Vigilante (3 page)

A
s he ran, Nolan mashed the lock on his key ring to ensure that Alice stayed safe in the car. He never looked back, only sprinted down the alley, the wet pavement reeking of trash and urine.

His footfalls would alert the three bigger boys to his presence, sacrificing his element of surprise. It couldn’t be helped; there was no time for stealth.

Weaponless and wearing nothing to protect his body—which was weakened from the ordeal of being shot—Nolan leapt into action.

His steps landed so fast and hard that the three teenagers did hear him coming, but his instincts and training kicked in, affording them no opportunity to react. The bat was removed from the first one’s hand, and Nolan swung it out wide, forcing the three thugs to back up. Nolan used this opportunity to slide around and put himself between the bigger boys—who he now saw were proudly wearing gang colors—and the young one.

“Wanna get hurt?” he challenged them, holding up the bat like a Major League player. “Take one more step toward the kid.”

“Looks like somebody already popped you good,” teased the one who’d lost his bat, nodding at Nolan’s mummy-like face. “Whatchoo hiding under there, boss? Vampire fangs?”

The other two thugs guffawed and held up their weapons a little higher, bolder. Nolan never flinched.

“Just pity,” replied Nolan, “for cowards like you.”

“Better watch your mouth, man!” shouted the one with the knife. “I’ve killed people for less than that.”

“You’ve never killed anyone,” said Nolan quietly, his gaze absorbing the three teenagers’ eyes, each in turn, all of which were still too wide and eager to have ever snuffed out another’s life. “You’re overgrown children, picking on a boy half your size. How brave.”

“Go home, tough guy,” said the first one, taking a bold step forward. “Back to the hospital you crawled out of. This ain’t no business of yours.”

Nolan swung the bat and caught the teenager in the gut. He spun the teen around and dropped him to his knees, holding the bat up against his windpipe.

“Run,” he said, glancing back at the young boy behind him, “as fast as you can.”

The kid’s eyes were full of fear as he seemed frozen to the spot, but finally he blinked and did as he was told.

The other two thugs advanced, but Nolan spun, tossing the first teen and the bat to the ground behind him. He carried through the motion to launch a vicious roundhouse, an action that knocked free both of the weapons that were raised to bear on him. The knife went flying, the bottle flung up against the nearest brick wall and shattered.

Nolan lunged and snatched both teenagers by the throat. His powerful fingers pinching their tracheas, he brought both of them to a sudden, painful halt. On either side of him, they went limp, struggling and dangling even though they weren’t suspended in the air, unable to budge his stone-like hands from their throats.

“You came close to making a bad decision,” he explained as they struggled and tried to breathe.

He turned them loose and then punched both in the stomach, sending them to the ground to join their friend. “I don’t ever want to see those colors again,” he said. “Go do something with your life. Something better.”

All three groaned in pain and he left them to it, walking swiftly back to his car.

When he arrived, he was stunned to find that Alice was gone. At first he feared for her safety, wondering if someone had grabbed her. Maybe her husband had woken up and acted faster than expected and the police had “rescued” her from the madman with the bandaged face.

But he saw his concerns were unfounded when he reentered the car. In his seat, she’d left a small, handwritten note that simply said, “Thank you again. I wish there were more people like you.”

I
t was nearly four in the morning when Nolan made his way through the city and arrived at home. Not Branford’s apartment, but Nolan’s own private quarters.

“Home” was perhaps the wrong word for it. He’d only lived there a few weeks, so it didn’t feel familiar and inviting yet. And it resembled a traditional dwelling in no way whatsoever.

Branford was wide-awake and pouring over the flashing computer screens in the “Cube,” as they were calling it. Arjay was nowhere to be seen, but Nolan could smell the hot metal that was evidence of his latest work, and he couldn’t wait to take a look at it later.

For now, he wandered over to his new living space to give it a once-over. There were no “rooms” in this unconventional place; he and his two cohorts called them “areas” instead. His personal area was by a far wall off to his right as he entered, far enough that he could have some privacy, but not so far that it was lonely and dark. He hadn’t been fond of shadowy solitary places since his captivity during the war.

In his area waited a twin bed, a reclining chair, a metal cabinet for clothes and personal effects, and a pair of old floor lamps he’d found in a Dumpster. They were broken when he found them, but Arjay rewired and upgraded them to produce brighter and more energy-efficient light. Branford and Arjay had similar areas to call their own, spread out in other parts of the platform. Arjay claimed the old women’s restroom, ripped out all the plumbing, and transformed it into his own little sanctuary. Branford’s space was more utilitarian, like Nolan’s.

Everything appeared in order, and the bed was awfully appealing just now, but he turned and wandered through this small grotto that was, in reality, an abandoned subway platform that had been cut off from the main lines and condemned decades ago. It was centrally located underground, not far from the heart of Manhattan, and Nolan and Branford had toiled for months to remodel this musty, forgotten place to make it livable and secure. Outside access was now limited to two well-hidden entrance points, and even the huge train tunnel had been sealed by hand with dozens of layers of brick, rock, and sediment. As Branford had deemed it when they were done, “not even a cockroach could get through.” Nolan prayed the old man was right about that. There had been issues of plumbing and electricity to be resolved, of course, but Arjay’s engineering genius had devised solutions that were both elegant and sublime, which left no trace of their presence to the residents above.

Bathed in white and yellow cones of light that shone down from the high ceiling, in the most spacious part of the platform, was what they called the command area. The part at the far back corner was Arjay’s workspace, with several stainless steel tables, which he kept spotless. Tools and instruments Nolan had never seen before nor knew what they did hung on the two corner walls. A rectangular metal crate at the front edge of Arjay’s workspace bore the fruits of his labors, the latest technological marvels he would invent and present to Nolan as tools for the field.

Surrounding Arjay’s workspace were a number of flat screen LCD monitors, most of which were black at the moment, and supply cabinets. Nolan walked to the space in the very center of the command area, where Branford worked. From the outside, it looked like a huge floor-to-ceiling cubicle. The Cube sat on a platform raised four inches off the cement ground, and was surrounded by what were basically prison cell bars that had been transplanted there and made into a rudimentary security system for what was inside. Arjay had added all sorts of techno skullduggery to the bars and the frames that held them, making penetrating the Cube a life-threatening undertaking.

Inside the bars, the twenty-by-twenty Cube held dozens of screens, arranged in an unorganized mishmash, overlapping one another at times and covering three of the cube’s walls. A desk holding several computer keyboards and a few trackpads, mice, and other controllers sat in the center of the cube with a rugged old leather wingback chair in front of it. It was Branford’s favorite chair, the one personal item he’d brought with him.

Noise from the dozens of monitors was blasting out of the Cube, so Branford didn’t hear Nolan approach. All the same, Nolan knew that the old man was completely aware of his presence, thanks to the security monitors placed throughout the platform and its entry points.

“Busy night,” Branford growled as Nolan stepped inside the Cube.

Nolan bristled but suppressed it. Branford had been keeping tabs on him, monitoring his activities through this complex network of surveillance taps Arjay had built them.

“You saw,” he noted, watching his takedown of the three teenagers from a security camera about three stories above the action.

“Was about to erase the footage,” Branford replied.

Nolan knew the man well enough to know that he was complaining for a reason.

“What’s on your mind, General?”

“You took those kids down pretty hard. Seems to me that’s not the image you’re lookin’ to project.”

Nolan crossed his arms, surprised at his friend and mentor’s words. “You taught me yourself that a fast takedown was the most efficient solution to any fight. ‘Leave no opportunity for retaliation.’ ”

“You brought me into this to help you, so this is me helpin’ you,” retorted Branford. “You mean to attract followers to your cause, correct?”

Nolan nodded once.

“Then stop acting like the streets of this city are another battlefield for you to contain and control. People ain’t gonna be inspired by someone who uses the level of brutality you displayed tonight.”

Branford punctuated his words by tapping a key. The security footage vanished from the screen, permanently erased.

Nolan considered what he’d said. Branford was right. He knew it. It had always been so very easy to fall back on his training. To let instinct take over, and lose himself in the fight . . .

Branford’s next words came out softly. “You still having the flashbacks?”

Nolan snapped out of his reverie. “
No
” was his forceful reply. “Inner scars fade with time just like outer ones do. That was a long time ago, and I’m only interested in the here and now.”

The concerned expression, just a slight variation on his permanent frown, left Branford’s face, and he went back to work.

“So what have I missed the last two days?” Nolan asked.

“Not enough,” Branford replied. “You shouldn’t even be on your feet, with your injuries.”

“I’m antsy, General,” said Nolan. “I want to get started.”

“You know we’re still a month away,” Branford said. “And don’t call me that.”

It was true, Branford wasn’t a general. He’d never made the rank, having been passed over time and again for promotion. He was retired now, though a decade ago he’d commanded Nolan’s Army Special Forces unit in the war. Nolan wasn’t entirely sure why he’d started calling Branford by that rank since they’d reconnected. Maybe it was because he felt the old man really had achieved the rank regardless of what the army said.

At last Branford craned his neck around to look at Nolan, and when he did, he suddenly stood from his chair. “Good grief, look at you. Your bandages are seeping. Come on, better change ’em before they get infected.”

Nolan dutifully followed his old colleague out of the Cube and to a first aid table they’d set up just outside the command area.

As Branford set to work unwinding the endless roll of white that spiraled around Nolan’s head, he smirked. “Your funeral’s going to be on all the major networks in a few hours. Wouldn’t want to miss that. Our glorious president is giving the eulogy.”

I
have never known anyone,” said President Hastings into the lectern’s microphone, “with the heart, courage, or conviction of Lieutenant Nolan Gray.”

His words echoed across the field at Arlington National Cemetery, where hundreds of members of the press were in attendance, along with thousands of Americans who’d shown up to mourn Nolan’s death. Dozens of cameras were trained on the small dais where Hastings stood wearing an onyx-black linen suit that his stylist had ordered specifically for the occasion. It was handmade, and like everything else about Nolan’s funeral, no expense was spared.

Nolan’s dog tags were clutched in Hastings’ hand, held so tight that they were biting into his skin. He didn’t care.

Members of Hastings’ own administration made up much of the small audience that was provided with white folding chairs near the podium. A handful of foreign dignitaries had come to show their support for Nolan and what he meant to the American people. A half dozen compatriots from Nolan’s time in the military were seated as honored guests—all of them owing their lives to Nolan Gray. Hastings’ staff had been unable to locate anyone else who Nolan called “friend.”

“It is no exaggeration to say that Lieutenant Gray was the best soldier this country has ever trained, skilled in at least nine forms of martial arts, extremely high proficiency with every weapon he got his hands on, and an uncommon focus and clarity of purpose while on the battlefield. His strength of will was unmatched, his character unequaled. There exists no official count of the number of people whose lives he saved, because that number is far greater than anyone could possibly keep track of. To watch him in battle was to stand in awe of a man doing precisely what he was put on this earth to do, and doing it with confidence and razor-sharp precision. The Army Special Forces can claim to have turned him into the perfect soldier, but those of us who served with him know the truth. He was a warrior from birth.”

Hastings cleared his throat and chided himself for displaying signs of anxiety. The next topic in his speech—which he’d revised five times himself, by hand—was not the most comfortable subject to talk about. But it was impossible to honor Nolan and not get to this.

He swallowed.

“During a covert mission on enemy soil during the war, Nolan and seven other members of his unit were discovered and taken prisoner—a captivity that would last those who survived more than two years. It was a day that I will never forget, because as the whole world knows, I was one of the men taken captive alongside Lieutenant Gray.

“We were already comrades. We trusted each other, the way that men serving together on the battlefield are forced to. But it was after we were taken prisoner that we became friends. While I and others succumbed to illness, Nolan made it his mission to protect us, keep us safe. He routinely gave some of his daily rations to those of us who were sick, and regularly took on our portion of the daily punishments. The horrific events of those dark days are . . . well, they’re a matter of public record.”

He paused. It was the first time in his entire speech he’d gone off script, and the first time he let emotion seep through.

“The things that we endured will haunt me for the rest of my life. My body still bears the scars. My sleep still suffers from recurring nightmares. There are times when I smell something, or hear something, or my wife touches me in a certain way—unintentionally—and it comes rushing back.

“Nolan suffered the most, and so his demons in the years since the war were the worst of any of us. For two years, Lieutenant Nolan Gray fought with every ounce of his strength to keep the rest of us alive. Two years that he was subjected to the most humiliating, excruciating tortures man has ever conceived. Two years during which they broke bone after bone, removed his fingernails and toenails, branded him, drowned him, burned him, starved him, and inflicted other punishments far too repulsive to mention in a public forum. But their relentless evils only strengthened his resolve. He never broke. Never. I don’t think any other man alive could have held out that long, or kept his sanity intact.

“He was a hero in every capacity of the word, even before our imprisonment. It was he who engineered the call for help that led our rescuers to our location. He never stopped believing that we would escape, that we would see better days.

“Nolan was a man of very strong faith. It was a faith he grew up with, instilled by the grandmother who raised him. He believed in the redemptive qualities of mankind, and despite all that he suffered, his faith never wavered. I have never shared his beliefs. I have seen too much of the darkness within mankind.

“But just as those years hardened my resolve, those years changed him in other ways. He became terrified of small spaces, but also couldn’t bear being in large crowds. As a result, he spent the last nine years of his life—following his honorable discharge—as a nomad. I saw him only a handful of times, usually at memorial events. He regained his health and strength, but in retrospect, I wonder if he was ever the same.

“And in that way, I believe that we, the American people who showered him with praise and held parades upon his safe return to the U.S., failed him. He never asked for anything, but we should have given him more—more of the help he needed and deserved. He was my closest friend, I owe my life to him hundreds of times over, and
I
failed him.

“He is not here with us today,” said Hastings, clearing his throat again and trying to ignore the burning sensation in his eyes, “but I hope that wherever he is, he can forgive us for our neglect. Because he is not forgotten. Let the bravery, compassion, and unwavering goodness of Nolan Gray
never
be forgotten.”