Team Omega (20 page)

It sounded like nonsense, but Jackson had come to appreciate the powers of observation he’d honed in the Shooting House.  The tiniest detail out of place could mark anything from an emplaced IED to an ambush right up ahead.  It had been drummed into his head that
anything
could be important, even a faint change in the local environment, a hint of someone breathing hard...or even a smell reaching his nose.  Everything had to be treated with great suspicion until they decided it could be safely dismissed.

“In addition...this guy probably needs to breathe,” she continued.  “How many of you used to play paintball when it was first introduced?”

“We have the Shooting House,” Chris pointed out.  “We don’t
need
to play paintball to get our kicks.”

“And we’d pick up bad habits,” Ron added.  “Inflatable plastic walls do not provide good cover when your enemies are packing AK-47s, or superpowers.”

Polly laughed.  “This is the X-23,” she said, producing a larger version of the M-22 from under her table.  “You’ll notice that the ammunition magazine has been removed and replaced with a paintball container.  Unlike regular paintball, this liquid is sticky as hell; get him in the mouth and he’ll find it damn near impossible to breathe.  It’s also faintly radioactive”—she laughed as they stepped back—“so it can be tracked for several days by a UAV—and believe me, even a Level 5 superhuman would have problems removing it.”

Ron carefully picked up the weapon and examined it.  “The last paintball gun I saw was pretty inaccurate,” he said, dryly.  “I’d hate to depend on them in combat.”

“I’ve modified the shooter; instead of using a gas burst, it uses a magnetic accelerator,” Polly said.  “I suggest that you
don't
clown around with it because the paintballs will be moving with colossal force.  Anyone who gets hit with a paintball will take more than a painful bruise.  You can probably use them to stick your target to the floor if necessary.  I’ve also designed sticky grenades that should give you an added advantage, but someone with enough power could probably pull away half of the sidewalk before you managed to choke him to death.  Watch yourselves.”

They went through the weapons drill quickly and efficiently.  The X-23 seemed to work as Polly had insisted, although there were only three of them ready for deployment and the Sergeant informed them that they would be taking their normal weapons as well, just in case the new weapons didn't work as advertised.  Each of them was outfitted with a Whisper device, one configured to their individual bodies.  It was harder to test those without actually putting them into operation, something that would have to wait until they reached New York.  The sensors couldn't hear them, but no one knew for sure just how capable the most powerful superhuman senses actually were. 

“I could get to like these,” Ron said, after test-firing a sticky grenade.  “You think they could be used against rioting assholes in the streets?”

“I think the lawyers would have a field day afterwards,” Chris countered.  “But imagine using them as a hose, aimed at their legs.  All of a sudden, they get gummed up and they can't escape, no matter what they do.”

He looked over at Polly, suddenly.  “Is there anything we can use to free someone, if we got the wrong person?”

“I’m providing you with bottles of solvent,” Polly informed him.  She smirked at the disconcerted operator.  “I was wondering who was going to ask that first.”

She chuckled as she walked back to her desk.  “In the event of you running out of solvent, an application of hot water will weaken the sticky glue, allowing someone to pull themselves free of the muck,” she added.  “I’d suggest being very careful as the temperatures you would need are alarmingly close to boiling.  Melt the glue on their feet and then cut away their clothing rather than trying to clean it.  I wouldn't want to have to explain savage burns to the lawyers afterwards.”

The next two hours passed slowly. Too slowly.  Jackson spent it studying the maps of New York, in particular the layout of Hell’s Kitchen, as well as its history.  They’d wanted to rebuild it years ago, according to the files, but New York had too many other problems to make the investment in time and commitment it would need to clean up Hell’s Kitchen.  Besides, reading between the lines, Jackson had a theory that some of the city councillors were deliberately stalling.  He couldn't think of any logical reason why, which puzzled him.  One could normally count on politicians to do whatever was in their own best interest, even if it
was
diametrically opposite to whatever their electorate wanted from them.  Perhaps they were buying drugs from the drug lords.

He flicked through the next set of files and shook his head.  There were no fewer than nine hundred registered superhumans in New York and probably a number who made no public use of their power.  Quite a few of them seemed to be going to the Congo, including some of the most popular superheroes in the world.  He couldn't tell if that was a bad thing or not.

Looking at the demographics, Jackson noticed that something interesting seemed to be happening to New York.  It was difficult to be sure, but the population seemed to be dropping and Wall Street was becoming a place that allowed stockbrokers and investment consultants to work from home.  Could it be that the incident two years ago, whatever it had been, had convinced the mundane population to start fleeing New York?

“Quite possibly,” Ron said, when he mentioned it to him.  “People love superheroes, but they don’t necessarily want them right next door.  Everyone knows that all superheroes have supervillains who might come and fight them, or perhaps one of those fights between superhumans intent on settling the question of which of them is stronger.  Cape alpha male bullshit—and God help anyone caught in the line of fire.”

“That makes no sense,” Jackson protested.  “If New York is losing its population...”

“Think about it,” Ron said, cynically.  “A few Mayors have maintained themselves in power by sucking up to the capes and their corporate backers.  They have the money they need to put themselves in the spotlight, promote their record as friendly to superheroes...and anyone who says otherwise finds out that they can't compete against Big Money.  One day, New York will probably wake up to discover that everyone who can afford to go has gone, but until then they probably won’t notice.”

Before he could say another word, but the Sergeant bellowed for everyone to get into formation.  Jackson picked up his rifle—both rifles—and his bag before following Ron outside, lining up with the rest of Team One.  It was military routine of a sort that Team One rarely had to show, a droll reminder of who and what they were before they donned civilian clothes and went out in disguise.  He found himself hoping that the mission proceeded without incident, although he knew that that was not going to happen.  The moment they encountered the superhuman vigilante, the situation was going to become ugly very fast.

“Are you all ready?” the Sergeant asked.  God alone knew what would happen if anyone said no.  They’d been told that they had to make their preparations first and
then
relax, assuming there was any time to relax.  “Good.  Follow me.”

Despite being on the base for nearly two months, Jackson hadn't seen much of it outside the compound assigned to Team Omega.  It looked smaller than Camp Pendleton, with a handful of different units scattered around a series of buildings, most probably as classified as Team Omega.  It crossed his mind to wonder if there were
more
anti-superhuman teams out there—Team Omega seemed undermanned considering the magnitude of its task—before pushing the thought aside.  They might have been encouraged to ask questions, but not about other black ops launched from their base.

The aircraft—a modified civilian jet—was waiting for them on the tarmac.  Jackson winced as he stepped in and scented the unmistakable scent of a military aircraft, the smell of too many hot and sweaty bodies in close proximity.  Even with only ten operatives and a handful of supporting staff, it was still going to be an unpleasant flight.  At least it wouldn't be very long.

He sat down and closed his eyes.  There would be little time for sleep in New York.

Chapter Twenty

“This is Hell’s Kitchen,” Officer Murdock said, as he unfurled a map in front of Team One.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Ron muttered.  He hadn't enjoyed the flight at all and made it clear to anyone listening.  “I’m glad to see that New York’s Finest are still on the case...”

“Pay attention,” Murdock snapped.  At least he didn’t seem intimidated by the operators, but then New York was crammed with superhumans.  “There are four major gangs in New York; all of them have ties to operations in Hell’s Kitchen.”

He pointed to the first part of the map.  “Everything keeps changing, so we’re not entirely sure which part of the territory belongs to which gang on a daily basis, but this is the best we have,” he said.  “First up is
Los Gringos
.  Despite the name, they’re mainly a Hispanic gang with ties to drug smuggling chains leading all the way to Mexico; we’ve put a number of junior druggies in jail, but the DA has been dragging his feet on measures intended to round up the senior leadership. 

“Second, we have Fuck This Shit, or FTS for short,” he continued.  “They’re principally black, even to the point of excluding mixed-race children; they tend to move between trying to support the black community and dragging it down by selling them drugs.  The bastards get some good press because they can be relied upon to make a noisy protest every time there is even the slightest hint of racism, but don’t mistake them for good guys.  Their motive is effective control of the black community, even if it means keeping them in the gutter and threatening anyone who dares to consider forming relationships with anyone from outside their community.  They’ve also been up in arms since the murders started, gentlemen, as they’ve taken the most losses.

“Third, we have the Blades; they consider themselves the counterpoint to FTS.  They’re smaller than either the Gringos or FTS, but they make up for it by being extremely violent and multi-ethnic.  And they have ties to more organised crime groups such as the Mafia, which makes them more connected to the underground than you might think.  We’ve been trying to prove a case against their leadership for months, but they have been clever enough to bury most of their tracks.

“Fourth, and finally, we have the Forgotten,” he concluded.  “They’re almost completely a mutant group, led by a handful of mutants with serious powers.  Their general belief is that normal society has rejected them; they have to look out for themselves, because no one else is going to do it for them.  Most of their members cannot pass for human, but some of them are actually human, almost certainly mundane humans.  We don’t know why they joined up with the Forgotten; they could be family members, drug addicts or just runaway children.  At least the Forgotten don’t involve themselves in prostitution, at least outside the weirdest kind.”

Jackson snorted.  Superhumans had added new vices to a world that already had too many of them.  Some offered rough sex, others the thrill of sleeping with someone who looked like a famous movie star...and a handful offered the chance to sleep with someone who didn't
look
human.  And that was just the tip of the iceberg.  There were people who wanted to be controlled by telepaths, or molested by super-strong people, or...he’d been told even those were far from the weirdest vice out there.  He hadn't wanted to believe what the files had told him about the Fashion Witch.

“None of these gangs are nice people,” Murdock warned.  “At best, they’re a protection racket, preying on the people they claim to defend.  At worst, they’re thieves, rapists, pimps and murderers.  Each of the gangs operates brothels where the girls are virtually slaves, keeping them under control with a mixture of threats and drugs.  Nine times out of ten, when kids run away in New York they fall into the grip of the gangs.  And then...the lucky ones become foot soldiers, the thugs on the street who peddle their drugs in between fighting the other gangs; the unlucky ones become fresh meat in the brothels.”

“I have a question,” Chris said.  “Why doesn't the NYPD shut them all down completely?”

Murdock started to laugh, bitterly.  “Do you have all afternoon to hear the answer?  Let’s see; the Mayor and his cronies don’t like the thought of pressuring ethnic gangs because it might make them seem racist.  Removing the gang’s leadership would just make others rise up and take their place.  We don’t have the manpower to patrol Hell’s Kitchen and the other poor parts of the city thoroughly enough to keep the gangs from reclaiming their territory.  It’s difficult to prove anything against the more senior members of the gangs...”

He shook his head.  “Which answer would you like?”

“The old insurgency problem,” the Sergeant said.  “Thank you for your briefing, Officer Murdock.”

Murdock nodded.  “I understand that you want to hunt down the Midnight Killer,” he said, slowly.  “Understand something: there is little support among
anyone
for stopping him.  Watch your backs.”

Jackson was still mulling over what he'd meant as Team One prepared for the operation.  All military uniforms were discarded and replaced with civilian clothes that should allow them to blend in with the inhabitants of Hell’s Kitchen and the nearby parts of New York.  He’d already been near the area once—it was easy to pick out the address he’d visited—but they’d need to explore the rest of the district.  Official estimates stated there might be more than a million people living within the affected zone, a figure that Jackson had questioned, only to discover that upwards of
eight
million people lived within the entire city.  It didn't help that Hell’s Kitchen was a natural starting point for illegal immigrants from China, Africa and Latin America. 

“Remember,” the sergeant warned, “we’re not here to deal with the gangs, no matter how much they deserve it.  Our sole priority is finding the rogue superhuman and bringing him down.  I know...it’s a shitty part of the city and someone really ought to bring the Teams in to clean it up, but we can't allow ourselves to be distracted.”

The streets around them grew poorer as they drove towards Hell’s Kitchen.  They’d picked up more federal vans from the local FBI, but what started out as common vehicles rapidly started to stand out as they finally located the building they intended to use as a FOB.  It had been part of one of the more determined attempts to renovate the district, but now it just looked as broken and decayed as any other building in Hell’s Kitchen.  No one would invest in renovating it when it would just become a target for the gangs.  The team searched the building, uprooted a handful of homeless people who had turned the basement into a shelter, and then started to clear out a couple of rooms.  If anything, it was worse than the last building they’d used as a base.  Every room stank and there was little they could do about it, apart from ignoring it as best as they could.

“It could be worse,” Ron said, cheerfully.  “I remember having to crawl through a fucking sewer to get to my target once, and some asshole took a dump on my head.  I should have shoved a grenade up the pipe and blown him into little pieces.”

“Talk about a bathroom disaster,” Chris countered.  “Why the hell didn't you?”

“I had only one grenade and I needed it for myself,” Ron admitted.  He shook his head.  “I thought schools in New York would teach basic hygiene if nothing else.”

Jackson snorted.  “I went to one of those government-funded schools,” he admitted.  “All I learned from it was that the teachers were stupid and the knowledge they tried to force into our heads ranged from politically correct to useless.  Every second week there would be a new craze for educating us kids...and we’d get even less learning done.  And that wasn't in an area anything like as bad as this.”

“At least they didn't manage to convince you that the military was evil and there would be no wars if the military didn't exist,” the Sergeant grunted.  “Just go listen to the peaceniks in a high-class university sometime.  One idiot even had the idea that superhumans would put an end to war, an idea that was first mentioned when the Gatling Gun was invented.  And we’re still fighting each other.”

Lane cleared his throat.  “Alpha Team will remain here; Beta Team will be on the streets and Delta Team will be on the roof,” he ordered, calmly.  “We’ll try to build up a picture of likely targets for our rogue superhuman and then try to set an ambush.”

“We could try to stage a fake crime to get his attention,” Thomas suggested.  “Maybe get one of the girls up here and stage a rape.  Who else is likely to intervene in this shithole?”

“It may come to that,” Lane said, “but for the moment we need to see if we can pick out a likely place for him to attack.  We know what he likes to target, at least.”

***

The next two days moved very slowly.  Jackson watched as Team One built up its awareness of its surroundings, while making contact with locals who might be able to provide information the team would find useful.  A handful of fathers were quite happy to help out, in exchange for enough money to move themselves and their families out of Hell’s Kitchen before their children grew old enough to be sucked into the gang lifestyle.  Jackson couldn't fault their determination to escape, or the skill shown by some of the team in convincing them that they
could
help.  Team Omega had a huge budget, and some of it could easily be gifted to those who had been helpful.

“It's an honour thing,” Ron explained, when they were finally allowed to swap places with Beta Team and go exploring.  The map they’d built up of the surrounding area allowed them to walk along the borders between gang territories.  “Someone helps you; you help them—and in the future, more people help you because you have a reputation for helping those who help you.  Our government really should have learned that lesson by now.”

Jackson nodded, ruefully.  “I thought we were meant to be a secret operation,” he pointed out, dryly.  “Should we be giving people our names?”

“Oh, they think we’re a police team,” Ron reminded him.  “It’ll do the NYPD some good, although their superiors probably won't be happy if they ever found out.  They’ll get more paperwork when others decide to offer their services to the cops.”

He shook his head as he glanced down an alleyway.  A dozen girls stood there, smoking, while they tried to look attractive to the handful of men on the streets.  Jackson felt his gorge rise as he saw the signs of drug abuse—needle marks all over their skin—and looked away, wondering how desperate anyone would have to be to pay the girls a handful of dollars for a quick blowjob.  Their pimps would take most of the money and beat the girls if they didn't bring home enough, although looking at them Jackson couldn't see how they brought in
any
money.  But they were the lowest of the low, the girls who had burned themselves out completely.  Those who still looked attractive were taken out of Hell’s Kitchen and forced to walk the streets in more prosperous parts of the city, or sent to certain addresses by recruitment agencies.  There was a pipeline of sex, drugs and other criminal activities leading from the worst parts of the city to the brightest, giving the unluckiest of women the chance to glimpse a better life, just before she serviced the men who had called for her.  And she wouldn't even see any of the cash herself...

Jackson felt sick as they walked away, carefully looking away from a pair of tattooed boys on the other side of the road.  They carried knifes and probably weapons, despite New York’s strict laws controlling gun purchases and distribution, but Jackson had no doubt that he could have taken them both in a fight.  The gang soldiers—as they considered themselves—were already hopeless and poor, paid bare dollars by their superiors for risking their lives.  There was no shortage of idiots willing to fight for the gangs, brutalised to the point where mindless violence would be their sole reason for existence.  A chance to go through boot camp might make proper soldiers of them—or Marines—but Jackson doubted it.  The military ethos was based around delivering precisely-focused and targeted violence, not indiscriminately slapping away at anything that annoyed them.  Those boys probably lost whatever restraint they had as soon as they joined the gangs.

“They’re not trying to mug us,” he muttered.  “Is there a reason they’re leaving us alone?”

Ron snorted.  “They’re cowards, dude,” he said.  “Here we are, two fit and healthy men...they’re not going to start a fight with us because the odds look even.  If they really wanted to mug us, they’d go call up some friends and try to get ten-to-one odds before they jumped.  These guys get their kicks beating up helpless women and keeping the streets terrified.”

He shrugged.  “Besides, they don’t know who we are,” he added.  “These gangs have ties with other criminal organisations.  For all they know, we could be from the Mafia—and you know how the Mafia responds to challenges to its power.  The last thing their superiors would want is to have the Mafia mad at them...”