The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution

by Michael Ivan Lowell

  Thwap!

  A dart slammed into Loudmouth's chest just as he palmed his pistol, stopping him in midsentence. Ward mused somewhat darkly that had flappy gums down there grabbed his pistol before he started to yap he might have had a chance. More troubling was the fact that the blood accelerator, which was supposed to send the paralysis serum into his system immediately, had not worked upon impact. Ward had probably not thrown it hard enough, he reasoned. It was triggered by the impact itself. Still, definitely something to check out when he got back home.

  The gangster's face eased into a dumb grin. He suddenly looked serene. He smiled at them, and his gaze drifted off, his body slumped limp, gun still in his hand. Not paralyzed. Relaxed, happy. Ward had hit him with another little goody he called his “serenity serum.” Completely immobilizing and a very addictive high. Which is why he didn't use the serenity serum very often. Even as a masked hero, if that’s what he was, he lived by the physician’s motto. Primum non nocer:

  First, do no harm.

  The little bastard was about to shoot me, though, he thought. Ward peered into Loudmouth’s slack face, waiting.

  “There we go,” Ward said, satisfied the terrible little man was good and sedated. He breathed a sigh of relief at his quick reflexes. “That'll wear off soon.” Ward considered the pathetic little man and his foul mouth that was sure to resume flapping when it did. “Unfortunately.”

  Ward kicked the gun away from Loudmouth. He turned to leave again but then thought better of it.

  “Um…he might need a little…detox.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The night was cool and clear. A soft breeze whipped across the old rooftops of South Boston. Ward sat, nestled into a covey of an ornate wooden church steeple, as the city stretched out below him. A narrow, circular walkway extended all around the steeple, and Ward often found himself plopped there, looking out over the city. This was in fact the drop spot for The Source. Or at least inside the church was the drop spot. It was sort of Ward's unofficial home-away-from-home home base.

  His helmet sat beside him, and his wings were retracted and folded up behind him. They actually provided a nice cushion to lean against. On this night, he held a copy of the Boston Globe. Inside it, a full-page story on his takedown of the Brown Recluse gang. A blurry cell phone picture of him in action was included. He regarded the headline that blared across the page: MYSTERIOUS “SPIDER WASP” PARALYZES BROWN RECLUSE OPERATION.

  Ward grimaced. “Spider Wasp?” He'd not considered that the media might provide a name for him.

  Ward leaned back and stared up at the night sky. There were the constellations that he used to trace with his boy. He could remember each one that little David had memorized. He felt his throat begin to tighten; his vision clouded. He was a good boy. He’d been Ward’s world. He shrugged it all away brusquely and thought about “being in the moment.” This little covey provided him a space away from the world and yet right in the heart of it. He could watch over his precious Boston from the perch. And he could think clearly up here.

  Nights were always hard. If he let himself think about the past too much...

  No. He would not think of it. He would put it out of his mind as he always did. And if his thoughts betrayed him—he thought about Fiddler wanting a younger victim today—if they wouldn't go away, if all else failed—he thought about how, in the moment, he wanted to kill Fiddler, not just bring him to justice—he knew one sure way to bring the world back into balance again.

  He sighed and slowly slipped off his gloves, exposing his bare wrist. From his utility belt he pulled out a long needle like the one he had fired from his wrist turrets earlier. Slowly, he injected a small amount of the serenity serum into his veins.

  A sheen of total relaxation washed over him. He slumped back into the covey. Peering up at the stars, his face slackened. He closed his eyes for a moment as the drug surged through his bloodstream. He opened them again and reconsidered the headline.

  Ward put his helmet back on.

  “Spider Wasp. Yeah.”

  “Spider.”

  “Wasp.”

  Maybe it was his buzz, but he actually kind of liked it. Spider Wasp sat watching over the city.

  And he was as high as a kite.

  In another part of South Boston, the night was not so serene. A curfew had been set following the State Street incident the previous night. Police now prowled the streets looking to enforce it with all means at their disposal. Tensions were high. Without the curfew, officials were sure violence would erupt again.

  Boston, like everywhere else, had good cops and they had bad cops. But in the past ten years, it had seemed that the proportion of corrupt police had grown to increasingly outnumber the virtuous. The salaries for all public employees had been slashed during the Depression and then frozen at those paltry levels once the Freedom Council took power. Maybe it was natural that desperate people would take to a little business on the side under such conditions. Cops on the take—not a new idea.

  A night with a curfew provided just such an opportunity.

  As the deadline had approached, well-worn Bostonians cleared the streets. Boston had seen its share of trouble, being the home of the insurgency. Most folks knew how to stay out of harm's way. But there was always somebody...

  On this night, a trio of partying teens hurriedly passed by a shop window, seeing the time: 9:07 p.m. Blinking in red LED.

  “See, I told you, dumb ass. I’m gonna be in so much fricking trouble,” a pretty blonde shot at the handsome young man named Jake strolling beside her.

  “Sorry.”

  “I think it’s kinda funny” slurred their tall, obviously inebriated comrade, a C-student wrestler named Tommy.

  “Shut up, Tommy! You're drunk anyway,” said Jenny, the blonde honors student.

  Tommy, a lean kid all of seventeen, snorted a laugh and chose that very moment to lose the grip on his Bud Light. The bottle plummeted to the pavement and shattered in a loud crash that echoed across the empty, curfew-cleared streets.

  “Jesus, man, somebody's gonna hear us,” said Jake.

  As it turned out, someone did hear them.

  One street over, a group of cops taking a smoke break heard the commotion and sprinted toward the sound, hoping for something to break their boredom. They rounded a corner, and there they ran right into the group of teens, who had decided to take a shortcut across a dark, isolated alley.

  Kids.

  The bars on this strip of streets catered to the underage set with more money than sense. Rich kids slumming it in South Boston, or locals just too dumb to stay out of trouble. Officer Watson Timbeck knew this. He and his crew had set up shop here—even though their official beat was blocks away. A curfew was too good a chance to pass up. This was gonna be too easy.

  Watson was known throughout Boston's law enforcement community for being a “son of a bitch.” His long years on the force, his “balls to the walls” attitude, unerring courage, and nasty temper all made him someone even his superiors thought twice about crossing. That was probably why nearly everyone looked the other way to the fact that he was also as crooked as they come. Watson was always on the take. A group of dumb-ass teenagers such as he was confronted with now was the easiest of pickings.

  “Hey, you're not supposed to be out here,” Watson spat at them.

  “We're on our way home now.” Jake tried to sound cooperative and confident, but the fact that his nervous, maturing voice broke on “now” greatly undermined his show at bravado.

  “Too late. Gonna cost ya. How much money you got on yas? Check 'em out.” Watson flashed a menacing grin.

  The other officers pushed the teens harshly against a wall and began to frisk them. A rough, degrading shakedown. The largest officer grabbed Tommy by the hair and spun him around, slamming his chest into the wall. The big man went by Davey.

  David “Davey” Timbeck was Watson's younger, dumber brother. Everyone knew he would never have become a policeman had W
atson not been there to pull some strings. But he was also kind of a mascot for those less ethically inclined members on the force. And he did whatever his big brother wanted, no matter how questionable. In school, the two of them had ruled with an iron fist the same way they now bullied these teens. Watson was the brains, Davey was the brawn.

  A third officer, a red-haired, rat-faced thin man nicknamed Stinny, yanked Jenny's purse from her arm and shoved her up against the wall with an elbow to her back. She grunted from the impact. Even at sixteen, the young woman did not suffer fools very well.

  “Whatever happened to protect and serve?” she shot at them.

  “You're protected, honey. Nobody's gonna mess with you while we're here. 'Cept maybe Davey over there,” Stinny chuckled as he watched the big man emptying Tommy's pockets.

  “Yeah, now serve up your wallets.” Watson was already impatient. As soon as the money shifted hands, he knew they’d be home free, but with as many damn cameras as there were these days, Watson also knew he needed to make this “transaction” go smoothly and quickly.

  It was then that the strangest thing happened.

  A voice suddenly echoed from their left.

  “The right of the people...”

  They turned, saw no one. They heard no sounds, no footsteps. True, they'd been busy, but all four had been trained to mind their surroundings. To be on the lookout for an ambush, even from the most unlikely of sources—like these kids. It was basic police procedure. Second nature.

  Suddenly, the voice stabbed at them from their right:

  “Against unreasonable searches and seizures...”

  Again, they spun and saw no one.

  “The fuck?” spat Davey as he slammed Tommy's already bleeding head into the bricks for emphasis. Or maybe just out of habit.

  A dark figure suddenly stepped out of the shadows behind them. They could see the glint of his clothing. Shiny, bulky. Odd.

  His voice continued, clear now.

  “Shall not be violated.”

  They spun, forgetting about the kids as the Revolution stepped into the glare of the streetlights.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Son of a bitch!” Watson palmed his Glock and pointed it straight at the armored stranger. The Revolution simply stood there, his cloak fluttering lightly at his side.

  The officers had all drawn their weapons when Kent, tallest of the four, verbalized what all of them were thinking.

  “Oh shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Why's he gotta be here?”

  All four trained their weapons on him. Shuffled from foot to foot. Nerves on edge. This was a guy who took on whole armies. Or so they said.

  Watson just stared at him. He wasn't moving; he wasn't talking. He was just fucking standing there!

  “It's okay,” Watson assured them. “There’s four-a us and only one-a him.”

  “Watch him!” Davey yelled.

  “Don't let him grab a weapon!” Stinny warned. “He's got all them fancy gadgets. Fucking blow him away if he goes for one.”

  Kent shook his head. “Yeah, you shoot first. I heard bullets just bounce off him.”

  “Put your hands up, where we can see 'em,” Watson commanded, returning to officer mode. This freak is still just a civilian, Watson thought, and he had no intention of being scared out of his wits.

  Revolution slowly, carefully raised his arms. The officers nervously tightened the grip on their weapons, keeping aim firmly planted on his midsection. The hero's red armored hands settled at face level...

  ...into an obvious martial arts pose. He said nothing, freezing perfectly still. Technically, he had followed their orders, but Watson couldn't help but feeling like he was being flipped off.

  And then nothing. He just stood there.

  The teens were scooting out from behind the distracted cops, but Watson noticed them.

  “Naw. I don't think so. Just stay right where you are.”

  Watson turned back toward the Revolution. He had not moved a muscle. It wasn't even clear to Watson that he was breathing. His eyes were shrouded in shadow. The grill-like covering over his mouth reminded Watson of the paintball mask he sometimes wore at the game park. He probably breathed through it, but you couldn't have known it by looking at him now.

  This was stupid. Something needed to give. Watson didn’t like it at all.

  “Okay, he's unarmed. Take him in,” Watson barked at Stinny.

  “You take him in. I ain't doing it!

  “I said take him in. Now do it.”

  Revolution cleared his throat to get their attention again, and it was all he could do to not shake his head at their antics. All four reengaged him. But no one moved forward. They just stood there looking like they needed to pee, shifting weight from one foot to the other. Nervously waving their guns at him.

  Suddenly, Revolution snapped his hands to another pose, toying with them. All four of them jumped and took a step backwards. He looked like he was imitating Jet Li or Bruce Lee or somebody, and it was really starting to piss Watson off.

  “That's it!” Watson howled, fed up. “See, he's got nothin'. Now take him in!” Watson motioned toward Stinny and Davey, and this time his ever-loyal brother took the bait. Stinny followed, taking a step toward the “Dark Patriot.” Only one step.

  This time Revolution's hands flicked again, but unlike before, a sound like rushing wind now echoed through the alley. Watson had been looking right at him, and though the sound disturbed him and his instincts screamed it meant trouble, he was sure nothing had left the armored hands of his adversary. It was just another pose.

  Stinny and Davey stepped right into the spinning paths of two black shurikens. The serrated edges sliced into the two men's throats. Stinny's struck him first. A glancing blow, but the razor-sharp edges still sliced through skin, veins, and tendons. Blood spurted from the wound. The officer grasped his neck and fell to the ground. His hand clamped tight. Blood pulsed over his fingers. It was a serious wound, but not fatal.

  Davey was not so lucky. His millisecond reaction to Stinny's predicament caused him to flinch, to move ever so slightly to his left. And when he did that he slid his jugular vein right in front of the carefully aimed blades of the second throwing star. The razors sliced it with ease, and Davey fell hard, already choking on his own blood. Unless he got help quickly, he could bleed out.

  “What the...?” It all happened so fast that neither Watson nor Kent could tell just what had befallen their mates. But they both knew it wasn't good.

  “Shoot him!” screamed Watson.

  Both men opened fire, but by this time the Revolution was in a full sprint toward them. A bullet grazed Revolution's shoulder—didn't even slow him down. Watson fired point-blank right into his metal-clad, star-laden chest. He saw the spark and glint of the bullet as it bounced right off, just like all the stories had said. Watson ducked out of instinct, not knowing where the ricocheting projectile might fly.

  Revolution spun and kicked Kent straight in the head. The speed of the movement and the titanium of his boot cracked the tall officer’s skull in an instant. The servos in his leg armor reacted immediately to the direction and pressure his leg applied to them. The speed at which he moved was hard for Watson to even see. Let alone follow.

  Inside his HUD, Revolution clocked the move at forty miles per hour.

  Watson raised his gun to fire again but Revolution was already on him. He'd moved so fast that Watson hadn’t seen him grab a whip out of his silver belt. And before the stunned officer's mind could focus, Revolution slung the whip directly at him, all the while spinning to minimize the impact of any gunfire Watson might send his way. This was not to protect himself—their guns couldn’t begin to penetrate the T-O4 shell. It was to protect the teens and hopefully send the shells zooming off safely into the street. As it happened, Watson didn't even get off another shot.

  The lash of the whip burned into a brilliant yellow-green. Yet another spectacle to distract and disorient this thirty-year vet of Boston's wors
t streets. But nothing had prepared him for this.

  The glowing whip curled toward Waton's Glock and constricted around it. One simple pull aided by mechanically enhanced strength and Watson's firearm went flinging across the alleyway, clanging into the shadowed gutter.

  Watson was dumbstruck. He'd not lost the will to fight back, he was mostly just trying to catch up, but the effect was the same. His arms flew up in front of his face in an instantly defensive pose. He saw Revolution complete his impossibly fast spin. The whip wrapped back up under his cloak and into the belt he wore at his midsection. All like choreography.

  The officer gasped. And that's when it hit him. A shuriken that is.

  Slicing deep into the midsection of his back. Missing his spine, or any vital organs, by less than an inch. Watson screamed in pain and tried to reach the source of his agony, but it was situated most cruelly in the middle of his back below his shoulder blades. His reach was no good. The burning pain stung him with fire.

  Adrenaline will kick in at times like these, and Watson, somehow, spinning like a cat chasing its tail, stretched his arms, further, further, painfully further. Until his fingertips sliced over razor-sharp metal, and then, as he grasped his now bleeding hand, he knew what was eating into him.

  And it was impossible. He had watched the Revolution the whole time. His hands had never moved. There had been no time for him to make his throw.

  He dropped to his knees, belching a line of drool onto his uniform. He just peered up at his attacker, his eyes begging for mercy.

  “How...how did you? I was looking right at you!” Watson nearly sobbed. No longer the tyrant of the night, he had been reduced to a pleading child. And the Revolution smiled behind his mask. Watson was right. He’d not thrown a thing. It was another of his closely held secrets...

  Finally, Watson’s assailant spoke again.

  “I throw a hell of a curveball.” And with that Watson saw one more impossible feat before he lost consciousness.

  In one fluid motion Revolution spun a set of nunchaku from somewhere behind his cloak directly into Watson's forehead with a sickening crack that was so fast his brain was still thinking about it a second after he lost consciousness.