The Darkest Hours

Chapter 7

Once in a while,

Plan B actually works out.

As Mortia came down at me, there was a phoont sound of expanding compressed air, and a small, metallic grappling hook flew over my head and hit her right on the end of her upturned nose, trailing a line of fine, black cable. The instant it touched her, there was a flickering of blue-white light, and Mortia's body convulsed, hit by what I assumed was a hefty amount of electricity. She went into an uncontrolled tumble, and I got out of the way in a hurry. "That's new," I said, hopping to my feet—which I happened to plant ten feet up a handy streetlight, so that I could be sure to keep an eye on Clan Goth. "I went legitimate," Felicia replied tartly. She landed in a crouch on the streetlight's arm, above me, pushed a button on a small baton, and the cord and grapple reeled swiftly back in. "I never said anything about not finding new toys to play with."

Mortia came to her feet slowly, looking down at the concrete dust clinging to her suit with undisguised annoyance. She traded a look with Thanis and Malos, and then all three of them turned to stare at me.

Absolutely no one moved. The only motion in all of Times Square came from rising smoke and the whirling bulbs on the police cars. The only sound came from a few stubborn car alarms that had survived the fracas (evidently Thanis and Malos found them as annoying as I did), and the harsh clicks and buzzes of transmissions on distant police radios. Nothing happened for a long minute.

What the heck. Every tableau's got to be broken by something.

"What we need," I drawled to the Black Cat, "is a couple of tumbleweeds. Maybe a rattlesnake Foley effect."

"Grow up," she sneered, watching Mortia and her brothers as carefully as I did. "What we need is the Avengers."

"Only because we didn't bring them," I said. "If we had, we wouldn't need them."

"Well, better to have them and not need them than—"

"Do I criticize your equipment list?" I asked. "And, oh. Don't let one of them touch you."

"We aren't dating anymore," she said archly.

I grinned, underneath my mask. "Very funny. Just don't do it."

"Why not?"

"Because once they do, they can track you down. Follow you anywhere. Find you anywhere."

She pursed her lips, the expression made tough to read by the visor, and said, "Got it. We should leave now, then." I hesitated.

It wasn't a macho thing. I had no idea what Mortia and company might try if I left the fight. In a bid to keep me close enough to kill, Morlun had promptly started brutalizing whoever was handy when I tried to break contact with him for more than a minute or two. That was why I was hesitant to leave.

It wasn't because I didn't want to tuck my webs between my legs and run in front of half of New York and my ex-girlfriend. It wasn't that. At all. Not even a little.

Of course, dying in front of half of New York and my ex-girlfriend didn't sound like much fun, either.

A news chopper came whipping down the street, lower than the level of the buildings; someone was going to get a royal chewing-out from the FAA and whoever else screams and rants about such things. It kicked up a lot of dust and debris in the Square.

Mortia saw it and made a disgusted little noise. "Mortals. So gauche." She glanced at her brothers, then turned to me and said, "We are introduced, Spider. And after all, a multicourse dinner calls for a more…"—she gave me an acknowledging nod of the head and another wintry smile—"… intimate setting. Fear not. We shall be reunited."

"Won't that be ducky," I said.

She flicked her wrist, dismissive. "You and the aperitif may flee, Spider."

"What?" Felicia said, indignant.

"What did she call me?"

"Come on, bonbon," I told her. "Let's git while the gittin' is good."

Mortia turned to walk away, then paused to consider the fallen Rhino. "Bring the brute," she told her brothers. "He may yet be of use to us."

The two men each took one of the unconscious Rhino's arms, lifted all of him without so much as a grunt of effort, and dragged him along like a giant, armored rag doll in a goofy hat toward the nearest subway entrance.

There was a stir at one of the police control points, and I spat out a breath as I saw the SWAT van roll up. "Come on. Something we have to do."

"What?" Felicia called after me as I swung over to the control point.

I landed on the street next to the police lines. A couple of beat cops stared at me. One of them laid his hand on the baton at his belt. That was actually a pretty good reaction, for me. Usually, the hands go right to the guns.

"Hey, guys," I said. "Who is in charge of this scene?"

"None of your business," one of the cops said. "You ain't the sheriff of this town. You ain't the one that makes the calls."

A spotter had his field glasses focused on the re-treating shapes of Mortia and company and was speaking cool instructions into his headset's mike as the SWAT team locked and loaded.

"Guys, you've got to trust me on this one," I told them. "Leave those three alone."

"Look, buddy," the cop said, his face turning red. "You're lucky they aren't getting ready to come after you, you freakin' nutball."

"Gosh, officer. Don't be afraid to tell me what you really think."

"Jesus, Frank," the second cop said with a sigh, rolling his eyes. "There's no harm hearing him out." Frank folded his arms. "He's probably in this with those four, somehow."

The older cop stared at him for a second, blinked his eyes, and, through what looked like a nearly miraculous effort of self-control, did not whack him upside the head. Then he looked at me and said,

"Why?"

"Because these people are bad news," I told him. "Big, bad news. They're willing to walk away without a fight, and they don't have any reason to hurt anyone but me, unless you force them to defend themselves. Your men can't stop them. If they try it, they'll die. For nothing."

"But you think you can handle them," he said. "Not sure. But when I hit them again, I can at least do it someplace without all the civilian bystanders."

He squinted at me for a moment, then looked at the DMZ that had, until recently, been Times

I

Square. He grunted. "You got anyone on the force will speak for you?"

"Lamont," I said promptly. "Fourteenth Precinct."

His thumb tapped thoughtfully on the handle of his baton. "Sourpuss? Cheap suit? Drinks a lot of coffee?"

"That's him."

The cop grunted. "Sit tight." He stepped a few feet away and spoke into his radio. Maybe five minutes went by, and the SWAT team broke into a measured jog, setting off to pursue the retreating weirdos.

"Ahem," I said. "Time is getting to be a factor, officer."

He glanced back at me, then at SWAT, then went on talking. A moment later, he said, "Check." Then he walked over to the spotter, who was evidently some kind of authority figure with a rear-echelon command style, and passed him the radio.

I couldn't hear the conversation, but it didn't take much more than a minute for the SWAT guy's face to go carefully, professionally blank. He tossed the radio back at the officer, spoke into his headset, and a minute later the SWAT team reappeared. I let out a slow breath in pure relief.

The officer ambled back over to his post, and I said, "Thanks."

He shrugged a shoulder. "I got an auntie I like. She told me you saved her from a mugger. Don't mean I like you."

"Good enough for me," I said. "Thanks anyway."

There might have been the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Stick around. Lamont wants to talk to you. He'll be here in five."

"Anything to help the fine men and women of law enforcement," I said.

It didn't take the whole five minutes for Lamont to get there. He looked like Lamont usually looked: rumpled, tired, grumpy, and tough as old boot leather. His hair was the color of iron. He was a career New York cop who had been unlucky enough to retain his conscience and his concern for the citizens he protected. His hair had gone gray early. His eyes had perpetual bags beneath them, despite the large, steaming Styrofoam coffee cup in his hand. He wore a long black overcoat, his cheap suit and his hair were rumpled, he needed a shave, and his beady eyes glinted with intelligence.

He really didn't like me very much. "Hey," Lamont said. "Let's walk." We turned down the street and walked away from the police lines, passing in front of a long row of shops and stores, until we were far enough away to avoid being overheard.

He stopped and squinted at me. "You're doing that just to annoy me."

I shrugged. I was standing with the soles of my feet on a rail of the awning above us, looking at him upside down. "Come on, Lamont. Would I do something like that?"

He grunted and chose to ignore me. "So what happened here?"

I gave him the Cliff's Notes version of the evening's events and their players.

Lamont scratched at his head. "So these weirdos are here for you?"

"Yeah," I said.

"So that sort of makes it your fault, I guess." He sipped his coffee, eyes narrowed. It was as close as I'd ever seen him get to smiling. He nodded at the destruction surrounding us and said, "Where do we send the bill?"

"Call my accountant," I said. "You can reach him at 1-800-In your freaking dreams."

He gave me a bland look, sipped some more coffee, and said, "Judging from the outfit, you wouldn't be good for it anyway."

"Look who's talking."

Lamont stared down at his cup, then up at the bright lights of Times Square. "You say these people are strong. Like the Frankenstein gangster?"

"I took him in a straight fight," I said. "He was from the farm team. These three are major league. Like Rhino, or the Hulk."

"The Hulk, huh."

"Pretty close," I said. "But they don't go in for mass destruction with the same kind of glee."

"So this isn't mass destruction," he said. He coughed as a stray breeze blew some black smoke our way. "That's good."

"Rhino did most of this," I growled. "Probably to get my attention."

"Draw you out in the open, huh."

"Yeah."

Lamont looked around some more, sipped some more coffee, and gave me a shrewd look. "You're in trouble."

I was quiet for a minute, then said, "Maybe. It could get really messy. These things don't care, Lamont. They could kill every man, woman, and child in New York and sip cappuccinos over the corpses."

"Christ." Lamont grunted. His face twisted up abruptly, as if he'd suddenly started sucking on a lemon spiked with jalapeno. "How can I help?"

"You having a stroke, Lamont? Your face is twitching."

"I might be," he said darkly. "Helping out one of the maniacs in tights. I might puke. Maybe on you."

I looked down at him from my upside-down position. "That would be difficult, considering."

"I'd manage. I'm crafty."

"Don't know if there's much you can do," I said. "Except for making sure you aren't putting pressure on the Addams Family. If you start a fight, they'll take you up on it."

"Good plan," Lamont said. "I solve most of my problems by standing around hoping they'll go away."

"If I could give you a better one, I would," I said. "Let me handle this one my way; give me some room to breathe. I'll take the fight to somewhere safe." I glanced at the square. "Well. Safer than this, anyway."

Lamont grunted again. "I'll see what I can do. No promises. And if something like this happens again, all bets are off."

"You try to take these guys down, cops are going to die."

He was stone-still for a moment. Then he murmured, "I know. So you damn well better take them out before it comes to that."

Trust is something precious and fragile. Once it begins to fracture, it isn't ever going to be strong again. Lamont didn't like me, I knew. But I hadn't realized that he trusted me. It was an enormous gesture, especially for him.

"I'll handle it," I told him, voice serious.

He finished the coffee, crushed the cup in a frustrated fist, and then pitched it down into the rest of the wreckage. "Right. Move along, then, citizen. Nothing to see here."

He was right, thank God. There wasn't.

Yet.