The black Trans Am rolled onto the deserted pier
slowly and deliberately. It eased to a halt one hundred yards away from the
warehouse at the end of the pier. The two passengers inside the car awaited
until the overhead door slid open as languidly as the vehicle had arrived. The
pier was deathly still until, at last, a female figure emerged from the
warehouse. The woman walked out ten feet and waited until the car door opened.
A figure dressed in a baseball cap and an overcoat came out from the passenger
side. The two persons began walking in each other’s direction until they
assumed each other’s starting point.
“Get
that little faggot,” Castor snarled at his soldiers as the overcoat moved forth
tentatively with a walking stick. “Drag him in here.”
“You
gonna let those two bitches drive outta here?” his brother Pollux demanded.
“That’s
the deal. That’s the word from the man upstairs. Those two bitches are targets
too big to hit. We whack them, we’ll have the FBI and Homeland Security trying
to find a home up our asses. They just don’t drive off until we give the signal.
That’s the deal.”
“You
gonna pat the faggot down first?”
“That’s
the deal.”
The
brothers and their six gunmen watched as the man made his way to the threshold.
At once two of the gangsters rushed forth, confiscating his white cane and
dragging him by the arms into the warehouse.
“Rat
bastard,” Castor snarled. “After he shits his pants I’m gonna make him eat it.
Then I’m gonna open his skull like in that movie Hannibal and make him eat his own fuggin’ brain.”
“Hope
he brought his appetite,” Pollux chuckled eagerly.
The
two thugs dragged the man to the far wall and threw him against it as their
four cohorts closed in behind them. Castor and Pollux watched, waiting for the
others to work the captive over before they moved in to finish him off.
Only
when they pulled off the man’s sunglasses, they saw a pair of black-painted eye
sockets staring back at them. At once the figure dropped into a martial arts
horse stance, using its sturdy balance center as a fulcrum. The captive fired
lightning blows into the men’s faces, shattering their jaws with
titanium-crested gloved fists.
“Holy
shit!” one of the gunmen yelled. “It’s the Crawler! It’s the fuggin’
Nightcrawler!”
“Kill
the son of a bitch!”
The
gangsters pulled their weapons and opened fire. Only the figure grabbed the two
men by their lapels and slammed them together, using them as a shield. They
absorbed over a dozen shots before wilting, causing their cohorts to cease
fire. It gave the shape enough time to toss a small concussion grenade into
their midst. When it exploded, it emitted a thick smoke screen that Castor and
Pollux were unable to see through.
“Shoot
the bastard!” Castor pulled an Uzi from a utility belt beneath his suit jacket.
“Our
boys are in there!” Pollux protested.
“That’s
the Nightcrawler! Kill the motherfugga!”
“You
do it!” Pollux fell back. “I need to signal our guys to grease those bitches!”
Pollux
rushed to a door alongside the overhead pulldown, yanking a laser light from
his pocket and clicking it three times. At once, a pair of gunmen on each side
of the Pontiac rushed from the shadows and sprayed the vehicle with automatic
fire. They emptied their clips until they saw blood spurting across the windows
of both sides of the car.
“Payback’s
a bitch!” Pollux came back into the warehouse, waving his fist triumphantly.
“You
got that right.”
Pollux
found himself on all fours, trying to regain his senses as he sought to regain
his feet. Only the Nightcrawler’s blow had cracked both of his eye sockets and
fractured his nose so that he could barely see or breathe. He dazedly rolled
toward the open door and saw unmarked cruisers flooding the area outside,
ordering his gunmen to their knees. He heard the sound of helicopters as they
illuminated the area from above.
“Cas!”
he croaked. “It’s the Feds! They’re everywhere! The bitches set a trap!”
“Aggghhh…”
he heard his brother gurgling. He peered into the shadowy chamber and saw
Castor lying on his back, a pool of blood forming around his head. Inside the
pool glistened small fragments of his front teeth.
Inside
the Firebird, Carissa Fermanagh was curled up in a fetal position beneath the
steering wheel, sobbing brokenly. Alongside her was Rita Hunt, trying to cradle
her head while stroking her face with a trembling hand.
“It’s
okay, baby, it’s okay,” Rita murmured into her ear. “Don’t cry, it’s over.
We’ll be okay, those bad guys are toast.”
“I
can’t do this anymore,” Carissa wept bitterly. “I can’t, I can’t.”
“You
don’t have to, honey. It’s over.”
The
women cringed as they heard the doors being tested from outside. At once they
were pulled open as flashlight beamed down upon the two.
“Homeland
Security. Are you okay?”
“We
are okay. Give us a hand, please.”
The
agents gathered around the car as two figures strode from the cordon of
vehicles toward the Trans Am. They gave way as Kelly Stone and his second in
command walked up to the women.
“Rita,
darling,” he came forth and took her into his arms. “Are you okay?”
“I’m
just fine, thanks to you,” she managed to give him a smile that turned his
insides to jelly. “You’re my knight in shining armor, aren’t you?”
“I
love you, Rita,” he cupped her face in his hands. “I’ll go in there and waste
those bastards.”
“Now,
see here, Mr. Stone,” she softly pulled back, “is that any way to talk to a
lady?”
“Those
guys almost killed you two, and…” he was taken aback.
“Hands
where we can see them.”
Kelly
looked up and saw Sabrina Brooks approaching from a black Ford Explorer. She
was dressed in a black workout suit, the
overhead spotlights from the choppers making her titian tresses and ivory skin
appear iridescent. The HS riflemen waved their rifles toward her though looking
to Kelly for instructions.
“I
can take them from here,” she called to Kelly.
“Yeah,
whatever.”
“Honey,
I know you saved our lives. And I’ll never forget it,” Rita put her hand on his
cheek, gazing into his eyes.
“You know I can’t kiss you here,” he narrowed his eyes.
“I
was counting on it,” she smiled playfully before heading off with Sabrina and
Carissa.
At
once a realization dawned on him, and he was struck as by lightning when his subordinate
came to him.
“What’s
up, Kelly?”
“Shit,
Vince.”
“What?
What is it?”
“Sabrina
Brooks. She’s the Nightcrawler.”
“Great.
Let’s take her.”
“Right.”
“Damn,
I just forgot,” Vince shook his head. “It came out on CNN about an hour ago.
Trump confessed to being the Nightcrawler.”
“Well,
hell’s bells,” Kelly grumbled. “We'd have needed to bring Hoyt Wexford in for
questioning. We'd have needed to find out how the Crawler was able to pull those big hooters on and off.”