Killing Capes (7 page)

He was breathing hard again. Unleashing weeks of pent-up frustration was as draining as any job he had ever been on. “All I want is to have a fair share of time with Molly.”

“You care about her more than us, huh?” Linda’s dissatisfied scowl had completely shattered any kind of friendly persuasion she may have been attempting. Try as she might, while Linda’s list of skills may have included flight and remarkable strength, mind control was notably missing.

Dwight’s conviction could have cut steel, “
She
never broke my heart.”

She was disappointed, maybe even hurt by those words. She glanced away, “I see.” The response brought fear to Dwight’s heart more than anything else she could have said. She looked up, tears forming in her deep, jade-green eyes. “You know I could throw you off this roof?”

“You can do a lot of things, but you’re never going to make me love you again.” Dwight had prepared for this every moment of consciousness that he hadn’t been planning to kill someone. Even as that rehearsed statement left his mouth, it didn’t feel like a triumph. There was no victor here, only casualties.

Her tears spilled over now, streaming down her face in thin rivers. “I’ll…I’ll talk to the lawyer tomorrow.”

And with that, she took off, a blur of deep blue and black into the sky. Dwight watched her return to their old loft. He didn’t have to wonder what she was going to do; they had been married for three years. She was going to curl up on their sofa, as she always did when she was upset. In another lifetime, he would have been there to hold her and whisper that everything would work out. That life, however, was over.

Dwight stood alone as the clouds he had failed to notice forming since he arrived at the Welcome finally let loose. Looking around, he realized that he had no way of getting himself through the rooftop fire door that would be his only way down. He sat where Linda had dropped him, letting the rain pour over him.

It took almost an hour for Ian to get building security to let Dwight down from the roof. By then, he was completely drenched, in addition to being miserable. The two drove back to their tiny apartment in silence. Ian knew of his roommate’s ex, but seeing him plucked from the street was enough to trouble him almost as much as it did Dwight.

When they arrived home, Dwight stripped out of his soaked clothes on the way to the shower with little regard for Ian’s sense of modesty. He left the pile outside the bathroom, water seeping freely into the carpet. Natural rainwater might actually do some good for the stained, unwashed flooring. When he stepped out in his threadbare robe twenty minutes later, he was astonished to find the stack gone, and Ian slowly picking up the living area.

Dwight rounded the corner, eyebrow raised. “Has hell frozen over?” he asked, genuinely concerned for his roommate’s mental health.

Ian looked over, arms full of semi-empty food receptacles. “I just needed a distraction. They really can just
do
that, can’t they?”

Dwight understood what he meant; there was nothing he could have possibly done to stop his ex. “Yeah, they can,” was all he managed.

The rest of Dwight’s day was spent in quiet anticipation. He used most of it going through the bag of tools from Ellis. While he didn’t have the courage to test fire any of the items in his home, he handled each one, getting a feel for their weight and finding places for them in his various pockets and on his belt.

As the light faded outside, the deep grays of the rainstorm fell into true darkness. In his office, Dwight did something he usually took great pains to avoid: he sat at his computer and searched for his prey. The results confirmed Wulf’s rationale. Killstreak was famous for how much the public hated him: troubled relationships, repeated arrests, insane stunts – all of which made him the ideal target for the Power paparazzi. Dwight looked over the dozens of stories about the speedster, a picture forming in his head. This was a real monster, one created for a world to admire and fear in equal measures.

In the earliest stories, Killstreak was an unproven variable. There were even conflicting reports of him assisting the other side, stopping criminals. It wasn’t until two years ago that anyone could confirm which side of Wulf’s game he fell on. After an incident in which he kidnapped the mayor’s son for ransom money, the papers turned on him. There were no more stories wondering about the “Azure Streak,” as the papers had nicknamed him. Everything from that point on was “Killstreak.”

Dwight decided to call in an expert, or at least the closest thing he could find without leaving home. “Ian!” he shouted.

The blaring of explosions and repetitive catchphrases from the living room paused. A few moments later, Dwight’s office door slowly crept open. “You need something?” a shy voice came from around the cheap wood.

Dwight realized today had been the most interaction he’d had with Ian since they met. This was certainly the first time Ian was invited into one of the two rooms that Dwight had claimed for himself. “Yeah, come in. I need some information, if you have a second.”

Ian seemed shocked, not only that he was being asked for advice, but welcomed into his recluse roommate’s forbidden lair. “Umm, sure, Dwight. What can I do for you?”

He pointed to the monitor. “What can you tell me about this guy?”

Ian examined the articles, trying to recall some buried nuggets on the villain. “Killstreak,” his face twisted in a disgusted sneer, “This guy is a real mess. He’s an attention seeker. Went bad after he got rejected by every team in town.” He combed through the stories, finally locating the catalyst. “Here: he got into it with Midas after trying to help stop a bank robbery; accidently hurt two security guards while fighting with Brigadier.”

Dwight looked over the article as Ian went on about the details. There was a full-page picture of Midas, golden gauntlets shining brightly, decking Killstreak full in the face. The reaction on the amassed crowd was enough to tell Dwight it had been a complete sucker punch. Beneath the picture, a caption: “Heroic Midas foils second villain in single afternoon. Azure Streak taken into custody after endangering bank hostages.”

“That was the last time he tried doing the hero thing. He’s had it out for Midas ever since. He dropped the blue costume for his red one right after.” Ian backed away from the keyboard.

Dwight’s history lesson was over. He had the information he needed for tomorrow. Killstreak would do exactly what he needed him to. If Wulf wanted him dead, that was all that mattered. Dwight thanked Ian and went to bed. That night, he dreamed of a crimson blur, racing through the city streets.

B crouched low behind the counter, playing with a box cutter he found on a nearby shelf. They had been waiting in the abandoned storefront for over an hour, and the boredom was killing him. Dwight was the thinker, the patient one
.
B, on the other hand, was the muscle, the doer.

For the first few minutes, he had been fine. Then the sighing started. Then the groaning. Now, this: B took the knife to the side of the wooden counter, carving crude illustrations out of its surface. Dwight did his best to ignore him.

If the profile was correct, it would only be another half-hour or so before Killstreak made his rounds. Earlier that afternoon, Dwight received the call from Wulf informing him that everything had been set up: the building had been cleared, and street traffic detoured around it. A few vague suggestions from Wulf was typically more than enough to get whatever he needed from city hall. Dwight had to rely on that for tonight’s operation to be successful.

The entrance leading out of their hiding place into the streets was chosen carefully not only for its view of the road, but also the construction of the wall across from it. Wulf’s records of Killstreak’s nightly patterns placed them directly along his path.

B gave another obnoxious moan.

“Knock it off,” Dwight whispered, elbowing the huge man in the ribs.

“This is crap, D.” his partner whined. “I’m ‘ere to punch things. If I’m not punching things, why did you even bring me along?”

There were days Dwight felt like he was B’s babysitter. “You’re here because I need someone who can take a hit if this goes wrong. Now shut up and stay low. We only get one chance at this.”

B resumed his carving. “Can’t I just ‘ave a go at him wiv me fists, like the last one?”

Dwight readied the pistol at his hip, checking the cable release and the safety. “If I remember correctly, the Phoenix was beating your ass when I took that shot.”

B snorted. “I would’a ‘ad ‘im if you’d missed.” His rough digging had taken shape as the logo of StarPoint. Dwight doubted that Wulf would have appreciated B’s creative replacement of the highest point with a semi-limp phallus.

“Here, you can help with this,” Dwight said, pulling the line from the pistol and handing the steel spike to B. He carefully took it, avoiding the sharp edges. “Walk over there.”

B did as he was told. “If you were jus’ gonna shoot ‘im, you could’a picked a bigger gun. Tha’ toy ain’ gonna drop ‘im.”

As B turned around in the far corner, Dwight found a piece of wooden debris resting on the floor. He set the pistol, still connected to the wire in B’s hand, on the counter. Held tight over the distance of the room, the cable glistened in the moonlight flooding in from the street-side windows.

Dwight casually tossed the wooden chunk through the air; it curved in a slight arc before hitting the wire. Effortlessly, it split in half along the line where it touched the steel. The slice, clean and even, brought a smile to B’s face. They rewound the cable into the pistol and went back to waiting. This time, B sat quietly, eagerly anticipating the show that was about to happen outside.

As the time approached, Dwight pulled the Doc’s device from his pack. She said it would begin working when her borrowed satellites detected Killstreak’s signature coming toward them. At the moment, there were no indications of it even being on.

His best estimates figured he would need at least two seconds for the cable to cross the city street outside and embed itself in the wall. Once there, B’s job was to hold it tight while Dwight triggered the distraction. The monolithic Uni-Comm building loomed over them at the dead end a few blocks away, traffic breaking to the left and right against the building’s main entrance. For as long as anyone could remember, the tower had been an eyesore in New Haven’s skyline. Its dark, unremarkable faces did nothing compared to the architectural marvels surrounding it. Dwight imagined he was doing good taste a solid favor tonight.

The meter unexpectedly chirped; a bright red blip appeared on its display. Rapidly accelerating numbers tracked a single object barreling toward them. The dot was presently four miles up the road following the path Wulf’s profile had anticipated. Watching the numbers carefully, Dwight removed the phone from his pocket and typed in the set of numbers Wulf had texted him that afternoon. He stopped just short of placing the call.

With a quick hand gesture, Dwight signaled B. His partner got up, bracing himself against the counter. He took aim through the open doorway and pulled the trigger. The pistol fired with a sharp, whistling release. The spooled cable rocketed across the road, its barbs burying themselves in the opposing concrete wall. B clamped down with all his massive strength, holding the grip tight against his chest. Dwight anxiously watched the numbers race by. As they crossed eight hundred feet from their position, he pressed the send key.

Instantly, the top ten floors of the Uni-Comm building exploded. The rubble soared into the night, raining huge chunks over the surrounding structures. Dwight had to give Wulf credit: his Associates knew how to blow something up. Wide-scale carnage was, if nothing else, a perfect way to get a Power’s attention. The cataclysm above was enough to draw his eyes off his immediate path.

Predictably, a man-sized red blur charged through the wire. The next moment, that streak split into two. Both objects disappeared into the gray veil cascading from the falling wreckage. B let the pistol and its attached line drop to the floor. They waited for the initial cloud of dust to overtake their hiding place before stepping out.

B let out a throaty laugh despite the concrete debris filling the air. “ ‘e never saw that shit, did ‘e!?” As they searched through the thick haze for the remains of the speedster, it became apparent this wasn’t going to be easy.

Dwight tore a piece of his sleeve and held it to his face. It didn’t stop the dust from stinging his eyes, but at least he’d be inhaling less of the hazardous cloud while they hunted for the body. Wulf had assured them that he could keep the emergency crews away for only about fifteen minutes. The Capes would surely be swarming soon; they’d have to use the cover of the dust to confirm the kill and escape.

After several minutes of blindly wandering up the street, Dwight finally came across the impact site. The speeding body had careened from its original course to the right and slammed full-force into a brick wall. The wet stain from the collision caused the dust to cake to the wall in a grotesque splatter.

B tapped Dwight on the shoulder before carrying on looking for the missing head; they needed to confirm the entire body for Wulf to consider the job a success. Due to the commotion and the impending arrival of New Haven’s Capes, the Associates would not be coming. Once they verified their work, their orders were to leave whatever remained. In truth, the mysterious death of Killstreak probably wouldn’t make the papers at all. The top of the Uni-Comm tower suffering a disastrous gas explosion would be enough to keep them occupied for a few days.

As Dwight knelt to photograph the remains, he noticed something odd. The coloring of the uniform was correct; it matched their reports for both design and patterning. It was the injury that puzzled him. Examining the wound, it was a clean cut. Their estimates had put the line at the speedster’s throat. Unless B’s aim had been off, the wire should have removed the head intact.

What was left of the body lay in front of Dwight face down, the seeping blood creating a puddle around it. The cut had gone through the eyes, severing the top of the skull. As he rolled it over, a horrific mess of brain matter and other unspeakable fluids sloshed onto the pavement.

This wasn’t the first time Dwight had seen the results of his work, but this was certainly the closest he had ever gotten to it. He gagged uncontrollably but attempted to maintain his composure, trying to pinpoint the growing unease he was feeling. Even before he spilled the contents of the man’s head onto the concrete, there was something else gnawing at him.

Against his stomach’s wishes, a second study revealed the flaw. Their wire had been at the perfect level for their target’s neck. This wasn’t Killstreak. While whoever this was had been dressed like him, Killstreak’s infamous logo was missing from the chest. The face, along with the recently-reduced height, belonged to a much younger person. Dwight guessed the boy couldn’t have been out of his teens; this was definitely not the rugged, world-worn face of the villain in their file.

“A fucking sidekick?” Dwight cursed, furious with himself for his own sloppiness. They should have found a way to get visual confirmation before executing the plan. He remained there concentrating on all the ways their mission could have been improved upon. Suddenly, a burst of wind and something solid slamming into his back threw him off his feet and into the air.

He landed with a hard thud on the concrete a dozen feet from the body he was crouched over. The unexpected flight completely knocked the breath from his lungs. As he tried to recover, he looked back at the maimed body and realized what had hit him. Standing over the corpse was their actual target. Even through the concrete dust, he could recognize the crimson costume and gruff face. The villain dropped to his knees, jaw held open in horror.

As Killstreak touched the body of his sidekick with trembling hands, Dwight became exceptionally aware of his dire misfortune. He inched his way along the concrete, struggling not to draw any attention from the grieving Power. If Killstreak was preoccupied with his fallen companion, Dwight would use that opportunity to find B or get himself to safety.

A wailing moan emanated from Killstreak’s quivering mouth. Spittle and tears ran down his face. Dwight only managed to drag himself a few feet when the speedster turned his attention toward him. There was a transition as that cry transformed into a hateful roar. Dwight immediately knew he was fucked, absolutely
fucked
.

There wasn’t time to think about anything else before Killstreak was on him. In a quite literal flash, he had Dwight by the collar. He pulled Dwight’s face close to his, lifting his back from the sidewalk. Killstreak’s enraged breath came through clenched teeth. “My son!” was all the villain growled in Dwight’s face.

Dwight struggled against the Power’s grasp. He couldn’t think of a plausible lie before Killstreak brought a single hyper-accelerated fist into his right cheek. The force of the punch was enough to send reality spinning. His perception had to catch up to the sensation of the blow. When it did, Dwight knew from the pain that his cheekbone was definitely broken. Adrenaline flooded his panicked mind. His vision returned, obscured by errant blood.

Killstreak lifted Dwight to his feet. He didn’t fight it; there wasn’t enough comprehension in the hitman to form a sentence. His feet left the ground. Killstreak pulled him in close again, “Who sent you!? Why did you kill my son!?” The Power struck him across the face again. “Tell me before you die!”

Great
, Dwight thought. Of course he was grooming his spawn to be just like him. There was a moment in which he considered the possibility of explaining what had happened: that this was just work for him, that Wulf was the one he should be taking his fists to. All that left his cracked face was a short, “Thhhh”, before he was spun violently around Killstreak like the world’s most homicidal merry-go-round.

As they reached a speed that began to tear at Dwight’s joints, Killstreak let go. The centrifugal force shot Dwight away as if he had been launched from a cannon. He wasn’t airborne for long; he collided with the plate glass window of a storefront some sixty feet away. He passed through it, fragments slicing at and lodging themselves in his flesh. He didn’t stop until he slammed heavily into a sturdy sales counter deep within the shop. As he collapsed to the unyielding tile floor, he convulsed, gasping for air. Each breath was crippling agony, the bones of his ribcage having pierced his lungs from the crash. Every exhale brought with it a spray of blood. From his limited knowledge of human anatomy, he guessed that his back, ribs, and skull had been fractured.

Dwight lay on his side, feeling his consciousness wax and wane. From his position, he watched Killstreak slow to a halt. Like some unending nightmare, the Power stormed toward Dwight’s broken body. When he got there, Killstreak gave Dwight a callous kick to the shoulder, knocking him on his back. He grabbed Dwight by the wrist, raising his victim’s right arm off the stained tile. Holding it tightly, he lashed out with his foot, catching Dwight’s elbow with all the force the superhuman was capable of. There was a blinding flash of mind-breaking pain that consumed everything. Dwight’s scream was inhumanly loud. It echoed out of the shattered window, into the city streets for block after block in the otherwise silent night.

Slowly, his failing vision returned to him. The white-hot flare of suffering peeled back to find Killstreak still standing there, glaring at the dying man who had killed his son. Hate burned in his eyes, a fury that would only be quenched when Dwight was beaten to a pulp. He was succeeding.

Something in Killstreak’s grip caught Dwight’s attention. In the foggy remains of his consciousness, he nearly dismissed that the villain was still holding the hunk of flesh that had been his right forearm. He weakly raised his severed limb, wordlessly pleading to put it back. All hope of actually surviving had left him. Any planning or tactical thought was buried underneath the suffering and injury. Dwight was gone; all that was left was meat.