by Jason Starr
“I’m kinda surprised they didn’t figure it out by now,” Dugan said. “I mean with all that fancy DNA equipment they have nowadays. I’m also surprised nobody reported Mulligan missing yet.”
“Mulligan?” Scott asked.
“Lawrence Mulligan,” Dugan said. “You remember, the judge who presided at the trial. You know, the one where you ratted on me.”
Now Scott recalled the name.
“Wait,” Scott said, “so you mean—”
“Yeah, I killed the bastard,” Dugan said. “He retired down to New Orleans. Lived alone, I guess that’s why nobody reported him missing yet. But I figured if I set it up to look like I was dead, it would give me a better chance of getting at you. Oh, and your little girl.”
“You son of a bitch,” Scott said. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
“Whoa, Scotty, this isn’t like you at all.” Dugan sounded like he was enjoying this conversation. “I mean, you’re not some lowlife vigilante like that guy Castle. Ant-Man doesn’t kill people—he brings them to justice, right?”
How had Dugan found out Scott was Ant-Man? Had Cassie told him? Scott didn’t think she would— unless she were threatened or tortured.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Scott said.
“You can play dumb all you want,” Dugan said, “but I know the truth. Figured it out a while ago, while I was in prison. I knew you knew Hank Pym, that doctor—you told me all about him. Then there was the fire at that motel. How did I get out of that? It was a freaking miracle—or was it? The firefighters told me it looked like I jumped out of the window, but I knew I was trapped up there, too weak to even move. There was no way I got up, went to the window, and jumped. I mean, not all by myself. I was passing out, dying, until…well, you tell me the rest, Scott.”
Scott didn’t know why Dugan was going on about this, but he had to keep him on the line. He needed to find out where Cassie was, and make sure she was okay.
“I don’t know what this has to do with Cassie,” Scott said.
“You thought I was an idiot?” Dugan said. “You thought I wasn’t going to figure it out?”
“If she’s with you now, could you just—”
“I’m not talking about your stupid daughter!” Dugan yelled. Then Scott heard him take a few deep breaths, as if trying to calm himself.
Jesus, this guy sounded totally unhinged, and he had Cassie. This was the worst nightmare imaginable.
Dugan continued, “I mean, I admit it took me a while to put it all together. It was the timing that gave it away. You tell me you’re leaving my crew, you want to go straight, and then I start hearing about Ant-Man in the news. He uses the Pym Particles in his belt or whatever, shrinks to the size of an ant, and works with all the big shots—Iron Man, Captain America, even Spider-Man—helping to rid the world of evil and all that crap. Lot of rumors going around, too. Everybody’s wondering, Who is this shrinking guy? Is he my friend? My neighbor? Did Hank Pym pass on the Ant-Man tech to somebody else?
“Then I get busted, my trial comes up, and who do they put on the stand to testify against me? My former loyal partner. That fits in, too—it was another piece of the puzzle. That’s why you testified against me, huh? ’Cause you became so self-righteous? So this big change of heart you had led to me going away, a life sentence, and meanwhile you get to live this fancy life in the big city, pretending you’re a hero. Yeah, I used the word ‘pretending’ ’cause that’s what it is. It’s all fake, an act.
“You know I thought about you every day in prison? I thought about what I’d do to get even with you. I had some other people on my list, but I was just warming up with them—you’re my big prize, Scott. Every day when I was building that tunnel with my hands—yeah, that’s right, my hands—I was thinking about you, how you betrayed me. And with every fistful of dirt, I was getting closer to the day I’d get even with you. Maybe you can fool them, Scott, but you can’t fool me. I know who you are. I know what you are. Just ’cause you have some fancy suit doesn’t make you into somebody you’re not. You’re no hero, Scott.”
Scott didn’t feel any remorse; he knew he’d done the right thing. But he had to try to calm Dugan down, try to reason with the lunatic.
“Why would you want to hurt me or my daughter?” Scott asked. “I mean, I get that you’re upset about me testifying, but if what you’re saying is true—and I’m not saying it is—then I saved your life.”
“Life?” Dugan said, sounding shocked. “I didn’t get to live life, I got to do life. You were away that time for, what, six months? A year?”
“Almost two years,” Scott said.
“Two years at some country club compared to what I went through in max at Attica. You know what kind of animals I was in with? You know what hell I went through? And you call that a life?”
“I know you’ve been through hell,” Scott said, “and I’m sorry things went down the way they did. But we’re talking about my daughter, man. She has nothing to do with this. You have a problem with me, come after me. Fight me like a man.”
Dugan was laughing.
“What?” Scott said. “What’s funny? I’m being serious. Let her go, and I’ll meet you anywhere you want.”
Still laughing, Dugan said, “Man, you haven’t changed, have you? Always thought you were the smartest one in the room. Well, guess what? You’re not.”
“That’s right, ’cause you’re the smart guy,” Scott said. “You know how to make good decisions, I know you do. I remember how you used to plot out those jobs, right down to the last detail. You knew when you were outnumbered, outgunned, and you never made a wrong move. You can make the right decision now, Willie. You can—”
“Stop talking—you’re making my head hurt,” Dugan said. “I’m never going back inside, don’t you get it? When I went into that tunnel, I knew that was it—there was no turning back. I had to get to the end of it, or I was gonna die trying—those were the only two options. But I didn’t die, I got out, and now it’s my time. Now it’s time for some payback.”
Scott was having trouble following Dugan, but he said, “I get what you’re saying. You’re frustrated, you’re angry. Anybody would be in your situation, but that doesn’t mean you have to—”
“I’m gonna text an address to this number after I hang up,” Dugan said. “Come tonight, six o’clock, alone. I see a cop, or I think I see a cop, I’m gonna put one in your daughter’s head.”
Scott’s face was hot with rage, but he maintained enough composure to say, “I’ll be there.”
The call ended.
Scott remained in the vestibule, waiting for the text to arrive. All he could think about was Dugan’s threat to kill Cassie. It was hard for Scott to believe that he’d once spent so much time with this psycho, that he’d actually liked him. At the trial Scott had seen a different Willie Dugan, heard about the horrible things he’d done, how he’d become callous and hateful. If Dugan still had any remaining morality at that point, prison had wiped it away. Now he was full-blown deranged, deluded beyond repair. Had Dugan been hiding his true self from Scott all along? Or had the signs always been there, but Scott—wrapped up in his own problems—had chosen to ignore them?
The text arrived—an address in Wallkill, New York. Wallkill? Wasn’t there a prison there? Scott Googled it—yep, the Wallkill Correctional Facility. That made sense, actually—well, it did if you were Willie Dugan. Willie used to say that the best place to hide out from the cops was right next door to a police station because it’s the last place the cops would expect to find you. Taking that a step further: If you were an escaped convict, one of the most wanted men in America, where was the safest place to hide? How about in a town where there was another prison?
While Scott was on Google, he mapped Wallkill— it was upstate, in the Catskills, about an hour and a half from the city. It was four o’clock now. How did Dugan expect Scott to get up there so fast?
Scott texted:
I need
more time
Got back:
6 or she gets a bullet and don’t text here again,
phone about to be destroyed
Scott cursed, then headed toward Second Avenue. He figured he’d take a roundabout route back to his apartment, going a block out of the way, to avoid running into Carlos.
Then, from behind him, Scott heard, “Hey, where you going?”
Scott stopped, turned back.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Carlos said. “You can’t be alone right now—it’s way too dangerous.”
“Sorry. I, uh, just had to get away for a little while.”
Scott was still holding the pay-as-you-go phone. He slipped it into his pocket.
“Where you headed now?” Carlos asked.
“I was just going to head home,” Scott said. “Wait for news there.”
“You’re heading in the wrong direction.”
“Oh yeah,” Scott said, pretending to be disoriented. “You’re right.”
“I’ll walk you back,” Carlos said. “I gotta make sure your place is secure, and I want to stay with you, too. I can’t imagine what’s going on in your head right now.”
What was going on in Scott’s head: planning how fast he could ditch Carlos and get his ass to Wallkill.
At the building, Carlos came up to Scott’s apartment, looked around, then said, “I can hang out with you here if you want?”
“No, it’s okay. I have things I need to do right now.”
His cell, his real cell, rang. Scott checked the display and saw: Tony Stark.
“Gotta take this—it’s my ex-wife,” Scott lied.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” Carlos said.
When Carlos was gone, Scott answered the call.
“Just heard what happened,” Tony said. “Let’s go—I’ll help you find Cassie.”
It would have been nice to fly to Wallkill at jet speed. But remembering Dugan’s warning to show up alone, Scott said, “It’s okay, Tone, I got this.”
“You sure?” Stark said. “We’re talking about your daughter. This is no time to be proud, man.”
Scott wasn’t making the decision out of pride. If he’d thought Tony coming along would increase his chances of bringing Cassie home safely, of course he’d accept the help.
“No, it’s all right,” Scott said. “Seriously, I appreciate it. If I need backup I’ll give you a shout, but I don’t think that will be the case.”
“So you know where this guy is?” Tony asked.
Scott didn’t answer.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, Scott, this is your call, obviously. I’m sure you have it under control, but be careful. This Willie Dugan guy sounds like he has nothing to lose, which is the most dangerous kind of criminal.”
Scott was crouching in the closet, dialing in the combination to the safe.
“Don’t worry.” He opened the safe, revealing the Ant-Man suit. “I’m bringing my A-game.”
* * *
AS SCOTT put on the suit, he felt his pulse pounding as usual. This was what he was meant to do with his life—it was his calling; it felt right. As a man, he was just another working guy, an anonymous face in the crowd. But when he put on the suit—gaining strength as he shrunk—he became a fighter, a leader. It was why Hank Pym had entrusted him with the power. Some people were meant to be doctors, or teachers, or construction workers, or presidents. Scott was meant to be Ant-Man.
The helmet came out of the suit, and Scott clicked it into place. He released the gas with the Pym Particles—and then boom, he shrunk. What a rush! He’d transformed hundreds, maybe thousands, of times over the years, but he’d never stop feeling awed by the technology, his suddenly fresh perspective on the world. Becoming tiny never made him feel insignificant—it made him feel huge.
But the feeling of greatness wasn’t just physical—it was psychological. As a man, Scott’s senses were limited to his thoughts and feelings—but as Ant-Man, he had a larger awareness and natural understanding of how the universe worked. Being ant-sized showed him how limited the human perspective was—there was a bigger world around us that we simply couldn’t understand. Maybe the technology brought him closer to what the Buddhists sought: pure consciousness. On some super-subconscious level, he was aware of all the ants in the building, another world of friends ready to support him like loyal soldiers. Scott didn’t fully trust humans— most people had disappointed him or turned on him at some point—but he’d never met an ant he didn’t like.
The euphoria was fleeting, though, overtaken by his only concern: finding Cassie and bringing her home to safety.
Scott skidded out of the apartment and leaped down the stairs one floor at a time. He knew he could be heading toward some kind of trap. Dugan always had a plan, a method to his madness—and this time the plan was probably related to Scott’s identity as Ant-Man. That’s why Dugan had kidnapped Cassie rather than Scott—because he knew that Scott would come to Wallkill as Ant-Man. But Scott had no idea what the rest of Dugan’s plan entailed. Maybe he was going to try to convince Scott to use his powers as Ant-Man to pull off some crime, to rob a bank or a Brink’s truck. Or maybe Dugan’s plan was to lure Scott upstate simply to kill him—and Cassie, too.
Outside the apartment building, Carlos was on his cell, probably talking to some FBI colleague. “… Yes, he’s inside now…Yes, I’ll do that…Yes, okay, got you, no problem...Yes…”
Scott zipped by him, unseen. He knew Carlos would catch some serious flack for letting Scott disappear under his watch, especially since it had just happened the other day when Roger had let Cassie slip away. But that was the least of Scott’s concerns.
He sprinted along the sidewalk, faster than he could ever move at his normal size. At the corner, he leapt onto the top of a taxi heading uptown and clung to the roof.
It was probably about 4:15 now, so he had to beat rush hour out of the city if he had any chance of getting to Wallkill by the six o’clock deadline.
Finally, he felt like himself—his true self. He was sick of playing the victim, hiding under a Protection Order, taking all the punches.
It was time for Ant-Man.
It was time to fight back.
CASSIE was in the dark and couldn’t make a sound.
While she was passed out, the men had covered her eyes with a blindfold, or tape, or maybe both, and taped her mouth, too, so she couldn’t scream. Then they’d dragged her out of the car and into other cars a few times. They kept telling her to stay calm and do what they said and everything would fine. She didn’t believe them, but she also knew that her dad was going to come and save her. Maybe he’d come alone, or maybe Iron Man or Spider-Man would come, too, and rescue her, bring these guys to justice.
But now she wasn’t so sure.
She had no idea where she was or how her dad could possibly find her. She thought a couple of hours had gone by since she’d been kidnapped, but she was so scared, it was hard to keep track of time. And even if two hours had gone by, that didn’t necessarily mean she was two hours outside of Manhattan. She’d read a Sherlock Holmes story for her English class last year where criminals kidnapped this guy and put him in the trunk of the car and took him someplace that seemed far away because a lot of time had gone by, but it turned out that was a trick. The criminals had been driving in circles the whole time. Cassie didn’t think this had happened to her because she definitely wasn’t in Manhattan. They’d taken her out of the car again, and the big guy kept telling her to “Stop crying” and “Just relax, honey.” She could smell grass and flowers and fresh, clean country air.
She stopped walking and dragged her feet, refusing to go any farther.
“Come on,” the big guy said. “You could make it hard, or you could make it easy.”
She listened to his voice closely, knowing that if she got out of here alive, she might have to remember it. His voice was deep, and he had an accent. Boston? Long Island? She’d never been great with accents
, that was the problem. Didn’t they say “yahd” instead of “yard” in Boston? She’d keep listening, waiting for him to say yahd, then she’d know for sure. She knew she was being ridiculous, thinking about accents when her life was probably in danger, but she was too frightened to think about what was actually happening. She needed to think about something else, distract herself.
“Okay, looks like she wants it the hard way,” the big guy said.
They each grabbed one of her arms and dragged her up the stairs into some building. It was a house— definitely a house. It smelled musty, but she also thought she smelled food—something spicy, maybe Mexican. She’d remember that, too, if someone asked her later. She had to be a detective, like Sherlock Holmes, and keep collecting all of the clues. That’s how she’d think of this—like a game, a mystery.
A door creaked open. Doors creaked in old houses, right? So she was in an old house in the country where maybe Mexican people from Boston lived. Okay, it wasn’t a lot, but it was still something.
The big guy told her to sit, so she sat in a chair—a wooden chair.
“If you promise not to yell or do anything stupid, I’ll take the tape off your mouth. You think you can do that?”
Cassie didn’t think he was from Boston anymore, but she didn’t know where he was from. She nodded.
He said, “This might hurt,” and he tore the tape off her mouth.
“Ow,” she said.
“Remember,” he said, “we’re not messing around, so don’t try anything stupid or the tape goes back on.”
“Why’re you doing this?” Cassie asked.
“Hey,” the man said, “did I say you can ask questions?”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Cassie said.
“I think you’re just saying that,” the guy said.
“Why would I just say that?”
“Let her go to the bathroom,” the shorter guy said.
Cassie liked the shorter guy better. He sounded nicer.
