did what the accompanying notes claimed it did, but it was a risk he was willing to take.
How smart were they? The thought hit him just as he got to the elevator. Zzzax, by all accounts, hadn’t been much of a genius. He rammed a claw into the elevator’s control panel, ripping out power cables and wires. Deftly, he snipped the ends, leaving them spitting and hissing.
A Zzaxling hit the elevator doors, washing over Brown. He screamed as the volts shuddered through him and then he was flying backwards, the nascent plan that had been developing in his mind lost in a haze of pain.
The Hudson River. Beneath the warehouse
Luke Cage was drowning. Or, at least that was what Cottonmouth was obviously hoping as he tried to strangle the other man. Cage, for his part, felt a grudging admiration for Clemens’ persistence. Not that it made any sense. On top of super-hard skin and tougher-than-normal organs, Cage had a lung capacity second to no one who didn’t list Atlantis as a residence or have gamma-altered genetics.
Ten minutes was his best, though he could get it to fifteen with enough prep-time.
Cage dropped both fists on the back of Cottonmouth’s head, the force of the blows only diluted a bit by the water. Cottonmouth writhed away, but not quick enough. Cage hit him again, with an uppercut and Cottonmouth flew upwards and out of the water.
Cage was about to follow him when he saw the submarine. He began to swim towards the vehicle with broad strokes. It was pretty obvious what it was there for. Unless Paladin’s client was getting the merchandise out by air or some funky teleportation gimmick, it had to be by water. And underwater was even better.
At least until someone punched a hole in your little yellow submarine. Fingers capable of bending girders dug into the submersible as Cage braced his feet against the lower hull. Muscles and lungs straining, Cage ripped a hole in the vehicle and allowed himself to be carried inside by the water.
Upstairs, Misty Knight was approaching the same problem from a different angle. She and Paladin were laying flat on top of a stack of crates as the Arms Dealer’s men shot the top crate to pieces around them.
“Four,” she said.
“Eight, not a penny under,” Paladin said. “That’s with a friendly discount, by the by.”
“Six,” Misty countered.
Paladin snorted. “Where are you getting this money?” Then, “Seven and a half.”
“I’ve got a blank check with the Rand Enterprises watermark on it. Seven thousand for ten minutes work, Paladin,” Misty said.
Paladin hesitated, then reached out a hand. “Deal.”
A moment later, the mercenary was rolling off of the stack and dropping lightly to the floor. The gunmen ignored him, reasoning that he was still bought and paid for. Paladin swiftly disabused them of that notion, his stun-pistol snapping. Three men dropped. The others turned in confusion. By then Paladin was in among them, cracking skulls with a flurry of punches and kicks.
Meanwhile, Knight scrambled down and headed for the trap-door Paladin had indicated, pistol in hand. She didn’t see Danny or Luke anywhere, but it didn’t concern her unduly. They were either already aboard the submarine, or busy knocking heads. Either way, she knew what needed to be done and had the tools to do it.
She hit the trap-door at a run, dropping down onto the top of the floating submarine. There was a cargo hatch a few feet away gaping open. Two armed men spun as her feet connected with the hull and opened fire. Misty’s first shot plucked one off the hull, sending him flailing backwards.
She didn’t get a chance to do the same to the second, as a long, dark arm snapped out of the hold and wrapped around the man’s throat.
Cage hauled the struggling gunman back into the submarine, his grip tightening until the man passed out. He grinned at Knight. “Found the thing.”
“You gonna bring it out or are we going to just hang around congratulating each other?” Knight snapped.
Cage grimaced. “Actually, I suggest we head back upstairs. I kind of—ah—punched a hole in the bottom.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“You’re a cynical woman, Knight. Anyone ever tell you that?” Cage said, rubbing the back of his head. There was a burp of water from somewhere inside the hold. “Might want to start climbing.”
“Or, you know, not.”
Misty and Cage looked up through the open trap-door. Electro smiled down at them, his form wreathed in lightning. “Hey Cage. Forget about me?”
Not far away, Wing tossed aside a chunk of shattered crate and stifled a groan. Danny Rand’s body lay limp and bloody in front of her. Quickly she knelt beside him, checking for a pulse. She breathed a sigh of relief…he was breathing, if shallowly. His chest was a bloody mess, but it was his head that concerned her more. The yellow face-mask was sopping with blood.
“Damn it. I told you,” she said.
“No one ever listens, do they?” someone said. There was a sudden hum. Wing turned. The Arms Dealer looked down at her, a bulky looking pistol clutched in one hand. Despite the cowl, she could tell he was frowning. “It’s a flaw in the nature of humans, I think. The not listening thing. Please don’t move. I’m a very good shot.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wing said.
“Good. We’re going to go out there, I think, and we’re going to call off your friends.”
“Or you could drop your gun,” Paladin said, stepping out from around a crate, pistol aimed.
The Arms Dealer hesitated. “But-”
“Let me save you some time. Our arrangement ended the minute you promptly wired me my payment—thank you, by the by—and someone else has engaged my services in apprehending you.” Paladin shrugged. “Have I left anything out?”
“Yes. I’m a faster shot!” the Arms Dealer barked, firing. Paladin fell forward and fired even as he hit the ground. The Arms Dealer staggered and fell, unconscious.
“But I’m a better shot.” Paladin hopped to his feet. He blanched when he saw Rand’s unconscious form. “Holy crap. What happened to him?”
Rand Enterprises. The Empire of Hypothetical Science
Brown felt like an overcooked hotdog as he rolled onto his hands and knees. The Zzaxlings circled him, crackling eagerly.
Sluggishly, he got to his feet. He had overturned a set of shelves and loose papers wafted through the air. The creatures were between him and salvation. He looked down. He was still clutching the sphere he had scooped up. It was perfectly smooth and felt as if it were made from ceramic, which it was, in part. It was also made from raw Vibranium ore, shaped into the thin wires that gave the sphere its shape. The only marring of its surface was the primitive connection point where wires would be plugged in on one side and the thin metal dart head opposite it on the other.
Taking a chance, Hobie dodged towards the elevator, carrying his prize. If he could reach the wires he had yanked out of the elevator control panel—
The Zzaxlings followed him, howling in eagerness as they swam through the air towards him. A paw composed of pure energy fastened around his leg and Hobie screamed as his flesh began to sizzle. He twisted, his shoulder striking the floor as he fired a steel dart from his gauntlet. The lightning dog squealed as the metal in the dart conducted it backwards.
Brown got to his feet and hurled himself at the elevator, grabbing for the wires he’d loosened and stripped. Twisting the copper ends together, he jammed it into the sphere’s plug. Then, he activated the elevator’s emergency system and swung the entire mess around even as the Zzaxlings dove at him en masse!
The air turned bright, blazing blue as the energy beings were drawn through the steel dart into the sphere as the elevator ground upwards, showering Hobie with sparks. The sphere grew hot in his hands and the muscles of his arms went numb as the Zzaxlings disappeared, drawn into the sphere and filtered into the building’s electrical grid.
Brown slumped, leaning back against the wall, his body aching. The sphere was the prototype of a primitive resistant inverter. Hooked into the building’s power supply, the attractor on the end had drawn the Zzaxlings into the sphere, where they were transformed from one type of electricity into a more harmless kind and shunted into the building’s power grid.
He’d probably blown a few circuits and knocked out a few computers, but it was worth it. Especially considering that he was still in one uncooked piece. He slid down the wall and looked at the sphere.
“Well, I guess Danny will be happy to hear that this works.”
The warehouse on the Hudson
“So, Cage, if you’ll just hold that pose, I’ll fry you without crisping your lady friend there.” Electro hovered just over the trap door, smirking. “Then, I’ll be on my merry way.”
“Answer me this Dillon,” Cage said. “Why are you after me? I insult your momma or something?”
“Probably, but I’m in this for the money, baby,” Dillon said. “Your bad luck, I guess.”
“Yeah. Ain’t it always the way?” Cage said, shooting a look at Misty. Then he jumped straight up, hands reaching for Electro’s ankles. The green-clad villain laughed and rose, releasing a sheet of electricity that enveloped Cage and drove him down through the sub in a shattering explosion!
Misty had taken advantage of Cage’s leap to grab for the ladder leading down from the trap-door. She clung to the rough wood and fired her SHIELD-issue plasma pistol. The shot pierced Electro’s field and creased his skull, clipping two of the lightning bolts off of his mask.
“Gah!” Electro spun aside, hand flying to his head. His field wavered and surged towards Knight. Then, just as it was about to wipe her off the ladder, the point of a katana emerged from his side. Electro looked down in shock. A drop of blood slid off the tip of the blade.
“Oh,” he said. “That’s—ow—” He sank towards the ground, his eyes rolling up into his head.
Wing withdrew her sword carefully. “You okay?” she asked Misty.
“Fine. Luke’s probably on the bottom of the river though,” Misty said, pulling herself up through the trap-door. “He’s probably fine, but—” she looked down at Electro. “He dead?”
“Nope. Be peeing through a tube for a bit, though. I might have nicked a kidney. Misty-”
“I think the thing we came for is down there with him. Where’s Danny?”
“Misty.” Wing’s tone was harsh. Knight looked at her, her eyes widening.
“Oh no. No, no, no.” She shoved Wing aside and ran towards Paladin, who was carrying the limp, bloody form of Iron Fist in his arms. “Danny!”
The Black Cat heard the scream, but she didn’t stop. She put Misty’s car in gear and tore out of the vacant lot, cursing the entire way. On her wrist, the timer reached zero.
Round Three was over.
The spherical camera that had been following her for the entire altercation buzzed past her head. She glared at it. “I got one of them. That better count for something!”
On the other end of the camera, the Enforcer turned to look at the gathered group of high-rollers. “Well?” he said, smiling behind his mask. The men and women in the room where among the richest and most ruthless in the entire world…celebrities, bankers, dot-com billionaires, spice-merchants, olive-oil importers and, of course, criminals.
It was in the latter category that the original organizers for the competition known as the Great Game fell. Of those original men and women, only one remained. It was to this man that the Enforcer was directing his question.
“Well, sir? Should we pay her?” he continued.
“No. Not yet. No credit without confirmation. In the interests of fair play, though, let’s put a little extra time on the clock, shall we?” The man was thin, but lithely built, with the hard, sharp features of a born gambler. He was dressed well in a quality suit and had a tropical tan. “Give our kitty cat a chance to make good.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Kingsley,” the Enforcer said.
Roderick Kingsley, smiling, sat back in his seat and took another sip of his martini. Swirling the spitted olive, he said, “This will prove quite entertaining, I think.”
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To Be Continued...
Next Issue: In Heroes For Hire #5: Iron Fist is dead! Or, he will be if the Black Cat has her way! But is she the only one the good guys have to worry about? Find out in ‘DIAGNOSIS: DANGER!’
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