"CODE NAME PENTAGRAM II: Kite and Skater"
May. 27th, 2022 03:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Code Name PENTAGRAM: Kite and Skater"
5/29-5/30/1985
I.
"Time for a break," Weaver said out loud to himself. He stepped back and surveyed the CORBY critically. The sleek all-black stealthcopter was fully cleaned, inspected and reassembled. It would take ten minutes to do a mandatory rundown and warm up all the systems before lifting off, but the CORBY was ready to go. He had been working on it since seven that morning with only iced tea and a buttered hard roll and he was ready to rebel. The Black Angel walked over to the stainless steel sink in one corner and used liquid soap and steaming hot water to scrub his hands and face. Finally. Almost four-thirty in the afternoon. Damn, back in the Air Force at least they got ten minute breaks at intervals.
At thirty-two, Stephen Weaver was a tall lanky American black man with long arms and legs. He kept his hair short, with a thick mustache because he was self-conscious about his nose being too big. Weaver had medium dark skin and a relaxed, friendly face that right now showed signs of being tired. He struggled out of the oil-stained grimy coveralls and crumpled them up into the hamper beside the sink. He was wearing sneakers, jeans and a plain white T-shirt under them. Weaver yawned and stretched, pleased with all the work he had gotten done that day.
The hangar took up the top floor of the KDF headquarters building and the CORBY took up most of the floor space. Weaver opened the metal door that opened to the stairwell leading down; the elevator only ran up to the ninth floor. He started descending, then paused and turned around. He wanted some air. Metal rungs in the wall led up to a trapdoor. He climbed up and flung the trap open, grasped a handhold bar set at waist level and yanked himself up to stand on top of the roof. It was a gorgeous June day and he had missed it, he thought. Sunny and dry, with a stiff breeze. The Black Angel took a deep breath, swung his arms back and forth to loosen up and walked around the perimeter. He should have been outside today, but too late now.
Thinking about dinner, Weaver wondered who was in the building. Would anyone feel like grabbing some Italian? He craved sharp flavors and bulk for his empty stomach and some ziti sounded good. Wandering over to the front side of the building, he leaned on the chest-high concrete barrier that encircled the roof and gazed down at East 38th Street. Mama Leone's was within walking distance, he thought, and their food was always good. Mmm, garlic bread. Red Wine. Then he saw a blue-topped taxi pull up in front of the building and he snapped back to full awareness. The Midnight War never went away for long.
Leaning forward on the barrier, he watched as a tall blond dude in a brown suit and tie emerged, threw the cab driver some money and immediately jumped up the front steps to the building's front door. Looks urgent, Weaver thought, I hope someone is downstairs to answer the bell. He had swung around to head for the trapdoor down to the story below when his attention was completely taken by a fast-moving form on the street below. What the hell was that? He leaned far over to peer down.
A man on roller skates, but moving faster than a car, going maybe sixty miles an hour, swerved around from Lexington Avenue and hopped up onto the sidewalk. Weaver had an impression of a tan jumpsuit with some sort of cables running up the legs, and what looked like a motorcycle helmet. As he whipped along the sidewalk and came up to the front door, the skater held up a big .45 and blasted four bullets right into the man who was ringing the bell. The shots boomed back and forth between buildings like thunder in a canyon. The skater skipped back on 38th Street and accelerated, going even faster and getting out of sight in a wink.
Weaver did not hesitate. Despite all the lectures from Bane about keeping their abilities secret, despite the official KDF policy not to let the public see them in action, he swung up onto the concrete barrier and stepped off, ten stories above the street. Almost as fast as if he had been falling, the Black Angel dropped down and only slowed when ten feet above the sidewalk. He drew on his levitation and decelerated sharply, landing lightly on his toes and fingertips right next to the wounded man. Certainly bystanders had to have seen him. At the moment he didn't care.
Cars and trucks slowed as they passed but they did not stop. People on the sidewalk drew back to safe distance and formed a cluster. Weaver hardly noticed them. He found the stranger lying on his back, arms spread wide and the white dress shirt bright with wet blood. One bullet seemed to have missed entirely, one had only dug a gouge across the man's neck. But two had punched home high up on the torso. The man was having trouble breathing, he gestured weakly at Weaver but could not talk.
And then Jeremy Bane was there, taking charge with unspoken authority. The Dire Wolf crouched over the man, touched here and there, then said, "His left lung has collapsed. Serious internal bleeding."
"I'll call an ambulance-" Weaver began.
"I already did," interrupted Bane. The Dire Wolf turned his pale grey eyes on his teammate, but the anger in them was not for Weaver. "As soon as I saw the shooting."
"I'll get the respirator, then." Weaver leaped up through the open door in one step. The KDF emergency ward was right inside the front door, and in a few seconds he was back with what looked like double aqualung tanks attached by a hose to a full face mask. As he tugged the mask over the victim's face, the Black Angel hit two buttons and a motor hummed. The hiss of oxygen being fed sounded.
"Good work," Bane said. "That will push oxygen in first one lung, then the other. Not too hard, set it on 50. Nothing we can do about the bleeding out here. He's still conscious." The Dire Wolf caught the man's eyes. "Don't try to talk. You're going to be okay. Here's the ambulance now."
Two paramedics in grey scrubs took over, moving quickly and efficiently. One of them said in some surprise, "Where'd this C-PAP device come from?"
"We had it on hand," Bane told him. "I don't know this man's name. He had just rung the doorbell when someone shot him."
By this time, they had the victim loaded in the back of the ambulance, and one paramedic stayed with him. "We're taking him to Metro General," the driver said as he climbed behind the wheel and slammed the door. The ambulance had its lights already flashing and now the siren sounded as they took off with traffic trying to part for them. Police had not shown up yet.
Stephen Weaver let out a long shaky breath. "Never get used to that. All the time I spent in the Gulf, all the stuff I've seen.. it still shakes me up."
Bane nodded grimly. "You know who he is?"
"Not a clue. He rang the bell and got shot. Oh, damn, Jeremy, I still have to give you a report. He was shot by a dude on motorized roller skates!"
"What?! Okay, come on, we'll take the Mustang to the hospital and find out what this is all about. It may not be over yet."
Weaver followed his captain up the steps. "Maybe another attempt? We better be ready for anything."
II.
In the waiting room outside the ICU, two trim young men with neat black hair and freshly shaven faces were waiting for them. Both wore black suits with white dress shirts, polished shoes and an air of permanent suspicion. Both were already standing as Bane and Weaver entered the room with its row of comfortable chairs, coffee table piled with magazines and optimistic posters on the wall.
"I was expecting some New York cops," Bane said. "But you guys have Mandate all over you."
"Is your name Jeremy Bane?" asked one of the government agents.
"It might be. Let's see some ID from you jokers first." The Dire Wolf not only did not seem intimidated, he seemed confrontational. Standing behind him, Weaver grinned despite himself. Jeremy would slap a tiger across the face and not think twice.
With obvious reluctance, the Mandate agents presented their billfolds and Bane examined the laminated photo cards carefully before handing them back. "Fair enough. You know I'm Bane. You've been given a detailed description and shown photos of me."
"We have to obtain verbal confirmation. Is your name is Jeremy Bane, sir?"
"It is," the Dire Wolf said. "And because you're here, I figure you have already pulled NYPD off this case and claimed it as your own."
"What do you know about the man who was shot in front of your building?" snapped one of the agents sharply, as if that would jar an honest answer out.
"Nothing. Never saw him before. I wasn't expecting any visitors today." Bane's pale eyes fixed on the nearer agent with a startling intensity. "You know who he is, though, or you wouldn't be here. Is he one of you? CIA? Department 21 Black?"
"We'll ask the questions, Mr Bane," said the agent.
"Not all of them you won't. I've had to deal with the Mandate a few times and believe me, I trust you guys as much as I'd trust a copperhead I stepped on. Your local HQ is down by the Battery. You couldn't have gotten here this quickly from there. You were trailing that guy for some reason."
"All right," one of the agents sighed. After a minute, it could be seen he was not exactly a twin of the other Mandate man. This one was several years older, had a faint white scar up by one eyebrow and his hair had brown highlights. "We have orders to allow you to cooperate in our investigation. You have been a valuable ally before."
"We've been briefed on you also, sir," said the other agent as he smiled at Weaver. "Lt Stephen James Weaver, USAF with honorable discharge and still serving on reserve duty as needed. Sole member of the BLACK ANGEL project. Served in Kuwait 1978-"
"Enough of that stuff," Weaver interrupted. He was still wearing only a white T-shirt and old jeans and felt defensive confronting two professional men in tailored suits. "I never saw that guy before, either. No idea who he is or why anyone shot him."
"I believe you. Our records show no connection between you and Holt." The agent allowed a thin smile. "We'll freely give you some information, since we believe we will investigate on your own in any case. Wilcox?"
The other Mandate agent went and stood in the doorway of the waiting room, facing out in the hall. He turned his head and nodded at his partner.
"Here's all we can say. That man is Joseph Holt, former member of the FBI special Department 21 Black. Clean record. He resigned and disappeared from view one year ago, sighted only once in company of known John Grim employees."
"Grim...." muttered Weaver. "I thought we were done with him."
"Yes. You know he's in a vegetative state in a Maryland hospital, but of course lieutenants took over his organization and it's still running at a lower level. We believe Holt's resignation was a trick, he pretended to be embittered over poor treatment so he could infiltrate the John Grim network."
"And for some reason, he came to me," Bane said. "Whatever he wanted to say, someone was determined he wouldn't get a chance. Give me a name or two to work with."
"That's all we have," the Mandate agent answered blandly.
"As if we can believe you guys!" Weaver broke in. "Spooks and spies and triple agents and moles. I had to deal with your type in the service and never got the truth two words in a row."
"What, are you trying to hurt my feelings?" the Mandate agent replied. "We'll be here when he regains consciousness. We'll contact you immediately, Mr Bane, but my feeling is that you will already be on this case in your own unconventional way. Am I right?"
"You're right," Bane said. "Steve, you ready?"
"Sure." The Black Angel went with his captain down the subdued lighting of the hall to the twin elevators marked A and B, wondering if these Mandates agents knew anything about that man on motorized skates...
III.
On their way back to 38th Street, Weaver announced he was starving. Since Bane was always hungry because of his enhanced metabolism, he agreed they should stop and eat. Finding a parking spot not far from Lee Ho Fook's Sezechuan, both of them devoured some beef chow mein and felt better. Sitting in a booth near the back, they had not talked much.
Finally, sipping the ice water, Weaver said, "Whew. Better come up for air. Listen, here's what I saw from the roof ..." For the next five minutes, he gave a detailed report on everything from the moment the taxi had pulled up on the street.
Bane listened without interrupting. "Those skates sound like a John Grim gimmick. Ever since he stole some Trom tech, his company has been coming up with gadgets way ahead of everyone else. He can't quite duplicate Trom devices but he comes close."
"I remember. When his bunch fought Wu Lung, they were using gear that looked like stuff out of science fiction movies. Cindy burned his brain out when her family was killed. I honestly thought that would be the end of it." Weaver cracked open his fortune cookie and popped the fragments in his mouth without reading the strip of paper. "No such luck, eh captain?"
"Grim himself is still in that hospital in Maryland," Bane said. "They're supposed to notify us if there's any change in his condition. But even without him in charge, his company has his notes and prototypes to work with. And," he added somberly, "he hired the best minds he could find. John Grim Enterprises is still a threat."
The Black Angel started putting his silverware on the empty plate and wiped his mouth with the napkin. "I'm ready. You know the cops will be waiting for us at HQ."
"Sure. We're looking at an hour or two of answering questions and signing statements. Aside from you seeing the skater, we really have nothing for them. It's too bad Wollheim finally retired, he let us get to work right away." Bane stood up. "We haven't even watched the security footage from the front door."
As they headed back to the Mustang, Weaver sighed. "This came out of nowhere, huh? Were you expecting anything?"
"Not at all, Steve. The only thing on our agenda was a sighting of Quilt out in California. I'm in the dark so far." They got in the car and headed back to their building. Two uniformed police were indeed standing on the steps in front, so Bane came to a stop and let Weaver out. "You start talking to them, okay? I'm stowing the car down in the garage and I'll be up in a minute."
"Great," Black Angel grumbled as he got out.
It was past seven when the police finally left. Tired and disgusted, Weaver took a hot shower in his quarters on the third floor, put on fresh clothes and came down the conference room. He found Bane sitting at the head of the long oak meeting table with its ten chairs. "What's the plan, captain?"
The Dire Wolf looked up from the computer screen. "We need information. The Trom modifications let me sneak into Mandate records, but I can't find anything about a 'Joseph Holt,' not surprising. Nothing about him anywhere, I'm going through Interpol files now. Listen. I want you to contact Len. He's at the New Mexico facility, I assume?"
"No, sorry." Weaver pulled out the chair to Bane's right and dropped down into it wearily. "His superiors sent him to Australia for some reason. Leonard Slade doesn't tell us half of his duties for the Trom."
"Too bad. When you're dealing with advanced tech, a Trom Monitor is the best guy to have at your back. I'm going to start calling my network of observers. Motorized skates, one of my people must have heard something about that." Bane shut the desktop monitor down.
The Black Angel asked, "What's my assignment, then?"
"Nothing right now. You've been working on the CORBY all day, go relax. If anything turns up, I'll call you."
"Always on duty," Weaver said as he stood up. "We're like flight crews or firemen. Guess I'll get some sleep while pretending to watch HBO." He smiled and left the room. The Dire Wolf started dialing. Over his career, he had turned down rewards from all the people he had rescued or aided. Instead, he had asked that they inform him of anything weird or unexplainable they happened upon. Many of his most important cases had begun with someone seeing something inexplicable and letting Bane know.
After an hour, he had only turned up one useful bit. Emily Barringer on W 20th Street had seen the skater and reported he had leaped up into the back of a panel truck that said HOSKINS PLUMBING AND HEATING on the side. She apologized for not catching the phone number on the side of the truck or the license plate but understandably she was stunned at seeing a man on skates whizzing by so fast. Bane thanked her and said she had done well. Eight years earlier, Emily had been under suspicion of murdering her fiancee. Bane had tracked down the real killer and cleared her; ever since she had been eager to repay him.
Two hours had gone by, and Weaver came back in the room. "Now I feel back to normal," he announced. "What's the situation, Jeremy?"
"Something interesting is going on," the Dire Wolf said. "Briefly. A CEO of an electronics company was shot to death two months ago while standing on the roof of his penthouse. Angle of entry makes no sense, nearest buildings were all ten stories shorter. Police are getting nowhere, but thinking John Grim's people may be involved makes me wonder..."
"A remote controlled device?" Weaver said. "Tiny plane maybe with a pistol attached?"
"Could be. The victim was resisting a buy-out from Grim Enterprises. Then there was a woman out on Staten Island who was killed in what seemed at first to be a car crash. Investigation showed the event made no sense. The driver's window was smashed in from outside, her neck was broken in a way inconsistent with the event, and the car apparently was rolled over left side up to fall down a bank. This was three weeks ago."
"That makes no sense any way I look at it," Black Angel decided. "Unless... Khang could do that. Or Sulak. Someone with superhuman strength. But who? Atron?"
"I don't think it was Atron. He's too direct for that. The woman, her name was Sarah Fraleigh, was a whistle-blower. She worked in Research and Development for the Grim company and she was going to meet with the State Attorney General the next day. All her papers were missing from the wreck." Bane stood up and flexed his shoulders. Sitting still was difficult for him under the best of circumstances. "And now this guy Holt gets plugged right at our door. Just what is John Grim Enterprises up to?"
Weaver shook his head. "We should check the hospital. I don't trust those government stooges to keep us informed."
"All right, I'll call and see what his condition is. We're not family but I am licensed PI on a case. How about you pull up the security footage from the front door and play it on the monitor here?"
"I'm on it." Black Angel went downstairs and retrieved the video from the tiny camera mounted at the top of the front door. Their Trom-built system did not use videotape but small flat discs that Leonard Slade had said would soon replace cassettes with the general public. He brought the disc up to the conference room and slid it into the player built into a big monitor screen which swivelled on its cart to face the table.
Bane was just hanging up. "Holt is stable. They have him intubated right now, but he regained consciousness briefly a few times. They plan on keeping him knocked out at least through tomorrow to see if his lung stays inflated. The Mandate agents are still there, the nurse said."
"I suppose those spooks are useful," Weaver grumbled. "Maybe they'll prevent any more attempts to kill Holt before we can talk to him. Here's the video."
They watched the brief clip several times at normal play, then in slow motion. The skater was wearing a loose tan jumpsuit, gloves and a motorcycle helmet with a mirrored visor so nothing of him could be seen. Strapped to his lower back was a complicateddevice the size of a dinner plate, with thin metal cables running down to the outside of his legs to the motorized skates. A holster at his right hip had held the pistol. Viewing the clip once again, Weaver said, "Damn. I estimate he's going at least sixty. What do you think?"
"That's about right in my estimate," Bane replied. "I think that's the power source on his back, with controls built into his gloves. How he keeps his balance, I don't know. A gyroscope in that suit somewhere?"
"Yeah. You know, captain, I'm wondering about the two killings. One at skyscraper level where no one should have been able to reach, one involving something that can upend a car and flip it down a hill. Watching this skater, I wonder if there are other crazy gimmicks out there that Grim's bunch is using."
Bane met his friend's eyes. "And maybe more that haven't been used yet."
IV.
The next day was spent in standard investigative work, with limited results. They visited Metro General, finding two different Mandate agents had taken over the vigil. Joseph Holt was breathing on his own, still sedated but his vitals were strong and he was expected to recover. The internal bleeding had been mostly from a single artery being nicked, and a few stitches had resolved that threat. Bane and Weaver spoke briefly with the doctors in charge, then with the Mandate agents before leaving the hospital. As usual, the Dire Wolf was wearing his trademark outfit of all black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket but Weaver had dressed in a neat dark blue suit with a powder blue shirt and solid black tie. He looked very professional and confident.
Back on the street, Weaver said, "I'm not going anywhere near the John Grim facility. They tried to put me in a cage to study like a guinea pig not that long ago! They're not getting their hands on me again."
"They know me, too. Last year when we manuevered Grim into attacking Wu Lung, our entire team became known to the Grim leaders." Bane made a faint snorting noise. "That worked better than I hoped. Wu Lung hasn't been seen since the battle. He may be dead since his network has fallen apart. John Grim is just a body being kept alive on machines, and his organization hasn't started any trouble... until now."
Pausing at a street corner and waiting for the WALK light, Weaver thought for a second. "So. We're going to go at this from a different angle?"
"Yeah, I've got a few ideas. There's a Japanese company that is throwing a dozen lawsuits at the Grim organization. Their main inventive genius is in Manhattan for some court appearances. He's the one determined to get some patent infringements against Grim Industries."
"Got you," Weaver said as they crossed and headed south toward where they had left the car. "He might be the next target. Skater boy or remote control plane with a gun, he should be on his toes."
"There's another possible approach," Bane told his teammate. "The main Grim Industries plant is in Flushing, but I've found out there's a smaller facility up in Westchester County. Low profile, almost secret. I'd like to know what's going on there."
They had reached the Mustang. Weaver said, "Let me drive, I never get a chance to drive this car." As Bane tossed him the keys, Black Angel went around the front of the Mustang to get behind the wheel. "So it looks like we split up, captain. Which stakeout do you want?"
"I think I'll take the Westchester facility. You guard the Japanese scientist. If the skater shows up or the flying gun thing, you're better able to pursue in the air. Go when it gets dark. I'll be leaving later tonight, I have a few more contacts to make."
Weaver hit his turn signal, studied the traffic suspiciously and eased away from the curb. "What about the rest of our team? Who's going to be available?"
"No one at the moment," Bane said. "I didn't want to make them drop what they're doing until we had a clear agenda. Ted is on duty at the ER until midnight. Cindy's at Tel Shai. Khang is in Vienna chasing some warlock. But Shiro said he's free and he'll be in the city in the morning."
"That guy loves trouble," Weaver laughed. "When he's not working with Andrew Steel, he checks with us to see if we have a fight for him."
Bane allowed himself a faint smile. "Shiro's a firecracker, all right."
V.
It was getting dark when Weaver arrived at the quiet neighborhood in Jackson Heights and sat in the Mustang thinking. There seemed to be miles of nearly identical one-story houses with white plank walls and blue tile roofs and a short driveway just long enough to park a cars. Didn't people here ever walk into the wrong house by mistake? Maybe they did and were used to it and just mumbled an apology before exiting. It wouldn't surprise him.
On the seat next to him was the fibreglass Black Angel helmet, with its goggles and ventilator grill and short crest. He was wearing the entire rig created by the USAF six years earlier, what looked like a black scuba suit with a red stripe down the outside of each arm and leg. The boots and gauntlets with their fins were red also. Since joining the KDF, the Black Angel suit had been further modified. It now had an inner layer of the silk-thin Trom armor, more advanced communication and sensor equipment in the helmet and a belt with small pouches holding tools and equipment. The suit wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world to wear, and driving with it on was a hassle, but Weaver had thought it was best to be ready for anything.
Across the street was the house where he had been told the Japanese scientist would be staying. 1414 Colvert Avenue, all right. Not a light was on, there was no car in the driveway. Dr Jun Harami, seventy years old and in great demand for his expertise, wasn't in from the airport yet. Weaver had not tried to contact the man, since maybe nothing would happen tonight. In the backseat was a paper bag with a couple of sandwiches, a jelly donut and a bottle of water. He sighed at the prospect of wasting a night sitting behind the wheel, then took the helmet and lowered it over his head. The light amplifiers in the goggles kicked in and suddenly every detail outside stood out sharply. He left the grill open in the lower part of the mask so the oxygen supply didn't cut in.
The wings sat on the floor of the car next to him, a red nylon bundle smaller than a knapsack. Wearing those things while driving was just impossible. Weaver had to talk himself into it, but he wrestled the bundle on, fastening it high across his back and tightening the X-straps across his chest. He could hear the clicking as the wings attached themselves to the metal plate held between his shoulder blades. Now he was not comfortable at all, but a few seconds would be saved if he needed to take off right away. The Colt 45 semi-automatic holstered at his right thigh had already been cleaned and examined personally before he had left.
Minutes dragged by unbearably. He tapped the left ear pod of his helmet and small blue figures on the inside of his visor told him the time and date. Why had he gotten here so early? Weaver was deeply tempted to set his communications gear to pick up FM radio and listen to some jazz from WNRW but he couldn't let himself be distracted. At forty-two minutes, he was considering opening the grill of his helmet to scarf that roast beef sub when a black Cadille de Ville gently eased into the driveway he was guarding. Across the street, Weaver sat up and exhaled. Finally. The car gleamed as if it had been waxed a few seconds ago. The headlights switched out.
A remarkably short and frail figure emerged from the back seat, wearing a fedora on long white hair. Dr Hayami was sure little, Weaver thought as he tucked the keys to his own rental car into a pounch on his belt and open his door a crack. If there was going to be an attack, this seemed like the best time. From the driver seat stepped a chunky young Asian woman with eyeglasses and her hair up in a bun. Although she was holding a bundle of folders and envelopes, she was quick to take Hayami by the arm protectively.
Stephen Weaver suddenly felt a twinge of alarm. He had learned to trust his instincts long ago and he slid out from behind the wheel to stand up beside the Mustang. Hayami and his assisant had not seemed to notice him yet. The woman made sure Hayami was okay before she went over to unlock the front door of the house, digging in her coat pocket uncertainly. Weaver scanned the sky with his light-amplfiers cranked up high. Combat experience in the military and five years of the Midnight War had sharpened his perceptions and all his instincts for trouble were screaming at him.
There! Coming in from the west, thirty feet off the ground, was a small dark human figure. It was gliding in quickly and silently, like a hang-glider. Weaver thumbed a control built into his gauntlet and the artificial wings on his back snapped open to their full spread with a whiplash sound. Red nylon over aluminum tubing, they resembled the wings of a bat rather than a bird. They helped guide and stabilized his flight, but they did not lift him. He flew by his innate levitation ability and now he shot upward into the night sky at full velocity. Black Angel accelerated as he went and nearly collided with the unknown, who swerved wildly aside at the last split-second.ndg
Weaver had a brief glimpse of a small person, almost child-sized, with some sort kite-like ribbed extensions on the side. There was no clue about propulsion. He arched his back and swung in a loop to rush back at the strange flyer, just as a white flash of light exploded and a slug thumped hard to his chest. Even with the Trom armor, some impact got through and it spun him out of control for a second. Spreading his wings and focussing, he hovered twenty feet about the rooftops and save the unknown flyer taking aim with that handgun at the stunned Dr Hayami, who was staring up at the strange sight as if paralyzed.
As fast as he had ever drawn, Weaver extened his right arm and snapped off a single shot to center mass of the enemy. The flyer gasped and dropped his own gun, doubling up. Weaver slid in closer, still keeping his 45 ready. "Stay where you are," he barked through the speaker in his helmet, and the absurdity of giving that order to a person in midair wasn't lost on him. He was almost within reach, when he realized the enemy was a woman... tiny, well under five feet tall and less than ninety pounds. The tan jumpsuit was snug enough to reveal curves at breast and hips, and the straight black hair was hanging loose. He still could not see what was allowing her to stay in the air.
Without warning, the unknown flyer dropped straight down. He tried to grab her but missed and heard the thump as she hit the sidewalk. Weaver hated the way this was going. He had kept from Hayami from being assassinated but it looked as if he himself was going to be exposed to the public. The two gunshots had meant that lights were being snapped on in every house for blocks around and people were starting to appear in open doorways. Black Angel dropped down and crouched over the woman. She had taken the bullet high on one side, and he guessed that shoulder would never be the same again. Blood was spurting out in small jets from an artery being nicked. Weaver glanced up. Hayami and the assistant had run into the house and would be calling the police about now.
Grabbing the wounded enemy under shoulders and legs, Weaver stood up. With a whir of tiny motor, his wings folded and collapsed back into a knapsack-sized bundle on his back. Her own rig seemed flexible enough, bamboo sticks apparently with oiled silk over them, that he could pull her arms to her body. Pressing down hard on the wound, he ran across the street and got her into the passenger seat, then dove entirely over the car to come down on the other side and jumped behind the wheel.
He peeled out, ran the stop sign at the end of the block and kept going. Still applying pressure to stop the woman's bleeding, he realized there were going to be some difficult explanations when the car had to be inspected. No time to worry about that now. He saw no sign of police cars anywhere near. At a red light, Weaver reached up with his free hand and thumbed the control under the right ear pod of his helmet. "Captain, you receiving me?"
"I hear you, Steve. What's the situation?" came Bane's voice in his ears.
"Lot going on. I'm coming back with a wounded enemy. Woman in a flying rig of some kind. She was set to snuff out Hayami when I intervened." Weaver drove quickly, trying to hold his speed down enough not to get pulled over. "She's got a 45 slug in her right shoulder, arterial bleeding, she's not in shock yet but she will be in a second. Where's Ted?"
"He should be next door by now," Bane said. "I'll get him here. We'll meet you in the basement. Don't report more right now, just concentrate on driving. We'll take care of everything as soon as you get back."
"Got it," Weaver said and switched off the microphone. As he drove, he managed to unlatch the Black Angel helmet and, a minute later, he got it off and tossed it into the back seat. He realized his face and hair were damp with sweat and his hands were unsteady. Just nerves, he told himself as he returned to Manhattan.
V.
Two hours later, Bane and Weaver were standing in the front hall of the headquarters when Ted Wright emerged from their emergency ward and closed the door behind him. He tugged down his surgical mask to reveal a face with a weary expression and sad eyes. Wright was darker-skinned than Weaver, with more typically African-American features. His short beard had a lot of grey in it, although he was only forty. Pulling off the latex gloves and the smock he had thrown on over his white dress shirt, the Blue Guide started toward the rear of the hall but Bane took the items from him and went to dispose of them.
"She's stable but obviously she needs more extensive medical treatment than I can give her," Wright said. "My gralic powers help diagnose and prevent infection but they have limits like anything else. I want to have her moved to Bellevue immediately."
"We can't do that, Ted." The Dire Wolf had came up to face him, and his voice was quiet but firm. "Too many questions. The police would get in our way and we need freedom to investigate these John Grim agents."
"Jeremy. Listen to me. I am an MD with ten years experience specializing in trauma. Speaking as a doctor, I am going to call for an ambulance now."
"No," snapped Bane. "That woman is not an innocent bystander caught in a crossfire. She shot Steve right in the chest, not knowing he had armor under his suit. She intended to murder him and she intended to murder Dr Hayami. It's pretty clear she was the killer in that earlier case where the man on the penthouse was mysteriously shot. In that flight rig, she fired the shot at the entry angle that had everyone puzzled."
Wright met Bane's cold stare evenly. "None of that matters. She needs medical treatment now."
"On my authority as Tel Shai captain that you are sworn to follow," Bane answered slowly, "I could declare her life forefeit right now. She tried to kill one of our team. I'm not going to let her die, though. We're going to patch her up for the moment and return her to her employers."
"What?!"
"Yes. Let them take care of her. We're throwing the little fish back into the sea." The Dire Wolf turned to look at Weaver, who also seemed unhappy with the whole situation. "Steve, you got the flight rig off her. What do you think about it?"
Black Angel shrugged. "She had ribbed glider wings fastened from wrists to armpits. Bamboo strips with silk stretched over them. But her propulsion is the kicker. No propellors, no rockets. There was a five-inch-wide version of a Trom gravity shield strapped to her back."
"That's John Grim's legacy," Bane said. "He stole some Trom tech years ago and even if he can't quite duplicate it, he can come up with imitation devices almost as good. That explains the motorized skater, too. And I'm guessing now we're going to find more Grim super-agents out there with wild gadgets and weapons. We're in for a real challenge."
Ted Wright seemed to have accepted the situation but with unconcealed anger. "I'll get her ready to be moved. It hopefully won't kill her if we're careful."
"We're taking her in the CORBY," Bane told him. "After we drop her in the Grim organization's lap, let them explain how she got shot. With John Grim himself in a coma and the gravity shield in our possession, they won't be able to replace her flight capability. They've lost one of their super-agents."
"There's one more thing," Stephen Weaver said. "She had no ID on her of course, but I scanned her fingerprints with a Link and ran them. Her name is Shelley Roth, twenty-seven, of Salt Lake City. Gymnast and acrobat, never near Olympic consideration but still very good. For the past four years, she has been employed by John Grim Enterprises as biochem lab assistant.. even though she has no qualifications for that job."
"Good work, Steve. Shelley Roth, eh? The lab job was just a cover, of course. She was really being trained as an assassin." Bane pointed at a sheet-covered chair in the hall over which her bloody jumpsuit was draped. "You notice the logo on the left sleeve... five-pointed star in a circle?"
"Yeah." Weaver said. "That's the name of her research division. PENTAGRAM."
VI.
At three in the morning, with no moon and a cloudy sky, the CORBY was almost invisible from the ground. The stealthcopter showed no lights at, breaking many laws and regulations as usual, and its rotors made no more noise than a faint breeze. Hovering at six thousand feet, Jeremy Bane was in the pilot seat, taking readings and checking sensors. Below them, a half dozen long low buildings stretched out as the John Grim Enterprises Research Facility. Some windows were still lit, and there were twelve cars in the largest parking lot.
"No radar arrays," he decided. "Heat signatures show normal Humans moving about, I count ten. They're all scattered in the main building." The Dire Wolf was wearing the full field suit, with his helmet plugged into the CORBY's systems. "I figure they're maintenance and custodial, with a security guard or two. Steve, are you ready?"
"Good to go," Weaver said from the rear compartment, separated from the cockpit by a sliding clear partition which was now open. He was wearing the Black Angel suit, helmet on, kneeling on the metal floor next to a stretcher on which Shelley Roth was strapped. An IV with two bags dripped saline solution and a mild painkiller into a needle taped on the back of her arm. "Our passenger seems okay."
From the co-pilot seat, a weary Ted Wright stared over his shoulder at the woman, using his mystic perception as much as his medical experience. "Her breathing is steady," he decided. "She's right on the verge of consciousness, though, she could stand a little more analgesic."
Bane shrugged. "It's only for a few more minutes. Okay, Steve. As soon as you provide the distraction, we will unload her and vacate the area. You meet us two miles down that road, right?"
"Understood, captain." Black Angel checked again that the woman was securely fastened, then unbarred the hatch in front of him. He slid it open, letting a gush of chilly air swirl around the rear compartment as the air pressure equalized, and he dove headlong out the opening into the night. Behind him, the hatch automatically closed and clicked shut again.
Plunging down through the darkness, Weaver pressed the button built into his gauntlet and the artificial wings unfolded to their full extent. He slowed himself slightly, veering toward the front of the main building. He could levitate perfectly well by himself, but the wings were a big help in maneuvering. Arching his back like a diver, swinging over the parking lot, the Black Angel smiled grimly inside his helmet. Reaching to his belt, he unsnapped the thick-barreled concussion gun and thumbed off the safety. Aiming at the lamp posts on either side of the front entrance, he fired and immediately two explosions thumped almost simultaneously.
The lampposts flew apart from the blasts, pieces spinning away to break windows and skid along the ground. Some of the other lights in nearby buildings winked out as the circuit was broken. As the deep booming echoed, a man in a security uniform of dark blue slacks and light blue shirt came running out the main entrance. Before he could spot Weaver, a third explosion sounded far enough away to not endanger him. That blast ripped a young elm tree in its wire enclosure in half. Now more people were appearing in that doorway, peering out timidly at the scene.
Holstering the concussion gun, Weaver spun around and rose sharply upward. He did not think he had been seen, since his black suit in the dark sky was not an easy sight to spot. At five hundred feet, he turned to follow the access road from the facility to the highway five miles away. A crackle sounded in his earphones and the familiar Dire Wolf voice said, "Everything okay, Steve?"
"I'm good, how'd it go for you?"
"Nothing unexpected," Bane answered. "We landed on the other side of the building, put her stretcher next to a fire exit door and were back in the air in less than a minute. I stuck a road flare in the dirt next to her to make sure she's spotted promptly."
"Well, this is sure smacking the hornet nest with a baseball bat," Weaver said. "I'm going down to land by the side of the road now. When you hover, I'll climb back in and we can head home."
"Four minutes at most," Bane's voice said. Weaver swooped down to treetop level, let his legs drop and glided down to a landing as soft as if he had just stepped down off a stool. He folded his wings again and opened the vents in his helmet to breathe fresh air again rather than from the suit's oxygen supply. Everything had gone well, and yet he felt anxious. The John Grim facility was just visible beyond a turn in the road, he could see its lights and faintly hear yelling voices. Black Angel looked up at the murky sky. Where was the CORBY?
Pressing his communications system again, Weaver said, "Say, Ted, how are you doing? I wanted to ask you about-" but his sentence was never completed. Distracted slightly by watching for the black helicopter and by what he was about to say, he heard the faint whistle of something approaching an instant too late. Weaver swung around and was struck by something big moving fast. It felt by being hit by a car. He was flung down and his head smashed against the road with impact that would have fractured his skull if not for his helmet.
Black Angel had the breath knocked out of him. He rolled over but could not quite jump up yet. As he raised his head, he saw the Skater whirl in a tight loop and rush toward him. Now he could see the man at close range, a big guy in a tan jumpsuit. The Skater was wearing a brown crash helmet with an open face, but goggles which hid his eyes. On the left sleeve was the PENTAGRAM symbol. In his right hand, the man was holding .45 automatic. Weaver had just gotten this glimpse before the Skater rushed at him going fifty miles an hour and the pistol slammed across his face with murderous force. Even the Trom-designed helmet could not deflect all that impact. Weaver's head rocked to one side and he sagged down again.
Whipping twenty feet down the road, the Skater spun around and yelled, "Where's Kite? What did you did with her?"
Managing to get up on one knee, Black Angel shouted back, "Oh, worried about your little killer, huh?" In a second, the man on the motorized skates leaned forward and hurtled forward again but this time, he was the one in for a surprise as Weaver rose straight up into the air out of reach. The Skater skidded to a halt, spinning around at the unexpected sight and at a loss. Weaver came down right on top of the man, using his levitation power in reverse to crush the Skater to the road as if he weighed half a ton. The man screamed and went limp. Lifting up again, Black Angel bent down and yanked the 45 out of an unresisting hand and tossed far behind him. He checked and found the Skater was dead.
Suddenly, Jeremy Bane was beside him with a hand on his arm. "We saw him attack you, Steve." Twenty yards away, the CORBY sat on the short grass alongside the road, its rotors still slowly turning.
Weaver gasped, "I'm all right. But I have to thank Len for these helmets and armor. He would have killed me if I wasn't wearing them."
Kneeling over the Skater, Ted Wright shook his head and reluctantly rose and walked away. "Neck and lower back broken. He died instantly." The Blue Guide had not changed into a field suit and was still wearing his street clothes. His shoulders sagged and his head dropped wearily as he came over to his teammates. "Nothing I can do for him."
Staring down the road at the John Grim facility, Bane grabbed Wright by one shoulder and snapped, "Back on board. You two, Steve, let's go!" He himself rushed to the CORY, slid the right hatch open and vaulted up into the pilot seat. As his two partners climbed aboard, Bane pulled back on the stick and the CORBY lifted off the grass. Its landing retracting, still almost completely noiseless, the stealthcopter rose straight up and was out of sight as headlights came speeding down the road. Two cars slammed to a sudden stop just inches away from where the body lay stretched out.
High overhead, Bane watched the scene through the light-amplifying windscreen. "If we had another minute, I wanted to destroy the skating mechanism," he said. "Too bad."
From the rear compartment, Weaver was tugging off the helmet and yanking off the heavy gauntlets. "Whew. I've picked up some bruises today. What's our next move, captain?"
"We're done for tonight," Bane answered as he swung the CORBY around and headed toward the city. "I think we need more information about the enemy and some reinforcements before the showdown. This is just round one. We'll end this soon."
Ted Wright was watching the men below standing around the dead body, the headlights from the cars casting stark shadows. "End it? It never ends. Midnight War was going on long before any of us were born and it'll still be causing death and destruction after we're all gone." He rubbed his face with both hands, then added, "Take us home, Jeremy."
7/27/2015
5/29-5/30/1985
I.
"Time for a break," Weaver said out loud to himself. He stepped back and surveyed the CORBY critically. The sleek all-black stealthcopter was fully cleaned, inspected and reassembled. It would take ten minutes to do a mandatory rundown and warm up all the systems before lifting off, but the CORBY was ready to go. He had been working on it since seven that morning with only iced tea and a buttered hard roll and he was ready to rebel. The Black Angel walked over to the stainless steel sink in one corner and used liquid soap and steaming hot water to scrub his hands and face. Finally. Almost four-thirty in the afternoon. Damn, back in the Air Force at least they got ten minute breaks at intervals.
At thirty-two, Stephen Weaver was a tall lanky American black man with long arms and legs. He kept his hair short, with a thick mustache because he was self-conscious about his nose being too big. Weaver had medium dark skin and a relaxed, friendly face that right now showed signs of being tired. He struggled out of the oil-stained grimy coveralls and crumpled them up into the hamper beside the sink. He was wearing sneakers, jeans and a plain white T-shirt under them. Weaver yawned and stretched, pleased with all the work he had gotten done that day.
The hangar took up the top floor of the KDF headquarters building and the CORBY took up most of the floor space. Weaver opened the metal door that opened to the stairwell leading down; the elevator only ran up to the ninth floor. He started descending, then paused and turned around. He wanted some air. Metal rungs in the wall led up to a trapdoor. He climbed up and flung the trap open, grasped a handhold bar set at waist level and yanked himself up to stand on top of the roof. It was a gorgeous June day and he had missed it, he thought. Sunny and dry, with a stiff breeze. The Black Angel took a deep breath, swung his arms back and forth to loosen up and walked around the perimeter. He should have been outside today, but too late now.
Thinking about dinner, Weaver wondered who was in the building. Would anyone feel like grabbing some Italian? He craved sharp flavors and bulk for his empty stomach and some ziti sounded good. Wandering over to the front side of the building, he leaned on the chest-high concrete barrier that encircled the roof and gazed down at East 38th Street. Mama Leone's was within walking distance, he thought, and their food was always good. Mmm, garlic bread. Red Wine. Then he saw a blue-topped taxi pull up in front of the building and he snapped back to full awareness. The Midnight War never went away for long.
Leaning forward on the barrier, he watched as a tall blond dude in a brown suit and tie emerged, threw the cab driver some money and immediately jumped up the front steps to the building's front door. Looks urgent, Weaver thought, I hope someone is downstairs to answer the bell. He had swung around to head for the trapdoor down to the story below when his attention was completely taken by a fast-moving form on the street below. What the hell was that? He leaned far over to peer down.
A man on roller skates, but moving faster than a car, going maybe sixty miles an hour, swerved around from Lexington Avenue and hopped up onto the sidewalk. Weaver had an impression of a tan jumpsuit with some sort of cables running up the legs, and what looked like a motorcycle helmet. As he whipped along the sidewalk and came up to the front door, the skater held up a big .45 and blasted four bullets right into the man who was ringing the bell. The shots boomed back and forth between buildings like thunder in a canyon. The skater skipped back on 38th Street and accelerated, going even faster and getting out of sight in a wink.
Weaver did not hesitate. Despite all the lectures from Bane about keeping their abilities secret, despite the official KDF policy not to let the public see them in action, he swung up onto the concrete barrier and stepped off, ten stories above the street. Almost as fast as if he had been falling, the Black Angel dropped down and only slowed when ten feet above the sidewalk. He drew on his levitation and decelerated sharply, landing lightly on his toes and fingertips right next to the wounded man. Certainly bystanders had to have seen him. At the moment he didn't care.
Cars and trucks slowed as they passed but they did not stop. People on the sidewalk drew back to safe distance and formed a cluster. Weaver hardly noticed them. He found the stranger lying on his back, arms spread wide and the white dress shirt bright with wet blood. One bullet seemed to have missed entirely, one had only dug a gouge across the man's neck. But two had punched home high up on the torso. The man was having trouble breathing, he gestured weakly at Weaver but could not talk.
And then Jeremy Bane was there, taking charge with unspoken authority. The Dire Wolf crouched over the man, touched here and there, then said, "His left lung has collapsed. Serious internal bleeding."
"I'll call an ambulance-" Weaver began.
"I already did," interrupted Bane. The Dire Wolf turned his pale grey eyes on his teammate, but the anger in them was not for Weaver. "As soon as I saw the shooting."
"I'll get the respirator, then." Weaver leaped up through the open door in one step. The KDF emergency ward was right inside the front door, and in a few seconds he was back with what looked like double aqualung tanks attached by a hose to a full face mask. As he tugged the mask over the victim's face, the Black Angel hit two buttons and a motor hummed. The hiss of oxygen being fed sounded.
"Good work," Bane said. "That will push oxygen in first one lung, then the other. Not too hard, set it on 50. Nothing we can do about the bleeding out here. He's still conscious." The Dire Wolf caught the man's eyes. "Don't try to talk. You're going to be okay. Here's the ambulance now."
Two paramedics in grey scrubs took over, moving quickly and efficiently. One of them said in some surprise, "Where'd this C-PAP device come from?"
"We had it on hand," Bane told him. "I don't know this man's name. He had just rung the doorbell when someone shot him."
By this time, they had the victim loaded in the back of the ambulance, and one paramedic stayed with him. "We're taking him to Metro General," the driver said as he climbed behind the wheel and slammed the door. The ambulance had its lights already flashing and now the siren sounded as they took off with traffic trying to part for them. Police had not shown up yet.
Stephen Weaver let out a long shaky breath. "Never get used to that. All the time I spent in the Gulf, all the stuff I've seen.. it still shakes me up."
Bane nodded grimly. "You know who he is?"
"Not a clue. He rang the bell and got shot. Oh, damn, Jeremy, I still have to give you a report. He was shot by a dude on motorized roller skates!"
"What?! Okay, come on, we'll take the Mustang to the hospital and find out what this is all about. It may not be over yet."
Weaver followed his captain up the steps. "Maybe another attempt? We better be ready for anything."
II.
In the waiting room outside the ICU, two trim young men with neat black hair and freshly shaven faces were waiting for them. Both wore black suits with white dress shirts, polished shoes and an air of permanent suspicion. Both were already standing as Bane and Weaver entered the room with its row of comfortable chairs, coffee table piled with magazines and optimistic posters on the wall.
"I was expecting some New York cops," Bane said. "But you guys have Mandate all over you."
"Is your name Jeremy Bane?" asked one of the government agents.
"It might be. Let's see some ID from you jokers first." The Dire Wolf not only did not seem intimidated, he seemed confrontational. Standing behind him, Weaver grinned despite himself. Jeremy would slap a tiger across the face and not think twice.
With obvious reluctance, the Mandate agents presented their billfolds and Bane examined the laminated photo cards carefully before handing them back. "Fair enough. You know I'm Bane. You've been given a detailed description and shown photos of me."
"We have to obtain verbal confirmation. Is your name is Jeremy Bane, sir?"
"It is," the Dire Wolf said. "And because you're here, I figure you have already pulled NYPD off this case and claimed it as your own."
"What do you know about the man who was shot in front of your building?" snapped one of the agents sharply, as if that would jar an honest answer out.
"Nothing. Never saw him before. I wasn't expecting any visitors today." Bane's pale eyes fixed on the nearer agent with a startling intensity. "You know who he is, though, or you wouldn't be here. Is he one of you? CIA? Department 21 Black?"
"We'll ask the questions, Mr Bane," said the agent.
"Not all of them you won't. I've had to deal with the Mandate a few times and believe me, I trust you guys as much as I'd trust a copperhead I stepped on. Your local HQ is down by the Battery. You couldn't have gotten here this quickly from there. You were trailing that guy for some reason."
"All right," one of the agents sighed. After a minute, it could be seen he was not exactly a twin of the other Mandate man. This one was several years older, had a faint white scar up by one eyebrow and his hair had brown highlights. "We have orders to allow you to cooperate in our investigation. You have been a valuable ally before."
"We've been briefed on you also, sir," said the other agent as he smiled at Weaver. "Lt Stephen James Weaver, USAF with honorable discharge and still serving on reserve duty as needed. Sole member of the BLACK ANGEL project. Served in Kuwait 1978-"
"Enough of that stuff," Weaver interrupted. He was still wearing only a white T-shirt and old jeans and felt defensive confronting two professional men in tailored suits. "I never saw that guy before, either. No idea who he is or why anyone shot him."
"I believe you. Our records show no connection between you and Holt." The agent allowed a thin smile. "We'll freely give you some information, since we believe we will investigate on your own in any case. Wilcox?"
The other Mandate agent went and stood in the doorway of the waiting room, facing out in the hall. He turned his head and nodded at his partner.
"Here's all we can say. That man is Joseph Holt, former member of the FBI special Department 21 Black. Clean record. He resigned and disappeared from view one year ago, sighted only once in company of known John Grim employees."
"Grim...." muttered Weaver. "I thought we were done with him."
"Yes. You know he's in a vegetative state in a Maryland hospital, but of course lieutenants took over his organization and it's still running at a lower level. We believe Holt's resignation was a trick, he pretended to be embittered over poor treatment so he could infiltrate the John Grim network."
"And for some reason, he came to me," Bane said. "Whatever he wanted to say, someone was determined he wouldn't get a chance. Give me a name or two to work with."
"That's all we have," the Mandate agent answered blandly.
"As if we can believe you guys!" Weaver broke in. "Spooks and spies and triple agents and moles. I had to deal with your type in the service and never got the truth two words in a row."
"What, are you trying to hurt my feelings?" the Mandate agent replied. "We'll be here when he regains consciousness. We'll contact you immediately, Mr Bane, but my feeling is that you will already be on this case in your own unconventional way. Am I right?"
"You're right," Bane said. "Steve, you ready?"
"Sure." The Black Angel went with his captain down the subdued lighting of the hall to the twin elevators marked A and B, wondering if these Mandates agents knew anything about that man on motorized skates...
III.
On their way back to 38th Street, Weaver announced he was starving. Since Bane was always hungry because of his enhanced metabolism, he agreed they should stop and eat. Finding a parking spot not far from Lee Ho Fook's Sezechuan, both of them devoured some beef chow mein and felt better. Sitting in a booth near the back, they had not talked much.
Finally, sipping the ice water, Weaver said, "Whew. Better come up for air. Listen, here's what I saw from the roof ..." For the next five minutes, he gave a detailed report on everything from the moment the taxi had pulled up on the street.
Bane listened without interrupting. "Those skates sound like a John Grim gimmick. Ever since he stole some Trom tech, his company has been coming up with gadgets way ahead of everyone else. He can't quite duplicate Trom devices but he comes close."
"I remember. When his bunch fought Wu Lung, they were using gear that looked like stuff out of science fiction movies. Cindy burned his brain out when her family was killed. I honestly thought that would be the end of it." Weaver cracked open his fortune cookie and popped the fragments in his mouth without reading the strip of paper. "No such luck, eh captain?"
"Grim himself is still in that hospital in Maryland," Bane said. "They're supposed to notify us if there's any change in his condition. But even without him in charge, his company has his notes and prototypes to work with. And," he added somberly, "he hired the best minds he could find. John Grim Enterprises is still a threat."
The Black Angel started putting his silverware on the empty plate and wiped his mouth with the napkin. "I'm ready. You know the cops will be waiting for us at HQ."
"Sure. We're looking at an hour or two of answering questions and signing statements. Aside from you seeing the skater, we really have nothing for them. It's too bad Wollheim finally retired, he let us get to work right away." Bane stood up. "We haven't even watched the security footage from the front door."
As they headed back to the Mustang, Weaver sighed. "This came out of nowhere, huh? Were you expecting anything?"
"Not at all, Steve. The only thing on our agenda was a sighting of Quilt out in California. I'm in the dark so far." They got in the car and headed back to their building. Two uniformed police were indeed standing on the steps in front, so Bane came to a stop and let Weaver out. "You start talking to them, okay? I'm stowing the car down in the garage and I'll be up in a minute."
"Great," Black Angel grumbled as he got out.
It was past seven when the police finally left. Tired and disgusted, Weaver took a hot shower in his quarters on the third floor, put on fresh clothes and came down the conference room. He found Bane sitting at the head of the long oak meeting table with its ten chairs. "What's the plan, captain?"
The Dire Wolf looked up from the computer screen. "We need information. The Trom modifications let me sneak into Mandate records, but I can't find anything about a 'Joseph Holt,' not surprising. Nothing about him anywhere, I'm going through Interpol files now. Listen. I want you to contact Len. He's at the New Mexico facility, I assume?"
"No, sorry." Weaver pulled out the chair to Bane's right and dropped down into it wearily. "His superiors sent him to Australia for some reason. Leonard Slade doesn't tell us half of his duties for the Trom."
"Too bad. When you're dealing with advanced tech, a Trom Monitor is the best guy to have at your back. I'm going to start calling my network of observers. Motorized skates, one of my people must have heard something about that." Bane shut the desktop monitor down.
The Black Angel asked, "What's my assignment, then?"
"Nothing right now. You've been working on the CORBY all day, go relax. If anything turns up, I'll call you."
"Always on duty," Weaver said as he stood up. "We're like flight crews or firemen. Guess I'll get some sleep while pretending to watch HBO." He smiled and left the room. The Dire Wolf started dialing. Over his career, he had turned down rewards from all the people he had rescued or aided. Instead, he had asked that they inform him of anything weird or unexplainable they happened upon. Many of his most important cases had begun with someone seeing something inexplicable and letting Bane know.
After an hour, he had only turned up one useful bit. Emily Barringer on W 20th Street had seen the skater and reported he had leaped up into the back of a panel truck that said HOSKINS PLUMBING AND HEATING on the side. She apologized for not catching the phone number on the side of the truck or the license plate but understandably she was stunned at seeing a man on skates whizzing by so fast. Bane thanked her and said she had done well. Eight years earlier, Emily had been under suspicion of murdering her fiancee. Bane had tracked down the real killer and cleared her; ever since she had been eager to repay him.
Two hours had gone by, and Weaver came back in the room. "Now I feel back to normal," he announced. "What's the situation, Jeremy?"
"Something interesting is going on," the Dire Wolf said. "Briefly. A CEO of an electronics company was shot to death two months ago while standing on the roof of his penthouse. Angle of entry makes no sense, nearest buildings were all ten stories shorter. Police are getting nowhere, but thinking John Grim's people may be involved makes me wonder..."
"A remote controlled device?" Weaver said. "Tiny plane maybe with a pistol attached?"
"Could be. The victim was resisting a buy-out from Grim Enterprises. Then there was a woman out on Staten Island who was killed in what seemed at first to be a car crash. Investigation showed the event made no sense. The driver's window was smashed in from outside, her neck was broken in a way inconsistent with the event, and the car apparently was rolled over left side up to fall down a bank. This was three weeks ago."
"That makes no sense any way I look at it," Black Angel decided. "Unless... Khang could do that. Or Sulak. Someone with superhuman strength. But who? Atron?"
"I don't think it was Atron. He's too direct for that. The woman, her name was Sarah Fraleigh, was a whistle-blower. She worked in Research and Development for the Grim company and she was going to meet with the State Attorney General the next day. All her papers were missing from the wreck." Bane stood up and flexed his shoulders. Sitting still was difficult for him under the best of circumstances. "And now this guy Holt gets plugged right at our door. Just what is John Grim Enterprises up to?"
Weaver shook his head. "We should check the hospital. I don't trust those government stooges to keep us informed."
"All right, I'll call and see what his condition is. We're not family but I am licensed PI on a case. How about you pull up the security footage from the front door and play it on the monitor here?"
"I'm on it." Black Angel went downstairs and retrieved the video from the tiny camera mounted at the top of the front door. Their Trom-built system did not use videotape but small flat discs that Leonard Slade had said would soon replace cassettes with the general public. He brought the disc up to the conference room and slid it into the player built into a big monitor screen which swivelled on its cart to face the table.
Bane was just hanging up. "Holt is stable. They have him intubated right now, but he regained consciousness briefly a few times. They plan on keeping him knocked out at least through tomorrow to see if his lung stays inflated. The Mandate agents are still there, the nurse said."
"I suppose those spooks are useful," Weaver grumbled. "Maybe they'll prevent any more attempts to kill Holt before we can talk to him. Here's the video."
They watched the brief clip several times at normal play, then in slow motion. The skater was wearing a loose tan jumpsuit, gloves and a motorcycle helmet with a mirrored visor so nothing of him could be seen. Strapped to his lower back was a complicateddevice the size of a dinner plate, with thin metal cables running down to the outside of his legs to the motorized skates. A holster at his right hip had held the pistol. Viewing the clip once again, Weaver said, "Damn. I estimate he's going at least sixty. What do you think?"
"That's about right in my estimate," Bane replied. "I think that's the power source on his back, with controls built into his gloves. How he keeps his balance, I don't know. A gyroscope in that suit somewhere?"
"Yeah. You know, captain, I'm wondering about the two killings. One at skyscraper level where no one should have been able to reach, one involving something that can upend a car and flip it down a hill. Watching this skater, I wonder if there are other crazy gimmicks out there that Grim's bunch is using."
Bane met his friend's eyes. "And maybe more that haven't been used yet."
IV.
The next day was spent in standard investigative work, with limited results. They visited Metro General, finding two different Mandate agents had taken over the vigil. Joseph Holt was breathing on his own, still sedated but his vitals were strong and he was expected to recover. The internal bleeding had been mostly from a single artery being nicked, and a few stitches had resolved that threat. Bane and Weaver spoke briefly with the doctors in charge, then with the Mandate agents before leaving the hospital. As usual, the Dire Wolf was wearing his trademark outfit of all black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket but Weaver had dressed in a neat dark blue suit with a powder blue shirt and solid black tie. He looked very professional and confident.
Back on the street, Weaver said, "I'm not going anywhere near the John Grim facility. They tried to put me in a cage to study like a guinea pig not that long ago! They're not getting their hands on me again."
"They know me, too. Last year when we manuevered Grim into attacking Wu Lung, our entire team became known to the Grim leaders." Bane made a faint snorting noise. "That worked better than I hoped. Wu Lung hasn't been seen since the battle. He may be dead since his network has fallen apart. John Grim is just a body being kept alive on machines, and his organization hasn't started any trouble... until now."
Pausing at a street corner and waiting for the WALK light, Weaver thought for a second. "So. We're going to go at this from a different angle?"
"Yeah, I've got a few ideas. There's a Japanese company that is throwing a dozen lawsuits at the Grim organization. Their main inventive genius is in Manhattan for some court appearances. He's the one determined to get some patent infringements against Grim Industries."
"Got you," Weaver said as they crossed and headed south toward where they had left the car. "He might be the next target. Skater boy or remote control plane with a gun, he should be on his toes."
"There's another possible approach," Bane told his teammate. "The main Grim Industries plant is in Flushing, but I've found out there's a smaller facility up in Westchester County. Low profile, almost secret. I'd like to know what's going on there."
They had reached the Mustang. Weaver said, "Let me drive, I never get a chance to drive this car." As Bane tossed him the keys, Black Angel went around the front of the Mustang to get behind the wheel. "So it looks like we split up, captain. Which stakeout do you want?"
"I think I'll take the Westchester facility. You guard the Japanese scientist. If the skater shows up or the flying gun thing, you're better able to pursue in the air. Go when it gets dark. I'll be leaving later tonight, I have a few more contacts to make."
Weaver hit his turn signal, studied the traffic suspiciously and eased away from the curb. "What about the rest of our team? Who's going to be available?"
"No one at the moment," Bane said. "I didn't want to make them drop what they're doing until we had a clear agenda. Ted is on duty at the ER until midnight. Cindy's at Tel Shai. Khang is in Vienna chasing some warlock. But Shiro said he's free and he'll be in the city in the morning."
"That guy loves trouble," Weaver laughed. "When he's not working with Andrew Steel, he checks with us to see if we have a fight for him."
Bane allowed himself a faint smile. "Shiro's a firecracker, all right."
V.
It was getting dark when Weaver arrived at the quiet neighborhood in Jackson Heights and sat in the Mustang thinking. There seemed to be miles of nearly identical one-story houses with white plank walls and blue tile roofs and a short driveway just long enough to park a cars. Didn't people here ever walk into the wrong house by mistake? Maybe they did and were used to it and just mumbled an apology before exiting. It wouldn't surprise him.
On the seat next to him was the fibreglass Black Angel helmet, with its goggles and ventilator grill and short crest. He was wearing the entire rig created by the USAF six years earlier, what looked like a black scuba suit with a red stripe down the outside of each arm and leg. The boots and gauntlets with their fins were red also. Since joining the KDF, the Black Angel suit had been further modified. It now had an inner layer of the silk-thin Trom armor, more advanced communication and sensor equipment in the helmet and a belt with small pouches holding tools and equipment. The suit wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world to wear, and driving with it on was a hassle, but Weaver had thought it was best to be ready for anything.
Across the street was the house where he had been told the Japanese scientist would be staying. 1414 Colvert Avenue, all right. Not a light was on, there was no car in the driveway. Dr Jun Harami, seventy years old and in great demand for his expertise, wasn't in from the airport yet. Weaver had not tried to contact the man, since maybe nothing would happen tonight. In the backseat was a paper bag with a couple of sandwiches, a jelly donut and a bottle of water. He sighed at the prospect of wasting a night sitting behind the wheel, then took the helmet and lowered it over his head. The light amplifiers in the goggles kicked in and suddenly every detail outside stood out sharply. He left the grill open in the lower part of the mask so the oxygen supply didn't cut in.
The wings sat on the floor of the car next to him, a red nylon bundle smaller than a knapsack. Wearing those things while driving was just impossible. Weaver had to talk himself into it, but he wrestled the bundle on, fastening it high across his back and tightening the X-straps across his chest. He could hear the clicking as the wings attached themselves to the metal plate held between his shoulder blades. Now he was not comfortable at all, but a few seconds would be saved if he needed to take off right away. The Colt 45 semi-automatic holstered at his right thigh had already been cleaned and examined personally before he had left.
Minutes dragged by unbearably. He tapped the left ear pod of his helmet and small blue figures on the inside of his visor told him the time and date. Why had he gotten here so early? Weaver was deeply tempted to set his communications gear to pick up FM radio and listen to some jazz from WNRW but he couldn't let himself be distracted. At forty-two minutes, he was considering opening the grill of his helmet to scarf that roast beef sub when a black Cadille de Ville gently eased into the driveway he was guarding. Across the street, Weaver sat up and exhaled. Finally. The car gleamed as if it had been waxed a few seconds ago. The headlights switched out.
A remarkably short and frail figure emerged from the back seat, wearing a fedora on long white hair. Dr Hayami was sure little, Weaver thought as he tucked the keys to his own rental car into a pounch on his belt and open his door a crack. If there was going to be an attack, this seemed like the best time. From the driver seat stepped a chunky young Asian woman with eyeglasses and her hair up in a bun. Although she was holding a bundle of folders and envelopes, she was quick to take Hayami by the arm protectively.
Stephen Weaver suddenly felt a twinge of alarm. He had learned to trust his instincts long ago and he slid out from behind the wheel to stand up beside the Mustang. Hayami and his assisant had not seemed to notice him yet. The woman made sure Hayami was okay before she went over to unlock the front door of the house, digging in her coat pocket uncertainly. Weaver scanned the sky with his light-amplfiers cranked up high. Combat experience in the military and five years of the Midnight War had sharpened his perceptions and all his instincts for trouble were screaming at him.
There! Coming in from the west, thirty feet off the ground, was a small dark human figure. It was gliding in quickly and silently, like a hang-glider. Weaver thumbed a control built into his gauntlet and the artificial wings on his back snapped open to their full spread with a whiplash sound. Red nylon over aluminum tubing, they resembled the wings of a bat rather than a bird. They helped guide and stabilized his flight, but they did not lift him. He flew by his innate levitation ability and now he shot upward into the night sky at full velocity. Black Angel accelerated as he went and nearly collided with the unknown, who swerved wildly aside at the last split-second.ndg
Weaver had a brief glimpse of a small person, almost child-sized, with some sort kite-like ribbed extensions on the side. There was no clue about propulsion. He arched his back and swung in a loop to rush back at the strange flyer, just as a white flash of light exploded and a slug thumped hard to his chest. Even with the Trom armor, some impact got through and it spun him out of control for a second. Spreading his wings and focussing, he hovered twenty feet about the rooftops and save the unknown flyer taking aim with that handgun at the stunned Dr Hayami, who was staring up at the strange sight as if paralyzed.
As fast as he had ever drawn, Weaver extened his right arm and snapped off a single shot to center mass of the enemy. The flyer gasped and dropped his own gun, doubling up. Weaver slid in closer, still keeping his 45 ready. "Stay where you are," he barked through the speaker in his helmet, and the absurdity of giving that order to a person in midair wasn't lost on him. He was almost within reach, when he realized the enemy was a woman... tiny, well under five feet tall and less than ninety pounds. The tan jumpsuit was snug enough to reveal curves at breast and hips, and the straight black hair was hanging loose. He still could not see what was allowing her to stay in the air.
Without warning, the unknown flyer dropped straight down. He tried to grab her but missed and heard the thump as she hit the sidewalk. Weaver hated the way this was going. He had kept from Hayami from being assassinated but it looked as if he himself was going to be exposed to the public. The two gunshots had meant that lights were being snapped on in every house for blocks around and people were starting to appear in open doorways. Black Angel dropped down and crouched over the woman. She had taken the bullet high on one side, and he guessed that shoulder would never be the same again. Blood was spurting out in small jets from an artery being nicked. Weaver glanced up. Hayami and the assistant had run into the house and would be calling the police about now.
Grabbing the wounded enemy under shoulders and legs, Weaver stood up. With a whir of tiny motor, his wings folded and collapsed back into a knapsack-sized bundle on his back. Her own rig seemed flexible enough, bamboo sticks apparently with oiled silk over them, that he could pull her arms to her body. Pressing down hard on the wound, he ran across the street and got her into the passenger seat, then dove entirely over the car to come down on the other side and jumped behind the wheel.
He peeled out, ran the stop sign at the end of the block and kept going. Still applying pressure to stop the woman's bleeding, he realized there were going to be some difficult explanations when the car had to be inspected. No time to worry about that now. He saw no sign of police cars anywhere near. At a red light, Weaver reached up with his free hand and thumbed the control under the right ear pod of his helmet. "Captain, you receiving me?"
"I hear you, Steve. What's the situation?" came Bane's voice in his ears.
"Lot going on. I'm coming back with a wounded enemy. Woman in a flying rig of some kind. She was set to snuff out Hayami when I intervened." Weaver drove quickly, trying to hold his speed down enough not to get pulled over. "She's got a 45 slug in her right shoulder, arterial bleeding, she's not in shock yet but she will be in a second. Where's Ted?"
"He should be next door by now," Bane said. "I'll get him here. We'll meet you in the basement. Don't report more right now, just concentrate on driving. We'll take care of everything as soon as you get back."
"Got it," Weaver said and switched off the microphone. As he drove, he managed to unlatch the Black Angel helmet and, a minute later, he got it off and tossed it into the back seat. He realized his face and hair were damp with sweat and his hands were unsteady. Just nerves, he told himself as he returned to Manhattan.
V.
Two hours later, Bane and Weaver were standing in the front hall of the headquarters when Ted Wright emerged from their emergency ward and closed the door behind him. He tugged down his surgical mask to reveal a face with a weary expression and sad eyes. Wright was darker-skinned than Weaver, with more typically African-American features. His short beard had a lot of grey in it, although he was only forty. Pulling off the latex gloves and the smock he had thrown on over his white dress shirt, the Blue Guide started toward the rear of the hall but Bane took the items from him and went to dispose of them.
"She's stable but obviously she needs more extensive medical treatment than I can give her," Wright said. "My gralic powers help diagnose and prevent infection but they have limits like anything else. I want to have her moved to Bellevue immediately."
"We can't do that, Ted." The Dire Wolf had came up to face him, and his voice was quiet but firm. "Too many questions. The police would get in our way and we need freedom to investigate these John Grim agents."
"Jeremy. Listen to me. I am an MD with ten years experience specializing in trauma. Speaking as a doctor, I am going to call for an ambulance now."
"No," snapped Bane. "That woman is not an innocent bystander caught in a crossfire. She shot Steve right in the chest, not knowing he had armor under his suit. She intended to murder him and she intended to murder Dr Hayami. It's pretty clear she was the killer in that earlier case where the man on the penthouse was mysteriously shot. In that flight rig, she fired the shot at the entry angle that had everyone puzzled."
Wright met Bane's cold stare evenly. "None of that matters. She needs medical treatment now."
"On my authority as Tel Shai captain that you are sworn to follow," Bane answered slowly, "I could declare her life forefeit right now. She tried to kill one of our team. I'm not going to let her die, though. We're going to patch her up for the moment and return her to her employers."
"What?!"
"Yes. Let them take care of her. We're throwing the little fish back into the sea." The Dire Wolf turned to look at Weaver, who also seemed unhappy with the whole situation. "Steve, you got the flight rig off her. What do you think about it?"
Black Angel shrugged. "She had ribbed glider wings fastened from wrists to armpits. Bamboo strips with silk stretched over them. But her propulsion is the kicker. No propellors, no rockets. There was a five-inch-wide version of a Trom gravity shield strapped to her back."
"That's John Grim's legacy," Bane said. "He stole some Trom tech years ago and even if he can't quite duplicate it, he can come up with imitation devices almost as good. That explains the motorized skater, too. And I'm guessing now we're going to find more Grim super-agents out there with wild gadgets and weapons. We're in for a real challenge."
Ted Wright seemed to have accepted the situation but with unconcealed anger. "I'll get her ready to be moved. It hopefully won't kill her if we're careful."
"We're taking her in the CORBY," Bane told him. "After we drop her in the Grim organization's lap, let them explain how she got shot. With John Grim himself in a coma and the gravity shield in our possession, they won't be able to replace her flight capability. They've lost one of their super-agents."
"There's one more thing," Stephen Weaver said. "She had no ID on her of course, but I scanned her fingerprints with a Link and ran them. Her name is Shelley Roth, twenty-seven, of Salt Lake City. Gymnast and acrobat, never near Olympic consideration but still very good. For the past four years, she has been employed by John Grim Enterprises as biochem lab assistant.. even though she has no qualifications for that job."
"Good work, Steve. Shelley Roth, eh? The lab job was just a cover, of course. She was really being trained as an assassin." Bane pointed at a sheet-covered chair in the hall over which her bloody jumpsuit was draped. "You notice the logo on the left sleeve... five-pointed star in a circle?"
"Yeah." Weaver said. "That's the name of her research division. PENTAGRAM."
VI.
At three in the morning, with no moon and a cloudy sky, the CORBY was almost invisible from the ground. The stealthcopter showed no lights at, breaking many laws and regulations as usual, and its rotors made no more noise than a faint breeze. Hovering at six thousand feet, Jeremy Bane was in the pilot seat, taking readings and checking sensors. Below them, a half dozen long low buildings stretched out as the John Grim Enterprises Research Facility. Some windows were still lit, and there were twelve cars in the largest parking lot.
"No radar arrays," he decided. "Heat signatures show normal Humans moving about, I count ten. They're all scattered in the main building." The Dire Wolf was wearing the full field suit, with his helmet plugged into the CORBY's systems. "I figure they're maintenance and custodial, with a security guard or two. Steve, are you ready?"
"Good to go," Weaver said from the rear compartment, separated from the cockpit by a sliding clear partition which was now open. He was wearing the Black Angel suit, helmet on, kneeling on the metal floor next to a stretcher on which Shelley Roth was strapped. An IV with two bags dripped saline solution and a mild painkiller into a needle taped on the back of her arm. "Our passenger seems okay."
From the co-pilot seat, a weary Ted Wright stared over his shoulder at the woman, using his mystic perception as much as his medical experience. "Her breathing is steady," he decided. "She's right on the verge of consciousness, though, she could stand a little more analgesic."
Bane shrugged. "It's only for a few more minutes. Okay, Steve. As soon as you provide the distraction, we will unload her and vacate the area. You meet us two miles down that road, right?"
"Understood, captain." Black Angel checked again that the woman was securely fastened, then unbarred the hatch in front of him. He slid it open, letting a gush of chilly air swirl around the rear compartment as the air pressure equalized, and he dove headlong out the opening into the night. Behind him, the hatch automatically closed and clicked shut again.
Plunging down through the darkness, Weaver pressed the button built into his gauntlet and the artificial wings unfolded to their full extent. He slowed himself slightly, veering toward the front of the main building. He could levitate perfectly well by himself, but the wings were a big help in maneuvering. Arching his back like a diver, swinging over the parking lot, the Black Angel smiled grimly inside his helmet. Reaching to his belt, he unsnapped the thick-barreled concussion gun and thumbed off the safety. Aiming at the lamp posts on either side of the front entrance, he fired and immediately two explosions thumped almost simultaneously.
The lampposts flew apart from the blasts, pieces spinning away to break windows and skid along the ground. Some of the other lights in nearby buildings winked out as the circuit was broken. As the deep booming echoed, a man in a security uniform of dark blue slacks and light blue shirt came running out the main entrance. Before he could spot Weaver, a third explosion sounded far enough away to not endanger him. That blast ripped a young elm tree in its wire enclosure in half. Now more people were appearing in that doorway, peering out timidly at the scene.
Holstering the concussion gun, Weaver spun around and rose sharply upward. He did not think he had been seen, since his black suit in the dark sky was not an easy sight to spot. At five hundred feet, he turned to follow the access road from the facility to the highway five miles away. A crackle sounded in his earphones and the familiar Dire Wolf voice said, "Everything okay, Steve?"
"I'm good, how'd it go for you?"
"Nothing unexpected," Bane answered. "We landed on the other side of the building, put her stretcher next to a fire exit door and were back in the air in less than a minute. I stuck a road flare in the dirt next to her to make sure she's spotted promptly."
"Well, this is sure smacking the hornet nest with a baseball bat," Weaver said. "I'm going down to land by the side of the road now. When you hover, I'll climb back in and we can head home."
"Four minutes at most," Bane's voice said. Weaver swooped down to treetop level, let his legs drop and glided down to a landing as soft as if he had just stepped down off a stool. He folded his wings again and opened the vents in his helmet to breathe fresh air again rather than from the suit's oxygen supply. Everything had gone well, and yet he felt anxious. The John Grim facility was just visible beyond a turn in the road, he could see its lights and faintly hear yelling voices. Black Angel looked up at the murky sky. Where was the CORBY?
Pressing his communications system again, Weaver said, "Say, Ted, how are you doing? I wanted to ask you about-" but his sentence was never completed. Distracted slightly by watching for the black helicopter and by what he was about to say, he heard the faint whistle of something approaching an instant too late. Weaver swung around and was struck by something big moving fast. It felt by being hit by a car. He was flung down and his head smashed against the road with impact that would have fractured his skull if not for his helmet.
Black Angel had the breath knocked out of him. He rolled over but could not quite jump up yet. As he raised his head, he saw the Skater whirl in a tight loop and rush toward him. Now he could see the man at close range, a big guy in a tan jumpsuit. The Skater was wearing a brown crash helmet with an open face, but goggles which hid his eyes. On the left sleeve was the PENTAGRAM symbol. In his right hand, the man was holding .45 automatic. Weaver had just gotten this glimpse before the Skater rushed at him going fifty miles an hour and the pistol slammed across his face with murderous force. Even the Trom-designed helmet could not deflect all that impact. Weaver's head rocked to one side and he sagged down again.
Whipping twenty feet down the road, the Skater spun around and yelled, "Where's Kite? What did you did with her?"
Managing to get up on one knee, Black Angel shouted back, "Oh, worried about your little killer, huh?" In a second, the man on the motorized skates leaned forward and hurtled forward again but this time, he was the one in for a surprise as Weaver rose straight up into the air out of reach. The Skater skidded to a halt, spinning around at the unexpected sight and at a loss. Weaver came down right on top of the man, using his levitation power in reverse to crush the Skater to the road as if he weighed half a ton. The man screamed and went limp. Lifting up again, Black Angel bent down and yanked the 45 out of an unresisting hand and tossed far behind him. He checked and found the Skater was dead.
Suddenly, Jeremy Bane was beside him with a hand on his arm. "We saw him attack you, Steve." Twenty yards away, the CORBY sat on the short grass alongside the road, its rotors still slowly turning.
Weaver gasped, "I'm all right. But I have to thank Len for these helmets and armor. He would have killed me if I wasn't wearing them."
Kneeling over the Skater, Ted Wright shook his head and reluctantly rose and walked away. "Neck and lower back broken. He died instantly." The Blue Guide had not changed into a field suit and was still wearing his street clothes. His shoulders sagged and his head dropped wearily as he came over to his teammates. "Nothing I can do for him."
Staring down the road at the John Grim facility, Bane grabbed Wright by one shoulder and snapped, "Back on board. You two, Steve, let's go!" He himself rushed to the CORY, slid the right hatch open and vaulted up into the pilot seat. As his two partners climbed aboard, Bane pulled back on the stick and the CORBY lifted off the grass. Its landing retracting, still almost completely noiseless, the stealthcopter rose straight up and was out of sight as headlights came speeding down the road. Two cars slammed to a sudden stop just inches away from where the body lay stretched out.
High overhead, Bane watched the scene through the light-amplifying windscreen. "If we had another minute, I wanted to destroy the skating mechanism," he said. "Too bad."
From the rear compartment, Weaver was tugging off the helmet and yanking off the heavy gauntlets. "Whew. I've picked up some bruises today. What's our next move, captain?"
"We're done for tonight," Bane answered as he swung the CORBY around and headed toward the city. "I think we need more information about the enemy and some reinforcements before the showdown. This is just round one. We'll end this soon."
Ted Wright was watching the men below standing around the dead body, the headlights from the cars casting stark shadows. "End it? It never ends. Midnight War was going on long before any of us were born and it'll still be causing death and destruction after we're all gone." He rubbed his face with both hands, then added, "Take us home, Jeremy."
7/27/2015
