Project Northwoods (79 page)

Blindly, he felt out where he was supposed to go, feeling Marsh’s attempt to do the same. The actor found his way up first, then grabbed onto Cleese’s shoulders and helped guide him up. The doors slammed shut once he was inside. As their rescuer/captor rounded the outside of the van to the driver’s side door, Jack was able to rub the tears out of his eyes. Painfully, he could finally make out the chiseled handsomeness of Weston, then the tiny window hatch which would allow them to communicate with the front of the van… and he realized that this was a paddy wagon. “Oh, for villains’ sake…” he muttered, the mysterious man having opened the door and slammed it shut to punctuate his statement.

“What?” Marsh asked, only now taking in their situation. “Ah, damn it…” he said, flopping into a corner as the vehicle started up. With a click, the viewport to the front of the van opened.

“I’m sorry for the theatrics. I had hoped to get to you before Siren found you.” The man didn’t turn as he removed his helmet. He turned to them, seriously. “I am Colonel Morant of the Enforcers.” His eyes went back to the road and, with a lurch, they were in motion.

“Damn it!” Marsh said, slamming the back of his head against the wall.

“You’re the leader of the Enforcers…” Jack said.

Morant cut him off pointedly. “Was.” He took a turn on the road. “Arbiter disbanded them this morning. All other heroes not approved by him are now subject to loyalty testing to weed out…” his voice trailed off. “Sympathizers.”

Jack Cleese coughed a laugh. “Is that what you’re calling human beings nowadays?”

“I always respected you, Mr. Cleese.” He slowed to take a sharp turn. “While I believe that there is a conspiracy afoot, Arbiter is looking in the wrong direction.”

Marsh grunted. “How so?”

The sunlight faded from view as the Colonel pulled into a building. “The villains we have recaptured want to survive. They are leaderless and desperate. They merely wish to live.” The vehicle stopped. He put the van in park, turned on the interior lights, and looked at the others. “Heroes are continuing to die. There is no doubt about that. But I don’t think villains are the ones behind it.”

Cleese looked at him in the darkness. “And how do you seek to prove this?”

Morant’s gaze didn’t falter, but the pause spoke volumes. “I don’t know. But I think if we can unite the remaining villains, we can present a unified defense.”

“Hold up the pride parade, here.” Weston stood up as best as he could in the cramped quarters. “You engineer the capture of New York’s villains, and now you want them to welcome you into the fold?”

Colonel Morant’s eyes shifted to him. “I was under the illusion that all villains would be released in due time once all the conspirators were found.” A slight pause. “I no longer labor under such misapprehensions.”

“A change of heart, huh?” snorted Marsh. “Why didn’t you see what you were doing was wrong?” He squinted. “Did you think Arbiter was lying about what he wanted to do?”

Morant shook his head. “Fear and loyalty can make destructive bedfellows, Mr. Marsh.” He looked up at him. “Sometime a soldier happens to be on the wrong side of a conflict.”

The pause hung heavily in the air. Weston turned away, bringing his hand to his mouth before collapsing on the bench. Jack looked at Marsh, then back to Morant. “And just who do you want us to rat out to you?”

Morant’s eyes shifted back to Cleese. “The Italian Mob may have failed at the Fortress, but their attempt still counts for something.” He nodded to no one in particular. “We can bring others in under their banner.” He shifted in his seat, unbuckling his belt. “I will let you consider,” he said before disappearing out the door.

Jack looked at Marsh, inhaled slowly, then exhaled while puffing out his cheeks. “What do you think, Marsh, my boy?”

Marsh stared stonily at him before relenting. “Fuck it. It’s not like we have anything to lose.”

With a click, the latch on the rear door released. The door opened, revealing an empty parking structure behind Colonel Morant in his Enforcer gear. Strapped to his back was a drum-magazine fed grenade launcher, the weapon responsible for the tear gas and flash-bangs earlier. In his hand, he held Marsh’s pilfered automatic rifle.

Jack offered a smile. “They’re holed up in the Super Villains’ Guild.” He hopped out of the back of the van. “If there’s no booze or if you want us to fight anyone, we’re leaving.”

DEATH

THE APARTMENT BUILDING WAS AN OLD
but well-kept affair, with its elegant off-white wall paper, fancy brass light sconces, and ornate woodwork giving the appearance of an expensive hotel. Like most apartment complexes Morgan had experience with, it wasn’t particularly swarming with heroes, but it didn’t make her react any less awkwardly when one would exit their room and brush by her. Hidden under a baseball cap for a sports team she had never heard of and in a bland, featureless T-shirt, she figured that she may as well be wearing a neon sign advertising her subterfuge. Every time she would look back at Steven, the mobster seemed completely in his element: bereft of his hat, he looked like an average college student in his powder-blue polo and intentionally tattered jeans. He glided along behind her, even making friendly salutations to those that passed.

A particularly meaty hero squeezed his way past them, almost forcing Morgan to hug the wall. Steven, however, gave a laugh and offered his fist to the passing hulk. “How’s it going, buddy?”

The hero gently tapped the extended fist with his own but didn’t break stride. “Found another dead Enforcer down the block.” He was already passing Steven when he shook his huge head in dismay. “Fuck villains, right man?”

Steven turned as the behemoth moved around him. “I hear ya, buddy.” He turned back to Morgan, who shot him an angry look. “What?”

“How do you do that?”

He smirked. “Do what?”

She continued walking down the hallway. “I’m the hero here, and I have to act like Andre Devigny.” Morgan reached a corner and poked her head around it.

“Who now?” Steven asked.

She glared at him. “
A Man Escaped
? French Resistance fighter breaks out of a Nazi prison?” she asked pointedly. He didn’t immediately respond, prompting her to give a dismissive hand wave. “Whatever.” She rounded the corner. “In any case, you’re a goon for the Italian Mob who practically cried when I told him to take off his stupid hat–”

“It’s not a stupid hat,” he muttered.

“– but who nonetheless is on better terms with the people in my mother’s apartment building than I am.” She chuffed in annoyance.

“
I
wanted to take the elevator.
You
thought the stairs were a better idea, thus forcing me to socialize.”

“It
is
a better idea,” she hissed.

“Yeah, less face time with people who may recognize you,” he recited with a fair degree of hostility. “I get it.”

“I took a course on infiltration at the academy.” She shot a look back at him. “Do you have any post-secondary education, Mr. Goon?” She faced forward, content with how she shut down Steven’s incessant commentary.

After a decent enough pause, Steven muttered, “Your hat is stupid.” She stopped suddenly, turning to him with her eyebrow raised. He offered a semi-insincere smile. “Look, I’m a faceless nobody. You’re a wanted fugitive.”

“You are, too,” she hissed.

He nodded gently. “Yes, but I’m in a group of fugitives. A collective, if you will.
You
have your own photo and everything.” Steven reached up to pat her on the shoulder, but clearly thought better of it when her face didn’t soften. He widened his smile as his hand dropped back to his side. “It makes sense for me to be the face while you sulk around like an obvious villain.”

“I’m
not
a villain,” she snapped. She turned and marched down the hallway.

“You sure are acting like one,” he teased as he took up after her.

She stopped again and pointed, nearly jabbing her finger in his eye as he skidded to a stop. “I did not want this. I didn’t even want my stupid ability.” She motioned back to herself. “I wanted to be a dancer, for heroes’ sake. I was roped into this mess. If I could forgo labels for even one moment, I would.”

He looked earnestly into her glaring eyes. It was awkward, to say the least. “I know you’re stressed, but arguing in the hallway of a heroic apartment building is a bad idea.” Morgan backed off, still glaring, but not as intensely as before.

“I’m sorry,” she said, completely devoid of anything that bore any resemblance to sincerity. “You’re also perfectly smart for not having a degree.” The statement was forced, as though someone had wrung it out of her.

“Thanks, I guess.” He smiled. “And as far as I’m concerned, you are as neutral as they come.” Morgan offered a tight-lipped smile, then turned back down the hall. After a couple dozen more feet, she stopped in front of a door flanked by two fake trees and swallowed. She brought her hand up to knock, then let her hand fall to her side. “Is this it?” Steven asked as he reached her side.

“Yeah.” She cast a glance at him. “I don’t think I can go in.”

He stared at her, not sure what to say. He made a motion toward the door with his head. “She’s your mother.”

“She also tried to kill me.”

Steven was clearly not amused by the tingle of déjà vu. “As much fun as it is repeating a conversation I thought we had concluded, we’re already here. There is no more heat of the moment potential for murder.” He went to knock on the door, but Morgan’s hand shot up and grabbed his wrist. “What?”

“I’ll do it. Just give me a moment.” She swallowed and stared at the door a moment, jiggling in place in anticipation. Jerking so fast that she startled Steven, her hand went up to the door, hesitated, then gave a polite, shave-and-a-haircut rap. Several heartbeats passed, during which Steven checked his empty wrist as though a watch was there.

“Maybe she’s not…” Steven began as Morgan’s hand darted toward the door latch. She pressed down on it and, with a click, it gave under the pressure. “Unlocked doors? Really?”

“Have you seen this place?” she asked, casting a glance in his direction. “You think a burglar would really come here?”

He offered an indignant puff of air. “People aren’t known for thinking things through.”

The door creaked open, bringing the light of the hallway into an already lit room and sending the sounds of a daytime soap opera flooding over the two trespassers. Meager streams of daylight flowed from unseen windows in other rooms, slightly illuminating the pale paint job and stark, pictureless tracts of wall, upset only by the door the closet to their right and the kitchen to their left. Morgan entered slowly, then beckoned Steven in after her before shutting the door firmly and locking it.

“Mom?” Morgan called out. She could see the television from the entry hall, but not much else. Her eyes flicked to the walls, where pictures of her had once hung. Heart sinking at the sight, she nevertheless pressed onward.

Steven was leaning into the kitchen, the room shooting off from the main hall. “Do you think your mother will mind if I raid the kitchen?” he asked, eventually looking back at Morgan.

“Knock yourself out.” She gave him an approving wave of her hand, and he darted into the kitchen, pulling open the cupboards and rifling through the goods there. Morgan moved further into the apartment. “Mom? It’s me… your daughter.”

“I think she’ll appreciate the clarification,” shouted Steven, his voice muffled but no less obnoxious.

Before she could retort, the armchair came into view. An unmoving, pale hand was flopped over the side of an armrest. On the floor were several empty bottles of various liquors, the most frequent being vodka. Morgan was about to consider castigating her mother when she noticed the head-level hole in the back of the recliner. She stopped moving forward, her heart following suit. A matching hole radiated spider web-like cracks through the window, the sight of which now made Morgan’s mouth go dry. She felt her chin quiver.

“Mom?” she called out quietly. Time seemed to slow, every moment stretched into infinity. One foot in front of the other brought her around to the front of the armchair, to her mother slumped, glassy eyed and unblinking, with a round, red hole in her head. A trickle of dried blood ran a tiny river down her forehead, her nose, and ended at her lips. It had to be a trick… a mean-spirited joke… for everything, everything she had done to disappoint her mother her entire life. She didn’t even remember collapsing to her knees and heaving, just the desperate attempt to rationalize what she was seeing. “Mom? Please… get up.” She leaned forward and touched the cold, unyielding hand. “Momma, please… I’m sorry.”

“All your mother has are these crappy health food…” Steven said somewhere a million miles away. Morgan was dimly aware of the sound of bags hitting the floor, then the sensation of someone grabbing her and holding her tightly, cradling her head. Her hands immediately shot out toward her mother, desperate to touch her again.