Ant-Man

by Jason Starr

  Scott cleaned up, did the dishes, took out the garbage. The hardest part of being a single dad was having to do everything—all the parenting, all the chores—on his own. But there were pluses. Scott and Peggy used to bicker all the time about doing housework, and it was nice to have relaxing evenings at home now. He put on some jazz, flipped through a Time Out New York, watched some BBC detective show on Netflix. At ten o’clock he turned to the news.

  There was nothing about the busted bodega robbery on the news—even on New York 1, the local twenty-four-hour-a-day news station. There was probably a report online somewhere speculating that Ant-Man had been involved in the bust—but since no one had been killed or seriously injured, it wasn’t a major story.

  Scott was used to the lack of attention. Unlike other super heroes who were focused on saving the world, Scott usually went after small-time criminals, taking down repeat offenders before they could rob, rape, or kill again. His goal was to clean up crime from the ground up—take out one criminal at a time, make the streets safer, and improve the quality of life for the average citizen. Helping the little man didn’t get Scott the splashy headlines, but it brought him a lot of satisfaction.

  Scott switched to CNN, where Tony Stark was holding a press conference, fielding questions from the media about the latest Hydra plot he’d busted. Tony was in great form—cocky, arrogant, dismissive, but still somehow captivating. Scott had known Tony for years, and Tony had helped him get out of a few jams. Who couldn’t use some help from Iron Man once in a while? But while Scott couldn’t fly into outer space and fight off tanks, he could do things that Tony and other super heroes couldn’t. Once, he had even saved Tony’s life during a mission with Cap in Afghanistan—Tony had been trapped in his suit when Scott shrunk down and rescued him.

  Tony seemed to have amnesia about that day— he clearly didn’t want to acknowledge that Scott had saved his ass—but that was okay with Scott. Scott loved what he did, but he didn’t thrive on the star power, didn’t get off on having his name on buildings and in the headlines. Tony, like Cap and Spidey, commanded attention, but Scott actually preferred to lurk unnoticed in the background, and he certainly didn’t need the spotlight. His main goal was to be a great dad, a great man. If they were in a rock band, Tony would be the lead singer, Spidey would be on lead guitar, Cap would be the drummer, and Scott would be the bass player. Or not even the bass player. He’d be the guy with the cowbell.

  “You ever consider giving it all up?” a reporter asked Tony.

  “I’d quit tomorrow if I could,” Tony said. “But if I don’t catch all the bad guys, who will?”

  Scott laughed, said, “You tell ’em, Tone, you tell ’em,” then flicked off the TV.

  Scott knocked on Cassie’s door and said, “Bedtime in ten minutes,” and then pulled out the Murphy bed. The apartment was small, even by New York standards, but it was all he could afford. Besides, Scott was kind of used to living small.

  Later, Scott lay in bed, reading a self-help book—100 Reasons Why Your Teenage Daughter Hates Your Guts. He dozed off, the book open on his chest—only to wake up, startled, when somebody rang the buzzer.

  He glanced at the time on his cell phone—12:14. He’d been asleep for about an hour—who could be buzzing at this time of night? It was probably some drunk kids, or maybe someone was making a mistake.

  The buzzer sounded again, longer this time, so Scott went to the intercom and said, “Yeah?”

  “Scott Lang?”

  It was a man. He sounded serious, official. Scott’s name wasn’t on the buzzer, so he knew this wasn’t a prank caller.

  “Maybe,” Scott said. “What do you want?”

  “FBI,” the man said. “We need to speak with you right away.”

  THERE had been a time in Scott’s life when, if FBI agents had shown up at his apartment late at night, he would have panicked—maybe even made a beeline for the fire escape or roof. Even now, the situation churned up some fight-or-flight instinct. But the panic subsided when he reminded himself that he’d done nothing wrong, hadn’t broken any laws—well, lately, anyway—and he had nothing to fear.

  “Be down in a sec,” Scott said into the intercom.

  He put on jeans, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, and went downstairs. He could have buzzed the guy up, but he didn’t know whether the guy was actually with the FBI. Cassie’s safety always came first.

  Two men were waiting in the vestibule. One— tall, wide shouldered, close-cropped hair, wearing a dark suit—had a look that screamed FBI agent. The other guy—wiry, balding, glasses—looked more like an accountant.

  When Scott opened the inner door, the guy in the suit showed an FBI badge. Scott knew what a real badge looked like—and, yep, this one was real.

  The guy said, “I’m Agent Warren, and this is Agent James. Can we come up please? It’s important.”

  Scott was already weary of the whole situation: FBI agents with something important to discuss? Nothing good could come of this.

  “It’s the middle of the night. My daughter’s asleep.”

  “Sorry, but we’d rather discuss it upstairs, if you don’t mind.”

  Well, at least they hadn’t read him his rights. Still, they hadn’t come by to hang out. Did it have something to do with the bodega robbery—or his identity as Ant-Man? He hoped this was a dream and he was still in bed, asleep, the book on his chest.

  He let the agents into the apartment. The place was so small that it was hard to get to the couch with the Murphy bed open, so he sat with the agents at the table in the nook he called the dining room. There were only two chairs, so Scott had to sit on a stool.

  “Well, I love surprises,” Scott said, “but this is taking it a bit too far, don’t you think?”

  The agents remained stoic.

  “You and your family may be in serious danger,” Warren said.

  Scott hadn’t expected that. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that.

  “Okay,” Scott said. “How so?”

  “Willie Dugan escaped from prison seven months ago.”

  This wasn’t news to Scott. Dugan was an old, well, associate of Scott’s. They’d pulled off several heists together and then parted ways. Scott had been forced to testify against Dugan at the trial nine years ago.

  “I heard about that,” Scott said. “So?”

  “You were friends with Dugan, weren’t you?” James asked.

  “I wouldn’t say we were ever friends,” Scott said. “Acquaintances, yes. If you think I have any idea where he’s hiding, I don’t. In fact, I was already questioned about that, several times.”

  “There have been some recent developments,” Warren said.

  “You found him?” Scott asked.

  “No, unfortunately, we haven’t,” James said.

  “I don’t get it,” Scott said. “What does this have to do with me and my family being in danger?”

  “What about Nicky Soto?” James asked.

  Nicky had also been in the crew with Dugan.

  “Yeah, I know him,” Scott said. “Well, knew him.”

  “And Miguel Santana?” James asked.

  “Yeah,” Scott said.

  “Robert Billings?” Warren asked.

  “No, don’t remember him,” Scott said.

  “Went by the nickname ‘Dollar,’” Warren said.

  Oh, him. Scott had heard stories about Dollar Billings, but he’d never known the man personally.

  “Can you please tell me what’s going on here?” Scott asked.

  “Soto, Santana, and Billings have all been killed— murdered—within the last several months,” Warren said. “And we think you may be next on Dugan’s hit list.”

  “Whoa, hold up,” Scott said. “Murdered? Murdered by who?”

  “Dugan, we believe,” Warren said. “Or Dugan’s associates.”

  “You believe?” Scott asked.

  “It’s most likely related to Dugan,” James said. “He’s our prime
suspect. We have a witness account to one of the murders, and evidence in the other murders that suggests Dugan was involved.”

  “Not to mention the fact that all three victims had been affiliated with Dugan in some capacity,” Warren said.

  “Two of them testified against him,” James said. “The third, Billings—Dugan had a personal grudge against him. Had to do with a woman.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe Nicky and Miguel are dead,” Scott said. “I mean, I hadn’t seen them in years, and I know they made mistakes, but they were trying to turn their lives around.” Scott let that sink in for several seconds, then said, “But I see where you’re going with this. Let me guess. You think I’m next on Dugan’s hit list because I testified against him, am I right?”

  Warren and James didn’t say anything.

  “Well, I’m not,” Scott said.

  “Why do you say that?” James asked.

  “Because I know Willie, and I know he wouldn’t do that.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know Dugan,” Warren said.

  “I haven’t talked to him in years,” Scott said, “but I know him. I know how he thinks.”

  “Well, we have information that tells us that you’re wrong—he’s coming after you next.”

  Scott wondered whether this could be correct. He thought he knew Dugan—but it was true he hadn’t spoken to the man in about ten years, since their last job together. It was possible, even likely, that Dugan had changed. After all, he’d done all that time in prison, and time in prison changed everybody— usually for the worse.

  “What kind of information?” Scott asked.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Warren said.

  “It matters to me,” Scott said.

  “We debriefed a witness who was privy to information regarding Dugan’s plans. Your name came up,” James said.

  “In what context?” Scott asked.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s all we can share with you right now,” Warren said. “It’s for your safety. We’ll tell you what you need to know, and that’s it.”

  “What about my daughter and ex-wife?” Scott asked. “Why do you think they could be in danger, too?”

  “Before Santana was murdered, his family received anonymous threats,” James said.

  “And those threats could’ve been made by Dugan or persons associated with him,” Warren added.

  “Whoa, hold up a second,” Scott said. “Dugan escaped from prison almost a year ago, right? Then while he’s out, three murders take place—murders of guys who’d testified against him or wronged him in some way. And it took you all this time to connect the dots?”

  “The victims lived in different part of the country,” Warren said. “California, Texas, Florida.”

  “There are databases these days,” Scott said. “It’s called technology.”

  The agents, especially Warren, didn’t seem to enjoy listening to Scott, some ex-con, patronizing them.

  “Look, we’re not here to explain ourselves to you,” Warren said. “We’re here to protect you and your family.”

  “Thanks,” Scott said, “but I can protect my family on my own.”

  Times like this Scott wished he could scream out, I’m Ant-Man, morons! I don’t need any protection! He’d kept his identity as Ant-Man a secret, mainly to protect Cassie. As a super hero, he had a long list of enemies who might be out for revenge—and again, while he wasn’t concerned about his own safety, keeping Cassie out of danger was his priority. Ironically, Cassie was one the few people who knew about his secret. He trusted her with it.

  “I’m afraid you have no choice,” Warren said.

  “No choice?” Scott asked. “What are you going to do, force me?”

  “Actually, yes,” Warren said.

  “We’ve received an order of protection for your family until the threat subsides,” James said.

  Scott laughed, even though he knew this definitely wasn’t a joke. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, right?” He thought, An order of protection for a super hero? Tony Stark and the gang were going to tease him about this for years. He wanted to keep Cassie safe, of course, but what if the threat wasn’t real? An Order of Protection would cause a major disruption in her life, and he didn’t want to put her through that unless it was absolutely necessary.

  “How do you know Dugan’s in New York?” he asked. “And if you do know he’s in New York, why can’t you just catch him?”

  “The protection order is effective immediately,” Warren said, standing.

  Scott stood up, as well. “This is about covering your own asses, isn’t it? You guys messed up, didn’t connect the dots fast enough, and a few guys from Dugan’s past got whacked. Now, with extremely circumstantial evidence, you’re going to make me and my family accept bodyguards?”

  Warren said, “The marshals who’ll be protecting you are outside right now. Carlos Torres will escort you to work, and Roger Shelly will take your daughter to school. Tomorrow evening the agents will be relieved by other agents for night duty.”

  “Look, seriously,” Scott said, “this a waste of taxpayers’ money.”

  “Your ex-wife Peggy Lang is currently being placed under protective custody, as well,” James said.

  “Whoa, my ex-wife doesn’t even live in New York. She lives in—”

  “Oregon,” James said.

  “See, maybe we do know how to use those databases,” Warren said, leaking sarcasm.

  “There’s no reason to involve her,” Scott said.

  “She’s already involved,” Warren said. “Agents are at her residence right now.”

  “Come on, this is insane,” Scott said. “I appreciate you guys coming here and giving me a heads-up and all, but I’m fine, and my family will be fine. We don’t need any protection.”

  “I don’t think you get it,” Warren said. “You have no choice in the matter.”

  “Actually, you’re getting off easy,” James said. “The alternative was you, your daughter, and your ex-wife going into the Witness Protection Program.”

  “Look at it like we’re doing you a favor.” Warren smirked.

  “I’m telling you, you guys are getting it wrong,” Scott said. “Willie Dugan won’t hurt me.”

  But it was too late; the agents had already left the apartment.

  Scott cursed. He banged his fist against the wall so hard that Cassie came out of her room.

  Squinting, she asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Scott said. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Did I just hear like voices out here?”

  “No,” Scott said, “you must’ve been dreaming.”

  Cassie didn’t seem convinced, but she muttered, “G’night,” and went back into her bedroom.

  Scott went right to his iPad and googled Willie Dugan. He read pretty much what the agents had told him, about the murder of Robert Billings in Florida, two days ago, in which Dugan was the prime suspect. It figured the Feds were on the case now, with the murders taking place in different states. Maybe jurisdictional issues had prevented law enforcement from connecting the dots sooner.

  Scott understood why the Feds thought Dugan would try to kill him. Dugan had already killed three people—two who’d testified against him. If this were true, Scott didn’t understand why Dugan had waited so long. Why wasn’t Scott first on his list?

  Scott and Willie had been, if not friends, then good acquaintances, until Dr. Henry Pym had given Scott the Ant-Man suit—under the condition that he use the technology for good, not evil. Scott had decided to leave his criminal life behind, but he hadn’t been sure how to break the news to Dugan.

  Scott, Dugan, and a couple of other guys were at a motel in Kentucky, about an hour outside Louisville. They were on a “business trip’” doing recon for a bank robbery, when a fire broke out at the motel. Scott and the other guys got out, but Willie was trapped inside.

  Firefighters arrived and tried to chop their way in, but the smoke was so bad they
had to bail. Dugan was terrified, screaming for his life. So Scott rushed to his car and opened the trunk where he was keeping the Ant-Man suit. Up until then he’d only worn the suit a few times—he wasn’t exactly an expert with navigating around in it. But if he wanted to save Dugan’s life, he didn’t have any time to lose. So he shrunk down, climbed up the rim of the fire ladder and past the firefighters who had given up on battling the blaze, and entered Willie’s room on the second floor of the hotel. Willie was losing consciousness, too out of it to see Scott return to normal size. Scott busted the window in the bathroom, dragged Willie out to safety, and dropped him down to the firefighters below. Then Scott shrunk and slipped away. The fire spread, and the entire motel burnt down.

  A couple of days later, Scott announced to Willie that he was leaving the crew. Willie was adamantly opposed to the idea. Scott’s technical abilities had helped them bypass alarm systems and crack safes, and he was worried that Scott would flip and testify against him. Scott promised Dugan that he would never rat him out to the cops—a promise that, ultimately, Scott couldn’t keep.

  Over the next few years, Scott fell out of touch with Dugan. Scott turned his attention to raising his daughter and fighting crime. He was redeeming himself, becoming a better man, and he hoped that Dugan had made similar changes in his life. Then he heard on the news that Dugan had been arrested for committing a double homicide in Yonkers, New York. After an argument over a woman, Dugan had shot two men—executionstyle—in the parking lot outside an apartment building. Scott had known Dugan as a criminal genius who’d pulled off dozens of heists.

  But the Dugan he knew wasn’t violent, had never killed anyone, and Scott had never even seen him argue or get into a fight. Dugan had always seemed laid back, quiet. Had something happened to change him into a cold-blooded killer, or had he simply hidden this side of himself from Scott?