gone shooting

Andrew Salmon

 

Fred Brand started sweating in the elevator.

As he watched the numbers blink their ascension, he couldn't help but think there was an easier way to get where he and Madam Chance were going.

"We could both fly, you know. I don't see why we have to be cooped up in this damn box."

Chance pulled her clear blue eyes off the blinking lights. "That's not how we do things."

They rode up in silence for a few moments. Chance caught Brand's sigh and the frustrated tug he made at his tie knot.

"The Council wants it low profile," Chance went on. "It's different on the street. We've got to make our presence known there. But for stuff like this, we're not supposed to make a scene. We fit in. Get it?"

Brand turned his head this way and that against the restrictive collar and squirmed in his gray suit. His eyes roved over Chance's statuesque, athletic figure bulging and stretching the black pantsuit she wore. With a mane of platinum blonde hair and the fact that she stood six-two in her stocking feet, he thought that last part of her explanation was damn funny. He barked a short laugh.

"Sure," he said, "Fit in."

Chance flashed him a smile, oblivious. "That's the spirit."

He felt a little better after the humorous interlude. Still he couldn't believe how nervous he was about appearing before the Council. After all he'd been through the last few days, what with joining with X after a failed suicide attempt and the murder of his mother, passing Council muster should be a cakewalk. Yet here he was sweating like a bridegroom.

The car shuddered to a stop and the door parted softly.

"All right," Chance said. "Game time. Ready?"

"No."

"Right answer."

They stepped out of the elevator and were met by a set of steel doors. Around the central image of a small, embossed eye mask ran the words: FOR THE GREATER GOOD, WE SERVE.

Brand released the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

Chance put her palm flat against an ID panel. The light over the panel turned green and the doors sighed open.

"Just be yourself," she said. "All they want is the truth."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

X, you still with me? Brand thought.

Here. Always, came the reply.

Give me strength, buddy.

This kind of strength I cannot help you with. However, you may call on me if you feel the need.

The Council was expecting them and the receptionist waved them towards the Council Chamber at the end of the hall.

Brand hadn't known what to expect when Chance picked him up that morning, but he was not prepared for this. The Hero HQ looked like the head office of some huge corporation with thick carpets, neutral colors and strategic, muted lighting. Not quite the gritty, head busting glamour he'd envisioned growing up on the streets of Serling's Bluff.

They headed down a whisper-soft hallway to an impressive door with the words 'Conference Room' set at eye level in thick gold letters. The doors opened as if sensing their presence and Chance led Brand inside.

Men and women in tailored suits were seated around a black, oblong conference table. A few heads turned in their direction but the rest conversed in low tones.

The man seated at the head of the table, facing the doors, noticed the new arrivals and stood.

"Ah, Chance," he said, his voice velvety smooth. "And the new recruit. Excellent."

The man was tall, thin, bordering on gangly. His pinstriped suit hung to perfection on his wiry frame. His head was too large for his body and he had the granite-hard, rugged good looks of a Marine. He came around the table and glided up to them.

"Always a vision." He smiled a politician's smile at Chance and took her hand gently.

"Slate," Chance replied with a brief nod.

Slate turned the mega-watt smile on Brand while his gray eyes flicked appraisingly over him.

"Mr. Brand," he said, pumping Brand's hand in a vise-like grip. "A pleasure to meet you face to face at last. Your exploits precede you."

Brand's gaze was fixed on the knot of Slate's tie. "Just trying to help out. Do some good, you know."

"Of course," Slate released his hand and stepped back, his eyes fixed on Brand. "That is what we are here for, yes? To keep the peace?" Slate turned, and with a grand gesture, motioned them into the room.

He guided them to the head of the table and stood before his chair. Brand and Chance flanked him. Brand fidgeted under the collective gaze of the gathered heroes.

"My friends." Slate put a hand on Brand's shoulder that landed with the weight of a cinderblock. "May I present Frederick Brand - Project X."

Brand received curt nods and a brief smile or two from the others.

The sledgehammer hand on his shoulder nudged him to a seat. "Please," Slate said.

Brand and Chance took the empty chairs on either side of Slate.

"As time is short I'll dispense with the introductions. There will be plenty of time to get acquainted when our business here is finished. Shall we begin?"

He looked over the group, and, as no dissenting vote was put forth to this suggestion, he smiled and touched a control next to him. A holographic display formed in the center of the table.

Brand stiffened when the mug shot from his first arrest appeared on the screen. The fresh-faced kid with the haunted eyes seemed a million miles away from Brand.

And he thought of his mother.

The screen flickered slightly and his first mug shot changed to his second, then ran into a slide show of all his arrests over the years in his quest to soar. In a matter of seconds Brand aged into his present self on screen. The slideshow ended with his last arrest, four years ago. The screen froze on that image.

Slate turned hard eyes on him. "Brand?"

X, Brand thought, what do you say we fly right up through the roof and go to Mars?

Easy, we must not lose sight of our goal.



Emboldened by X, Brand cleared his throat and glanced around the table. "I've got a past. I don't deny it. But it's just that - the past. I want all of you to know that. I've spent my life searching for something, but I've found it now."

"And what is that, precisely?" Slate asked.

"The power to make a difference."

"Most commendable." Slate turned his attention to the other board members. "The matter before us is a simple one. You have all had a chance to review the case file. The man himself is before you now and he's a man of few words. This suits me fine. For we live in a time where actions, not words, are the order of the day. That being said - "

Chance broke in. "Fred's actions have helped this city. Look at the arrest record over the last seven days in that file. It's a long one. And let's not forget that he single-handedly stopped a suicide bomber from reaching his intended target. Brand has proved he is fit to sit on this Council."

Slate scowled at the interruption but recovered. "Well said, Chance. Very heartfelt." He paused and fixed each person at the table with his gaze as he spoke. "Frederick Brand's recent accomplishments are not the issue here. His past is. Once his identity is revealed to the citizenry, his criminal record will come to light as well. We must consider how this will affect public perception of the image we have fought so hard to establish and maintain."

"A reformed criminal - shouldn't this be the image this Council wants out there?" Chance asked.

"A reformed criminal who possesses incredible power? An unstoppable ex-convict with an arrest sheet as long as both of your arms? This will make the people of Serling's Bluff feel secure?"

Brand could keep quiet no longer. "You people can't be serious! Don't we have work to do? Shouldn't we be out there keeping the streets safe? I thought that was the job."

Slate put a hand on his forearm. "You are right. Quite right. But the public image is vital to what we do. We are here to help, yes, but there are other factors. Perhaps not as crucial as maintaining order, but necessary nonetheless."

Brand shook his head. "Hardly. Look, my mother was murdered a few days ago. By a thug named Sid Faust - Shadow Lancer. I should be out looking for him. Not cooling my heels here."

"There you are quite wrong, Brand," Slate said. "You will stay away from Shadow Lancer. Is that perfectly clear?"

"What - "

"Personal vendettas are for vigilantes. The heroes of Serling's Bluff execute the law. We do not let personal feelings cloud our judgment."

"If you think I'm just going to stand around while you -- "

"That is exactly what I, and the rest of this Council, expect you to do. I will assign a hero to solve your mother's murder and bring in the perpetrator. Note I said solve, not avenge."

"And what do I do in the meantime?"

"You satisfy this board that you belong on it. Until such time, that is your one and only task."

Brand stood up.

"Like hell! I want to join this Council but not at the expense of doing my job. The streets have gone to pot. It's our responsibility to clean them up."

Slate closed his eyes and put the tips of his fingers against his lower lip. "There is a way of doing things here," he said, his voice like ice. "You would do well to learn that."

Brand looked around at the group, then sighed. "Okay. I'll lay off Shadow Lancer, but I'm going to hit the streets. I can't sit here and chew the fat while there's work to do."

And with that he left the room. Slate made the briefest of nods to Chance and she got up to follow. She caught up with him at the elevator. The doors were closing as she slipped through. The elevator went up.

"Where are we going?" Chance asked.

"The roof. Need to clear my head."

"Thought so."

Chance slipped out of her street clothes on the way. She wore her red spandex costume underneath. Brand tried not to watch the transformation.

"I've got to get me an identity," he said, his eyes fixed on the progress of the elevator.

"Be careful what you wish for," Chance said. "This pantsuit cost me $300 and I've got to dump it here to watchdog you. Well, there's a clothing allowance."

On the roof, they took to the air immediately. Brand welcomed the cool rush of air on his face.

A-OK, X?

More or less. But the Council -

Forget about them. Let's do some good!

But Chance had other ideas. "You didn't earn any brownie points back there."

Brand shook his head in disgust as they rose above the rooftops. "Ah! I suppose there's a place for that sort of thing. But that Slate character seems a little caught up with appearances."

"I know. PR. Suits and ties in public. Manners all the way. It's his thinking that we run the outfit like a business so people will accept us. It works."

"Could have fooled me."

They soared in silence.

"I'm not going after Shadow Lancer," Brand said at last.

"I know."

"I'm going to take down a crime boss, name of Walt McGivern."

"I know."

"How - "

"Madam Chance, remember? My guesses are usually right."

Brand grinned wryly. "Define usually."

"Always."

A skyscraper loomed dead ahead. Brand went left around the structure, Chance went right. When Brand shot around he had to pull up short as the antennae from the local radio station cut off his way like prison bars. He had to slalom around them and almost plowed into one. Chance was waiting for him when he finally got through the metal forest. He gave her a sour look to which she replied with a shrug and a wink.

"You're aware that there is a procedure to follow," she said moments later. "With taking down someone like McGivern."

"Don't worry."

"We don't just bust through the wall and cart bad guys off to jail. You know that?"

"That's how it used to happen with me."

"You were small time. Petty street stuff." Chance realized how that sounded and added, "Sorry."

"Skip it. You're not half as sorry as I am."

"What I'm trying to say is that for scum like McGivern, we'll need names, dates - the works. Or he'll be out on the street thumbing his nose at us half an hour after we turn him over."

Brand smiled, there was no humor in it. "I've got that covered."

They'd reached the south side of Serling's Bluff. Descending, the odor of poverty and desperation rose up to meet them. Although McGivern could buy and sell half the town, he preferred keeping offices in the impoverished area. Since most of his income was generated by the direct exploitation of the people who scraped out a living on these mean streets, he wanted to be in the middle of his empire, watching, feeling it grow up around him. He kept a deluxe penthouse downtown to impress foreign narcotic suppliers and as a refuge when the day's work was done.

Brand/X and Chance came down over an alley lined with overflowing metal dumpsters that had been cooking in the summer heat beating down on the city for the past week. Brand would have gagged had he not been used to it. If Chance was bothered by the stench she made no sign.

McGivern's building was up ahead. Staying level with the tops of the streetlights, they glided over the morning rush hour traffic.

They turned at the corner and a burnt-out abandoned factory smoldered up the cross street. For the second time that morning, Brand thought of his mother. Another turn and they were at the pier. McGivern's headquarters fronted the water with a broad, shabby dock.

Brand thought of all the times he'd had to crawl through those rear doors, hat in hand, begging for a job and a chance to earn enough money to continue his useless existence.

This time would be different.

You ready, X?

Yes. Are you? Be careful these next few minutes.

Brand roared ahead of Chance and crashed through the double doors. They exploded inwards in a hail of splinters and lethal, jagged spears which lanced in all directions. A few of McGivern's hard men had to duck and cover to avoid getting skewered. Brand and Chance paid them no mind.

Brand led Chance to McGivern's office. The door crumbled under Brand/X's pressure and they were inside.

McGivern was seated at his gunmetal desk, a half-circle of goons around it, looking down at him. They parted at the sound of the door crashing in and reached under their arms. McGivern's voice stopped them.

"Freddie Brand? Imagine that?" He had a voice like a rusty saw. He threw a crooked grin at Brand. Walt McGivern was of average height and build, with salt and pepper hair, white mustache, and craggily features. Deep set, narrow brown eyes glinted in the overhead light from their nest in thick, arched eyebrows.

"Surprised?" Brand asked, feeling the power of the moment. So many times he'd stood there breathlessly waiting, subject to McGivern's whims.

The crime boss nodded slightly. "And why do you grace us with your presence?"

"I'm turning you in. Simple as that."

A confused look played across McGivern's features for a moment before being shoved down behind that implacable mask he made of his face. His eyes darted to Chance. Then he chuckled.

"Trying to move up the food chain, eh?" His grin got wider. "You think you can hero up and come in here talking big?"

"Chance?" Brand said.

Chance made a show of looking around the office, then said, "Think I'll take a look around this dump." And with that she turned her muscular back to them and walked out.

"Freddie, Freddie, Freddie," McGivern said after Madam Chance was gone. He seemed infused with sudden confidence. "You never knew when you were out of your league. Boys." He gestured at the hired guns. "Take this bum apart."

Brand was taken aback at the crime lord's response but chalked it up to McGivern thinking that Chance had been the one who'd burst in the door with him along for the ride. Like the old days.

Brand/X stepped forward to meet the approaching men. Swinging his left arm lazily like a field hand with a scythe, he casually swept the men aside one by one, sending them crashing into the walls with stunning force. He never broke stride as he drew up to his former employer's desk.

McGivern's mouth dropped open as he watched Brand/X dismantle his men. He closed his mouth, swallowed in preparation of speaking. He never got the chance. Brand/X seized McGivern by the throat and hauled him out of the chair and across the desk, sending papers and files scattering to the floor.

"You're one of them now," he managed. "So that's it."

"I've heard enough of your noise." Brand/X squeezed McGivern's throat, strangling off the crime boss's next words.

McGivern garbled. "Look. . . deal!"

"No deals!" Brand roared. "Scum like you are always sliding out from under. Not this time. You're going down and I'm the man to bury you!"

Ease off slightly, X cautioned. You will break his neck.

Brand did as X suggested, but kept his grip tight enough to keep McGivern from speaking. Anything the crime lord had to say was irrelevant.

Chance had strolled back in by this time. McGivern struggled vainly, his bulging eyes rolled pleadingly towards her.

"You've made your point, Fred," she said simply, then turned her gaze to McGivern. "By the way, I ran into the rest of your men. They're all taking a nap just now. Some may need medical attention."

Brand/X slackened his grip and McGivern crumpled, supported by the strong hand still on his throat.

"We about done here?" Chance asked.

Brand nodded.

McGivern, despite his position, had recovered some of his earlier bluster. "What gives with you people?" he rasped. "I - "

Brand/X applied more pressure to the man's throat. "We've heard enough out of you."

"Police are on their way," Chance announced.

"Police?" Brand had this image in his mind of soaring above the rooftops of his old neighborhood in triumph with McGivern dangling from his fist for all to see.

"That's how it's done," Chance replied. "We either go through channels, or McGivern's ferrety lawyer will get him off. We've got probable cause for busting in here based on your evidence. Self-defense for the guys we've dusted but that's as far as it goes. We have to let the police run him in or he'll start barking about assault and unlawful restraint first chance he gets."

Sirens could be heard followed by the screech of tires as squad cars pulled up to the building.

Chance led the way out to meet them. Brand could have carried McGivern out but wanted the boss to suffer the indignity of being dragged lie a mop across the filthy floor. Heels bumping and scraping, McGivern was hauled from his headquarters outside to the waiting police van. Brand was filled with a bright clear feeling, a clean feeling as he watch the bluesuits throw the crime lord in to the van. He felt a high soaring couldn't touch.

Back in the air, Chance regarded Brand frankly. "They're going to need the heavy goods to put him away. I wasn't kidding about the lawyer."

"I know just about all of his skeletons and the closets they're tucked away in. Enough to put that bum away for the duration."

"Good. We've had our eye on him for years but could never get anything to pin directly on him or Sutherland, who runs the show from out of state. And none of his subordinates ever cut a deal."

Brand laughed in his throat. "They knew what was good for them. If anyone had talked, McGivern would have known. Then - "

"You're talking."

A shadow seemed to pass over his face. "He can't hurt me. Not anymore. There was only my mom and that's over now. There's no one else."

Brand suddenly felt like getting up above the city. He glided upwards to almost cloud level, breathed deeply of the clean air. "Feels good," he sighed.

Chance couldn't resist smiling at him. "What, the air? Or bringing in McGivern?"

"Your guesses are always supposed to be right. You tell me."

Her smile grew.

"That's what I thought," she said.