The death of Ward's wife had been less well reported.
They sat there drinking coffee and talking. Two hours went by.
Ward confessed to her that he blamed himself for Lori’s death. He’d buried his head in his work while she suffered alone through the darkest days of both their lives. He’d always had a tendency to fight past his own problems, “with an optimism that bordered on neuroses,” Lori had told him more than once. When she committed suicide he hadn’t spoken to her in days.
Finally, the heart-to-heart came to an end. Ward made a face. Raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Can't believe I told you all that. I don't really talk about it.”
Alison placed her hand over his. “It's okay. Actually, same here. I mean, look where I work.” She laughed. “You wanna know something really crazy?”
Ward nodded.
“After my parents were killed, I actually thought about joining your pal.”
“My pal?” Ward wasn’t immediately sure who she meant but then he realized they had only ever really spoken about two individuals in the letters they had shared. And only one of them could be described as his pal. “The Revolution?” he deduced.
She nodded. “The Resistance, anyway. But I realized that I could do more good working on the inside. Plus, it's nice to be able to pay your bills. So here I am. The Source. At your service.”
“We really do have a lot in common.” Ward brightened up.
“Well, we're both enamored with a superhero.” She winked at him, really changing the mood. “In fact, I was nervous to meet you.”
Ward laughed. It hadn't occurred to him that someone might view him the way he viewed the Revolution. For a moment he thought she might be joking. But Alison just sipped her coffee, never breaking eye contact. And that's when he realized.
His lucky day just got luckier.
Later, in Ward's apartment, he dutifully cleaned up the remnants of the fancy French dinner he had cooked for her. They had washed down the food with wine.
Lots of wine.
And after the food was gone the wine kept coming. Ward had changed into tighter jeans and a tighter shirt. This was a first date after all. That's what it had turned into, anyway.
The two settled down into Ward's plush wraparound couch, but the only thing either of them wanted to wrap around was each other.
“So these spider wasps”—her eyes twinkled—“what do they do when they catch a little spider?” Alison sat cross-legged with her wine glass extended lazily in front of her as the wine made her rock back and forth just a little. Ward thought it made her look devastatingly cute. “Well, as I understand it, normally they sting them.”
“Oh really? And what if the little spider resists?”
“Well, I think that's what the venom is for.”
“You really think that will work? We're talking about a pretty deadly spider here.”
Ward gulped his wine. “God, I hope so.” He set the empty glass on the coffee table.
Alison leaned in close to him. Her white silk blouse drooped open and revealed the push-up bra that had been vying for Ward's attention all day.
She grinned as he brought his eyes back up to hers. The wine had stolen his manners. She seemed glad.
“What if she entraps him in her web?” She said, leaning in closer. Their lips nearly touching.
“I think she already has. Hope she's not the kind who eats her mate.”
With that she closed her mouth onto his, and they explored each other, letting loose pent-up passions.
Alison came up for air. Set her glass down on the coffee table beside his. “Mmmm, how does a good-looking man like you stay single?”
“You should see what I do with my nights.”
“It's night now...”
She unbuttoned her shirt, slipped it off, and tossed it aside. She unclasped the bra from the front, wriggled out of it playfully, and slung it over his shoulder with a grin. She sat there for him to see. She was stunning.
He pulled her to him. “That's okay, I've already caught my spider.”
Their lips parted, and they kissed again. This time harder, longer. And somewhere in the middle of it Ward led her into his bedroom. By the time they got there, they were both naked.
CHAPTER 20
The sun was just setting as the deputy chief of Boston's Council Guard strolled toward his SUV. The parking garage was full of vehicles, but he was the only person around. As was his usual habit, he arrived early and left early. Allowing him unfettered access to the best parking spaces in the crowded garage. State Street was a busy place, and his position afforded him the ability to take a few minor liberties with his schedule.
Unfortunately, habits of behavior create patterns. Patterns that predators, criminals, or any other unsavory types might choose to exploit. Most people know this. The deputy chief certainly did. But like everyone else, he assumed it would never happen to him. Besides, who would mess with the deputy chief of the Freedom Council's enforcement arm?
He rummaged through his pockets and found his keys and shifted the stack of papers he had stuffed under his arm. He peered down to put the key in the lock. In the reflection in the driver’s side window he glimpsed something move behind him—a face. The deputy chief gasped—someone right behind him.
He tried to react, but a gun was jammed into the small of his back.
“Turn around slowly.” The voice was calm but firm. It seemed familiar, but the malice in it was clear. He was at a complete disadvantage, so he did what he was told. He calculated how long it would take him to reach the ankle holster that contained his weapon. Too long. His hands were full. His best bet was to face his attacker. Wait for an opening.
His assailant was tall. When the deputy chief turned, his eyes came level with the attacker’s chest. The first thing he recognized was a pair of camouflaged fatigues. He looked up and saw...
Lithium. Unarmed. The steel of his glove had only felt like a weapon.
“Holy shit! Almost shot you! You trying to get yourself killed?”
Clay Arbor grinned. “No risk of that.”
The deputy chief’s spirit sank. He knew Arbor was right. In some ways, Lithium was a joke. But no one would dare say that to his face. Why a bona fide badass like Arbor would agree to do the things they asked him to was a mystery. He was technically a captain in the Marine Corps. He could be running his own unit if he wanted, and on paper that’s what Lithium’s job equated to. In practice, it was about as far from that as you could get. But there was no question that this man was lethal.
All one had to do was look at his war record. That the masked hero Lithium was actually Clay Arbor was one of the Council's worst-kept secrets. And Arbor was a living legend in military circles. The deputy chief figured it had to be loyalty and a fat paycheck that kept him playing dress-up. That and the VIP celebrity treatment he received. Why else? He'd even heard rumors of a film in the works. It was gonna make him fat and lazy eventually. But he sure as shit wasn't going to tell Arbor that. Or test it.
Arbor flipped open one of the compartments of his utility vest and fished around for a second. “I know you have a lot of resources tracking the star-spangled freak. I want in.”
Arbor handed him a small device.
“Look, I can't just—”
“You let me know whenever you get a hit on his whereabouts. And keep this between you and me. Trust me, better to break their orders than mine.”
CHAPTER 21
Across town, Ward had the flowers ready as he waited at the door. The last several days had been intense. He and Alison had spent every nonworking moment together, which wasn’t often, considering she worked in the day and he worked at night. So they had made them count.
Ward had checked his phone at noon and heard a message that disturbed him. Very short, very terse, very stressed. He was pretty sure he’d done nothing wrong. But why take chances? Something was troubling his new girlfriend, and there was no way he was coming to their dinner date without roses. He
was no fool.
Ward rang the bell. He could hear her footfalls. Heavy, fast. She opened the door, beer in hand. Ward on the other side, flowers in hand. She smiled, and they kissed their hellos. “You okay?” he asked.
“Come on in.” She closed the door, and Ward noticed she scanned the sidewalk to see if he'd been followed. His spider sense started tingling.
“I intercepted a memo today. You need to see it right now.”
“What is it?”
She was all business. Just like when she had discussed the arms shipment the day they’d met. Same look in her eyes. That made him nervous. She handed him a photocopy of a short, cryptic memo. She didn't wait for him to read it.
“Council's developing a weapon. An ultimate weapon. To kill the Revolution.”
“Kill him? I thought you said they didn't want to make him a martyr?”
“I just know what I read.” She paced over to the table and sat in one of the chairs. She gave him a look that he couldn’t quite interpret, but then she said, “He's your hero. You’ve got to try to stop him from going to that shipment. You may just have the chance to save his life.”
Ward stood there in awe of the metal man in front of him.
And then Revolution thanked him. He said that if Ward ever needed his help he could meet him on these rooftops. If he came for assistance, Revolution would know. He would find him. But then he stressed, “Make it count. I'll only come once.”
Ward had never cashed in that chip. But this ought to count.
As he stood in the same spot, decked out in his full Spider Wasp flight suit, the nerves of the long wait began to wear on him. It had been a long night of waiting. The caffeine was losing its battle with nervous monotony. How do cops stay sane on stakeouts?
He tossed the last can of his six-pack of Diet Coke into the corner, and its spent hull clattered among the others—saved for later recycling. He hoped the caffeine would keep him going.
One hundred yards away in the black, someone took note of the sound. He crept forward. Darting from shadow to shadow. Silent.
Paul Ward crouched. He slid into the black shade of the brick chimney behind him. The adjacent rooftops and the alley below were visible from there. He figured this was the best place to catch the Revolution. Not only was he in his designated contact point, it was on the way to the rail station. He had no idea how the Revolution could possibly know he was here, but that’s what the man had said. The arms shipment was still hours away. Ward saw no other option but to wait and hope.
Twenty-five yards behind Ward, the dark figure swept across the roof. Shifting between the shadows. He'd seen Spider Wasp disappear behind the chimney. The figure was moving in fast. Spider was blind to him. He would never know what hit him. The figure moved forward, closing the distance between the two. He readied a small bladed weapon in his hand.
Ward felt himself drifting. He fought to stay awake. He whispered the song that kept amusingly running through his head: “You say you want a Revolution—”
A flutter of movement behind him. A shadow rose in front of him. Ward jumped up. He spun. Standing not three feet from him was a dark, hulking figure of metal.
The Revolution nodded his head.
“Damn it, you scared me to death!” Ward gasped.
“I liked what you did to the Brown Recluse the other day,” was the reply.
“Thanks.”
Revolution said nothing.
“I—I guess you can call me Spider Wasp.”
“I don't like being spied on. I like being followed even less.”
“No, I wasn't...remember...you said...”
Revolution flipped something at him. It was small and shiny and round, and it sailed right at him. For a second Ward thought he was toast. He flinched but caught it on reflex. It was a throwing star. There was something written on it. An address. And a date and time. It was an appointment.
“I need to warn you—” Ward started as he looked up, but the Revolution had already paced across the rooftop, nearly to the edge. Ward scrambled after him.
“Hey! Wait!”
Revolution didn't wait. He leapt from the roof. Ward rushed to ledge. The Revolution’s crimson cape snapped rigid. He plummeted to the street. It looked like a hard fall.
Revolution dreaded the landing. Just as with a cat, a fall from a lower height is often worse than from higher up. Less time to prepare the body. Less time for Revolution's cape to slow him. Less time for the servos to adjust for impact.
He landed hard, fell to one knee with an audible grunt. Revolution rose, but as he sprinted away, he limped.
Ward heard Revolution grunt. He isn't indestructible after all. A wave of guilt washed over Ward. He'd failed to warn him. And now he knew how easily he could be hurt.
“Damn it,” Ward said.
With a few more steps the limp disappeared. As did Revolution into the darkness.
Ward turned the throwing star over. It had more script on it. It read: Don't follow me.
Later that night, three members of the Brown Recluse tried to stall and board the train carrying arms for India. There was no way they could know that they'd been double-crossed. Fiddler had been feeling the heat for the Spider Wasp disaster. These three remaining members of his gang had been quietly questioning his leadership. Trying to fan the flames of dissent. Hoping to move up the ranks if and when Fiddler was deposed. But Fiddler ran a tight ship. Nothing in the gang happened that quietly.
Fiddler watched from a safe distance as Council Guardsmen gunned them down.
They never stood a chance.
The Freedom Council, for its part, had wanted some positive press to counteract State Street. The deal they struck with Fiddler was neat and tidy. They would claim credit for the takedown. The two sides, accustomed to working together when the situation called for it, had found a common cause.
Meanwhile, local Council bureaucrats had planted a rumor on the street. The story went that the shipment was actually headed to a Boston-based militia leader who had taken a contract out on the Revolution, complete with a supply route for the weapons, contact numbers, and people. It was all a fabrication. They staked out the spots. They hoped this would attract his attention and spur him into action. They hoped to catch the Revolution if it did. They hoped it would make them famous.
Revolution failed to bite.
The next morning Ward read a headline that made his heart stop cold: THREE KILLED IN RAIL YARD INCIDENT.
He was soon relieved to find no mention of the Revolution. Well, of course. That would have been the headline, after all. No mention of Fiddler either, though. One thing was certain. Alison had probably just saved his life.
Again.
CHAPTER 22
Davey Timbeck lay on the hospital bed, a blood-soaked bandage affixed to the deep wound on his neck. He did not look good. His skin was pale and blotchy. Tubes jutted out of his nose and mouth and into the air, snaking around his bed to various machines. All of them fighting to keep him alive. A fight they would lose.
Davey Timbeck's pulse monitor flatlined.
The nurses and doctors came rushing in. They did what they could. The younger Timbeck had no living will to prevent them. They tried reviving him. They tried the defibrillator. They tried everything. All to no avail.
Emergency services had been understaffed the night he was brought in. It had taken them twice as long to respond to the call as was advisable by the state medical statutes. But they had been dealing with gunshot wounds, traffic accidents, fire victims, and, of course, state cutbacks. The Revolution's call had come in time, had a sufficient number of paramedics been on staff that night. As it was, they'd done their best.
No one could blame them.
Across town at a dingy police precinct, run unofficially by the Timbeck brothers themselves, the party to blame was clear. Watson Timbeck entered the room shell-shocked and drying his eyes. He was in no mood to be fucked with.
“Sammie just called down from the hospita
l. Davey didn't make it.”
Watson had loved his brother Davey. But they had shared the kind of sibling bond that meant he would have tried to kick Davey’s ass to prove it. So, as he gritted his teeth when he made the pronouncement that his little brother had been killed in the line of duty, anger seemed the appropriate emotion.
The dozen male officers in the room shared enraged glances. This moment had been building ever since the call had come in that Revolution had ambushed them. Every officer was on his feet in a matter of seconds. An eerie silence overtook them. They waited for their cue.
No one needed to speak. Watson stalked toward the gun case, and the group erupted. Revenge split the seams of the room as the men followed, snatching up weapons from the cabinet in the adjacent hall. Some grabbed the weapons behind the gun case, where the Timbecks kept the unsanctioned fatties that only former military guys had access to. They headed out en masse. An old-fashioned lynch mob.
“Bastard can't take us all!” someone growled.
If there was an unofficial voice for the Resistance, it was the small independent newspaper, Common Sense. In an age of Internet dominance, Common Sense still printed on paper. Still had them delivered to friendly newsstands and restaurants, bars, and clubs. That act itself was one of defiance, since Media Corp owned the Internet, and Media Corp meant the Freedom Council.
Common Sense had been kept alive by two main factors. The Velvet Glove policy allowed pragmatic alternative publications to exist. It made the Council look open, honest, and democratic. Something it was not. Second was the hard-charging tenacity and political astuteness of its editor-in-chief, Blake Lane.
The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution Page 10
