by Greg Cox
“What’s next, sir?” Bradley asked. He replaced the motion detector in one pouch of his dark red supply belt, then drew a 5mm plasma beam projector from his side holster. “How’re we going in?”
“Hard and fast,” Fury answered. The more he thought about it, there was little point in trying to sneak up on the mansion, even if no activity could be glimpsed through the house’s windows. With all the enemies they had, the X-Men had surely wired the entire grounds with every type of security measure known to humanity—and a few more besides. A quick, surgical strike was the only way they were going to claim any tiny element of surprise, provided the X-Men didn’t already know they had company. “Alpha team ready to knock on the front door,” he whispered into a secure radio link. “All other teams hold their positions.” Taking no chances, he had agents stationed all around the estate, including underneath the surface of the lake, in the event that the X-Men tried to make a break for it.
“All right, you goldbricks,” he barked to the agents under the trees. “Here’s where you earn your combat pay.” He drew his own plasma beam handgun and stood up in front of the gate. Stiff legs gratefully stretched to their full height. Adrenalin rushed through his system, mixing with the Infinity Formula that had kept him relatively youthful for the last five decades. “Ready … GO!”
Fury obliterated the lock on the iron gate with his blaster, then kicked the gate open with the heel of his boot. He led the charge across the spacious lawn toward the front of the mansion. No vehicles were parked in the driveway, he noted, but that didn’t prove anything. Rumor was there was a lot more underneath the mansion than anyone might expect; the X-Men probably had all kinds of facilities down there, including an underground garage or two. Maybe even a complete set of Gamma Sentinels, too.
Only if I’m lucky, he thought. Multiple footsteps pounded behind him as he raced up the front steps, past elegant Doric columns, to the entrance of the main house. A marble portico provided him with cover as he disintegrated the doorknob with another blast of hot plasma. “This is S.H.I.E.L.D.!” he shouted to whomever might be listening indoors. “Open up or we’re coming in!”
No answer came within the next five seconds, so Fury blasted open the solid oak door and stepped indoors. Bradley and the other agents poured past him, taking up strategic positions at every interior doorway. Despite the speed and efficiency of the operation, there was no way anyone inhabiting the house could not have heard the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents invade the mansion. A strident alarm sounded the minute Fury stepped across the threshold into the foyer. The harsh, high-pitched buzz hurt Fury’s ears, until Agent 132 swiftly located the security controls and silenced the alarm. He gave her a nod of approval even as he braced himself for the opening salvo in the X-Men’s defense: a bolt of lightning maybe, or a freezing spray of ice. His shoulder still stung where one of Archangel’s metal feathers had sliced into it the day before. How come nobody’s ever born with harmless mutant powers? he griped silently.
Several seconds passed, however, bringing no sign of resistance. His finger poised on the trigger of his blaster, Fury inspected his surroundings. From what he could see, the ground floor of the mansion perpetuated the illusion of genteel normalcy put forth by the Institute’s conservative facade. A crystal chandelier hung over the tiled floor of the foyer, which led to a wide stairway whose polished mahogany balustrade curved gracefully up to the floors above. Side doors led to a library, a study, and, near the back, a good-sized dining room and kitchen, all apparently devoid of habitation at the moment. To Fury’s immediate right, a display case in the entrance hall exhibited an assortment of academic awards and graduation photos dating back to the Institute’s early years as “Professor Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.” Fury snorted; sounded like the Professor could teach government bureaucrats a thing or two about coming up with convenient euphemisms for awkward truths.
Whitewashed or otherwise, the X-Men’s home base was starting to look like it might actually be deserted, which wasn’t going to make finding the Gamma Sentinels any easier. “Fan out,” he ordered his team, taking a second to light his cigar. If Xavier or his students had any objection to him smoking indoors, Fury figured, then they’d damn well have to show up in person to complain. “Search everywhere, but remember, keep your weapons on stun. We want answers, not dead X-Men.”
Fury waited downstairs in the foyer, while his agents explored the upper floors. Blast it, he thought, frustrated by the X-Men’s seeming noshow. He wasn’t eager to return to the Helicarrier empty-handed. He had left Contessa Valentina de Allegra de Fontaine, sub-director of internal operations, in charge of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s flying headquarters; hopefully, her on-site inspection of the evidence left behind when the X-Men raided the Helicarrier was yielding better results than his own fruitless search.
“Colonel Fury,” Bradley spoke up, one hand over the communications plug in his ear. “We have reports that a group of X-Men have been sighted at Niagara Falls. They appear to be engaged in combat with both the Avengers and the Hulk.”
Niagara? Fury chomped on his cigar as he digested Bradley’s unexpected news bulletin. What the devil were the X-Men doing in Niagara, close to three hundred miles from here? There was nothing up there but honeymooners and a whole lot of falling wet stuff.
“The Avengers, too, you say? That’s something, I guess,” he muttered to Bradley. Sounds like Cap and his costumed cutups are on top of things even if I’m cooling my heels here, getting nowhere fast.
He was tempted to leave the mansion and haul his butt toward the border as quickly as possible, but he doubted he could get to Niagara Falls in time to make any difference in the superhuman fracas going on there right now. For better or for worse, that was the Avengers’ show; the best thing he could do was finish sweeping the Institute for whatever clues might turn up. From the looks of things, he wouldn’t be getting up close and personal with the X-Men for now, anyway.
The crystal chandelier shuddered. Fury glanced quickly at the ceiling overhead; somehow he didn’t think any of his own expensively-trained people could be lead-footed enough to set the chandelier quivering. “Bradley?” he asked, but the younger agent was way ahead of him, his portable motion detector already aimed at the ceiling.
“I’m picking up an extra body,” he confirmed; apparently, the jamming field did not function indoors. “In the attic, I think.”
That was good enough for Fury. “Let’s go!” he shouted. He ran up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Drawn by his pounding footsteps, the additional agents joined him on the second and third floors, falling into line behind him as he reached the top of the stairs, where a simple wooden door barricaded his path. Fury checked the knob and found the door unlocked. Looking back over his shoulder, he shot Bradley a glance. Agent 146 pointed his motion-sensitive instrument at the door, then nodded his head. Their quarry was just beyond the door.
Doublechecking to make sure his plasma weapon was set on stun, he kicked open the door and pulled the trigger almost simultaneously. A blazing stream of ionized gas preceded Fury into the attic and he listened in vain for the sound of a body hitting the floor. No such luck; he didn’t even hear a single grunt of pain as he rushed through the door. His single eye swept the room from left to right, searching for a potential threat.
All he saw was green. Stepping from the stairwell into the attic was like leading a safari into a verdant jungle. Lush, abundant foliage surrounded him; the entire attic had been converted into an extravagant garden. Leafy fronds and blooming flowers lined every wall, vines and creepers spilling onto the wooden planks of the floor. More plant life sprouted from hanging flowerpots, suspended beneath sloping skylights that let in generous quantities of afternoon sunshine. The hothouse atmosphere within the garden was warm and humid; the fragrance of dozens of competing blossoms filled the air, to an almost overwhelming degree.
“Great, just great,” Fury groused. Trying to find a human target in this botanical explosion was going to b
e like looking for a pine needle in a rain forest. That’s the problem with jungles, he thought, remembering long-ago missions in the Pacific. They’re great for ambushes. Despite his annoyance, he was still impressed by the sheer accumulation of thriving flora packed into the attic. Somebody in the X-Men had a real green thumb, and he didn’t mean like the Hulk’s. Maybe that X-Men member, Ororo, he speculated; he seemed to remember something in her file about a fondness for gardening.
Bradley followed him into the lush attic, his eyes glued to the display panel on his motion detector. He shook his head. “No good. If he’s here, he—or she—isn’t moving a muscle,” he added, shrugging. Like Fury, he had his blaster ready.
S.H.I.E.L.D.’s executive director brushed a thorny branch away from his face as he advanced into the garden. Looking up, he spotted an open window among the glass skylights comprising the ceiling. Had Storm or some other airborne mutant flown in—or out—of the attic? His shoulder itched again where the high-flying Archangel had wounded him. Sunfire, Banshee, and Phoenix could also fly, and they had all been among the mutant strike force that had absconded with the top-secret Gamma Sentinels. “Heads up, people,” Fury instructed his agents as they spread out through the densely-planted nursery. “Chances are, we ain’t alone.”
His opening plasma blast had left a horizontal trail of charred leaves, denuded branches, and other telltale residue. Tough, Fury thought coldly. He had more important things to worry about than a bunch of pulverized posies, like just who might be hiding behind the next stand of ferns. His gut feeling told him that their unidentified quarry had not yet flown the coop. He could practically feel hostile eyes scoping him out, but from what direction?
Wait! What’s that?
Fury couldn’t be sure, but he could have sworn he saw a slight rustling behind a thick assortment of rose bushes. Red, yellow, blue, and violet petals drifted slowly to the floor in the wake of an almost imperceptible disturbance. Fury silently signalled Bradley, then nodded at the roses. Agent 146 dutifully swung his sensitive electronics toward the bushes Fury had singled out. “I think you’ve got something, sir,” Bradley whispered. “I’m definitely picking up—”
Before he could finish, a compact figure sprang from the flowering shrubbery.
SNIKT!
Gleaming metal claws swiped at Bradley, slicing his handheld device in half. Another half an inch and the agent would have lost several fingers as well.
“Wolverine!” Fury shouted. The exposed X-Man wore a mask over his face, but Fury would know Logan anywhere. The short, scrappy Canadian had paid his dues in the spy game long before defecting to the super hero biz. Fury had worked with Logan plenty of times, and felt he could reason with the man, as long as the feral mutant wasn’t in one of his patented berserker furies. Then there was no getting through to him until blood was shed. “Back off, Logan!” he ordered. “Let’s talk.”
Wolverine crouched at the back of the greenhouse, adamantium claws extended from the backs of his hands. His yellow and blue uniform had blended effectively with the multi-colored roses. The letter “X” adorned the buckle of a pale red belt, advertising his current group affiliation. Fury knew that the twin blue peaks rising from his cowl concealed equally spiky hair, one of the outward signs of the X-Man’s animalistic nature. Right now, though, he needed to talk to the man, not the bloodthirsty beast he was capable of becoming. “Logan,” Fury urged him, “you know you can talk straight with me. You may be in a heap of trouble, but I’m willing to hear your side of the story.”
But Wolverine was in no mood to talk. His only reply a savage snarl, he lunged at Fury, razor-sharp claws slicing through the hot, muggy air. Fury threw himself backwards barely in time to avoid being disemboweled; even still, the claws left three parallel tears through the Kevlar fabric of Fury’s suit. Blood from a trio of superficial scratches dripped through the rips. He’s playing for keeps! Fury realized. “Open fire!” he commanded the other agents.
Wolverine’s superhuman reflexes were fast, but S.H.I.E.L.D. agents weren’t exactly slowpokes either. A barrage of stun beams chased the mutant as he ducked and weaved past a half dozen agents as he bolted for the stairs. Leaves and flowers bit the dust by the score as blazing streams of plasma crisscrossed the attic; Fury figured it would be a miracle if they didn’t set the whole place on fire. Shrugging off the blasts as if he scarcely felt them, Wolverine almost made it to the door, but, at the last minute, Agents 132 and 278 set up a crossfire that effectively sealed off the doorway behind a wall of searing energy that not even Wolverine could brave. Good work, Fury thought.
Unable to make it to the stairs. Wolverine leaped straight up instead, his claws digging into the vine-covered walls of the attic as he climbed toward the glass ceiling like a short, stocky Spider-Man. Stun beams slammed into Wolverine’s back and shoulders, but his inhuman endurance protected him from the worst of their effects.
Blast that mutant healing factor of his, Fury thought; it always had given Logan an unfair advantage.
Time to call in the big guns. Fury grabbed a communicator from his supply belt and barked his orders into it: “Omicron Team, mobilize at once. Converge on residence immediately. Target: Logan, codename Wolverine.”
“Acknowledged,” a voice responded crisply. “Omicron Team, out.”
So much for that, Fury thought, snapping the communicator back into place upon his belt. Determined to pursue Wolverine, he looked around quickly for a ladder, then realized that a gravity-defying gardener like Storm hardly needed one. “Fine,” he muttered. Wolverine had left him all the ladder he needed, in the form of deep incisions cut into the wall by the mutant’s thrusting claws.
Shoving his gun into his holster, Fury took off after Wolverine, using the hand and footholds that Logan had carved out. He climbed rapidly, keeping his eyes on the retreating soles of Wolverine’s blue boots. The X-Man had a good lead on him, but Fury gambled that the plasma blasts had to be slowing him down some.
You’re not getting away from me, Logan, he vowed, not until I get some answers.
Wolverine reached the ceiling and smashed straight through the pane of skylight glass. Shards rained down on Fury, who ducked to protect himself. “Watch out below!” he hollered. Bradley and the other agents scattered away from the falling fragments.
Once he was sure that the shower of glass had run its course, Fury clambered hastily up the wall. He fired his blaster through the shattered skylight to discourage any ambush attempts, then he pulled himself onto the roof, his heels finding precarious purchase on the sloping slate shingles that ran around the edges of the skylights.
Thank goodness it hadn’t rained earlier; the shingles are slippery enough as is,” he thought.
Fury looked around. The view from atop the main building was just as impressive as he had imagined earlier. Looking north toward Graymalkin Lane, he was gratified to see his secret weapons marching from the van to the manor at a rapid clip: three S.H.I.E.L.D. commandoes in deluxe Mandroid body armor. Each over seven feet tall, the Mandroids stomped across the lawn, their gleaming gold surfaces reflecting the sunlight beating down on them. Flexible power conduits linked their polished gauntlets and boots to the powerful thermoelectric generators built into the bulky shoulderpieces. There were no neckpieces as such; the mound-shaped helmets merged smoothly into the shoulders, giving each Mandroid an almost headless appearance. Only a narrow eyeslit, about six inches below the top of the mound, hinted at the presence of the human operator inside each Mandroid.
Just what the doctor ordered, Fury thought approvingly; the Mandroid suits had been designed by Tony Stark himself, specifically for operations against superhuman opponents. Three of them might be just enough to subdue Wolverine—if they were lucky.
“Over here!” he shouted to the Mandroids. He waved his arms and fired his blaster into the air to make sure he got their attention. The Mandroids responded by staking out positions at both ends of the mansion and right before the front entrance. Blast! Fur
y cursed. He could have used one more Mandroid to cover the back of the mansion. It was too late to do anything about that now, though. He’d have to make do with the mechanized reinforcements he had on hand.
But where was Wolverine? To his left and right, the rooftop sloped away towards empty air, but Fury couldn’t spot the X-Men’s halfpint hellion. Brick chimneys rose at regular intervals atop the Institute, but offered little in the way of shelter from Fury’s inspection. Where could he have gone in the few moments Fury lost sight of him? Logan was the best there was at what he did, Fury knew, but that didn’t include flying.
Fury’s gaze focused on the domed belltower jutting above the north end of the roof. The ornate cupola was not exactly the Washington Monument, but it was large enough to hide a grown man, especially a sawed-off runt like Wolverine. Walking a tightrope along the peak of the gabled rooftop, Fury stalked toward the tower.
“Give it up, Logan,” he called to his unseen quarry. He ground out the end of his cigar on the top of a chimney, then dropped the stogie down the smokestack. “You’re not getting away from here until I get some answers. Where are your mutant buddies? And what did they do with those Sentinels?”
Not a peep emerged from the other side of the tower, which puzzled Fury to a degree. Logan could be stealthy when he had to be, but Fury had never known the hot-tempered Canadian to run from a fight once his cover had been exposed. Right now, though, Fury couldn’t even hear Wolverine’s characteristic growl. What’s up with him? he wondered.
Firing a warning shot around the southeast corner of the tower, Fury stepped carefully onto the righthand side of the roof, holding onto the tower’s wooden base with one hand while hefting his handgun in the other. The roof angled steeply beneath him. A loose shingle slipped under his feet and he almost lost his balance. I’m getting too old for this high-wire garbage, he grouched privately. Let Cap and Daredevil keep the whole running-around-on-rooftops routine.
