
## Table of Contents

  * Title Page
  * Copyright Page
  * Content Advisory
  * Prologue
  * Chapter 1 – Kosovo Insurrection
  * Chapter 2 – Backlash
  * Chapter 3 – Brooklyn's Finest
  * Chapter 4 – Pike Fishing
  * Chapter 5 – Moonlighting
  * Chapter 6 – Turbulence
  * Chapter 7 – Orientation Day
  * Chapter 8 – Summer '68
  * Chapter 9 – The Mountain Temple
  * Chapter 10 – Movin' On Up
  * Chapter 11 – Celebrations and Cocktails with a Super-Villain
  * Chapter 12 – A Case of the Mondays
  * Chapter 13 – Pincer
  * Chapter 14 – Fists Blazing
  * Chapter 15 – Shocktalk
  * Chapter 16 – Varick Strikes Back
  * Chapter 17 – New Blood
  * Chapter 18 – For the Greater Good
  * Chapter 19 – Cooling Wounds
  * Chapter 20 – Matters of the Heart
  * Chapter 21 – End of a Millennium
  * Chapter 22 – Inferno
  * Chapter 23 – Aftermath
  * Epilogue – Times Long Past

## OMEGA OPS LEGION

Book 1: The Kasparov Agenda

C.S. DE MEL

## ***

Copyright © 2014 by C.S. De Mel

All rights reserved. First published in digital E-book format in 2014.

De Mel, C.S.

Omega Ops Legion Book 1: The Kasparov Agenda

ISBN: 978-0-9948044-0-2 (Kindle Edition)

ISBN: 978-0-9948044-1-9 (epub)

ISBN: 978-0-9948044-2-6 (Paperback)

www.omegaopslegion.com

## Content Advisory:

This novel contains violence, coarse language, and mature subject matter. Reader discretion is advised. 

## Prologue

The Omega Ops Legion was formed and unified by the goals to combat injustice and improve the human condition. With roots dating back to ancient times, the Legion has left deep impressions throughout the pages of history. Their great influence stems from being affiliated with some of the brightest minds and most powerful warriors the world has ever known.

Fall of 1999 -- The North American chapter of the Omega Ops Legion is in the partial command of Bruce Kasparov: A captain in the U.S. Army Special Forces, a guardian within the Legion, and a hero in both circles. Bruce and his allies refocus their efforts on dismantling the crime syndicate situated in their own backyard of New York. As Bruce digs into the belly of the New York City underworld, his ongoing crusade begins to draw the attention of powerful and sinister forces. Bruce may soon find himself in over his head when the largest and most dangerous criminal network in existence sanctions the hit on his life. The power struggle has begun, and all eyes are on Bruce...

## C.S. De Mel Presents:

Omega Ops Legion:

The Novel Series

Book 1: The Kasparov Agenda

## Chapter 1 – Kosovo Insurrection

Tuesday, September 28th, 1999

Kosovo, 3:00 p.m.

Goran Petrovic screamed as loud as a man could with a hood over his head and a dirty rag stuffed in his mouth. The Yugoslavian diplomat was on his knees in total darkness. He fruitlessly struggled against the binding around his hands, for it was the only thing he could do. The more he twisted and squirmed, the worse the rope chafed his wrists. But he did not care. His sense of time had completely dissolved. He might have been a prisoner for a few days or a few weeks. Either way, he was well past his breaking point. A soldier cursed angrily while walking behind Petrovic and rammed the butt of his rifle down on his neck. As he hit the floor, Petrovic stopped screaming and lost consciousness.

A rogue military squad surrounded six bound-and-gagged captives: five Yugoslavian diplomats and an Albanian news reporter. The man responsible for the hostage situation was a former commander in the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA), Zamir Ristani.

Ever since the KLA was formally demilitarized a week ago, Zamir felt he no longer had a place amongst the organization. As far as Zamir was concerned, the KLA lost its drive when it was restructured into the Kosovo Protection Corps. But there were those that were still loyal to the original mission to separate from Yugoslavia and secure Kosovo's independence. Zamir was adept at seeking out these individuals and they were more than ready to follow his lead.

The rogue commander sat behind a heavy oak desk, patiently waiting for someone. They were situated in a newly built hotel that was owned and operated by several of Zamir's friends in high places. The hotel was not yet open to the public, but it was open to Ristani. There was a knock at the door. "Identify yourself!" Zamir ordered.

A response came from the other side: "Arben Bardha..."

"Enter."

A sullen-faced man with thinning black hair walked into the room. Zamir studied him suspiciously: the man appeared cold, clammy, and was visibly shaking. The two men began to converse in Albanian. "Did you acquire the warheads?" Zamir questioned. Arben forced himself to look at Ristani. His knees began to buckle as he stuttered inaudibly. "Where is the rest of your team? Out with it!" Zamir barked impatiently.

Arben's lip trembled. "Forgive, sir..." Zamir's eyes grew wide as a small device slipped out from Bardha's sleeve.

"We are betrayed!" Zamir screamed. He dived behind his desk, just before the device struck the tile. A brilliant flash saturated the room, instantly blinding everyone exposed. The soldiers yelled in panic, pointing their guns wildly in all directions.

Military personnel stormed the room. "Drop your weapons! Drop your weapons!" Within moments, Zamir's soldiers were knocked to the ground and disarmed by the intruders: a joint task force consisting of soldiers from the NATO appointed Kosovo Force (KFOR), and the United States Army. Amongst the soldiers was Captain Bruce Kasparov of the U.S. Army Special Forces. He was of Russian-Armenian descent and possessed a broad frame, dark hair, and a swarthy complexion. He swiftly scanned the room.

"Where is Ristani...?" Bruce felt a strong sense of foreboding.

From behind the desk, Zamir Ristani leapt up and grabbed a hostage around the neck to shield himself with: the news reporter. He jammed his handgun into her back.

"Let her go!" a KFOR soldier demanded.

"I will kill her!" Zamir yelled defiantly in Albanian. "Surrender your weapons!" The news reporter's screams of terror were muffled by her gag.

Bruce Kasparov looked at the hostage: couldn't be more than twenty-five, he thought to himself. Zamir stood safely behind his human shield while he surveyed the soldiers that surrounded him: they were still reluctant to lower their weapons. And then Zamir's eyes locked onto Bruce. He blinked. "Is this...Bruce Kasparov?" He spoke English with a heavy accent. Bruce exchanged glances with his fellow soldiers, uncertain what to make of this.

"You know me?" Bruce questioned.

Zamir laughed. "But of course! You are the world famous Bruce Kasparov! Your exploits are legendary, although likely exaggerated. Far too fanciful to be taken at face value." Zamir nodded, apparently agreeing with himself. "Yes, criminals all over the world speak of you...fear you." He stopped talking. Bruce waited—Zamir appeared to be staring into Bruce with delight.

"Let her go, Ristani," Bruce warned.

"This lovely young girl? No-no, not yet. She is an important piece to this game. Furthermore, she insisted on scurrying around my benevolent operation like a mouse."

Bruce was finding it difficult to stomach this man. "Benevolent operation? You're nothing more than a terrorist."

Zamir laughed heartily. "I am no terrorist. I am a freedom fighter, much like yourself."

Bruce winced at the thought of being compared to Ristani. "I hardly consider holding hostages and procuring high-end explosives the acts of a freedom fighter."

"So these are acts of a terrorist, then?" Zamir scoffed. "Your kind have no idea what terrorism or a terrorist is. Your country and its allies labelled the KLA a terrorist organization just a year ago, but look at what's unfolded over the past month: NATO sided with the KLA and bombed everything in the name of peace. That is the American way, is it not? Bomb everything until there is peace. How many innocent civilians were lost in the NATO strikes? Hundreds? Thousands?" Bruce Kasparov's silence brought a smug smile to Zamir's face. "Either way, it's just collateral damage. And these people I hold in my custody can be considered just that: collateral damage."

"Not a chance, Ristani. No one will die here today—except maybe you."

Zamir bore no acknowledgment that he had heard Bruce and suddenly changed tack. "I was always very interested to meet you, Bruce Kasparov. I have heard of you being described as something superhuman. You can increase your strength tenfold, but with a thought. Flames engulf your very body...and you channel this magnificent energy through your fingertips to strike down those who oppose you...with fiery justice." The news reporter whimpered through her gag as tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Shut up, woman!" Zamir roared, digging his gun into her back. Bruce Kasparov squeezed the handle of his own gun, but kept his trigger-finger steady. Zamir continued: "Nature...natural laws... They have no claim over you, do they? To soar through the skies like a god...you can." He smiled. "Tell me, are these stories true?" Zamir interrogated Bruce with his eyes. "Or just rubbish weaved together by the delusional brigands that have suffered your reprisal?"

"Let—her—go," Bruce instructed once more through gritted teeth.

Zamir continued to smile and nod, as if reaching an understanding with himself about the situation. "Why do you even bother carrying a gun? Hmm?" He was laughing maniacally now. Chills ran down the news reporter's spine as Ristani's cold laugh rang in her ears. In an instant, Zamir regained his composure and was now staring at Bruce, with the utmost focus. No one else in the room seemed to matter to him. "Show me your power."

"The whole complex is surrounded. Last chance to surrender," Bruce threatened.

Zamir shook a finger at him. "No-no-no, last chance for you. If I am to be taken in by the great Bruce Kasparov, I want to see him at his full fury." He waved him forward, but Bruce stood his ground. Zamir frowned. "Others have witnessed your true strength... Am I not a significant enough threat to draw this out of you, Kasparov?"

Bruce gauged the proximity of Zamir from his hostage. There's no clear shot yet. Zamir's gun was still firmly pressed into her. Hiding behind the news reporter, all that was visible of Zamir was his face from the eyes up.

"Three seconds!" Zamir suddenly yelled out. "Then she dies!" He began the count. "One!" The soldiers looked to Bruce, anxiously waiting for a signal on what to do. "Two!"

Bruce raised his hand and threw his gun to the ground. The soldiers behind Bruce did the same. Zamir stopped counting and looked at Bruce expectantly. "Okay, Ristani. You want to see my power? Fine. Just remember, you asked for this. And like you, I'm going to give you three seconds...and then you're mine." The room fell silent with all eyes locked on Bruce. He inhaled deeply...

"One!" Bruce placed his arms behind his back and watched Ristani intently. "Two!" Zamir was completely enthralled. He lowered his gun barrel to the floor and raised his head a bit higher to get a good look. Behind his back, Bruce pressed a button on an electronic transmitter attached to his belt...

Outside the hotel, the area was in complete lockdown, with soldiers posted at ground level and atop the hotel roof. Arthur Finch and three other soldiers held positions along the roof. Arthur was a U.S. Army expert marksman: born and raised in Australia, now living in the United States. He was in Staff Sergeant Frank Cormac's squad, a soldier who was in the building with Bruce Kasparov at this very moment. One of the soldiers questioned Arthur: "For a guy that's an international terrorist, 'hiding' in the penthouse suite of a five-storey hotel... Isn't that a little vain?"

"These types usually are," Arthur replied. A device suddenly began to beep on Arthur's belt. "The signal!" He was already harnessed to the roof and had his silenced handgun drawn. Firmly grasping his line with a gloved hand, he rappelled down to the penthouse window. He immediately targeted Zamir Ristani and fired.

The window of the penthouse shattered. Zamir screamed out as a bullet entered into the back of his right arm. His hand clenched in pain, causing Zamir to discharge his pistol into the floor. Bruce and Frank charged: Frank safely guided the hostage out of harm's way while Bruce punched Zamir square in the jaw and effectively disarmed him. Ristani toppled to the ground, but with his uninjured arm, pulled out a six-inch blade from inside his boot. While crawling on the floor, he swung the knife wildly at Bruce's chest. Bruce easily dodged the blade, locked Zamir's arm in his own, then twisted as he rolled down onto the tile. Zamir yelled out in pain and immediately dropped the knife. He was no longer able to put up resistance. Bruce got to his feet and picked up Zamir by his uniform collar. Arthur cheered on Bruce while he watched the entire scene unfold, hanging from his line.

Zamir coughed. "You didn't...show me your power..."

"Like you said—" Bruce leaned in so that only Zamir could hear him: "You're too insignificant." Zamir stared. He was prepared to stomach Kasparov's victory, but not his impudence. In a fit of rage, he spat at Bruce, who instantaneously raised his forearm to prevent the spit from striking his face. Bruce watched the saliva dribble down his uniform sleeve. "Not smart," growled Bruce. He proceeded to clean his sleeve on Zamir's face as Zamir screamed profanities at him. Bruce tore off the flag from Ristani's uniform. "You're a disgrace to your country, Commander."

***

One week later.

New York City, 6:00 p.m.

The news teams and press were gathered amongst hordes of citizens at City Hall. The New York City mayor stood behind the podium at the base of the steps and was ready to address the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, people of the press: We are gathered here today to honor the brave men and women who fought valiantly overseas to keep the peace between Kosovo and Yugoslavia. Albanian extremists threatened international security by their actions and brought about a situation that demanded our intervention—to save lives and prevent the continuation of the war. Speaking on behalf of the American forces today is an officer in the U.S. Army Special Forces and a decorated war hero, Captain Bruce Kasparov!"

Bruce stood up from his seat and walked towards the podium to raucous cheering. He shook the mayor's hand, where mutual thanks was given, then proceeded to take his place behind the podium. Bruce looked over the restless crowd and raised his hand, waiting for silence to fall. It happened surprisingly quickly under Kasparov's commanding presence. He cleared his throat and addressed the crowd:

"Zamir Ristani's attempts to destabilize the current peace efforts between Yugoslavia and Kosovo were unsuccessful and a backslide into war was averted." Bruce paused, and a sea of people joined him in rapt silence. "Ristani and all of his lieutenants have been apprehended." The crowd erupted in applause upon hearing these words.

"Way to go, Captain!" someone cried out amongst the cheering and clapping.

Bruce waited until the applause died down, then continued: "The KFOR and U.S. military have thwarted Ristani's efforts to acquire weapons of mass destruction. His use of hostages and terrorism to pursue his own political agenda was a failure. I'm proud to say that the hostages have been freed. All weapons that were in Ristani's possession have been confiscated, and no casualties were suffered in bringing down Ristani at his penthouse." Cheers rang out from the crowd, which quickly turned into a standing ovation.

The mayor stepped back on stage, joining Bruce by the podium. "Thank you very much, Captain. The floor is now open to questions."

Bruce knew this was coming, but his gut reaction was still the same. Holy crap. It was like he was handing out food to starving dogs: loud incessant barking and no shame. Bruce found the entire scenario rather amusing. He pointed at reporters and began to take their questions, one by one:

"Captain! Now that Ristani has been captured, is there any need for U.S. troops to remain in Kosovo?"

"A large portion of U.S. troops have, in fact, been pulled out of Kosovo, seeing as the threat level has been greatly reduced. We will gradually extract the rest of our forces over the following months as order is restored. However, there are still remnants of the KLA at large who can pose a threat—and there is always room for imitators."

"Captain! Captain!" A short man with dirty-blonde hair and a red baseball cap pushed through the crowd. He hardly looked like a reporter. He raised his video camera to the podium with one hand and a microphone with the other. "There have been rumors you are part of the secret society known as the Omega Ops Legion; is there any truth to this?" Bruce looked down curiously at the man.

"Please keep the questions on topic, thank you," the mayor interjected.

The short man, however, continued to press the subject: "But is it not true that the Legion was involved with the Kosovo efforts and capturing Zamir Ristani?"

The mayor looked disgruntled and was ready to tell off this young punk, but Bruce cut him off: "It's alright, Mr. Mayor. I'll field this one." Bruce looked down at the man. "What's your name, friend?"

"Jerry Stiltson from Shocktalk Radio. Big fan of your work, Captain."

Bruce grinned. "Likewise. Your program puts out some entertaining stuff in the morning." Jerry looked at Bruce eagerly while pointing the microphone and video camera towards him. Bruce chose his words carefully: "Well, Jerry, the U.S. efforts in Kosovo were precisely just that. It was a United States military operation and—"

"So, are you denying you have any involvement with this secret society?"

Bruce paused a moment, then smiled. "It's not a secret society—we just don't advertise. But yes, I am affiliated with the organization." In that instant, the press conference appeared to stop in time. Then slowly, mixed murmurs and buzzing filled the crowd. Jerry was absolutely thrilled with his scoop.

"So then, the Omega Ops Legion was involved in Kosovo, you heading the operation and all?"

"My orders to lead a team overseas came from the U.S. military, not the Legion."

A new reporter interjected, with a tone of derision in his voice: "How can someone in the U.S. Army be involved with such an organization? Does it not boil down to an international vigilante group that holds itself above the law and government?"

Bruce continued to smile. "Members of the Omega Ops Legion are peacekeepers, mentors, and philanthropists. We share many of the same goals as local and international authorities: to stop crime and maintain peace."

"Why not just join the police, then? Why is the Legion necessary?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Necessary? This isn't something that just sprang up overnight. But frankly, the more eyes watching from different vantage points, the better. And I can tell you this: clean up starts right here in New York." As if pushing buttons on the podium, Bruce repeatedly pressed his finger into the wood, ready to drive home his message: "Alongside the NYPD, we've been cracking down hard on the drug and weapons trade facilitated by gang-bangers and the mob. It's an ongoing battle that won't let up, but neither will we." The crowd broke into applause at these words, for they knew Bruce was not just a big talker but also a man of action.

Two men at the back of the crowd, Freddy Vickers and Ramon Salazar, watched Bruce deliver his talk, but neither seemed too impressed. "Boss isn't going to like this, Ramon."

"Not one damn bit," Ramon mumbled, with a cigarette in his mouth. "Something's gotta be done about him." He fired up his lighter.

"Excuse me, but do you mind putting out your cigarette?" a lady asked, irritated by the smoke.

Ramon put the lighter back in his pocket and turned to the woman. "How about I put it out on your head?"

The reporters continued to have a shouting match with each other as Bruce attempted to answer as many questions as he could.

"Is this Omega Ops organization backed by any government?"

"No, we have no official ties to the government—all of our endeavors are privately funded. Although, we do have members within government and military positions, such as myself."

Several angry looking men pushed to the front of the crowd. "The Legion is a shadow government planning to overthrow democracy! They're in league with the New World Order in plotting for social collapse!"

Bruce tried his best to calm the rabble-rousers. "Now that is entirely untrue, we work together with—"

"You're a traitor to this country!" A man hurled a large tomato towards the stage. Bruce caught the tomato, absorbing the impact so it wouldn't break.

"I believe this is yours!" Bruce whipped the tomato back at the man, which hit him straight in the face and exploded. People laughed and cheered while police surged into the crowd to remove the delinquents. Bruce tried to restore order, shouting over the noise: "Let's try to keep it civil, shall we?!" But the crowd was growing restless as several would-be instigators fought back against security.

Frank Cormac, who was sitting by the podium, walked over to Bruce with a smirk on his face. "Good job keeping things civil. Truly top-notch work."

"Hey, Captain!" Jerry the shock jock yelled. "Rumor has it that the Legion conducts experimental bioengineering and has turned you into a modern day super-man. Any truth there?" The question drew several laughs as well as hushed whispers.

"Let's see you do a few laps around City Hall with your super-flight!" a person in the crowd cried out.

"Let's see it, Smallville!" shouted another.

Bruce grinned. "Right—maybe some other time. The crowd's got enough action as it is."

***

## Chapter 2 – Backlash

Wednesday, October 6th, 1999

Manhattan, New York, 8:00 p.m.

"What—the hell were you thinking?! Do you even have the slightest inkling of what you've done?!"

Bruce looked at Dr. Guthrie with mild amusement. "Relax, Teddy. Eat something—you're blowing this way out of proportion."

Dr. Theodore Guthrie was a doctor of medicine and a philosophy scholar. Despite being viewed as a bit of an oddball by his academic colleagues, he played an integral part within the Omega Ops Legion. Dr. Guthrie was primarily responsible for coordinating and organizing the Legion's efforts across North America. He never stayed in one place long, mainly travelling between California and New York. He was meticulous and well-connected to fit the role. In addition to this, Teddy was invaluable as a resource for getting people the things they needed.

Today, Dr. Guthrie had called an impromptu meeting to 'discuss' Bruce's press conference at City Hall. The meeting was taking place at the Legion mansion, home of Bruce Kasparov. Though the title deed was in Bruce's name, it was financed by several associates and Legion members to be used as the headquarters for their North American chapter. Present around the dinner table were Bruce Kasparov, Theodore Guthrie, Frank Cormac, and Legion members Peter Santos and John Varick.

"Take it from me, Teddy—" Frank paused to fork a large portion of ravioli into his mouth. "It really wasn't that bad—I was there."

Teddy narrowed his eyes. "Frank, remind me again why you're here? This is a Legion meeting and you're not part of the Legion."

"Well, Bruce said he's making pasta...so here I am, stuffing my face with it. Besides, the amount of time I spend running around with these guys, I'm basically a member by association." Frank grinned with sauce on his lips. "You mind passing the juice this way, Teddy?" Dr. Guthrie sighed and handed the carton of orange juice to Frank.

"Listen, all I'm saying is that we have no reason to hide," Bruce argued. "There's no harm in answering a few questions."

Teddy scoffed in disbelief. "It's not about hiding, but the less the general public knows, the better. You didn't have to tell the world that you were involved with us."

Bruce smirked. "So, I was supposed to lie?"

"You were supposed to say nothing!" yelled Theodore, losing his temper. "Anything you give the press will just turn into a giant media circus."

Bruce couldn't help but get a little annoyed himself. "Oh please, the truth is far more preferable to all the rumors that will spawn from me refusing to talk. I say nothing, and they'll assume the worst."

Varick decided to toss his two cents into the squabble: "All due respect, Bruce, the public can think what they want. We have a job to do—we're not out there to win any popularity contests." Varick had jet-black hair, a goatee, and was in exceptional shape for a man pushing forty—he had to be for the type of thing he engaged in on a daily basis. Although he was no longer a part of the GSG-9 special operations unit in Germany, his Legion training sessions kept his field skills sharp as ever.

Bruce was surprised to hear Varick against him. Normally, he could count on Varick to back him up when dealing with Teddy. But before Bruce could respond, Santos countered on his behalf:

"Well, how can we be expected to do our job properly when we don't even have the trust of the people we're supposed to be helping?"

"Don't be naive," Varick spat. "The time for talking is done. Our actions are what will define this organization."

Santos shook his head. "Not if they never find out what we do and leave it to a clueless media to feed them their truths." Varick scowled darkly at Santos. Bruce could sense trouble.

Santos was an orphan that had grown up alongside Bruce in a foster home. He had greying blonde hair and a short, scruffy beard to match. Like Bruce, Santos was among the most powerful members in the Legion, having undergone extensive training and attaining guardian rank within the organization. Varick and Santos both got along well with Bruce, but not with each other. "I don't think you're seeing the big picture here, Varick," Santos stated simply. Varick had enough. He stood up and walked towards Santos, who remained seated, looking curiously at Varick. Frank put down his fork to watch.

"Alright, that's enough," Bruce interjected, standing in-between the two of them. "What's done is done—we'll have to agree to disagree. Teddy, I stand by what I've said. So how about we stop wasting time on this piddly nonsense and attend to more pressing matters—like the best course of action to contain Scorcher's expansion attempts and keep him from tearing this city apart from the inside out."

Teddy removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. "Fine."

***

The Chital Co. Tower, Manhattan: An office high-rise, where various, seemingly legit businesses are conducted. The catch was that the owners of the building worked for the notorious super-criminal known as Scorcher. Whether they were aware of it or not, everyone in the building was on the payroll of the world's largest crime syndicate.

Gathered in a boardroom within the walls of the Chital Co. Tower were about two dozen bodies, watching the press conference on a big screen television. They watched in disgust as Bruce boasted about the Legion driving down crime in New York. Samuel Turly clicked the remote to pause the tape. He pointed at the screen, his finger visibly shaking from anger. He waited. No one said anything. "Do you hear...this man speaking?" Again, there was silence. "Do you hear him?!" screamed Turly. He looked around the room, positively livid. Turly reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a luxury silver ballpoint pen. He fiddled with the top end for a moment until it popped off to reveal a one-inch ceramic blade. Brandishing the pen around the room, he bared his teeth in fury. People within striking distance slowly edged their chairs away. Turly screamed angrily and slammed the pen on the table, driving the blade into the wood.

Samuel Turly was the North American speaker for the global criminal network he and Scorcher were a part of. Highly intelligent and meticulous, he has been on the most wanted list of several law enforcement agencies for the last fifteen years. The agencies tied Turly to several illegal activities including international drug trafficking, arms dealing, and the acquiring and distribution of classified intel that breached the national security of multiple nations. There was no doubt that Samuel Turly was a dangerous man. The pen knife remained lodged in the table, and everyone's attention was on Turly. "Bruce Kasparov is a problem."

"And I got the solution right here!" Ronaldo Hernandez stood up from the table and cocked back his .45 calibre. His accent was heavy, and he did not speak English particularly well. "Me and a couple of guys will find this Kasparov and put a bullet in his head—and then there'll be peace and love all around."

"Sit down you dirty hippie," snarled Ramon Salazar.

"What you say to me?!" Ronaldo snapped back. "This man is on your side of the border—your problem. I took plane here to meeting, to find out what's being done 'bout it. He hitting our clients, and our drugs ain't flowing freely no more, meng."

"Yeah, he's on our side of the border, and you haven't tangled with him," sneered Ramon. "I was at the press conference in person. If it was that easy to shoot him, I would've done it right then and there. A bullet won't stop him."

"That's bull!" Ronaldo yelled defiantly. "Then you send a whole army at him! Where's your leader, this Scorcher? He's allowing all this to go down on his watch."

"He'll get here when he gets here," growled Ulysses Frost, one of Scorcher's heavy-hitters.

Ronaldo quieted down a little under Frost's menacing gaze, but kept on the attack. "Way I see it, you need new management. Alvarez has the pipeline set up from Columbia to the States via Mexico. All you do is distribute and maintain clients. Now you can't do that either! I hear this Scorcher is supposed to be so-so scary, so why isn't he putting the scare into the competition stealing our clients? Right-right-right! 'Cause he's under Kasparov's boot. When I hear the name Scorcher, there's no fear...he's a joke!" Ronaldo paused his angry tirade to catch his breath. He looked around the room, red-faced and breathing heavy. "Who's going to respect an outfit being led by clown named Scorcher? Is this name meant to cause fear and panic?"

"You tell me..." The man known as Scorcher had arrived, although from first glance, it was clear he was anything but human. His presence created an ominous still in the room. He was a towering figure that looked capable of strangling a rhino with his bare hands. Ronaldo looked up at Scorcher's face and gasped. Where he expected a face was some sort of misshaped animal skull with dark, leathery skin stretched over it. Framing his head was a lion's mane of rose-colored hair. A cybernetic enhancement was strapped over his right eye; the left had the appearance of a chunk of golden amber. Two large horns jutted out of his skull like a bull...or like the devil himself. Scorcher looked at Ronaldo and gave him a big smile, baring his fang-like teeth. Ronaldo whimpered.

"I guess you got your answer about the fear and panic. Now...want to see why I'm called Scorcher?" He held out a massive gloved hand in front of Ronaldo. Flames erupted from Scorcher's hand and danced around his palm and fingers. "Ready?"

"No, stop!" Ronaldo cowered, covering his face with both arms. "Please!"

"Scorcher, enough. Sit down; we don't have time for your shit right now," Turly muttered.

Scorcher laughed. "I wasn't going to do anything; we're all amigos here! Isn't that right, you spic prick?" Scorcher's head turned to Ronaldo, presumably staring at Ronaldo with his 'eyes'. "I just like the grand entrances."

"Yes, we know," Turly said impatiently. "Now sit down, the Master is not pleased with you—with us."

Scorcher found a seat beside Tony Calzone: a mob boss in Scorcher's pocket. Tony shuddered as Scorcher sat down beside him.

Gregory Pike leaned over to Tony from the other side. "You got a problem with freaks?" Tony looked at Pike: he was a hulking figure with yellow skin, fiery red eyes, and a face like a gargoyle. His upper body was adorned with shimmering emerald and dark green armor. The material was unlike anything Tony had seen before. He never bothered to ask what Pike's story was, and frankly speaking, Tony wasn't even sure if Pike was from this planet.

"Tony has no problems with freaks." Scorcher grinned. "Deep down, everyone here is a freak—why else would they be in this room of sociopaths?"

"Well, Scorcher?" Turly questioned, interrupting Scorcher's banter. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Yeah, I heard about Kasparov..." mumbled Scorcher.

Turly shook his head. "It's bad enough he's running through our forces here in New York, but he has interfered with a very important operation in Kosovo. The authorities have Zamir."

Scorcher sighed. "Well, you know how dealing with Kasparov is. And it's not just him—all his other Legion buddies as well...teaming up with the police...the feds!?"

Turly scowled. "Kasparov is an important figurehead that we need to remove. If we take him out, his allies that rally under him will be demoralized. But you have failed to deal with him, Scorcher. You couldn't keep that dog on a leash, and now he's interfering on an international level. And this isn't the first time."

"Well, what the hell do you want from me?!" barked Scorcher. "He's too goddamn powerful. Every time I run into him, he gains the upper hand."

Turly smiled grimly. "I know. That's why we've recruited some extra muscle. In fact, the arrangements are being made by the Master as we speak. This fighter is being flown in from Thailand and is scheduled to arrive this weekend." Turly walked slowly alongside the meeting table and leaned in, his face mere inches from Scorcher's disfigured visage. "Together, you're going to crush Kasparov," whispered Turly. "And any of his 'buddies' who get in the way."

***

Thursday, October 7th, 1999

Queens, New York, 7:15 a.m.

Oswalt Fletcher surveyed the mess in front of him, positively disgusted. "Ah hell, this just ruins my freakin' day. Schucker, you should see this—goddamn!"

"I know... I saw." Henry Schucker was a middle-aged cop who had been around the block more than a few times. He appeared indifferent to Oswalt's revulsion due to his attention staying with the witness he was questioning. The two police officers were at a bloody crime scene: the front of a dark green sedan was crumpled around a street light. The driver was dead in his seat, and the passenger had flown through the windshield, several feet out onto the sidewalk. The vehicle itself was riddled with bullet holes, and another body was under the left rear tire of the vehicle. "What did you say your name was?"

"Quetzalcoatl, the holy feathered serpent of Queens."

Henry stared at his witness, stone-faced. "Right... You mind if I just call you Q?"

"Whatever you like, Occifer."

Henry Schucker sighed. "Well, Q...can you tell me anything else—number of attackers, what they sounded like, anything at all?"

The tired man looked at Schucker with bloodshot eyes. "Nawww... I sleeping, thinking, then everyone yelling, and I tell them, hay! Hay! Stop yelling, they are disturbing a deity, but they no stop and..." Henry's eyes trailed to the forensics team combing the perimeter of the sedan; they had already picked up a handgun, presumably belonging to the man under the tire.

"Occifer, did you hear?"

Henry refocused his attention. "What's that?"

"When I woke up my bottle was gone. I think they stole it." Henry knew when he was beat. He politely ended his questioning and walked over to the crime scene.

Oswalt turned to Henry. "So, what did we get from our 'witness'?"

Henry sighed. "Not a thing." Q sauntered over to the officers and tapped Oswalt on the shoulder.

"What?"

"Got a light?"

Oswalt narrowed his eyes, annoyed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Zippo. "Here." Q graciously accepted the lighter, feeling the weight of it in his hand.

"Got a cigarette?"

Oswalt snatched his lighter back. "Pfft, get the hell outta here, guy."

A black Lincoln pulled up to the curb. John Varick got down from the driver's seat, followed by Bruce Kasparov from the passenger side. "What do you guys got?" Varick questioned.

"Not a thing," Henry repeated.

Oswalt walked towards the new arrivals, meeting them halfway. "Hold it right there. This is a crime scene, if you can't tell, so stay behind the yellow tape."

Bruce glanced from Oswalt to Varick, grinning.

Henry tailed behind Oswalt. "Hey, relax, Fletcher—they're here to help. This is John Varick."

"Oh..." Oswalt responded, slightly dejected. "The Legion guy."

"And a cop among other things," Henry remarked, shaking hands with Varick. "Good to see you, John."

"A former cop," Varick corrected, "—in Germany."

"When or where, we're on the same side in the end," Henry pointed out.

Oswalt's eyes darted up and down the sidewalk, distracted. "Be right back; I'm gonna go down the street and get a coffee." And with that, Oswalt trotted off.

Bruce was both puzzled and amused to see Oswalt leaving. "What's his deal?"

Henry scratched his head. "He's new—transferred from L.A. division. Still getting used to the environment, I suppose."

"By the way, this is Bruce Kasparov," Varick introduced.

"Honor to meet you, Captain," Henry said, extending his hand. "Of course, I already know who you are by reputation."

Bruce shook Henry's hand. "Likewise. You and Roy do good work—where is he, by the way?"

"Roy Cameron? He's off on another case; that's why I got Oswalt tagging along with me for this one."

Varick stepped over the yellow tape to get a good look at the sedan. He squatted down to examine the bullet holes. He walked around to the back of the car and saw the frame around the licence plate. "It's one of Solly's company cars."

"Jack Solly?" Henry questioned.

Varick nodded as he peered into the car where the driver was still buckled.

"Well then, it's pretty obvious this is Scorcher's handy work," Bruce deduced. "He's already begun sinking his teeth into the rival New York factions."

Henry was puzzled. "Solly's dirty?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Bruce stated grimly.

"I consider that slander, officers." An elderly man walked towards them, followed by a tough-looking individual that had the presence of a bodyguard.

"Speak of the devil," Bruce said, sneering at Jack.

"Ah, Captain, how are you?" He extended a hand which Bruce did not shake. Solly smiled.

"What are you doing here, Solly?"

"These were my employees. I was informed a short while ago about this tragedy." Solly glanced at the crime scene: his eyes flickered from the body on the sidewalk, to the driver in the car. He then eyed the man under the car tire, and the cogs in his head began to turn.

Bruce gauged Solly's expression. "Not one of yours, I presume?"

"No—he isn't."

"Know who he is?"

"Can't say that I do."

"You sure? Not a friend of Scorcher's you've tangled with before? Guess he was the unlucky one who didn't get away after his crew iced your 'employees'."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Solly stated sharply. "And you would be wise not to speak so boldly."

Varick leaned into Bruce. "Don't give him too much, now, " he muttered.

Bruce scoffed at Solly, then turned his attention to the man accompanying him, whom he also knew. "And it's mighty bold of you to walk around with riffraff thugs like Wells over here," Bruce said snidely.

Zerneck Wells balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth. "We're not here to make trouble." He was determined not to lose his temper.

"Wells is head of my security detail," Solly informed.

"Head of security... Fascinating." Bruce walked up to the sedan and popped open the trunk with a hard kick. He looked inside and smiled. "Care to explain these, Solly?" Bruce lifted an M4 assault rifle out of the trunk. "Trunk's full of them."

"I have no knowledge of those," Solly replied simply. "Whatever my employees are involved with after hours, I have nothing to do with."

Bruce shook his head, tsking. "You don't know much of anything, do you?" Solly scowled darkly at him. Bruce turned to Varick. "Ready to head out? Have any other questions for our friends here?"

"Nope, let's go. Keep us in the loop if anything develops on this, Henry."

Henry nodded at Varick. "Will do."

Solly watched Bruce and Varick drive off. "Let's go, Wells." Solly handed Henry a business card. "If you need any assistance with this matter, you can call my office." Solly and Wells walked off. Oswalt brushed by the two as he returned to the crime scene with a coffee. Oswalt stood beside Henry, staring off into the distance.

"I don't like them."

"Solly and Wells?"

Oswalt took a sip from his coffee. "No. Varick...and the Captain."

Henry was taken aback. "Why? They're helping us."

"Helping us? No, they're helping themselves—helping the Legion. They're arrogant, pompous glory-seekers, the whole lot of 'em."

"Well, maybe if you were as efficient as them, you'd get some of the glory too," Henry joked. Oswalt didn't find it funny, however.

"Occifer? Occifer?!"

Henry cringed, then slowly looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

The hobo showed Henry a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. "The man gave me this."

Henry's eyes widened as he read what was on the paper. "This is an address...not too far from here. Where did you get this?"

"The man had it."

"Involved with the shooting?" Henry asked.

"That's the man."

Oswalt dropped his coffee cup and looked angrily at the hobo. "Why didn't you tell us this before?! You withheld information!" he spat.

"Nawww, Occifer. The man walked away and I bumped into him. Tried for his wallet, but only got this paper—before he push me down."

Henry stared at Q in disbelief. "Wait, so you tried to pickpocket him, even after you saw him kill these people?"

"They stole my bottle, so I needed money for a new one."

Oswalt laughed. "How can a belligerent drunk like you have the competency to pick pockets?"

"Like with any fine craft, Occifer—" the hobo grinned, showing Oswalt the beat-up leather wallet he had just lifted from Oswalt's pants. "Practice makes perfect."

Oswalt's face went red. He grabbed his wallet back from the hobo and cocked his arm back, ready to slug the man, but Henry intervened. Henry hastily pulled out his own wallet and handed a few bills to the hobo. "Here, lay off the pickpocketing for a while."

Oswalt's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me? We should arrest this filthy scumbag, not pay him off!"

"He helped us out, Oswalt, but never mind that—we need to get to this location right now."

"This is ridiculous. He's just going to spend it on booze or drugs." Oswalt looked at the hobo, who gave him a big smile, missing teeth and all.

"Come on!" Henry barked at Oswalt, while running to his squad car.

***

Henry and Oswalt arrived at their destination in a matter of minutes: a luxury condo. The two cops rushed into the building and ran up three flights of stairs. Henry exited the stairwell and made a left in the corridor, with Oswalt right behind him. "Henry, that bum wasn't exactly a credible lead. His story of what he heard and saw didn't gel well."

"Of course not," Henry huffed, still maintaining running pace. "He was drunk and possibly unbalanced. But the fact remains that he very likely pulled this address off one of the men that did the shooting."

The two cops stopped in front of a door. "414," Henry muttered. Oswalt and Henry drew their guns. Henry signalled Oswalt to wait as he put his ear to the door. "I don't hear anything..." Henry whispered. Oswalt rapped on the door sharply. The two officers waited, but the door remained closed. Henry banged on the door with his fist. "NYPD, open up!" Henry was getting a sickening feeling in his stomach. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. Henry looked at Oswalt. "We need to get in there right now. On three." Henry held up his hand to Oswalt, counting off on his fingers in silence. Oswalt watched in anticipation as, one by one, Schucker's fingers closed to form a fist. Henry gave the order, and together, the two cops kicked open the door, with guns at the ready. Oswalt followed Henry inside and closed the door behind him.

They scanned the posh condo: there was clutter here and there, but nothing so out of the ordinary to indicate any kind of struggle. They reached the bedroom and opened the door. They saw a balding man lying under the covers of the bed, tucked in up to his chin. Henry lowered his weapon fearfully. He walked up to the side of the bed and placed two fingers on the man's thick neck.

Oswalt watched anxiously. "...Is he?"

Henry shook his head. "He's sleeping."

"Are you kidding me?!" Oswalt holstered his gun while muttering to himself in disbelief. He walked up to the man and backhanded him hard across the face: "Wake up, ya fat oaf!"

The man jarred awake in a fit. "Huh...wha?! What's going on?!"

"You didn't hear us knocking?" Oswalt demanded.

"What's the meaning of this—who the devil are you two?!"

"Shut your mouth! We're asking the questions here!"

"Enough, Oswalt," Henry said, raising a hand. "Sir, I'm Detective Henry Schucker, and this is Detective Fletcher. We're police officers." Henry showed the distraught man his badge. "We have reason to believe that you've been targeted for murder by unknown parties."

"What?!" The man was visibly shocked.

"Sir, are you employed by Jack Solly?"

"Y-Yeah," the man stuttered. "Chief Financial Officer."

Henry nodded. "Let's go into the hall. What's your name, sir?"

***

The pair conducted a quick interrogation of CFO Jeffrey Perkins. They were still uncertain as to how much he knew and how much he was covering up. "Well, officers, I thank you for your assistance and concern, but I do need to get ready for work. So, if you don't mind..."

Oswalt smiled, shaking his head. "I don't think so."

"There's a potential threat against your life," Henry elaborated. "I think you need to stay indoors—at least for today, until we get some details sorted out." Henry moved to the door. "Oswalt, we need to do a sweep of the corridors, get a protection detail to this location—" Henry immediately stilled his voice and pressed up against the wall when he saw the door handle rattling. He urgently signalled Perkins to hide and keep quiet. Oswalt drew his gun and crouched down behind the sofa. The handle slowly turned and the door creaked open. A grizzly-looking man cautiously stepped into the condo brandishing an Uzi. This man was known as Rufus, one of Scorcher's button men. Henry watched in horror as Oswalt positioned himself to pounce. He desperately signalled Oswalt to stay down, but it was too late... Oswalt drew.

"NYPD, freeze!"

As the Uzi ripped through hallway, Henry slammed the door against Rufus's hand, throwing off his aim. Oswalt collapsed back down behind the sofa, avoiding the bullet spray by a hair. He patted the top of his head in relief; Christ, that could've been real bad.

Henry grabbed Rufus's wrist with both hands and directed his arm into the wall. Rufus's two partners were in the hallway trying to get a clear shot at Henry, but were screened by Rufus's massive frame. Oswalt steadied his arms on top of the couch while he aimed his piece. He fired a measured shot past Rufus and Henry, and hit gunman number one in the leg. Meanwhile, Henry was trying to force the firearm out of Rufus's hand. No luck, whatsoever. Rufus snarled at Henry through his thick brown beard and, slowly but surely, forced the barrel of the Uzi towards Henry's cranium. Henry desperately resisted with everything he had, but Rufus's brute strength was too much. The gun was almost in line to kill.

Oswalt's hands were clammy around his weapon. He tried to focus. He blinked several times as he trained his gun on Henry and Rufus. He couldn't get a clear shot. For a second, he felt his mind and body slip into an icy pool of fear. Was he about to witness his partner's death...while he stood cowering? ...No. He violently shook his head and it all became clear. This was unacceptable. Without hesitating a second longer, he leapt over the couch and charged. Oswalt smashed the side of his pistol across Rufus's face, causing him to roar out like a wounded animal. He was now cut and bleeding from his temple. Rufus tossed Henry and his Uzi aside, and tackled Oswalt to the ground. As gunman number two charged through the doorway, Henry swung his leg, smashing their shins against each other and tripping the attacker to the ground. Henry managed to wrestle the weapon from the gunman's hand and deliver several solid punches to his stomach, effectively winding him. Henry had won his battle, but Oswalt wasn't so fortunate.

Oswalt bared his teeth defiantly, face to face with the Sasquatch of a man, who was wringing his neck like a chicken. He smashed at Rufus's sides with his fists, but Rufus was unrelenting. With one of his elbows, Rufus managed to pin down Oswalt's right arm at the crook. He applied severe force to the arm until he heard the crack. Oswalt tried to scream out in pain, but with Rufus's hands still clamped around his neck, only a faint wheeze escaped his throat. His eyes bulged as he gasped for air. Witnessing Oswalt's desperate struggle, Henry got to his feet and ran to aid his partner.

As if going for a field goal, Henry aimed his kick and punted Rufus under the chin with all his might. Blood spurted from his mouth as a tooth jarred loose. He released Oswalt and got to his feet, clutching his face. Rufus stared down Henry like a raging bull. Henry was strong and, at six foot two, quite big. But Rufus still had an inch or two on him and was almost twice as thick. Rufus swung wildly at Henry, who stepped back to avoid the strike, then returned a punch onto the side of Rufus's head. Henry immediately followed up with an elbow to Rufus's jaw, causing the man to stagger back. Rufus picked up an ornate porcelain lamp off the coffee table and hurled it at Henry. Shit! Henry ducked and covered his head, narrowly avoiding being struck. But the object was thrown with such force, that upon shattering against the wall, jagged pieces of porcelain were sent flying like deadly shrapnel from a grenade. A large piece of the vase found its way across Henry's right forearm and drew a deep cut.

Henry took several steps back while holding his arm. Unfortunately for Henry, his back was now against the wall. Rufus charged and put a fist right through the drywall where Henry's head was moments ago—he had dropped to the floor to evade. Henry punched Rufus from his position, striking at his lower abdomen, but there was little effect. In gorilla-like fashion, Rufus began to rain down hammer-fist blows upon Henry, who covered his head with both arms. He had no room to do anything...except...

A devastating groin shot made Rufus clench his teeth and caused his eyes to bulge. Henry pushed Rufus back with all of his strength, attempting to create space between them so that he could at least stand. Bouncing back up, Henry Schucker went on the attack. Rufus was quick to recover from the low blow and began to trade punches with the detective. It was a slugfest. But Henry was finding it difficult to hold his own; he could not get any leverage behind his punches. He was sandwiched in-between Rufus and the wall. Henry switched to elbows, aiming to strike crucial points. As hard as Henry fought, Rufus refused to retreat. He threw a vicious punch into Henry's stomach and then another that connected with his head—he began to see stars. He couldn't think straight. But he could still sense the very real threat of Rufus right in front of him. All that was keeping Henry standing was adrenaline, and what was driving him was pure instinct.

As Rufus pulled back his fist for the knockout punch, Henry unexpectedly jerked forward and headbutted Rufus across the bridge of his nose. Rufus stepped back, clearly taken by surprise. He pinched his nose to stem the blood. "Bastard..." Rufus sneered through the blood dripping down his mouth. "Still have some fight left in you, I see. It's time to put you down for good." With his free hand, Rufus prepared to strike Henry again—but without warning, the sound of a gunshot echoed in the condo. Oswalt was back on his feet. One arm was dangling limply at his side, and the other was aiming a smoking barrel.

Rufus turned to face Oswalt, his eyes bulging with rage. He touched the bullet entry wound below his left shoulder blade. "You'd shoot a man in the back, you worm?!"

Oswalt gasped, still regaining his breath. "Shut—your mouth...you steroid-infused gorilla!"

Bleeding from the gunshot wound, Rufus lurched towards Oswalt. He fired another shot which pegged Rufus near his collar bone. Rufus grunted through labored breaths. He continued to slowly move towards Oswalt. "I'll—kill—you."

"Few more steps, I dare you." Oswalt kept his trigger finger steady as Rufus moved in closer. Rufus was now inches from the barrel of Oswalt's gun. The moment Rufus grabbed Oswalt by the collar, the trigger was pulled. Oswalt sent it right between his eyes and Rufus fell to the ground dead. Oswalt gripped his gun tightly and slowly exhaled. It was the first time he had taken a life.

He looked out the doorway: Rufus's two accomplices were nowhere to be seen. They had fled. Oswalt thought for certain that the man he shot in the leg was down for the count—his other buddy must have helped him escape.

Henry stayed leaning against the wall; he felt like his insides had been tossed around with salad tongs. He glanced down at Rufus on the floor, then to Oswalt in stunned silence. Oswalt collapsed into the leather sofa and smiled grimly at Henry. He waggled the gun in his hand. "Efficient..."

The sound of silence was Jeffrey Perkins' signal to emerge from hiding and into the chaos that had defiled his living room. His eyes bulged. "Holy...Sh—"

***

## Chapter 3 – Brooklyn's Finest

Thursday, October 7th, 1999

Queens, New York, 4:00 p.m.

Roy Cameron chased down his perp, with a gleam of vindictive determination in his eyes. He was breathing heavy from running, but far from giving up. "I said freeze, asshole!"

The drug dealer's sneakers thudded on the pavement as he ran for his life. Having spotted the cop down the road, Marlon the drug dealer had a large lead, but Roy was closing the gap fast.

Varick's black Lincoln arrived on the scene and slowly inched up to the curb. From the passenger side, Bruce watched the show, thoroughly amused. "Hey, pull your pants up, man!" Bruce yelled out the window as Marlon ran by his door. "Don't make it easy for him, come on!" Marlon looked back at Bruce, bewildered, and attempted to pull up the baggy pants that were hanging off his waist.

"Down you go!" bellowed Roy, while tackling Marlon to the ground from behind.

"Hey, get off me, man! This racial profiling!"

Varick and Bruce stepped out of the car. Bruce sighed. "Buddy, you let this old bloke catch you?"

"What are you two doing here?" Roy asked, while clapping a pair of cuffs on Marlon.

"Looking for you." Varick looked disgusted when Roy pulled out a fat baggie of weed from Marlon's pants pocket.

"Goddammit," muttered Roy. "This is it? You aren't carrying anything harder?"

Marlon grinned. "Not today."

Varick scoffed. "So this is your other assignment, Cameron? Chasing down nobodies?" Marlon looked at Varick, deeply offended.

"Hey, I'm losing my edge. I need the legwork."

Bruce laughed. "Yeah, I can see that."

"So, what did you need me for?" Roy asked. Marlon surveyed them curiously.

Bruce turned to Marlon. "You mind giving us a minute, bud?"

"No problem." Marlon tried to walk past Roy, who immediately grabbed him by his collar. Roy looked from Bruce to Marlon.

"Funny guys! You're funny guys!" Roy gave Marlon a push. "C'mon, you scumbag." He walked Marlon to his squad car, with Bruce and Varick following behind him. Roy tossed Marlon into the backseat and locked the doors. "Alright, now that we got some privacy...what's this about?"

"We talked to Henry this morning," Varick informed.

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? You heard about the shootout in the condo?"

Varick nodded. "Yeah, he updated us on that situation a little while ago. It was a close shave for both him and his partner."

"Yeah, crazy business," Roy muttered. "Oswalt's a piece of work, but he did good from what Henry told me. Oswalt had his back."

Varick nodded again. "We told Henry to keep us posted, and we need to ask the same of you."

"Yeah, sure. But on what exactly?"

"Well, definitely not on whatever this is here you're doing," Varick said, pointing a finger at Marlon, who was pressing his face against the door window and making obscene faces at them. Varick and Roy's conversation was interrupted by the sound of a vibrating ringer. Bruce, who appeared to be in profound thought while he stared at Marlon, was jarred out of his stupor. Bruce pulled out his phone and looked at the display.

"One sec. guys, let me take this—it's Santos." Bruce walked off to give Varick and Roy space to talk.

"Anyway, where were we?" Varick asked.

"I believe you were criticizing my work. My very livelihood!" Roy boomed dramatically.

"Yeah...I don't see it."

"Well, I was planning to follow the trail up from the small fish. Surely you can respect that line of attack?"

Varick shook his head. "No time. Partner back up with Henry and get the inside track on the Solly angle. Scorcher's going to be putting out more hits on Solly's people, as well as Luxembourg and his crew in the Bronx—but focus on Solly for now."

Roy sighed, sensing defeat. "Yeah, alright...I'll talk to the captain and get back in the loop."

"Good. We're not exactly sure the scope of this thing, but we've been tracking Scorcher's movements, and he's making some major power plays. This is just the beginning."

Bruce rejoined Varick and Roy after finishing his call. "Varick, listen...I need to borrow your keys."

Varick stared suspiciously. "What for?"

"So I can borrow your car."

Varick scowled. "Again, I ask—what for?"

"Santos needs my help with something."

"Now? He can't get someone else? We're kind of in the middle of something."

"Yeah, I know, but he said it was some kind of emergency—pressing Legion business and all that..."

"And this isn't?" Varick was clearly annoyed. "Fine, here." He pulled out the keys from his pocket and roughly handed them over to Bruce.

"Thanks, man." Bruce turned tail and headed for the car.

"Hey, so how am I supposed to get back?!" Varick called angrily after Bruce.

"I'm sure Roy will give you a lift!" Bruce yelled back. He grinned and gave him two thumbs-up.

"Don't worry, I'll take good care of him!" Roy shouted, waving in Bruce's direction. He gave Varick a slap on the back. "Hey, look at you, you're a copper again! Let's go cruisin' and bust some bad guys to finish off this afternoon."

"Swell," grunted Varick, as he watched Bruce drive off in his Lincoln.

"Doesn't sound fun? You're welcome to hang out in the back with Marlon." Roy laughed at Varick but quickly stopped when he saw the look on Varick's face.

Varick leaned against Roy's squad car. He tugged on the locked passenger door impatiently. "C'mon, let's get outta here."

***

Brooklyn, New York, 5:15 p.m.

Bruce drove into the parking lot of a small, dingy-looking coffee shop. He parked the vehicle and stepped out onto the lot. The glass walls of the shop looked as if they hadn't been cleaned in months. Above the entrance was a dilapidated sign which simply read: 'Coffee Shop'. Santos waved at Bruce; he was waiting outside in the parking lot for him. He trotted over to Bruce, looking relieved. "Thanks a lot for coming on such short notice. I owe you one."

"Yeah, if Varick knew what the emergency was, he would've blown a fuse. I don't know how you talked me into this."

Santos ran his hand through his greying blonde hair. "Well, it is still Legion business—giving back to the community is a big part of what keeps us whole."

"Yeah-yeah, enough preaching; let's get on with it."

The pair walked towards the coffee shop, but Bruce suddenly stopped. "Hey, what happened to the other guy anyway?"

Santos averted his gaze. "Well, he sort of backed out last minute; the pair of them didn't really get along."

Bruce suddenly had a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Why's that?"

"Well...the old man has a bit of an abrasive personality."

"Oh god, what have you gotten me into?" Bruce muttered. "And how abrasive?"

"No, don't worry, Bruce; that's why I called you especially. I'm sure you two will get along fine." Santos urged Bruce to come along as he opened the door to the coffee shop. Bruce sighed and followed Santos inside.

***

Roy's police cruiser glided through downtown Queens with no particular destination. He was accompanied by an irate Varick in the passenger seat and a bored Marlon behind the cage. Varick stared out his window, his thoughts far away. Roy turned up the radio. "How about that? 'Crystal Blue Persuasion'—classic." Roy turned to Varick expectantly.

"Yeah, nice," Varick mumbled. "Where are we going exactly?"

"Well, I have to put in at least another hour on patrol. We'll make it eventful, don't worry," Roy assured.

Marlon leaned up against the cage. "You know what, Roy? I can call you Roy, right?"

"Nope."

"Cam?"

"Not a chance."

"Ill trigga bad-ass mutha coppa?!"

Roy winced. "What do you want?"

"This oldies white boy music—it's alright, man. Real chill."

Roy beamed, his demeanor changing. "Yeah, It's good, right!?"

"Yeah, makes you wanna roll one up and cruise, don't it? Hand me my bag back; I can make a mean one."

Roy smirked. "Yeah...no."

Marlon bopped his head to the laid-back beat and drummed his hands on the cage.

"Don't—do that," Varick growled icily.

Marlon leaned back in his seat and sighed. "You sure you don't want a session, Roy? Your boy here sure as hell could use one."

"Positive. But you know what we could use? Some authentic Brooklyn-style pizza. I know I'm flamin' starved. What do you say, Varick? We got some time."

Varick realized he hadn't eaten since morning. He felt a surge of gratitude towards Roy, despite wanting to sink into his own despondence. "Sure, why not."

Roy looked in his rear view mirror. "Maybe if you behave yourself back there, you'll get a slice too."

Marlon flashed a grin. "Bosssss."

***

Bruce and Santos had joined two elderly gentlemen at their table in the coffee shop. One was looking particularly sour as he stared down Bruce.

"Santos, who is this? Where's that other nancy-boy?"

Santos shuffled his feet uncomfortably under the table. "Tobias was feeling gravely ill, dreadful thing...don't know how long he'll be away."

"Don't pedal that tripe my way, boy! More like he couldn't stomach harsh reality! You're a terrible liar, Santos. Absolutely terrible."

"No, really..."

The other man casually blew on a spoonful of soup and placed it into his mouth. He was looking over a newspaper, indifferent to the tension at the table.

Bruce smirked. "He's got you dead to rights, Santos. Don't prolong it."

"What are you smirking at, Sonny Jim? You were in on this terrible facade—should've talked him out of making an ass of himself."

"Nah, it's always amusing to watch close friends squirm uncomfortably."

Santos' stare bore into Bruce, trying to communicate without talking, for him to stop goading on the situation...and then a dry wheezing sound broke Santos' focus. He turned to look at the sour old man in amazement. He was laughing.

The old man stifled his chuckle. "I couldn't agree more—sometimes they just need a good ego deflation. What did you say your name was?"

"Bruce."

"Well, Sonny Jim, you can call me Uecker. And the soup-slurping fossil over here is Taz."

Bruce waved across the table. "Good to meet you both."

Uecker nudged Taz with his elbow. "You hard of hearing, Taz? Say hello to the new kid."

"Hello, new kid," Taz mumbled through a mouthful of soup. His eyes were still focused on his paper.

Uecker leaned in over the table and whispered to Bruce: "He's hard of hearing."

"Then why do you need to whisper?"

Uecker shrugged. "Would you dress a blind kid in a shirt with a slogan stating 'I like 'em large'?"

Bruce scrunched his eyebrows, puzzled. "That's not—really the same thing. I don't even know what that's supposed to mean."

"It's about the respect. And Taz here is a good guy that's earned my respect."

Bruce grinned. "And by respect you mean referring to him as a deaf soup-slurping fossil?"

"And that's why I respect him—the man can take it. Ribbings, criticisms, terrible verbal abuse the likes of which a young pup like you has never heard. And all the while, he can still sit there without saying a word and enjoy the newspaper." Uecker took a sip from his coffee. "But that's what happens; this modern society makes people weak and sensitive. And before you know it, you get old, with no family, no friends, and are stuck in a retirement hole, where you're reduced to talking to nancy boys and Taz."

"Well, thanks for that insight, old man..."

Santos frowned. "Uecker, I thought you had plenty of friends at the retirement home?"

"Nah, we're all just a bunch of loners that hang out and talk about that common fact."

"So...individuals spending time together and bonding over similar experiences... Sounds like friendship to me."

Uecker grinned. "Well, I'll be damned—I have friends."

"What happened to your wife, if you don't mind me asking?" Bruce leaned in with a crooked smile. "She couldn't stand your verbal tirades either?"

Uecker looked at Bruce dumbfounded. "What happened to her? What do you think happened to her, ya dang fool?!"

"My guess would be she left you at least twenty years ago."

"No one left me!" Uecker barked. "I never got married."

Bruce eyed Uecker suspiciously. "Really..."

"Yeah, really!"

"Then what's with the wedding band, old man?!"

Uecker gave Bruce a devilish smile. "This isn't a wedding band...it's a chick magnet. Women love the thrill and drama that go with being involved with a married man. So I feed them that illusion. Or I'll play the sad old man that lost his poor darling wife. Oh boo-hoo-hoo!" Uecker wiped at his imaginary tears. "It's all so terrible! We were married fifty years, and now I have no reason to go on!" Uecker regained his composure and shrugged. "Whatever ruse will work better—depends on the woman."

Bruce laughed. "You're twisted."

"Better believe it," Uecker said, grinning. "You married, Sonny Jim?"

Bruce rubbed his chin. "Hmm...well, I was."

"And why was?"

Bruce hesitated. "Let's just say it didn't really work out."

Uecker nodded as if expecting the answer. "That's what I thought...heh, you really are a dang fool." Bruce stared at Uecker, slack-jawed—then laughed again. "What about kids, you have kids, Bruce?"

"Yeah, two boys. One's still under my roof. The other...well, it's complicated."

"I see. Your past is just one big mystery that's too complex for my feeble brain to process, isn't it? Well, I'm not going to press the issues with you." Uecker reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a hip flask. "You boys want a little something in your coffee?" Uecker waved the container in the air with no discretion.

Santos shook his head. "No, thanks. I don't really drink."

"Church boy pansy."

Taz gave an encouraging wave. "Spice up my soup, will ya?"

"Good man!" Uecker poured a generous amount into Taz's bowl. Uecker turned to Bruce. "What about you, Sonny Jim?"

"Well, at the risk of being called a pansy..." Bruce shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

***

Thirty minutes later, the table was a lot more festive. Uecker leaned across the table to Bruce. "What you need is a lady. I'll fix you up, Sonny Jim, don't you worry."

"Dear god, I wasn't worried until now—is she gonna be old enough to be my mother?"

Uecker let out a derisive laugh. "You wish...try grandmother."

Santos, however, wasn't having much luck. He was trying to keep a conversation going with Taz, but Taz seemed more interested in reading than talking, only giving short courtesy responses. Then suddenly, Taz gave a loud whistle. He turned his paper upside down and slid it across the table to Bruce. He pointed at the image in the paper. "That's you, ain't it? You definitely looked familiar."

Bruce looked down at the black and white photo of himself at the press conference. He was standing behind the podium, looking gallant. "Well, look at that; they captured my good side."

"I already knew who he was," Uecker said indifferently.

Taz scratched his head. "Then why didn't you say anything?"

"I wanted to talk to the man first, not the army captain—or the Legion guardian extraordinaire, for that matter. But now that it's been brought up, how's the war on evil treating you, Sonny Jim? Santos here mentioned some of the stuff you Legion boys get into."

Bruce glared at Santos. "Really...Santos told you, did he?"

Santos grinned. "Nothing to hide, right?"

Bruce was slightly annoyed. "You told him I was a guardian?"

"No, Santos never said anything specifically about you," Uecker interrupted. "Even though I give him a hard time, he's a good lad like Taz here." Uecker looked at Santos. "You know that, don't you? You don't take my ripping seriously, right?"

"Rolls right off."

"Good lad!" Uecker boomed approvingly. "Not one to talk about someone when they're not in present company. But he did explain to me what type of work you guys do and the ranking structure of the Legion. Everyone starts as an acolyte and advances to paladin when they have proven their worth. But only extraordinary men and women can attain guardian rank." Uecker stared hard at Bruce. "And from what I've read and heard—you, much like Santos here, are indeed extraordinary..."

A man at the counter was busy talking on the phone, a half-eaten chicken pot pie in front of him. At the same time, he was listening closely to the conversation that Bruce and company were engaged in. He had been eavesdropping from the moment Bruce and Santos sat down at their table. "Come to my location now..." The man ended the call. He absentmindedly ran his fingers over his jacket where his pistol was concealed. He pushed out his barstool, cracked his knuckles to ease his tension, then proceeded to walk over to Bruce's table.

***

Roy's squad car hummed happily while he kept it at a slow crawl, looking for a good pizza joint. They were in the heart of Brooklyn now. Roy kept his eyes peeled, but nothing seemed to catch his interest. "Too many options—I can't decide. What you say, Varick?"

Varick shrugged. "One pizza place is as good as the next. I'm not picky."

"Alright, next decent-looking one, we'll stop at." As they approached the intersection, a white Volvo zipped through the red light. Roy slammed his breaks to avoid being T-boned.

Marlon lurched forward and jarred awake from his nap. "What the f—" but just as quickly, got slammed back into the seat as Roy took off in pursuit.

"Sorry, kids. We're gonna hold off on that pizza for a bit," Roy muttered.

"Get him," growled Varick.

The police car's siren blared as it tailed the speeding vehicle. The Volvo clearly had no intentions of pulling over. The car increased its speed and began to erratically change lanes. "That's good, real good. Try a hungry man's patience." Roy stepped on the gas, keeping pace with the Volvo. "I'm going to end this quick, but it might get a little bumpy. Hold on to something, guys." Roy changed lanes so that he was two lanes over, on the innermost lane. He switched off the siren.

Estuardo, the man in the Volvo, scanned his mirrors, but he couldn't locate the police car amidst the traffic. He squeezed the steering wheel nervously. Something didn't feel right. A side street was fast approaching. Estuardo sharply cut across lanes to make the turn. Horns screamed as he dangerously maneuvered his vehicle.

"You're mine!" Roy gunned the engine and managed to catch the rear bumper of the Volvo in mid-turn. Estuardo was forced into a fishtail and fruitlessly tried to regain control of his vehicle. The Volvo hopped the curb and crashed into the brick wall of a finance building.

Roy Cameron jumped out of his car and, with Varick backing him up, rushed to the Volvo. Roy drew his gun and smashed the driver's side window. "Don't you move!"

"Alright, alright—relax." Estuardo raised both his hands and was visibly dazed from the crash. He shook his head to regain his bearings—and then an eerie smile crossed his face. "But to be honest...I don't think you really have time for me."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because saving lives probably takes priority over something like this."

Varick leered into the window. "What are you talking about?"

Estuardo glanced at Varick. "And who are you?"

"He's a cop too," snarled Roy. "Now, shut up with the lip and answer the man."

"At this very moment, someone's about to be killed. A very important man. I think it would concern the police most deeply." Estuardo chuckled. "Especially since this person is so involved with the police."

Roy's eyes shifted with concern. "A cop?"

"No, not police—military. An army captain."

Varick stared through the window. "Bruce Kasparov..."

Estuardo nodded. "That's the one."

"Where's this happening?" The urgency in Varick's tone was clear.

Estuardo laughed. "Now, if I'm going to tell you that, I'm going to need some guarantees. I want no charges placed on me. And I think a cash reward is in order."

"Sir, unbuckle your seat belt," Roy instructed.

"Anything you say, Officer." Estuardo complied without hesitation.

Roy and Varick exchanged glances. Roy nodded. With a swift stroke, Varick reached in through the broken window, pulled Estuardo through the glass shards, and threw him onto the pavement.

"Are you crazy?!" screamed Estuardo. He pulled out a large piece of glass from his arm. Varick slammed the side of Estuardo's head down on the road, forcing him to kiss the asphalt. Estuardo grunted in pain as Varick held Estuardo's head in place and leaned in close. Estuardo began to whimper.

"WHERE ARE THEY?!" Varick roared.

***

"Uh-oh, Varick is calling my phone," Santos informed. "He's probably going to tell me off."

Bruce checked his phone. "Shoot...two missed calls from him. I didn't even notice—this piece of junk phone. What are we going to tell him?"

"Alright, I'll improvise something," Santos muttered.

"No, wait!" Bruce yelled out, before Santos could answer the call. "Let it ring out. I'll call him back once we get a solid story."

Uecker looked affronted. "What, you can't tell your friends you're out with me and Taz? You're ashamed to be around old geezers like us?! We aren't hip enough for you young pups?!"

"No, it's not that, it's just that—" Santos stopped talking when he noticed the man standing in front of their table.

"Excuse me, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation."

Bruce looked up at the man. He was tall, with dark, floppy hair matted to his head. He had a Spanish accent and brought with him the stench of cigarettes. "Yeah? Which part caught your attention?"

The man smiled. "Well, you in particular. You're Bruce Kasparov, right? The legend himself."

Uecker laughed. "Well, look at you, Sonny Jim, the celebrity over here!" Uecker then turned his attention to the newcomer. "But he doesn't give out autographs for free, you know. I'm his manager; twenty dollars a pop, and of course, I get a percentage of that." Uecker winked at Bruce.

The man chuckled lightly. "Oh no, that's quite alright, I don't need an autograph. Thank you though, for such a tempting offer. But I actually approached this table on a different matter..."

***

Roy's squad car was cutting in and out of lanes while his police siren screamed at the traffic. Varick had his ear to his cell phone: five rings...six rings... "Blast it, still no luck!" Varick yelled, closing his flip phone. "They aren't picking up...Bruce or Santos."

"Don't worry, we'll be there soon," Roy replied.

"Yo, you sure you can't let me out?" Estuardo whined. "I gave you guys valuable information!"

Roy's eye twitched in annoyance. "First of all, we're dragging you along to make sure you're not full of crap. Second—even if this coffee shop checks out, you tried to get out of your reckless driving rap by confessing to conspiracy to commit murder. You, sir, are a moron."

"Yo, homes, your boy roughed me up real good. I think I have a concussion or something. Cut me some slack."

"Shut—up," Varick ordered.

"What you gonna do, pig?" Estuardo taunted. "This cage works both ways, you know." He began to laugh.

"Marlon," Varick signalled.

"PAH!" Marlon yelled out, as he slugged Estuardo in the stomach with his cuffed hands. Estuardo heaved in pain, feeling lightheaded.

This seemed to satisfy Varick. "See, Marlon here might get out of here soon. But not you—homes."

***

"Are you aware of who runs Brooklyn, Captain?"

Bruce puzzled over the question. "I'm not sure I understand what you're asking..."

The man scoffed. "Scorcher. Scorcher runs Brooklyn." Kasparov exchanged glances with Santos. "You run a great risk coming to this part of town, you know. Don't know who you'll run into. Especially when the buzz around town is that Scorcher wants you dead..."

Taz stopped eating his soup. Uecker, for once, held his tongue. Bruce noticed Santos' fist clenching, despite keeping a calm demeanor.

"Relax," Bruce instructed Santos. "You don't need to get involved, I'll handle this." Bruce refocused his attention on the intruder. "So, I take it you're in Scorcher's employment...well, here I am. How would you like to proceed?" Bruce smiled at the man, who responded with an angry sneer. Patrons looked on anxiously and the coffee shop had gone deathly quiet.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen. Any one of you move a muscle and you're all dead. I just want the Captain." Bruce eyed the bulge in the man's jacket.

"There'll be no interference from them, I assure you," Bruce responded curtly.

The man slowly edged toward the entrance door, keeping a safe distance between Bruce and himself. The man snickered. "Now that I've seen you up close, you're not so tough. Too much credit is given where it ain't due. But me, once I ice you...I'll be a legend. Say goodbye!"

The man whipped out the gun from inside his jacket, but he didn't even have a chance to aim it. Bruce directed his arm at the man and made a pushing motion at lightning speed. This simple gesture sent the man flying off his feet and sailing through the air. He crashed through the pane of glass on the north side of the coffee shop, where he bounced onto the sidewalk and crumpled in a heap. People outside the shop screamed in surprise.

There was shock and awe from the few patrons inside the coffee shop. Taz's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "What in the hell was that!? You didn't even touch him!" Taz was trying to find the words to express himself properly without gibbering. "How in the world...son, are you some sort of space-alien?"

"Well, I'm not exactly up to date on my genealogy, so who knows." Bruce stood up and eyed Scorcher's goon, who was now face-down on the sidewalk. He appeared to be knocked out cold, his gun strewn out onto the road.

Uecker scoffed. "You were impressed by that, Taz? Hang out with these Legion boys for a week and your head will be spinning."

Santos scratched at the side of his short scruffy beard. He was uncomfortably aware that everyone was gawking at their table. The slightest of smiles crossed his face. "You might have overdone it a tad there, Bruce."

***

## Chapter 4 – Pike Fishing

Brooklyn, New York, 5:55 p.m.

Varick and Roy stormed into the coffee shop. The young lady behind the counter screamed at the sight of Roy's gun. "Cripes, Cameron, put that thing away before you blow someone's head off," Bruce muttered. He was down on one knee, examining the man he had sent through the window.

"Don't worry, miss, he's a cop," Santos reassured the petrified counter lady.

Varick and Roy were still on edge. Their eyes scanned the coffee shop: it was evident that the danger had passed. Roy slowly lowered his piece.

"What the hell happened?" Varick demanded.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Bruce replied, while he slapped the unconscious man a few times across the face. Still no response.

Santos was standing beside Bruce, looking down with concern. "Doesn't look like he's going to be up and about anytime soon."

"How'd you two know to show up here?" Bruce asked.

"We ran into some punk who was heading here—to off you, apparently," Varick replied.

"Heh...small world."

Varick wasn't smiling. He eyed Uecker and Taz, who were listening intently to the conversation. Uecker cleared his throat and looked expectantly at Bruce and Santos. "Not going to introduce us?" Bruce and Santos exchanged glances.

Bruce did his best to sound nonchalant. "Yeah, this is Uecker and Taz—friends of ours."

Uecker chuckled. "More like they're doing their good deed for the week because us old folk are the stereotypical social outcasts. Not that we don't enjoy eating on their bill."

"This is why you left our investigation?" Varick asked Bruce in disbelief. "To baby-sit?"

"Hey, just because we take the occasional crap in our pants and eat carrot mush, it doesn't make us babies," Uecker said indignantly.

"Shut up, old man, I'm not talking to you."

Uecker stood up. "Nancy boy can't take a joke! What you need is a good smack upside your head to teach you some respect!"

Bruce was on his feet now too. "Whoa, whoa, everyone settle down, this is all just a big misunderstanding. Besides, I had no idea this was a supper. All I heard from Santos was that it was important—he called and I went."

Santos scoffed. "Oh sure, throw me under the bus on this, Bruce."

"Well, at least nothing happened," Roy pointed out, in an attempt to douse the sparks. "Everyone's in one piece."

Varick looked down at the unconscious man and then to Bruce. "How did he know you were here?"

"No clue," Bruce muttered. "But apparently, Scorcher's put a hit out on me."

Roy laughed. "Well, that was dumb of them. They just prematurely revealed their hand. Surely they must've known that a couple of second-rate thugs wouldn't be enough to get the job done."

Bruce contemplated the situation. "This wasn't a planned attack...I just happened to be in the neighbourhood and this goof thought it smart to take a crack at it."

Santos nodded in agreement. "Yeah, well, either way, it seems like Brooklyn isn't a safe spot for you, Bruce. It's crawling with Scorcher's loose cannons, and they're ready to strike out anytime, anyplace."

Varick stared darkly at Santos. "So...let me see if I have all the facts, Santos. You decide to call Bruce to this rat-hole of a coffee shop, pulling him away from actual work—" Varick glanced at Uecker and Taz, "to socialize with these two." Uecker rolled his eyes, while Taz bore no acknowledgement of the scathing tone. Varick paused. "And then, by coincidence, Bruce gets attacked?"

Santos gave Varick a calculating stare. "So, what are you trying to say?"

Varick immediately regretted saying anything at all. "Just making sure no details were left out." He hastily changed the direction of the conversation. "Listen, I'm sure Roy can haul out the meat-bag on the floor and handle cleaning up the mess here."

Roy scratched his head. "Yeah, sure I guess...but my clown car's gettin' real full."

Varick nodded. "Bruce, you got my keys? Let's take off." Varick tried to act casual, but his thoughts still troubled him.

Bruce said his goodbyes to his new friends, Uecker and Taz, then left with Varick. Varick was fully aware that Santos had followed him out of the coffee shop, but did not acknowledge his presence until he was in front of his car. "You need something, Santos?"

"Well, a ride back to the manor would be nice—since we're all going that way, after all."

"How'd you get here?"

"You know, the usual: walked, scaled the buildings, flew low over the rooftops when the opportunities presented themselves..."

What irked Varick about Santos was that he knew he wasn't joking when he said things like this. Varick sneered. "You can't do 'the usual' back home?"

Bruce frowned at the two of them. "Now, what is a captain to do when his two lieutenants don't get along?"

Santos appeared puzzled. "I have no problem with Varick."

Bruce smiled. "Well, I'll tell you what I'm going to do...I'm going to make it a personal goal of mine. By the end of this year—no wait, by the end of this millennium!" Bruce now appeared positively gleeful. "You two are going to be able to tolerate each other. Maybe even become best buds!" Varick scoffed. Bruce placed one hand on Varick's shoulder, the other on Santos'. "Either that, or I'll put you both in traction."

Varick gave Bruce a thumbs-up and a patronizing smirk. "Good luck with that, boss."

***

Thursday, October 7th, 1999

Dubrava Prison, Kosovo, 6:00 p.m.

In was eerily quiet in the detention center. The only sound that could be heard was the steady drip of water, leaking from the ceiling. The monotony was broken by footsteps entering this particular wing of the prison. The prison guard's footsteps echoed off the concrete, whereas the man following behind him made no sound at all. The guard stopped by a cell. "Zamir, you have a visitor." Once the announcement was made, the guard left the wing.

Zamir Ristani was lying down on his bed with his eyes closed. The thin mattress was lumpy and uncomfortable. Upon hearing his name being called, he opened his eyes drearily. "Who's there?" he croaked.

"Get up, Ristani."

Zamir sighed and slowly crawled out of his bed. He leaned against the wall to face his guest.

"Do you know who I am?"

Zamir stared at the man. "Akira Luong..." He wasn't very tall and had ghostly-pale skin. He could see the hint of a dark-green claw that reached out from under his white dress shirt to scratch his neck. Part of a tattoo. What Zamir found most striking about his visitor was his hair. It appeared to be natural, but it was a very strange shade of red that glistened under the dim lighting. Almost like blood...

"Do you know whom I represent?" Akira spoke in barely a whisper, but Zamir was able to catch every word.

"I have an idea..."

"Good—then we can skip the introductions. Explain to me what happened."

Zamir looked at Akira, confused. "You know what happened."

Akira's eyes narrowed. "Humor me."

Zamir knew this was not a man to test. "Arben Bardha led NATO right to our doorstep." Zamir suddenly felt a surge of anger. "He needs to pay! That traitor scum needs to be killed!"

"He will be dealt with in due time."

"But he is sure to be held in protective custody. Maybe even impossible to get to."

Akira smiled coldly. "No amount of protection can prevent us from destroying him." Zamir was both elated and troubled by this response. Akira casually flicked off a piece of lint from his grey suit jacket. "What about the weapons stockpile?"

"Bruce Kasparov and his men confiscated the weapons."

"All of them?"

Zamir hesitated. "I—well...no, not all of them. There is a private holding that was accumulated during the war. A cold room that was used to house some of the organs that were harvested from the Serbians for trafficking. There were several different types of organs—"

"I—don't—care—about organs. How many weapons?"

Zamir immediately stopped his rambling. "My apologies. There's enough firepower for a small army, I'd imagine. Assault rifles, grenades, M80 Zoljas, and several high-end explosives."

"Good. The Master needs access to them."

Zamir felt an icy grip clutching at his heart. He knew this was coming, but he wasn't ready to lie to a man who could kill him dead on the spot if he found reason to. Maybe he could still reason with him though—he had to try. "Mr. Luong, I am not questioning your authority, but those weapons are desperately needed to continue the rebellion to secure Kosovo's freedom."

"It's over, Ristani. It was over when your army was broken and you landed yourself in prison." Zamir's palms turned white as his hands clenched around his cell bars. Akira surveyed Zamir with grim satisfaction. "If it's any consolation, this does present you the opportunity for revenge. The weapons will be sent overseas, to the United States. To destabilize everything Bruce Kasparov holds dear."

Zamir looked down at his feet. He didn't know what to say. What good was revenge? Nothing but futile gestures from one that's already lost. All the years he fought for his country... He knew it was a mistake to ally himself with the type of people he did. They would not shed a tear, even if Kosovo destroyed itself. They used him to secure weapons for their own agenda, nothing more. He slowly raised his eyes from the floor, to face Akira. "Take them. Do with them as you wish. Contact Mr. Jashard to collect the package."

Akira nodded, then began to walk. Zamir pressed up against his cell bars. "Akira!" he shouted. Akira stopped. "How long am I going to be in here?"

"We'll arrange your escape when you are needed."

"When will that be?"

"Don't hold your breath." And on that note, Akira left the prison wing. Zamir immediately sought the support of his bed, for his legs were shaking uncontrollably.

***

Friday, October 8th, 1999

Manhattan, New York, 8:15 a.m.

Bruce opened one eye and leaned across his bed to read the alarm clock on his dresser. Time to get up. Bruce jumped out of bed and proceeded to do his morning stretches. Bruce could be considered a morning person—he had a lot more energy than most, without fixing on coffee. Then again, he was just as wired at night and into the graveyard hours. Sleep simply wasn't on his 'to do' list.

Bruce pulled back the curtains of his window to let in the sunlight. His room was relatively small compared to the other rooms, but it was more than enough for his belongings. There were roughly twelve or so rooms in the manor, give or take a study. Despite having the option to claim a bigger room for himself, he found his room cozy, as far as cozy rooms in mansions go.

Bruce walked downstairs and entered the kitchen. He looked puzzled to see his son Alex seated at the breakfast table with Santos. "What are you doing here, Alex? Shouldn't you be at school?"

Alex put down his fork, annoyed. "No classes today. I told you like a week ago that they're having some sort of electrical maintenance today."

Bruce scratched his head. "Right...electrical maintenance. And they couldn't schedule this over the weekend?"

Alex shrugged. "Guess not." Alex was sixteen and looked a lot like his father, except packaged into a tinier frame.

Santos cleaned off his plate, looking satisfied. "You want some breakfast, Bruce? There's still some scramble in the pan."

"Yeah, sure." Bruce grabbed the frying pan and dumped the rest of the eggs onto his plate. "Varick around?"

"Nope, left early. Roy picked up a lead."

"Really? Roy's up and about at this time?"

"Apparently. Must be something big for it to cut into his sleep." Santos pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. "Varick left you the address—he said he might need backup."

Bruce pocketed the paper and smirked. "You didn't want to back him up?"

"Well, he specifically asked for you and told me not to dare follow him if I know what's good for me—so, no."

Bruce laughed. "Right." He sat down at the table with his plate. "So, big plans for your day off, Alex?"

"I was thinking about tagging along with you for the day; a take your son to work sort of thing, you know?"

Bruce shook his head. "Yeah, nice try. You know the deal—no exposure to any of this until you're old enough."

"And when is that again?"

"When I see fit. Maybe a year, maybe several. Frankly, I don't want to put any of this on you until your mind has matured enough to make well-informed decisions."

"Well, I was talking to Mr. Santos, and he thought it was a good idea for me to get a little hands-on experience."

Bruce looked at Santos. "Oh, really? Mr. Santos said that? What else did Mr. Santos say?"

Santos went wide-eyed. "Hey-hey, all I said was that I wouldn't mind if Alex tagged along, but run it by Bruce. And I guess we have the answer to that, now don't we?"

Alex shrugged. "Oh well, if you guys don't want to tell me about the Legion, I can just get the information from our informative media."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly does that mean?"

Alex looked at Bruce in disbelief. "You haven't heard? This stuff has blown up all over the news and radio—Shock Talk in particular. That Jerry Stiltson who pretended to be all buddy-buddy is really ripping into you and the organization."

"Stiltson?" Bruce chuckled. "That two-face; I should've known... What's he saying?"

"Nothing I don't already know. All of his 'breaking news' is a bunch of conspiracy theories about you and the Legion trying to overthrow the government."

Bruce gave Alex a coy smile. "You don't believe him, do you?"

Alex shrugged. "The way you want to keep it all under wraps—who knows what to believe?"

Bruce finished wolfing down his breakfast. "Alright, I'll tell you what—since you're so eager to jump on the bandwagon, you can tag along with me for the day, just this once. How does that sound?"

Alex exchanged glances from Bruce to Santos. He was thoroughly overjoyed but didn't want them to know that. "Cool." Alex did his best to conceal the excitement from his face. After all, he didn't want to come off like a hyperactive child.

"Are you sure that it's safe to bring Alex on this?" Santos inquired. "By the way Varick was talking, it sounded like things could get dicey."

Bruce flashed a devious smile. "Well, me and Alex won't have to worry, we'll be on soup kitchen duty, helping to serve out the grub. You, Santos, will be assisting Varick."

"Wait, what?" Santos and Alex said in unison.

Alex's bubble of joy suddenly burst. "A soup kitchen? Really?"

"Varick won't let me help him. He wanted you there, not me."

Bruce put his hands up innocently. "Hey, you guys wanted this. Alex, here's your chance to see the ins and outs, and charity is a big part of it, Santos will vouch for that. And, Santos—you should embrace this. This will be some good bonding time for you and Varick to smooth out those rough edges." Santos sighed. "Alright, so it's settled." Bruce handed back the address to Santos. "Get over there ASAP; who knows what Varick's up against. Alex, get ready, we'll leave in ten. I want to get there early so I can show you proper ladling techniques and whatnot." Bruce hastily left the kitchen on that note so they wouldn't see him laughing.

Santos turned to Alex, who was still in shock. "You know...all the bad fish your father deals with—I think their stink is starting to rub off on him."

***

Queens, New York, 10:00 a.m.

"What's the situation?" Varick asked.

"You wanted to be kept in the loop, so we've got you a little something." Henry fought back a smug smile.

Roy, on the other hand, shook his head, unable to contain his excitement. "Don't be modest. This isn't a little something, this is the whole pizza pie, right here!"

"Shhh!" a female officer hissed at Roy, while pinching her nose.

Varick and the three police officers were outside a warehouse distribution center, speculated to be an illegal weapons holding. They were crouched down behind a dumpster, several meters from the entrance. Varick glanced at the female officer. "And who might this be?"

"This is Detective Laura Bennett, one of the best," Henry introduced. "Laura, meet John Varick; a Legion member and former cop."

"A pleasure, I'm sure," Laura whispered, shaking Varick's hand. She had shoulder-length dark hair that was tied back in a tight ponytail.

"So, how'd you find this place, Roy?"

Roy fidgeted uncomfortably. "To be honest, Laura's the one that did it. She tracked down the guns that Solly's employees had in their trunk to this place."

"So, why didn't I partner up with her in the first place instead of you two?" Varick muttered to Henry and Roy.

"Engaged, I'm afraid; sorry to disappoint." Laura held up her hand, wiggling her finger that had a diamond ring wrapped around it. "But I'm sure whatever love triangle you three have going will work itself out."

Varick scoffed. "Cute."

"Hey, but don't sell them short; they're real catches these two—smart. Having the stakeout behind this putrid dumpster? Who do you think came up with that idea, John?" Laura smiled, nodding her head in Roy and Henry's direction."

"Call me Varick."

"Oh, I didn't realize we weren't on a first name basis," Laura said, taken aback.

"He prefers Varick—he's a weirdo like that. It's nothing personal," Roy explained.

"Alright, now that we're all acquainted, how about we get this over with," Varick suggested sharply.

"Fine by me," Laura replied, standing up and stretching her legs. Varick and the three officers edged towards the nearest warehouse window and peered inside. They couldn't see much; the window was caked with dust.

"So, what are we expecting to find here?" Varick asked.

"Well, from the cross-referencing and profiling I did with Solly's known associates, the man I believe to be the gunrunner here is a—" Laura pulled out a photograph with a name scribbled over it. "Joshua Wyler. The ownership of this warehouse is in his name. Six foot four, 280 pounds—he's a big boy."

Roy chuckled. "Fat guy?"

Laura shook her head. "Muscle guy."

"Damn."

Varick's eyes narrowed at Laura. "But you're not sure if he's actually the one responsible for Solly's gun supply?"

"Well, we'll find out soon enough."

"Hey...guys!" Henry croaked in a hoarse whisper. He was peering into another window. "I see a body..."

Laura, Roy, and Varick joined Henry at the next window. A silhouette of a large man was made visible by whatever sunlight was seeping in through the dusty window. He was sprawled across the floor, limbs spread. "Looks dead," Roy whispered.

"I can't hear anything inside," Henry informed. "Who knows if there's anyone else in there."

"Well, let's take a look, then," Laura instructed. "On alert, people." The officers drew their weapons and, with Varick, slipped inside through the warehouse side door. Henry turned on his flashlight.

"You need a piece, Varick?" Laura asked.

"Nah," Varick replied absentmindedly, while he scanned the warehouse. It was eerily quiet inside. "With you three packing, I feel plenty safe."

The group walked through the warehouse to where they had seen the body. Upon reaching the spot, Henry pointed his flashlight at the large figure on the floor. It was clear the man was dead—he was lying in a pool of blood.

Varick looked him over. "Severe blunt trauma to the side of his head. His skull seems to be caved in."

"Well, that's inviting," Roy muttered, tightening his grip on his pistol.

Laura pulled out the photograph from her pocket. She studied it, then eyed the corpse. "It's Wyler."

"Jeez. I'd hate to meet the guy who could take out a 280-pound meathead with brute force," Roy remarked. Suddenly, noises could be heard from a small office room at the north-east corner of the warehouse—a loud scraping sound.

"You just had to open your big mouth, didn't you, Roy?" Henry muttered.

Roy smiled, despite himself. "It's what I do."

The door to the office creaked opened. Varick and the three officers watched in anticipation. The frame of the doorway was barely able to contain the figure that emerged from it. This figure was so massive that he was forced to duck his head and exit the office sideways to fit through. Henry instinctively pointed the flashlight towards the office, and a bright emerald reflection nearly blinded the four of them with its sheer brilliance.

"Well-well-well, what do we have here? Some rodents scurrying around in the dark..."

"Oh hell," Varick muttered.

"Stay where you are!" Laura ordered. She had her gun trained on the hulking figure. Roy and Henry jarred out of their initial shock and followed Laura's lead and aimed their guns.

"Go...leave now," Varick instructed the three officers. "I'll handle this."

"Varick? Is that you, pipsqueak?" The unknown figure's massive hand scoured the wall, hitting all the light switches in one swipe. The warehouse lights flickered on and provided a dimly lit ambiance.

Roy squinted. "Yeah...I think we were better off without the lights." A shimmering emerald-green helmet adorned the yellow giant's head, who stood well over eight feet. The police officers were taken aback by the bizarre appearance of their target.

Henry went slack-jawed as he stared at the giant, more confused than anything. "What—is he?"

"You know this monstrosity, Varick?" Laura questioned.

"Yeah. Gregory Pike, one of Scorcher's grunts. I've tangled with him a few times."

"Well, he is one big freakin' grunt," Roy muttered.

Gregory Pike began to laugh in loud bellowing heaves. "And you brought friends along." He began to advance.

"I said stay where you are!" Laura ordered once more. "We'll open fire!"

"Really?" Pike smiled. "Just met and already trying to dominate. You stupid girl." He stepped forward.

"Get out now!" Varick yelled.

Laura fired. A single shot struck Pike's lower abdomen. Pike staggered, taking two steps back. The bullet itself bounced off the flexible protective vest Pike was wearing. The dark-green vest glimmered for an instant where the bullet had struck. Gregory Pike looked directly at Laura and let out a low growl. He charged.

Pike shielded his face with his gauntlets as Roy and Henry shot at him. The bullets simply bounced off his chest while Pike closed in. Varick pushed all three officers to the ground as Pike swung his tree-like arm at the lot of them. Varick sprang to his feet. One punch. Two punches. Three solid punches to Pike's gut, who grunted in pain. Pike aimed a boot at Varick and attempted to soccer kick him in the face. Varick jumped on Pike's boot in mid strike, using the force of the kick as a springboard, which sent Varick straight up to eye level with Pike. Another punch. This time, right through the open face in Pike's helmet. "Argh! Little runt!" Varick's fist had landed square on Pike's nose. Pike held his face and eyed Varick with mounting anger.

"Why are you all still here?!" Varick demanded. "I can handle this!" Varick dropped to the ground to avoid a fist, then, locking both hands together, smashed Pike across the knee cap. The three officers exchanged glances, then cautiously backed away from the fight to spectate.

Varick continued to evade Pike's attacks and follow up with counter-strikes. Pike snarled like a wild beast, quickly losing his patience. "I'm going to break you, Varick."

"You'll need to hit me first to do any breaking," Varick gloated. "You may be strong, but you're still as slow and stupid as ever." In truth, Pike was quite fast for his size, but Varick was simply faster. He was faring well for the moment, but in the back of Varick's mind, he was hoping Bruce would show up to lend a hand.

The three detectives were poised at the side door they came in from, a safe distance from the fight. Roy scratched his head. "So, what now?"

Laura watched in amazement while Varick continued to hold his own against the giant known as Gregory Pike. "We call for backup."

***

10:20 a.m.

Santos stepped onto the warehouse lot. He pulled his coat tight around his neck as a gust of cold wind passed. Looks like this is the place. He surveyed the perimeter: it seemed deserted. On the alert for any activity, he cautiously approached the building and peered through a window. Santos' eyes grew wide as he gazed upon the monstrous outline of a figure inside. He rushed to the side entrance and yanked the door open. He was greeted by two guns in his face. Santos immediately put both hands up.

"Hold it right there!" Laura ordered.

"Who are you?" Henry questioned.

Roy stepped in front of Henry and Laura. "Easy now, this is Santos. He's a friend."

Santos smiled. "Very nice to meet you both. You two seem like charming enough people..." He slowly placed his hands on Henry and Laura's guns and gently directed the barrels away from his face.

"Did Bruce come with you?" Roy asked.

"Unfortunately not. You're stuck with the B-team." Santos' attention was drawn to Varick and the giant, who were fighting ferociously. "So, anyone care to explain what this is?"

Roy shrugged. "Apparently a buddy of Varick's. Of course, we were fully ready to mop the floor with the guy, but Varick wanted to handle it himself, so who are we to tell him no?" Santos flashed a quick grin, then proceeded to walk towards the action.

Varick sidestepped a massive swing from Pike, who smashed the shelf directly behind him. The metal racking bent and slowly tipped over and crashed to the floor. Mechanical parts that the shelf once held were strewn out across the warehouse. A loud whistle drew Varick's attention. He looked over to see Santos waving at him. "Need a hand?"

"What are you doing here?!" Varick barked. "Where's Bruce?" Another swing from Pike, another dodge—this one was a hairline from hitting.

"Hey, watch yourself, Varick; he looks pretty mean!"

"Don't you get involved in this!" Varick spat. "Stay the hell back!" The split-second distraction was enough. Varick turned to see the fist coming and instantly brought his hands down to protect his body. The force of the impact on Varick's left arm drove his own elbow into his ribs and sent him crashing into shelving. He was lying on the cold floor in incredible pain. His head was reeling and his entire left arm had gone numb. Varick felt his side for damage with his right hand: Two rib fractures at least. Maybe three.

Gregory Pike walked towards Varick triumphantly. "Game's over." Suddenly, there was another loud whistle. Pike turned to face Santos.

"Stay where you are, monster." Santos' hand was outstretched and aimed directly at Pike.

Gregory Pike smiled. "Make me."

Santos' hand began to glow. Particles of light appeared to be collecting around his fingers. Brighter and brighter—until his entire hand appeared to be encased in a glowing ball of light. But Pike was not the least bit perturbed. Still smiling, Pike sidestepped towards Varick, with his eyes focused on Santos—as if daring Santos to stop him.

Varick gasped as he struggled to get to his feet. "Santos...don't. You can't..."

Santos' forearm shot back. A ball of bright white energy discharged from his palm and struck Pike in the chest and engulfed him. Henry, Roy, and Laura stared at Santos, awestruck. Laura could not believe what she had just witnessed. "I've heard about this kind of phenomenon...energy field manipulation..."

"But to see it first hand..." Henry continued, finishing her thought.

Roy scratched his head. "Yeah...that's really messed up. Super queer."

Santos turned to the three officers and flashed them an 'A-ok' with his hand. Santos' smile vanished when he heard a dull laugh. Pike was still standing tall, in perfect health.

Varick groaned. "His armor...it absorbs that crap..."

"Well, that's not good," Santos muttered.

"Idiot!" Varick spat. "You just made him stronger!"

Pike laughed; his chest armor was glowing now. He booted the twenty-foot-high metal pallet racking and watched gleefully as it tipped over and pallets stocked with machine parts rained down. Mustering all of his strength, Varick got to his feet and ran to evade the falling shelf. The pallet racking smashed onto the floor with a thunderous crash that echoed across the warehouse. Santos charged at Pike.

"Stay back!" Varick roared. "I can handle this!"

Santos stopped. "Are you sure?"

"You've helped enough!"

Santos shrugged. "Alright, if you say so."

Varick's back was against the wall. He watched intensely as Pike advanced on him; his gauntlet was surging with energy. As Pike approached, he let out a rumbling laugh. "You should've got your buddy's help. You're gonna need all the help you can get."

Varick held his side in pain and was breathing heavy. Despite his injuries, Varick gritted his teeth and firmly stood his ground. He waved Pike forward. "Let's see what you got, Flounder."

Pike lunged and threw a massive hook at Varick. His punch went right through the warehouse wall as Varick rolled under Pike's swinging arm and out of harm's way. Varick picked up a wooden skid that had fallen off the racking and smashed it on Pike's back, where it splintered and broke. Pike howled in rage. He extracted his fist from the concrete wall and turned to face Varick. Next up: A crate full of nuts and bolts. Varick lifted the crate high over his head and heaved it with all of his strength. The crate blew up on Pike's face and showered him with metal. The impact caused Pike to stagger. He lost his footing on the metal parts littering the floor and fell. Gregory Pike was now on his back, looking up at the ceiling rafters in quiet brooding. He placed a hand on his face and felt bruises. Pike examined his gauntlet: it was now speckled with his own blood. "Well, now you've gone and done it, you annoying little bastard." Pike got to his feet, looking livid. Varick raised his fists in an attack stance, but the moment he did, his side flared up with pain. Varick took a step back.

"Gregory Pike, was it?" Laura called out. Pike looked her way. She was holding up a police radio. "SWAT's here; building is surrounded. Now would be a good time to consider giving up."

Pike laughed. "Not before I've had a chance to say hello to them." Pike picked up two wooden skids, one in each hand, and hurled them like Frisbees.

"Watch out!" Roy yelled. Santos and the three officers scattered as the skids flew past them and crashed to the floor. Pike ran towards the big rig parked by the garage entrance of the warehouse.

"Get back here, coward!" Varick attempted to chase after him, but it was no good. The pain in his side was too much. He stopped running and fell to one knee.

Santos and the officers rushed over to assist Varick. Laura and Santos hoisted Varick to his feet.

"I don't—need your help," Varick muttered. "Go get him."

Pike got into the truck and pulled out a remote opener from the glove box. He started the engine and pushed the button. The garage door slowly rumbled open and the warehouse was bathed in sunlight. Pike squinted through the glare; several squad cars and two SWAT vans had formed a perimeter around the warehouse.

Roy glanced at Henry. "Eighteen wheels...make every shot count." Pike's truck slowly rolled out of the warehouse as Roy and Henry fired upon the truck's tires. They managed to puncture several, but it was not enough to stop the truck leaving the warehouse. Pike had escaped the frying pan and was now plunging into the fire. Every officer outside had their guns trained on the truck. Pike shielded his face with his gauntlet and pressed forward, driving headlong into a storm of bullets. The windshield was already completely gone. Gaining momentum, the big rig bowled over a swat van, and the officers scattered to avoid being run over.

"Don't let him get onto the main road; take him down now!" Henry yelled, as he came running out of the warehouse with Roy. Officers and SWAT sprayed the truck with gunfire while it pulled away from the warehouse—there was no stopping it. They scrambled to their vehicles to continue pursuit. Henry and Roy sprinted down the road to where they had parked to join in the chase.

Santos and Laura walked out of the warehouse holding on to an injured Varick. Varick brushed both of them off. "I can walk. My car's down the road, come on." Holding his side in agony, Varick led the way.

Pike looked in his rear-view mirror: the cops were tailing him, not far behind. He could feel his truck losing steam—he was practically riding on the rims. He wouldn't be able to escape. Not with the cargo, at least. Before Varick and the others had arrived, Pike had loaded all of Solly's weapons from the warehouse into the back of the truck. And now he was going to lose it all...but he wasn't planning to go down with the ship. In case of an emergency, Pike had placed one item from the stolen inventory on the passenger seat: A Colt M4A1 assault rifle, complete with an M203 grenade launcher attachment. He had modified the trigger frame so that his beefy fingers could actually fire the gun.

Pike was fast approaching the main road, and there was quite a lot of traffic...and then he spotted it. A tanker truck. Pike laughed to himself. This is too perfect. You want it, pigs? Well, here it comes... Pike cut into the traffic, his foot crushing the accelerator. The tanker truck blared its horn as Pike's big rig bowled over car after car, heading straight at it. Pike grabbed the assault rifle and ditched, the moment before his big rig T-boned the tanker truck with a thunderous crash. Pike rolled onto the road and only stopped when his body smashed into the side of a hatchback. Faring better than the hatchback, Pike got back on his feet with his weapon at the ready. The cop cars screeched to a halt and watched in horror as Pike unloaded his assault rifle into the tanker. Gasoline began to spill out into the streets. Henry rolled down his window and yelled into his police megaphone: "Everybody, evacuate now!" The civilians didn't need to be told twice; they were all fleeing in panic and leaving their vehicles in the mess of traffic.

"Have fun cleaning this up, pigs!" Pike fired the 40mm grenade at the tanker. It was total chaos. The vehicle exploded in a spectacular blaze of fire, which instantaneously spread along the rivers of gas that had spilt into the streets. Cars with the fiery gas lines running underneath them ignited and exploded like firecrackers.

Roy exited his vehicle with his gun drawn. Pike had already fled, and there was too much fire and smoke to get anywhere close to the area. "Damn..." Henry muttered, still in the car. He picked up his police radio: "I need fire trucks and paramedics at my location..."

Laura had arrived on the scene driving Varick's car and was accompanied by Varick and Santos. From inside the car, she stared out at the carnage in front of her. "My god..."

Santos jumped out of the backseat and ran towards the fiery inferno. "Hey, what are you doing?" Roy demanded, as Santos blew by him. Other officers stared while Santos ran into the smoke and disappeared from view. A few minutes later, he reappeared from the gridlock of cars carrying three injured: a young man and woman in each arm, and their child on his back.

"Wow...nice work," Roy said, impressed. Laura, Varick, and Henry had joined Roy at the front line.

"Yeah, I looked around...most got away," Santos replied. "But there are a few casualties. These three were lucky." The parents of the child were unconscious from smoke inhalation but would survive the ordeal. The surrounding officers who witnessed the rescue applauded Santos' efforts and took the family aside for medical attention.

"Are you alright?" Laura asked in disbelief. She could've sworn she saw the fire licking at Santos' entire body...or maybe it was just a trick of the light, because he wouldn't be standing here like this if that were the case. "That was incredible."

"Yeah, I'm okay." Santos wiped his forehead. "Guess I was lucky too." Other than a little soot on his face, Santos appeared perfectly fine.

Varick scowled. He looked at Santos and then eyed the fiery wrecks of vehicles that scattered the road. "Well done."

***

## Chapter 5 – Moonlighting

Friday, October 8th, 1999

Manhattan, New York, 2:00 p.m.

Varick and Santos returned home from their morning ordeal. Bruce and Alex were seated at the table eating lunch. Bruce eyed the two of them. "So...how did it go?"

Santos looked at Bruce uncertainly. "Did you hear what happened?"

"Of course I heard what happened. It was all over the news."

Santos rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, it was pretty bad; quite a scene. We were at the police station for a good while. If it wasn't for Roy and the other officers, we would still be there being interrogated."

Varick sneered at Santos. "Yeah, and if it wasn't for you, the whole situation could have been avoided altogether."

Santos was affronted. "So, it's my fault that Pike escaped and blew up that tanker?"

"I had everything under control until you decided to show up and interfere."

Bruce rested his chin on his hand and watched the squabble, unamused. "Well, it's good to see that you two are working so well together. Teddy called a little while ago, you know. Real mad about that fiasco. They mentioned in the news reports that Legion members were on the scene when the explosion happened."

"Did they happen to mention how we were trying to prevent it and saved people trapped in the gridlock?" Santos questioned.

"Nope, they left out those details."

Varick scoffed. "Typical."

Varick and Santos joined Bruce and Alex at the table. They took turns serving tuna casserole onto their plates, then proceeded to wolf down their food. Santos put his gorging on pause to watch the other three eating in silence. Not a word was spoken since he and Varick sat down at the table. With tensions running high, Santos decided to shift gears to a less volatile conversation. "So, Alex, how was the soup kitchen?"

Alex looked up from his plate. "In a word? Dull."

"Really?" Santos swallowed a forkful of the casserole. "And why do you say that?"

Alex shrugged. "Well, to be honest I was expecting, you know—actual field work. Seeing how you guys fight and take down criminals."

Santos smiled. "I'm sure it seems glamourous, but what's important to remember is that you shouldn't seek it out—the confrontation. What we do to give back to the community is just as important. Maybe even more important. You shouldn't resent doing it."

"I know, don't get me wrong, I understand its importance. But the way my dad was going on about it this morning, I was expecting some real action. It's like drinking a glass of milk when you were expecting orange juice."

Santos stroked his scruffy chin thoughtfully. "I suppose. Well, like your father said, when you're old enough, you'll be exposed to all of it."

Bruce nodded in agreement with his mouth stuffed full of casserole. He washed his food down with a glass of water. "Absolutely. Just you wait, Alex. When it's time, you'll be like David Niven at the Oscars."

The task demanded a great team effort, but together, the four of them had managed to devour the entire casserole. With their bellies now full, everyone was in better spirits. Varick grunted, holding his side. "Damn, I need to go lie down."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "What happened? Eat too much?"

"He broke his ribs," Santos said, replying on Varick's behalf.

Alex went wide-eyed. "Isn't that something you should go see a doctor about?"

"Not really; I've broken them enough times to know. Nothing much they can do anyway."

"What about wrapping?"

"Doesn't really do anything. If anything, it may cause unnecessary complications. Best thing to do is just wait it out. Time and rest are what I need."

"Painkillers?"

"I can live without them."

Alex shrugged. "If that's what you wanna do...but it sounds pretty bad."

"You think that's bad? Check this out." Varick rolled up the sleeve on his left arm. "I have no idea how my arm didn't break." The area above his elbow was severely bruised and glowing a deep purple where Pike had struck him.

Alex feigned a look of fighting back vomit. Bruce grinned. "Wow. That looks...appalling." Santos stared down at his empty plate and said nothing.

***

Scorcher's office and living quarters were located on the top floor of the Chital Co. Tower. He was seated in his office when his desk intercom began to beep. He switched on the speaker. "What is it?"

"Scorcher, it's Pike."

"What the hell happened to you; where are you?"

"Still in Queens. I'm hiding out at Esther's bar for the time being."

Scorcher puzzled over this information for a moment. "Where are the weapons?"

There was a pause. "I've got some good news and some bad news. Good news is I took out Solly's guy Wyler and loaded the weapons into the truck."

"And where's the truck?"

"That's the bad news... It sort of—blew up. If anything was salvageable, the cops have it now."

Scorcher rubbed his disfigured face. "That tanker explosion on the news...your truck was caught in that? My weapons?!" Scorcher growled. "How is this good news and bad news? Your bad news negates the good news. It's all bad news."

"Yeah, it was Varick and some other clowns that held me up. At least with those weapons gone, there's that many fewer that Solly has to use against us."

"Goddamn." Scorcher rapped his knuckles on the desk, thinking hard. "We need to re-strategize. Stay at the bar until nightfall. Get Esther to loan you a vehicle, and come back to Manhattan once it's dark."

"Sure thing, boss."

***

Queens, New York, 8:00 p.m.

Oswalt Fletcher was watching television by himself, slouching deep in his worn-out couch. He cracked open a beer, which proved surprisingly difficult with his right arm in a sling. He took a long swig. Breathing deeply, Oswalt looked around his small apartment—what a way to spend a Friday night. Captain Morring had given him time off—standard procedure with officer-involved shootings. But frankly, he didn't have much to do. He liked keeping busy with his job, and with his career now off the table, he found himself idling. Oswalt was on his second lap of channel surfing, but nothing grabbed his attention. Just a bunch of crap. He put the remote down and walked over to the window with his beer. He had a nice view of the city; he was on the nineteenth floor. Oswalt always found himself curious about all the lights. So many people down there, each with their own story. How many people were wasting their lives away like he was doing at this very moment? How many of them were breaking the law while he was out of commission... The ringing of his telephone startled Oswalt out of his thoughts. He wasn't expecting any calls. He picked up the phone from the corner table by his couch:

"Hello?"

"Am I speaking to Officer Fletcher?"

"Yeah, who is this?"

"This is Jack Solly."

Oswalt was taken aback. "The business magnate?"

Solly chuckled. "I guess you can call me that. It has come to my attention that you've performed a great service for me. You saved the life of one of my trusted employees."

"Err...yeah, well, I was just doing my job. Me and my partner."

"Yes, but I am interested in you, not your partner. You had instincts—killer instincts in the heat of danger. To do what was necessary to survive."

"Mr. Perkins told you this?"

"Yes—he gave me whatever details he could from his vantage point."

"I see." Oswalt paused a moment. He found it unsettling to hear someone whom he didn't know talk about what happened in that condo, especially when that someone was Jack Solly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Solly, I'm still a little confused as to what this call is regarding."

"Well, I'm not sure if you are aware of this, but the man you killed was a very dangerous criminal and murderer. I believe some of my more notorious business rivals had him in their employment—for extremely hostile takeovers. They're targeting my enterprise now, as you have witnessed."

"Do you have any information that could help in our investigation?"

"I do, but I can't let just anyone be privy to the knowledge I have to offer. You see, Officer Fletcher, I need to know that I can trust them."

Oswalt walked back to the window and stared out into the night. "Mr. Solly—I'm not quite sure what you expect of me."

"I want you to work for me."

"In what capacity?"

"Same as you are now. A police officer...but one that has my interests in mind. If my business ventures are in need of privacy, you'll make that happen. If I point you in a direction where I see wrongdoings transpiring, you'll take care of it...like any good cop would."

Oswalt chose his words carefully. "With all due respect, I've heard a lot of rumors regarding you, Mr. Solly. And judging by the heat your employees bring onto themselves, there may be some truth there. Frankly, we might have conflicting interests, for me to be working for you. I can't look the other way for you. And I can't coax others into doing that either."

"Really? Why is this?"

"It's wrong."

Solly laughed. "Really? Is killing wrong?"

"Yes."

"What did you do, just yesterday?"

"I didn't have a choice, it was self-defence. It was justified."

"It was more than that. It was survival. And there's no right or wrong there—just raw instinct and reaction. That's why I chose you. You have that instinct to survive, just like me...just trying to survive in this evil cesspool."

"I can't uphold the law by turning a blind eye when convenient."

"Oswalt—I've done my homework on you. A divorce three years ago...two kids...sold the house. Alimony and child support payments. Your job pays an acceptable salary, but it wasn't designed to support precarious situations like yours. Is this the lifestyle you want for yourself? Living with the bare minimum?"

Through his window, Oswalt looked down at the city below him. "No...it's not."

"Then work for me. I will pay you double what you're making now, and that's in addition to your current salary—for doing more or less the same job."

Oswalt's hand was shaking. Oswalt had his faults, but he was no criminal. Then he remembered yesterday morning...how he killed that man. The rage on the man's face...and the fear he felt in that moment. It could have just as easily been him on the receiving end of a fatal bullet. He looked around his apartment again. Despite it being small and cluttered with furniture and junk, it felt empty. His life was nowhere near where he wanted it to be.

"Mr. Solly?"

"Yes, I'm still here."

"I'll do it."

"Good. That's all I wanted to hear for now. I'll be in touch."

Oswalt put down the phone with his still-shaking hand. He reached into his cupboard and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a large shot glass. He filled the shot glass with the scotch and drove it back. His hand was now still. Oswalt placed the empty shot glass on his counter and stared though the crystal facets with piercing focus.

***

## Chapter 6 – Turbulence

Saturday, October 9th, 1999

6:15 a.m.

Scorcher, Gregory Pike, and Samuel Turly had taken a trip out to rural Pennsylvania. They were standing on a lavish estate that was virtually isolated and complete with a private runway. The land belonged to a man in his late thirties, who was standing alongside the trio, smoking a fat joint. He had long, dirty-blonde hair, and a scruffy beard that clashed with his tailor-made vanilla suit. Scorcher surveyed the sweeping landscape. "I'm impressed."

Lomez nodded and blew out a puff of smoke. "Not too shabby, right? Plenty of fresh air, peace and quiet..." Lomez was heir to the fortune of the drug kingpin infamously known as Farmer Loxo. Loxo was at the height of power during the '60s and '70s, heading one of the largest drug empires in the Western Hemisphere.

Turly shook Lomez's hand. "We appreciate you letting us use your runway, Lomez; we needed some privacy for this."

"No worries, man. Anything to help out the cause." Lomez took a long drag from his joint.

Scorcher eyed him curiously. "I'm surprised that someone like you decided to get a place out here in the middle of nowhere."

"What's surprising about it?"

"You have sex, drugs, and rock & roll written all over you."

"Well, this here is my sanctuary—where I surrender to peace and tranquility. Hell, I checked out of modern society years ago. Just didn't have the patience or conformity for it." Lomez laughed. "But don't get me wrong—now my place in L.A., hooooo buddy. That's where the crap really hits the fan in excess." Lomez pointed the blunt between his fingers at Scorcher. "And I can tell you're one that appreciates life in excess, Mr. Scorcher."

Scorcher's amber eye lit up. "Oh really?"

"Whatever you see in me, I can see in you. It's like kindred spirits, man. We can just detect each other. Next time I'm back in L.A. and the situation is poppin' off, you're coming, my friend. I'll take you to the ends of the earth and back."

"And your friends won't mind this mug?"

"Hell no! Mind you, I've seen some strange-looking cats, and you are, by far, the strangest in the clowder." Lomez looked Scorcher over and appeared utterly entranced by Scorcher's hair. "But this right here, bloody gorgeous—that's genuine rock-star hair. It's like cotton candy, man!" Pike stared at Lomez and Scorcher, slack-jawed. "Can you do the rock-star tongue? Something tells me you can do it!" Lomez waited in anticipation. "Yes, buddy! YES! Now that's what I'm talking about!" Scorcher wore a devilish fanged smile, with his tongue protruding half a foot out of his mouth. "Look at that thing, man. It's like a python! My buddy Gene would be real proud of you." Pike rubbed his face. He caught Turly's eye and they both communicated their tedium to each other without saying a word.

The inane banter continued for several minutes until a low rumbling drew their attention upward. Turly's eyes narrowed. "Here they come." A private jet was closing in fast. Scorcher and the others were beckoned towards the runway by the roar of twin engines, which was growing exponentially louder by the second. The aircraft's tires screeched along the asphalt as the jet touched down for landing. Pike was getting irritated by all the noise that was being generated. He was still tired from his lack of sleep, having driven from Queens to Manhattan in the middle of the night, only to realize he had to drive out here. Frankly, he didn't want to be here at all.

The plane had landed. The party on the ground waited for the passengers to disembark. The door of the jet folded down to reveal stairs and four men walked down them. The man to exit the plane last was at least a foot taller than the other three. He wore a deep-blue fitted suit that strained against his muscular frame. His size was impressive, but what was even more striking was his blood red hair. This was the man from Thailand slated to be Bruce's executioner.

Turly smiled with satisfaction. "Hachiuma, I presume. Welcome to America." He extended a hand but Hachiuma merely nodded in acknowledgement. He surveyed his new environment and sniffed the air.

Scorcher sized up the newcomer. "So...you're the one that's going to get rid of Bruce Kasparov, eh?"

Hachiuma looked at Scorcher's mess of a face but there was no reaction to it. "That's right."

"And who are your three friends?"

"Thai mercenaries. They will be aiding me during my stay here. They do not speak English, and as such, they will only be communicating through me. As formidable as they are with firearms, their use of bladed weaponry is even more impressive." Unlike Hachiuma, the clothes of these three men were dirty and ragged.

Pike sneered at the mercenary trio. "They look like peasants." The moment Pike said this, the mercenary closest to him jumped straight up and delivered a quick backfist to Pike's jaw. Pike rubbed his mouth and hid his anger with a smile. "Well, they're quick, I'll give them that...and incredibly ballsy for such puny men." Pike winced; the blow stung a lot more than he had expected. "I thought you said they don't understand English?"

Hachiuma's eyes narrowed on Pike. "They don't need to understand the language to know when they are being insulted." Pike knew his place and chose not to raise his hands to his attacker. Lomez attempted to break the tension by offering the newcomers a puff, which they flat-out refused.

"Alright then, we need to head back to New York," Turly informed. "I have a sedan here, and Pike came in the cargo truck. Two of the mercs can go with Pike; the rest with me."

Hachiuma's eyes flashed. "A cargo truck; that's good. Because we brought a lot of cargo."

"Is that so?"

"Weapons—a lot of them. Leftover surplus from the Kosovo War. Akira made arrangements for them to be delivered here through us."

Scorcher's amber eye lit up. "Excellent. We had a minor setback yesterday. These weapons are exactly what we need right now."

Hachiuma nodded. "Well, it's all in the plane, so let's get loading."

***

Saturday, October 9th, 1999

Manhattan, New York, 8:15 p.m.

Peter Santos prayed silently in the empty church. He had been attending Saint Christopher's since his childhood at the orphanage. It was a small church that seldom received parishioners during the regularly scheduled mass times. Times of no service left the church virtually deserted.

Peter lifted his head and leaned back in the pew. He spotted Father Christy standing by the altar, watching him with a faint smile. Father Christy was in his early sixties, and his last ten years were spent as the priest of Saint Christopher's. He was bespectacled and had thinning grey hair. Santos waved at Father Christy, who walked over and sat down next to him. "How are you, Peter?"

Santos shrugged. "Given the circumstances, Father, I'm okay, I suppose."

"Anything you'd like to discuss?"

"Nothing I haven't already discussed with God." Santos looked around the empty church. "Saturday evenings are always serene."

Father Christy followed Santos' wandering eyes. "You just may be the only person that I've seen choose to spend a Saturday evening in this church."

"You'd be surprised, Father. Before you came to this church, it was quite popular. Not anymore though."

Father Christy smiled. "So, am I to be blamed for the decline in attendance?"

Santos laughed. "Don't worry, it was happening well before you came. People's mindsets and priorities are changing with the times, I suppose." These words produced a mutual pang of melancholy for both Peter and Father Christy. For a moment, the pair sat in silence in the empty church. Santos managed to force a smile. "So, how is the Walker house these days?"

Father Christy shrugged. "Well, it's still open; a few new arrivals. A double-edged sword, I suppose. Foster care and group homes... We've expanded our reach thanks to the Legion donations. We purchased a neighbouring property as well."

"You're doing a great thing for this community, Father."

"Well, Deacon Francis is the one living at the Walker house now. He keeps everything shipshape."

"Yeah, I got the pleasure to meet him a while back. You chose well placing him in charge."

"That I did." Father Christy smiled. "Still fighting the good fight?"

"You can say that...but I don't know how good my fight has been lately." Santos scratched his chin. "On second thought, you don't mind if I bend your ear for a few minutes, do you?"

Father Christy shook his head. "You know I always welcome anyone to share what's on their mind."

Santos smiled appreciatively. "Well, the thing is, lately I've been second guessing myself. My actions. I have no problem if this only affects me, but when it affects my colleagues..."

"Your fellow crusaders in the Legion?"

"Yes, exactly. Nothing too serious; no life threatening injuries or anything like that. But that's just out of sheer luck. My missteps could lead someone to just that." Santos looked up to the roof and sighed. "I'm not sure I know how to deal with it."

"Well, with all things in life, Peter, when we find strength through God, these burdens become more manageable. When you trust yourself, others can trust you as well."

"I trust that I try to do the right thing, but when I do, it seems to backfire and lead to another problem."

"No one can predict with absolute certainty how their actions will play out over time. But does this mean you shouldn't act at all? Life is a learning process. With the help of your friends and family, you can at least mitigate these unforeseen problems. But to do this, communication is essential, Peter."

Santos thought about Father Christy's advice. "You're absolutely right, Father. Communication is what's needed." He rapped his fingers on the pew in front of him. Better teamwork and less bickering amongst ourselves. Santos stood up and extended a hand to Father Christy. "Thanks for the talk, Father. Helpful as always."

***

Queens, New York

Oswalt Fletcher was wearing a beaten-up suit and had doused his hair with gel in a vain attempt to keep it tamed. His good arm was inside the suit sleeve, whereas the right side portion of the suit jacket simply draped over his sling. He was inside an upscale restaurant far beyond his budget. He approached the maître d'hôtel standing behind the podium. The tight-lipped man looked at him condescendingly. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, my name is Oswalt Fletcher. I'm here to see—"

"Oh, Mr. Fletcher, but of course!" The man's demeanor changed immediately and showcased an overly pleasant smile. "Mr. Solly and his party are expecting you in the dining hall. If you would be so kind as to follow me this way."

Twenty minutes should have been early enough to arrive first, Oswalt thought to himself, as he followed behind the headwaiter. But I guess Solly showed up far before the time he told me. Oswalt craned his head around the restaurant. The dining hall was lavishly decorated and the floor was made of fine marble.

"May I present: Mr. Oswalt Fletcher." Oswalt was so engrossed with taking in his surroundings that he nearly walked into the maître d', who stopped in front of Solly's table.

Jack Solly's eyes locked onto Oswalt. "Officer Fletcher, I finally get to thank you in person."

"Good to meet you, Mr. Solly." Fletcher reached across the table with his left to make for a very awkward handshake. He felt unusually naked standing in front of Solly's table.

"How is your arm? From the scuffle, I take it?"

"Yeah—the doctor said five to six weeks and the cast can come off. If I'm lucky."

"That's good news. Send me your medical bills. I'll reimburse them for you."

"No, that's not necessary—thank you, though. The department covers most of it."

"Well, send them to me anyway and I'll reimburse you again. Consider it a reward for your help."

Oswalt was stunned. "Wow, err, okay. Thank you very much, Mr. Solly."

"Have a seat, Oswalt. I'm very delighted that today was agreeable for you. It's always good to finalize arrangements in person."

"Yeah, absolutely." Taking the vacant seat, Oswalt quickly glanced around the table. There were three other people with Jack.

"I'd like you to meet my family, Oswalt. This is my wife Adrianne."

She nodded curtly. "Hello, Oswalt." She was posh, polished, and absolutely stunning for a woman in her late forties. Of course, Oswalt had no intention of getting entangled with the boss's lady—he knew how that old story went...

"...And my two sons, Mark and Lucas." Mark flashed Oswalt a grin, whereas Lucas gave him more of a sneer.

"Nice to meet you all," Oswalt replied. Admittedly, he was a bit confused... Did he really just sit down to a family dinner with a suspected crime lord?

"We have much to discuss, Oswalt—but first, let's eat."

"Sure, no problem." Oswalt looked over the menu that Jack handed him.

"You like veal, Oswalt?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then try the veal chops; they're excellent."

"Is that what you're getting, Mr. Solly?"

Solly looked at Oswalt, mildly amused. "Yes, that's what I'm getting—and there's no need for all this formality."

Oswalt grinned. "Okay, Jack. Veal chops it is."

After a delicious dinner and desert (freshly baked apple pie), Oswalt was ready to lie down on his bed and go to sleep. "You want anything else, Oswalt?"

"Oh no, I'm stuffed. I couldn't imagine it."

"Expand your imagination," Jack coaxed. "Another slice of pie? It's all on me—my treat."

"Positive. But I can pay—you don't need to foot my bill."

"Don't be ridiculous; I invited you here—I'm paying."

Oswalt shrugged. "Alright, if you insist. Thanks, Jack, I appreciate it." Oswalt really had no intention to pay for a meal this expensive, but he figured he should do the cheque dance at least once.

Solly beckoned the headwaiter to the table, who dropped everything to assist. As Solly made motions to pay, the maître d' immediately stopped him. "Please, Mr. Solly. For you and your party, it's on the house."

Solly smiled and turned his attention back to Oswalt. "Well then, if you're done eating, let's head to the bar, grab a drink, and talk business."

"Yeah, sure." Oswalt nearly forgot why he was here in the first place. Solly stood up and put on his overcoat. Mark and Lucas did the same. Oswalt followed their lead, slightly confused. "We're not drinking here?"

"Not here—down the block. Let's take a walk." Solly pushed his chair in. "Alright, Adrianne, we're off. Charles is still outside; you can take the car."

Solly's wife sipped on her wine glass. "Sure, Jack. See you at home."

Jack led the way out of the restaurant. "In case you're wondering, Oswalt, Charles is our driver. You have not attained power until your time is too valuable to waste doing menial tasks such as driving."

Oswalt rather enjoyed driving, but he wasn't about to open his mouth and tell Solly that. "So, what do you do when you're not behind the wheel?"

"Typically nothing. But the few moments in a day where you find the time to relax and do nothing are just as valuable as the moments you slave." They continued to walk. It was a chilly October night, but despite this, the strip was crowded with people chattering excitedly with no coats at all and alcohol on their breath. Oswalt was surprised to see how quickly the crowd changed a few minutes outside of the classy restaurant he had just left. He noticed that the establishments they walked past were clearly dipping in quality as well.

"How far is this place, Jack?" It had been over ten minutes now.

"Not much farther." The area had definitely gone from first class to run down in a hurry. Oswalt was beginning to grow suspicious—he had a bad feeling about this. Oswalt still had his backup piece on him, tucked into the back of his pants, with his jacket covering it. He didn't know what to expect from Solly. Three of them and one of him—not exactly good odds. Not to mention that one of his wings was clipped.

Jack stopped. "Here we are." Oswalt looked up at the bar sign which read: 'Esther's Bar'.

"So...they have good drinks here, Jack?" Oswalt asked.

"Not particularly."

Jack and Lucas walked in. Mark looked back at Oswalt, who hadn't budged. "You coming?" Oswalt hesitated, then followed them inside.

The bar was dimly lit and looked like a cesspool. There were two regulars seated at the bar: Marty, who was wearing an overcoat and looked like he could be homeless, and another burly fellow named Brian Batts, who sported a tangled black beard. There were several shady characters lurking by the pool table, who eyed Solly with contempt. Jack Solly approached the bartender. "Four glasses of scotch, neat."

The bartender looked up from the glass he was cleaning. His eyes bulged. "You have a death wish?! I should gun you down right here!" His hand reached under the counter and drew a shotgun.

Oswalt immediately whipped out his gun from under his jacket. "Don't you do it!" Oswalt shouted. Lucas and Mark had drawn their guns too: Lucas was aiming at the bartender, and Mark's gun was trained on the bar patrons by the pool table.

"Anyone starts reaching into their coats and I fire!" Mark threatened. The pool sharks looked itching for a fight.

Solly smiled. "I asked for a drink, Esther, not your hostility." Esther's shotgun was pointed directly at Solly's head.

Oswalt's hand was steady. "Put it down, Esther. Slowly."

Marty and Brian, who were seated at the bar were caught in the middle of the showdown. Marty looked like a deer in the headlights, whereas Brian sneered angrily at Solly and looked ready to lash out.

"Are you really going to fire that thing off in front of a cop?" Solly nudged his head towards Oswalt.

Esther eyed Oswalt hesitantly. "You're a cop?" Oswalt lifted his jacket to reveal the badge clipped to his belt. Esther slowly lowered his weapon. Lucas immediately reached over the counter and grabbed the shotgun from him.

"Now pour me a drink," Solly instructed. Esther reluctantly grabbed a scotch bottle off the rack and filled a glass.

Solly took the drink and threw it in Esther's face. "I wouldn't be caught dead drinking your pigswill."

Solly turned his back to Esther, who was soaked and seething. Brian Batts stood up. Lucas jammed his gun barrel into Brian's forehead. "Sit—back—down." Brian was bigger than Lucas, but with a gun kissing his forehead, Batts did as he was told.

"Let's go," Solly instructed. The four walked out of the bar, with Oswalt and the Solly brothers bringing up the rear. The moment they exited the bar, Oswalt blew up:

"Jack, what the hell was that?!"

"I just wanted to see you in action. You handled the situation well—kept it under control."

"We could've all been killed!"

"But we weren't. Like I said, you kept it under control. Even with your injury, you didn't shy away from acting. Impressive."

Oswalt got within inches from Solly's face. Lucas stepped forward, but Solly raised his hand to keep Lucas at bay. Jack smiled innocently as Oswalt bore down upon him. "I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, but I don't want any part of it. Keep your job."

Oswalt turned his back on Jack and began to walk. Jack's eyes narrowed. "Oswalt!" Jack called. He continued to walk. "Do you think I'm a villain?"

Oswalt stopped. "Whatever doubts I had about that, you cleared up in a big hurry."

"If that's what you believe, then you're sorely mistaken. And a tad naive I might add." Jack could tell that he had aroused Oswalt's curiosity. "But I'm confident we can do something about that."

Oswalt turned around to face Jack. "What are you talking about?"

"The bartender—Esther—he's on the mob boss Tony Calzone's payroll. And Calzone is in league with Scorcher. The bar is just one minor example; they infiltrate society on every level. They have full control of criminal activity in Manhattan and Brooklyn. And now they're pushing hard into Queens. Staten Island and the Bronx are next. They're dangerous. Scorcher has cells all over the U.S."

"You sure are well-informed about the workings of the criminal underworld, aren't you?"

"I make it my business to know. I'm a villain to the villains. Are you familiar with the Omega Ops Legion?"

Oswalt was surprised to hear Jack asking such a question. "I know of them and their general mission."

"My father was a member," Jack stated simply. Oswalt was even more surprised by this tidbit of information. Of course, it made little difference for Oswalt regarding Jack. He did not care for the organization. Jack paused to get a response from Oswalt, but when none was given, Jack continued:

"I share many of the same values my father did. My men and I are fighting these tyrants, and we need all the help we can get."

Oswalt gave Solly a calculating stare. He was not buying Jack's half-baked story but, at the same time, was considering his value. If Solly had intel on Scorcher that the police did not have access to, it could become a great asset. Maybe this was his chance to do some real good. Scorcher was major league, and Oswalt was prepared to side with the lesser of two evils to get to him. "Alright, Jack, you've peaked my interest. What do you need from me?"

"What I need from you—is to crack down on Scorcher's operations using the police resources at your disposal, starting here in Queens. Before he gets a steady foothold."

"Places like this bar here?"

"No, not like the bar. This rathole is good for everyone; people hear things in there, you know. Drug labs, weapons holdings, and the like are the places I'm referring to. Seizure of assets from the homes and businesses of the scum working with Scorcher and Calzone. You will be fed leads by my men, and you will investigate these leads. You will be working alongside Mark and Lucas, here. As for you and myself—we won't be seeing too much of each other from this point forward. My profile alongside a police officer would draw unwanted attention. Can I count on you, Oswalt?"

Delusions of grandeur danced around in Oswalt's head as he took all this information in. "Well, at the moment I have time off for the shooting incident. As well as—" Oswalt flapped his arm sling.

"Get back on duty ASAP. Aggressively push for it. You may be physically limited at the moment, but you can still run the logistics."

Oswalt smiled coolly. "Okay, Jack, I'm in."

Jack was pleased. He extended a hand which Oswalt shook. "Welcome to the family."

***

## Chapter 7 – Orientation Day

Sunday, October 10th, 1999

Kasparov Manor, New York, 2:00 p.m.

How tightly can you squeeze a tennis ball before your finger goes right through? Varick studied the fuzzy sphere in his palm. Would it puncture at all? The bright yellow color (optic yellow as it was known) was starting to make him feel nauseous. He crushed the ball like a stress reliever, then released. Then again, it wouldn't pay to ruin a perfectly good tennis ball. He bounced it a few times on the arm of the couch where he sat. Leonardo's eyes went up and down with the ball as Varick bounced it. "You want in on the action too, Leo?" Varick threw the ball down the hall and Leo casually trotted after it, as if he had nothing to prove. Leonardo was a light-brown Rhodesian Ridgeback. Technically, he was Varick's dog, but he was very independent, and no one in the house treated the dog as if he had a master.

Gripping the ball in his mouth, Leonardo returned with the prize. "Alright, now give it back here." Varick extended his hand, inches from Leo's face, but the dog didn't budge. He tried to take the ball back but Leonardo evaded. Varick scowled. He tried a quick swipe and again the dog dodged.

Alex was sitting on the couch beside Varick, flipping through the television channels and trying to fight back a grin. "The master has become the student, it seems. Leo's even faster than you, Varick."

Varick scoffed. "Not a chance." He focused and calmed his nerves. Leo stared at him intently. Varick jumped out of his seat, attempting to snag the ball from the dog's mouth, and immediately regretted it. Varick sat back down holding his side. "Goddammit."

Leonardo jerked his head and released the ball, sending it sailing through the air and bouncing back down the hallway. The dog sat down in front of the television.

Varick sneered at Leo. "So, you're going to mock me now too?"

"I think he wants you to fetch," Alex said, laughing.

Varick gave a loud sigh. He knew his injuries would keep him out of commission for a good while—a couple of weeks at least. He leaned back into the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table. Patience was not his greatest virtue.

Footsteps from above could be heard thumping down the stairs and into the living room. Bruce normally carried a light step, but he appeared agitated today. "Alex!" Bruce barked.

"Whoa, what?!" Alex exclaimed, startled.

"Turn that off."

"What did I do?" Despite his confusion, Alex did as he was told.

Varick glanced at Bruce from the corner of his eye. "Ever think that I was watching that?" As if to ask the same question, Leo raised his head and stared at Bruce.

Bruce ignored them. "Okay, Alex, let's head down to the basement." Without waiting for a response, Bruce turned and walked. Alex looked at Varick—he was just as mystified as Alex was. Alex dropped the remote into Varick's outstretched hand and followed Bruce downstairs to the basement.

What could he have possibly done? He was generally well-behaved, and he hadn't done anything stupid as of late to get his dad worked up. Alex stepped down into the basement. The manor's basement was massive. Upon coming down the stairs, one immediately entered into the gym space. It was fully-equipped with free weights, an exercise bench, treadmill, rowing machine, and a hanging punching bag. The pièce de résistance was a custom-designed jungle gym for every conceivable bar exercise. Bruce stood in the center of the gym with his arms crossed and wearing a stern look. Alex shifted uncomfortably on the spot. "So...what's this about, Dad?"

"Step forward," Bruce instructed.

Oh boy, Alex thought to himself. He didn't like where this was going. Alex walked forward hesitantly. Bruce immediately stepped in and tripped him to the floor. Alex had his hands up in a position of surrender while Bruce's finger pointed straight down at him. "Training starts today."

Alex took several seconds to process this. "Wait...what?" Alex immediately got back up, pushing Bruce's hand out of the way. "What?! Are you serious?" Alex's eyes lit up. "Omega Ops stuff?"

Bruce grinned. "Yeah, that's right. Omega Ops stuff."

This seemed too good to be true. Alex still wasn't entirely sure it was. "This isn't one of your jokes, is it? 'Cause you have a sick sense of humor..."

Bruce shook his head. "Honest—no tricks, no jokes. We can start your training today. If you're up for it, that is."

"Hell yeah!" Alex exclaimed, slapping Bruce on the shoulder.

"Now, just so that we're clear, this doesn't mean you're a member yet. Nor does this mean you'll be going out on any missions. This is simply a precursor to joining the ranks. Training to get you physically and mentally up to scratch."

"Absolutely, no problem. I'm ready. So, what do I address you by? Master? Captain? Chief?"

Bruce frowned. "How about 'dad'?"

Alex shook his head. "No, that's no good. Sensei? Sensei sounds about right." Alex gave Bruce a thumbs-up with one hand and punched the air with the other. "We're going to be learning martial arts, right, Sensei?"

"Yep. Mind you, these first couple of weeks will be some of the hardest in your life. When you're not eating, sleeping, or doing school work, you'll be training."

"I'm up for the challenge. It's not like I haven't been taking care of myself." It was true. Alex was already in excellent shape for a sixteen-year-old. He ate right, exercised regularly, and was managing to incorporate all of the gym equipment into his workout regimen.

Bruce walked a full circle around Alex, looking him over. "Not too bad—it's a start. But we'll be cranking up the intensity...just a smidge." Alex could tell by the evil gleam in Bruce's eye that his idea of a smidge was going to leave him in excruciating pain daily. "But more than that, Alex, the focus of my teachings will be technique. You're going to learn how to fight and how to defend yourself. Hand-to-hand combat against one foe—two foes—several foes."

"Good." Alex was already at the punching bag and striking it with impressive speed. "That's good." He was pumped—but... "I have to ask, Dad... Why the sudden change of heart? I mean, just a few days ago you weren't even considering it."

"I suppose you have Santos to thank for that."

"Mr. Santos?"

"Yeah, he had a talk with me this morning. He went through one of his 'spiritual enlightenments' at the church last night, apparently."

Alex smiled with mild amusement. "Really? A spiritual enlightenment about me?"

"No, not you specifically, but I suppose it was on his 'things to take care of' list. Anyway, we're going through a bit of a precarious time right now, as you may or may not know, and I might have made some people angry." Bruce phrased the last bit as delicately as he could. Alex raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "But as long as we take the proper precautions, there's no need to worry. For example, there's a slim chance that certain parties will try to get to me through you, Alex. That's why, until further notice, when you leave the house, you'll inform Santos, Varick, or myself; and we'll arrange an escort for you."

Alex laughed. "Wait, no-no, time out, I don't need a babysitter. I can watch my own back."

Bruce raised a hand to stop any further argument from Alex. "I'm sure you can, but it's happening anyway."

Alex scoffed. "Well, what's the point of this training, then? I thought it was to learn how to defend myself. Don't need that if I have someone holding my hand to cross the street to school." The basement stairs creaked as Santos and Varick came down them.

"Well now, what's happening here?" Varick asked.

"Ah, good timing, guys," Bruce responded. "I was just telling Alex a little bit about the current situation with the Legion."

"And how I need to be escorted off the premises, apparently," Alex muttered. "You guys sign up for this?"

Varick shook his head. "This is the first time I'm hearing about it."

"But that is the plan," Bruce confirmed. "You'll always have someone safeguarding you, Alex, but it won't be intrusive—they'll have no contact with you. In fact, I'd be surprised if you were able to notice your tail. As you know, we Legion members are a slick bunch."

"Well, as long as no one else notices it..."

"Believe me, we want that even less than you," Bruce replied.

Alex scratched his head. "But are you sure it's absolutely necessary? Surely you guys have better things to do than waste time watching over little old me?"

Varick grinned. "You got that right. But since I have the busted ribs, I won't be much use anyway and won't have the pleasure of changing your diapers, kid."

"Well, Dad's started training me, so pretty soon I might be the one changing your diapers, old man," Alex countered.

Varick raised an eyebrow. "Really? You started training?"

"Impressive, right?"

Varick looked to Bruce, who confirmed the news with a nod. Varick stuck out a hand. "Well then, I guess congratulations are in order, Alex. One step closer to working alongside us."

Alex shook Varick's hand. "Thanks."

"But you have a long way to go before you can stand toe-to-toe with me," Varick said, smirking.

"Yeah?" Alex was still holding Varick's hand and tried to pull him in, putting one arm around Varick's neck and aimed a kick at Varick's shins for the takedown. Alex was leaning back with all of his weight off balance, but Varick barely budged. In response, Varick stuck his foot behind Alex's leading leg and simply pushed him over.

Varick laughed. "Even with my injuries, you're going to have to do a lot better than that."

Alex got back on his feet, grumbling. "Touché." It suddenly dawned on Alex what he just did. "Crap—sorry, Varick. I completely forgot about the ribs; I didn't mean to attack you like that. You just don't give off the vibe of someone recovering from injuries."

"Well, since you didn't actually do anything, no harm done."

Alex was impressed. "Isn't it painful? Walking around and stuff?"

"Extremely," Varick said, grinning. "But I don't plan on lying in bed twenty-four-seven until this heals."

Hmm. Varick always did strike Alex as a glutton for punishment. The doorbell rang upstairs.

"Wonder who that is?" Bruce muttered.

"Who knows. I'll get it." Varick made his way back upstairs. He waved a hand before leaving. "Train hard, Alex."

"Will do."

"Maybe I'll head back up too—let you guys get to it," Santos said.

"Actually, I might need your help for this first part of training," Bruce responded. "Stick around."

Santos shrugged. "Sure."

"Hey, thanks for talking to my dad, Mr. Santos. I heard you were the one that convinced him to start training me."

"Don't mention it, Alex; I did the easy part." Santos smiled. "You're the one that's going to have to endure it."

Varick caught the door on the second ring and was greeted by familiar faces. "The guy that's supposed to be on his death bed is getting the door..." Roy grinned. "And yet, I'm not surprised." Varick didn't expect to see his friends from the NYPD on the front steps in civvies.

"What are you guys doing here?"

"We came to see you of course!" Laura said, beaming. In her hand was a large brown paper bag.

"Well, I don't know where you heard death bed, but I'm fine. Couple of broken ribs—nothing time won't fix." Varick eyed Laura and then turned to Roy and Henry. "Why did you bring her along? You do realize that the location of this manor isn't something we just hand out, right? We can't be bringing just anyone here."

Laura sneered. "Varick...I will punch you in the ribs."

"That's quite a temper."

"Left side or right? Maybe I'll punch you twice to make sure I hit the broken ones."

Varick raised up his hands in surrender. "Hey, well, if Roy and Henry vouch for you, that's good enough for me."

"Don't worry, John, she can be trusted," Henry reassured. "Her loyalty to the police and to the just cause is unquestionable."

"Well, that's good to hear..." Varick gave a sarcastic thumbs-up to Laura, who responded with an equally sarcastic smile and the finger.

"Alright, well, come on in, then," Varick said, stepping aside.

"Oh wow, what a beautiful dog!" Laura exclaimed. She put down her paper bag and bent down to pet Leo; he was waiting behind Varick to see who was at the door. "Is he yours, Varick?"

"Yeah, I suppose he is."

The long ridge of hair running in the opposite direction of the rest of the dog's coat caught Laura's attention, as it did most first timers. "Well, look at that, that's really gorgeous. What kind of dog is he?"

"Rhodesian Ridgeback. One of the few breeds that have the ridge along the back."

Roy made a quick click of the tongue. "How goes it, Leo?" Leo wagged his tail and let out a bark to greet Roy.

"Well, it's good to see you up and about, John," Henry said.

Laura looked up from petting Leo. "I thought he preferred being called Varick?"

Henry shrugged. "He prefers Varick, but I prefer John."

"I told him the first few times but gave up," Varick explained. "Schucker's stubborn like that."

"Anyone else around?" Roy asked.

"Yeah, Bruce is downstairs training his kid to fight. Santos is with them too; we probably shouldn't disturb them."

"Oh really? Bruce is planning to get his son into your club, huh?"

"Looks like it. I mean, it was always going to happen—was just a matter of when." Varick walked into the living room and plopped down onto the sofa. "Grab a seat, gents and lady."

"Sure, but we only came for a quick visit to see how you were doing after the fight with that Gregory Pike," Laura informed. She picked up her bag off the ground and followed Henry and Roy into the living room.

"Oh, sorry, you want a place to put your things?" Varick stood up. "I can take that off your hands."

"Sure, thanks." Laura handed Varick the bag. "It's for you actually."

Varick was taken aback. "Yeah? What is it?"

"Shrimp fried jasmine rice," Roy responded on her behalf. "The way Laura makes this rice is absolutely amazing. It's got a South Asian flavor to it—really spicy."

"That's what I like to hear. The spicier the better." Varick looked into the bag and a delicious aroma greeted him. He scrunched it closed again. "So, Ms. Bennett can cook?"

Laura shrugged. "Well, if you consider stealing recipes out of books cooking, then yes, I can cook."

Varick cracked a rare smile. "Thanks, Laura, you didn't need to go through the trouble."

"No problem. I figured it's always nice to get food packages when you're sick...or in your case, broken bones after a fight."

***

"Alright, Sensei, I'm ready when you are." Alex raised his hands in a fighting stance.

"Ready for what? You don't even know what we're doing."

"No sparring? See where I stand? What I need to work on?"

Bruce waved a hand, dismissing all notions Alex had about training. "No. Sit down." Alex sat down on the carpet obediently. Bruce sat down as well and invited Santos to do the same.

"So...what are we doing, then?" Alex asked.

"Orientation. I want you to really understand what the Omega Ops Legion entails. What you will learn and what is expected from you."

Alex stared down at the carpet between his feet. "You know, Dad, it struck me as odd. I've grown up surrounded by people in the Legion, yet I barely know anything about the organization. I mean, my own father..." Alex suddenly felt an unexpected surge of anger. "I don't even know how you became involved in this thing. Hell, your whole past is shrouded in mystery... Don't I have the right to know these things?"

Bruce stared at his son intently. "Okay, Alex. No more secrets. We'll start off orientation day with a history lesson..."

***

8:00 p.m.

Scorcher and his overseas guests were at his premier place of business, the Chital Co. Tower in Manhattan. Attending the summit was the heads of the crime syndicate within Scorcher's circle: Samuel Turly, Tony Calzone, Ulysses Frost, Gregory Pike, and of course the guests of honor: Hachiuma and his Thai mercenaries. Hachiuma sat down behind the luxury English cherry wood desk, center stage. His Thai mercenaries stood behind him.

Scorcher cleared his throat to address Hachiuma. "I usually sit behind there."

Hachiuma glared at him. "The person in charge sits in the place of prominence. You are not in charge. I came here because you could not take charge."

Scorcher raised his hands in defence. "Hey-hey, no need to get all snippy. You're the guest, you can take the big-boy desk."

Scorcher sat down on a chair beside the rest of the party. We'll see how well you can handle Bruce.

"So, what is the strategy, here?" Turly asked.

"Patience. We are going to bide our time." Hachiuma looked from Turly to Scorcher. "Tell me exactly how the pecking order works here in New York."

Scorcher's eye gleamed. "The head honchos are all in front of you. Information and orders trickle down from the bodies in this room: Tony has his mafia goon squad, Frosty has a lot of random psychos at his disposal and some drug cartel connections—real snow-blowers. And Turly—I'm sure you know all about him already; he's the glue that keeps it all together."

Hachiuma looked at Pike. "And what do you do?"

Pike shrugged. "I blow stuff up."

Scorcher's devilish smile flashed. "Yes you do. He's quite good at it. You know, I kinda wish I was there to see that tanker truck explode. I'll admit, at first, I was peeved about losing all our weapons...but in hindsight, it looked like good fun. Good fun indeed." Scorcher looked up at the ceiling dreamily. "Yes-yes, that is the price of fun..." Pike laughed uncertainly.

Hachiuma was not amused. He opted to ignore Scorcher's ramblings and carry on. "Each of you will inform your respective parties that until further notice, Bruce Kasparov is not to be engaged."

"What if he attacks us first?" Pike asked.

"Then blow him up, or whatever it is you do. I'm not expecting you to roll over and die if he brings the fight to us." The intercom on Scorcher's desk began to beep. Hachiuma leapt out of the chair and his body engulfed in a fiery spectacle. "WHAT IS THAT NOISE?!" Hachiuma bellowed in an unbridled fury.

"Wow...relax," Scorcher muttered. "It's my phone." Scorcher walked up to the desk and switched on the intercom.

"Scorcher! When I went to sleep last night in an intoxicated haze, it just came to me, one word, just like that..."

Scorcher laughed into the intercom. "Lomez, is that you?"

"Halloween, my friend. Hallo-freakin'-ween."

"You're throwing a party?"

"I'm throwing a party! Saturday, October 30th. Now I know that you're terribly self-conscious about your garish appearance, so what better time to come than when everyone's costumed up. With that grotesque face, you'll be the belle of the ball!"

"Hey-hey! I never said I was self-conscious! You were the one self-conscious about having a psychotic alien-looking criminal at your parties."

"Rubbish! Absolute rubbish! Okay. Okay-okay, but come down to Pennsylvania a couple days before the thirtieth. We'll hop in my plane, fly to L.A., and we'll completely bomb it. Tell me you can make it?"

Scorcher looked around the room as everyone stared at him. Hachiuma was sitting back down, watching him, stone-faced. "Damn right I can make it!"

"See, now that's what I like about you, Scorcher. Whatever evil maniacal scheme you're in the middle of—and don't even tell me you aren't—don't you even deny it!"

"Now why would I try to lie to you, Lomez?"

Lomez laughed. "You can put aside the work for the play. You got your priorities right, good sir. Prepare thyself!" Scorcher turned off the intercom. He looked around to find everyone still staring at him.

Hachiuma growled. "Finished?"

Scorcher smacked himself on the forehead. "Where are my manners, should I have asked Lomez to toss an invite your way?" Hachiuma stood up, bearing down on the lot of them and continued as if there was no interruption:

"We will wait for the right opportunity to trap Kasparov. Until then, absolutely no moves against him. I want to find out everything there is to know about this soon to be dead Legion guardian..."

***

## Chapter 8 – Summer '68

"C'mon, you're not trying hard enough!" Bruce's legs pumped across the soccer field. Peter was red in the face from trying to keep up, but it was no good.

"I can't...too...fast..." He stopped running and collapsed onto the grass.

The twelve-year-old Bruce Kasparov looked back at Peter Santos, disappointed. "Don't give up!" Bruce walked back and hoisted Peter to his feet. "If we're going to enlist, we need to be all that we can be—so don't be a goddamn wuss!"

The year is 1968. The Vietnam War is in full effect, with America having over half a million soldiers committed to the war efforts to prevent the spread of communism to South Vietnam. A ceasefire was agreed upon so that the Tet Lunar New Year festivities could take place unimpeded. But there is no honor in war. It was during this arranged ceasefire that North Vietnam launched the Tet Offensive: a series of surprise attacks against civilian and military positions. American soldiers were able to regroup and drive back the North Vietnam advances, but the damage was done and the death toll was high.

Following the battles waged during the Tet offensive, the media brought to light, in graphic detail, the situation in Vietnam. It had become apparent to the American people that the U.S. government was not giving them all the facts. Public support for the war began to waiver. Many Americans began to question the possibility of an American victory and the integrity of the war itself. Was the United States right in sending troops to Vietnam to enforce their own containment policy?

This was the year the Omega Ops Legion recruited two of its finest members.

It was a late afternoon in July. The sun was still up and beating down hard. Bruce and Santos were out in the park with three other boys: Matthew Kerr, age 15; Dillon Byrons, age 14; and Charlie Walker, age 10. What these five had in common was that they were all in the care of Charlie Walker's parents. While Bruce and Santos ran in the field, the other three were on the sidelines at the picnic benches. Matthew bounced a soccer ball from one foot to the other. Dillon was lying down on the grass, watching Matthew's soccer skills in quiet reverie. Matthew bounced a particularly high kick with his thigh and glanced over at Charlie, who was not partaking in the activities. "Hey, Charlie, why don't you join Bruce and Pete in their sprints?"

"No, thanks."

"How about kicking the soccer ball around?"

"No, thanks," he repeated. Charlie was seated on the picnic bench, absorbed in a Go board.

Dillon sat up and looked drearily at the board. "Don't you need two people to play that?"

"I'm just practicing," Charlie replied absentmindedly. He placed another white stone on the board and studied the effect. "Learning the subtle nuances of life and death..."

"What happened to your chess fixation? At least with that there was fighting, like a war."

"Chess is more like an individual battle, actually. Go is a war and might just be the better game, from my experience so far."

Dillon looked at the board again. "Yeah, I don't see it. Looks like a mess of black and white dots to me." He grinned. "My guess is someone beat you bad at chess and you, being the sour-grape-eating baby you are, switched to this 'Go' of yours to save face."

Charlie scoffed. "Oh please, we both know I can beat anyone in the house at chess. And don't get me wrong, I haven't given up chess. I've simply decided to become a disciple of Go as well. And why Go you ask?"

"I didn't ask. It's okay, I don't need know, really..."

"To put it in terms you can understand, Go is older than chess, simpler than chess, and far more strategic. How can it be simpler and more strategic, you ask?"

"No, I believe you, really. You don't need to explain."

"Actually, this was one of my contentions with chess. The setup and the way the pieces move seemed to just be arbitrarily determined. Why does the knight move in an L-shape, for example? Why not hop every other square instead, or move any two squares orthogonally? In this sense, the game is rigid. Go, on the other hand, feels organic. No frills, no fancy movements. It's simply boiled down to black and white stones of equal value. Their value is created in how well they work together. Abstract strategy bliss."

"Okay-okay, the little genius can study his board games and massage his ego. As for me, I'm going to play keep-ups with Matt—a real game. Hey, Matt, kick me the ball!" Dillon shouted.

Matt bounced the ball high up and popped a header in Dillon's direction. Dillon waited for the ball to fall to chest height and then, with his hand, smacked the ball at the Go board. The black and white stones scattered onto the bench, with several dropping into the grass. Charlie balled his hands into fists. "You idiot!" he yelled. Dillon ran away laughing as Charlie chased after him.

Well, look at that... Charlie's fast when he wants to be, Matt thought to himself. He then looked down the field to where Bruce and Peter were running and corrected the thought: Charlie's fast in comparison with Dillon. Charlie had miraculously managed to catch Dillon—but now that he had, he didn't know what to do with him. Dillon pushed him down with one hand and laughed. Matthew shook his head. "Knock it off, Dillon. Let's head back."

Dillon shrugged. "Yeah, okay." He extended a hand and helped Charlie back to his feet.

Matt picked up his soccer ball and jogged onto the field. He called out to Bruce and Peter: "Hey! Come back guys, we're heading home!"

***

The boys walked back to their house, joking and laughing. Charlie was still upset about his board game, however. They were now just a few blocks from their house. "Hey, Matt, I'll race you the rest of the way home," Bruce challenged.

"Didn't you do enough running at the park?"

"I can still take you!" said Bruce determinedly.

"Yeah, right, let's save it for another day; we're practically home anyway," Matt replied.

"Alright, fine," Bruce replied, sulking. In truth, Bruce had never been able to outrun Matt. But this was only due to Matt being older than Bruce. It was the fact that Bruce was unable to beat Matt that made him so eager to take on the challenge.

Matt fumbled around in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. They had arrived at a large house that had belonged to the Walkers for three generations. The Walker family was a middle-class family that lived in Manhattan, New York. Chesterfield Walker was a carpenter, and his wife, Meredith, was a stay-at-home mother. The couple had two boys: 24-year-old Doug and 10-year-old Charlie. Despite the Walker family not being particularly wealthy, they had big hearts and were well-loved by their neighbourhood. They were involved with many charity events such as food drives and clothing donations. However, their biggest gift to the world was their role as foster parents to orphan boys. Over the years, they had adopted several children, Bruce and Santos included. Financially, they would not be able to undertake such an endeavor if not for their charity efforts being sponsored by members in the Legion.

The five boys stepped into the house and were surprised to find two strangers in the entrance hall talking with Charlie's dad, Chester. They were an odd pairing indeed. One was a tall Englishman. He was slim, with a well-groomed brown beard that matched his suit. The second was an older Asian gentleman. He was short in stature and was wearing a pale orange robe over dress pants and a shirt. The robe was held snugly in place with a wide golden sash.

"Ah, boys, you're home!" Charlie's father greeted. "We have guests, as you can see. This is Mr. Alastor Moore and Mr. Keion Shyu—acquaintances of mine." One by one, Chester introduced each of the boys to the two gentlemen. Their interest piqued when they got around to Bruce.

"Ah, and this is Bruce," Mr. Shyu said, while shaking hands. Mr. Moore looked over Bruce with twinkling eyes.

Charlie's wife walked in from the kitchen and her mouth dropped open in shock. "Oh, just look at you, Bruce!" she exclaimed, pinching his cheek. "You're all sticky!"

"Ow!" Bruce mumbled, as he pushed her hand away.

"You need to go take a bath and clean yourself up when we have guests!" She looked over the other four boys. "That goes for the rest of you too!"

"It's quite alright, Mrs. Walker," Alastor Moore said. "You know the old saying, 'boys will be boys'." Alastor smiled at the group. "You were all at the park, I understand?"

Bruce noticed that when Mr. Moore spoke, there was a certain warmth in his candor. "Yeah, just playing around. Soccer and stuff," Bruce replied.

"Good-good. Bruce, do you mind if we have a word with you in private?"

"Um...sure, I don't mind."

"You can go into the living room if you'd like," Chester suggested, directing them down the hall with his hand.

"Yes, that would be perfect, thank you," Alastor replied. Bruce followed Mr. Moore and Mr. Shyu into the hallway, sneaking an uncertain glance back at his foster brothers, who returned the look of confusion.

Bruce, Mr. Shyu, and Mr. Moore were now standing alone in the living room. "Bruce, allow me to properly introduce ourselves. Mr. Shyu and myself are part of an organization known as the Omega Ops Legion. Have you heard of us before?"

"Hmm...no," Bruce answered truthfully.

"As it should be. I didn't expect Chester to tell you about us, and we don't really advertise." Alastor Moore smiled. "I am a friend of Charlie's father—we go back a long way. But back on topic: We, the Legion as a whole, have always encouraged the pursuing of charity efforts, such as in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Walker and their generous contributions to their community. Philanthropy is one aspect of what it is we do. The other two facets of the Legion are mentorship and peacekeeping."

"Peacekeeping?" Bruce laughed before he could stop himself. "By that you mean fighting and battles?"

Alastor Moore smiled. "As a last resort, yes. Simply put, the Legion does everything within its power to make the world a better place—which brings us to why we are here. Chester has told us quite a bit about you, Bruce. From the time you joined the Walkers' family, he knew there was something special about you."

Bruce's eyes grew wide. "Something special? ...What?"

"The potential to do great things. From a young age, you've showed incredible drive, perseverance, and most importantly, a very strong sense of moral obligation. A duty to do what is right. For these traits to be instilled in someone so young is quite remarkable. We place a great deal of stock in Chester's intuition."

Bruce ruminated about what he was being told. "So, you want me to join this organization, the Omega Ops Legion?"

"Sharp and to the point," Mr. Moore replied, smiling.

"Yes, a young man like you has much to offer the world," Mr. Shyu added. "Such an organization would nurture your true potential. I would personally be one of the teachers to train you."

"So then, you're a teacher from the Legion?"

"Well, speaking specifically, he is the current Grandmaster of the Legion," Mr. Moore stated on Keion Shyu's behalf.

"Oh—so, the boss?"

"Grandmaster," Mr. Moore repeated. "This is obviously a lot to take in. Joining the Legion is a calling that will become a member's life, in a manner of speaking. You will need time to talk this over with your family."

"There's no need," Bruce said. "I'm grateful that you considered me for this organization, and it does sound really great—something I would want to be a part of...but I can't join. I have other plans for my future."

"Really?" Mr. Moore stroked his bearded chin. "May I be so bold as to inquire what young Bruce has planned for himself?" Bruce hesitated. After all, these two men were still strangers to him.

"It's okay, son; you can talk to them." Bruce turned to see that Chester had walked into the living room. "You don't have to doubt these two, Bruce. They're family too."

"Okay," Bruce said, relaxing a little. Bruce trusted Chester, and if he vouched for these two, he had no reason to hide anything from them.

"Hey, but before you guys really get into it, why doesn't everyone grab seats; there's no need to stand around!" Chester exclaimed. He ushered them towards the couches. "Sit-sit!"

"Thank you, Chester," said Mr. Moore. They all found a spot on the sofa set: Mr. Shyu on the armchair, Mr. Moore on the loveseat, and Bruce and Chester on the three-piece.

"So, what are your plans, Bruce?" Mr. Moore asked.

"I want to join the army," Bruce replied. "I want to be able to protect my country and protect my family." Bruce looked down at his feet to hide the faint trace of sadness across his face. "If the war's still going on when I join, I want to be able to help the people overseas."

Mr. Moore nodded appreciatively. "Well, that's very admirable of you, Bruce. Self-sacrifice is the highest calling a man can strive for."

Mr. Shyu leaned forward. "I know this is a difficult time for you, Bruce—for your family. I understand that three of your foster brothers are fighting overseas."

Bruce nodded solemnly. "We haven't heard from them in months."

Chester placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "We can still hope and keep them in our prayers. There's Flint Pederson, the eldest of my foster boys; Ned Crawford, the youngest in the trio; and my son Doug; he'll be twenty-five in August." Chester smiled. "Those three are inseparable. The three musketeers. I hope they're taking care of each other out there."

"I'm going to join the army like them," Bruce stated adamantly. "And like my dad... They knew it was the right thing to do, and I do too."

Alastor Moore nodded. "Tell me, Bruce, what are your thoughts on the conflict in Vietnam?"

"We need to keep fighting to defend South Vietnam."

"Really? The media is starting to tell a different story. What do you make of that?"

"Well, they can say whatever they want, but that doesn't make them right." Bruce clenched his fists. "What would be wrong is to sit and do nothing while people get killed. North Vietnam is trying to impose communist rule over South Vietnam through force. It's a system that doesn't work. In theory, communism sounds good, but the power corrupts, and people are ruled over with an iron fist. I don't think it's wrong to fight for the right cause, but what North Vietnam is fighting for will eventually rob people of their freedom."

Keion Shyu smiled. "You are very opinionated and speak passionately for someone so young. And you are not wrong in what you are saying. It's the sad truth of this world. Peace and freedom are a constant war. I do not want to dissuade you from your goals, but I will tell you this: To become a Legion member will be a life changing experience, and someone of your character would benefit greatly from it. How long until you are old enough to enlist for military service?"

"Six years."

"Well, you know, you can always do both. Legion training can start at any age as long as the candidate is ready. You're only competing against yourself, so you dictate the pace of training."

"I could start right now?"

"Absolutely."

Bruce contemplated the possibility. "But even still...once I'm eighteen, then what? I want my commitment to be to the army."

"I'll make you a deal, Bruce. You take a chance with us. Commit the next six years to the Legion, and it will change your life and your perspective on the world."

"What if I like my perspective?"

Keion chuckled. "Well, we just give you more and more pieces to puzzles. You can arrange them however you wish."

"And when I'm eighteen?"

"When you're eighteen, you are free to choose whatever path is right for you."

"So, if I want to...I can just leave?"

"Yes."

Bruce found this hard to believe. "Wouldn't that just be a waste of everyone's time? Investing six years and then just giving it up?"

Keion shook his head. "Not at all. That is the beauty of this learning process. What you learn will never go to waste. And what we will teach you in those six years will get you that much more prepared to face the world. Like we said, you have the strength of character to put our teachings towards bettering the world. And, in the end, that's what the Legion is all about. It's an investment, on our part. Being an official member of our organization or not is immaterial."

"What are you kids doing!" Charlie's mother could be heard screaming from the other side of the wall. It was apparent that Mr. Moore and Mr. Shyu had a secret audience. "How dare you go eavesdropping on a private conversation! I raised you kids better than that!"

"Mom, I didn't want to, and I tried to stop them, but they forced—"

"Oh shut up, Charles; you're the worst one in the bunch!"

"Huh?! No, not me!" Muffled laughter could be heard.

"What are you laughing at, Dillon!? You kids get upstairs and get ready for bed!" Charlie's mother always tried to put all of them to bed extra-early when she got annoyed with them.

Chester stood up. "Sorry about that. I'll be sure to discipline them for their intrusion."

Alastor Moore chuckled. "Nonsense." Alastor waved a hand for Chester to sit back down. "They're just curious, and we're not exactly discussing matters of national security here." Keion watched Bruce, who was unfettered by the distraction—he was still mulling over his options.

Bruce looked up. "Mr. Shyu—Mr. Moore—could I be part of the army and a member of the Legion at the same time?"

Mr. Moore blinked. "But of course! I'm sorry, it must have slipped our minds to mention that. Many of our members have other careers alongside their Legion duties. Police officers, politicians, lawyers, doctors, teachers, and every sort of profession you can imagine. And, of course, several enlisted in military service."

Bruce jumped off his seat. "Really!? That's perfect!" He pumped his fists in excitement. "So I can do both!"

"I take it you're interested in joining, then?" Keion asked, smiling.

"You bet! It sounds awesome!"

"Now you know, Bruce—for us to train you, you will have to spend several years in Asia. This is where I reside," Mr. Shyu stated.

Bruce lowered his hands and his heart began to sink. "What? I have to leave the country? My family?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. But this is what young people do when they are discovering themselves. They must travel."

"But couldn't I stay here and still join the Legion somehow?"

"There are members situated all over the world and several here in the States that are capable of undertaking a pupil. Normally, this is what I would suggest. But upon having met you, Bruce, I feel it is imperative that I be the one to train you. There is much you can be taught and a few things that I alone can teach."

"He is the best," Mr. Moore attested.

Bruce looked to Chester apprehensively for input. Chester shrugged. "It's up to you, Bruce. We would miss having you around the house. But I think this just might be your calling in life—and it won't be forever. When you're all grown up, you can come back and visit us."

Bruce stared up at the ceiling; his eyes were starting to water. "I don't know what to do..."

"Well, Bruce, don't say anything just yet, then," said Mr. Shyu. "We are in town until Monday. Get a good night's sleep and think it over with your family tomorrow. We'll drop by before we leave to have your answer. This is a big decision."

Chester stood up. "Well, before leaving right now, how about something to drink?"

Mr. Moore thoughtfully stroked his chin with a thumb and forefinger. "Well, a tea would be grand."

***

Bruce walked up the stairs with his head reeling from the conversation he had with Mr. Moore and Mr. Shyu. He opened the door to his room, which he shared with Peter and Charlie. He was hardly surprised to find both of them awake, along with Matthew and Dillon in the room. There were three small beds in the room, side by side. The boys were sitting on the two end beds and were using the middle bed as a table for their card game. "So, how much did you guys hear?"

"Bits and pieces, Bruce. Not enough to make sense of it." Matthew stood up. "Fill us in on what that was all about."

"They want me to join some group. Peacekeepers or something."

"Did they give you a name?" Matthew questioned.

"Yeah. The Omega Ops Legion." Matthew's eyes grew wide. "You know about them?" Bruce questioned.

"Who are they, Matt?" Dillon asked.

Matt looked around the room. "Really? You guys don't listen to the radio?"

"I read..." Charlie muttered under his breath.

"They're a secret order and they have influence worldwide—fingers in every cookie jar."

"Yeah? What do they do?" Bruce asked, intrigued.

"I'm not entirely sure. Their whole existence is shrouded in rumors and hearsay. It's a big conspiracy."

Charlie frowned. "That doesn't sound like a good thing."

"Well, those two friends of your dad are a part of it," Bruce countered. "And that Mr. Shyu was the boss of the whole thing, apparently. They do humanitarian aid for people in need and wage wars against tyrants, from what I gathered."

"Are they fighting in 'Nam?" Charlie asked.

"Probably. If your dad trusts them, Charlie, then so do I."

"Depending on the source, people spin them either way," Matt informed. "Maybe they are something good; I have no clue."

"They want me to leave the country to train with them."

Peter's eyes grew wide. "Whoa—how long?"

"Six years. In Asia."

Matthew laughed. "You'd never get me to go along with those terms—no way."

"Same here," said Dillon. "Taking orders from a couple of strangers in a foreign country? No, thanks."

"Are you going to do it, Bruce?" Charlie asked.

"I don't know... What do you guys think?"

Matt folded his arms in front of him. "You heard what we think. Now do what you gotta do."

Bruce's eyes darted back and forth as he thought. He knew what was really holding him back. He wanted to join. He wanted to help. But he didn't want to face it on his own. If there was just one familiar face to go on this journey with him...

"I'll go with you." Bruce looked at Peter in surprise. "If you're joining, Bruce, I want to go too."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. This is what we wanted to do, isn't it? A chance to make a difference. If they'll accept me too, I'll go."

Bruce placed a hand on Santos' shoulder. "Then I won't go unless they accept both of us."

Dillon smirked. "Oh you kids and your ideals."

***

The next morning, Bruce woke up with butterflies in his stomach. He glanced at the wall clock in the room. It was only six, but he was wide awake. Peter and Charlie were still sound asleep. He silently crept out of bed and opened the closet door. He began to rummage through his clothes and toss them into the duffel bag he had lying on the floor. He didn't have many possessions—the one bag was more than sufficient. Bruce decided that the few toys he owned, he would leave behind. He had no more use for such things. He was becoming a man at the age of twelve.

The evening came much too quickly for Bruce. Or maybe it couldn't come fast enough, he couldn't decide. He was feeling extremely excited and nervous all day long. Bruce and Peter had spent a quiet day at home with their foster family. Precious moments like these were few and far between, and they cherished them dearly. They would likely be the last for a long time because today was the day they would embark upon a new life. Peter was still uncertain about his fate, but both Bruce and Chester were confident that he would be accepted. A knock on the door signalled that the time to part ways had come. Chester opened the door with Bruce and Santos standing behind him.

"Well, I see bags packed; that's a good sign," Mr. Moore said. He and Mr. Shyu stepped inside the Walkers' house.

"So, Bruce, have you come to a decision?" Mr. Shyu asked.

"Yes—I would be honored to join you. And I would also like you to accept Peter for training as well."

Chester nudged Peter forward. "Gentlemen, you met Peter yesterday—it appears he has a keen interest in joining the Legion as well." Peter stood nervously on the spot.

"Hello again, Peter," said Mr. Shyu. "What has made you interested in joining the Legion?"

"I want to be in a position to help people, like Bruce is going to be."

"And you would like to train alongside Bruce, I take it?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Shyu studied Peter without saying anything. The hallway was silent. Peter stared back anxiously at Mr. Shyu. "Yes, you have much to offer the world as well, Peter."

Mr. Moore smiled. "Are you up for the challenge of training two youngsters, Master Keion?"

Mr. Shyu cleared his throat. "I believe I can handle it."

"Yeah!" Bruce yelled out in celebration, slapping Peter hard on the back. Santos exhaled a deep sigh of relief and broke into a grin.

Mr. Shyu smiled. "Bruce Kasparov and Peter Santos: Welcome to the Omega Ops Legion."

It was a bittersweet day for Peter and Bruce. Their family had gathered at the stairs to say their goodbyes. Mr. and Mrs. Walker, Matthew, Dillon, and Charlie were going to miss them both very much. Bruce knew he would return one day, but it wouldn't be for a while. When the time came, Bruce hoped that his foster brothers overseas would be safe at home to greet him.

***

## Chapter 9 – The Mountain Temple

July 1968

A week had passed since Bruce left New York City. This was the first time he had left the country or even boarded a plane, for that matter. The flight over was comfortable, and despite all the fuss he had heard about airline food, he found it to be quite enjoyable.

The group had taken the scenic route from New York, stopping a few days in India to take in the sights and meet some very interesting Legion members and associates. But now, they were in the vicinity of approaching their final destination: They had arrived in Tibet. The group trekked along one of the lesser travelled mountain passes running from India through Tibet. Bruce, Peter, Alastor Moore, and Grandmaster Keion Shyu each wore a large rucksack packed with the essentials for their journey. During their stopover in India, they had purchased additional warm clothing for very cheap. But at the moment, there was no need for extra layers. Despite the dry air, the weather was pleasant. Bruce looked down at the short grass he trod upon. "You know, for a place known as 'the land of snows', I don't see much snow."

"Well, it is the summertime after all, Bruce," Keion replied from the front of the group, as he led the way up the mountain pass. "You'd be surprised how diverse the climate in Tibet is, depending on the location and season." Peter, on the other hand, was absolutely taken by where he was. His first and only reaction was 'wow'. He was not attuned to such splendor and majesty. Open land that stretched as far as his eye could see, laid against a backdrop of the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas. Peter never thought himself a nature nut, but after living in the concrete jungles of New York...the contrast was staggering.

They had been walking for several hours now, and darkness was falling quickly. Both Peter and Bruce were aching and tired, but continued to press forward without complaint. The group had stopped earlier in their journey for a simple pre-packed supper and to put on their sweaters. They could tell they were reaching higher altitudes as the cold began to settle in.

"So, how close are we exactly?" Bruce asked casually, trying to mask his concern.

"Do you need a break, Bruce?" Alastor asked.

Bruce scoffed. "No, not me. I'm good."

"Good. I estimate another five hours before we reach our destination."

"What?!" Bruce and Peter shouted in unison.

Peter sat down in the dirt. "I give up."

Keion stopped walking and let out a chuckle. "Don't worry, we didn't plan on arriving tonight." Keion surveyed the area. "We shall set up camp here—it is getting dark, after all."

"Thank God," Bruce muttered. He sat down beside Santos. Alastor and Keion each unloaded the components they were carrying which formed a large four-person tent. In addition to this, each of the four was travelling with a sleeping bag. Alastor and Keion began to unroll the tent fabrics and place the frame poles.

"You don't want to help?" Alastor asked the two boys. "We can't rest just yet!" Bruce and Peter exchanged glances. "It's fun!" The two boys sighed and hoisted themselves off the ground.

With the tent pitched and the sleeping bags set up inside, it was time to call it a night. Bruce tossed and turned in his hoodie. Even though he was tired from all the walking, he was unable to fall asleep. He supposed it was due to all the rapid changes in his life over the past week. Just like that, he had uprooted himself and left it all behind. He glanced at Peter, who was in the adjacent sleeping bag—he was knocked out cold. Alastor and Keion were asleep as well. He slowly crawled out of his sleeping bag and unzipped the tent door. Bruce stood outside and surveyed his surroundings. The night air was cool on his face, and it seemed to wash away his physical tiredness completely. Bruce looked up at the night sky: it was clear and crisp; the stars were shining brightly. He had never seen so many. Bruce instinctively sat down on the dirt to take it all in. It really was beautiful. Bruce decided he would head back to the tent in a few minutes. But right now, he simply wanted to enjoy the moment.

***

The next morning, Bruce woke up to find himself alone in the tent. He scrambled to his feet and unzipped the tent door. Keion, Alastor, and Peter were seated outside on the ground, waiting for him, apparently. "Good morning, Bruce," Keion greeted.

Alastor chuckled and got to his feet. "Well, look who's finally up. We were considering just collapsing the tent with you inside. Now that you're up and about, we can take it down." Alastor waved at Keion to sit back down. "The boys and I can handle this, Keion."

"As you wish." Keion once again assumed a lotus position on the ground and closed his eyes.

The boys followed Alastor to the tent. "What time did everyone wake up?" Bruce whispered to Peter.

"About an hour ago. I woke up when Mr. Shyu and Mr. Moore woke up."

"Should have woken me up too..." Bruce muttered.

"I wanted to kick you awake, but they told me to leave you be," Peter said, grinning.

It was still early in the morning. The sun shined brightly upon Alastor and the boys as they brought down the tent. Quickly and efficiently, everything was packed up, and all their belongings were once again strapped to their backs. Sensing everyone was ready, Keion opened his eyes and stood up. "Come, let us continue on our journey. We have a lot of ground to cover, and the terrain will be far more difficult than what we traversed yesterday."

"Of course, nothing too treacherous," Alastor added quickly, upon seeing Peter and Bruce's expressions.

They had begun their ascent. Higher and higher into the mountains they travelled. The path was rocky and uneven; Bruce was definitely feeling the uphill burn. He glanced at Peter, who was walking beside him: his face was tinged with red, but he saw a fiery determination in his eyes. Peter wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon and neither was he.

One by one, the hours passed. The longer they trekked, the more anticipation Bruce felt for reaching their final destination. He couldn't help but wonder what this place had in store for his future. Keion suddenly raised his hand, signalling a halt. He looked back at the boys and smiled. "We have arrived."

"Just over this ridge," Alastor added.

Peter and Bruce exchanged glances. With their weary bodies re-energized by this revelation, they pumped their legs and raced to the top. The terrain was now level—they had reached a mountain plateau. The weather was cool, and the wind-chill was minimal. Just a hoodie was enough to keep Bruce warm. Some distance away, he saw a large temple. It was a large building with a pillared courtyard entrance. It appeared to be primarily constructed from white stone bricks. It was topped with a two-tiered roof: dark red, with elegant curves and upturned eaves that were synonymous with Chinese architecture. Bruce didn't quite know how to describe it. The building itself was of a simple construction, yet it exuded a grand magnificence. Alastor placed one hand on each of the boys' shoulders. "Any guesses as to how old?"

Peter scratched his head. "Six hundred years?"

"Close. Try doubling that. Estimated to have been built in the seventh century by some of the first Tibetan monks." The group began to walk towards the building.

"So, it's a Tibetan monastery?" Bruce asked.

Keion nodded. "Originally established as one, yes. Living quarters in the monastery; meditation, prayer, and spiritual enlightenment in the temple. But there is something very special about this particular temple monastery. Over the centuries, many pilgrimages have been made to this site by extraordinary people from all over the world—most notably, a group of Shaolin monks that chose to stay and reside within the monastery. With them, they brought the Chinese martial arts, which they diligently practiced and taught here."

Bruce scratched his head. "But why here? Why did all these people choose to travel here? I mean, it's not very accessible..."

"It's hard to say. These great people were naturally drawn to the area." Keion smiled. "Maybe it was something in the air..."

The group was now standing in the monastery courtyard. Keion appeared to be in deep thought. "These walls house no 'one religion or culture'. I'd like to think of it as a place which nurtures the human spirit in the purest sense. This building is one of the pillars the Omega Ops Legion was founded on." Bruce and Peter gazed up at the temple in awestruck reverie. The historical significance of where they were standing was not lost on the boys.

"Come, let us go inside," Keion instructed. Keion and Alastor led the two boys into the temple. Inside, the halls were bathed with natural light, flowing in through the many windows along the walls. There were several people walking through the halls, most of whom were wearing orange or red robes. Alastor and Keion removed their socks and shoes and left them at the entrance, where there were several pairs of shoes, sandals, and boots. Bruce and Peter did the same. The stone floor was cool on Bruce's bare soles.

"Grandmaster Shyu has returned!" Men and women rushed towards Keion and Alastor to greet them. Keion introduced Bruce and Peter to the group as his new disciples.

"If you'll excuse us, I'd like to show these two boys the temple." Keion led the boys through an inner chamber within the temple. Bruce noticed there were several lit candles strategically placed where the natural light from the windows would not reach.

"Would it be a dumb question to ask if there was electricity here?" Bruce whispered to Peter.

"The dumb question is the one not asked, young Bruce," Keion pointed out wisely. "Thank you for not asking it." He continued to casually walk. Peter stifled his laugh. Bruce was shocked by how sharp Keion's hearing was and even more shocked by the unprovoked dig he just received.

"You should feel honored, Bruce. Grandmaster Shyu rarely jokes," Alastor said, smiling.

Keion, Alastor, and the two boys entered a large room that appeared to be a training dojo. An elder Shaolin monk was leading the training of five students. Bruce and Peter watched the students practice their forms in perfect synchronization. Bruce was amazed at the degree of speed and flexibility the students were demonstrating. Peter was surprised to see that two of the students were girls. Now that he thought about it, Peter recalled there were women in the entrance hall as well.

"Continue!" the elder monk instructed. He approached Keion and Alastor to greet them. He then looked to Bruce and Peter. "And I see two new students, yes?"

Keion introduced the two boys to the monk: "This is Master Benny. A Shaolin master and a Legion guardian. I will be training these two, Master Benny."

"Oh, very good, very good." Master Benny smiled at Bruce and Peter. "Train diligently, young ones." Master Benny returned to his post.

Peter observed the boys and girls fall back under Master Benny's lead without missing a beat. He scratched his head. "I thought to become a Shaolin monk you had to be male?"

"Yes, and the female counterpart to that is the Shaolin nun," Keion explained. "But remember, even though this building was established as a monastery, it has grown into something much larger and holds no discrimination or gender bias. It is still a home to Tibetan and Shaolin monks, but also Legion members. These students are training as members of the Legion, not to become Shaolin. I'll introduce you to one of our students. Akira, come forward!" Keion called. A lone teen who appeared to be in deep meditation was sitting in the corner of the dojo. He stood up and walked over to them. "This is Akira: my student and a Legion acolyte," Keion stated. "He is one of the most skilled acolytes at this temple." He was a seventeen-year-old Asian boy, with ghostly-pale skin and black hair. Keion directed his attention to Akira. "Bruce and Peter will be joining training alongside you, Akira."

"Welcome to the temple." Akira shook Peter and Bruce's hands. Bruce was a bit unnerved that the warmth of Akira's words did not meet his eyes.

"Bruce—Peter—you two will be sharing a room in the sleeping quarters adjacent to this training room. Akira will show you to your room—you can leave your backpacks there. It is a simple arrangement, providing a place to lay your head and keep your belongings."

"That's fine; the bare essentials are all I need," Bruce replied. "Once we drop off our stuff, are we going to train like these guys?" Bruce asked excitedly, pointing to the five students Master Benny was instructing.

"That will all come soon enough." Keion raised a finger. "But first, we shall eat!"

***

Bruce poked at his food reluctantly with a spoon. "When we were eating this stuff on the journey here, I thought it was some sort of quick fix travel food..." On his plate was a medley of steamed rice, mixed vegetables, and lentils.

"It's actually not bad," said Peter, after eating a spoonful. "I could get used to this." Bruce, Peter, Akira, Keion, and Alastor were seated on a wooden picnic-style table bench in the temple dining hall.

"What I wouldn't give for a piece of fried chicken," Bruce muttered.

"Sorry, Bruce. In the temple it's a strict vegetarian diet," Alastor responded.

"Wait—don't tell me...Legion members aren't allowed to eat meat?"

Alastor chuckled. "We recommend it, and the temple cooks do not prepare meat dishes. But it's not a mandatory prerequisite. There are plenty of voracious carnivores amongst our ranks. If you can catch something suitable for eating in the surrounding mountain wilderness, by all means." Alastor winked. "But I think you would be better off enjoying this fine temple cuisine."

Bruce tried some of the food. It was edible, but he didn't care for it. "Is it really that bad to eat meat? I mean, it's natural, isn't it? Animals eat other animals for survival."

Alastor stroked his beard. "Well, let me ask you this, Bruce. Do you have any pets?"

"No."

"Would you enjoy having a pet?"

"I suppose. I've always liked dogs."

Alastor nodded approvingly. "I as well. So, let's suppose you had a dog. Would you consider having it for dinner?"

Bruce scoffed. "No, but that's different. It's my pet."

"So then, would you consider eating a stray dog off the street, one that you had no emotional attachment with?"

Bruce paused a moment. "Err...well, no, not a dog."

"So, what's the distinction between a dog, or a cow, or a chicken? A pig? It seems to be an arbitrary one, if any. They're all animals that live, breathe, think, and feel." Bruce stared down at his plate. He had no answer. Alastor smiled. "But you are right, Bruce. Animals eat other animals for survival. We, however, have been given enough reason and intelligence to make a conscious decision to abstain from eating meat. And we have enough knowledge to be aware of how to properly nourish ourselves without the need to slay another living creature."

Akira put down his spoon. "If your survival is dependent on the killing of other living creatures, then you're nothing but a parasite that deserves to be wiped off the face of the earth."

"We don't cast judgements or speak with such malice," Keion warned Akira sternly.

"I wasn't talking to anyone specifically, just a general observation." Akira returned to his meal.

Bruce stared. "Jeez, get a load of Mr. Sunshine," Bruce whispered to Peter. "He says nothing all dinner and then comes out with that gem..."

***

Bruce and Peter washed up after dinner and returned to their room. It was a small room with a bunk bed and a small closet. Peter had won the rock-paper-scissors game for the top bunk and was already tuckered out and sleeping snugly. Bruce, on the other hand, found himself lying awake in his bed, going over the events of the past few days in his head. Alastor Moore had told them he was heading out that night to return back to England. Bruce found it surprising that Mr. Moore came all this way with them, only to leave on the same night, given the distance. It's not like he could magically fly between the two countries on a whim. Bruce was half-hoping that Mr. Moore would be there assisting with the training; he seemed far less intimidating than Grandmaster Shyu. But he supposed that Mr. Moore had more important things to engage in. After all, the grandmaster of the entire organization was personally training Peter and himself already—he wouldn't need the help.

Being aware of the fact that training began tomorrow kept Bruce awake. Exactly what would they learn? He remembered watching Master Benny's pupils. Would he become as good as them? If so, how long would it take him? Or maybe he wouldn't be able to grasp a proper understanding of what he was being taught. And he would never... Bruce rubbed his eyes and shook his head. No, that's loser talk, he told himself. He would become as good as them. Quicker than them. And then, he would surpass them. Bruce had a smile on his face as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

***

Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding! The sound of a bell echoed off the walls in Bruce and Peter's room.

"What the hell..." Bruce rubbed his eyes open. The source of the disturbance was a young Tibetan boy standing in their doorway, several years their junior.

"It is morning! Grandmaster Shyu is ready for you!" the boy proclaimed. He rang his bell again.

"I'm up, I'm up!" Peter moaned from the top bunk.

"What time is it, Peter?" Bruce asked.

"Five thirty..."

Bruce rubbed his hand down his face. "God..."

The pair followed the Tibetan boy out of the room. He seemed to be deliberately trying to stay in front of them. "What's your name?" Bruce asked.

"Dache!" the boy replied excitedly.

"Well, Dache, we know where everything is—the showers, the eating hall, the training room; we got the grand tour yesterday."

"Okay!" Dache continued to walk importantly in front of them.

Bruce looked to Peter for assistance. "So, Dache...you can carry on with your usual things; we can find our way," Peter told the boy politely. "Thank you for your help."

"Okay, bye!" Dache smiled and waved energetically, then proceeded to run down the hall.

"Hey, Dache!" Bruce called. "Next time, ease up on the bell a little, okay?" Dache looked back smiling and waved at them again. He then turned a corner and disappeared.

"Kid needs to ease up on the sugar as well," Peter mumbled.

Bruce and Peter showered and changed, had a quick breakfast of oats and fruit in the dining hall, then joined Keion and Akira in the training room. "Welcome, Bruce and Peter. Did you have a good rest?"

"Yes, Grandmaster," the pair replied in unison. Other than the four of them, there was no one else in the dojo.

"Please—sit." Bruce and Peter sat down in front of Grandmaster Shyu, while Akira sat down behind Bruce and Peter. Bruce glanced back to see Akira's eyes boring into him. "Please bear with me, Akira, while I give Bruce and Peter an overview of what they will be learning." Keion clasped his hands behind his back. "Let us begin. We draw upon several bodies of knowledge to instruct Legion members—to strengthen their minds, their bodies, and their spirits. A healthy academic knowledge and understanding of the sciences is often already covered in society's education systems. Most adults that come here already have an adequate background. Of course, if people are interested, there are faculties here that can facilitate the higher pursuits of academia. You two are still children, of course. Thus, you will be attending school here at the monastery. I have already discussed it with the Walkers." Bruce and Peter both groaned. "Ethics and morality. These are essential concepts that are constantly changing. There are no clear-cut rules for either, and every situation is dependent on the circumstances. What students try to develop here is a strong moral foundation so that, in any situation, they can use sound judgement to do what is right and what is necessary. Being able to cope with difficult situations and the ramifications of one's actions is a lifelong challenge and a learning process." Bruce wasn't sure if he fully understood what Keion was talking about, but he nodded like he did anyway. "Physical conditioning..."

Bruce rubbed his hands together excitedly. "Finally, the good stuff!" Peter nudged Bruce in the ribs, urging him to shut up.

Keion took no heed. "Strength, endurance, flexibility, speed, balance, and coordination—all physical attributes imperative in the martial arts. Daily exercises will be practiced to hone each of these facets. In turn, your martial arts prowess and form will improve. You will be trained in as many martial art disciplines as you are willing to undertake. Ideally, you will take what you learn from these different schools of martial arts and create a unique style unto yourself—to promote your strengths and protect your weaknesses." Bruce smiled. His own unique fighting style... He liked the sound of that. "Meditation. Every day. Very important to have the time to collect one's thoughts. To have the time to relax, recuperate, and refocus one's Qi to pursue all things in life." Both Bruce and Peter's hands went up. "Yes?"

"Peter wants to know what Qi is," Bruce informed. Peter shot Bruce a dirty look.

Keion smiled. "Let me take a step back. The Omega Ops Legion has a very simple organizational structure. Once somebody has been accepted into the organization, they are known as acolytes. They are the students. Disciples of the Order. From this level, they train and gain life experience through the Legion. When the acolytes are ready and willing to undertake the responsibility, their teacher will grant them the rank of paladin. At this level, they have earned the right to teach, take on students, and make command decisions on behalf of the Legion. Only those with exceptional combat skills, dedication, and strong moral fiber ascend to the rank of paladin. These are the full-fledged members of the Legion and are able to become involved in all Legion duties."

"How long does it take to become a paladin?" Bruce asked.

"Typically several years. The person must have reached a maturity where they are able to bear the responsibility that comes with the rank. Most reach that stage in their twenties or thirties. Some even later than that. And, of course, there are the rare exceptional cases that attain the rank before they even hit their twenties."

"When did you become a paladin, Grandmaster Shyu?" Peter asked.

"Well, Peter, I was an exceptional case." Keion smiled. "But let's leave the past aside for now. I want to get back to your original question. There is one final rank above the paladin. The rank from which the grandmaster of the Legion is selected by their peers. These select few members are known as the guardians. There are two key differences that separate guardians from paladins. Any guesses as to what those two differences might be?"

"More experience?" Peter suggested uncertainly.

"Absolutely. Specifically, a much deeper understanding of right and wrong. Someone that has proven themselves time and time again. Proven that they are able to make the tough decisions—the right decisions in cases of extreme adversity." Keion gazed down upon his students. Akira seemed to be idling in the back, but Bruce and Peter were hanging on his every word. "Good. Now then—the second difference?" Bruce and Peter glanced at each other, then looked back at Keion. They were stumped. Keion paused a few moments longer, then continued: "There is something very special that separates the guardians from paladins. Every single guardian has tapped into the Qi lines. This is one of the most fundamental concepts of life and yet incredibly complex and difficult to fully understand. This idea of Qi has been around for thousands of years. It is also known as Chi, life force, or simply 'energy'. There are subtle differences pertaining to its understanding, dependent on the time period and culture. From the viewpoint of the Omega Ops Legion, this energy is a force that permeates throughout the planet and the cosmos. It resides in all living things and is an essential part of what makes something alive. It is mostly understood as something immaterial. But there are those few with a much deeper understanding of it—those that can tap into it and make it something tangible. This is known as energy field manipulation."

Peter was amazed as he soaked all of this information in. He was making a conscious effort to keep his mouth from hanging open. Bruce, however, was skeptical. He wasn't ready to just buy into this crock. Keion seemed to sense his doubt. "Bruce, please come here." Bruce hesitantly got to his feet and stepped forward. Keion held out his arm outstretched with an open palm. "Watch."

Bruce focused on Keion's hand. Within moments, little particles of light began to appear. They gathered together, as if by Keion's command, to form a glowing ball of light. The ball of light hovered in place, just above Keion's palm. Bruce went wide-eyed. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Peter appeared to be even more astonished than Bruce: his restraint was tossed to the wayside, and he looked ready to swallow a snooker ball. Bruce hesitantly reached with his hand. "Let's see how long you can hold on to it," Keion challenged.

Bruce's hand grasped the ball of light. His hand felt very light and it seemed to go right through the ball. His fingertips disappeared in the white glow. Bruce could feel heat gathering on his fingers. It seemed to be penetrating his whole hand now. He gritted his teeth as his hand grew hotter and hotter. Finally, he pulled away, shaking his hand to cool it down. Bruce and Peter never expected anything like this when they signed up for this journey. Keion closed his hand and the ball of light disappeared. Akira watched with his arms folded in front of him. He didn't seem to be impressed.

"That is the energy I was talking about," Keion stated. "The greater control you can exercise over the energy fields, the more astounding the results are. What I demonstrated was just the tip of the iceberg. The possibilities are truly endless."

Bruce's mind was racing. "So, we're going to learn how to use this energy? Anyone can do it?"

Keion nodded. "Tapping into the energy fields requires impressive focus as well as the harmony of mind, body, and soul. Every person is different, but theoretically, anyone has the potential to do it." Peter appeared to be just as excited by this news as Bruce was. "However, so few achieve it due to the sheer dedication involved. People can train a lifetime and still not attain it. Martial arts attempts the union of these three elements of self and, thus, is a gateway to manipulating this energy." Keion looked at the two boys. "You two are a long way from that level, but I will tell you this. When Chester introduced me to both of you, I sensed great potential. Natural ability plays a role in developing these skills. Natural ability and good old-fashioned hard work. I have faith that you two will make progress in leaps and bounds."

Bruce exhaled deeply. He had never felt more certain about anything in his life. At this moment in time, this was where he was meant to be. Bruce knew the years to come would be instrumental in his growth, and he was going to make the most of it. He was home.

***

## Chapter 10 – Movin' On Up

Scorcher was slouched in his leather chair, feeling thoroughly depressed from sheer boredom. He was at the Chital Co. Tower in Manhattan; he had his top floor office to himself at the moment. Hachiuma had taken the reigns of his operation, and as of late, Scorcher had nothing much to do but keep his chair warm. The unexpected beeping from his desk intercom jarred him alert. He hit the button:

"Yeah?"

"You know what time it is."

Scorcher's eye lit up. "Lomez, thank God... An end to the boredom!" Lomez's Halloween party was in just a few days.

"Put on your booties and head on down. We'll fly out to L.A. tonight. Need to tell your papa you're gone for the rest of the week?"

Scorcher scoffed. "Hell no, papa's busy being a colossal red-haired douche. Believe it or not, things have actually gotten worse since he started calling the shots. Let the whole empire collapse around him, for all I care—he'll take the heat for it, not me."

Lomez laughed. "You seem to be wound up pretty tight there, buddy. This weekend is exactly what you need."

"No kidding. I'll be in Pennsylvania in time for a pre-flight dinner. Cook up something gamey."

***

Thursday, October 28th, 1999

Nearly three weeks had passed since Hachiuma arrived in New York. With the change of command, aggression from Scorcher's outfit subsided to barely a whisper, and rivals in New York's criminal underworld were quick to pick up on it. One by one, Scorcher's expansions into Queens were being picked apart by Solly's men.

The Seaberg Lounge in Queens: owned and operated by associates of Jack Solly. Thursday evenings brought in a higher class of criminal. Oswalt Fletcher was seated at a table with Zerneck Wells, the Solly brothers, and a slew of women. They were celebrating several small victories that effectively crushed Scorcher's opposition in Queens. The application of Oswalt's police resources with the street intel and muscle from Solly's side was proving itself a force to be reckoned with. Oswalt had already earned the respect of Solly's men in a few short weeks.

"Cheers to the man of the hour!" Lucas Solly raised Oswalt's good arm like the winning boxer after a fight.

"Here, here!" The table cheered and fired back tequila shots. Oswalt laughed and thanked everyone. He was feeling lightheaded. Mark Solly patted him on the back as everyone sat back down. Oswalt was decked out in brand new threads: a navy-blue wool-cashmere suit. He couldn't dare dream of owning such lavish clothing before signing on with Solly. Just for saying yes, Solly had given him a sizable amount of spending money. It was funny, really... Despite being physically weakened at the moment, he had never felt more powerful in his life. Oswalt sipped on his drink.

"Does it hurt a lot?"

Oswalt looked over to the beautiful blonde woman who was seated beside him, touching his shoulder. Her finger ran down the length of his arm sling. She stared longingly at him with big blue eyes. "No, not really." Oswalt inexplicably spaced out. He quickly took a big sip from his scotch glass. "Sorry, what was your name again?"

"Tiffany!"

Oswalt smirked foolishly. "Right...Tiffany."

"How did it happen?"

Oswalt cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. "Happened on duty. A fight with a big...mean guy..."

Tiffany looked amazed. "Oh wow, were you scared?"

"Nah," lied Oswalt, puffing out his chest. "The adrenaline just pushes the fear right out of you."

Mark leaned in. "Don't worry about him—you should see the other guy."

"How's the other guy?" Tiffany asked.

"He's dead," Oswalt stated casually. Tiffany's mouth dropped open.

"He deserved it," Lucas added. He took a bite from the gourmet roast beef sandwich in his hand. "He was a scumbag murderer that pulled a gun on Oswalt."

"Oh...well then, good for you!" Tiffany replied cheerfully.

One of Solly's associates walked over to their table. He whispered something to Lucas, who nodded in acknowledgement. "Oswalt—" Lucas dropped his sandwich onto his plate and signalled for them to get up. "Backroom. Something's come up."

Oswalt scratched at his temple. "Oh...yeah okay, let's go."

Mark smiled. "If you'll excuse us, ladies."

Zerneck raised a glass; his other arm was around his lady friend. "I'll stay back here, if you don't need me." He was working a very stiff drink.

"Yeah, we can handle this," Lucas replied. "You stay put." Oswalt and the Solly brothers stood up.

"What's this about, Lucas?" Oswalt asked.

"You'll see."

They walked through the lounge. It was mostly booths and tables, but there was a small dance floor with several couples dancing, as well as a few drunken stragglers. They entered the storeroom. The temperature inside was cool, and the walls were lined with shelves holding bottles of alcohol. Oswalt raised an eyebrow at the sight which was waiting for him. "What the hell is this?" Two of Solly's men were in the storeroom with another figure, who was crumpled on the ground, with his arms tied behind his back. A walking cane was on the floor next to him. The man looked up; his face was bloodied. Oswalt stared. Despite his disfigurement, he recognized the man. "You were at Mr. Perkins' apartment...with Rufus."

The man sneered. "Yeah, and you're the asshole cop that shot me in the leg. And I see you're working with these lowlife Solly brothers. Getting your wheels greased, copper? How much are they paying you?"

"This is Ian Domner," Lucas explained. "The boys found him at one of Scorcher's chop shops they shut down this afternoon. After a round of 'questioning', they pieced together some of his story and they realized he's one of the pricks that tried to kill Jeffrey Perkins."

Oswalt's eyes darted from Solly's men to Domner as a stark realization sunk in. He turned to Lucas. "How much does he know? Why the hell did they want me to talk with him?"

Lucas smiled. "They thought you would like to see him, so they brought him to you gift-wrapped. He did take shots at you and your partner, after all."

"But I can't be seen by him with everyone here," Oswalt whispered urgently. "Once he's in custody, this could blow back on me!"

Solly's grunt smiled grimly. "Don't worry. It won't." He handed Oswalt a silenced gun. "You don't want to be using your police issue for this."

Ian looked apprehensively at the gun in Oswalt's hand. Mark and Lucas watched Oswalt as he turned the weapon over in his hands. "I'm not going to do this."

Lucas leaned in and whispered in Oswalt's ear: "This shit-heel was ready to kill you and your partner. He's a menace."

"No. I don't want this fool's blood on my hands." Oswalt held the gun by the silenced barrel and handed it back to the grunt. The Solly brothers exchanged glances.

Ian laughed and shook his head. "Despite hanging with this trash, I knew you were a good cop. But even still, I'm going to make your life a living hell. Once I'm in jail, I'll make sure you join me in there."

Oswalt could not believe the gall of this man. His temper ignited. Oswalt advanced on Ian and stomped on his thigh, causing Ian to scream out in agony. "Is your leg healing up well?!" Oswalt snarled. Ian cursed at him repeatedly. "What's that?!" Oswalt bellowed. "I can't hear you!" He dug his heel in.

"Stop, STOP!" Ian begged.

Oswalt took his foot off and spat on him. "You scumbag, you deserve to die." Oswalt made his way to the storeroom door.

"So, what's going to happen to this Ian Domner?" Solly's grunt asked.

"Do with him as you will," Oswalt muttered. The Solly brothers grinned at each other, then led the way out of the storeroom. Solly's grunt cocked back the silenced gun.

Ian's eyes bulged. "Hey! HEY! You can't leave me here! You're a cop, for god's sake—they're going to kill me!"

Oswalt glanced over his shoulder. "You brought this on yourself when you decided to become a tool for Scorcher. My drink's getting warm—excuse me." He left the storeroom and closed the door behind him.

***

On the other end of New York City, Hachiuma led his entourage to the top floor office of the Chital Co. Tower. It was becoming the popular destination for fiends and scoundrels. Hachiuma took his place behind the cherry wood desk, choosing to stand instead of sit. His three Thai mercenaries were ever vigilant by his side. One by one, Scorcher's men filed in. Most did not look happy with their new commander. Tony Calzone was accompanied by Ramon Salazar and several mob soldiers and grunts. Tony looked particularly infuriated.

"I've called you all here to give an update on our situation," Hachiuma informed.

"What's there to update?" Tony muttered under his breath to Ramon. "We're up shit creek without a paddle."

Hachiuma's eyes scoured the room. "Where's Scorcher? Turly?"

Samuel Turly was in the front of the pack with his arms folded. "No idea. I don't keep tabs on him."

"It doesn't matter. He can be filled in later. So far, things are moving smoothly—" Tony was unable to hold back a derisive laugh. Hachiuma's eyes flickered to Tony. "You have something to say, Italian?"

Tony glanced back at his soldiers behind him, and his confidence grew. "You're kidding, right? Nothing has gone smoothly since you started calling the shots. You told us to sit on our asses so that all our enemies can just converge around us and pick us apart!"

Gregory Pike stared at Tony. When did this worm get a spine?

"Do you have any idea—how much territory we've lost in the last two weeks?!" Tony shouted.

Hachiuma smiled. "Minor setbacks."

"Really? Solly basically wiped out every expansion we had in Queens. That's a major freakin' setback, in my opinion."

"Well, luckily for us, your opinion is worth the same as what's dropped into a toilet."

Tony scowled and stifled his rant.

Hachiuma continued: "We've reached out to the drug trade in Staten Island, and we've cut a deal. They're working for us now."

"Hah!" Pike laughed. "You turned that bloated sack of crap Elmo Burns?"

"In a manner of speaking," Ulysses Frost growled. "It was either kick up a portion to us, or we cut the fat bastard open."

"An offer he couldn't refuse... The best way to do business." Pike paused to smile at the thought. "How much?"

"Half his gross every month," Turly replied.

Pike grinned. "Very nice."

"Elmo Burns will be of some use to us," Hachiuma stated. "On Monday, Elmo Burns will stop all transactions with Solly and his partners. Solly's trade lines with the South American drug cartels will dissolve and eventually cease to exist."

"Monday?" Tony scoffed. "Why not right now?"

"Because he won't follow through until I give the order."

"So give the order!" Tony demanded.

"No. We're going to make him feel the sting all at once. Severe financial crippling from many avenues so that there is no room for recovery. When it happens simultaneously, there will be no mistake in Solly's mind what's happening. Which brings us to the second order of business. Four days from now, Solly will be depositing valuable securities into the New York City First Bank. We're going to take them. It is likely that his two sons will be the ones to make the deposit."

"And you know all this how?" Tony questioned.

"We have recently acquired a spy within his ranks, who has been gathering intel for us."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'll be damned."

Hachiuma placed his fingertips on the desk and stared intensely at the group. "Monday morning, we'll be ready. The exact time when they go will be given to us on the day—and then we're going to empty Solly's vault. Tony, you and your men will be going to First Bank to collect the goods."

"Fine by me. What's the exit strategy?"

"I'll be outside the bank," Turly replied. "You bring everything to me—and then you go back inside the bank."

"Say what?"

"This is one part robbery, one part hostage taking," Hachiuma informed.

"The hell do we need hostages for?" Tony asked.

"Bait," Hachiuma stated simply. "And what better bait is there for a fool like Kasparov? A man who thrives on the need to save people... I'll personally be in the bank this Monday when he comes to play the hero...and it will be his last time."

Hachiuma walked around the desk, towards his men. "Any other questions?" Hachiuma was now standing directly in front of Tony, who began to sweat a little. Tony stared back determinedly as Hachiuma looked down upon him. Suddenly, Hachiuma grabbed Tony by the throat and lifted him off the ground with one hand. Tony gagged and spluttered. Hachiuma squeezed his fingers around Tony's neck. Tony's soldiers exchanged glances, uncertain what to do. Some wanted to intervene, but Ramon raised his hand to stay them. Hachiuma threw Tony into his entourage with such force that several of them fell down with Tony like bowling pins.

"You okay, Tony?" Two of his men helped him up to his feet. Tony was breathing heavy. He stared at Hachiuma with a mixture of anger and fear but said nothing.

Hachiuma's eyes glowed. "Surely you didn't think your insolence here today would go unpunished?" Tony accepted his castration without fight. This was acceptable for Hachiuma; he felt Tony had learned his lesson. "Handpick capable men for Monday, Tony. I don't want to suffer incompetence."

***

These days, when Alex was out of the house, he found himself looking over his shoulder for any suspicious characters or the supposed tails that Bruce had instructed to follow him. So far, nothing out of the ordinary. Alex was beginning to wonder whether he even had a tail following him because he was confident that he would be able to spot them.

Alex had been training alongside his father for a few weeks now. His routine had more or less consisted of school, training, homework, more training, then settling into bed for a well-earned sleep. Of course, he also managed to squeeze in the daily necessities such as three square meals, whenever he could. As he predicted, every day he would go to sleep mentally and physically exhausted, but he didn't mind. Alex never once complained to Bruce or anyone else that the training was too much for him. He wanted to do this. He was proud of himself for showing such grit and tenacity, and he could tell that his father was proud of him as well.

"Faster! FASTER! C'mon, do it!" Bruce, Alex, and Varick were downstairs in the manor's gym. Most of the training took place here. Alex sent a flurry of punches in Bruce's direction. With each punch, he increased the intensity. Bruce blocked and deflected as quickly as Alex could throw his punches. He had yet to land a single hit on Bruce. But with each passing day, Alex was growing stronger, quicker, and was striking with more precision. "Kicks!" Bruce yelled. Alex immediately switched to leg strikes, aiming for the knees and upper thighs. Bruce blocked with his legs, raising them so that Alex's strikes made contact with Bruce's rock-hard shins. Alex's legs were beginning to go numb—but he kept going.

Bruce switched to blocking with his arms as Alex aimed higher, at Bruce's upper torso. His energy was waning; his limbs were heavy. And with exhaustion came frustration. Keep going! Alex told himself. He was determined to land a hit today. Faster and faster Alex went. Without warning, Alex added punches alongside his kicks. He was going all out. Bruce grinned while he blocked all the attacks with his swift arm movements. He then dropped one arm and placed it behind his back. Bruce was now blocking all of Alex's attacks with one hand. Alex gritted his teeth. As if failing to land a single hit since he started training wasn't bad enough, he's going to get taunted now, too? Bruce stepped back as Alex's frustration turned to anger. Alex put all his weight and power behind a punch he sent directly at Bruce's chest. Bruce caught Alex's arm by the wrist and twisted it. Then, with a sidestep and a sweep kick, sent Alex sailing through the air. He landed on his back on the training mat. Alex panted hard, struggling to catch his breath.

"Good work today, Alex," Bruce commended.

"Thank—thank you, Sensei," Alex rasped.

Varick shook his head. "I really can't get used to hearing that 'sensei' title." Varick had assisted with some of the boxing drills today, despite his rib injuries still healing. He still had the punching mitts on his hands.

Bruce rotated his shoulder to work out the kinks. "But, Alex, I think towards the end you might've lost your cool a little bit."

"Yeah, well, what do you expect—one-handed blocking? Add insult to injury, why don't ya."

Bruce laughed. "Well, I suppose that's another lesson. To keep your head on straight, despite your opponent's attempts to make you lose focus and unbalance you. March to the beat of your own drum."

Alex was still lying on his back, breathing heavy and sweating profusely. "Sensei—put a sock in it." Bruce extended a hand. Alex grabbed hold and struggled to his feet. He could barely walk. Alex stared down at the palms of his hands: they were rough and calloused from conditioning. Part of his training included palm strikes to hard surfaces. He opened and closed his hands.

Bruce looked curiously at Alex. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," Alex replied. Looking down at his hands, a sudden thought crossed his mind. "Hey, Varick, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, kid. What is it?"

"The energy fields. The way they can be controlled... Didn't you want to do it too? Like my dad and Mr. Santos?"

Varick raised an eyebrow. "I don't know. I suppose... Why?"

"Well, I mean, if you wanted to, you could have learned it too, right? I'm sure my dad would teach you—right, Dad?"

Varick and Bruce exchanged glances. "I never got around to it, that's all," Varick replied. "I tried for a bit and other stuff came up. Need to devote a lot of time to it."

"But isn't it worth it? I mean, this stuff is unbelievable. It's probably the greatest power a person can attain in their lifetime. And you're more than physically fit to handle it, right? Surely it's worth it?"

Varick forced a grin. "Well, in the years to come, I'm sure you'll learn and master it. Now enough questions." Varick batted Alex over the head with a punching mitt. "Get outta here; hit the showers."

"Right." Alex hobbled over to the stairs on his jelly-like legs and made his way up. Despite Varick's joking attitude, Alex felt he might have struck a nerve.

Alex took a quick shower, ate, brushed his teeth, and finally collapsed onto his bed. He was completely tuckered out. He rubbed his face—he had some school projects due next week. He had told his dad he was on top of it, but in truth, he had barely started. Alex wasn't too worried, though. He would wing it over the weekend and play catch up. These things always worked themselves out somehow. As long as he had the added pressure of the deadline to keep him motivated, he could do it. Frankly, he was too engrossed in his training to pay much attention to school.

On his first day of training, Bruce had shared some incredible stories about how he had become a part of the Legion. Alex knew that Bruce grew up in a foster home, but he didn't know much more than that. How the Legion recruited him straight out of his house... How he had lived in Tibet for almost seven years... He couldn't believe that he didn't know about all of his amazing adventures—about his amazing powers...his own father. He had never told him about any of it until a few weeks ago. Better late than never, Alex supposed.

What Alex was most excited about was learning the art of energy field manipulation. Would he really be able to develop such skills? Fire projectiles at will... Attain superhuman strength... Perhaps even fly? It all seemed like a wonderful fantasy. But during his first day of training, when Bruce demonstrated a sample of what it meant to harness this power...the realm of possibilities—his prospective on life itself—had changed forever. But he knew it would be years before he could do anything like what his father was capable of. It was best to keep it from his mind for now and focus on what was at hand. But from time to time, it was always nice to dream. Alex decided to finally succumb to his weariness and drift off into a deep, much needed, sleep.

***

## Chapter 11 – Celebrations and Cocktails with a Super-Villain

Saturday, October 30th, 1999

Los Angeles, California

The night of Lomez's Halloween party had finally arrived. Scorcher and Lomez touched down at the L.A. airport late in the evening. A limousine was waiting to pick them up and drive them to Lomez's Beverly Hills mansion. Despite the initial plan to head to Los Angeles Thursday night, the prior two days were spent out in rural Pennsylvania. With a character like Lomez, a plan was about as useful as dry rot. Scorcher didn't mind, however—Lomez had treated him to a Friday in the woods, hunting anything they could find worth making a meal of. Scorcher figured he could just as easily incinerate the entire forest and have his pick of the barbecue, but he decided to be sporting and use a rifle like Lomez. One would think that using a gun while intoxicated would be a bad idea, but Lomez had a surprisingly accurate shot. The prize of the day was a 500-pound black bear taken down by Lomez. Fun times were had by all except the wildlife.

Their limousine passed through the golden gates of Lomez's property and was now driving up the winding driveway. Lush trees were on either side of them and gradually opened up into a football-field-sized front yard. On a slight elevation stood Lomez's mansion. The Party House. The mansion was an immense construction of pearly white stone. There were people on the lawn, dressed up in Halloween costumes. Scorcher gazed out the limo window and was once again amazed by Lomez's place of dwelling. In a word, it was spectacular. The limo stopped near the entrance.

"Alright, Lomez, so you're sure about this, right? No one's gonna freak out?"

"Oh, everyone's going to freak out, but in the best possible way. Don't worry. Like I said, it's Halloween—you're a shoo-in." Lomez thought for a moment. "But I suppose, we can do something about your name for tonight."

Scorcher was puzzled. "What's wrong with my name? No good?"

"No-no, it's good, but it might be a tad too angry and confrontational." Lomez's face lit up. "What you need is a nickname. I'll introduce you with something else. Let's see now..." With his elbow resting on his thigh, he drummed two fingers on his thumb and pondered the notion. "How about 'Sizzler'? Yeah. Your party name."

Scorcher scratched his head. "Sizzler, eh? Sounds pretty gay to me."

Lomez scoffed. "Oh, and 'Scorcher' isn't completely flaming? No-no, trust me, this will have a better ring to it. It's still semi-menacing but can work on another level—sounds more festive to my ears."

Scorcher shrugged. "Alrighty then, Sizzler it is. Tonight, I shall make things sizzle as opposed to scorch."

"Yeah, buddy!" Lomez slapped 'Sizzler' across the shoulder. "Oh yeah, one more thing. I got something for ya." Lomez slid over to the empty bench seat and popped it open.

"Storage space under the seat? Nifty."

"Ain't it? That's custom, by the way. And so is this..." From under the seat, Lomez withdrew a large bundle of purple fabric.

Scorcher stared. "Is that a dress?"

Lomez gave the fabric a shake and let it unfurl under its own weight. "This, my friend, is a cape. The highest quality fabric. Doesn't wrinkle."

"Why the hell do you have a cape?"

"I knew it would come in handy for just such an occasion; meaning, I'm gonna let you borrow it for tonight. If you want your current getup to pass for a Halloween costume, this is what's going to complete your look."

"You think so?"

"Absolutely. I mean, you could walk out there as is. But if you wear this, people are going to believe you're a real-life super-villain."

"But, I am..."

"Exactly. And this cape is what's going to sell it!"

"Sell what?"

"That you're a super-villain! You gotta dress the part. You wear this cape and that's what'll elevate you to the grand heights of super-villainy!"

"But wasn't the point of this costume idea to hide that fact?"

"I'm talking about your costume, man! Now remember, you want to fool these people into thinking you're pretending to be a real super-villain, but if they find out your face ain't a costume, you're on your own!"

Scorcher leaned forward and placed the fingertips of both his hands together. "Lomez...what the hell are you talking about?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Lomez demanded.

Scorcher and Lomez stared at each other in confusion. "Okay-okay-okay. So, bottom line, I should wear this cape?"

"Yeah."

"The cape you just happened to have tucked away in your limo?"

"Yeah. I'm that prepared. Ye-ah."

Scorcher shrugged. "Alright, fuck it. Let's do this thing."

"Yeah!"

Scorcher took the cape from Lomez and fastened it around his neck. "How does it look?"

Lomez grinned. "Super. Well then, shall we?"

Scorcher's eye glowed with anticipation. "Let's."

The moment the pair stepped out of the limo, they were welcomed with immense cheering. Lomez stood in silence, rooted to the spot. He smiled smugly with his head held high. Then, his right arm shot up and pointed straight up to the sky, as if to officiate the festivities. Wild howling and hooting ensued. Scorcher followed behind Lomez as he made his way through the crowd and towards the mansion. Lomez greeted as many people as he could along the way. People were dancing and talking animatedly. Rock music was blasting from the loud speakers on the porch steps. It was pandemonium, and they hadn't even stepped into the house yet. Scorcher was loving every minute of it.

"What time is it?" Scorcher asked.

"Almost ten," Lomez replied.

"And what time did this shindig start?"

"My guess would be last night." Lomez stepped over a chubby, bare-chested man that was passed out on the lawn.

Scorcher grinned. "A day late to your own party... That's real classy."

"Classy and fashionable—you're damn right."

Lomez led Scorcher into his house. Not surprisingly, it was jam-packed with people. More cheering and clapping erupted at the sight of Lomez gracing the indoor party-goers with his presence.

"Where's Jeeves?!" Lomez shouted. "Anyone seen Jeeves?!"

"Where's your costume, Lomez honey?!" a girl in a disco diva costume yelled at him.

"Yeah, I got something lying around here. One sec."

Lomez gave a loud whistle. "Yo, Jeeves!" He glanced at Scorcher. "My butler."

"Oh yeah? With a name like Jeeves, I wouldn't have guessed..."

Lomez pointed a finger wisely at Scorcher, like a teacher instructing a student: "Let me tell you, Scorcher—you ain't filthy stupid rich until you have a Jeeves. A Jeeves and an exotic pet."

An old butler dawdled out from the kitchen. "You beckoned, sir?"

"Yeah, this man here. Sizzler. Guest of honor, highest priority. Whatever he wants—it's his. Make sure he's well taken care of." Lomez pointed at Scorcher. "I'll be back in five seconds—get my costume going." Lomez immediately turned tail and ran, unable to contain his fevered excitement. "Take care of him, Jeeves!" he yelled, as he zipped up the stairs.

Jeeves looked up at Scorcher. "It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sizzler."

Scorcher gave a low rumbling chuckle. "So, is that really your name?"

"No, it's Randolph, sir."

Scorcher grinned. "And you just let him call you Jeeves?"

"When I broached him on the subject, I believe his sentiment was, 'it amuses him'."

"Yeah, he is one that is easily amused. He's a good guy." Scorcher looked around and took in his surroundings. It was a palace. "And I do admire his taste."

"Oooh, what are you supposed to be?" Scorcher glanced at the ditzy red-headed Dorothy staring at him. He really hadn't given it much thought as to what he would tell people. He had an ugly skull for a face and two bull horns jutting out of his wild, pink mane. And, of course, the cape.

"Let's just say I'm a Halloween ghoul...that's also, err, a super-villain..."

"Oh, well, it's a very scary costume!"

"Thanks, lady. Hey, where's your little dog Toto?"

"Oh no, I lost him again!" Dorothy cried, putting on a mock sad face.

BANG-BANG! Two loud gunshots echoed through the house. A few screamed. Most were stunned. Lomez appeared atop the upstairs balcony, dressed as a southern colonel.

"Don't worry, folks, just blanks!" he yelled over the music. Lomez was wearing a white cowboy hat, a bolo tie, and clutched a revolver in each hand—he had the holsters to match. Storing one of his guns, he pulled out a remote from his white suit and turned down his sound system. He gazed down from his balcony, like the Pope addressing the city of Rome. He holstered the other gun. "So...everyone having a good time?!"

"YEAHHHH!" Cheering erupted from the sea of guests.

"We love you, Lomez!" a drunk lady shouted.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Make yourself at home as you have been for the last... When did this start?"

"Thirty hours ago, bud!" a large fellow announced, holding up a beer.

"Good-good! If you don't already know, look for the white coats—for all your eating and drinking needs."

"Gimme some fried chicken, bitch!" someone in the crowd shouted at Lomez.

Lomez grinned. "Ain't no party like a fried chicken party—my getup is just for show, but like I said, whatever you're craving, my staff will make it happen. Head butler is Mr. Jeeves, who's standing by the shrimp puffs table."

"YEAH JEEVES!" Jeeves raised his hand modestly to acknowledge the hoots and hollers he received.

"People, I'd like to introduce the guest of honor. A connoisseur of the finer things in life and lives it in excess." Lomez made the announcement as if he were in a boxing ring, introducing the world champion. "A genuine rock star and my pal Mis-ter Sizzzzzzler!" He pointed in Scorcher's direction.

"Whoap, that's me," Scorcher muttered to Dorothy. He pumped both his fists in the air and sent his tongue out dancing. He ended his fanfare by spitting a fireball straight out of his mouth.

"A real-life fire breather, ladies and gentlemen! You have to pay to see acts like that!" Lomez exclaimed, as everyone cheered.

"Haaay, Lomez! Jump, you pansy!" a short, obnoxiously-loud Asian man yelled from the crowd. Dennis Wang was his name; a good friend of Lomez and one of his partners in mayhem.

The guests joined in the chant. "Jump! Jump! Jump!"

Lomez laughed maniacally. He pulled out two mini liquor bottles from his coat and chugged them down. He then turned his back to the crowd. "Hiyooo!" He dived backwards into the sea of guests, who caught him and bounced him up and down on the crowd surf. "Cheers! Serve them drinks up!" Lomez shouted.

The guests pumped their fists and whooped in celebration. Lomez held up the remote and cranked the music back up. It was a never-ending sea of noise.

Scorcher's amber eye glowed. "I could get used to this."

***

It was past twelve now. Scorcher was mixing and mingling with Lomez's eccentric friends. What Scorcher found most surprising was that rather than being repulsed by his 'costume', the women were drawn to it. Scorcher was talking to a brunette in a skimpy honeybee costume. "Oh, believe me, you don't want to date me..."

"Sure I do!"

"You don't even know what's under this mask. For all you know, the face could be just as ugly."

"Well, that's what makes it fun!"

"Fun...? Listen, lady, I'm old enough to be your great-great-great-great—hmm..." Scorcher paused a moment as he counted on his fingers. "Great-great-great-grandfather. Give or take a great."

"Oh, you're so funny, ha-ha!" the girl squealed.

"Yeah, that's me, a regular Billy Crystal..." Scorcher leaned into Lomez. "Jeezes, Lomez, these broads..."

"Yessir. Slutty nurses, slutty cats. Slutty school girls, slutty cheerleaders..." Lomez paused a moment to take in the crowd. "God, I love Halloween."

"Hey, Lomez!" someone called from down the hall.

"Excuse me, people—I must circulate," Lomez announced to Scorcher and his circle of friends. "I'll be back in a bit."

The honeybee tapped Scorcher on the arm. Scorcher glanced down at her. "Yeah?"

"Can I touch your horn?"

***

As the night progressed, Scorcher found himself inclined to stay out in the backyard. The weather was perfect. There was a diving competition happening at the in-ground pool, but Scorcher was not one for the water. Instead, he had opted to mingle and pig-out on appetizers.

Lomez walked into Scorcher's circle, with a cute number dressed up as Pocahontas on one arm and a blonde bombshell nurse on the other. "Sc—Sizzler! How you doing; you having a good time?"

Scorcher let out a deep rumble of a laugh. He had an entire serving tray of food in his hand, which he was wolfing down. "I'm having an awesome time."

"Excellent, excellent!" Lomez leaned into Scorcher. "Psst. I got something to show you."

"The last time I heard that at this party, it was from a lady, so..."

"No, just come, you're gonna like this. Trust me."

"What about this tray of food?"

"Bring the food!" Lomez turned to his two girlfriends. "Ladies, we'll be right back. You two, just sit tight."

"But, Lomez!" Pocahontas cried. "What about—"

"Don't worry! Two minutes. I promise." Lomez nudged Scorcher. "Okay, let's go."

Lomez led Scorcher to a secluded part of his backyard, where the trees were dense and the blasting music was barely audible. There were no party-goers to be seen.

Scorcher scratched his head. "What's out here?"

"Oh, you'll see." Lomez pulled out a mini flashlight and shined it towards the trees. "Here, Lobo! Here, boy!"

Scorcher and Lomez waited...until finally, they could hear movement amongst the foliage. Scorcher stared. "Oh, you've gotta be shittin' me." Out from the forest emerged a fully-grown African lion.

"Check it out, man, he's got a mane like yours!" Lomez exclaimed. "Well, not pink...but just as raw and untamed!"

The lion approached Scorcher and Lomez. "This thing isn't gonna try and maul us, is he?"

"Nah, he's harmless," Lomez replied, patting the lion on the head. "His name's Lobo. Got him when I was in Africa, a few years back."

"Interesting name for a lion. Then again, what the hell do I know about naming a lion?" Lobo made eye-contact with Scorcher and let out a deafening roar.

"I think he wants your food..."

"Mother fucker..." Scorcher sighed. "Fine, take it. Take it all!" Scorcher dumped the entire tray of assorted meats into the grass, and the lion devoured all of it in seconds.

Lomez patted Scorcher on the shoulder. "There, there, we'll get you some more. Let's head back."

"Hey, but shouldn't you keep this thing tied up? What happens if Lobo here decides to trot over to where the rest of the guests are?"

"Hey, good idea!" Lomez swatted Lobo on the hind leg. "Go on, Lobo; go say hello to all the guests!" Lobo casually began to walk towards the mansion.

Scorcher smirked. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"Yeah, it's fine—everyone knows Lobo. He'll be fine."

"Is this intoxicated Lomez making the decisions?"

"Intoxicated Lomez makes every decision."

Scorcher laughed. "You're freakin' nuts, you know that, don't you? And that says something, coming from me. But enough about that; let's get back to the show. This growing boy demands sustenance!"

Scorcher and Lomez returned to the backyard party and rejoined the crowd. Scorcher was quick to commandeer another serving tray. "Lomez, ya panzy, where ya been?!"

Lomez grinned. "Sizzler, I want you to meet this guy." Lomez ruffled the hair on the short Asian man's head. "This here is Dennis Wang. We go way back."

"Ya! You know how we met?"

"How's that?" Scorcher asked.

"Cocaine!" Dennis laughed loudly. His heavy Chinese accent when talking could still be heard in his laugh. It was a high piercing laugh that was almost an evil cackle.

Scorcher eyed Dennis. He was wearing an expensive tan jacket, beige slacks, and designer sunglasses. "So, what's the getup? Movie star?"

"Cocaine dealer!" Dennis laughed again. "Was easy costume 'cause I was one! But not anymore—I've retired. Like Lomez, I know when to pull out."

Lomez smirked. "Tell that to your ex."

"Oh, don't get me started! Four kids, Sizzler! Four! And she try to take me for all I'm worth. But she can't take shit because none of it on paper!" Dennis cackled. "Bitches be crazy!" Dennis had Scorcher in stitches now—his laugh was contagious.

Pocahontas walked up to Lomez and kicked him in the shins. "Ow, dammit!" Pocahontas huffed at him impatiently. "Oh right, apologies, honey. Sizzler, this here is Mindy. She saw you from afar and was just dying to meet you." Lomez raised his hand and shook it with his fingertips and thumb pinched together. "But she was too intimidated by your machismo."

"Hi, Sizzler!"

"Well, hello there!" Scorcher said, shaking her hand with his massive gauntlet.

"Wow, you have such a deep booming voice." She looked Scorcher up and down. "And I love the cape."

Lomez nudged Scorcher. "You see!" he hissed.

"So, Lomez told me earlier that you're going into space next year?"

"I am?"

"These astronaut types are always so modest," Lomez added, chuckling.

"Ahh—you got me!" Scorcher laughed. "Yeah, if you must know, I am indeed...going..." Scorcher glanced at Lomez, who nodded and flashed him a sneaky 'A-ok' sign by his belt.

"Wow, that's incredible! So, are you able to discuss the details? Or is it top secret?"

"Well, technically, yes—it is top secret." Scorcher leaned into Mindy. "But in your case, I'll make an exception." Mindy looked thrilled. "I'll be doing the tour. Fly by of Mars, Jupiter—all the way out to Saturn."

She was stunned. "I can't believe it—that's amazing!" Mindy cried.

"Are you kidding me?" a man in the crowd interjected. He was tall, tanned, and was wearing stupidly expensive designer clothing. He looked as if he were a professional model. "Manned spaceflight all the way to Saturn? You're nuts."

"I have been told that."

"Wait, so it's not true?" Mindy asked.

Scorcher exchanged glances with Lomez. "Pff, of course it's true." He was adamant to ride his lie on nothing but rims and into a ditch if he had to. "With the upcoming May planetary alignment next year, ain't nothing to it. Gonna make them moon landings look like a cakewalk."

Mindy was ecstatic. "Are you landing on planets too!?"

"Yeah, of course—err...Jupiter."

The man in designer clothing looked thoroughly annoyed. "You're going to land on a gas giant? Are you freakin' stupid? Not to mention, if you're using the May planetary alignment, by the time you reach one planet and plan on going to the next, the position would have drastically shifted."

Scorcher was trying not to laugh. "Jeez, Fashion guy, you should see the vein on the side of your head."

Fashion guy took a swig from his glass. "Now, if you want to do it properly, you need a planetary position that you can exploit for gravitational slingshots, factoring in the time it would take to travel the distance between the planets and their position upon arrival. Like they did with the Voyagers in the '70s."

Scorcher pointed his finger at Fashion guy: "Yeah, in the '70s—and those fuckers are still up there! That tech is over twenty years old. Can you fathom the advances that have been made in space exploration during that time?"

Fashion guy waved his hand in denial. "Nah, nah, not as much as you would think. After the Space Race finished, it was all downhill from there. Budget cuts every year, not to mention that Apollo 13 fiasco that probably caused a drop in public support. You'd better believe Houston's got a fuckin' problem now. You'd figure billions of tax dollars would probably be better allocated to help solve the problems a little closer to home rather than joyrides into space. Tech for space travel sure as hell hasn't advanced far enough to achieve the pipe dreams you're selling."

Scorcher shrugged. "Well, maybe you just don't dare to dream."

"Hay! There's only one way to settle this argument!" Dennis Wang interjected. "Drink off! Drink! Drink! DRINK!"

Scorcher grinned. "Well, I don't think that's really fair to Fashion guy."

"Wussing out?" Fashion guy stepped up to Scorcher and dug his finger into his chest. "I'd expect that from you, and it's probably a wise decision," he gloated. "Believe me, I can handle my liquor."

Lomez leaned into Scorcher. "Go easy on him, now." Lomez knew that Scorcher had a voraciously inhuman appetite that could not be satiated by quantities in the realm of normalcy. He had seen Scorcher gorge first hand on Friday, bones and all. Game meat was one thing... He was curious as to how this would translate when consuming alcohol.

Scorcher shrugged. "Alright, serve 'em up."

The crowd whooped and hollered. Lomez raised his finger in the air, and immediately, a waiter came to his side. "Drinks—let's start light here." Lomez grabbed two bottles of beer off the tray and handed one each to Scorcher and Fashion guy. "Chug 'em down, fellas."

There wasn't even a pause for a countdown. Fashion guy twisted off his cap and began to chug. Lomez's guests were eating it up. Scorcher looked down curiously at the beer bottle in his hand. He tapped on the cap a few times, apparently inspecting the bottle. "Yeah!" Fashion guy cried out, holding up his empty bottle. The crowd cheered. Fashion guy laughed at Scorcher. "What's the matter; couldn't get the bottle open?" Scorcher looked at Fashion guy, then smiled. He held the closed bottle up in the air for everyone to see and opened his mouth wide. He released the bottle and down it went—straight down his throat and into his belly.

"WHAO!" Dennis screamed. Fashion guy's eyes bulged. Lomez's guests gasped and then immediately broke into applause. Everyone was apparently too blitzed to second-guess what they had just seen.

"Bloody awesome, man!" Lomez said, congratulating Scorcher. He then whispered so that only Scorcher could hear: "But that really wasn't going easy on him, now was it?"

Fashion guy held up Scorcher's hand. "Well, I'm not going to even bother trying to compete with that. Winner!" He had apparently gained a newfound respect for Scorcher. "What did you say your name was again, mate?"

Scorcher glanced at Lomez, who nodded, indicating that he should go on with his spectacle. "The name's Sizzler."

"Whoa-ho. Sizzler like the restaurant chain?"

"No. Sizzler like I'll cook your face." Fashion guy laughed hysterically. Scorcher's eye gleamed. "Watch this." He held up his hand, with two fingers pointing to the sky like a gun. A fireball erupted from his fingertips and soared into the air and dissipated like fireworks.

Scorcher raised his hands in the air triumphantly as everyone cheered him on. "That's spectacular! How'd you do it?" Fashion guy questioned. "It's a trick with your costume? Something in the gloves?"

Scorcher grinned. "Magic, my friend... It's magic." Suddenly, a loud roar followed by several screams drew their attention poolside.

"Oh crap. Lobo!" Lomez cried, and then ran towards the pool.

Scorcher pointed at Dennis Wang and Fashion guy. "You two mooks wait here. This sounds dangerous."

"Don't have to tell me twice; I don't wanna be around when that lion goes full-blown lion," Fashion guy replied. Dennis looked at Fashion guy with a pouting face, then glanced at Scorcher and reluctantly nodded in agreement.

Lobo was by the pool amongst a large crowd. The lion was angrily knocking over food tables, as if someone had turned his home into a marketplace. Lomez stared. "Oh, you stupid fucks. What the hell did you idiots do?!"

A drunken cowboy walked up to Lomez and grabbed him by the collar. "Oh god, Lomez, it's bad! It's so bad! Lobo got into the party favors, man! He's gonna start rippin' into someone any second now, and we're all gonna get carved up like Kobe beef!"

Lomez shoved the cowboy to the ground. "Shut up, fucker!" Lobo turned and roared at the crowd. If there was winter weather, one could easily think that someone pissed off this lion by throwing a snowball in its face. Lomez slowly edged towards the lion. "Easy, boy...easy."

Scorcher placed a hand on Lomez's shoulder and pushed him aside. "I got this." The lion was foaming at the mouth. It locked eyes with Scorcher and was making guttural noises, as if it were going to cough up a giant fur-ball. Scorcher thumped his chest with both fists and the lion charged. Lobo leapt into the air with its claws out and was ready to tear into Scorcher. People in the crowd screamed with fright. "Into the drink, Mufasa!" Scorcher crouched down to avoid the paws and caught the lion under the chin with a massive uppercut. Lobo sailed through the air and landed in the swimming pool with a big splash.

The cowboy raised a fist to his mouth. "Oh snap! Bro, you just knocked Lobo the fuck out!"

Scorcher and the others watched the lion's body bob in the water for a few moments, then slowly sink into the pool. Scorcher glanced at Lomez, who was standing in silence, rooted to the spot in shock. He looked just about ready to cry.

"Alright, Lobo, you can come out now..." Scorcher waited, but there was no response. "I know you can swim; you're just perpetuating a stereotype! Your fellow cat brethren would be ashamed of you!"

The cowboy placed a hand on Scorcher's shoulder. "Bro, he's not coming up...you KO'd him."

Scorcher looked around nervously. "Come on now, Lobo, this isn't funny!" The surface of the pool was now calm, and Lobo the lion had sunk to the bottom of the pool like a stone. "Shit...someone fish him out!"

"How?" one of the bystanders asked. "He's a great dirty lion... He weights like 500 pounds."

Scorcher sighed. "Ahh. Well, fuck—me." Scorcher walked to the edge of the pool, unfastened his cape, and dove in.

***

It was well into the early hours of the morning. The party was still going, but much more relaxed and mellow. Scorcher was lounging by the pool with several of the party guests including Lomez, Dennis, and Fashion guy. Lounge chairs were set up all over the lawn, and with the clear night sky, it was perfect for stargazing.

For the last hour, Scorcher had been spouting nonsense back and forth between Lomez and the other characters lounging by the pool. He swirled the drink in his glass, then polished it off. Scorcher had consumed an exorbitant amount of alcohol—he wasn't even sure if he had a cut-off limit. The warm, fuzzy feeling hugging him all over gave Scorcher the impression that he was in fact intoxicated. But the feeling stayed the same, despite him continuing to drink increasingly lethal quantities of alcohol. Scorcher glanced beside him where Lobo was lying lazily in the grass. "This guy's sure calm now."

Lomez grinned. "Yeah, I'll say. He had the uppers, and now he's on the downers. It's all a balancing act."

"So, how the hell did you manage that?" Fashion guy asked.

"Oh, it was easy. Me and Sizzler took him into the house and put him in my hotbox room. When he woke up, he was one cool cat."

"Meh. I still think you should've gotten a tiger instead. What did Tony Montana have, huh? A tiger!"

"What you talking!" Dennis yelled. "This the king of the jungle!"

"Oh please, that's a false crown. Tigers are bigger, stronger, and smarter. You pit a tiger against a lion, nine times out of ten, the tiger's gonna win."

"But the lion's got the speed and the mane! What about the mane! That stuff's like armor! How's a tiger gonna claw at that jugular with all that mane!"

Fashion guy smirked, shaking his head. "Okay, first of all—"

"Fashion guy, shut the fuck up, ya know-it-all fuck! Lobo here's the king of the jungle!" roared Dennis. "You suck, tigers suck, end of story!"

Lomez rubbed his face. He turned to Scorcher. "So...how's Sizzler been working?" Lomez asked.

"I think they like the name; they really like it!"

"Ahh, Interesting topic," said Fashion guy, nodding. "What's in a name?"

"Do you even have a name, Fashion guy?" Scorcher asked.

"In actuality, his name is Jeter," Lomez responded.

"The hell with Jeter!" Dennis Wang yelled. "Everyone here knows you a Fashion guy, not a Jeter!"

"What about you, Lomez, what's that?" Scorcher asked. "First or last name?"

Lomez laughed. "That's my only name; I don't need two. You say the one name and you know who it is. Just look at me and you, man: Lomez and Sizzler. There's no first or last with us. Our names transcend time—they simply just are. Only the best of us can pull that off."

"Cheers to that." Scorcher and Lomez clinked their drinks together.

"Hay! Screw you both!" Dennis Wang yelled.

Lomez leaned in so that no one else could hear them. "Just between you and me, Scorcher... What's your deal?"

"What's my deal?"

"How can I put this delicately... Why do you look—the way that you look? Science experiment gone wrong? Born a horrible mutant freak?"

Scorcher grinned. "Getting warmer." Lomez thought for a moment, then made a small gesture, pointing up to the sky with his index finger. Scorcher tapped his nasal aperture, where on a normal face, a nose would have been present.

Lomez leaned his head back and let out a hearty laugh. "Ho-ho, that's rich. But you know, for a monster-looking alien abomination, you are a cultured cat. I don't think I've ever met anyone who has such an in-depth knowledge of rock & roll history as myself."

"Yeah, you pick up a thing or two, being on this planet as long as I have. Hmm, how long has it been?" Scorcher paused a moment to think. "Hell, I don't even know anymore."

Lomez's phone began to vibrate. "One sec." He ruffled through his pants pocket and pulled out his cell. "Yeah? Hey, Turly, how's it going, buddy?" Scorcher stared at Lomez while thinking to himself that if Turly was trying to reach him by calling Lomez, then the call was probably nothing good. "Yeah, he's with me; you want me to put him on?"

Scorcher shook his hands in protest, but Lomez took no heed and tossed him the phone. Scorcher sighed. "Yeah? Uh-huh, yeah. No, don't worry, I'll be back in time." Lomez watched Scorcher curiously. He could hear Turly's voice yelling through the phone, apparently giving Scorcher the business. "Don't worry—no, I will...I will! Monday morning, got it. I said I got it! 'Kay-bye." Scorcher tossed the phone back to Lomez.

"Schemes?"

"Yeah..." Scorcher whispered so that only Lomez could hear: "Monday morning, we got a big heist planned."

"You're not going to kill anyone, are you?"

Scorcher looked affronted while shaking his head vigorously. "No...no-no-no! Well, yes. Just one person."

"Oh well. Strictly business?"

Scorcher smiled. "Strictly business."

Lomez picked up the end of Scorcher's cape. "Now I tell you what you do Monday morning. You walk into your job wearing this cape. It compliments the hair."

Scorcher laughed. "You're joking, right? This cape?"

"Yeah—I want you to have it. You protected my guests and saved Lobo from drowning. It's the least I can do."

"No offense, Lomez, but this thing's kinda gaudy."

"Kinda gaudy? My god, man! Just look! Look at that face of yours! You are the poster boy for gaudy." Lomez pointed his beer bottle at Scorcher. "You need to start embracing that."

Scorcher stroked his chin. "Hmm...maybe." Scorcher stretched his arms and looked up at the stars, feeling content. "We'll see..."

***

## Chapter 12 – A Case of the Mondays

Monday, November 1st, 1999

"Mommy, Mommy!" The little girl tugged on her mother's arm. "This is boring, can we go?"

"Soon, dear. I just need to finish a few errands and then we can go." It was a deceptively chilly November morning, with the sun shining as bright as it was. A mother and daughter waited in line at the New York City First Bank. Mondays were typically busy. The bank lines were long, and all of the tellers were occupied.

"Mommy, can't you do the errands later?"

"Don't worry, it's worth the wait," the man in line behind them told the little girl. "They'll give you a lolly at the end of it." He winked. "If you're a good girl for your mother, that is."

The girl closed her mouth, made a zipping motion across her lips, and gave a thumbs-up to the man. Her mother smiled pleasantly at him. "Thanks. She's always a handful."

"Not a problem."

"Well, aren't you the gentleman," Lucas Solly mumbled to his brother."

Mark smirked. "Always trying to spread a little sunshine."

The mother and daughter finished their business, and the Solly brothers were next in line. Each brother was carrying with them a metal briefcase.

"Call Enrique, please," Lucas instructed to the teller. "He knows why we're here. Tell him, 'It's for Jack'."

"Oh, erm, okay." The teller was a bit puzzled but did as she was told. She left her counter to fetch the branch manager.

The mother and daughter that were in line attempted to leave the bank, but the doors were locked. "Excuse me? Could I get some help here?" the mother called. "There seems to be a problem with the front doors."

A solitary man in a suit was seated on the bench by the doors; his face was buried behind a newspaper. He lowered the paper to reveal a sinister smile. "Trouble, miss?"

"Yes, the doors seem to stuck. Do you work here?"

"Something like that. You'd probably want to step away from the doors."

The mother was puzzled. "I'm sorry?"

Two bank employees approached the entrance to lend assistance. They jiggled the handles, but the doors held firm. Mark Solly looked over his shoulder to see what the commotion was by the entrance. He tapped his brother on the arm to turn around.

"Hello, there!" The man who was seated on the bench waved at Lucas and Mark. It was Tony Calzone.

***

"Ah, just who I wanted to see!" Enrique exclaimed, upon seeing the Solly brothers at the counter. But their attention was elsewhere.

"Funny, I was thinking the exact same thing!" Tony shouted at Enrique and the Solly brothers.

Lucas stared at Tony. "What is this?" he growled.

Tony placed his newspaper on the bench and stood up. "This, my friend—is retribution."

The doors to the bank unlocked and opened from the outside. One by one, they entered: Tony's men—armed to the teeth. Screams of panic erupted inside the bank. The mother by the door was in shock. She immediately got knocked to the ground by the intruders. The two bank employees were thrown to the ground as well. The little girl rushed to her mother's side to help her up. Tony grinned. "Told you to stay away from the doors."

Bringing up the rear was Hachiuma and his guard of Thai mercenaries. Ramon walked over to Tony and handed him a pistol and the bank door keys they had acquired prior to the operation. "Here ya go, boss." Tony pocketed the keys and cocked back the gun.

"Get outta here," Mark muttered under his breath to Enrique. The manager slowly began to back up.

"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" Tony bellowed, pointing his gun at Enrique, who gasped in panic. "Right there—that's a good boy. No one moves unless told to." Tony paced around the bank, taking in the frightened expressions on the people's faces. "Right then, everyone to the center. Gather 'round in front of the counters and have a seat. Get comfy." Tony eyed the Solly brothers. "You two pricks stay right where you are—you'll be dealt with in a minute." Tony pointed his gun at Enrique. "You as well, Smiley. Stay put." The hostages did as they were told without question. Hachiuma's eyes followed Tony as he worked.

"Any sort of weapon on you?" Lucas muttered to Mark.

"Nothing. We need to contact our guys somehow."

The Solly brothers had come with two other men, who were waiting outside the bank at this very moment: Zerneck Wells and Brody Sasso. "They'll figure out something," Lucas whispered. "Unless they were both sleeping, they saw these guys rush in here with guns."

Tony stood beside Ramon and surveyed the layout. "Keep the hostages in line. Secure the exits—keep it locked down and get the windows covered."

"Will do." Ramon began directing the men to their positions.

"Alright, boss, we're ready to make the withdrawal," Tony informed Hachiuma.

"Good." Hachiuma spoke briefly to his guard in Thai, then followed Tony.

"Jack Solly's vault. You can access it?" Tony asked Enrique. Enrique glanced at the Solly brothers.

"Don't—look at them," Hachiuma growled through gritted teeth. "Your business is with us, not them."

"Yes, I-I can do it," Enrique stuttered.

"Then lead the way," Tony instructed. "But before you do that, have you contacted the police? The silent alarm?"

"No," Enrique answered truthfully. "I was told not to move, I would never—"

"Contact the police," Hachiuma demanded. "Do it now."

Enrique was perplexed but did as he was told. He was drenched in a cold sweat and was too petrified to think about what he was doing.

"Good. Now let's go," Tony said, smiling. "You two as well," Tony indicated to the Solly brothers. "And bring your briefcases. There are some valuables in there which now belong to us." Lucas and Mark exchanged glances. "Just in case you two were getting any bright ideas, let me clue you in on something." With his finger, Tony directed the brothers' attention towards Hachiuma. "This man could snap both your necks in a second." Lucas didn't need to be told that from Tony. He had never met Hachiuma before, but just by looking at him, he was quite certain that he was in a completely different league from Mark and himself. He was not going to test him. Not at this moment at least.

Enrique led them to the back of the bank where the vault was located. He was breathing heavy...he couldn't handle this. He froze in front of the vault and looked down at his trembling hands. "Open the vault now," Hachiuma ordered. He raised a glowing fist to Enrique's face. "Or I will do it myself and destroy you along with the vault door." Enrique turned ghostly white. He was shaking even more now, but nevertheless, he overrode the security measures and released the locks. The vault door swung open, revealing several safety deposit boxes lining the walls. "Solly's box. Open it." Lucas gritted his teeth as he watched helplessly. Enrique quickly located the box and unlocked it. Hachiuma inspected the contents of the box, then collected the valuables. "Get the briefcases," Hachiuma instructed to Tony. Tony smiled, with an outstretched hand in front of Mark and the other hand pointing a gun. Mark handed over his briefcase to Tony, who in turn gave it to Hachiuma. Hachiuma opened the briefcase to discover millions of dollars in bearer bonds. He smiled, satisfied, then placed the valuables from Solly's box into the briefcase. Lucas stared grimly at Tony, who casually approached him for the second case. Tony grabbed the handle of the briefcase and pulled. Reluctantly, Lucas finally let go.

Tony grinned. "Good boy." They moved swiftly. Tony and Hachiuma carried the spoils of their plunder and marched the Solly brothers and Enrique back to the front entrance of the bank.

Hachiuma handed his briefcase over to Tony. "Get these out of here right now. The police will be here momentarily."

Tony ran over to Saul (one of Tony's loyal grunts) and gave him the two briefcases and the bank door keys. "Go." It was a game of hot potato. Saul took the briefcases and moved towards the entrance. He unlocked the doors and tossed the keys back to Tony.

Saul stepped out into bright daylight. He could hear cop sirens already approaching from some distance away. His eyes scoured the line of cars in front of the bank and spotted Turly. He moved as quickly as possible without breaking into a conspicuous run.

"Wells, this is stupid. We need to do something," Brody muttered. Zerneck Wells and Brody Sasso were also parked outside the bank.

"Do what exactly? You saw the amount of men and firepower they had. The best thing we can do is wait. We're gonna put our faith in the cops to handle this one. All we can do is hope that Mark and Lucas find a way to stay alive until then." Zerneck ran his fingers along the steering wheel as he waited patiently. And then they saw the bank doors opening...and a man walking out with two briefcases...

"Those are our cases!" Brody yelled. "No chance in hell they're getting those!" He opened the car door and rushed to intervene.

"No, you idiot, I said stay!" Zerneck Wells called after him, but he was already gone. Idiot's going to ruin everything.

Brody was on the intercept path. There was a great deal of space between him and his target. Turly leaned over, unlocked the passenger-side door, and pushed it open. "C'mon, hurry up," Turly muttered to himself, while watching Saul approach his vehicle. Brody sprinted forward; he had Saul in sight. Saul reached the vehicle just as Brody stopped to draw his silenced gun. He took aim and fired.

Turly watched in shock as Saul screamed out and dropped one of the briefcases. He staggered on the spot, holding his shoulder. "Get in!" Turly yelled. Saul stumbled and fell onto the sidewalk. He struggled to climb into the car. Another shot pierced Saul through the back. His hand was grazing the car seat when it began to go limp. Turly watched wide-eyed as Saul's arm slowly slid out of the car and his body crumpled by the passenger-side door. Shit. There was only one thought on Turly's mind. The briefcases. He scrambled over to the passenger side and reached out to pick up the cases.

Brody ran forward. "Leave it!" he roared. He fired wildly while running, trying to shoot Turly through the rear windshield. Turly ducked down just before the rear window was shattered by gunfire. With only his arm protruding out from the car, he loaded the two briefcases in. He then closed the door and stepped on the gas. Brody had reached the back of the car the moment the wheels began to peel out. Brody put an extra burst of effort into his running and fired at the passenger-side window. With a spectacular lunge, Brody managed to get his hand through the shattered window and hold on as the car took off.

Zerneck groaned. Goddammit. He had watched the entire scene unfold in front of him. He started his car and joined in the chase.

Turly looked to the passenger side to see Brody hanging from his car door. Brody managed to get both arms into the car, and one was aiming a pistol. With his left hand still on the steering wheel, Turly lunged and grabbed Brody by the wrist. Turly directed Brody's gun upwards, forcing his shots into the car roof. Brody tried to work his way into the car, but Turly wouldn't allow it. He kept his foot down on the accelerator. Turly swerved his car back and forth, attempting to shake off Brody, but he was firmly grasping on to the door handle from the inside. As Turly's driving became increasingly more erratic, Brody quickly released the door handle and grabbed Turly's thinning hair for grip instead. Turly screamed as his body lurched towards the passenger side. Turly looked Brody dead in the eye, baring his teeth and wearing an expression of utmost contempt. Brody was the stronger of the two and was forcing his gun down towards Turly, despite Turly's resistance. Turly knew that in about a second he was going to be done in, and he had had just about enough of this slime contaminating his vehicle. He released the steering wheel and stomped down all the way on the accelerator pedal. Reaching into his suit pocket, he extracted his pen blade. With his teeth, Turly bit off the top of the pen and swiftly thrust the ceramic blade in and out of Brody's hand. Another stab—this time, Turly forced the blade in as deep as he could. Brody cried out in agony and dropped his gun, but pulled on Turly's hair even harder. In this instant, Turly let go of his pen and caught the gun by the handle before it landed on the seat. Still holding Brody by the wrist, with the pen stuck firmly through his hand, Turly pressed the silenced gun barrel into Brody's cheek. Turly was nose to nose with Brody, staring him down with unfettered rage. "Get the hell out of my car." Before the scream could escape Brody's throat, Turly unloaded the entire clip into his face. Turly released Brody's wrist and allowed his corpse to tumble out into the street. Zerneck, who had been following behind Turly's car from the time it left the bank, slammed his brakes to avoid running over the body. He stared out the window at Brody's corpse, and the slightest of smiles crossed Zerneck's face. He rolled up his window and drove off. His eyes were focused on the road ahead, and his resolve was firm.

***

Two squad cars had arrived at the bank in response to the silent alarm being tripped. One by one, the officers exited their vehicles—four officers in total. They weren't sure what to expect. For all they knew, this was a false alarm—it wouldn't be the first time. But judging by the crowd gathered in front of the bank, something was definitely wrong. "Officer!" one of the bystanders called. "We can't get into the bank!"

"The doors are locked and we can't see inside. The windows have been covered up," said another. The officers exchanged glances.

A panicked lady ran up to the officers. "There was a shooting! I saw someone firing a gun on the road, and then they just drove off!"

"When and where?" asked Sergeant Alden, the lead officer.

"Just before you all got here. It happened by the sidewalk there," the lady informed, pointing to the strip in front of the bank. One of the officers walked over to where the woman indicated and examined the asphalt. He signalled the other officers to the spot. Broken glass from car windows littered the road. They drew their guns—this was definitely not a false alarm.

"Ladies and gentleman, I ask that you please step away from the bank doors for your own safety," Sergeant Alden announced. The people cleared a path as the officers marched up the concrete steps. Alden suddenly froze and raised a hand to stop the other officers. The bank doors slowly creaked open. Tony Calzone slipped out and closed the door behind him.

"Ah, I thought I heard sirens!" Tony proclaimed to the police.

"Hands in the air where we can see them!" Alden ordered. All four officers had their guns directed at Tony. "Identify yourself!"

Tony's hands were in the air, but he had no intention to surrender. He smiled at the police. "Okay, officers, let me lay out the situation for you. We have a bank full of hostages. Shoot me now and I can guarantee you that every last one of them will be executed. But don't misunderstand me—we have no intention of harming anyone. As long as the police don't do anything stupid, that is." Tony looked from one officer's face to the next. "But I suppose that stupidity is part of your job description. Is it safe to assume I can lower my hands?" Alden stared coldly at Tony and said nothing. Tony's smile grew wider. He slowly lowered his hands to his side. "I'll take that as a yes."

"What do you want?" Alden demanded.

"What I want—is a news crew here in fifteen minutes...at which point, I'll make my demands public. In the mean time, no one will be allowed in or out of the bank unless we okay it. I don't think I need to tell you what will happen if you try to force your way into the bank. That will be all for now. I'll be back out in fifteen." The officers watched helplessly while Tony turned his back to them and casually walked up the stairs. Tony paused on the top step. "Oh, and one more thing—get in touch with Captain Bruce Kasparov. I know there isn't an officer here in New York that doesn't know his name. Make sure he's watching the broadcast." Tony retreated back inside the bank and closed the door behind him.

"Well, what now?" an officer asked.

Sergeant Alden sighed. "Let's call it in."

***

Queens, NYPD, 117th Precinct

Oswalt Fletcher was seated at his desk, absorbed in his computer screen. He was quickly adapting to typing with one hand. He took no heed when detectives Henry Schucker and Roy Cameron approached his desk. "Hey, Oswalt, how's the arm?" Henry asked.

"Fine."

"When does the cast come off?"

Oswalt shrugged. "Couple weeks?" Oswalt still hadn't bothered to make eye contact with either detective or cease typing. Clack-clack-clack went the keys.

Roy scratched his head. "Seem pretty busy there, Fletcher. What are you working on?"

"On work," Oswalt stated flatly.

Henry glanced at Roy, then directed his attention back to Fletcher. "You okay, Oswalt?"

"I'm fine." The rhythmic key clacking continued.

Henry wasn't satisfied. He continued to press the subject. "Are you sure? The last few weeks you've kept to yourself mostly."

"And by that he means you're normally an annoying little git that doesn't shut his mouth," Roy added.

Oswalt stopped typing and scowled at the two of them. "I said I'm fine. Don't you two have some work you should be doing?"

Roy thought for a moment. "I suppose...well, see you around then, I guess."

The pair walked off. "Something's eating him," Henry muttered to Roy, once out of earshot. "I just don't know what. He doesn't seem to be himself."

"What are you, his mother? You heard him, he said he's fine," Roy replied. "He's probably just busy like he said and finds it difficult to cope with the stress. No need to read into it."

Henry glanced back at Oswalt, who was once again furiously typing away with one hand. "Yeah—maybe..."

Captain Morring stormed out of his office. He was in his fifties, with grizzled hair and a stern demeanor. "Alright, listen up, people. We got a hell of a situation brewing." All the officers turned their attention over to the captain. "First Bank's been taken over. Possible robbery in progress, numerous hostages..."

Oswalt's eyes went wide while listening to the captain's briefing. Oswalt knew that the Solly brothers were planning to make a deposit at the First Bank today. Were they caught up in the middle of this? Maybe even involved with it? Oswalt's mind was racing as he contemplated possible scenarios.

"...I need all available units to get down there now. Form a perimeter around the bank and wait for further instructions." On that note, officers began to make their way towards the doors. Captain Morring intercepted Roy and Henry before they could leave. "Not so fast, you two—I need a word."

"What's up, Captain?" Roy asked.

"You two are close with Kasparov, right? You keep in touch and whatnot?"

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I guess... Where are you going with this?"

"I need you to get in contact with him. These guys holding up the bank—they got a hard-on for Kasparov, apparently. They requested a news station to give them a speaking platform. Kasparov's gonna want to hear this. You two are going to make sure he does."

"Well, it's not like we keep tabs on him, but yeah, we can try to give him a ring," Roy replied.

Captain Morring nodded. "Good. Now get the hell outta here."

***

Henry and Roy pulled up in front of the bank. The street had been cordoned off, and several cruisers had formed a line in front of the building. Roy had already managed to contact Bruce by cell and advised him to tune-in to the news. News crews were set up by the bank, but were kept behind the police blockades. "Press was already here before the blockades were even set up!" one officer was telling another. "Goddamn vultures."

Captain Morring had arrived on the scene. He stepped out of his car and glanced down at his watch. "Any minute now, people." Right on cue, Tony Calzone opened the bank door—exactly fifteen minutes since his last encounter with the police. Morring approached him with a look of disgust on his face. "Tony Calzone...why am I not surprised to see you in the middle of this mess?"

"Where—is my reporter?" Tony was not in the mood to exchange pleasantries. Morring looked over to the news crew the department had arranged and beckoned them forward with a finger. Susan Oaks, a blonde news reporter in her thirties, approached with her cameraman.

"Make it quick, Ms. Oaks," Morring whispered to the reporter. "I don't want this joker on the air any longer than he needs to be." Susan nodded in agreement, then took her place beside Tony. She signalled her cameraman to start rolling.

"This is Susan Oaks, reporting live for channel one news. Breaking news: I am standing in front of the New York City First Bank, where—"

"Give me that mic, you dolt!" Tony snapped, snatching the microphone from Susan's hand. "Listen up! This message here is for Bruce Kasparov. I know you're watching..." Tony smiled malevolently. "You'd better be watching, or else every death inside this bank will be on your head. It's this simple: you come to the bank, and you come inside alone. You hand yourself over to us, and all the hostages go free. Refuse to comply and they're all dead. No one else can save them but you." Tony stared darkly into the camera. "Do what you do best Bruce Kasparov, and play the hero. You have three hours." Tony stretched out his hand and dropped the mic on the ground. The news crew and police stared in stunned silence as Tony walked back up the stairs and returned to the bank.

Roy Cameron watched it all unfold while having his cell phone to his ear. "You get all that?"

"Yeah. I got all that. I'll take care of it." Bruce hung up his phone. He, along with Varick and Santos were in the living room of Kasparov Manor. They had tuned-in to the broadcast after getting the heads up from Roy.

"Well, it looks like you've really pissed them off this time," Varick muttered.

"What's the plan here?" Santos asked.

Bruce shrugged. "Guess I get to play the hero."

"Going in alone?"

"Seems that way."

Varick stared at the television screen with his arms folded in front of him. "Tony was sounding pretty confident in front of that camera, and normally he's a pushover. You know Scorcher's waiting inside that bank, and we have no idea what else he has in store for you," Varick warned.

Bruce nodded. "True. But I'm not expected for another three hours, so we have a little bit of prep time..."

***

## Chapter 13 – Pincer

Heavy footsteps approached first bank...

It was one hour before Bruce's deadline. Police continued to keep a tight lock around the bank and SWAT teams were on standby, ready to be deployed. "What's the move, Captain? My men and I are ready to storm the building. Just give the word." There was a hint of irritation in SWAT Commander Carter's tone. This wasn't the first time he had requested to enter the bank.

Captain Morring shook his head. "No, not yet. Go in there now and it'll be a blood bath."

Carter spat on the ground in frustration. "We're going to just sit on the sidelines and wait for Kasparov to show up?!" This is absurd—to put our faith in one man over an entire police force."

"Maybe so. But right now, he's our best chance at getting those hostages out alive."

"Assuming he shows up..."

There was a sudden buzzing of talk amongst the officers. Something had drawn their attention. Somebody was coming. Oswalt Fletcher was among the officers on the scene. He stared. He couldn't believe it. "It's him..." Wild, flaming-pink hair. A devilish smile. And a face worthy of a paper bag. His massive boots thumped down the sidewalk as he approached.

"Oh Christ," Captain Morring muttered. "This is just what I need." Scorcher stopped in his tracks once a slew of officers had their guns pointed at him.

Scorcher smiled. "Let me be the first to say that you're all doing an outstanding job providing security for my bank. Keeping all the pesky hooligans off my premises!"

"Hands in the air!" an officer demanded.

Scorcher laughed. "Oh, really now. For those that don't know who I am, shame—on—you. I'm actually good friends with the gentlemen holding up the bank. Scorcher's the name, and I'm kind of a big deal. And if you haven't noticed—" Scorcher puffed out his shoulders to let the rich purple fabric draped down his back billow out. "I have a new cape."

"I knew something looked different about him..." Roy whispered to Henry.

"As much as I want to shoot the breeze with the friendly porcine here, I do have pressing business to attend to inside, so if you'll excuse me..." But Carter had other plans. He and his SWAT team were quick to surround Scorcher, blocking his path up the bank steps. Several officers followed their lead.

"You're going to rot in jail for the rest of your unholy life, Scorcher," Carter threatened.

Scorcher looked around at his captors, thoroughly amused. "You're not going to arrest me. You're not going to shoot me. Not here—not now. Not when I hold all the cards." Carter refused to lower his gun. Scorcher smiled as he cautiously walked up to him, as if trying to get close to a deer without spooking it. Well over six feet, Scorcher towered over Carter and loomed directly in front of him. Slowly, he bent forward. The SWAT commander's hand trembled as Scorcher pressed his forehead against the barrel of his gun. Beads of sweat trickled down Carter's temple; he was now face to face with Scorcher and had his finger on the trigger. Oswalt was one of the officers behind Carter. He watched the standoff in anticipation. Part of Oswalt wanted Carter to pull that trigger. More than anything. To rid the world of this plague on society. But he could not come to terms with trading this scumbag's miserable life for a bank full of hostages.

"Let him through."

Carter turned and stared at Captain Morring.

"You heard what I said, now let him through!" Reluctantly, Carter lowered his gun and his team stepped aside. Scorcher smiled gleefully at the police as he marched past them and up the bank steps.

Scorcher pounded on the door. "Open up, it's me!" There was a moment's pause, then the door opened a crack for Tony to peer through. Scorcher was admitted inside and the door closed behind him.

Carter stood side by side with Morring, both men staring at the closed bank doors. "Who knows what's going to happen to the hostages now that we let him in."

"My immediate concern was what would happen to the hostages if we didn't let him in," Morring replied. He looked down at his watch, then walked towards his vehicle. We're running out of time.

***

"You decided to show up," Hachiuma stated bluntly.

"I told you I'd be here," Scorcher replied.

Hachiuma scowled. "You're wearing a cape..."

"Snazzy, right? Attire fit for a king!" He raised his hands in the air, as if receiving praise and adulation from his imaginary subjects. Suddenly, he lowered his hands to his stomach. "Oh god, the amount of mental focus it took for me to put on the bravado out there. I need to sit down."

"What's the matter, Scorcher?" Tony asked.

"I drank too much at Lomez's party. I didn't even realize I could." Scorcher screamed out while holding his stomach. "Oh, what fresh hell is this?!"

Hachiuma approached Scorcher. "Do you think this is funny?"

"No, really, I feel sick. I think I'm gonna puke."

"Do you think this is a game?!"

Despite the pain his insides were feeling, Scorcher managed to put on a grin. "Ah yes, in the end, isn't it all just a game? The wonderfully mordant game of life, in which we are all players."

Hachiuma pressed his index finger against Scorcher's skull and slowly lowered his arm. Scorcher followed Hachiuma's finger downwards until he was kneeling on the ground. "Shut. Up."

"Alright, fine," Scorcher muttered. "I'll keep my gut-wrenching agony to myself..."

The minutes dragged by. The deadline for Bruce to surrender himself was approaching quickly. Inside the bank, things were getting restless. "God, someone shut this kid up!" Tony screamed, as he stormed away from the hostages. Scorcher was seated in a chair trying to keep his bearings and queasiness in check through sheer tyranny of will. Tony's frustration marginally buoyed his sense of well-being.

"Poor Tony. Hostages giving you a hard time?"

"I thought the mom was bitchy... The kid's even worse," Tony snarled.

Scorcher stood up. "Show me..." He walked over to the mother-daughter duo Tony pointed out. The mother appeared to be knocked unconscious; her arms were still wrapped around her six-year-old daughter. The little girl stared suspiciously at Scorcher as he bore down upon her. He worked his menacing face into a sneer and spoke in a low growl. "Are you causing trouble?"

The little girl sniffed at him. "You're not scary."

"What!?" Scorcher was taken aback and broke from character. He scratched his chin and leaned in. "Are you sure?"

"You look silly. Like a clown."

"A clown?! How am I like a clown?"

"Who else has fluffy pink hair?"

"And the face?" Scorcher sneered at her, revealing his decaying yellow fangs.

"An ugly clown."

Scorcher opened and closed his mouth, but no words came out. He sat down beside the girl. "You got a real mean streak, you know that, kid?"

"You're the mean ones. You're not letting anyone go home. I told Mommy we should go home, but she wanted to do errands..." A terrible sadness broached her face. "I don't want to be here."

Scorcher sighed. "You and me both, kid. I just want to take a nap and burn out this sickness inside me. Unfortunately, when you're in a family, you get dragged around to boring places you don't want to go, and you're forced to do boring things you don't want to do." Scorcher eyed the unconscious mother. "What happened to your mom?"

"They hit her, and now she's sleeping." Tears welled up in the little girl's eyes.

"Who did?"

The girl looked around the bank and then pointed at one of Tony's surly-looking grunts.

"Hey, grunt!" Scorcher yelled. Half of Tony's men turned to look at him. Scorcher pointed at the man the little girl had identified. "Yeah, you, grunt! Come over here!" He strutted over.

"Yeah?"

Scorcher swatted him with a powerful backhand across the face. He flew back several feet and landed on the floor, unconscious. "There. Now he's sleeping too."

"What did you do that for!?" Tony demanded.

" 'Cause he's an idiot." Scorcher looked down at the little girl. She still looked sad. "What's your name, kid?"

"Molly."

Scorcher looked at the clock on the bank wall. "Well, Molly, hold on to your mother tight and stay out of sight." He stood up and stretched his arms. "I anticipate things are gonna get real scary in a bit..."

***

It was two minutes to the hour given for Bruce's arrival. Tony paced back and forth, becoming increasingly more erratic. Every other second, his eyes darted to the clock. His hands were balled tightly into fists.

Scorcher snickered. "What happened to the cool and collected Tony that was beginning to rear his head? Reverting back to the snivelling worm you usually are?"

"He's not coming," Tony muttered aloud to himself. "They're planning something out there to screw us." Molly's mother had recently regained consciousness. Molly sat on her mother's leg and watched Tony race from one spot to the next. "They got us trapped and surrounded..."

"The good guys always win," Molly taunted. "You're gonna get busted!"

Tony's eyes bulged. "THAT'S IT! Trapped or not, I don't have to stand here listening to this kid!" Tony stormed towards Molly, drawing the gun from his suit jacket.

"No, please!" Molly's mother begged, while she shielded her daughter in her arms.

Scorcher stood up. "Don't you do it, Calzone!" he ordered. But Tony was temporarily deaf with rage. The vindication in Tony's eyes grew as he stared at Molly. He raised his gun...

Without warning, the upper-level window shattered. Brilliant spirals of fire danced around the raining glass. Out from the flames, a figure shot towards Tony and smashed a fist into his cheek. Calzone sailed backwards and crashed into a bank pillar, where he collapsed. He was knocked out cold.

Bruce Kasparov rose to his feet to stand as a barrier between the hostages and Scorcher and his men. They had their guns trained on Bruce, apparently waiting for Scorcher's signal to open fire. Scorcher had his open hand in the air, halting the onslaught. Scorcher smiled. "Impeccable timing as always, Mr. Kasparov. Your natural flare for theatrics are only second to myself." Scorcher looked back at Tony's limp form against the pillar. "If you hadn't taken out that buffoon, I would have. Such rash, impulsive people these mobsters are."

Bruce quickly scanned the bank and took in his surroundings. He was in the thick of it all. For the most part, all the hostages in his sight appeared to be shaken up, but unharmed. Bruce turned his attention to Scorcher. "Well, you have me... Now let these people go."

Scorcher chuckled. "Of course, of course. But I feel it's only right to inform you that there were a few troublesome captives...so we restrained them and left them in the bank vault. You should probably go check on them—'cause we sure as hell haven't been doing it." Bruce's eyes flickered as he stared down Scorcher, who continued to smirk at him. Bruce made his way to the bank vault as Tony's men followed Bruce with the barrels of their guns. Scorcher scoffed. "Oh please, lower your guns, you goons. You're only embarrassing yourselves."

Mark Solly watched Bruce, then whispered to his brother: "I don't recall any troublemakers they detained in the bank vault..."

Bruce pulled open the vault door and stepped inside. There were no hostages. There was only one lone figure inside. He was kneeling on the ground, his back facing Bruce. He appeared to be meditating. His deep-blue suit jacket was on the granite floor, neatly folded beside him. His white dress shirt was rolled up past his elbows and rippled against his bulging muscles. Hachiuma stood up and turned to face Bruce. He raised his hand towards Bruce and flames began to lick at his body. Energy particles surged around his hand and the glow consumed his entire forearm. His expression was gaunt...dark. His lip curled in a sneer. "Kasparov..."

Bruce's eyes grew wide as a massive ball of energy shot towards him.

***

## Chapter 14 – Fists Blazing

There was no room to dodge—not with innocents behind him. Grit your teeth and bite the bullet. Bruce planted his feet, and energy began to surge through Bruce's hand. His left arm formed a karate knife-hand that crossed over his opposite thigh. The moment the energy ball was in range, Bruce's arm shot upwards on the diagonal and deflected Hachiuma's blast, sending it through the vault doorway and into the roof. "MOVE!" he roared, as roof rubble came crashing down. Everyone directly under the blast radius scrambled to avoid the falling debris. Bruce took a quick glance over his shoulder: everyone had cleared out safely. Good. Bruce's eyes strayed downwards to his smoking hand. He shook off the wisps of smoke and grinned. "Man, that smarts. Not too—" The heavy thudding of footsteps caused Bruce to look up—just quickly enough to see Hachiuma's fist smash into his face.

"Christ Almighty, what was that?!" Morring yelled. He had just witnessed Hachiuma's energy blast tearing through the bank roof.

"It's okay, Bruce has it under control," Santos reassured. Varick and Santos had joined the police stationed outside the bank.

"Under control? The goddamn roof of the bank just ripped open! It doesn't look like he has control of anything!" Carter challenged.

"Trust me, it must have been a deflected projectile," Santos stated. "When the explosions are ripping down the walls where hostages are in the line of fire, that'll be the time to worry."

Carter wasn't buying it. Not for a second. "We're out of time, we need to move in now!" Carter shouted.

Santos appealed to Morring: "We go in now and those hostages will be put in more danger than they're in now. We need to stick to the original plan. Wait until Bruce clears the windows so we aren't going in blind. That will be the time for your men to move in, not before."

"And if he gets killed before he gets the chance?" Morring asked.

"He'll do it. Bruce will do it."

Morring gritted his teeth. "No offense, Santos, but I place more stock in the judgement of cops."

Carter smiled triumphantly. "I'll bring those hostages out alive, sir."

"You're not going in just yet, Carter," Morring interjected. He turned to Varick. "Former GSG-9, this is one of your fields of expertise, yes? What's your take?"

"Unbelievable," Carter muttered under his breath.

Varick narrowed his eyes. Instead of facing Captain Morring, he stared long and hard at Santos. He then turned his back to them and looked at the covered windows of the bank. "Wait."

Bruce's head was ringing from the blow he received from Hachiuma. He slowly got to his feet after being knocked on his back. Just got caught off guard, Bruce told himself. If this guy wants to get right down to business, so be it. From the corner of his eye he could see Hachiuma on the attack again. Another big swing, but this time Bruce was ready. He caught the punch with his left and buried a heavy right cross into Hachiuma's body. Hachiuma slid back several feet. He clutched his chest and looked livid. Bruce and Hachiuma stared each other down. Then, without restraint, they both charged down the warpath. The fight had begun. Vicious flurries of punches were exchanged. For every blow thrown, a deflection or dodge was ready. The hostages, Scorcher and his men, the Thai mercenaries—all stood as an audience for the battle that was raging inside the bank vault.

"We should try to get a weapon off one of these bastards," Lucas muttered.

"No, not yet. This ain't a sufficient enough diversion. And keep in mind that the police are right outside. We're going to escape without bloodshed—without firing off weapons. We're going to be real upstanding citizens."

Lucas scoffed. "Right..."

Mark smiled grimly. "You'll know when."

At first, it appeared that Hachiuma and Bruce were evenly matched. But as Bruce picked up the pace, Hachiuma was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up. A palm strike grazed across Bruce's cheek as he turned away from it and countered. Crack. Bruce landed a hit, clean into Hachiuma's jaw. He staggered. Hachiuma aimed his hand at Bruce's abdomen and sparks of energy ignited at his fingertips. Reacting immediately, Bruce caught Hachiuma's arm and directed it down to the floor as he fired off another energy bomb. The granite floor trembled and cracked.

With Hachiuma's arm locked, it was Bruce's chance for another counter—a spinning back elbow to Hachiuma's face. He was down. Hachiuma held his mouth to feel his own blood running down his fingers. But he wasn't out yet. Not even close.

As Scorcher watched Hachiuma and Bruce's fight progress, he grew increasingly more agitated. Once Hachiuma fell to one knee, that was the last straw. He'd had enough of sidelining. With Bruce's back to the vault door, it was the perfect time to intervene. Without warning, Scorcher charged into the vault and tackled Bruce to the ground. He stood up while holding Bruce in a clinch and attempted to crush him in a savage bear hug. "You didn't think this would be a fair fight, did you!?" Scorcher bellowed in Bruce's ear. Hachiuma sprang to his feet as well and delivered uppercut after uppercut into Bruce's lower torso. As he struggled to free himself from Scorcher's grip, Bruce gritted his teeth to endure the pain from Hachiuma's onslaught.

Scorcher held on tight and let out a rumbling laugh. "This fella's not much on talk, as you can see, so I'll introduce him for you. Hachiuma's his name, and he flew in all the way from Thailand just to meet you. Don't you feel honored?" Bruce squirmed futilely against Scorcher as Hachiuma continued to throw vicious strikes into his body. "I'm curious, Kasparov, you probably have a better perspective on this than I do: how's his right hook?" Scorcher laughed again. Bruce yelled out in frustration. In a few moments, he would sustain far too much damage to do much of anything. He had to act quick. As Hachiuma threw his next punch, Bruce met it with a kick; the heel of his foot smashed against Hachiuma's knuckles. Stopping the punch in that instant, he mustered all of his strength and pushed out against Scorcher's hold. Bruce yelled out as he exerted his force. Scorcher strained against the overwhelming power, but he could not keep Bruce restrained. Bruce's arms shot out and broke his grasp.

"Not in the gut, not in the gut!" Scorcher begged, as Bruce combined a punch with an energy shot and blasted Scorcher in the stomach. He was lifted off his feet and smashed through a bank window. The covering ripped off, and Scorcher landed outside the bank and immediately retched on the concrete. He looked up to find the police staring at him, bewildered. "Oh damn." Just as suddenly, another window covering was removed. Inside the bank, Bruce was working quickly. He had managed to evade Hachiuma's reprisal and run to the windows. Hachiuma chased after him, but he was too late. The final covering was removed: Bruce had restored sight to the police.

"Do it now, GO!" Morring ordered. SWAT teams moved towards the windows and began to target hostiles. The main police force smashed open the bank entrance doors with a battering ram, ready to lend support. Firefights erupted across the entrance side of the bank, with hailstorms of gunfire being exchanged.

Carter was out in front, leading the charge. "Get those hostages out of there, that's priority! Move, move, MOVE!"

On the roof opposite the bank, Arthur Finch was in position. He was staying in New York for a few months, and Bruce had managed to get in touch with him on short notice to lend his expertise. His sniper rifle was mounted and ready to go. One. Two. Another. Arthur was targeting and neutralizing bank hostiles as quickly as possible. "Stay away from the windows, fools!" Hachiuma bellowed when he saw several men drop from sniper fire. Tony's men were reinforcing their positions as the police began to force their way into the bank through the main entrance.

Lucas and Mark didn't need to communicate to each other what they had to do. They lashed out in unison, slugging at the gunmen holding them prisoner. "Attack them! Get to the doors!" Lucas yelled to the other hostages. Most didn't bother to fight; they stayed low to the ground and ran to the police. Police provided the covering fire that was required for hostages to escape safely.

Hachiuma had no time for the small fries. He eyed Bruce, who was back inside the vault to avoid the gunfire. Bruce stared back at Hachiuma and waved him forward. Hachiuma bared his teeth and broke into a charge. Hachiuma engaged him with such a ferocity that Bruce was momentarily overwhelmed by the initial exchange of blows. This was not the same person Bruce had fought with a few moments ago. This was a man driven to win at all costs.

Tony Calzone had regained consciousness. He slowly opened his eyes and touched the back of his head. His hair was damp with blood from when his head hit the bank pillar. He spotted his pistol on the floor and picked it up. Gunfire was discharging all around him, but he was not totally in his senses to be fearful of it. He stood up and slowly walked towards a sofa. He sat down behind it, out of harms way. He felt dizzy. And then he spotted the brat and her mother, hiding behind a large potted plant. They were still inside the bank...unable to move...paralyzed by fear. "Bitch..." He tried to keep his hand steady while he pointed his gun...

Lucas punched wildly at his captors. It was a three on two fight, but Mark and Lucas had the advantage of surprise on their side, and that was enough to turn the tide in their favor. Lucas had disarmed one of Scorcher's men and taken his assault rifle. Oh how he wanted to unload the entire clip into these punks and waste them all. But he settled for using it as a blunt weapon in front of the police. He clubbed down another with the butt of the gun and then noticed the kid—it was Molly. She was standing next to a tall plant, absolutely petrified. Lucas stayed low to the ground and ran towards her.

"C'mon, let's go!" Lucas grabbed the kid and carried her over his shoulder.

"Well, will wonders never cease," Mark remarked to his brother, while running beside him.

"Helping her as much as ourselves, I think." Lucas replied, with a gleam in his eye. "Show me a lawman who's going to be a hard-ass to a couple of guys that just saved a kid's life."

Scorcher had taken cover behind the concrete sitting wall in front of the bank. Upon witnessing Scorcher being tossed outside by Bruce, a handful of Tony's men had followed after him and were now providing support fire from the window. It was the only window the police did not have control over. Scorcher was lying on his belly, with his hands over his head as gunfire passed over him. In all the commotion, it took him a moment to realize that he was no longer sick. Scorcher rubbed his stomach in amazement. My god. He felt alive again. Puking out that poison was the relief he needed. He was feeling formidable now. Scorcher rose up with both gauntlets glowing. With a swipe of his arm, Scorcher unleashed a torrent of fire that arced through the sky and spat at the opposition.

"Get back!" Varick yelled, as the flames rained down. He pushed Morring to the ground, an instant before the flames grazed past them. He was still stationed outside with the police that didn't enter the bank. Bruce had instructed Varick to wait outside due to his injury, for in a battle of this scale, his injuries made him a liability. And like any good soldier, he did as he was told.

As if armed with a flamethrower, Scorcher's right hand targeted the nearest squad car and torched the vehicle. Using his flame tactics as a diversion, Scorcher retreated back inside the bank to get another shot at Bruce.

Santos had entered the fray through the main doors with the police. The firefight had begun from the moment they crossed the threshold into the bank. Behind the protection of ballistic shields, they stayed low to the ground and pressed forward. Santos spotted Hachiuma and Bruce inside the vault: the two of them were locked in mortal combat. Santos' attention strayed to Scorcher, who climbed in through the window and charged into the vault. Not good. Santos left the safety of the police and ran towards the vault as well.

Bruce already had his hands full with Hachiuma, and now, Scorcher was back for another round. He lunged and brought his arm down hard. Bruce blocked Scorcher's hammer fist, but was caught in the side by Hachiuma's strike. Bruce backpedalled to get both his opponents inside his field of vision. Scorcher stood by Hachiuma, looking triumphant. "Well, isn't this quaint. Our own little private arena, here in this vault. A nice place to make your last stand, Kasparov..."

Santos was ready to even the odds and make it a two on two fight. Santos sprinted towards the vault but was suddenly forced to jump back when the blade of a machete struck the floor in front of him. Three men obstructed his path. Their faces were concealed by shemagh scarves, and each one was brandishing a carbon steel machete... It was Hachiuma's mercenaries. "Well, this should be interesting..." Santos muttered.

They began the attack. Their blades sliced through the air at frightening speed. Santos backpedalled to avoid being cut to ribbons. He was effectively managing to keep out of striking distance, but was being herded away from the main fight where Bruce was. Santos glanced to his left as one of the mercenaries darted to the side. Another to the right. They were spreading out to encircle him. He quickly found himself with no escape route. He was trapped. The mercenaries swarmed around Santos, keeping him inside the eye of their storm. They slashed at Santos while continuing to circle him in violent fashion. But Santos was nimble. And he was quicker. Even with no room to step out, he managed to dodge and evade three machete blades. He could feel the wind from the blade swipes wash over him. This dance was far too dangerous to continue a second longer. Santos focused his mind and allowed raw energy to permeate through his hands. The energy he and Bruce had learned to harness all those years ago in Tibet. A blade came down and Santos met it with a glowing right fist. The first mercenary's blade snapped in two and Santos was unharmed. He spun a backhand, striking at the second mercenary's blade before it was thrust at him. It too was broken. The last armed mercenary sprang up into the air and aimed to plant his machete right through Santos' skull. Santos sidestepped the blade, which impacted the floor with such force that it cut into the granite tile and left the blade stuck in place. With the mercenary down at waist level, Santos caught him in the face with a side kick. He was instantly knocked out and hit the floor hard. His blade remained lodged in the tile. But even unarmed, the two mercenaries on their feet were deadly. Mercenary one grabbed Santos around the neck and pinned one of his arms behind his back in an attempt to restrain him. Mercenary two unleashed a flurry of punches, catching Santos off guard. Santos grunted in pain as he endured the brutal beating. He tried his best to defend himself, but the mercenary attacking him was much too skilled an opponent to be fended off with one arm. But one arm was all he needed to attack. Santos threw a fist backwards into the face of the mercenary that was holding him. The mercenary released Santos and took another blow to the face—this time an elbow. He was down. One mercenary remained on his feet. He did not waiver and continued to press the attack on Santos. Lighting fast strikes from both men were delivered, but the gap in skill was quickly evident. Santos caught his attacker's hand, then pulled him in and finished him off with an uppercut to the stomach. Santos was truly one of the best the Legion had to offer.

Bruce was pulling out all the stops—Hachiuma and Scorcher attacking together were a force to be reckoned with. Deadly gunfire from outside the vault continued to ring in their ears. But neither Bruce, Hachiuma, nor Scorcher showed any concern for it. They couldn't afford to, for any distraction from a fight of this calibre would be disastrous. Their world at this moment was confined to everything within the walls of the vault.

From his open hand, Scorcher unleashed his flamethrower attack and watched Bruce run. Bruce arced inwards towards Scorcher while gaining tremendous speed. Without a break in his pace, Bruce leapt towards Scorcher, spinning in the air to connect a hurricane kick into his face. Scorcher hit the ground hard; his flamethrower arm shot wildly into the air. As Bruce landed, Hachiuma charged in for a tackle, like a linebacker sacking the QB. Hachiuma had Bruce around the torso, but instead of dropping him to the ground, he powered forward. Hachiuma was adamant to drive Bruce into the wall and break every bone in his body. Bruce pushed out of Hachiuma's grip, giving Hachiuma room to throw an uppercut into his stomach. And another. Bruce took the punishment and landed a strike across the side of Hachiuma's head. Hachiuma appeared unfazed and continued to exchange blows with Bruce and force him back. Without warning, Hachiuma dropped to the floor and smashed Bruce across the kneecap with both hands locked together. Upon seeing the opening, Scorcher recovered as quickly as possible and fired off an energy bomb. Bruce's hands shot up to cover his upper body and face as the attack made contact. He was blasted off his feet and crashed into the wall. Scorcher pounced on him. He picked up Bruce by his shirt and threw him to the opposite end of the vault. He hit the floor with a thud. Bruce looked up; his entire body was aching. Hachiuma fired off three energy projectiles. Bruce scrambled to roll out of the way; the balls of energy flew past him and exploded through the wall of the bank. Hachiuma charged, with Scorcher following right behind. Bruce was shaky, but on his feet. He began to gather energy in his right hand for a counterattack.

Bruce placed his left arm under his right for support and aimed. As Hachiuma drew close, Bruce began to fire. But Hachiuma was no easy foe, for he had phenomenal control of energy himself. He generated a protective shield that encased his entire body as he charged. To an unknowing eye, the energy shield gave the appearance of a man on fire. Hachiuma dodged and swatted away Bruce's barrage of energy blasts as he closed in. Bruce gritted his teeth. He did not expect Hachiuma to sustain his charge. He needed more power...so be it. Bruce increased the intensity in a heartbeat. The flames around his arms grew large and white hot. This energy transferred into his attacks and Hachiuma got struck with several of the blasts at close range. There was only so much his energy shield could withstand. The collision of energy particles engulfed Hachiuma in a cloud of smoke and fire. He dropped to his knees, severely injured. Bruce's focus on Hachiuma allowed Scorcher to get within striking distance of Bruce. Scorcher threw punch after punch at him; both his hands were generating incredible flames that were dancing on his fists. One strike from a punch like this would inflict serious burns on a normal man. Bruce dodged and countered with strikes of his own. Hachiuma crawled towards Bruce and grabbed him tight around the ankles.

"Get off!" Bruce yelled. He was temporarily immobilized. As Bruce tried to shake him off, Scorcher landed a fiery fist on Bruce's chest. He screamed out. Bruce's entire body engulfed itself in flames. But this was not Scorcher's doing. Bruce had created a fire shield of his own. He grabbed Scorcher around the wrist with both hands and threw him into the wall. He then kicked out at Hachiuma, connecting his flame-shielded boot into his face. With this strike, Bruce was able to break free of Hachiuma's grasp and go after Scorcher. Bruce broke into a run. He jumped up and grabbed Scorcher by the horns and used them to hoist himself up and accelerate his attack, driving a flaming knee under Scorcher's chin. Bruce got in one more punch as Scorcher fell to the floor. Just for good measure. Bruce's flames slowly died down and eventually disappeared. Bruce glanced back. Hachiuma was still on the floor—battered and beaten, but conscious. His eyes watched Bruce darkly.

Scorcher was now lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He began to cough—a cough which gradually turned into a weak laugh. "I told you, Hachiuma... I told you. He's too much. Good job beating him."

"Move, move, move!" Police covered the flank while the hostages were escorted out the front doors to safety. The Solly brothers had joined the mob being rushed towards the exit. It was a collective relief felt by every hostage to be outside the bank and be greeted by the cold November air. Captain Morring and several police officers were waiting outside to debrief them.

Molly was still safely being held by Lucas. He turned to the nearest cop to hand her over. "She ain't mine, but I couldn't just leave her in there," Lucas told the officer. The cop graciously took Molly from Lucas and thanked him for his courageous act. "What'd I tell you," Lucas muttered to his brother. "Brownie points."

"I'd ask everyone that was inside the bank to please bear with us," Captain Morring stated, addressing the hostages. "I know each of you has been through a harrowing ordeal, but we kindly request your cooperation in assisting us with..." Oswalt pushed through the crowd and locked eyes with the Solly brothers. He approached them and stood behind them mock-casually.

"What did you two do?!" Oswalt demanded in a hoarse whisper. "Was what happened inside the bank somehow your doing?!"

Lucas didn't look back and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Does it look like it? We're victims here, just like everyone else," he hissed.

Mark lifted up his shirt to reveal bruises on his back. "We were lucky to get out of there alive."

Oswalt yanked Mark's shirt back down. "Stop drawing attention! You know what, forget it. I don't even care to know the details, just get out of here. Where's your car?"

Mark scanned the street. We came here with Wells—the car's gone."

"Alright, walk out of here, then. Quickly. With all the commotion, no one's going to notice."

Lucas nodded. "We were right to bring you on board."

"I better not regret it," Oswalt muttered.

Hachiuma struggled to get himself to an upright seated position. He dragged himself across the floor with his hands and leaned against the wall of safety deposit boxes.

Bruce looked at the two villains, with the trace of a smirk. "Well, you took a gamble and you lost." Bruce waited for some sort of reaction but received none. Outside the vault walls, the gunfire continued. "Why don't you call off your men, Scorcher? Tell them to give up." Bruce walked over to Scorcher and nudged his arm with a boot. "It'll make things easier for everyone." Scorcher was still lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't appear to hear Bruce.

Santos poked his head into the vault. "You alright, Bruce?" He glanced down at Hachiuma and Scorcher, who were both on the floor.

Bruce nodded. "Yeah, I got things under control. How's the situation out there?"

"Captain Morring's men have them pinned down."

Bruce grinned. "You hear that, Scorcher? It's only a matter of time. Call them off. Tell them you've lost."

Scorcher forced a laugh, despite his injuries. "Always the bald face—you gloating prick. You didn't think I anticipated this? I was sceptical that Hachiuma would be able to do what I couldn't, and rightly so—I'm not oblivious to the track record." He unclipped the walkie talkie hanging from his belt. He held the receiver to his mouth and mumbled into it: "Come get us."

Parked in close proximity to the bank, a truck revved to life upon receiving Scorcher's dispatch...

Coincidentally, the walkie talkie Varick had with him began to buzz, moments after Scorcher used his. "Varick, come in."

Varick stepped away from the chatter of the police to answer the call. "Yeah, I'm here, Finch." On the roof, Arthur Finch was their eyes and was keeping communication with Varick.

"I see something coming. A truck...a big truck... It bypassed the roadblocks..."

Varick could faintly hear the rumbling. The police were taking down notes and gathering information from the hostages. Morring was at the center of it, trying to keep everyone calm and keep things running smoothly. Varick pushed through the crowd to reach Morring. He nudged his arm to get the captain's attention. "Little busy here, Varick," he said, without looking up from his notebook.

Varick ignored his shooing away. "Morring, are you expecting any reinforcements? More police?"

Morring stopped writing and turned to face Varick, slightly annoyed. "No... What are you on about?" Varick's eyes narrowed. He turned and began to walk towards the road. He stopped on the sidewalk. Morring was behind him and followed his gaze. He could see it now too... Off in the distance...coming up the street. Traffic had been blocked off by police, but nevertheless, a large vehicle could be seen driving towards them...and it was picking up tremendous speed. Morring stared. "What is this..."

Varick held the walkie to his mouth: "Finch, take it down now, TAKE IT DOWN!"

Arthur opened fire on the vehicle. His sniper rounds were bouncing off the vehicle's armor. He managed to put a few rounds in the tires, but the vehicle was still moving smoothly. "Shit..." Arthur put down his rifle. "Varick, it's bullet proof. And the tires gotta be some sort of heavy-grade composite run-flats."

Varick dropped his walkie and turned to the crowd. "Everyone, get to cover!" he bellowed. The police and hostages looked at him, bewildered. Varick wasn't sure what to expect, but he knew it was nothing good.

The armored truck barrelled down the road and hopped the curb, driving straight at the bank. Morring rushed to his squad car to retrieve his megaphone. "Take out that truck! Open fire, OPEN FIRE!" The truck continued to pick up speed.

"It's no good, Morring!" Varick yelled.

Police began to fire upon the vehicle. The pinging of bullets could be heard as they bounced off the truck's armor plating. A narrow metal slide on the side of the truck opened, and the barrels of two rocket launchers peeked out. Inside the truck, Gregory Pike and Ulysses Frost aimed their armaments. Pike grinned. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this."

"Get behind the swat van!" Morring yelled to the hostages. The rockets flew in and blew up two squad cars. The men and women outside the bank scrambled for their lives.

"Reload!" Another two rockets were fired. They were clearing a path. The armored truck was now directly in line with the bank doors. It rammed past police vehicles and drove up the steps...

Bruce could hear the explosions coming from outside the walls of the bank. With both hands, he grabbed Scorcher by the neck and thrust him into the wall. "What did you do?!" he snarled. Scorcher simply smiled at him. He punched him across the face, knocking Scorcher to the floor. "ANSWER ME!"

Scorcher's face was pressed against the tile. He lifted his head, just enough for Bruce to once again see that stupid smile of his. "Why don't you go look for yourself?"

The armored truck had smashed through the front doors of the bank. The officers by the entrance cleared out to avoid being run over. Police had already damaged the doors when breaching them with the battering ram. The truck was the icing on the cake that tore the doors clean off their hinges. Lee, the truck driver, pulled the wheel to a hard right and slammed the brakes. The truck swerved to a stop in the middle of the bank, in-between the police forces and Tony's men. Ulysses Frost picked out new toys from inside the truck: smoke grenades. He held a grenade in each hand. "Let there be...disharmony." Through the metal slide, Frost tossed the smokers towards the police. They began to hiss and fill the police-controlled side of the bank with smoke. Tony's troops made their way to the truck.

Panic had set in for the police teams. "Shit. Carter, we can't see a thing! What are we doing here?!"

Carter's eyes were watering from the smoke. "Hold your positions!" They could not engage Tony's men with their vision obstructed, but to step out of the smoke would surely be a death wish—they would be thrown into the cross-hairs of the enemy, out of position.

"You know the orders, Lee," Frost told the driver. "The moment Scorcher, Hachiuma, and Tony are in the truck, we leave—not before. Everyone else is expendable." With the cover of smoke, it was relatively safe to open the side door of the truck. Pike leaned out with a rocket launcher in hand. He fired off a round blindly into the smoke.

Carter's ears rang. He could hear the screams of his comrades as the rocket impacted. "Fall back, fall back!" He could barely see the entrance doors, but there was no option—they had to move.

"Oi, Tony. Tony!"

Tony Calzone was leaning against the sofa, with his gun dangling loosely in his hand. He had a glazed expression on his face. His eyes were half open and staring off into the distance. Someone grabbed Tony by the shoulders and shook him.

"Huh!?" Tony suddenly jarred back into consciousness. He looked up to see two of his men standing in front of him: It was Ramon and Freddy.

"We gotta get out of here, boss, c'mon," Freddy muttered. Ramon took the gun from Tony's hand and pocketed it. Freddy prepared to hoist Tony to his feet and then noticed the blood trickling from the back of his head. "Oh hell man, this looks bad. It might be a concussion," Freddy muttered.

Ramon examined Tony's injury. "Shit. He needs a hospital. C'mon, let's get him to the truck."

Scorcher laughed. "Like what you see, Kasparov?"

From inside the vault, Bruce watched in horror as the police forces retreated after being devastated by the rocket.

Santos balled his hands into fists. "Let's go, Bruce."

Bruce nodded. "I'm taking out that truck, Santos."

"NO CHANCE!" Scorcher bursted out, with an unexpected surge of energy. He caught Bruce off guard and struck him repeatedly. Hachiuma was on his feet now too. Both villains were severely injured but knew this was a crucial moment, and they had to muster everything they had to escape. Hachiuma grabbed hold of Santos' arm and swung him against the wall. Scorcher shot flames through the vault door and up towards the roof like a flare gun.

Frost spotted them and pointed them out to Lee. "Go get them." The truck began to move.

Surprise could only last for so long. Bruce dodged Scorcher's next two strikes and knocked him to the ground with one punch. Several of Tony's men were walking alongside the rolling truck and opened fire on Bruce's position. Bruce pressed up against the side of the vault wall to avoid the hail of gunfire. With the suppressive fire holding Bruce back, Hachiuma escaped out of the vault. Scorcher crawled on his belly, right behind Hachiuma. Once out of the vault, Scorcher stood up and broke into a run.

Santos regained his footing. He locked eyes with Bruce, who nodded at him. "Let's pour it on." With fists glowing, the pair aimed through the vault door and planted their feet. The barrage of energy projectiles they unleashed was truly a sight to behold. Tony's men scattered from the fearsome attack—the ones that were caught in the barrage were instantly knocked out cold. "Let's go." Bruce and Santos darted forward. Bruce aimed his hand at Hachiuma's back. He had him—until... "What!?" Bruce looked over his shoulder startled as Santos tripped to the floor from a slide tackle... It was Hachiuma's guard. A second one came out of nowhere and clocked Bruce in the face. With help from the Thai mercenaries, Hachiuma and Scorcher made it into the truck. Ramon and Freddy were already inside with Tony, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. A few of the grunts made it inside as well. Others were still outside the truck, firing upon the police, who were attempting to regain control of the situation. Frost gave Lee the signal. The truck engine roared, and the vehicle screeched through the entrance. It flew over the stairs and landed on the ground with a heavy thud. The police futilely fired upon the vehicle as it barrelled past them. The ringleaders had managed to take flight and elude authorities.

Bruce and Santos made short work of Hachiuma's guard; most of their fight had already been knocked out of them by Santos in their initial bout. But these men had unwavering loyalty to Hachiuma. If using themselves as fodder to aid in Hachiuma's escape was necessary, they were more than ready to oblige. With Scorcher and Hachiuma's main attack force having escaped in the truck, the stragglers still fighting were quickly subdued by the police. Bruce and Santos walked out of the bank with their heads hung low. This was not a victory in Bruce's book. Not by a long shot.

Paramedics were on the scene, transporting injured policemen into the ambulances. Captain Morring stared grimly at Bruce and Santos, as he walked up the steps to meet them. Alex had arrived at the bank as well. From the foot of the stairs, Varick acknowledged Bruce with a nod, then walked off.

Bruce stared at his son. "Alex..." He gritted his teeth—he couldn't help it. He was suddenly overcome with a deep feeling of shame.

"I came right after school—saw it on the news. You okay, Dad?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Listen, I need to talk with Captain Morring here..."

"Yeah, of course. I'll hang back."

Santos put a hand on Alex's shoulder. "Shouldn't be long. C'mon, let's head down."

Varick had found a relatively private spot beside a parked vehicle. He pulled out his cell, dialled a number, and held the phone to his ear. He was sick of feeling useless. He should be on the front lines, without having his injuries preventing him from providing any real help. A gruff voice answered Varick's call: "Yeah?"

"Billy, this is Varick." Billy the snitch was Varick's go-to informant. He conversed briefly with Billy about what had just transpired at First Bank. "I want to know...who was in that truck. And as soon as you find out, you contact me with a location." Varick's demeanor hardened while he listened to the response from the other end. "I don't care how you do it, just take care of it. You're going to give that information to me, and no one else. There's gonna be hell to pay."

Bruce sighed. "How bad is it?"

Captain Morring's gaze strayed through the entrance of the bank to look at the carnage. "Three officers dead. Several injured. The rocket that went off inside the bank is what did most of it."

"I'm sorry."

Morring shook his head. "Not your fault. No one was prepared for it."

"Like hell it wasn't your fault, Kasparov." Carter had joined the huddle. He pointed an accusing finger at Bruce. "You were heading this. Take responsibility for its outcome."

"Mommy, Mommy!" The group turned to see the little girl Molly crying as she ran by a stretcher. An officer held her back to prevent her from seeing the grisly sight. Bruce's heart fell when he saw Molly's mother on the stretcher. Blood dripped from the bullet entry point in her forehead. Carter scowled darkly at Bruce and stormed off.

***

## Chapter 15 – Shocktalk

Monday, November 1st, 1999

A heavy rain accompanied by high winds had set down in New York. Monday nights at the Seaberg Lounge were scarcely populated, but with the terrible weather, it was all but deserted. Oswalt Fletcher pulled up outside the club in an unmarked vehicle. He struggled to open his door against the wind, but manage it he did. He pulled his coat collar up high to weather the rainstorm and draped the right sleeve of his jacket over his sling. Walking past the main doors, Oswalt headed to the back entrance. It wasn't nearly as glamorous as the front. He rapped sharply on the door. The metal slide on the rectangular peephole opened and a pair of eyes sized up Oswalt. The slide closed and the door creaked open.

Oswalt stepped inside the small office and wiped his feet on the mat. He extended his hand to the doorman: "Hello, Lucas." Jack Solly was seated behind a rickety wooden desk. It was hardly a desk worthy of his stature, but it would suffice for functional purposes. Mark Solly was leaning against the wall beside Jack, with his hands folded across his chest. Jack Solly eyed Oswalt. He rubbed the rainwater out of his hair. "Police identified a body, a couple streets up from the bank. It was Brody."

Jack gritted his teeth. "And Wells?"

Oswalt shrugged. "No idea."

"Our guys on the street haven't been able to find a trace of him or his vehicle," Mark informed.

Jack drummed his fingers on his desk. "I want to know...what the hell happened. And my briefcases...they stole my fuckin' cases!"

"If I know what it is, I can get police on it to retrieve it."

"Well, if it was something I didn't mind police looking at, I would have considered it. This is a major financial setback," Jack muttered. "Major." He leaned back in his chair. "You know, I find it hard to believe that this was a coincidence—that they knew to ambush you two," Jack said, pointing at his sons. "What we got here is a traitor. The only people that knew about the deposit are in this room, excluding Wells and Brody. I know my own blood would never betray me, and Wells is practically family. He's been in my employment for over ten years." Solly stared hard into Oswalt. "Which just leaves you." Keeping his eyes locked on Oswalt, his right hand ruffled through the desk drawer and came up with a gun. Slowly, he placed the gun down on his desk.

Oswalt's eyes narrowed. "What would I have to gain from betraying you?"

"What indeed..."

"Maybe it was Brody—things went sour with Scorcher's men, and that's why he's roadkill."

"Well, we can't exactly ask him, now can we?"

Oswalt glanced at where the Solly brothers were positioned in the room. If it came down to it, he wouldn't make it out of this office alive. "I didn't turn on you, Jack."

He didn't respond or react. Jack simply stared down Oswalt. A silence fell in the room that was briefly punctured by the wind batting on the office door. Oswalt swallowed but kept his demeanor firm. "So, what happens now?"

Jack rubbed his creased forehead with two fingers. "Until we locate Wells, we can't get a complete story. And if it so happens that we find out he's been deceased as well... I have yet to determine if that bodes well for you or not, Oswalt. I sincerely hope you haven't betrayed us...for your sake. Until we get to the bottom of this, we'll be keeping very close eyes on you."

Oswalt nodded in acknowledgement. "I have nothing to hide."

Jack put the gun back in the drawer. "That's good to hear."

***

11:15 p.m.

Attica Supermax Prison: Since its construction in the 1930s, it has been home to a slew of dangerous criminals and was the site of one of the worst prison riots in history. Tonight, it is the first stop for the stragglers that were rounded up during the First Bank incident.

The rain was still coming down hard. A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the night sky—a crack like a whip, followed by slow rumbling thunder. "How soon can we get a translator here?"

"They put in the call. Within the hour, they told me," Captain Morring replied. "I think that's pretty good; I'm not exactly sure how common Thai translators are."

Carter cracked his knuckles. "Good. I want to know everything—no stone unturned. Those three sword-wielding psychos came with Hachiuma, there isn't a doubt in my mind. And they're going to give us something useful, or so help me..."

"You mean knife-wielding psychos," one of the officers told Carter.

"What?"

"The machete is a knife."

Carter stared at the officer as if he were a pile of goose droppings he had just stepped in. "Gee, thanks. I never realized that, you fuckin' fool."

Captain Morring and several police officers from New York City were here in Attica. Bruce had volunteered to come along for the ride as well. Just in case.

"Why Attica?" a resident guard asked. "Why come all the way here to hold these men?"

"Because these men were part of a large-scale and very public scene," Morring replied. "And they're in Scorcher's criminal network. It wouldn't be prudent holding people like that at the local jail. We're talking about people that have the resources to organize breakouts, and they've done so in the past. The prisoner transport here was no picnic, let me tell you. It was nerve-racking not knowing if we were going to make it here in one piece or not." The blaring sound of an alarm suddenly began to echo off the prison walls. Morring's eyes darted wildly. "What's going on?" Guards rushed down the halls. Morring and the others followed after them. It was the cells holding Hachiuma's mercenaries... All three were lying motionless on the floor.

"I didn't know what to do, Warden. One by one, they just started gagging uncontrollably," the prison guard informed. "I think they poisoned themselves or something."

The warden bared his teeth. He was a hulking man in height and muscles and sported a flat-top crew cut. He opened the nearest cell door.

"You didn't search them?" Carter demanded.

"Of course we searched them!" the warden spat. He bent down on one knee to inspect the body. He moved the lower jaw slightly. A white string was dangling from inside his mouth.

"They must've had it inside them," said the warden. "Regurgitated some sort of lethal poison to keep silent."

"Doesn't matter, they wouldn't have talked even if they were alive," Bruce stated bluntly. "And the other goons we managed to roundup are too stupid to know anything. All low rungs."

Carter was pissed. But at the same time, he couldn't help but feel intrigued and slightly uneasy. They would rather die than betray this man Hachiuma... Just what type of person were they dealing with here?

***

Chital Co. Tower, Manhattan

Scorcher and his men that escaped capture had returned to headquarters. On the top floor, the soldiers were in the lounge, taking in some well-needed R&R. The generals of the operation, so to speak, were engaged in a private meeting inside the office: Scorcher, Hachiuma, Samuel Turly, Gregory Pike, Ulysses Frost, and Tony Calzone. "Well, it wasn't a total success, but we did manage to get our hands on the bearer bonds," Tony said proudly. Scorcher and Hachiuma stared down Tony until he shrank into a corner.

"But we didn't kill Kasparov..." Frost said, finishing Hachiuma and Scorcher's thoughts.

"It appears that head injury has made you delusional, Calzone," Hachiuma stated sharply. Tony's head had been wrapped up by one of their doctors.

Pike opened and closed a fist. "I should've had a crack at him."

"We should've fought to the death. Our failure is inexcusable," Hachiuma muttered.

"I'm not surprised you failed," Scorcher added with grim satisfaction. "I told you not to underestimate Kasparov." Hachiuma raised his hand in a fit of rage and fired an energy projectile at Scorcher. With one hand, Scorcher stopped the attack and safely dissipated the energy particles. He smiled. "Aren't we touchy. I've given you free rein since you got here, and I think it's safe to say you've run your course." Hachiuma's eyes began to glow like red coals.

"That's enough," Turly said, stepping in-between the pair. He pointed to the desk intercom that had started beeping. "That would be the Master."

Scorcher lowered his hand. "Frost, take Calzone and Pike and join the others in the lounge. You three, make sure the grunts don't steal anything." Frost nodded, and the three exited the office. Turly waited for the door to close, then hit the switch. "Greetings, Master, this is Turly. I'm here with Scorcher and Hachiuma." The intercom lightly buzzed with static.

"We couldn't kill him," Hachiuma muttered.

"Yes, I know." He had a deep gravelly voice that still managed to pierce like a blade. "And you engaged Bruce as well, Scorcher?"

"Yeah..."

"And he defeated both of you... Interesting." Hachiuma and Scorcher exchanged glances as the intercom buzzed. "This is what I want done. I want to know...where he resides."

Scorcher scratched his head. "Where he lives?"

"No excuses. No progress updates. When you have acquired this information, you will contact me." There was a pause. "Until then." The intercom went dead.

With his fingers interlocked, Scorcher stretched out his arms and generated loud cracks in his knuckles. "Well, that wasn't so bad..."

***

Wednesday, November 3rd, 1999

"How's it going out there New York; Jerry Stiltson coming at you from Shocktalk Radio with another action-packed show. Today, I came across some rather disturbing news—information that I would like to share and discuss with all of you today. Of course, this is continuing our ongoing segments on a topic that has recently come into the public eye: U.S. government involvement with the secret society—that some may go as far as saying is a radical cult group—known as the Omega Ops Legion. Ever since U.S. Army Captain Bruce Kasparov let slip he was in fact a member of the Legion, it begs the question: Does the government have our best interests in mind?"

It had been two days since the incident at First Bank. Awareness of Legion involvement in the hostage crisis had set off a media firestorm, and none were more vocal on the subject than the seedy radio personality Jerry Stiltson. He had a head start on the competition by having made the Legion his centerpiece for a month now. Shocktalk thrived on sensationalism.

"I have with me today, a man who some may call an Omega Ops Legion 'historian', a Mr. Uecker Clemens. A venture capitalist back in his prime, now retired. And, much like L.B. Jefferies, he has formed an obsessive hobby of keeping an all-seeing eye on his subject. In this case, the Legion."

"Clever comparison coming from a high school dropout."

"College dropout actually, but I'm sure that won't be the first factual error you'll be making on this show. Either way, I'm sure you'll be able to help in lifting some of the mist that surrounds this organization with your, err, expertise."

Uecker sneered at Stiltson from across the studio. "Just so we're clear, I think your show is smut, some of the worst kind of media garbage out there. I'm only here to clear up as much of it as I can, before you further warp the minds of your pea-brained listeners."

Jerry grinned. "Like I said, New York: action-packed show." He cleared his throat. "Well, let's get right to it. The First Bank incident. Legion involvement. Disaster. Give us a play-by-play, Mr. Jefferies."

Uecker was still wearing a sneer. "Don't get cute."

Jerry waited for Uecker to continue, but he simply stared back at him angrily. Jerry smiled. "Alright—Uecker. Walk us through it."

"Love to. First off, it wasn't a disaster. It was making the best of a bad situation."

Stiltson raised an eyebrow. "Really? One hostage—a single mother—dead. Three police officers dead. Injuries across the board. You consider that making the best of it?"

"Frankly, yes. If Bruce and his Legion boys didn't get involved when they did, the body-count would've been far higher."

"You don't know that!" Stiltson challenged, smacking his desk. "You can't know that. It was entirely a police matter that should have been handled by the police. They had no stake in it."

"When one of these lunatics calls out a Legion member by name and uses him as a bargaining chip, I'd say that gives them a big stake in it."

Jerry let out a loud laugh. "A good point. The entire situation was brought about by the Legion to begin with!"

"Yeah, and I guess Martin Luther King and JFK stood out in public with 'kick me' signs on their backs. You know you're doing the right thing when people come gunning for you. For every person trying to do some good, there'll be another ten trying to unravel it."

"In the case of First Bank, the police were the ones responsible to do that 'good' you're referring to," Jerry countered. "Not these wannabe superheroes that think they're above the law. And if they're going to play the role of superheroes, at least do it right. Dead hostages, dead law enforcement agents. And to top it all off, they let the main targets escape: Tony Calzone and Scorcher. Reports suggest they had another crime boss from their overseas network present at the scene as well—also eluded capture. When the NYPD associate themselves with people like those in the Legion, their credibility goes down." Jerry picked up the latest newspaper and ruffled through the pages. "A little piece of info for everyone tuning in. My understanding is that Police Captain James Morring, the man that was spearheading the operation at First Bank, is coming under heavy fire from the higher-ups for allowing Legion interference—and rightly so. Just outrageous."

"They can try to crucify him, but he's a competent man and it was the right decision. Despite what you say, Stiltson, I'm sure the citizens of New York will see it that way as well."

"Don't be so sure. What happened under Morring's command will not be remembered in any sort of good light. Three fallen police officers. Now, don't get me wrong, my sympathies go out to those officers and their families. But they knew the risks, and they were willing to put it all on the line to save lives. They died heroes. Now, what we have with the single mother is something entirely different. She was a hostage, and she became a casualty. She died a victim. What can the Legion do to repair that damage? What can Captain Morring say for allowing their interference which lead to this outcome?"

Uecker sighed. "I'm certain they did all they could. And in doing so, they minimized the damage."

"Try feeding that to the mother's six-year-old daughter she left behind. She was in the bank with her mother at the time of the incident."

Uecker was beginning to lose his patience. "You don't think I know that? Unfortunately, these are the consequences when dealing with scumbags. The Legion and the police are waging war with these people, and there's going to be casualties. For that one hostage that died, the rest were able to be saved. We should be thankful that it wasn't more than one."

Stiltson knew he hit pay dirt—he had him now. He smirked. "Luckily for us, I think the majority of us don't think of human life as such an expendable commodity. For the six-year-old girl that lost her mother, that was everything to her. How can you measure the value of a human life like some sort of statistic?"

"I'm doing nothing of the sort! I'm just coming to terms with the harsh reality of the situation and that this was the best possible outcome." What was further aggravating Uecker was the revolting smile Stiltson was wearing. Over the air, Stiltson was sounding empathic, but only Uecker could see his complete and utter indifference.

"You heard it here first: the Omega Ops Legion is ready to chalk up the losses to 'making the best of the situation'."

"Now you listen here, you smart-ass—"

"I'm sorry, we still have a lot to discuss, but we'll leave the issue on this note: If you're going to break away from procedure, you'd better be damn well sure you know what you're doing and leave no room for criticism. Because there will always be a lingering doubt of what could have happened if things were done the right way."

"That's not what the Legion does... Write off losses..." Uecker was red in the face, but as much as he wanted to storm off the show, he had already decided beforehand that he would see it through to the end. He had to cover as much as possible and give some good publicity to the Legion. He wasn't exactly sure how good a job of it he was doing so far.

"Okay, Uecker, moving on: You are purported to be the expert on the Legion—a chronicler, if you will—"

"Hey, that's what you called me. I said nothing other than I'm familiar with how the Legion operates."

"In any case, why don't you share with us exactly what the Legion does?"

"Yeah, I can give you the broad strokes—"

"Wait! But before we go into that, let's talk history. I think everyone is curious as to how this organization came to be in the first place. How'd it all start?"

Uecker scratched his chin. "Loaded question...but I'll give it a shot. This is my understanding of it: Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, speculated to be towards the end of the High Middle Ages—"

"This sounds like the start to some piss-poor folklore..."

Uecker ignored him. "There was a period of civil anarchy in Asia. It was specifically being spurred on by a cult group."

"The cult group being the Legion?"

"No...this was something malicious. A group upholding dangerous ideals and leading men down dangerous paths. I believe this cult's greatest power laid in their ability to spread. Their growth was phenomenal, and their influence grew rapidly throughout Asia and spread westward."

Stiltson smirked. "So, they were out to take over the world, were they? Did this cult have a name?"

"The Demon's Wake."

"Frightening!"

"Anyway... Several men and women created a coalition—an opposing force to the Demon's Wake. Men and women from Europe and Asia. It was a time where no one knew whom to trust."

"That's how it is at any time in history..."

"Nevertheless, long story short, in the face of adversity, these men and women joined together and managed to defeat and disband the cult. Thus, these were some of the first members, the founding members of the Omega Ops Legion we know today."

Stiltson picked at his teeth idly with his index finger. "Great story, absolutely riveting—could have used a dragon though. Now, the name of this organization, the 'Omega Ops Legion'—what does that mean? Omega Ops... Sounds militaristic and possibly genocidal. The 'Final Operation'? And I suppose 'Legion' references the army from hell that will carry out this cleansing?"

It was Uecker's turn to laugh. "Hardly. Omega stems from the Greek letter and was used to symbolize greatness and unity within the Legion. Ops is actually in reference to the Latin term meaning 'having the power to aid or help'. And 'Legion' references the ancient Roman Legions that have been revered for their efficiency and skill." Uecker smiled. "And there you have it. I suppose the name itself sums up exactly what the Omega Ops Legion is all about."

Stiltson stared for a moment, then laughed. "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you, old man?"

"Seventy-two. Why the hell would I mind?"

"Well, this may strike you as news, but some people are sensitive about their age. But I had a feeling you wouldn't have that problem. And you're a member of the Omega Ops Legion?"

"No, I never said I was."

"Well, you seem pretty intimate with their inner workings and the mythologies surrounding the organization. How is it you're privy to such information?"

"I have many friends that are in the Legion. The first real taste of it was from my mother, Mary Clemens, a lovely woman. No formal ties to the Legion, but she directly assisted with progressing their work."

"An unofficial member, so to speak?"

"Yeah, I guess you can say that. Warm personality—always tried to find the good in people. Involved with the charities the Legion organized. Financial and community outreach, that sort of thing."

"Yes, I'm sure every little boy believes their mother to be an angel, but to raise a son like you, well..." Jerry let out a short laugh of derision. "The fruits of the labors speak volumes."

"Really? Are you trying to bait me to come over there and slug you one? Makes for great on-air radio? Or maybe you just can't help yourself from being a jackass."

"Little of both, maybe?"

Uecker tried his best to control his temper so that he could continue to hit his points. He took a deep breath. "As I was saying—my mother, she was exceptionally intelligent and would always try to fully understand why something was the way it was. She never blindly accepted anything as fact. I guess when I saw the type of woman my mother was and how the Legion influenced her life, I wanted to make it a part of my life as well—even if I didn't officially join."

"I'm curious... You seem to be so engrossed with the Legion; why wouldn't you try to join it? Why not your mother?"

"I can't speak on behalf of my mother on this, but for me, I suppose I like to operate from the sidelines."

"Is that the reason? Or maybe, the thought of being officially tied to such an organization scared you."

Uecker raised an eyebrow. "Why would I be scared?"

"Because in your fascination to dig deep, perhaps you learned a bit too much. Things about the organization that wouldn't sit well with any man, woman, or child outside of their circle."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Stiltson."

"Well, that's why I'm here—to jog your memory. Tell me, what do you know about Bohemian Grove?"

Uecker stared at Stiltson for a moment. He scratched his head. "The Bohemian Club? That's where all those rich republicans stand naked against redwood trees, right?"

"It's where the world's elite gather. The most influential, the most wealthy—the most powerful. Frankly, it seems like the meeting hall where these men decide what direction they'll take the world in. Political agendas, corporate agendas... Some of these men have entire nations within their sphere of control. And where is the Omega Ops Legion in all this? What's their connection with the Bohemian Club?"

"I wasn't aware that such a connection even existed."

"Oh no? Are you aware that the Legion has long since associated its organization with the symbol of an owl? And that it has been suggested that Legion members have been in attendance at Bohemian Club meetings, where a forty-foot owl statue stands at the center of it all. Maybe it's the Legion that formed the club in the first place!"

A tinge of red pinched at Uecker's cheeks. In the back of his mind, he was struggling to comprehend how this annoying man got his hands on such information. Mind you, as far as Uecker knew, all the things Stiltson was spouting on about were just wild rumors. But to know about the Legion's owl symbology... Uecker was very curious about Stiltson's information sources.

Uecker composed himself. "As far as I know, the owl has been used by certain factions within the Legion some time ago. Currently, I don't think it's being associated with the Legion at all. But during the times that it was, it represented wisdom and knowledge. Nothing nefarious, as you would have your audience believe."

"So, the Legion and the Bohemian Club both using the symbol of an owl is just a coincidence?"

Uecker scoffed. "And I suppose, according to you, the girls down at Hooters are all part of the conspiracy as well?"

Jerry smiled. "Please, we both know that women aren't allowed membership into the Bohemian Club."

"Well, the Legion holds no such prejudices. Many of its members are, in fact, women."

"Then I suppose the Legion would be the front, and the real meat of the organization gets dished out within the confines of Bohemian Grove."

Uecker rubbed his eyes. "Are you about done with the witch hunt?"

"Try to undermine the truth all you like, the American public are not the blind sheep you believe them to be."

"I didn't say anything like that! I don't think—"

"Well, we're almost out of time here, so I'll give a few closing points on the issues: With the new millennium fast approaching, who knows what the Legion has prepared for us? Y2K might just be the beginning of their agenda. Once the financial systems inevitably crash due to these glitches, society as we know it could very well be thrown into turmoil. The Legion, no doubt, has planned for all of this and are ready to pick up the pieces and remold them to benefit the few, while the society's masses—honest people like you and me, will be thrown to the wayside. Don't let the Legion take hold of our country in such a manner. We have to fight back and it starts right here with us. We need to take back our rights and freedoms because organizations like the Legion sure as hell don't want us to keep them. Stiltson out."

Uecker's face was red with frustration as he began to spit into his mic: "Yeah, and I'd like to add that all the garbage Stiltson vomits out onto the air are a bunch of half-baked conspiracies that don't have a shred of evidence and panders to the lowest common denominator. Don't let this moron of a radio host throw you into his delusional fantasy world."

Stiltson stood up from his chair and stretched. "I'm sorry, Uecker, we were out of time, so that last little bit you had to say didn't quite make it...but hey, great show! Listen, I know you personally know Bruce. If you would be able to bring him onto the show, we'd put him on in a second."

Uecker's eyes bulged. "So you can stick more skewers through him? You turn my stomach, you cockroach."

Stiltson laughed, waving a hand dismissively. "Hey, it's nothing personal—just makes for good radio. And good radio makes for good ratings. Let him know, Mr. Jefferies. Let him know."

"Go to hell." And on that note, Uecker threw off his headset and stormed out of the booth.

***

## Chapter 16 – Varick Strikes Back

Friday, November 5th, 1999

Four days since the First Bank incident.

The negative publicity the Legion was receiving appeared to be getting worse with each passing day. Bruce had optimistically predicted that the initial shock of the event would dissipate in a few days, and things would slowly get better. But after the Shocktalk interview with Uecker, the media had a gold mine of different angles to spin. It was painfully obvious there would be no end to Legion bashing in the foreseeable future. Leading the efforts was Shocktalk Radio and their media circus. It was unnerving how much pull such a trashy radio network had.

***

Arthur Finch had been invited to a quiet dinner at Kasparov Manor. Joining him at the table was Varick, Santos, and Alex.

"So where's Frank these days?" Varick asked.

"Frank had to take care of some administration at Fort Bragg. I think he's going to be there for a week or so. Might be going back and forth between here and Bragg over the next couple of months he said."

"You didn't need to go with him?"

"Not on this particular trip, no. Said it wasn't necessary."

Varick smirked. "But aren't you the brains of the outfit, Arthur?"

Arthur shrugged. "That's what I thought, but Frank said he could field this one himself, so why cut my vacation short? Still want to make a Liberty Island tour before I go."

Santos returned to his seat after answering a lengthy phone call. "Teddy?" Varick asked.

"Yeah—asking for Bruce. He couldn't reach him on his cell."

"Was wondering when he was going to call here, with the mess that's being going on... Bruce is probably still in Attica, just to hide and avoid the calls."

Arthur was intrigued by Santos and Varick's conversation. "Who's Teddy? Bruce's keeper?"

"Yeah, something like that," replied Santos. "But since he's not around, I end up getting the lip as if it's my fault."

Varick speared his roast potatoes with a fork. "It is your fault, Santos."

"I didn't tell Uecker to go on that show. And he was only trying to help."

"Well, either way, I don't think my dad is hiding from Mr. Guthrie," Alex said, coming to his father's defence.

"Don't be so sure." Santos grinned. "Sometimes your father can be a big baby."

Varick's cell phone began to vibrate in his pants pocket. He withdrew his cell and answered the call. "Hello?"

"It's Billy. I got the information."

Varick's heart began to race. He hastily excused himself from the table to take the call in the hallway. Once he was out of earshot, he resumed the conversation: "Let's hear it."

"The person you're looking for is a man named Lee. He drove the truck."

"Where?"

"It's a chop shop in Manhattan; Lee and the truck should be there. You got a pen for the address?"

"Just give it to me." Varick made a mental note of the location, then ended the call. He instinctively ran his hand down his injured side. This was it. He made his way to the closet and put on his jacket.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Varick looked behind him to see Santos standing in the hallway. "Something came up that I need to attend to."

"You need a hand with it?"

"No, I can take care of this myself," Varick stated sharply. Santos watched curiously as Varick exited out the front door without another second thought.

Once he was gone, Santos took out his cell and placed a call. "Hello. He's on the move..."

***

9:30 p.m.

Varick arrived at the location Billy had disclosed to him: A virtually deserted lot. There was a small garage and a shed-sized office beside it. Varick had parked his Lincoln on the outskirts of the lot, with the veil of night as his only cover. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel while performing a quick visual sweep—it appeared safe enough. He could see lights on inside the garage. Varick smiled grimly to himself. Guess they're still open for business.

Varick stepped out of his vehicle and stealthily approached the garage. He leaned against the wall and peeked through the window. There was a lone figure inside. He was seated on a workbench, doing some delicate tinkering with small machine parts. Only one vehicle was present in the garage at the moment: the armored truck. Varick slunk along the wall until he reached the side door. Without making a sound, he slowly turned the knob—but it was locked. So much for sneaking in. He took several steps back, then, in one fluid motion, smashed open the door with a front kick. The man inside turned around startled. He jumped off his stool and reached for the handgun on the table. Before he had a chance to aim the gun, Varick charged forward and dropped him with a flying knee to the chest. There was enough force behind the strike to send the man over the table. He landed on his back, coughing and holding his chest in agony. Varick picked him up off the floor and slammed him against the wall. He was an Asian in his mid-thirties, with floppy dyed-brown hair that fell over his eyes.

"Lee, I presume..." The man was breathing hard, with a mixed expression of fear and anger on his face. Varick looked around the garage. "So, this is where the magic happens. You retrofitted that truck with some really high-end armor plating. The tires as well, top-notch." Without warning, Varick reached into the man's pants pocket.

"The hell are you doing, you weirdo!" He tried to struggle against him, but Varick kept him firmly pinned against the wall with one hand. He withdrew the man's wallet, then pushed him to the ground. He attempted to get to his feet.

"Stay down," Varick warned. The man did as he was told.

Varick ruffled through the cards inside the wallet. He smiled grimly. He threw the wallet back to the man. "Yeah, you're the asshole I'm looking for, Lee."

"What do you want?" Lee's eyes darted to the gun he dropped near the bench.

Varick crouched down and clamped a hand around Lee's throat. "I want it all. Names. Suppliers of the hardware. The people in the truck, or so help me—"

Lee gasped for air. "I don't know...what you're talking about, man..."

Varick bared his teeth. He squeezed Lee's throat shut for a second, then released his hold completely. Lee coughed profusely and rubbed his neck. Varick stood up. He casually walked over to the gun on the floor and kicked it to the other end of the warehouse. "You helped kill police and hostages at First Bank..." Varick's anger was bubbling to the top and his fists clenched. "You tell me again that you don't know and—" Varick suddenly stopped talking when lights washed through the garage windows. He could hear the engine of a vehicle. Its tires crunched under the gravel as it parked in front of the garage. Varick's mind raced. He picked up Lee by the collar and pushed him against the wall again. "Who's here?!"

Lee smiled. "Don't worry, you want to meet these people...the guys in the truck, right?" Varick watched the side door open. The monstrous Gregory Pike stepped in, along with a man that Varick had never met before. He had striking snow-white hair and a formidable build that pressed against his light-grey suit jacket. It was Ulysses Frost.

Gregory Pike looked at Varick with delight. "Well-well-well, what do we have here? Up and about at this hour? I would've thought a fragile geezer like you would be getting his beauty rest, Varick."

Ulysses Frost raised an eyebrow. "Pike, who is this?"

"That's John Varick. Part of the Legion."

Varick's grip tightened on Lee's collar as he spoke: "It was you two? Firing off rockets from the truck at First Bank?"

Pike narrowed his eyes. "Now-now, what have you been telling him, Lee?"

"Doesn't really matter, he's going to be dead anyway," Lee said, laughing. Varick's eyes flashed and he drove an elbow into Lee's head—his limp body dropped to the floor.

Pike let out a deep rumbling laugh. "That wasn't a very nice thing to do to Mr. Lee. Maybe I'll return the favor in his stead." He cracked his overly large knuckles. In response, Varick raised his fists and took a Muay Thai stance. Like many of the elite fighters in the Legion, he had been through rigorous training and had several martial art disciplines at his disposal. As Pike advanced, Varick took a step back while keeping his fists raised.

Before Pike could get any closer, Ulysses Frost extended his arm to block his path. "No, I'll handle this. If he gets past me, he's yours to finish."

Pike smiled. "Fine by me."

Varick stared at his new opponent. "And who are you?"

"That would be Ulysses Frost," Pike replied on behalf of Frost. "You're going to have your hands full."

Varick scowled. "I've heard the name. A cold-blooded killer, pure and simple."

"That's right," said Frost. "Then I'm sure you know what's in store for you." Frost eyed a heavy metal chain coiled around a pulley hoist: it was rusted brown. He casually walked towards the pulley and forcefully pulled and detached the chain from the hoist. He draped the chain around his neck and wrapped it around both his arms. The ends of the chain dragged on the floor as he walked towards Varick.

"Oh, and here's a tip, Frost. I'm sure his left side has some injuries—his left arm as well. Probably still numb where I punched him." Varick's eyes grew wide. Pike chuckled. "Yeah, Varick, I know there's no way you can recover from one of my punches. Not this soon. When I punch...things break." Varick knew he wasn't at full strength with his rib injury. He was going to be slower and he had to guard his weakness. But the fact that his enemies knew... This fight was going to be hell.

The slightest trace of a smile crossed Frost's face. If anything, he looked even more menacing when trying to smile. "Let's test it out." Varick bared his teeth, anticipating the worst. Frost lashed out at Varick with the chain. It smashed against the floor, an instant after Varick leapt out of the way. Digging his fingers into floor's diamond treads, Varick turned on a dime, lunged forward, and fired off a punch at Frost. Frost simply raised his arm and allowed Varick's fist to connect with his chain-wrapped forearm. Having Varick in such close proximity, Frost immediately followed up with a headbutt. He went down. "Get up!" Frost snarled, bringing down the chain, right by Varick's feet. He rolled out of the way, locked his legs around Frost's ankles, and managed to topple his top-heavy opponent. But Frost's reflexes were quick. He kicked out hard and managed to catch Varick in his injured ribs.

"Argh!" Varick crawled backwards on the floor, holding his side. He gritted his teeth; the pain was excruciating.

"You shouldn't have come here...Legion scum." Frost was back on his feet. Varick's eyes scoured the garage for anything that could aid in his fight. A piece of thin sheet-metal was leaning against the wall. He scrambled across the floor to reach it. Frost watched him, amused. "Crawl on the floor like a dog." Varick picked up the panel as Frost whipped the chain. Varick held out the sheet-metal firmly in front of him as the chain smashed against it. The clang of metal on metal echoed through the garage; the sheet-metal vibrated in Varick's hands. As Frost reeled in his chain, Varick hurled the sheet-metal like a Frisbee. It spun forward, clipping Frost at the shins, and ripped clean through his right trouser leg. "Bastard!" Frost screamed out, while falling down face-first. He lifted himself up quickly, expecting Varick to capitalize, but it was clear he was still suffering from the kick to the ribs. Varick was keeping a safe distance and holding his side. He opened and closed his right hand, trying to get some feeling back after striking the chain. Frost examined his own wound: the cut was deep, and his trouser leg was soaked in blood. "I'll make sure to tear your flesh too, Varick." Frost looked down at the rusted chain in his hand and smiled. "Hope you've had your tetanus shots."

Pike had his arms folded in front of him while he watched the fight with amusement. "You gotta watch out for this one, Frost. He's tenacious."

Varick stood his ground as Frost advanced on him. Another lashing—this time, Varick braced himself and allowed the chain to wrap around his arm. His jacket provided some padding, but it still stung like hell. Varick charged forward and delivered a flying knee under Frost's chin. He stumbled. Varick managed to get behind Frost, controlling the chain and crossing it over Frost's neck. Frost spluttered as the chain pressed tight against his windpipe. Varick held the chain firmly and pulled with all his strength. Go down, you bastard! Frost decided not to fight against Varick's pull and, instead, backpedalled hard—the chain ran slack, and Varick lost his balance. Frost collided with Varick and kept backpedalling until he smashed Varick into the worktable and they both toppled over it. Frost stood up and picked up the chain end wrapped around Varick's forearm and swung him around full circle. The chain uncoiled from Varick's arm and sent him crashing to the floor. He was winded. Varick struggled to get to his feet. Frost brought down the chain, and this time, it found its mark. Another lashing, across his side. Varick screamed out in pain. Varick covered his face as the chain came down again and again. Frost generated so much whip in the chain that Varick could feel his arms being shredded right through his jacket. Frost let the chain dangle on the floor while he looked down at Varick, admiring his handiwork. Varick groaned—he couldn't do anything more. He was totally defeated. He couldn't even bring himself to raise his arms to defend himself. He simply lay there, limp.

"No more fight?" Frost waited for an answer.

Varick groaned feebly. "Go to hell."

Frost gazed down at Varick, his eyes glowing malevolently. "You first." He raised the chain...

BANG! A gunshot shattered the garage window and took out a light. Another two shots were fired—it went pitch black inside the garage.

"What the hell is this?! Who's out there!?" Pike bellowed.

Varick could hear footsteps, shuffling, and scraping. What now? He listened carefully. Then, one by one, Varick heard the sound of metal canisters hitting the garage floor and the hissing of gas being released. The effects were quick. Varick's head was feeling light, and his mind was going fuzzy. Within moments, he lost consciousness.

***

Varick woke up in a haze. He blinked several times and felt cold air on his face. He was looking up at the stars. Laura Bennett's face popped up in front of his. "How're you feeling, John?"

"I thought I told you to call me Varick," he mumbled weakly.

"Well, Henry calls you John, so add my name to that list, John-John." Varick tried to sit up and realized he was on a stretcher, pinned to it by a blanket. He whipped off the blanket and leaned forward, but Laura pushed him back down. "Relax, you shouldn't be moving around..." She smiled at him. "We gotta stop meeting like this, with you all dinged up."

Varick groaned and rubbed his neck. "What the hell happened?"

"Knockout gas—sorry about that, John," Henry replied. "We didn't have much choice, given the situation." Henry Schucker and Roy Cameron had joined Laura by Varick's stretcher.

Varick looked up at the three police officers and, despite his injuries, managed a crooked smile. "The gang's all here, eh?"

Roy surveyed the perimeter. "Yeah, you can say that."

Varick raised an eyebrow and sat up. He was outside the garage, where there were several squad cars parked and many officers combing the scene. An EMT pushed past Roy, Henry, and Laura. "I'm sorry, we need to move this man into the ambulance."

Varick shook his head. "Don't worry about it, I'm fine."

"Sir, you've received multiple lacerations across your arms and torso. We need to take you to the hospital to receive medical treatment."

"They're scratches..." Varick hopped off the stretcher and groaned in pain. He felt his injured side. "But the fight probably set my ribs back another three weeks though. Goddamn."

The EMT huffed. "Alright, do you want then." She irritably carted away the empty stretcher.

Laura smacked Varick on the forehead, to his annoyance. "You really are thick, you know that? Let me see."

Varick took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. There were deep tears on his forearms where the chains had struck him.

Roy winced. "Ouch—that looks pretty rough."

"They broke flesh through the jacket. I never actually came in contact with the chains, so it should be fine." Varick felt the chain cuts under his shirt. "Yeah—it'll be fine."

Laura shrugged. "Your call, I guess."

Varick's mind suddenly began to race as he regained his bearings. "Wait, I still don't know what happened—where are they? Pike, Frost, and the driver."

Roy gave Varick a thumbs-up. "We got 'em. It's a good thing we arrived when we did—Laura, Henry, and I saw you through the window, so we took out the lights and tossed in the gas. We called for backup and here we are now, all outside."

"Great work, John," Henry added. "If it weren't for you, we wouldn't have gotten these guys."

Laura nodded in agreement. "We also found weapon supplies and information to several other chop shops, inside the garage. This is a big win."

Roy chuckled. "Yeah, literally. It's kind of ironic that we didn't have the facilities to hold that big fella with the extreme case of jaundice; and now, the armored truck they used at First Bank is what's holding him captive." Varick looked to where Roy was pointing. Sure enough, the armored truck was parked outside, and there were two officers in the front seats. Pike was locked up in the back of the truck. "They had the keys and everything in the garage. That truck is seriously heavy duty. Found a big store of weapons in the back as well. Naturally, we took them out before putting the big guy in there..."

Varick couldn't believe they had managed to arrest Pike. He clenched his fist positively ecstatic—but... "What about the driver? And Frost?"

Laura narrowed her eyes. "There was only one other person in the garage besides you and Pike."

Roy scratched his head. "An Asian dude, kinda floppy hair..."

"That's Lee...he drove the truck the day of the First Bank incident," Varick informed them. "There was no one else?"

"No, that was it."

"Damn. How long have I been out for?"

Henry checked his watch. "About fifteen minutes, I'd say."

"Damn." Varick punched his open palm and immediately regretted it. He forgot his right hand had recently impacted metal. Varick ran through the situation in his head. He figured that Frost must have managed to get away on foot in the cover of darkness—the police would have noticed a vehicle leaving. Either way, Frost was long gone by now. It suddenly dawned on Varick how close he was to death. Frost would have likely been his executioner had Laura and the others not shown up when they did...

Varick looked at the three officers. "I appreciate you guys coming out here. Thank you."

Laura smiled. "Don't mention it."

Varick took a moment's pause when another thought crossed his mind. "But I'm curious... How did you all know where to find me?" Roy, Henry, and Laura exchanged glances.

Roy scrunched up his face. "Well, we sort of had a tip off..."

Varick stared. "...Who?"

***

"You had a tracker placed under my car?" Varick questioned.

"Yes," Santos replied. He had no intention of trying to deny it. "I'm sorry." The two of them stared each other down. Varick had arrived back home at Kasparov Manor. Dinner was over—Arthur Finch had left, and Alex had gone to sleep. But Santos was still up.

"Why? You didn't trust me?"

Santos stared long and hard at Varick. "I trusted that you would get restless. Men like yourself, of such integrity, can rarely stand back and watch when there's trouble brewing. But sometimes restlessness is followed up by recklessness. I didn't want you to get too reckless without help. I had the tracker placed when I felt you were reaching that point. I didn't mean to intrude on your privacy."

Varick walked right up to Santos; there was only a few feet between them. For a moment, the two stared intensely at each other in silence. Finally, Varick extended his hand. "Thanks."

Santos shook his hand and smiled. "So, it was a fruitful endeavor?"

"Yeah. Gregory Pike and the driver of the truck that tore through First Bank were both arrested tonight."

Santos raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Pike, huh? He's a formidable fellow. Good work."

***

The next morning, Varick joined Santos and Alex at the breakfast table. He normally was one of the first ones up in the house, but last night, he took a much needed rest. His entire body was sore, and the only prescription for his injuries was rest and time. The television in the living room was switched on to the morning news and was providing them with background noise as they ate. It was visible from the breakfast table, but the only one really watching was Leonardo. He was parked on the floor, in front of the television.

"Who made this?" Varick mumbled, as he chewed his eggs, which were atop corn tortillas and smothered in tomato chili sauce.

"I thought I'd try out something different; it's the weekend after all," Santos responded. "It's called Huevos Rancheros."

"It's good. Very good." Varick tried the beans and avocado slices. "Nicely done, Santos."

"Thanks."

Alex glanced at Santos, then turned his attention to Varick. "What the hell, Varick; are you high on pain meds?"

"What? Don't be ridiculous."

"You two would normally be at each other's throats by now."

Santos grinned. "What's the old saying, Alex, 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth'?"

Varick laughed. Alex stared, then shrugged. "Alright, don't tell me what's going on. I'm not even going to ask why your arms are bandaged up, Varick. It's practically common occurrences around here."

With his fingers, Varick flashed Alex the gun, minus a wink. "Good man. You're learning."

"Oh, by the way, Varick, Bruce called this morning," Santos informed. "He's arriving back this evening."

"That's good news—much to be discussed."

Leonardo suddenly let out a loud bark; he was on all fours, looking at the table. Alex raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's rare. I can't remember the last time I heard Leo bark..." Alex immediately went quiet when he noticed Santos. He was standing up, staring at the television and looking ghostly. Varick and Alex's attention turned to the television as well. The news reporter was in Downtown Manhattan. Across the news ticker, the headline read: 'Legion supporter found dead'.

"We have received confirmation that the identity of the man found dead is Uecker Clemens, a Legion supporter who recently took part in a controversial interview on Shocktalk Radio. The reports from eyewitnesses claim that a vehicle with no discernible plates was seen speeding and then briefly stopped in front of the Shocktalk Radio building, where the body of Uecker Clemens was dumped. The body was found with several gunshot wounds to the chest. What was most unsettling about the discovery was the message which was written across the man's shirt. The message read: 'This is what's in store for all supporters of the Omega Ops Legion. The Legion is death'."

Varick cracked his knuckles, scowling. "Like the message wasn't clear enough already. Not a doubt in my mind that Scorcher's behind this. Tony and his gang were probably the trigger men." Varick glanced at Santos and stifled his talk when he saw that Santos was sitting back down at the table, with his face buried in his hands.

***

## Chapter 17 – New Blood

Sunday, November 7th, 1999

Manhattan, New York

Peter Santos was attending Sunday mass at his church like he did every weekend. He stood alongside the other parishioners while Father Christy spoke the concluding prayer and blessing. Despite staring at the altar, Santos' thoughts were miles away. He wasn't one to let his attention wander during church, like so many others putting in their one-hour-a-week obligation. He always paid attention to the sermon—but not today. Today was different. Everything being preached seemed to wash over him. "The Lord be with you."

"And also with you," Santos responded mechanically. Today, he waited in anticipation for mass to end.

"And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit..."

Santos made the sign on the cross. "Amen."

Father Christy raised his hands: "Our mass has ended. Let us go in peace to love and serve the Lord."

Santos exhaled heavily. "Thanks be to God." The closing hymn started playing and parishioners slowly began to disperse. Santos watched both sides of his pew clear. Once he was the only one in his row, he sat down and waited. Eventually, the congregation cleared completely and only Father Christy and Santos were left in the church.

The priest made his way over to Santos and sat down beside him. "Sad, sad events of recent."

"First Bank...and now this." Santos continued to stare out in front of him. "Did you hear—what they wrote? Scrawled on his chest..."

Father Christy nodded. "Yes, I heard."

"The Legion is death... Is that what we are?"

"Come now, Peter, I'm not going to sit here and pretend like I know all the ins and outs of how the Legion operates. But from what I've observed, they're doing a good thing. You're doing a good thing. And you have taken it upon yourself to bear this cross: the pain—the struggle—the fight...so others won't have to."

Santos shook his head, gritting his teeth. "He didn't deserve this. He was trying to stand up for us—and he was killed in cold blood because of it."

"He believed in what the Legion represents, even before meeting you, you know that. That's why he was compelled to speak out." Father Christy had a pretty good understanding of how Santos' mind worked: He was always one to carry the world on his shoulders. "This isn't your fault, Peter."

Santos sighed. "I wish I could have gotten to know him better. What was it, a few visits—outings here and there?"

"Uecker was a mysterious one. He didn't really give up too much of himself. But at the same time, he always made his presence known. Everyone knew Uecker at the retirement community."

Santos smiled. "Yeah, he was rough around the edges."

Father Christy nodded. "But he still managed to find his place. Have you had a chance to talk with Taz yet?"

"Yes, I actually spoke to him on the phone yesterday, soon after I found out. He's taking it badly, but that's to be expected, I suppose. I'm seeing him for a late supper tonight."

Father Christy smiled. "You know...the retirement community—it may have been constructed by this church, but the funding...that was all made possible by the work you and the Legion do. People like Uecker and Taz—they lost something very valuable. They no longer had family, friends—a sense of community. You helped give that back to them. Don't you ever doubt yourself, Peter. Uecker never doubted the Legion's merit and for good reason."

Santos nodded in appreciation, and his tension eased a little. "Have dates been set yet?"

"The funeral's on Tuesday, viewing on Monday," Father Christy replied. Santos leaned back in the pew and looked up aimlessly. The father observed Santos for a moment—he knew Peter still held a deep guilt. "Listen to me, Peter. I'm not going to talk to you as a priest right now. I'm going to talk to you as a friend. As someone who's also hurting from losing a member of his community."

"I'm all ears."

Father Christy looked at Santos sternly. "If you want to sit here feeling sorry for yourself, no one can stop you from doing so. But that's not going to help anyone, yourself included. If I were in your shoes and had the power and influence you wield...I'd be out there right now, trying to bring to justice the sons of bitches who did this."

Santos stared at Father Christy, taken aback. But he knew he was right. Santos squeezed the seat of the pew. "You continue to preach the truth, Father."

***

Queens, NYPD, 117th Precinct

Oswalt Fletcher was in the washroom, rinsing off his hands. Ever since his last, rather unpleasant, conversation with Jack Solly, he had taken to going about his daily business looking over his shoulder. On normal days, Oswalt was a cautious man, but knowing he could be sent six feet under at a moment's notice made him redouble his efforts. A few times he had actually picked up on suspicious individuals following him on the streets, but that's as far as they would go, and that was perfectly fine with Oswalt. Surprisingly, he wasn't as bothered by impending doom as he expected to be. It was simply a matter of constant vigilance.

Oswalt hadn't been in contact with Solly's party since Monday, and it was safe to assume he was being cut out of the loop. But he was working on it. He looked in the mirror and ran the water over his hands one more time while he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do. He nodded at his reflection, turned off the taps, and walked out of the washroom.

Sundays at the precinct were quiet, and there was no better day than today for what Oswalt had planned. No one was at the front desk at the moment. He moved quickly and swiped the evidence locker-room key from the drawer. He had to work fast—in and out in a minute or so.

"Yo, Oswalt, how's it going, bud?"

Oswalt raised a hand casually. "Hey, Roy, not too bad..." Oh my god, these two idiots. It was Roy Cameron and Henry Schucker. It was like the two were joined at the hip.

"Gotta love the Sundays here. Feels like happy hour." Roy raised a finger to his lips and opened his coat, revealing a small bottle in the pocket.

Oswalt gave a thumbs-up. "That's really—great... Was wondering why you were wearing your coat in the office, ha-ha..."

"Why do you have that with you at work?" Henry questioned.

"Hey, I'm not on patrol today—just doing paperwork," Roy replied. "A lot of paperwork..."

"Just make sure I'm not around when you're caught with that." Henry didn't approve of such antics, but after all these years, he knew better than to try and correct Roy.

Roy sighed. "I would rather be sober and on patrol."

Oswalt looked at Roy, baffled. "Why do you even go on patrol? You're a damn detective."

"Hey, it's called keepin' it real. I like to be in touch with the streets. You know what I'm talking about, Oswalt?"

"Yeah-yeah, I hear you." Oswalt immediately regretted asking a question that further prolonged the conversation. "But anyway, I'll leave you two to it." Oswalt turned to walk away.

"But you get what I'm saying, right, Oswalt?"

Oswalt turned back. "Yeah...I get you, Roy."

"When they see you out there in the squad car making the rounds, they know what's up. When you show the streets love, the streets give you love back."

Henry scratched his head. "Umm, Roy? How much of that bottle have you had already?"

"Sounds like he's ready for that paperwork, eh, Henry? So you two have fun with that." Oswalt began to walk.

"Hey, wait a sec., Oswalt!" Roy called.

Oswalt gritted his teeth. I swear to god, I'm going to knock this fucker out. Oswalt glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Want some? If you got paperwork to do as well, this is the fast-forward button right here."

"No, thank you. Keep it for yourselves. I'm sure you two will need all of it." Oswalt quickly made a break for it before Roy could stop him again. He walked down the hall and made his way to the evidence locker-room—there was no one around. Oswalt unlocked the door and slipped inside. His eyes scanned the shelves until he found the bin he was looking for. He pulled out a clear polyethylene evidence baggie and examined its contents. Hmm, this might be useful...

***

Oswalt was riding the elevator to the top floor of Jack Solly's office tower. He was told he could find Jack at his office after initially trying the Seaberg Lounge. Of course, he only became privy to Jack's whereabouts after waiting on multiple calls sent up the daisy chain by his goons, to verify if the information should be disclosed to Oswalt.

Solly's office was located in Queens, where he masqueraded as a real-estate mogul. For the most part, the public saw Jack Solly in a good light due to his philanthropy. Oswalt exited the elevator and walked through the lobby to Solly's office. A burly man named Roland stood in front of the door. He served as Solly's doorman and guard. "I'm here to see Jack," Oswalt stated.

"He's in a meeting and doesn't want to be disturbed."

"That's fine, I can wait," Oswalt replied. He took a seat in the lobby and folded his arms in front of himself.

Present in Solly's office was none other than Spike Luxembourg. He was there with two men from his outfit. Spike was in his mid-thirties, was well-spoken, and had only the slightest hint of a German accent. He kept himself well-groomed and well-dressed. He was a gangster with class, and in the Bronx underworld, Spike reigned king.

"I have tremendous respect for you, Jack, but I'm afraid I can't follow you down this destructive path."

Jack Solly eyed Spike from the other side of his desk. "If there ever was a time to go to war, now is that time. Scorcher has been flexing his muscle for far too long in this city, and both of our operations have suffered because of it. At this moment, with the increased pressure he's facing from police and the Legion, we need to pile on."

"To be perfectly candid, Scorcher is still on the attack, and he still has your number marked. If I were you, I would go into hiding until this all blows over," advised Spike.

"I can't. I'm a public figure—I have responsibilities. We have to act now. We can take out Scorcher once and for all. Together, we can do it, Spike."

Spike shook his head in disagreement. "His position is not as weak as it appears. If we run this race, we will lose. Guaranteed. I advise against this, Jack."

Jack smiled. "You are wise beyond your years, Spike. But he stole millions from me and cut off my ties with Elmo Burns. I don't have a choice at this point."

Spike sighed and rapped his knuckles on his chair's armrest. "This is what I can do, Jack. I won't directly partake with the offensive, but I will make it so that you can contribute more of your resources to the attack. I will provide you with weapons from my German contacts overseas. And I will provide manpower and resources to defend against retaliation."

"That should be enough—I can work with that." Solly stood up and extended a hand over the table. "Thank you, Spike."

Oswalt looked indifferent upon seeing Spike and his men leave the office. Oswalt stood up and walked up to Roland. "Empty your pockets, arms spread."

"Well, I can only spread one..." Oswalt complied as best he could in a sling while Roland patted him down thoroughly. He picked up the polyethylene baggie that Oswalt had removed from his pocket and examined it. "What's this?"

"That—would be evidence."

Roland raised an eyebrow, then threw the bag back to him. "Name?"

"Oswalt Fletcher." He retrieved his belongings from the floor.

"Oh, you're Oswalt Fletcher?" Roland smiled grimly at him. Oswalt assumed that all of Solly's men had been informed about the potential rat they had in their employment. Roland placed a call on his cell phone. "Mr. Solly, I have Oswalt Fletcher outside here. He's requesting an audience with you." Roland listened attentively while Solly gave his response. "Okay, will do, Mr. Solly." He hung up the phone and ushered Oswalt inside to a second door. Oswalt knocked and was greeted by yet another goon, who allowed him entrance into Solly's office. The goon sat down on a chair next to the door and watched Oswalt's every move like a hawk.

Oswalt walked up to Jack. "I've got something for you." He pulled out the evidence baggie and tossed it on Jack's desk.

Jack picked up the baggie and flipped it over in his hands. "What's this?"

"That's a pen picked up from the crime scene of Brody's death."

Jack looked at Oswalt, amused. "And why would this interest me?"

"Because according to the evidence log, that pen actually has a concealed blade inside it and was used to puncture Brody's hand."

Solly's eyes grew wide. "A pen blade..."

Oswalt nodded. "Take a closer look; the initials 'S.T.' are monogrammed in gold on the body of the pen. Mean anything to you?"

Jack rolled the bag over in his hand to pick out the initials and stared at them transfixed. "I know who this is..."

Oswalt raised an eyebrow. "Really..."

"Samuel Turly."

It was Oswalt's turn to be surprised. "You're joking... He's an internationally wanted man."

"This pen. This is one of his—quirks. He's gained a notorious reputation in the underworld for murdering people with nothing but his pen. I wasn't sure how true the stories were, but I suppose this adds some credibility to the claims. I'm surprised he would allow himself to lose it." Jack laughed while he stared down at the pen. "I've had the displeasure of encountering this man in my many years involved in this business. He's elusive. He's a cornerstone in Scorcher's network, and this proves he's here in New York, right under our noses." Jack looked at Oswalt and smiled at him. "I take it this was stolen from police control?" Oswalt nodded. "Very good, Mr. Fletcher. Don't wait around for your innocence to be proven; you have to get out there and claim it for yourself. Wells is still MIA, but you're one step closer to being back in the fold."

Oswalt smiled grimly. "Good to know."

***

Kasparov Manor, 6:00 p.m.

Ding-dong. Varick made his way to the door warily. As far as he knew, no one was expected here. Without making the slightest noise with his steps, he peered through the peep hole...then groaned. He opened the door. "Jeezes, what are you doing here?"

"I would've called ahead, but I didn't have a phone number." It was Laura Bennett.

"The manor doesn't have a phone."

"Big mansion, no phone—that's classy."

"Well, come in if you're coming in." Varick ushered her inside, took a quick glance outside, then shut the door. "You weren't followed or anything, were you?"

Laura raised an eyebrow. "Is it just you that's paranoid, or is that a trait all you Legion members share?" Varick stared at her expectantly. Laura rolled her eyes. "I know when I'm being followed—no, I wasn't followed."

"Good." Varick shrugged. "Sorry, just a bit on edge these days. Let me take your coat."

"Thanks."

Bruce, Alex, and Leo were drawn to the door by the chatter. "Hello, there!" Bruce greeted. Varick introduced the three of them to each other.

Laura shook hands with Bruce and Alex. "Very nice to meet you both." She pointed between Varick and the Kasparovs. "So, all three of you are part of the Legion?"

"Well, technically Alex isn't," Bruce corrected.

"But I'm working on it," said Alex.

Leo walked up to Laura's feet and stared up at her. "Hey, how are you, Leo?" Laura bent down to pet him.

"I see you've already met our local mutt." Leo's head turned sharply to growl at Bruce. "Relax, buddy, I'm just yanking your chain." Bruce smirked and whispered to Laura: "He doesn't like being called a mutt."

Laura grinned. "Sounds like Varick's dog alright."

Bruce laughed. "Right!? So, what can we do for you, Ms. Bennett?"

Varick folded his arms in front of his chest. "Yes, why are you here?"

"Well—"

Bruce put out his hand to stop her. "Hold on, where are our manners. Take off your shoes and join us in the living room, where we can have a proper sit-down."

Laura shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

Bruce, Alex, Varick, and Laura sat down on the leather couches around the coffee table.

"Hungry?" Bruce asked.

"No, I actually had a bite to eat before coming."

"Drink?"

"Nothing for me, thanks."

"You sure?"

Laura nodded. "Yup, I'm good."

Varick eyed Bruce. "Finished?"

"Hey, I was just being hospitable, it didn't seem like you were going to do it. Varick's socially oblivious," Bruce informed Laura, who laughed.

Varick ignored him. "So, what's this about, Laura?"

Laura's smile vanished and she looked at Varick seriously. "I want to join the Legion."

"Really?" Varick was not expecting that and, frankly, was slightly confused by it. "Why?"

"Because it has become painfully clear to me that there are large forces at work within this city that reach out much further than New York. Forces that reach outside our jurisdiction. But not outside the Legion's. I think it would be beneficial for both parties to allow the sharing of resources: to more efficiently and better serve the public."

"Technically, we already do that," Varick stated. "I mean, I've worked with Roy and Henry for years, and they keep us up to date with police intel."

"I actually talked to them before coming here. They have no interest in joining the Legion. They're content with being on the outside of it, but I'm not. I became a police officer to uphold justice. To help make the world I live in a safer place for everyone. If joining the Legion means I can better carry out those duties, I owe it to myself and everyone else to do so. I understand that Roy and Henry give you information, John. Well, I can be the liaison to gather information that the Legion has, to help with police investigations. We're both fighting the same battles. Just tell me how I can join—give me a chance to prove my worth." She looked from Varick to Bruce anxiously. "Please."

"Well, you definitely got the right attitude," Bruce said, impressed. "It's simple really—you only have to get the approval from a full-fledged member of the Legion to join the club. So, tell me a little bit about yourself. Detective Laura Bennett in a nutshell."

"Is this the interview?"

Bruce grinned. "There's no interview. This is just getting acquainted. You want a glass of wine? Maybe a beer? Something harder?"

Laura laughed. "No, I'm fine, thank you." She stared curiously at Bruce, trying to size him up. "You know, first impressions—you aren't the brute the media is currently making you out to be."

"Glad you feel that way. But Varick, on the other hand..." Bruce shook his hand. "Ehh..."

"Yeah, I think I've seen a bit of that side from John."

"Probably because you still call me John," Varick said, irked.

"You know what would really piss off John? A nickname."

Bruce's face lit up. "Yes. Yes!"

Laura rubbed her hands together. "Let's see now... Johnny boy? Little Johnny!"

"Johnny Appleseed!" Bruce added.

"Johnnycakes!"

Alex put his fist in his mouth out of respect for Varick, but Bruce exercised no restraint and burst out laughing. "Oh ho-ho! I think we have a winner! Our little Johnnycakes, you just want to eat him up!" Bruce tried to ruffle Varick's hair, but Varick grabbed his wrist.

Varick concealed his urge to laugh with a sneer. "If any of those become a running thing, I will kill you both."

"You can try to, but I wouldn't bank on it." Bruce broke free from Varick's grip. "Okay-okay, back to business. So far, I like the way you think, Laura." Bruce shot a half-glance at Varick and managed to push down another bout of laughter. "But what about the media? You're not bothered by everything they've been saying about us in the papers? Over the radio and television?"

"I can think for myself. If anything, the media bombardment just makes me more certain I want to join. I've worked side by side with Legion members, and it's clear to me that all the negative publicity is BS." She looked at Varick. "John, if the other members have the heart you do to fight for what's right, I know this organization is something I want to be a part of."

Bruce stroked his chin. "Actually, on second thought—Varick, you already know Laura, right? Is she Legion material?"

"What?" Varick said, startled. Laura looked at Varick expectantly. "I—well...I mean, yeah, she's a good detective. Santos has met her too; I'm sure he feels the same way. And she's helped me out of a few jams." Laura beamed at him.

Bruce shrugged. "Well, that's good enough for me. Varick's given you the okay—you're in."

"I'm in?"

"Yeah. Welcome!"

Laura's eyes grew wide. "I'm sorry, I don't quite understand. Just like that? Isn't there some sort of test or training to complete?"

"Nope, that's it. Leo didn't bite you, if you want to call that a test... He's a good judge of character." Leo was lying down on the carpet by Laura's feet.

Laura laughed. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Well, I mean, there's formal training available, but it's not mandatory. All you really need to join is to come of your own free will and have the desire to positively contribute to Legion duties. If you were expecting to write an exam and have a fancy graduation ceremony commemorating your admittance...well, sorry to disappoint."

Laura smiled. "No, I just wasn't expecting this level of casualness. I thought there would be some sort of structure or rigidity that new recruits would be put through."

Bruce shook his head. "Not here, sorry. Mind you, there is structure: rules, training, ranks, the whole package. It's just eased into and goes at the pace the person's comfortable with. People that are new recruits start as 'acolytes', a fancy term we like to use for the rookies. They receive instruction and training from a full-fledged Legion member—their sponsor, so to speak."

"My dad is the one that's training me," Alex informed Laura.

"Training... And by training, do you mean that thing you guys do where you turn your hand into a firearm, in the most literal sense of the term?"

Bruce grinned. "Yeah, that could be part of it. But that's quite a ways down the road for Alex. I'm sure Varick wouldn't mind being your sponsor and showing you the ropes."

Laura turned to Varick. "How about it, John? You want to be my sponsor?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Laura and Bruce answered in unison with a resounding 'No'. Laura extended her hand. "Let's make it official now, John."

Varick sighed and a faint smile crossed his face, despite himself. He shook Laura's hand. "Welcome to the Legion."

***

## Chapter 18 – For the Greater Good

Everyone was gunning for Scorcher now. Santos had brought the issue of Uecker's death to the table. As stones were unturned, it was confirmed beyond a doubt that the murder was initiated by Scorcher's camp. Varick had received the information from his snitch Billy, who had been doing the digging. The person to actually pull the trigger was unknown, but was unanimously decided as irrelevant. They weren't going to try and search out one gunman; they were going to 'shut down the whole goddamn thing', as Varick aptly put it. And the key to do that was Scorcher. With this resolve in mind, they redoubled their efforts to dismantle Scorcher's operation. And they weren't the only ones.

The coalition between Jack Solly and Spike Luxembourg was formidable, and Solly was on the warpath. His finances were in shambles, and he was burning through all of his rainy day funds to pay for his war against Scorcher. It was do or die. Luxembourg was taking point, defending the home front from retaliation. The noose around Scorcher's neck was tightening, but his neck was very, very thick...

***

Thursday, December 2nd, 1999

As the days grew colder, the first snowfall hit New York, and it was a big one. Alex Kasparov trudged through a snowfield to get to the main road. He was walking towards the bus stop after a long day of school. He hadn't started prepping for end of term exams yet, but the assignments kept him in line. A sharp gust of wind pierced him through the gap where his coat and neck met. He tightened his collar. They're worried about my safety, yet I have to take public transit. Just imagining having a car to drive home in warmed Alex up. It was a good ten-minute walk from school to the bus stop. But there was one other thing that was helping to lift his spirits. This morning, his dad had told him that he had been called down to Fort Bragg in North Carolina, where he was planning to spend the weekend. And as good fortune would have it, he, Alex, was invited to tag along for the trip. To Alex, this meant warmer weather and a chance to tour the military grounds with his father. Being allowed to miss school on Friday was the cherry on his weekend sundae. He knew he could easily make up whatever work he missed. Frankly put, there was nothing important happening on Friday anyway. Some days, it just didn't pay to go to school.

As Alex walked along the sidewalk mulling over his thoughts, he was unaware that Wyatt and Cole, two grunts in Scorcher's employment, had been following him from the moment he stepped foot off the school grounds. They kept a safe distance from their target as to not arouse suspicion, but always kept Alex in their line of sight. Both men were armed with guns.

Alex turned a corner and the two men quickened their pace. Suddenly, a leg kicked out in front of Wyatt and Cole—onto the brick wall, blocking their path. There was a third man following Alex.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Wyatt spat.

"I couldn't help but notice that you were following my friend. What business do you have with him?" The third man was quite young. He was in his late twenties, had dark hair, and wore a black leather jacket. This man's name was Gabriel.

Wyatt exchanged a glance with Cole, then laughed at the audacity of the man standing before him. "I got nothing to say to you about Kasparov's boy. Now get your leg out of my way before I break it."

Gabriel shook his head. "Sorry, can't do it." People walked around them awkwardly, trying not to draw attention to themselves.

"You'll regret that decision!" Wyatt chopped at Gabriel's leg, as if it were a wooden board laid out to test a disciple of karate. Gabriel moved his leg, the instant before contact.

Cole attacked next and attempted to slug him in the face. Gabriel caught him by the wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. Cole yelled out in pain. "Who the hell are you?!"

"Name's Gabriel." He pushed Cole into Wyatt.

They both stared back at him, fuming. "You're with the Legion, aren't you!?" Cole shouted.

"Yeah, that's right. Think of me like a guardian angel. Kasparov's boy is off limits." He looked at them sternly. "I suggest you both turn around and walk away."

Wyatt sneered. "The angel Gabriel—cute. Give my regards to God when you see him." He reached into his coat. Gabriel lunged and sent a fist straight into Wyatt's face, before he could draw his gun. He was knocked flat on his back and was out cold. Simultaneously, Cole attacked from Gabriel's blind spot and caught a roundhouse to the temple. He smashed nose-first into the brick wall, where he slid down, limp, and gently crumpled onto the sidewalk.

Gabriel hastily went through their coats and confiscated both of their pieces. He looked around at the gawking bystanders. "Someone want to call the cops on these two? I got a bus to catch."

***

The Seaberg Lounge, Queens, 7:00 p.m.

Oswalt Fletcher waited at a table by himself inside the lounge. Jack Solly had requested a meeting. For the last few weeks, Oswalt had been doing exactly what Solly had initially brought him on for: getting information and using police resources to systematically shut down Scorcher's empire. He was still a bit apprehensive but, for the most part, found it unlikely that Solly or his men would silence him—he'd been doing too damn good a job. Their doubts about his loyalty had subsided considerably. Even Captain Morring had taken note of Fletcher's work—how the new guy in their precinct was making busts that even the senior officers couldn't manage...

Oswalt carefully picked up his drink with his right hand and made an effort to put the glass to his lips—he was shaky, but he managed it. His cast had been removed a few weeks ago, but his arm movements were still stiff.

Mark Solly gave a loud whistle from down the hallway. Oswalt looked up to see Mark signalling him to come forward—Jack was ready for him. The two men walked to the back of the club and entered the storeroom. Jack Solly, Lucas, and another grunt were present beside a man tied to a chair. He sported a heavily bruised face.

Oswalt scratched his nose absentmindedly. "Should I expect to be treated to a man tied up every time I'm back here?"

"If you're into that sort of thing, we can have it arranged," Mark replied.

Jack scowled at the two of them. "Shut up, you idiots." He cleared his throat and turned his attention to Oswalt. "We've run through a slew of Scorcher's men and destroyed several of his establishments. And yet, I still do not have my bearer bonds back in my possession. Do you know that, Oswalt? They stole millions upon millions from me."

Oswalt shook his head. "This is the first time I'm hearing about any bearer bonds."

Jack snapped his fingers and pointed at the man tied to the chair. "Hold him up—let Oswalt have a good look at him." Lucas grabbed the man by his thinning hair and jerked his head up. The man grunted in pain. Jack pointed at his prisoner. "You know who that is, Oswalt?"

Oswalt stared. His face was unrecognizable with the bruises. "No idea."

"That's Samuel Turly."

Oswalt's jaw dropped. "Holy shit, you got him?"

"That's right. It took a lot of digging and combing, but I have my methods. We managed to lure him out to bring him here today. Of course, I have you to thank, Oswalt, for even bringing his presence in the city to my attention." Jack stared grimly at his prisoner. "You know what I want, Turly. The rat... Tell me who the rat is and your suffering can end."

Turly stared back at Jack with a dark smile. "When I see you in hell...every grievance you've inflicted upon me...I'll be sure to pay you back tenfold."

Lucas punched Turly in the gut. "He's not going to talk."

Jack Solly nodded. "You know, I don't even care who the snitch is anymore. Zerneck still hasn't shown his face around here. It was either Brody or Wells, and that's good enough for me." In his mind, Oswalt breathed a sigh of relief. Solly reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a single black leather glove. He carefully wore it over his right hand. "But...I still want to know one thing..." He extended his arm. The grunt placed a roughly hewn wooden billy club into his gloved hand. Solly's eyes glowed with fire. He then proceeded to repeatedly smash the club across Turly's face. "Where—are—my—BEARER BONDS!" He paused between each word to get a club in. Turly grimaced and spit out a stream of blood onto Solly's light-grey suit. Solly smashed the club one more time across his face for his impudence, then dropped the weapon onto the floor. "This piece of shit..." Solly sighed. He removed the glove, shook it sharply, then returned it to his inner jacket pocket. "You're right, Lucas—he's not going to talk." Jack Solly pointed at the grunt. The grunt drew a pistol and fixed a silencer onto it. He held the gun in front of Oswalt for him to take. "Consider this a final test, Oswalt—of your loyalty. This is a bigwig in Scorcher's hierarchy. If you can do this, any lingering suspicions I have of you being a double agent for Scorcher will be erased."

Oswalt took the gun. The Solly family watched Oswalt closely. Mark wore a smirk on his face. " _Déjà vu, huh_ , Oswalt?"

Oswalt raised the gun in line with his target. This has to happen... There's no room for hesitation. Oswalt looked Turly dead in the eyes. Turly nodded to Oswalt, as if welcoming death. "You've done a lot of heinous shit in your lifetime, Turly. I have no sympathy for scum." And without another second thought, Oswalt fired three shots aimed at Turly's heart. Turly gasped as his body jerked from the bullet impacts. Still being tied to the chair, his body couldn't keel over onto the floor. His head tilted down, and he became lifeless.

***

Friday, December 3rd, 1999

Bruce had been called into Fort Bragg regarding a matter of some urgency. He hadn't been filled in on the details, but he was told it would be brief and would not require deployment. Owing to these facts, Bruce had decided that this would be a great opportunity for Alex and himself to make a road trip out of the journey.

They had left from New York early morning in a rental car. It was a nine-hour drive to get to the base but get there they did, and the army base did not disappoint. Alex was overwhelmed by the sheer size of Fort Bragg. In fact, he felt intimidated by it. After all, this was one of the largest military installations in the world and home to the United States Airborne and Special Operations Forces.

Upon arrival, they made contact with Frank Cormac, who had lodging reserved on base. Sensing Alex's tension, Frank and Bruce took Alex on a quick tour of the grounds and gave him a chance to meet some of the soldiers in Frank's squad. After getting the ins and outs, Alex felt a lot more comfortable with his surroundings and was now ready to really enjoy his stay. With any luck, Alex was hoping to have some strings pulled so that he could go up in one of the planes and witness airborne jump training firsthand. But before anything of the sort was arranged, Bruce had to take care of his obligations.

He entered the private office of Brigadier General Ferrell Mann. Also present in the office was a friend of the Legion, Colonel Marvin Braggs. They both stood up from their chairs. Bruce saluted them both, then stood at ease, his arms behind his back. "My presence was requested, General?"

The general nodded. "Yes, Captain..." Colonel Braggs stared down at the floor, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Bruce suddenly felt uneasy; he realized that this was something he didn't want to hear. "It has fallen upon me to deliver this news to you." The general stared down Bruce, who watched him with unblinking eyes. "Effective immediately, you will no longer be serving with the United States Army and will be receiving an 'Other Than Honorable Discharge'." Dead silence. The words the general spoke washed over Bruce like a blast furnace. He was stunned. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He could not believe what he was hearing. "You have been barred from reenlistment into any branch of the Armed Forces. These actions are in direct response to the recent controversies you have brought upon yourself and your government, by being a member of the quasi-military organization known as the Omega Ops Legion."

Bruce stared out the window, into the army grounds. He placed the tips of his fingers to his forehead, still trying to wrap his head around what was going on—to collect his thoughts. He made eye contact with the general. "There must be something—someway this can be—"

The general raised his hand to silence Bruce. "The orders came down from the higher-ups. The decision is final."

"I can't believe this. Twenty years of service, thrown to the wayside, just like that?" Bruce shook his head, as if trying to clear a bad memory. "The controversies? General, surely you know what Omega Ops Legion duties entail. What they're saying—the press...it's not true. I mean, what, Bohemian Grove? As far as I am aware—"

Once again, the general raised his hand. "That's enough. Do not—talk to me about Bohemian Grove. Do not mention the Bohemian Grove in my presence." Bruce raised an eyebrow. "This is what I believe. I believe that the public opinion regarding the integrity of you—of the Legion—of the United States military and our very government has been brought into question. And they don't know what the right answers are. Do you know why we lost in Vietnam? Lack of public support. For you to remain in our ranks would only further exacerbate the situation. We have to distance ourselves from you. Your discharge will be made public knowledge."

Bruce was breathing heavy. "We're there to aid and serve the public, just like any other organization that upholds the law. There's no sinister agenda, no giant conspiracy, and that's the truth."

The general sat down in his chair and placed his hands on his desk, fingers interlaced. "Let me tell you something about truth. Timing and patience are infinitely important. You can have all the truth and righteousness on your side. But if you're in the minority—if your preaching falls on deaf ears willing to live in a world of lies...well then, your truths are liable to get you killed."

"General, these actions will undercut the Legion's influence and effectiveness at the political level. This is going to create a rift where there doesn't need to be."

"Well, now you are free to fully devote your time to help bridge that impending rift."

Bruce gritted his teeth. "This is bull-shit. General."

The general directed his hand to the door. "You are dismissed. Mister Kasparov."

Bruce looked to Colonel Braggs. He shook his head. "It's out of my hands, Bruce—I'm sorry."

Bruce nodded. "Yeah. Me too." He solemnly walked out of the office and gently closed the door behind him.

***

The news had come as a shock to everyone. Bruce had returned back to the lodge and told Frank and Alex what had happened. Like Bruce, Frank was having a very difficult time processing this information. But for Bruce's sake, he forced himself to repress his negativity. "C'mon, Bruce, let's go out to a nice restaurant. Dinner, a few drinks—we'll keep cool heads and figure this out. There's gotta be something we can do."

"Yeah, Dad, it'll be good to just get out of the base and talk things over."

"There's nothing to talk about. Their decision was final." Bruce sighed. "Thanks for the dinner offer, but I'm just going to stay in tonight."

Frank shrugged. "Okay, that's perfectly fine; we can stay in for the night. I can set you up right here." Frank opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and pulled out a bottle of liquor. He reached into the mini-fridge and withdrew a tray of ice.

"We can order a couple of pizzas for dinner," Alex suggested.

Frank pointed at Alex. "Excellent idea."

"Okay for pizza, Dad?"

Bruce forced a smile. "Yeah—sure."

Frank lined up three glasses and popped ice cubes into them, one by one. He poured a liberal amount of scotch into each glass and handed them off to Alex and Bruce.

Alex took the glass, laughing. "I can't drink this."

"Just for today, you're going to be old enough. Bruce, what do you say?" Frank asked.

Bruce rubbed his chin. "Make that drink last, Alex, 'cause it's the only one you're getting all night."

Alex grinned. "Yeah? Alrighty then."

The three of them sat down on the beds and clinked their glasses together. Frank and Bruce finished theirs off in one gulp. Alex took a little sip and his face cringed. "Oh my god, this is awful..."

Frank laughed. "It's an acquired taste."

Bruce looked into his glass and swirled around the ice cubes. "You know, I actually don't feel anything really...just numb all over. Kind of in a good way, if that makes sense. Like this is a new beginning—a new chapter, you know?"

"Well, that's a really mature attitude to have about the situation. Bruce, I commend you. You're a bigger man than I." Frank refilled Bruce's glass, along with his own. "I would've kicked in a door by now."

"Whatever happens, Dad, things will work themselves out. They always do, somehow," Alex said optimistically.

"Yeah." Bruce raised his glass. "Here's hoping."

As the evening carried on into the late hours of the night, the bottle quickly emptied. Alex had the pleasure of hearing some of Bruce and Frank's stories from their times together in the Special Forces. The pizzas they had ordered (Meatlover's and Hawaiian) were inhaled between the three of them at an astonishing rate. But none of this could make them blot out what had happened.

"I still can't believe they blindsided you like that, Bruce." Frank put his hand on his forehead and dragged it down his face until it rested on his chin. "It's not going to be the same without you, Bruce." It seemed that Frank was actually taking the news harder than Bruce was. "Goddammit, it shouldn't have happened like this!"

"It'll be okay, Frank," Bruce said, patting him on the back. Frank had consumed most of the bottle by himself. Bruce had a few, but wasn't much of a drinker.

Frank pointed to the bottle on the dresser. "Send it."

Alex picked up the bottle. "Wow...it's almost polished." He handed it to Frank.

Frank held the bottle upside down until the last drops fell into his glass. "That's it, guys. Any takers on this?"

Bruce waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, that's all you, Frank."

Alex had already set his drink aside. He had drank half of his initial drink over the course of several hours and left the rest—he didn't care for it. The ice had completely melted in his glass.

***

It was now past three in the morning and Frank was passed out in his bed. There was another bed and a pull-out sofa. Bruce was more than willing to take the sofa, but Alex insisted that he would take it. The two of them were still up talking. Alex was a little tired, but he wasn't going to go to sleep until his dad did. There was a long break in the conversation and Bruce let out a long sigh. Alex felt it prudent to address the elephant in the room—the topic they had been avoiding since Frank went to sleep. "I'm sorry this happened to you, Dad. It sucks like hell."

"Yeah." Bruce closed his eyes. "The end of an era." He meditated on this fact for a moment, then opened his eyes again.

"So, what are you going to do now?"

"I'm not entirely sure... I guess all I have now is the Legion."

Alex thought about his father's words. "You know, Dad—there's something I've always wondered about. You were in the army alongside the Legion. But the other people in it—Mr. Santos...Varick...do they have other jobs?"

Bruce shook his head. "Nope. I mean, Varick had a police career prior to the Legion, but Santos has never worked a nine-to-five a day in his life."

Alex scratched his head. "But how does that work? How do they make ends meet?"

"Well, it depends. There's a few ways. Because there are many people in the Legion fully devoted to its cause. Now, I'll give you the big picture here. As you know, the Legion is international. We have members and solid branches of the Legion on every continent."

"Even Antarctica?"

"Don't be a smart-ass." Bruce paused and put a finger to his chin. "But come to think of it...we do actually have one member stationed in Antarctica."

Alex scoffed. "Get outta here." He narrowed his eyes at Bruce. "Really?"

"I kid you not."

"Was he banished there or something, for some terrible wrong he committed against the Legion?"

"Nope, he chose to live there. His own free will."

"Permanently?"

"Yep."

"That's messed up."

Bruce laughed. "Yeah, but getting back to what you wanted to know. Some do odd-jobs from time to time—temporary things when they need it. Varick does that occasionally. Also, we have wealthy financial backers. Some are part of the Legion, some aren't. And Legion members help each other out. I really have no attachment to money—Santos too. And as you know, we grew up together. What's mine is his.

"And that's it?"

"Well, there is one other method in how we finance our operations and supply the members who require it. Slush funds."

Alex did a double take. "Slush funds? Aren't those illegal?"

"Well, it's a murky term—it could have illegal connotations."

"Oh, so you're referring to slush funds in a legal sense?"

Bruce scratched his head. "Well, this is what it is. We have these Legion slush funds set up in banks all over the world. Legion members as well as people that support us contribute to these funds. But I would say the majority of these funds consist of money and assets recovered from criminal operations that we've dispersed."

Alex was in shock. "What the hell, you mean dirty money? Shouldn't that kind of thing be turned over to the police?"

"Well, if you think about this rationally..."

Alex felt like he got slapped in the face. "So, if you were to bust up some drug ring and find millions in dirty drug money, you keep all of it?"

"What!? No!" Bruce thought about it for a second. "Well, yes...but just let me explain. We don't keep it for ourselves; we redistribute it. We take only what we need for the organization to stay afloat, and the rest is redistributed back into the community, charities, that sort of thing. And let me tell you something about the police—they do the exact same thing. Criminal assets are used for police resources and redistribution back into the community. But here's the difference: we do it better. We can get the stuff back out there, where it needs to go, much quicker than the police. That's the beauty of the Legion: virtually no red tape. And I think, for the most part, we have our priorities better in line for redistribution of such assets."

"Wow—that's... I just find it really surprising that the Legion operates like that."

"Does it bother you?"

"I don't know..."

"Well, would you consider it immoral?"

Alex thought long and hard about this question. He supposed it was the same as the police... "I guess not, Dad."

"Then I have one final question. Do you still want to continue your training? To become a full-fledged member of the Legion?"

"Yes." Alex clenched his fist. "Hell, yes." Alex saw the first genuine smile on his dad's face since the news of his discharge.

"I know I promised you a fun weekend, Alex, but—"

Alex shook his head. "It doesn't matter, Dad. Tomorrow morning, let's go. Let's head back to New York."

***

## Chapter 19 – Cooling Wounds

Saturday, December 4th, 1999

Chital Co. Tower, Manhattan, 3:00 p.m.

Scorcher was seated in the top floor lounge with several of his cronies. His hand was covering his face, and his amber eye peered through the gap between his fingers. "Well? Where do we stand?"

Ramon Salazar shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, Scorcher, sir—we still don't know."

Scorcher looked at Tony Calzone. "You put this brain-dead mook in charge of this?"

"Well, there have been a lot of complications..."

"Oh my god. Are you telling me that in this day and age, your combined forces could not find the address of a house? One house in New York City. Are you actually telling me this?!"

"I'm telling you that his house is completely off the grid. As far as we can tell, he doesn't receive mail, no phone line...maybe a private line or something. We tried following Kasparov—whenever we get a bead on him, he either takes our guys out or simply turns a corner and vanishes." Tony looked at Scorcher intensely. "He knows."

"Well, what about his son?"

"We tried following him too, right out of his high school. He's being protected as well."

Scorcher's amber eye blinked. "You guys are idiots, I swear to god. The whole lot of you—absolutely useless! If Pike wasn't in jail, I'd get him to punt all your asses to the moon."

"Scorcher, there's something else you should know." Ulysses Frost leaned in and whispered so that only Scorcher could hear. "We received confirmation that Turly is dead. Solly got him."

"...Solly? Unbelievable. That's just what I needed to hear. We were already hurting with him basically destroying everything we had in Queens, and now this? That wrinkly bastard hasn't caused me enough trouble yet?!" Scorcher shook his head violently. "Okay-okay, one thing at a time. First, we need to get a fix on Bruce's address."

"Scorcher, there is another way. Another angle we can do this from to acquire the location. I'll take care of it," Frost reassured.

"Good. I have faith in you, Frost. These other idiots don't know how to zip up their own trousers."

Hachiuma stepped out of Scorcher's office and stopped by the lounge. "The Master is on the line. He requests both of us present, Scorcher."

Scorcher waved Hachiuma forward. "Wait, we need to hear this. Frost, what's your method?"

"You know about Kasparov's first son?"

"Yes...of course...the one that went astray." Scorcher's eye lit up. "Would he know?"

Frost shook his head. "No, he would be too young to know. The family separated when he was a small child—but the mother would know."

"Where is the mother?" Scorcher questioned.

"Still in New York, close to her son. I'll get the information we need from her."

"Good. Perfect." Scorcher stood up and eyed Hachiuma. "At least now we have a bone to throw so we don't get chewed up."

Scorcher and Hachiuma entered the office. The red light on the desk intercom blinked silently. Scorcher walked over to the desk and let his finger hover over the button until Hachiuma gave him the nod. The button was pressed and Scorcher cleared his throat:

"Master, we're here. Hachiuma and myself."

The intercom buzzed. "It's been a month. I expected it done by now."

"I apologize. We assigned the task to Tony Calzone and his men, but they ran into several—"

"You try my patience. I explicitly told you no excuses. Scorcher, what have I taught you? If you can't do the task yourself, you get someone who can. If you can't do either, then you're useless to me."

"Master, we received word that there is another way," Hachiuma informed. "We can get the information—all we need is a few more days."

"If I have not been contacted within the next week, there will be severe repercussions."

"Understood. Once again, our deepest apologies."

From the intercom they could hear a deep, chilling growl of a laugh. Definitely not a laugh that was contagious. "Fear and compliance are amusing. I wouldn't do anything to you two—you both keep me entertained. Mind you, if either of you stops being entertaining, then there might be a problem."

Scorcher sighed. Just when he was out of the woods, he had to drop another bombshell. "Master, there's something else. We found out that Samuel Turly was killed." Hachiuma looked at Scorcher, with an eyebrow raised. It was the first time he was hearing about it.

The intercom buzzed. "That's unfortunate—I liked him. We'll need to find a replacement to take up his post. Anything else?"

"No, Master. We'll get the information," Scorcher stated confidently.

"Good." The intercom buzzed, then cut out.

Scorcher and Hachiuma stood silently in the room for a moment. "So, Frost is going to take care of finding the location..."

"Yes. I'll personally assist him if he needs any help with the matter," Hachiuma stated. "Our delay on this was inexcusable."

"And I think it's understood that we don't need to go announcing Turly's death just yet. No need to go causing destabilization amongst the ranks."

Hachiuma nodded. "That goes without saying."

"Also, I believe I'm going to place our mole back amongst Solly's men. It might prove useful some ways down the road."

"And how do you plan to do that?"

Scorcher's eye gleamed. "Just leave it to me."

Hachiuma and Scorcher returned to the lounge. "Frost—Calzone, I need a word." Scorcher quietly briefed the two on the game plan. Following this powwow, Scorcher and Hachiuma headed down via the elevator to attend other business.

Ulysses Frost and Tony approached a tough-looking individual sitting in the lounge. He had a wide, stocky build. Tony tapped him on the shoulder and pulled him aside. It was Zerneck Wells; once Solly's lieutenant, now a turncoat working with Scorcher.

"You have to go back."

Wells stared. "Say what?"

"Scorcher wants you back in Solly's camp."

"How the hell am I going to explain to him where I've been all this time?"

"Come with us. There's a meeting room down the hall. We're going to have to do this discretely." Tony smirked. "Unfortunately, you're going to have to take one for the team. We're going to make your 'capture' look believable." Frost stood beside Tony, cracking his knuckles.

Wells sighed. "Am I going to get compensation for this?"

Tony smiled darkly. "Yeah, we can work something out."

***

Bruce and Alex arrived home late in the afternoon after their trip had been unexpectedly cut short by the terrible and shocking news of Bruce's discharge. Bruce shook his head in frustration as he fumbled with the manor key. Finally getting the door open, he dusted the snow from his boots and went inside with Alex. They found Varick, Santos, and Laura seated in the living room, having a lively discussion.

"Hey, welcome back, guys," Santos greeted. "Didn't expect you both till tomorrow."

Bruce sighed and waved feebly. "Hey, everyone." The three of them looked at Bruce uncertainly.

"Everything okay?" Santos asked.

Bruce gritted his teeth. Alex nudged his dad's shoulder with a fist. "It'll be okay."

"Well—I guess all my blabbing to the papers finally caught up with me!" Bruce said, laughing.

Varick raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

Bruce continued to laugh. "Well, I sorta got canned."

Varick, Santos, and Laura looked at him, puzzled. "Canned from what?" Laura asked.

"Well, it turns out they called me down to Fort Bragg to let me go." Bruce shrugged. "Other Than Honorable Discharge."

All three of them stood up. "You can't be serious... For what?" Santos asked.

"Yeah, all this stuff about the Legion in the media...they thought it best to cut ties with me. I'm smearing their name or something along those lines."

"That's bullshit!" Varick spat.

"Right?! That's what I said!" Bruce tried to force another laugh, but his false smile was beginning to fade.

Santos walked up to Bruce and embraced him in a hug. "I'm sorry, brother. I can't believe this happened to you." Alex stood by Bruce with his head down.

Bruce patted Santos on the back. "Thanks, I'll be okay. Life goes on...stuff happens."

Laura gave Bruce a hug as well. "I can only imagine what you must be going through, Bruce—I know the army was a big part of your life. Peter and John shared some amazing stories about you while you were gone. You're strong—you'll pull through this."

Bruce smiled weakly. "Thanks, Laura."

"Whatever you need, we're here for you," Varick stated firmly.

Bruce nodded appreciatively. He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He drank steadily from the cup.

"How's he taking it?" Santos whispered to Alex.

"I don't know. I'm not sure if the news has really sunk in for him yet. He was real quiet on the drive back."

Varick placed a hand on Alex's shoulder. "He'll cope. Don't worry."

Bruce looked back at everyone. "Guys, I'm pretty beat. I think I'm going to call it an early night."

"Okay, goodnight, Bruce." Laura was still feeling pangs of sadness for him. "Sleep well."

Varick and Santos exchanged glances. Bruce waved goodnight to everyone and made his way to the hallway. As he passed by Varick, he stuck out his arm, blocking Bruce. "You're not going to sleep just yet. We got a bite on a theft job that will be going down tonight."

"It's going to be perpetrated by a gang in Scorcher's network," Santos added.

"Who gave the lead?" Alex asked. "Was it Varick's guy Billy?"

Santos chuckled. "Come now, what do you think of us—that we only have one informant? We have informants all over the place, in all circles. You can never have too many. So, where'd our information come from, Varick?" Santos looked at Varick, who scowled at him. Santos cleared his throat. "Well, Alex, it just so happens that this lead was in fact—from Varick's guy Billy."

Bruce smirked. "Way to pick out that needle in the haystack, Alex."

"So, Bruce," Varick continued. "Interested?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Isn't this something you and Santos can handle?"

Santos smiled. "Actually, we were thinking we would all go. That means Laura, and even Alex, if you'll allow it."

Bruce stroked his chin, intrigued. "A teaching mission, eh?"

"That's right. We'll show these rookies how it's done," Varick said.

"Hey, I'm no rookie, John," Laura said, annoyed.

Varick shrugged. "Well, you haven't learned to do things like a Legion member."

"And what way is that?" asked Laura. "Like an impetuous belligerent?"

Bruce cracked his knuckles and grinned. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Up for it, Alex?"

Alex looked eager. "Let's do it."

"Alright, well, we have to leave right away," Santos informed. "We've got quite a bit of distance to cover."

***

Central New York, Albany, 11:15 p.m.

"I didn't expect the location for this 'training mission' to be several hours away in the middle of nowhere," Alex muttered. "A little warning would've been nice."

"You bring a notepad, Alex?" Bruce asked.

"No..."

"Well then, take mental notes of everything said and done here tonight. First note: No whining."

"Easy for you to say. You weren't stuck riding b—"

Bruce pointed a warning finger at Alex. "Language."

"Hey, let me finish! I was going to say, you weren't stuck riding between Mr. Santos and Laura for nearly three hours."

Bruce snickered. "Yeah, sure, buddy."

They had arrived at the location they were to be staking out: a large warehouse. Varick had driven the five of them up to Albany in his black Lincoln. The warehouse was perched atop a small hill on an otherwise deserted plot of land. Naturally, they were a safe distance away. Alex had opted to get out of the car to stretch his legs; the other four watched the warehouse from inside the car. It was a blistering cold night, and beyond the small stretches of cleared asphalt road, the snow was up to the shins. But everyone had dressed accordingly: many layers and tall boots. Alex rapped on the car window. Varick rolled it down a crack. "What's in the warehouse?"

Varick shrugged. "No clue. But from what my sources told me, this heist is going to garner upwards of a hundred thousand dollars worth of merchandise. It's the warehouse for some sort of retail store."

Bruce pointed with his finger. "They're here." They spotted one car driving up the road to the warehouse. Then another—and another... A total of five vehicles. They parked just outside the warehouse. Bruce and the others witnessed several bodies moving in the shadows.

Laura's eyes grew wide. "Did you expect so many, John? I'd say there's about twenty in the pack."

"Are the numbers worrisome for you?"

"Considering we're significantly outnumbered, yeah, I would say so. I'm not reckless, and I'm not stupid."

Bruce grinned. "Another note, Alex. Sometimes being reckless and stupid is what's needed to get the job done."

Laura sighed. "I don't even know why you're making jokes at a time like this."

"Relax, I know the guys who are trying to pull this job," Varick informed. "We've all gone up against them before. The ringleader of this gang is known as 'Little Joey'."

Bruce let out a bark of a laugh before he could help himself. "Little Joey, are you kidding me? Isn't he still in jail?"

Varick shook his head. "Nah, he got out. Out on bail."

"Wow. I thought there were going to be things to teach the newcomers tonight. This is going to be a joke." But Laura wasn't laughing.

Santos decided to offer up an explanation: "You see, Laura—Little Joey and his gang members—they're basically at the bottom of Scorcher's ladder of lackeys. Most of these guys are petty thieves. All they do is basic robbery."

"I'm actually surprised they were assigned to this job," Varick said. "A one hundred thousand dollar robbery seems a bit beyond them, if you ask me."

"They don't even carry firearms. The worst you'll see is a pocket knife, if even that," Bruce stated confidently. "So, like I said, there's nothing to worry about."

"Umm, okay..." But Laura was still not reassured. "So, what's the plan?"

Bruce laughed again. "Plan? We don't need a plan. We'll just go in there and mop the floor with 'em." Bruce hopped out of the car, and Varick and Santos did the same. Laura hesitantly followed behind them. Bruce pointed up the hill. "Everybody, with me."

Alex pumped his fists. "Alright, let's do this!"

"Hey-hey-hey!" Bruce shouted at Alex. "We're foiling a robbery here, not off-roading in an ATV. So, please—a little restraint."

The five began trudging uphill through the dense snow, which was no easy feat. Alex could see his breath in the cold while he marched through the snow. He made an effort to stay side by side with Bruce, attempting to keep his pace. He glanced at his father. "Dad, why's he called Little Joey?"

"Because he supposedly started gang-banging when he was twelve, or so the story goes." Bruce maintained his quick stride. "It's probably just a pile of nonsense."

"Twelve...wow."

"And let that be another note for your mental pad: Stay in school. He's a dropout and a dumb-ass, and look at where he is now." Bruce reached the top of the hill and scouted the area. He ushered everyone forward. Little Joey and his gang had already disappeared into the warehouse.

"Bruce, I might be able to hold them at bay," Laura said. "But if I have my gun on them with that many there, chances are, some are going to run—"

"Gun?" Bruce questioned, cutting off Laura. "No-no, don't worry, you won't need to pull out your gun. This is what's going to happen: Laura and Alex, you two are going to hang back and observe. Santos, Varick, and myself will round 'em up."

It was Laura's turn to laugh. "Really, only you three? Being outnumbered four to one wasn't bad enough? And how do you three plan to roundup some twenty-odd thieves?"

Bruce smiled with a gleam in his eye. "It's simple, really. Because they aren't going to run. They're like moths to a flame. If they were smart they'd run, but they aren't, c'est la vie, yadda yadda—" he impatiently ushered everyone forward, "—Let's get this show started."

The group marched alongside Bruce towards the warehouse. Santos whispered to Bruce so that no one else could hear: "I know you've had a trying Friday—just don't fly off the handle and take it out on Little Joey's gang."

Bruce grinned. "Relax, I never fly off the handle." He looked back at Laura and his son. "Remember, Alex: stay by Laura. You two help each other out if you need to and stay safe. And don't underestimate Alex either, Laura—he may be young, but he's no pushover."

Laura smiled at Alex while addressing Bruce: "I never did underestimate him. I know Alex has got moxie." Alex felt himself turning red.

Little Joey and his gang had the main garage door wide open. Bruce turned the corner of the warehouse without hesitation and stepped out into the open. "Little Joey! How are ya, buddy!?"

The man known as Little Joey turned around, bewildered. He was in his early thirties, with unkempt stubble and wavy brown hair. "What the hell?!" Little Joey squinted. "Is that...Kasparov!?" He had a loud, hoarse voice, that grated on the eardrums.

"Little Joey—all grown up. Don't tell me that you and your cronies are still garbage collectors for Scorcher?" Bruce looked around the warehouse. "Never mind, I take it back." The building was full of top-of-the-line snowmobiles. Each vehicle was worth somewhere in the vicinity of ten grand. "Snowmobiles, huh? Interesting. So, that's why you need all this manpower—to ride off in your sleighs, jingling all the way."

Varick smiled grimly. "They do something stupid, we throw them in jail. Year or two later, they're out somehow, only to do the same stupid bull that gets them thrown right back in. Rinse and repeat."

Santos chuckled. "You'd think they'd at least consider reform with so many failures under their belts."

"Oh great, and Bruce's bosom buddies are here too—this is just perfect! We're freezing our butts out here, up on bumpkin hill, trying to make an honest buck, and you guys somehow show up. What the hell are you guys doing all the way out here anyway?!"

"Just following the slime trails," Varick goaded.

Little Joey's men muttered angrily and stared down Bruce and the others, clearly itching for a fight. They were only waiting for Little Joey's signal. Bruce stood his ground confidently. "Unfortunately, it's kind of late, so we really don't want to stick around chit-chatting. So, you can come peacefully, or we can drag you to jail, kicking and screaming. The choice is yours."

Little Joey's men stood behind Joey, cracking their knuckles, gritting their teeth, and pulling out all the stops to look menacing. Joey glared at his men in disbelief. "What the frik you all waiting for? Beat the crap out of 'em!" They roared to life and charged. The new faces of the gang led the pack, with the kind of fervid energy that came to those in their prime who were naive enough to believe themselves invincible. Conversely, the veteran members were far less enthusiastic to be knocked around like pi _ñatas_. These old-timers were all too familiar with the Legion, but did as they were told nevertheless.

Bruce looked back at Varick and Santos, grinning. "Moths to the flame—let's turn up the heat." He charged forward. "Meet them halfway!" Varick and Santos were right behind him. Laura and Alex watched with rapt attention as the brawl commenced. Bruce struck first, connecting a flying kick into the lead gang member, who crashed back into two others. Bruce rolled into the mass of bodies and was quickly surrounded by Little Joey's gang. They came at him from all sides. Varick and Santos joined the fray. Punches and kicks were flying fast, with the Legion's focus being on speed over power, given the sheer number of opponents they were facing. With everyone wearing heavy winter gear, they all had extra padding for protection. But it was this same boon that hindered movement and put an extra strain on their stamina.

As more bodies came at him, Bruce felt his adrenaline surge. Maybe this was what it was all about. Sure, he wasn't a soldier anymore, but he was still fighting the good fight. Maybe being a soldier didn't matter. As crazy as it would seem to someone else, even someone in the same line of work as him—this eased his tensions. His heart was pumping, but there was no stress. He knocked out another gang member. It almost felt like a game to him—one that he loved to play. Maybe because he was just so damn good at it.

One by one, Little Joey's gang members were hitting the ground. In some cases, two at a time, when legionnaires dished out simultaneous strikes. Little Joey watched the rumble, becoming increasingly more irate. There were a few stragglers from his gang standing a safe distance away from the fight. "Oh my god, what the hell!" Joey roared, while he pushed forward his reluctant soldiers. "Get 'em, you idiots, GET 'EM!"

Bruce quickly cleared his personal space and left a pile of bodies in his wake. One gang member removed his belt and lashed it like a whip, trying to hit Santos. He ducked under the belt so that it hit the thug behind him instead. Bruce spotted the weapon and darted forward to address it. "Don't try and get clever here, buddy!" He cranked him in the jaw with a heavy fist towards Varick, who grabbed him by the collar, swung him full circle, and tossed him at the legs of two other attackers. Bruce and Santos were now back to back, sending fists flying. A couple of Little Joey's men who were on the ground tried to grab Bruce and Santos' legs to immobilize them, but they were kicked away.

Little Joey eyed the nearest snowmobile. He read the label along the front of the vehicle: the key number. He rushed to the bulletin board on the wall, where all the keys were hanging. He hastily scanned the board to find the correct key, grabbed it, then ran to the vehicle which was going to deliver him to freedom. Laura and Alex saw exactly what was going on. "Hey, guys!" Laura called. "You got a runner!"

There were only three gang members left on their feet now. A three on three fight. Upon hearing Laura's alert, Bruce's gaze strayed from the fight and locked onto his new target. Of course it would have to be Little Joey.

Joey sneered at Bruce from atop his snowmobile. "What, you think I'm dumb enough to stick around here and try to fight you?!"

"You're dumb enough to try and run!"

"You got that right!" Joey stuck the key in the ignition and took off through the rear-end garage door.

"Now that looks fun..." Bruce rushed over to the bulletin board. "Hey, finish up here, guys!" Bruce instructed to Varick and Santos. "I'm going after the little guy." He matched a key to its snowmobile and took off after the leader.

Little Joey accelerated down the slope, weaving in and out between evergreen trees. He surprised himself by how well he could maneuver the vehicle, being his first time on a snowmobile. The slope evened out into a wide sweeping snowfield, and the trees were becoming more concentrated. He could see that he was heading towards a forest. Even though it would provide excellent cover, there was no way he could bring his snowmobile in there. He decided he would skim the edge of the forest and follow alongside it. His ears suddenly became aware of another roaring engine—a second snowmobile in his proximity. He looked over his shoulder to see Kasparov closing in fast. Little Joey's eyes bugged out. "Oh, son of a bitch!" He tried to pull some tricky maneuvers around trees, but Bruce met him every step of the way. He kept glancing back after each stunt he pulled, but nothing was working. In fact, his weaving only seemed to help close the gap between Bruce and himself.

"You're only making this harder for yourself, Little Joey!"

Little Joey turned his head and gave Bruce a big sneer and the finger. He turned back to see himself on a collision path with a tree. "Shit!" He swerved frantically to avoid the crash and lost a great deal of speed. Bruce cut in and was mere feet away from Little Joey. Bruce leapt off his snowmobile and managed to tackle Little Joey off his. Down into the snow they went. Little Joey screamed out in frustration. "I hate you, Kasparov! I really hate you! I really f—"

"Shaddaaap!" Bruce rubbed a big handful of snow all over Little Joey's face. "Let me clean out your filthy mouth with pure white snow."

Little Joey coughed and spluttered. "Bastard!"

***

Bruce returned to the warehouse on his snowmobile with Little Joey, whom he held in a headlock all the way up the hill. He was pleased to see that Varick and Santos had everything under control. The hands and feet of every gang member had been restrained with plastic zip ties (just one of the many things that Varick kept in the trunk of his car for crime-fighting fun).

"You caught him. Nice job," Laura said.

"Was there any doubt?"

Laura rolled her eyes. Bruce winked. "But thanks. You guys cleaned up here real nice as well. Laura, I take it you've already informed the local authorities about this shindig?"

"Was there any doubt?"

Bruce grinned. "None." Bruce threw Little Joey onto the warehouse floor. "Now then. Talk. What did you want with all these snowmobiles?"

Little Joey blinked and looked at him, dazed and confused. "I dunno. What I heard is that the big man Scorcher wanted to have a stockpile of them around for the wintertime. Just in case he got bored."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Bored?"

"Yeah. He thought they might be fun. Apparently, he was trying to plan and organize a snowmobile race or something...I dunno. To be honest, I think he's a little loco."

Bruce rubbed his face. "You think?" Bruce stretched his arms over his head and looked out through the garage door. "Whatever. I'm not going to try and pick that freak's brain." He glanced at Varick and Santos. "You two have anything to ask this guy?"

"Nah, I think you already got everything we're going to get out of him," Varick replied.

"Alrighty then." He turned his attention to Laura and Alex. "So? What did you two learn?"

Laura scratched her head. "Honestly? Not a damn thing."

"Alex?"

Alex thought about the question for a moment. "Yeah, I'm gonna go with Laura on this one. You guys didn't teach us anything—you three were just showing off."

Bruce grinned. "And therein lies the lesson. Get the job done and look good doing it."

***

## Chapter 20 – Matters of the Heart

Sunday, December 5th, 1999

The Seaberg Lounge, Queens

It was late in the afternoon. The Solly brothers were shooting the breeze at their table, with several plates of appetizers being shared between them. Their attention was caught by someone at the door who was creating a stir. He was drawing the stares and hushed murmurs of the patrons as he engaged the bouncer. Mark's jaw dropped. "Is that..."

"What the hell..." Lucas hastily pushed out his chair and rushed to the front with Mark. "Bobby, we'll handle this," said Lucas. The bouncer shrugged and stepped aside to give Lucas free rein. On closer inspection, the man at the door was indeed Zerneck Wells—but his face was horribly disfigured with bruises and welts. Dried blood stained his hairline and ran down the side of his head. "You've got some nerve," Lucas muttered.

"I need to see Jack."

Lucas shoved Zerneck. "The hell are you thinking, coming in here looking the way you do?"

Zerneck gritted his teeth. "Where is he, Lucas?"

Lucas pushed him again. "Outside. Right now. You're gonna scare everyone away." Mark and Lucas escorted Zerneck out of the lounge and directed him to the back entrance. Lucas unlocked the door and the three of them went inside. There was a seat behind the desk and a single folding chair leaning against the wall, but all three chose to stand. The Solly brothers stared at Zerneck without saying a word. Keeping his gaze fixed on Wells, Lucas pulled out his cell and dialled his father's direct line. "Pops, it's Lucas. Wells just showed up here at Seaberg." Wells watched anxiously while Lucas spoke to Solly. His fate was about to be decided by this one call. "Uh-huh, yeah, the office. He wants to see you. Okay, see you soon." Lucas cut the call. "He's on his way."

***

Within twenty minutes, the office door opened. Wells and the Solly brothers had been waiting patiently in complete silence. Jack Solly stood framed in the door way. His eyes first locked onto his sons and then to Wells. He walked in without saying a word and sat down behind his rickety desk. He placed his hands on his desk and studied Wells. "You should be physically dead or dead to us because you've turned traitor. You have one minute to explain yourself before you're dead on both counts."

Wells inhaled deeply, which triggered a raspy cough. He held his side, clearly in pain. "I never turned on you, Jack. Never. They captured me right outside First Bank."

"Who did?"

"Scorcher's men—and Brody. Brody was the traitor, not me. They held me for days...weeks...putting me through unending torture. Hell, I don't even know what day it is."

"They kept you alive all this time?"

"They wanted information. But I didn't give them anything. I kept feigning to be weaker than I really was after every beating. When they thought I was completely subdued, I still had something left. They eventually got sloppy, and I managed to escape by the skin of my teeth today. I knew the first thing I had to do was see you, Jack."

"How did you get here?"

"I have a vehicle outside. I stole it from their lot."

Jack stared at Wells. He opened his drawer and pulled out a box-cutter. He pushed out his chair and slowly walked up to Wells while extending the blade on the knife. He stood in front of him. Wells watched him, breathing hard. He tried to maintain eye contact but found himself constantly looking down at the knife in Jack's hand. Jack gently held Wells by the chin. He brought the knife up to the side of Wells' face. Wells swallowed nervously, but didn't move. He was perspiring from his forehead now. Jack gently turned Wells' head to the left and then to the right, examining him. He rested the knife on the top button of Wells' tattered shirt. Then, with one swift stroke, Jack brought the knife all the way down Wells' shirt, cutting off the buttons. Jack nudged his shirt open with the box-cutter to reveal all the bruising and gashes that had been inflicted upon Wells.

"Scorcher's men did this to you?"

Wells nodded. Jack retracted the knife and pocketed it, to Wells' relief. He turned his back to Wells, then walked over to his desk and placed his hands on it. "There's just one thing that I find curious, Wells... If Brody was the traitor, then why did Turly kill him?"

Wells stared. "What?"

"You didn't hear? Turly had a confrontation with Brody. He's likely the one that killed him. Oswalt retrieved Turly's bladed pen from the crime scene—the one that left puncture wounds in Brody's hand. We've already dealt with Turly, but unfortunately, he gave us no information. So, again I ask...if they were on the same side, why did Brody and Turly come to blows?"

When Zerneck had fingered Brody as the traitor, he was actually considering saying he was the one that killed him to earn some points with Solly. Thank god he didn't. Wells blinked, thinking fast. "This is all I know: Brody betrayed me. If Turly killed him, something must have gone wrong, or they had no more use for him." Just keep your composure, you know Jack, Wells told himself. "Jack, I swear to you that's what happened. Come on, you know me. How many years have I been loyal to you?"

Jack studied Wells. Finally, he nodded. "Okay, Wells. I believe you..."

Did he feel bad for betraying them? In truth, maybe a little. You don't spend years with someone and not gain some sort of attachment. But in the end, it was just a job, and he had gotten a better offer. And if he were a gambling man, he would place his bets with Tony Calzone and Scorcher. He could feel the reins of power slipping from Jack's grasp, despite outward appearances. Like a supergiant star, growing bigger and bigger while burning through all of its resources...until finally destroying itself. Jack was a smart man, but he liked to give people the benefit of the doubt. He was too trusting. He could not afford such a flaw in this line of work. Zerneck Wells knew this.

***

Tuesday, December 7th, 1999

A lone woman was seated at a table inside a seedy bar. On her table was a bottle of wine and a half-empty wine glass. She picked up the glass, slowly swirling the drink in her hand. She took a long sip, then set the glass back down. She was waiting for someone.

Ulysses Frost and Hachiuma walked into the bar. The intimidation factor of their combined presence turned several heads.

"Point her out to me," Hachiuma instructed.

Frost's eyes scanned through the dingy lighting. His gaze stopped on the lone woman. He pointed his finger. "Her."

Hachiuma nodded. "I'll take it from here." Frost stood by the door with his arms folded in front of him while Hachiuma walked over to the woman. He pulled out the empty chair opposite the woman and sat down at her table. Hachiuma watched her and waited until she looked up at him to acknowledge his presence. "You are Corey's mother..."

She nodded solemnly. Her long dark hair fell over her face. "Is my son coming here?"

Hachiuma shook his head. "No. But rest assured, he is quite safe. If he remains that way is entirely up you. Tell me your name."

The women stared at him with a mixture of fear and anger. She picked up her wine glass and drained it. She then placed the empty glass on the table and relaxed. "Lorna."

"Lorna..." Hachiuma smiled. He lifted the wine bottle and refilled her glass. "Lorna...Kasparov. Do you know what your son does for a living?"

"He's involved with the mob." She let out a bitter laugh. "Every mother's dream."

"He's not quite there yet. He's part of a street gang. A lowly gang-banger—a grunt. He's nothing. This street gang your son is affiliated with is within our sphere of control. From the moment he joined it, his life became ours to do with as we please. Do you understand this, Lorna?" She was staring down into her glass. "Look at me." She forced herself to look into Hachiuma's soulless eyes. "He won't escape... He can't."

"What do you want?"

"Information. Tell me about Bruce Kasparov."

Lorna scoffed. "There's nothing to tell. I have nothing to do with him. That part of my life is over."

"Yes, you two separated many years ago. But during the time you were with him, he was with the Legion...am I correct?"

"From the time I knew him, he was always a part of that. First and foremost."

"Did you two live together?"

"Briefly."

"Where?"

"In a mansion..." She shook her head bitterly. "What more could a woman ask for? But even that came from the Legion. It was our house, but it was never a home."

Hachiuma licked his lips. His eagerness was welling inside him and sparked a glow in his eyes. He stared hungrily at her. He was very close to what he wanted—he could almost taste it. "Where?" Lorna eyed Hachiuma, puzzled. "The location of the Legion manor. Where is it located?"

She hesitated. "Why do you want to know?"

"You know what I am. You know why I want to know. Now tell me."

Lorna bit her lip. "I-I can't." She shook her head while looking at Hachiuma, almost as if pleading with him. "I can't."

Hachiuma opened and closed his right hand on the table. His expression was intense. Very intense. "Do you love your son Corey?"

Lorna's eyes were watering. "Y-yes."

"Then you do not have a choice in this matter. Tell me what I want to know."

She involuntarily swallowed as her trepidation mounted—her heart was racing. Hachiuma leaned across the table, his face right next to hers. He waited...until finally, she leaned in and whispered into Hachiuma's ear. His eyes glowed. He stood up and pushed the chair in. "It goes without saying, that you tell no one about what was discussed here. If you try to contact Bruce, we'll know. I hope for your sake and your son's, that we never have to meet again." Hachiuma stopped by the door to briefly talk with Ulysses, then they both set off into the night.

Lorna sat in her seat alone, her shaking hand clasping the empty wine glass. As much as she learned to hate Bruce over the years, you can never really erase or forget feelings—only bury them with new ones. And to her sorrow, she found these old feelings being unearthed. This was a man in another life that she cared about deeply. A man she once loved. And then it all turned poisonous. She looked down into her empty glass as a tear rolled down her cheek. I'm sorry, Bruce... I never was as strong as you. She buried her face in her hands and broke down.

***

Wednesday, December 8th, 1999

"I'm surprised to find you both sitting here," Santos stated.

"And what's surprising about it?" Bruce asked. "By the way, Alex, you can't castle through check."

"What? Oh right, your annoying bishop." Alex returned his king and rook to their original positions. The three of them were seated in the living room—father and son engaged in a game of chess, with Santos spectating.

"Usually on a weekday evening, you two are barricaded down in the gym," Santos replied.

"True. But Alex has been through the wringer the last few weeks. I thought this would allow for a nice break."

Alex scoffed. "Yeah, instead of being trounced in training, it's now on a chessboard." He hesitantly moved a pawn forward to attack Bruce's bishop.

"Oh ho-ho, that was a mistake." Bruce retreated his bishop, simultaneously moving it to a protected square and launching a counterattack. "Opened yourself up for a nice little skewer."

Alex squinted at the board and took a second to grasp the perilous situation he was in. "Can I take my move back?"

"Not a chance."

"Oh c'mon, this isn't even fair. At least give me a chance, I'm still learning the game!"

"Nope-nope-nope, there shall be no chance!" Bruce smirked. "Now, if I go easy on you, how are you going to get better, hmm?"

Alex sighed. "Fine." Alex moved his queen to safety, but gave up his knight. "I hate this game."

"Don't get discouraged, Alex. Just keep playing. Learn from your mistakes and you'll improve," Santos advised optimistically.

"You want to play him next game, Mr. Santos? Are you better than my dad?"

Santos scratched his chin. "Well, it's hard to say. I mean, we both learned the game from your Uncle Charlie when we were kids. I think I could put up a decent fight."

"Yeah, right." Bruce continued to smirk. "I could beat you back then, I could beat you now."

Alex rubbed his hands together. "Sounds like fighting words to me! I want to see a good show."

Santos raised a hand. "Mind you, Alex, I'd like to think we're good players—but only by amateur standards."

"Good players by amateur standards..." Alex scratched his head. "So where does that put me?"

Bruce laughed. "You can fill in that blank, Alex."

"Well, whatever, let's just scrap this game—you two can have at it," Alex insisted.

"Hold that thought, Alex. You two finish." Santos held up his cell phone. "I got a call."

Santos stepped into the kitchen and answered his phone. As he listened to what the man on the other end had to say, Santos' pleasant mood was suddenly overtaken by shock. A feeling of complete and utter shock. "Uh-huh. Okay—thank you..." The conversation ended. Santos looked down at his cell phone in disbelief.

"Hey, Santos, just look at this board position!" Bruce laughed hysterically.

Alex shook his head and grinned. "You really are the worst winner I've ever seen."

"Oh Alex...Alex-Alex-Alex. You could've easily avoided this." Bruce stopped laughing upon seeing the expression on Santos' face. "What is it?"

Santos' mouth hung slightly open for a moment. "That was Uecker's executor. He left his money to me."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Really? How much?"

"All of it. Nearly three million."

It was Bruce's turn to go slack-jawed. "Uecker?"

Santos rubbed his forehead. "He was a venture capitalist, and he had a long history of playing the stocks. I didn't realize he did that well or had that much money saved up... I don't believe this..."

Alex looked at Santos in amazement. "Holy...that's ridiculous!"

"Yeah, I'll say," Bruce remarked. "With that kind of money, why wasn't he living like a baller instead of a grumpy old fart?"

"I think he had other plans for his money."

Alex smirked. "Other plans such as leaving all of his money solely to you?"

Santos shook his head. "No, not to me—to the Legion. This was meant for the Legion." He looked from Bruce to Alex, with inspired zeal. "We're going to make sure this money goes where it's needed most. To the people that need it most." Santos looked to Bruce for his input.

Bruce nodded his approval and gave him a thumbs-up. "Well, the evening is still young. This calls for a celebration of thanks. I say we go out for dinner...the fanciest dinner New York has to offer!" Santos raised an eyebrow. Bruce stood up and put an arm around Santos. "Only kidding. But seriously, let's go out for dinner. Us three, right now—and toast to Uecker's honor and generosity. He was a good man."

"Yeah—he was." Santos smiled. "That sounds like a great idea."

Alex nodded. "I'm in; I got no pressing school work."

The three of them put on their coats and stepped outside in high spirits. Santos locked the front door and smiled to himself. Thank you, Uecker. You will be missed, but not forgotten. I'll make sure everyone knows of your generosity and good heart.

Unbeknownst to the three of them, some distance away, a pair of binoculars was trained on Kasparov Manor. The binoculars followed Bruce out of the brownstone mansion and watched him walk down the sidewalk. On a nearby rooftop, Freddy Vickers lowered his binoculars and smiled to himself. "I see you..."

***

Chital Co. Tower, Manhattan

Tony Calzone banged on Scorcher's office door urgently. "Scorcher. Scorcher! Big news! Scorcher!!"

Scorcher opened the door, smiling ghoulishly. "A-yeees?"

"I got the call from Freddy. Scorcher—it's confirmed."

"Good. Now get out," said Scorcher, slamming the door in Tony's face. Hachiuma was already in the office, sitting in Scorcher's chair. Scorcher pointed at him. "Put him through." Hachiuma pressed a combination of buttons on the desk panel, then waited as the intercom buzzed. Scorcher anxiously opened and closed his fist.

"I'm here." The gravelly voice of their master greeted them through the intercom.

"Master, I'm here with Hachiuma. We have the information. Kasparov resides in a brownstone mansion in Greenwich Village, Manhattan. We have the address."

"A mansion, you say? It must be a Legion outpost. Unlikely that he's the only Legion member residing at those premises. It makes little difference either way."

"Should we organize an attack on the manor, Master?" Hachiuma asked.

"No, not yet. Hachiuma, you can go back."

"Go back?"

"To Thailand. This is not your fight."

"As you wish, Master."

"This battle will be won by Scorcher's hand alone. Or at least, that is how it will appear. I'm coming there."

Hachiuma's eyes grew wide. "Master, you're coming to New York?"

"Yes. It is early December...the details will come." There was a pause and then static from the intercom. "Yes, the end of December will be the time. For you see, I am not without mercy. I'll give Bruce Kasparov one last moment to be with his friends, his family—whatever he wants to do. But whence come the toll of the bells...the fireworks ringing in the new year—the new millennium...I will swoop down upon him—and extinguish his life."

***

## Chapter 21 – End of a Millennium

Dubrava Prison, Kosovo

"Hello, Ristani."

Zamir opened his eyes. Could it be? He stumbled out of bed. Was he imagining things? No, he wasn't. "Thank God you're here, Akira!" He could feel himself being overcome with emotion. "It's Christmas come early!" Akira watched him, amused. In the few months he had been confined to prison, Zamir had wasted away to a shell of his former self. He had lost weight, his beard was thick and scraggly, and it was clear he had suffered many injuries during his stay. "Akira...you have to get me out of here!"

Akira studied Zamir. "I'm surprised you've survived here this long. You're resilient, Ristani. Perhaps if you had arrived here in May, you could have enjoyed the thrill of lining up in the prison yard and being executed with the masses."

Ristani gripped the bars tightly and focused on Akira with gaunt, unblinking eyes. "It's time though, right? That's why you're here? To free me?"

"Yes. I am here to free you, Ristani." Akira smiled. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Akira pointed a finger above his head. "Listen. The steady drip. Drip...drip..."

"That's the water leak from the ceiling."

"No. That's the sound of dead souls, slowly dripping out from the husks of crushed dreams. Drip...drip...drip." Zamir stared. "Ristani... Do you know what your purpose was?"

He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words came out. He rubbed a hand down his coarse beard. "My purpose?"

"Why did we come to you? Why did we enlist your services and fund your war?"

Zamir paused for a moment. "To bring about a free Kosovo. This is what I was trying to do."

"No. Your purpose was to reignite a war. Regardless of your failure, the war will start. It has started."

"But—I don't understand. The conflict in Kosovo is over. We lost."

"You lost. Not we—you." Akira let out a snide laugh. "The scope is a tad larger than Kosovo now..." Akira pointed his hand at Ristani.

Zamir was breathing heavy. His eyes darted frantically. "Akira...no. Wait—no! Please!"

Akira's eyes glowed as he smiled a devil's grin. "Here is your freedom..."

"What was that?!" Guards rushed through the wing where Ristani was held, after hearing a massive explosion. They reached his cell to find a grisly sight. The bars on Zamir's cell door were melted away. The cold winter air was blowing in through the back wall of the cell—the concrete was almost completely torn open. And there, on the floor of the cell, was Zamir's charred body. It was still smouldering. The man known as Akira Luong was nowhere to be seen.

***

The Legion gang had decided to peruse the shopping mall, one cold Saturday in December. Laura was keen on getting her Christmas shopping done early and finding something nice for her fiance in particular. Bruce, Varick, Santos, and Alex had decided to tag along and make a day of it. It was only five in the afternoon, but it was already dark outside.

"Getting that beard back I see, Bruce. It's coming in nicely," Santos commented.

Bruce chuckled. "It's not like I'm going to be deployed for a military operation anytime soon, so now's as good a time as any to bring it back."

Santos put an arm around Bruce and Varick. "Well, it looks like the beard brothers are back in action!"

"Good god, man..." Varick sighed, bringing his thumb and two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "You seriously need to stop saying that every time Bruce cuts loose."

Laura stifled a laugh. "The beard brothers, huh? Does John's tuft of fur on his chinny-chin-chin actually qualify?"

"It's called a goatee," Varick said, swiping Laura's hand away as she prodded his chin.

They walked through the mall, stopping next to store windows whenever someone's eye was caught by an enticing trinket. A hefty man pushed past them, carrying two cases of bottled water stacked on top of each other. Bruce looked over his shoulder, smirking. "And there goes another one. You know what they're doing, don't you, Alex?"

"Stockpiling for the end of the world, which you're directly responsible for?"

"Not funny, Alex," Varick sniped.

"It's a little funny," said Bruce. "I mean, how they managed to pin this Y2K scare on us—it's mind-boggling. And I'm telling you, that little pipsqueak Stiltson—they believe him. A lot of these people, they'll believe anything they read or hear."

"Well, better safe than sorry, I suppose," Santos said. "Regardless of why it may happen, if it happens the way experts think it might, at least you're prepared with the essentials."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, is going to happen, come that fateful midnight?"

"Blackouts, stock market crash, financial ruin..." Santos shrugged. "Who knows."

"Most likely nothing, if you ask me," Laura said.

"Governments are investing billions of dollars in preventative measures..." Varick scoffed. "It better be nothing."

They passed by a small electronics shop. There were a few television sets in the window, and all of them had the same news story running:

"It truly is the season of giving. Recently deceased Uecker Clemens has made several posthumous donations to charities around the world, amounting in the millions. These donations include those charities supporting child welfare, crisis relief efforts, and healthcare. It's believed that the donation arrangements were made by beneficiaries of the will who have chosen to remain anonymous. Given the circumstances surrounding Uecker Clemens' death and his ties to the controversial group known as the Omega Ops Legion, some have speculated his beneficiaries are in fact Legion members. Whatever the case, one cannot deny such generous actions. For what it's worth, Mr. Clemens, this reporter thanks you."

***

Friday, December 24th, 1999

With each day that passed, the snow continued to pile up and prepared New York City for a very white Christmas. It was ironic that this time of December was considered the 'holiday season', yet so many people's stress levels were pushed to their limits because of the fast-paced demand that came with it. It hardly seemed like a holiday at all. Christmas shopping, event planning, relatives visiting, and travel plans: events that should bring about good cheer, simultaneously join together to wreak havoc on a person's psyche. The cold and snowy winter weather was the white icing atop all of the holiday worry. One person that wasn't feeling the pressure was Bruce Kasparov. He had come to terms with no longer being part of the U.S. military. He wasn't going to try and file for an appeal. As far as he was concerned, it simply was a growing process, and that chapter of his life had now come to a close. He looked in the mirror while he carefully knotted a navy-blue tie around his neck. Ever since childhood, it felt like a calling for him to be involved in military service, and he was allowed to carry out that calling for twenty years. In some ways, things wouldn't change all that much. He was still a man of honor that was bound by duty. Except now, he was focused on only one thing: The Legion.

There was a knock on his bedroom door. "Yeah?"

Santos opened it; he was also in full suit and tie. Bruce wasn't much of a church goer, but it was a tradition that Santos had them keep up: They would all attend Christmas mass together. More specifically, the midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and Santos was insistent that they all dress to the nines. "Ready, Bruce? Varick and Alex are both downstairs."

"Yeah, just about." He turned around. "How's the tie?"

Santos gave him a thumbs-up. "Looks sharp."

***

Friday, December 31st, 1999

Chital Co. Tower, Manhattan

Scorcher sat by himself in his office. His chair was spun around to face the window, and he had a wine glass in his hand. The bowl of the glass rested on his open palm. He swirled the wine in a slow circular fashion while he gazed off into space. He took a sip from the glass and winced. Wine wasn't his thing. He had hoped to be a classy villain that could enjoy a glass of wine thusly. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. He threw the half-drunk wine glass over his shoulder, where it smashed on the floor, despite being carpeted. He swung his chair back around and meditated on the poor decision he had just made. He pressed a button on his intercom: "Hello, Patty...send someone up to my office to clean up a wine spill." Click. Scorcher sighed. "It was all fun and games..." he said aloud to himself. "But now...much like that wine glass—it's out of my hands." Scorcher placed both his hands on his desk and looked down at them. He had been instructed to stay out of sight until it was over. "It's not going to be so fun for you anymore. For you and for me, I suppose." Scorcher sighed again. "I'm going to miss you, Kasparov."

***

Bruce wasn't one to shy away from parties. This year, there were big celebrations being hosted by Legion members in California and they were open to all Legion members and associates. Bruce was initially planning to attend, but after recent events, he had opted for something small, quiet, and simple. Even Christmas Day had been far less grand, with the celebrations kept inside the walls of the manor. New Year's was set to continue in the same vein. It was just Peter, Varick, Alex, and himself. Peter and Varick had the option to join the festivities in California, but since Bruce was staying, they decided to do the same.

Despite being the biggest New Year's celebration that would happen in Bruce's lifetime, there was something immensely humbling about ringing in the occasion on a much more personal level, with his two closest friends and his son. The people most important in his life.

The doorbell rang. "Anyone expecting anyone?" Bruce called. He opened the front door and broke into a grin. "Well, I'll be damned. Frank, I didn't know you were coming here!"

"Hey, neither did I. Believe it or not, Stan here talked me into it." From behind Frank Cormac's wide frame, his younger brother Stanley popped into view, carrying a brown grocery bag with both hands. "What's going on, what's going on, Bruce?!" He was smiling ear to ear. Stanley was in his late twenties, skinny, and had blonde hair like Frank.

Bruce laughed in astonishment. "Wow, this is—I am very surprised to see you here, Stanley."

"Hey now, don't tell me you're not happy to see me, bud?!"

"No, of course not! Come in, guys, come in! Don't stand out there in the cold." Bruce ushered the Cormac brothers inside and shut the door. "But you of all people, Stan; I thought you'd be in the thick of it all. It's the freakin' millennium party!"

"Come on now, Bruce; I don't think you know me as well as you think you do. Sure, it's on a much grander scale tonight, but it's the same old crap. I got a little bit more depth to me than binge drinking and partying."

"Yeah? What's in the bag, Stan?" Bruce grinned. "You planning on cooking us all dinner?"

"No-no-no. If you got some turkey or chicken—pot roast in the oven, what have you—I'm here to eat it!" He reached one hand into the bag and pulled out a large liquor bottle. "But I did, however, bring marinades."

"What's all the commotion?" Peter made his way to the door with Varick and Alex. Peter smiled. "Oh, what's this? Guests ready to partake in the New Year celebrations?"

"Indeed it is!" Stanley put the bottle back in his bag, kicked off his shoes, and carried the bag into the kitchen. He set the bag of booze on the counter. "Alright-alright-alriiiight, let's get this thing started!" But Stanley's enthusiasm suddenly faltered. He scratched his head, confused. "Jeezes, it is deathly quiet in this giant mansion of yours, Bruce. Music. Let's get some tunes going, guys. Toss on some Stones to start things off."

Alex walked up behind his father. "Dad, who is this?"

"That, Alex, is a happy guy."

Bruce introduced Alex and Stanley to each other. Stanley shook Alex's hand firmly. "How ya doing, bud? I'm surprised I haven't met you yet."

"Yeah, I'm doing pretty good, Stanley."

"Santos, what's new, boss man?"

Peter shrugged. "Nothing too out of the ordinary."

Stanley smirked. "Ah! But I'm just a regular Joe, you see? Legionnaire extraordinaire Mr. Santos probably has a very different idea about what constitutes 'ordinary'." Stanley pointed at Bruce. "And you too, buddy, you too! I want some good stories tonight."

"Hey, I was actually interested in hearing some of your stories, Stan—the debauchery that is your life."

Stanley grinned. "We'll see what happens." He turned his attention to Varick. "Ah, and Varick, how are ya, old man?!"

Varick pointed at him warningly. "Hey, hey! I'm younger than both Bruce and Santos."

Stanley tapped Varick on the forehead with his index finger. "Not up here you ain't, buddy."

Varick sneered. "Always a pleasure, Stanley."

"Yes—it—IS!" He slapped Varick on the back repeatedly. "No, but I jest. I jest because I love. Varick, I love you more than anyone else here, you know that, don't you?"

"Yeah...I know...you've told me on one too many occasions." Varick squinted at Stanley. "So, how sauced are you right now?"

"Love you more than Frankie!" Stanley said, ignoring Varick's question. He waved a hand at Frank. "No offense, bro."

Frank shrugged. "None taken. Over the years, I've learned to sorta just tune you out."

"My brother's a stand up guy," Stanley informed Varick, putting him in a headlock.

"Alright, alright, get off!" Varick interjected, pushing Stanley's arm away. "You're too hyper for me."

"Enough talk, boys, my mouth's getting dry. Let's get it started." One by one, Stanley started pulling out liquor bottles and setting them on the table. "You have beer, right, Bruce?"

"Err, yeah, there's a few in the fridge."

"Good. That's why I didn't bring beer. I knew you had beer." Stanley raised two bottles off the table: "Alright, pour em out!"

***

The group had settled in the living room. Music was playing and everyone was having a good time. And of course, the television was tuned to the millennium bash happening at Times Square. Varick and Bruce joined Stanley and Frank in a few drinks, but the Cormac brothers were the only ones drinking heavy.

"What've you got there, Santos?"

Santos looked in his glass. "This? Just a soft drink."

"Oh, come on, man!" Stanley ran to the fridge, retrieved a beer, and ran back to the living room at an astonishing speed. Stanley handed Santos the bottle. "Here ya go."

Santos laughed. "No-no, I'm actually alright, Stanley. Thanks though."

"Dude, we're on the cusp of a new millennium, Santos. One beer! Even Alex has one beer!"

"Ehh..." Santos hesitated long and hard...until finally: "Okay-okay, one beer! I'm going to keep my pace with you, okay, Alex?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Santos."

"There ya go! Cheers, bud!" Stanley and Santos clinked their glass and bottle together.

Stanley guzzled down his mixed drink like it was a beer and, in the process, spilt a generous amount on his purple dress shirt. "Oh shit." Stanley put down his drink on the coffee table and tried to siphon off the liquid with his hand. "—And on my favorite shirt..."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "I could've sworn you have at least three of those shirts. I'm talking identical."

"Now, I put it to you, bro—if you're looking to buy more of a shirt, wouldn't the first choice be your favorite?"

Frank scrunched up his face. "But why look at all? More of the exact same thing? This is clothing we're talking about, not...not...I can't think of a good comparison to finish this thought, but you know what I'm getting at."

Stanley shook his head in disbelief. He turned to Alex and pointed at his brother. "This guy..."

Outside the manor, Freddy Vickers was once again playing watchdog. He was perched on the same rooftop as before, watching Bruce's front door with binoculars. He dialled a number on his cell phone. "Scorcher, he's still there. Two people went in, but no one has left. I don't think he's going anywhere tonight."

"Good. Then we'll bring the New Year's celebrations to him."

***

Santos placed a thumb and finger on his chin. "Okay, wait, so what exactly happened to your New Year's plans, Stanley?"

"Well, Maximus (the middle brother of the three Cormacs) was planning to come down from Canada so we could both visit Frankie here at Fort Bragg. I told that guy he should come early, come early I told him! He could've crashed with me, but he wanted to fly in last minute because he had some other crap to take care of. Sure enough: delay, delay, flight cancelled due to inclement weather... Remind me to call that fool tomorrow and give him hell. So anyway, Frank said he'll drive it here instead. So here he is, and here we are."

Alex scratched his head. "Your brother is named Maximus? Good lord, he sounds like some sort of Roman gladiator."

Frank grinned. "You should see him, Alex. He honest to god is. He makes me look like a dwarf. Mind you, I can still give him the old one-two."

"Ehh—I dunno, Frank. It's a close call, but I would put my money on Maximus."

"Has he ever gotten the best of me, Stan?"

"Well, no, but he's due up. He just keeps getting bigger and stronger. He is due up..." Stanley suddenly looked around the living room, as if startled. "You know what we need here, Bruce? Some girls. Why are there no girls here, Bruce?"

Bruce shrugged. "Well, I mean, it wasn't really a party or anything..."

"In fact, why are there no girls in your Legion club?!"

"Oh come on now, Stan, you know that's not true. In fact, just recently, we recruited a female police detective into our ranks."

"Oh really? Well then, where is she?"

"Other obligations—family, that sort of thing."

"Ah. But you recruited her, eh, Bruce?" Stan winked.

"Actually, this one was pretty much all Varick."

"Well, will wonders never cease. Look at you, Varick! Well done, sir."

Varick raised an eyebrow. "What are you on about? She wanted to join—she was qualified. I vouched for her, and so she joined."

"So, is she cute? Ta-tas?"

"What? I don't know..."

"Oh, one of those coppers, eh? A real canine unit."

"No, she's not," Varick said, becoming increasingly more flustered.

"Oh-ho! She's a ten, a perfect ten, isn't she!? You're the real canine unit, Varick, you ol' dog you!" Varick swiped Stanley's hand away as he tried to pinch his cheek. "I think you're blushing!"

"I don't blush."

"No? Well, you should—get some pigmentation circulating, ya know? You look like fuckin' Moby Dick with a goatee."

"You're one to talk, fool!" Varick snarled. "You've got a starchy face. Someone must've taken your head and dunked it—into a bowl of starch."

***

The hours passed and the drinks dwindled. It was just about time now.

"Alright, here we go, boys. This is it! The countdown...to the possible end of the world!" Stan let out a high-pitched shriek that turned into a hysterical laugh as he stumbled onto the floor.

"Good god, stand up, man!" Frank hoisted his brother off the floor.

"No-no, I'm good, I'm good." He dusted off his shirt and pushed Frank aside, but was still a little wobbly.

Frank looked at Stan as sternly as a tipsy man could and held up a disciplinary finger. "Up straight!"

Stan immediately regained an erect posture and saluted Frank. "Jawohl!"

"Okay, get ready, everybody!" Bruce yelled excitedly, while holding a champagne bottle at the ready. "This is it!" The countdown had begun.

"Ten! Nine!" Everyone collected their voices in unison and glued their eyes to the television screen. Bruce hurried over to the sound system and turned down the music. "Eight! Seven!"

Varick and Santos clinked their two beer bottles together. "Six! Five!"

Frank and Stan were arm in arm now, looking positively ecstatic. "Four! Three!"

Bruce stepped behind Alex, putting one hand on his shoulder. "Two! One!"

"...HAPPY NEW YEAR!!" Bruce bit into the cork and ripped it out of the champagne bottle as everyone clapped and cheered.

"Not just Happy New Year, Happy New Millennium!" Frank boomed. They could hear the fireworks blasting off outside.

Stan looked around fervently. "No blackouts? No Y2K end of the world?! We're still standin', boys!"

Santos grinned. "That's worth a toast—get the glasses out!"

"Glasses out!" Alex picked up the tray with six champagne glasses and held it while Bruce filled up each one. Alex then proceeded to hand them out, one by one. "Hear-hear!"

"Raise your glasses, everybody, c'mon!" Varick shouted. They clinked their glasses together and took a drink.

Santos looked around the group. "Anyone care to offer out a toast?"

"Yeah, I got a toast." Stanley put down his empty champagne glass on the coffee table and stood in front of the five of them. He raised his arms and extended his index fingers like a mock-conductor. "This about sums it up..." He cleared his throat. "—Should old acquaintance be forgot... C'mon, I know you guys know the words, you Scrooges!" He pointed an accusing finger at the lot of them. "Scrooges, all of you!" He started again: "Should old acquaintance be forgot... Screw you Scrooges! Do it I say!" They exchanged glances and couldn't help but grin big. Bruce slung an arm around Alex's neck; Varick, Santos, and Frank huddled together as well, as Stanley led them in song.

Outside, it was setting up. It was beginning. Scorcher was already out in plain sight. He was looking up at a clear night sky that was being saturated with fireworks. "It's time..." As the six sang their hearts out, the convoy that was Scorcher's army rolled into Greenwich Village...

"Should old acquaintance be forgot?"

Vehicles. More vehicles. The ones that led the convoy parked in front of the manor.

"...and never brought to mind?"

Tony Calzone and all of his top men were coming in sleek, dark-colored cars.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot?"

Armor-plated trucks were bringing up the rear. Tonight, every soldier in Scorcher's army was armed to the teeth.

"In the days of Auld Lang Syne!"

They positioned themselves in front of the manor. People on the streets were staring. Several ran in fright, once catching sight of the weapons.

"For Auld Lang Syne, my dear, for Auld Lang Syne!"

Bruce squeezed Alex's shoulder. "Happy New Year, son."

Alex grinned back. "Happy New Year, Dad."

Tony Calzone and Ulysses Frost stood beside Scorcher. Frost had a rocket launcher hoisted on his shoulder. He got down on one knee and readied himself. People were screaming now, but with the streets as noisy as they were, it was hard to distinguish the celebrations from the panic.

"We'll take a cup of kindness, dear!"

Scorcher eyed the ground floor window of the manor. "Do it."

"For the sake of Auld Lang Syne!"

The gauntlet had been cast. Bruce and the others clinked glasses, laughing and cheering merrily as a rocket whistled out of the launcher...

***

## Chapter 22 – Inferno

An explosion...then fire. The rocket shattered through a ground floor window of Kasparov Manor and exploded.

Stanley's eyes darted around, bewildered. "What in the hell was that?!" Bruce and the others were unscathed, safe in the living room and away from the blast area.

"Wait here, everyone," Bruce instructed firmly. Alex gritted his teeth anxiously as he watched his father storm out to investigate.

Bruce was on red alert. He didn't know what to expect, but he knew it was nothing good. There was visible smoke coming from the west end of the manor. The suspicions of an explosion had been confirmed, and the fire had already begun to spread. This was an attack. He entered the foyer and peered through a window on the north wall. He couldn't believe it. It was Scorcher. And he had come with an army to his doorstep. Bruce held the curtain ajar so he could peer through the gap without being spotted. Scorcher and his men were watching the front door and waiting—they were planning to flush them out. Bruce mind raced; he needed to act fast.

Even before reporting his findings, everyone knew that the situation was dire. Bruce had grabbed all their shoes off the front entrance mat and had them cradled in his arms. He stared intently at his friends and family. "We don't have a lot of time."

"What is it, Dad?"

"The manor's been compromised. We need to leave. Right now." Bruce dumped all the shoes in front of him.

Varick gritted his teeth. "And the explosion?"

"Yeah, it was a rocket—the fire's catching. Scorcher's out there, and he's got numbers with him. A lot..."

"How many?"

"Around fifty strong, from what I could see. And they're carrying some big armaments."

"What's the plan here?" Santos asked.

"Santos, you're with me. Varick, I need you to get Alex out of here. Go with Frank and Stan. Upstairs—go through the attic, and get to the rooftop."

Varick nodded. "You got it."

"Frank, you have a piece with you?"

"Always, Bruce."

"Are you in a condition to fire it?"

"Yeah, I'll manage." Frank shook his brother firmly. "Get it together, Stan."

Stanley nodded anxiously. "Yeah. Yeah-yeah."

Varick looked at Bruce and Peter. "What are you two going to do?"

"We're going to hang back and draw their fire."

"Can you take them?"

"We're gonna have to."

"Dad, this is insane—come with us," Alex pleaded. "We can all get out of here together."

"Trust me, Alex. Go with Varick and do as he says—this is not open for discussion!"

Alex didn't like it one bit but, nevertheless, heeded his father's wishes. "Okay, Dad. Stay safe."

Bruce nodded. "Go now, guys." Varick nodded back, and Frank gave him a quick salute. Without further delay, Varick, Alex, Frank, and Stanley moved upstairs.

Bruce glanced at Santos. "I'm going to need your help on this one, bud. It's gonna get messy."

"Whatever you need, Bruce—I'm here."

"Alright then. Let's hold down the fort." Bruce and Santos moved into position by the windows.

***

Varick and the others had escaped onto the roof. The temperature outside was frigid, and nobody had stopped for jackets. Alex regretted it tremendously, but given the seriousness of the situation, he had no complaints. Alex's eye was caught by a metal shed, roughly the size of four outhouses. "We have a shed on the roof? Since when did we have a shed on the roof?"

"Since always. The roof entrance in the attic, the shed—both installed for emergencies such as this. Everything we need to get out of here safely is in that shed. We only need to set up the zip-line to the adjacent—get down!" Varick yelled. Everyone hit the ground as gunfire passed over them. Alex yelled out—panic-stricken by the gunfire and for lying down in a bed of snow. Varick picked up Alex, Frank assisted Stan, and the four of them scrambled behind the shed for cover. "Did you catch how many there were, Frank?"

"A couple, at least." Frank unholstered his Glock from his ankle.

"Damn. I didn't expect Scorcher to have men positioned on the roof. He's going all out."

"Anything in that shed we can use, Varick?"

"Probably. But to get around to the door is going to be the problem." Varick pulled out his cell and placed a call to Roy Cameron. It was no surprise that the police already knew about the perilous situation: multiple calls from people in the vicinity had alerted them to the carnage in progress. The cops were on their way.

Frank peeked out from behind the shed. Gunfire sprayed in his direction, sending him back behind cover. "Yeah, they definitely got our number. I counted three of them. On the opposite roof."

"Well, you're the only one with a gun," Varick told Frank. "Work your magic."

Outside the manor at ground level, the attack was intensifying. Scorcher watched in silence while his army slowly decimated the building. A hailstorm of bullets pummelled the walls and shattered windows—it was unrelenting.

Tony Calzone and Ulysses Frost stood alongside Scorcher. "Should we send some guys into the house, Scorcher?" Tony waited for an answer, but Scorcher said nothing. He was uncertain whether he had even heard him.

Scorcher watched the manor, with unblinking eyes. "Bruce Kasparov has stood in the light of glory for a long time. There will be no glamourous finish for this man. I will burn it all to ashes."

"...Scorcher?"

"You two are standing here... Get more heavy armaments from the trucks."

Tony was slightly surprised by the coldness and intensity. "Err—sure thing, boss." Frost and Tony walked away obediently. He glanced back at Scorcher, then stepped in close to Frost. "Does Scorcher seem different to you, Frost?"

"Why do you ask?" Frost continued to walk.

"I don't know, he just seems...scarier. I mean, he's usually scary, but now—I can't quite place it. He's more focused."

"Maybe this is him taking things seriously."

Tony looked over his shoulder at Scorcher, who remained standing in the same spot, unflinching. "Maybe..."

Bruce and Santos were positioned by the windows. Their backs were against the wall and, at the moment, safely out of the line of fire. Bruce looked to Santos. "Ready?"

"On your mark."

Bruce looked down at his fists and began to focus. Flames consumed his fists and slowly began to spread. The energy travelled up his arms and towards his shoulders. Bruce gritted his teeth as his entire body became super-charged with energy. Santos had reached the same elevated state. Without the exchange of words, they synced their attack: Energy blasts roared out of their open palms and drove back Scorcher's forces. With their bodies illuminated, any chance of stealth had vanished. Scorcher's men took cover behind vehicles and fired on their glowing targets. Bruce and Santos were pelted with gunfire, but the bullets that struck them simply disintegrated in their fire.

Scorcher's amber eye locked onto Bruce. He stood his ground and destroyed every energy blast that came his way with two fiery fists. "So...the flea shows himself." He knelt down on one knee and launched a signature Scorcher flamethrower attack. Bruce hastily leaned against the wall as the fire shot through his window.

"Bruce, get to the second floor—I can keep them distracted from here," said Santos. "Get a good vantage point and strike them from above."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. We're not going to get anywhere like this. Get going."

Bruce nodded and left the front line for Santos to cover. He rushed up the stairs and took sight from a second level window. He could see it all clearly from here: the heads of Scorcher's thugs, pressed up against their vehicles. Bruce aimed his hand and unloaded a barrage. Being pelted from above, they ran into the open, where Santos had a clear line of fire. Between Bruce and Santos, Scorcher's army was being picked apart, one by one. Scorcher looked up. Bruce gathered energy and fired a powerful blast that would've been fatal for any normal person. Scorcher grunted as he defended himself from Bruce's attack, with both hands over his head. The impact caused Scorcher to take several steps back. But his recovery was immediate, and he retaliated with terrifying ferocity. Bruce hit the deck as Scorcher shot an energy blast at him which destroyed the window and surrounding brownstone. But the projectile didn't stop there: It bore through the ceiling, went clean through the attic, and tore open the roof. Bruce looked up at the night sky through the gaping hole in the manor. That attack was from Scorcher?

Varick and the others were startled out of their wits when the energy blast ripped past them. Stanley watched the projectile go straight up into the night sky and dissipate into the atmosphere. "Ho-ly...crap."

"Well, looks like they're having fun down there..." Varick muttered.

"Varick, we only have one option here. I provide cover-fire, and you go for the shed door. How fast can you get it open?"

"If they have a good shot, not fast enough."

"I'm betting they don't, but it's gonna be your butt on the line." Frank shrugged. "Your call."

"Well, if I don't, we're gonna be here for a while...so let's get to it."

The sound of police sirens was drawing close. Tony Calzone and Ulysses Frost were standing beside a crate of heavy weapons they had taken out of their supply truck. "We've got company," Tony muttered. He picked up an M4A1 with the grenade launcher attachment.

Scorcher approached the two of them. "Rally your troops and fortify our flanks. Engage the intruders, and put them down with extreme prejudice."

Tony made his way to one end. "Ramon! Freddy! Your guys with me!" he called. Ulysses went to the opposite end with another handful of men. As police cruisers closed in from both sides, Scorcher's troops welcomed them with heavy firepower. Frost fired off an RPG that exploded into the asphalt and forced the cruisers to screech to a halt. The officers evacuated their vehicles and took positions behind them. Scorcher's forces were now sandwiched between two walls of police cars. Roy Cameron and Henry Schucker were among the first wave of officers on the scene, and many more were coming to deal with such significant numbers. The streets of Greenwich Village had been turned into a war zone.

Santos watched in horror as the police and Scorcher's army engaged in a large-scale firefight. The bodies were dropping on both sides. He focused himself and fired off energy blasts in a desperate attempt to aid the police. Between Bruce and himself, the stragglers had all been knocked out. Everyone else on Scorcher's side was safely behind cover. The ones that Bruce could get a bead on from his vantage point had also managed to scurry behind the larger trucks. Nearly a dozen men had targeted the gaping hole that used to be Bruce's window and were now firing heavy rounds through it. Bruce stood against the wall while he waited for a break in their firing.

Santos was specifically trying to target the danger men: the ones with explosives. Santos knocked out a thug preparing to throw a grenade into the manor. He fell to the ground and with him, the unpinned grenade... "Get back, get back!" Scorcher's men scrambled to get out of the grenade's blast radius as it exploded. Santos' demeanor was intense—this was do or die for everyone. Suddenly, the front door of the manor was smashed open. The reinforced door was knocked clean off its hinges by Scorcher's boot. Santos turned in shock and was caught completely off guard. How did he reach the door? He didn't even see his movements. With lightning-fast speed, Scorcher charged at Santos before he could react. Scorcher's glowing palm struck into Santos' chest, right through his energy shield. He flew back into the wall, where he hit the stone and collapsed. As he approached Santos, Scorcher sensed something else moving towards him. Bounding from the hallway, Leonardo leapt into the air and clamped his jaws firmly onto Scorcher's gauntlet. His teeth sunk in. Scorcher looked down at the canine hanging from his forearm. His amber eye narrowed. He swung out his arm and smashed Leonardo against the wall. He yelped in pain and released his hold on Scorcher. He glanced down at the deep bites in his forearm, but there was no blood. Scorched watched as the marks slowly began to heal and miraculously disappear. He turned his attention back to Santos, as if there was no interruption. He was clearly unconscious, but Scorcher decided to address him nevertheless: "You're not the one I want... You can burn here." Scorcher looked up to the ceiling and smiled.

"You two—just stay here," Varick instructed to Alex and Stanley.

Stanley turned his head to Alex. "Can you do that, Alex?"

"Yeah."

Stanley nodded repeatedly. "Yeah-yeah, we can do that, Varick."

Varick opened his wallet and withdrew the shed key from his coin pouch. It was all about nerves and keeping a cool head and a steady hand. Varick nodded at Frank. "Do it."

Frank peeked around the corner, stuck his arm out, and fired. His eye followed his arm all the way down to the end of his pistol sight. The instant Varick heard the first gunshot, he turned the corner and ran for the shed door. He stuck the key in the lock, unlocked it, and frantically turned the door handle. He could hear bullets pinging off the shed. He kept turning the handle, but the door wouldn't budge—it was frozen shut. C'mon, you bastard! He gritted his teeth, applied all his strength, and finally managed to force the door open and ran inside. "ARGH!" He closed the door behind him and hit the shed floor with a thud.

"Varick!" Frank called from outside the shed. "Can you hear me? Are you alright?" He had stopped firing and was safely back behind cover.

"No, I'm not alright, you idiot!" Varick snarled. "I just got shot in the ass!"

Frank laughed, despite himself. "You know—when I told you it's your butt on the line..."

"I don't wanna hear it, Frank!" Varick could hear Stanley sniggering outside the shed as well.

"Hey, but consider yourself lucky, that's the million-dollar wound. But seriously, are you going to be okay?"

Varick sighed. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Let's just get on with this."

"Alright. So, I managed to get one of the shooters—and there were actually four total."

"So then, nothing's really changed. Still three on their feet?" Varick called back.

"Yeah. So, what've you got in there?"

"Let me take a look." He was talking back and forth with Frank in complete darkness. He felt the wound on his backside. Goddammit... Whatever. Focus on the task at hand. He pulled out his cell phone and used the light from it to find an actual flashlight. Once the real thing was in hand, he was quick to find the zip-line assembly—but something else caught his eye as well. "Alright, Frank, new plan. What I got in here is a riot-control tear gas launcher. I'm going to send a round at them, and once I do, that will leave you free to move right up to the ledge of the roof. They're going to try to get clear of the gas, and once they do, you'll be at a good range to take them out. Sound good?"

"Just don't miss!"

"That goes for you too! On my signal!" Varick held the launcher in his arms and kicked open the door. He leaned against the wall as they began shooting into the open shed. He measured the distance, tilted the launcher just right, and fired off a round... Bingo. The canister had landed on the enemy roof. Upon impact, the gas dispersed and blanketed the area in a large white cloud.

"It's good! Go, Frank!" Varick yelled. Frank rushed out from behind the shed and moved swiftly to the roof edge, where he crouched down and waited. Varick slung a thick rope over his shoulder, reloaded the launcher, picked up the zip-line assembly, and joined Frank at the ledge. He placed the zip-line kit down by his feet and aimed the launcher. He fired another round onto the roof. Now they could see a figure emerging from the gas. Varick held his hand up to Frank. "Wait for it..." Another could be seen now. The two were rubbing their eyes profusely and coughing. They still had their guns held out in front of them, but they couldn't aim them. Finally, the third man showed himself.

Frank aimed his pistol. "Got 'em." He fired quickly and accurately. He had dropped all three.

Varick stood up. "Nice job. Now let's go."

***

Scorcher knew exactly where Bruce was positioned above him. He could sense it. He directed his arm up towards the ceiling...

Bruce was back on the attack and pummelling the opposition. He had taken out several of the weapon supply trucks, and the police were now beginning to turn the tide of the battle. SWAT had arrived on the scene as well. And with all the commotion, came the news crews. They were swarming around police barricades, with several cameras focused on Bruce. Bruce's full attention was on the outside battle. And then it happened. The attack from below. The very floor Bruce stood on was obliterated by Scorcher's projectile, and he was blasted off his feet. He screamed out. His energy shield took the brunt of the attack, and that was the only reason he was still alive. He landed on his back, severely injured, but alive. As he attempted to gather himself, Scorcher rose up from the hole in the floor...

Bruce's vision was shaky. He was disoriented, but his eyes were not deceiving him: Scorcher had appeared in front of him...levitating in the air. "This can't be..." His palms pressed into the floor as he tried to stand. Scorcher's amber eye glowed and suddenly discharged a shot like a laser—right through Bruce's chest. He clutched at his wound, gasping. "Goddammit..." Bruce bared his teeth and was looking livid as he stared into Scorcher's ghoulish face. Bruce's right hand began to glow and then, just as suddenly—faded. The flicker of flames disappeared. Bruce wheezed. "My power..."

Scorcher gently landed on the second floor. He placed his arms behind his back and slowly walked forward. He then stopped directly in front of Bruce. "Do you know why—you cannot gather your energy? It's because you are dying. It's slowly leaving your body...trickling away..." Bruce hung his head. Scorcher looked down at Bruce and took a moment to relish in the pitiful state that Bruce was in. "All it takes is one split second. You let your guard down...and everything changes. For every victory, for every great deed you've accomplished...now—it means nothing."

Bruce mustered the strength to lift his head back up. "You're not Scorcher... Your power is unlike anything he's ever had." He spoke through labored breaths. "You're not Scorcher...you're not..."

Scorcher smiled. "Very good, Bruce. I'm like you, I suppose. A god amongst men. Someone to be revered and worshipped...because they cannot understand my nature, and my abilities far extend the breadth of their knowledge. Perhaps you and I will become friends when we meet again in the afterlife...where we are all one with the universe."

Despite Bruce's dire situation, he managed a smile. "You even sound more deranged than Scorcher."

Scorcher shook his head, amused. "Oh, Bruce...so young... So naive and misguided. If you could only fathom the things I've seen—the things I've done in my time on this planet... But that's for another time." The figure in front of Bruce began to let out a low rumbling laugh. "Watch closely now."

Bruce stared as Scorcher's entire body began to glow. He appeared to be getting bigger... His features were turning dark—jet black. The light was fading. Bruce was forced to look higher and higher up as the thing in front of him continued to increase in size. It was now towering over him. And his face—Scorcher's already ghoulish face had twisted and contorted into something much more horrific... Darkness... A demon.

Bruce Kasparov stared into the abyss and blinked. "Who...what the hell are you?"

The menacing figure bared its fangs and breathed a whisper... "Death."

The blast that came from inside Kasparov Manor reverberated through the streets. And lost in the deafening noise was the distant scream of a life being snuffed from existence...

A large fireball shot out of the second-floor window of the manor. It went straight down into the road with such force and speed that it left a smoking impact crater. The fireball had hit the side controlled by police forces. The flames began to dissipate, and the smoke cleared. Finally, all that was left in the crater was Bruce.

The fighting had stopped. In that instant—everything had stopped. Attentions were drawn to the figure looming in the window. But it wasn't the thing Bruce had seen. It appeared to be Scorcher. His hands glowed, and he began raining down a firestorm upon police forces. "It's done! Fall back!" Scorcher shouted to his men. He single-handedly cleared a path, destroying police vehicles and allowing the select few of Scorcher's men still on their feet to rush to vehicles and clear out. Scorcher covered their retreat with a barrage of fire bombs. Police fired upon Scorcher and watched him stand his ground, completely unfazed. Scorcher laughed at their futility. Once his men had safely cleared the area, Scorcher propelled himself out of the window to the shocks and screams of onlookers and flew out into the night sky.

Roy and Henry had rushed to Bruce's side. There was a crowd gathering around the crater. His body was limp. The back of Bruce's head rested gently in Roy's hand. "...Bruce! ...Bruce..."

His vision was in darkness. His mind was going fuzzy. He's a monster... This monster...he came after him, and he would go after his son next. And he was completely powerless to stop it... No. He wasn't going to give into despair. It was a tenet of life he lived by. He never gave in before and he wouldn't now—even when lying on his death bed. His son could do it...no, he will do it. He will. He can defeat the monster. Train hard, Alex. And with this final thought, his mind relaxed, and he breathed his last.

***

## Chapter 23 – Aftermath

He felt a sharp pain in his arm. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. He could ignore the pain and settle in for a long sleep. But there it was again—this time more forceful. And then it all came back to him...

"Argh!" Santos jarred awake, coughing weakly. He was lying on his back and smoke began to sting his eyes. As he strained to get up, he felt the pain in his arm again. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the imprints of bite marks in his forearm. Leonardo was waiting patiently by Santos' side. Santos mustered a grin. "Thanks, Leo." The entire building was in ruin and they were surrounded by fire. He could feel the intense heat from the flames. "C'mon, Leo, we have to get out of here." Santos gathered all his willpower to carry his severely weakened self through the debris. "Leo, we gotta move!" Santos looked over his shoulder and realized that Leonardo was limping—his back leg appeared to be broken. Santos walked back. "I got you, bud." With an extra boost of effort, Santos picked up Leo, and together, they marched out of the burning mansion.

"Peter! Thank God." Laura rushed towards Santos. He held out his hands for her to take Leo. Once she did, Santos collapsed onto the ground. Several other officers rushed over to help. The fire department was now on the scene, alongside paramedics and ambulances. Firefighters were battling valiantly against the raging flames. The manor had taken a lot of damage, and it was doubtful that whatever little bit they could save would be worth restoring.

Santos looked up at Laura as two officers picked him up off the ground. "Bruce—where's Bruce? Is he still inside?"

Laura looked at him solemnly and shook her head. "No..."

Santos breathed a sigh of relief. "Good...good." His eyes were still smarting. He blinked a few times to adjust his vision to the night. What he saw weighed tremendously on his heart. Police were being wheeled away on stretchers; the bodies of enemies and allies alike were strewn out on the road. The paramedics were overwhelmed. These were the fruits of their labor.

***

Varick and the others had managed to set up the zip-line to the opposite roof. Once all four of them reached the other side, Varick secured a rope from the roof down to the street. One by one, they rappelled down the side of the building until everyone was standing on solid ground, safely away from the battle zone.

Alex looked to Varick. "So, where do we go from here?"

Varick narrowed his eyes. "You lot take off. Frank, take care of Alex—don't know how large Scorcher's blanket over this area is."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "And what about you? Don't tell me you're going back..."

"I have to."

Stanley scoffed at him. "Are you stupid? You just got shot."

"Nothing debilitating."

Frank placed a hand on Varick's shoulder. "I understand your desire to help over there, but this is a large-scale battle. Bruce and Santos—they have their powers. The police have their weapons. You, on the other hand, are planning to fight with neither. If you go over there now, you're liable to get yourself killed."

"I still might be able to help the situation. I won't know unless I go."

"I need your help here. Like you said, how many more of Scorcher's men are posted around here, we don't know. Bruce wanted you here, Varick. To help get his son out of harm's way."

Varick blinked. He had responsibilities here too. If anything happened to Alex while he was gone, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

"Don't worry about me, Varick. I'll be fine," Alex reassured. "You do what you think is best."

Varick's cell phone began to vibrate. He was still racking his brain on what to do. He answered the call:

"Yeah?"

"Varick, it's Roy. The fight's over... Come back to the manor."

Varick went wide-eyed. "It's over? What happened?"

There was a brief silence on the other end. "Just get back here..."

Varick hung up the call and looked at the others. He knew something was wrong.

"What is it?" Frank asked.

Varick clenched his fists anxiously. "We have to go back."

***

Paramedics tried to get Santos onto a stretcher, but he pushed them aside. "Laura, take me to Bruce. How's he doing?" Laura stared at Santos, not knowing what to say. He waited anxiously for a response, but she said nothing. Santos' eyes grew wide. He placed both hands on her shoulders. "Laura...where is Bruce?"

She bit her lip and tears began to roll down her cheeks. She pointed behind her where a small circle of people were. Santos walked towards them; his legs were shaking. He pushed past the crowd—and there he was. Paramedics had Bruce on a stretcher. Roy Cameron, Henry Schucker, and Captain Morring were by his side. Santos stood frozen in place.

Roy walked over to Santos. "They tried to resuscitate him. He's gone." Santos slowly walked up to Bruce. He stared down at his lifeless body and the crushing reality of the situation bore down upon Santos all at once. He was completely and utterly overwhelmed.

Varick and the others had returned to the battlefield. "What happened?!" Varick demanded, as he pushed to the front.

Varick, Frank, Alex, and Stanley convened around Bruce's body. Frank's eyes grew wide. "Oh my god..." Alex didn't say a word. He didn't know what to think as he stared down at his dead father. Stanley placed a hand on Alex's shoulder and hung his head. Everyone present was feeling the pain.

Varick balled his hands into fists, then glared at Santos. "How did this happen?"

Santos couldn't bring himself to look anyone in the eyes. "I—I don't know."

"It was Scorcher," Roy answered.

Varick turned to Roy. "Scorcher? Scorcher did this to Bruce?"

"Yeah."

"I don't believe it. Scorcher has never been a match for Bruce."

"He shot him right out of the window. Everyone saw it."

Varick blinked several times before turning his attention back to Santos. "...And where were you?" He marched right up to him, inches from his face. "WHERE WERE YOU?!" Varick roared, shoving Santos with both hands.

Santos fought hard to restrain his tears. "I didn't see him coming...he got me..."

"Yet here you stand instead of Bruce... You were supposed to have his back." Varick gritted his teeth. He raised a fist to Santos, then lowered it. Instead, he vented his anger on the nearest squad car. His punch smashed clean through the driver's side window.

"Hey! That's my car!" an officer yelled out.

Captain Morring took the officer aside. "Let him be."

"Varick..." Santos wanted to explain what happened. "There was something different about him tonight...about Scorcher..." Before he could finish, Varick turned his back to him and stormed off. Santos felt such terrible pain, not caused by the physical wounds Scorcher had inflicted upon him. He opened his mouth to call out to Varick, but no words came out. He couldn't say the words that he desperately wanted to speak aloud... To say that he did everything he could.

Laura stood by Alex. She wiped her tears to hold up a brave front and embraced him in a hug. "Alex, I'm so sorry." Alex looked down at his feet and remained silent.

***

A wet snow had started to fall. It was the first hours of a new day. A new year. A new millennium. Santos had been aimlessly walking the streets for hours since the incident. He had finally stopped in front of his church. It was once a place he could go to unburden himself from the trials of life. A refuge. His sanctuary. But not anymore. Nevertheless, he went inside.

3:40 a.m.

He ran a hand down his damp hair and over his face. He was soaked to the bone. Santos sat down in the nearest pew in the back row. The only lights in the church were the few candles by the altar. He raised his head to look up at the cross.

"Well, here I am again," he said aloud. He felt lightheaded; his eyes were red. He had a sudden urge to laugh. Just burst out laughing. He stifled the notion by biting down on his fist. Tears began to well up again. "He's really gone..." He shook his head. Why did this happen? He was always able to make sense of the tragedies of life. But there was no end to it. They would continuously accumulate until despair finally threatened to swallow a person whole. It was a never-ending sea of tragedy.

"Where was I?" Santos asked aloud. "I was attacked and left for dead." He stared intensely at the cross, grinding his teeth. "Where were you?" His fist lightly tapped on the pew in front of him. "Where were you..." He hit the pew harder and harder. "WHERE WERE YOU?!" He stood up with a burning anger that he had never felt before. His hands heated up as he squeezed the backrest of the pew—the wood crumbled in his hands. He was breathing hard, and his hands were now glowing. He raised his fist...

"Peter?" Father Christy had emerged from the rectory. "Peter, is that you?" He rubbed his eyes and squinted in the dark. Santos yelled out and put his fist through the back of the pew. "No, don't!" Father Christy rushed over. Another punch, another hole. Father Christy tried to restrain Santos' arm, but lost his grip the second Santos took another swing. He resorted to slapping Peter on the shoulder instead. "Peter! PETER! Get a hold of yourself!"

Santos dropped his hands and looked over his shoulder. "Bruce is gone. They killed him." He collapsed onto the pew and buried his face in his hand.

Father Christy took a moment to run his fingers over the charred wood. He dusted the ashes off his fingertips, then sat down beside Santos. "Peter, what happened?"

"He's dead..." Santos repeated. "So many dead..."

Father Christy held Santos' wrist and pulled his hand away from his face. Father Christy looked into Santos' bloodshot eyes. "What happened?"

"Scorcher. He was in Greenwich Village, sharp at midnight. He came to the manor. Our home."

"How did he find out where the manor was?"

"I don't know... He destroyed everything. The manor is in ruins." Santos' eyes grew wide as he recalled the horror. "He had an army with him... They went head-to-head with us and the NYPD. So many killed...and Bruce was among them."

"Peter..." He put an arm around Santos. "I'm sorry. Bruce was a truly extraordinary person. This is a terrible loss." Father Christy just then realized that Santos was still wet from the snow. "Peter, let me get you a blanket to dry yourself off. You've been through a lot." As Father Christy stood up to fetch a blanket, Peter suddenly began to recollect aloud:

"In the manor, I was going in and out of consciousness," Santos said. "From where I was lying, I could see him... Bruce." Father Christy sat back down. "Right through a hole in the ground-floor ceiling—Bruce was upstairs, and he was fighting with him. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. I don't even know if I was immobilized by my injuries... Maybe it was my fear..." Santos stared at Father Christy, who didn't say a word and allowed him to speak his mind. "I don't know if God exists...but tonight, I think I saw the devil."

"What are you talking about, Peter?"

"In the manor—I saw something. At least, I think I did."

Father Christy looked at Santos, concerned. "What did you see?"

Santos opened his mouth, then closed it. He bit down on his lip hesitantly, then shook his head. "Never mind, forget it."

"Talk to me, Peter."

Santos stood up. "I'm done talking. I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?"

"There's nothing here for me anymore. I'm leaving the church. Leaving New York."

"Wait, you're not thinking clearly, Peter. Don't make any rash decisions—you need time."

Santos stared at Father Christy with a look of disdain. "Time for what? I never knew my real family. Bruce was like a brother to me, and now he's gone." Santos looked from one end of the church to the other. "I used to find solace here. And now, standing here—all I feel is anger."

Father Christy studied Santos. "Peter, when you say you're leaving the church...are you suggesting that you are leaving the faith?"

Santos stared off into the distance and focused on an arbitrary point on the floor. "I don't know. All I know for sure is that I have to leave New York. I need to." Santos extended his hand. "Thank you for everything, Father."

Father Christy was stunned. But after a moment's pause, he shook Peter's hand. "I wish you the best of luck in your future. Safe travels."

Santos glanced at the damage he had done to the church bench. "I'll cover the cost of that somehow."

Father Christy shook his head. "Don't worry about it. You've done a lot for this church and the community. We're in your debt, not the other way around."

Santos nodded appreciatively. "So long, Father Christy."

"Wait, let me get you something warm to wear."

Santos flat-out refused. "No. Thank you."

Father Christy nodded his head with a halfhearted smile. "Okay." Santos made his way to the doors. "Goodbye, Peter. When you're ready, God will call you back." Santos raised a hand as he walked, to acknowledge that he had heard Father Christy, but he didn't look back. Father Christy watched Santos walk out of the church and into the cold, snowy night. He didn't feel good about letting Santos leave in the state of mind he was in. But he had spent decades listening to people's problems and understanding them. He knew when someone's mind was made up—when there was nothing to be gained by talking. He said three silent prayers after Peter had left. One for the men and women lost in the Greenwich Village battle. One for Bruce. And one for Peter.

***

Saturday, January 8th, 2000

It had been one week since that fateful day. The masses had gathered from far and wide for Bruce's funeral—from all over the world to pay tribute to the fallen hero. This small, seldom visited cemetery in New York had never seen such a gathering.

Alex was tuning in and out. For all he knew, he could have been standing on the grounds all by himself. It had been one week, and yet all he could feel since his father's death was a strange numbness that didn't seem to lift. The gloomy afternoon with rolling clouds felt like an outward manifestation of the cloudiness in Alex's own mind. Varick, Frank, Stanley, and Laura were all with him. Even Leonardo was here, with a cast on his rear leg. Charlie Walker, the youngest of Bruce's foster brothers, had flown in from Los Angeles to attend the funeral. He had come with his wife and two children: Ken and Alice. Ken and Alice were close childhood friends of Alex that grew up with him when the Walkers were still living in Manhattan. They were by his side as well.

Alex had been introduced to so many people since the beginning of the funeral service, that he had fallen into a tedious routine of thanking and accepting consolation without mentally registering names or faces. He was truly grateful for their support, but in the state he was in, he simply could not process it all. Everything washed over him in a blur.

Frank nudged Varick and Charlie and pulled the two aside. "So, has it been decided? Where Alex is going to go?"

"I would be more than happy to have him live with us," Charlie said. "Ken and Alice would love the arrangement as well."

"No, I'll look after him," Varick stated firmly. "I've spoken with Alex about this, and he doesn't want to leave New York. He wants to continue with his training. I can provide that for him."

"Are you sure, Varick? Is it safe for him to stay in New York?" Charlie asked.

"Well, he can have more time to think about it, but I don't think he's going to change his mind."

"He's a brave child."

"Can I suggest something here?" Frank interjected. "Well, obviously, you'll need a new place to stay, and it shouldn't be an advertised location."

"What did you have in mind?"

"For you and Alex to stay with Stan."

Varick narrowed his eyes. "Are you joking? With your idiot brother? I'd probably wring his neck within the first week."

"If you plan to stay in New York, you need to lay low. Staying with Stanley is a good idea."

"And Stanley would be okay with this?"

"Of course he would. Despite outward appearances, he respects you, Varick."

Varick sighed. "Well, if Alex doesn't mind... God, but he just irritates the hell outta me."

"I think this will be good for Alex too. Regardless of what you may think of Stanley, he's a good guy. He's the kind of person that Alex needs to be around to lift his spirits. Because you know for the next few months, it's going to be hell for Alex."

Varick nodded and reluctantly gave in. "Fine. I'll try to put up with him, then."

"Good." Frank patted Varick on the back. "By the way, where the hell is Santos? Have you seen him?"

Varick stared back darkly. "No."

A safe distance from the crowd, Santos was attending the funeral. On an elevated hill he stood, leaning against a tall elm tree. This was his last stop and then he would be off. Everything he wanted to take with him was already packed in the canvas backpack he was wearing. He wasn't exactly sure where he was going. Maybe down South...

Once the service was over, so too was his time in New York. Santos sighed. Goodbye, old friend. He bowed his head for a moment, then hitched up his bag and left on his journey.

Slowly, the crowds began to disperse from the lot. Alex noticed that after Charlie Walker had paid his respects in front of Bruce's grave, he had done the same at the grave next to Bruce's. Alex glanced over to where Charlie was standing and read the name on the headstone. It belonged to Douglas Walker. Bruce never spoke a lot about his past, and it was only recently that he had chosen to divulge stories from it to Alex. Douglas Walker...Charlie's older brother and the second oldest of Bruce's foster brothers. He read the date of death on the headstone—it was evident that he didn't make it back from the war.

Soon, it was only Varick, Alex, and Leo in the cemetery. Alex had been standing in the same spot in front of Bruce's grave for over an hour. He felt strange. He could feel his eyes brimming with tears for the first time since it happened. It was all so surreal for him. And more than grief and sadness, other feelings were rising to the surface first. Varick and Leo were standing back to give Alex his space.

"Hey, Varick..." Alex spoke for the first time since standing in that spot. Varick stepped forward. "They're going to pay."

Varick nodded. "You got that right." Varick watched Alex intently.

Alex clenched his fists, as if trying to puncture his palms. "I'm going to make them pay."

"You and me both, kid." Varick placed a hand on Alex's shoulder. "Come on, let's go. I've got a lot to teach you."

***

## Epilogue – Times Long Past

July 1975

A heavy rain was pouring. Bruce stood by himself in front of the grave of Douglas Walker. He was one of the most reliable people Bruce had ever known. Strong-willed. Kind. The rain splattered against his umbrella and dripped down the treated polyester.

Bruce had returned back to the States like he had always planned to. For nearly seven years, he had undergone rigorous training at one of the pillars of the Omega Ops Legion. He had journeyed to Tibet with Peter, but had come back to New York by himself. Peter planned to stay there a few more years, and when he returned, he could teach Bruce what he had learned.

Bruce was now a nineteen-year-old man. He hadn't had contact with his family since leaving for Tibet. After seven years, to his dismay, he found that much had changed. The war was now over, but he had enlisted nevertheless. Three of his brothers fought in that bloody war. Flint Pederson and Ned Crawford were missing in action and presumed dead. Only one came back home...and Bruce was standing in front of him. He closed his eyes and ran his hand down the cold granite headstone.

A gentle sobbing brought Bruce back to this world. He turned to see that he was not alone in the cemetery. There was a girl kneeling by a grave. Her hands were sinking into the mud as she wept. She had no umbrella.

Bruce cautiously approached the girl and held his umbrella over her head. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked up to see what had stopped the rain. Bruce looked down at her, concerned. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't stop hurting."

Bruce read the gravestone. "He was a soldier in 'Nam?"

"Yes. Cameron and I were going to be married one day." She smiled. "Not anytime soon, but we knew... We knew."

"War is a terrible thing. I'm sorry for your loss."

She bit her lip. "I hate him for going. I told him not to enlist."

Bruce began to feel a deep sadness for her. That, and something else, which he was compelled to share. "You know, my brother Doug was in the war." Bruce pointed out the gravestone for her. "He was a smart guy, wise beyond his years. And when he enlisted, I asked him if he was scared...and you know what he did? He laughed at me. And then he asked me, 'What's there to be scared of?' "

The girl scoffed bitterly. "He didn't care that he would be fighting for his life and that he could die?"

"And that's exactly what I told him. Well, not in those exact words per se, but that was the gist of it." As he reminisced, Bruce shook his head and wore a sombre smile. "He kept all of his feelings bottled up...or at least, I thought he did. The negative ones. I've never seen him sad or crying. He never really got angry... And he never showed fear."

"For a smart guy, that doesn't sound too smart..."

"Yeah, maybe. It wouldn't have been smart if he did repress. But in hindsight, I don't think he ever did. It was just the way he was wired. To comes to terms with things, accept them as they were, and make the best out of it. And all those negative feelings, they never had a place to grow. So even the prospect of death never really bothered him because, to him, it was just another part of life."

The girl sniffled and wiped her nose. "I wish I could think like that."

"Yeah, me too..." Bruce watched the girl. "You know...I actually pressed him that day, as to why he wasn't scared. I thought he was crazy not to be. And he told me—that we can't shy away from what we think is right out of fear. Not with the limited time we have. For better or for worse, that's how you have to live your life...because regret can be a far worse feeling than fear. I guess both Doug and Cameron saw something there in the path of a soldier. And that's why they took it."

The girl looked sadly at the grave in front of her. "And now they're both here. If it was right, then why was their time cut short?" She blinked several times and bit her lip, desperately trying to fight back a fresh wave of tears. "Why?"

"I don't know... I couldn't tell you. But maybe we can take consolation in them receiving some sort of truth. Some peace... Some happiness... Answers."

The girl looked at Bruce, puzzled. "Answers?"

Bruce nodded. "To the questions we all ask but can never really know. The most basic and important pieces of knowledge that everyone wants: Who we are. Where we came from. Our purpose. What happens when we die." He smiled to himself. "It's kind of funny really, that with everything we know today—our past, present, and future are all still a mystery. We may think we know, but we don't. And chances are, in our lifetime, no person will ever really know." He shrugged. "But maybe we'll find out after it's over." The girl was watching him intently. Bruce suddenly felt a slight uneasiness under her gaze. "Well, that's what Doug thought anyway. Sorry, I was rambling. I don't know why I told you all of that."

Despite herself, she let out a small laugh and smiled. "No, don't be. I think it actually helped. They're comforting thoughts. Maybe Cameron and your brother did find that happiness."

Bruce smiled. "Yeah. I'd like to think so too."

The girl stared into Bruce. "So...do you think we get to see our loved ones again when we die?"

"Maybe that—and everything else." Bruce extended a hand. "C'mon, you're soaked. You shouldn't be sitting down in this muddy field." The girl took Bruce's hand appreciatively. "What's your name?"

"Lorna." She looked up at Bruce and dried her tears. "Thank you." She stood up on her feet and managed another smile.

***

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