Vigilante

by Robin Parrish

  Branford held his breath as the helicopter glided above the second building and Nolan retracted the grappler at just the right moment to fall onto the rooftop and into a rolling stop.

  On solid footing again, Nolan ran for cover, dropping down from the opposite side of the rooftop, beyond where the helicopter could see, and found his footing on a lower ledge.

  Conversationally, as if nothing had just happened, Nolan said, “Okay, then. I’m going to reconnoiter that warehouse on the Lower West Side we talked about. I’ll check in when I get there.”

  And with that, he was off on his next task.

  Branford took off his own headset and dropped it on the table before him. He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and shook his head slowly. He had to take a few deep breaths to shake off the death-defying escape that Nolan had regarded as just another day at the office.

  I am way too old for this. . . .

  When he opened his eyes, he found Alice still staring at the computer monitor, frozen in place with both hands over her mouth.

  “It’s okay,” he told her. “Don’t worry, he’s fine.”

  Alice dropped her hands. “I’ll never get used to this.”

  “I still haven’t,” Branford said, rubbing the cobwebs out of his eyes, “and I’ve commanded men in two wars. But he thrives on this.”

  Alice shook her head. “Are all soldiers trained to do the things he can do?”

  Branford sat back in his seat but turned to face her, letting his attention wander from his screens for the first time in hours. “Nolan’s unlike any other soldier I’ve ever served with. He’s had training in every form of combat that our armed forces teach. If he were from a different time, he’d be a ninja or a samurai or something. He was born for the fight.”

  “He’s not superhuman,” observed Alice. “Everybody has limits.”

  “Nolan’s the best physical specimen humanity has to offer. And that’s not an easy thing for an old war horse like me to say. When he was training for the Army Special Forces, every time his drill instructors thought they’d found his limits, he’d prove them wrong. He excelled at every discipline. Survival. Sharpshooting. Martial arts. Heavy artillery. Bladed weapons. Hand-to-hand. It was as if every one of these skills had been created solely for him. He broke records. He could adapt and improvise in the heat of the moment like no other. All forms of combat boil down to one thing: will. And Nolan had the strongest will power of anyone I’ve ever met. He’s absolutely bent on making this ‘better world’ of his, and if it were anyone else, I’d balk. But he stands a real chance of pulling it off.”

  “You don’t have to convince me that he’s one of a kind,” said Alice, looking back over at the computer that was showing Nolan’s point of view as he made his way across the city. “I just hope he knows he’s not indestructible.”

  Branford paused. “A buddy of mine, one of Nolan’s instructors in firearms proficiency, once said something that’s always stuck with me. He said that maybe once in every five to ten generations does a soldier like Nolan come along. He’s one in a billion. The way that Mozart played music or Van Gogh painted—that’s what it was like watching Nolan go about the art of war.”

  Alice paused. “ ‘Was.’ You keep saying he ‘was’ . . .”

  Branford scowled but said nothing.

  “What really happened to him?” she asked, her voice dropping in volume. “During the war. What did they do to him?”

  Branford shook his head. It was a long moment before he responded, and even then he wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Stuff I can’t put words to. Way beyond torture. Beyond indecency. They were kept naked and treated like animals. They were abused . . . and violated . . .” Branford lost his train of thought, realizing he’d likely said too much.

  Alice was quiet for a moment. “And the president too? How was someone who’d been through that kind of thing ever deemed fit to serve in public office? If it was as bad as you say, wouldn’t those men have been driven to madness?”

  “Officially,” Branford explained, “the tortures they suffered were never that bad. The captives testified in their debriefings that it never went beyond beatings, electrocution, starvation. But off the record, we all knew the truth. They were my men, all of them. I could see it in their eyes. They were alive, but there was no life left in them. They had been stripped of their humanity and reduced to something else. Something hollow. It was a long time before most of them healed, though Nolan and Hastings seemed to recover faster than the others. It was like they were both more driven than the rest. . . .”

  Alice was silent for a moment as Branford went about returning to his normal surveillance of city police bands and random switching between views from various street cameras at New York’s most populous intersections. He also pulled up his city grid and checked for any major emergencies, of which thankfully there were none at the moment.

  “Ask you something else?” said Alice.

  “Mm,” he grumbled, a dispassionate yes.

  “Why are you helping him?”

  Branford stopped what he was doing and turned to her.

  “This isn’t your crusade, any more than it’s mine,” she said. “It’s his. I know you two have this history, but you retired years ago, right? So why do this?”

  Branford felt the muscles in his neck tense, clenching slightly.

  She wasn’t wrong. This entire plot was Nolan’s brainchild. Unofficially, Nolan was in charge, because he was the one who was going to be putting himself out there, and Branford and Arjay worked for him. But since Branford was there to strategize, direct, and oversee Nolan’s actions in the field, it sometimes proved an uneasy tension between their respective authority.

  Still, there was no one else on the planet Nolan would have chosen to be at his side for what they were doing, and Branford knew it. And there was no one else in the world Branford would have agreed to help.

  He frowned, searching for the words. “That young man is the most talented soldier I’ve ever seen. Talent like that isn’t supposed to be wasted. When I saw that he was determined to go through with this plan of his . . . I knew he would need somebody watching his back. Keep him from getting himself killed. That’s why I’m here. I’m doing this to keep him alive,” Branford said and remembered the day, twelve months ago in Cancun, when he’d been convinced to do that very thing.

  22

  It was miserably sticky that day in Mexico. Branford would always remember the smell of sweat carried by the air.

  Neither man had bothered to offer a greeting when Nolan approached Branford’s table and sat down. That’s just how it was for men who’d fought together for so long. There were no hellos or good-byes. There was only the current situation.

  “You wanna tell me how you found me?” growled Branford.

  “I know you,” Nolan replied, quickly adding, “sir.”

  Branford frowned, letting out a sound between a snarl and a hmph. “Always were good at finding things . . .” he mumbled. “Heard you got religion after the war.”

  “Nah, I always had it.”

  “Good for you,” said Branford without enthusiasm. “You go to church too?”

  “Now and then. Still not big on crowds. Or small spaces.”

  Branford gave a conciliatory nod, Nolan’s history coming back to him in a burst. He tried a different tack. “I’m impressed you could hold on to any kind of beliefs after . . . well, after what happened to you.”

  “What happened strengthened my faith.”

  “What’re you doing here, Lieutenant?” Branford asked.

  “I need your help,” Nolan said. “New mission.”

  Branford, staring off into nothing, eyed him for a moment before speaking. “Not interested.”

  “I can pay you,” Nolan replied.

  “As if you have money.”

  “I have some.”

  “Don’t need money. Don’t need anything. Now go on, get back to your fame and your Jesus and leave me alone.�
��

  Nolan stood. “If that’s what you want, sir.”

  He had turned to walk away when Branford said, “Oh, for crying out loud . . . What’s the target?”

  Nolan sat back down, seemingly steeling himself. This was the hard part. “Multiple targets.”

  Branford raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

  “Immorality. Pain. Cruelty. Suffering. Apathy. In a word: evil.”

  From anyone else it would’ve sounded absurd. From Nolan, those words almost became actual enemies. Almost.

  “Those ain’t things you can destroy with weapons,” said Branford.

  “No, sir,” Nolan replied. “But if you can change them, even on a small scale, then it might send a message to the rest of the world. And this message will be sent from New York City.”

  Branford almost frowned, but instead crinkled his eyebrows up. “I’ve never known you to do anything you weren’t completely serious about. And I’ve never seen you fail. At anything. But what you’re talking about . . . it can’t be done. One man can’t change an entire city, much less the world.”

  “I don’t believe that,” said Nolan, coming alive with confidence and drive. He leaned in to the table. “My grandmother taught me the difference between right and wrong. You taught me that distinguishing the two isn’t hard. Everybody learns these things at some point. It’s not a puzzle. It’s the most obvious thing in the world. But people have lost faith and they need a reminder. They need something to rally around. A symbol. I’m going to give them one.”

  Branford shrugged. Idealism was never his thing. Objective and engagement. Battlefield terms, that’s how he approached life.

  “How’s that going to work?” he eventually asked. “You gonna fight the good fight by destroying the wicked?”

  “I’m going to push back evil by doing good,” said Nolan. “I’m not naïve. I know how the world works. This has to be done just right, with intricate planning and focused intention. It’s a war to be waged on two fronts. We draw a line against evil and don’t let it cross. We cut off the criminals’ supply lines and expose their biggest players as the dangers to society that they are. That’s the first front. The second is inside the hearts and minds of the public. That’s a battleground of words, ideas, emotions—a war that’s fought by giving everybody the one thing they want most: hope. A symbol of hope to get behind, and bring them together. The way to make a change is to lead by example.”

  Branford studied him at length. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “I had plenty of time to think about it,” Nolan replied. “I made a promise to a friend that I would find a way to make a difference. Look, I know it’s probably impossible, but I have to do this. To not at least try . . . would be worse than dying.”

  That was another reference Branford wouldn’t dispute. Whether he knew about the promise or not, Branford certainly knew about Nolan’s experiences behind enemy lines during the second half of the war.

  Most of his fellow hostages succumbed to death long before their captivity ended.

  “You and I have never talked about that” was Branford’s cautious reply. “What you went through. Do we need to?”

  Nolan crossed his arms, leaned back against his chair, and searched the ceiling. “No, sir.”

  “You sure about that?” Branford pressed. “Because the things you were put through, that does stuff to a man—”

  “Sir,” Nolan said, swiveling to meet his eyes. “This subject is one you may respectfully consider off-limits.”

  Branford didn’t argue. He was hardly the person anyone would or should choose to talk to about their personal demons.

  “There’s one thing I need to know,” he said, softly so that only the two of them would hear. “Just one, and we’ll never talk about it again.”

  Nolan met his gaze, his tics so subtle that Branford doubted anyone else would have been able to tell just how annoyed the younger man was. “What?” he asked, in a voice that was almost a dare.

  “This plan of yours. Are you doing it because of what was done to you, back then?”

  Nolan’s expression never changed. “Does it matter?”

  With that, he got up from the table and walked away, leaving Branford to consider his decision.

  In the end, he was forced to concede the point. Nolan was already committed to this path. And his reasons why weren’t going to change a thing.

  23

  Her chin held as high as she dared, Agnes entered Big Al’s Bar as casually as possible. The place was dark and her eyes didn’t adjust immediately. As was the custom in motorcyclist-favored bars, every patron looked up at the brightness pouring in through the front door as she walked inside.

  Her greatest fear was that the people would start laughing the minute she walked in. She was hardly tiny or frail. At six foot three and broad-shouldered, she had played basketball and soccer in high school and later in college, and had even considered pursuing a career in sports back then. But she’d put that aside because another path called to her.

  Having been the frequent practical-joke target of the popular kids in school because of her atypical size, Agnes had turned her attention to a profession that would allow her to speak her mind without fear: writing. Through the pen, she could be the one to paint a target on the backs of those who truly deserved it, and she relished any chance to show the public that nobody was perfect.

  Instead of laughter, she drew a few raised eyebrows but otherwise blank expressions as she briskly marched up to the bartender in her pinstripe gray pantsuit. It was all an adventure to post about later online.

  “What’ll you have?” asked the white-haired man behind the bar, who was missing several teeth but had replaced a few of them with gold.

  “I’m looking for Tommy,” she said.

  “Never heard of him,” replied the barkeep, though he kept his poker face trained on her.

  Agnes frowned. She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this—that this man Tommy might be more professional than this—but she supposed that anyone who ran a business out of a motorcycle bar was probably not one to welcome unwanted solicitors.

  Reluctantly, she pulled a folded-up hundred dollar bill out of her pocket and passed it to the bartender, as discreetly as possible.

  He unfolded it and examined it closely, even scanning it with a special light to prove it wasn’t a fake. When he was satisfied, he nodded toward a solid oak door at the very back of the bar. “Through there,” he said.

  She didn’t bother to thank the old man; her money was all the gratitude she could afford to give. When she reached the heavy oak door, she knocked on it twice.

  “Yeah?” called out a voice from inside.

  “Tommy Serra? I’m in need of your services.”

  The door cracked open two inches, but Agnes could see little more than darkness beyond it.

  “You a cop?” asked Tommy from inside.

  “Do I look like a cop?”

  “You don’t look much like a biker,” Tommy replied.

  “And you don’t look like you’ve seen anything outside this room since you were potty-trained,” she fired back, her blood pressure rising. “Relax, man-child. I can pay you well, and what I’m asking you to do isn’t even illegal.”

  After a beat, the door was shut and latches and chains were undone from the inside. Finally the door opened and Tommy stood before her. He looked like he was barely out of his teens, clad in baggy clothes and sporting unkempt black hair, with dark circles under his beady eyes. He lived in a small space so dark it could only be described as a cave. She supposed it had been some kind of storage closet before he moved in. He nodded for her to enter, and then shut and locked the door behind her.

  There were some offensive odors in this strange small room, not a single extra chair, and hardly enough room for her to stand. Tommy took his place at the large desk up against the right-side wall, and quickly looked back and forth between his three giant-screened computer monitors situa
ted side-by-side.

  Agnes wasn’t sure if she should wait for him to finish whatever he was doing or if he was merely waiting for her to tell him what she wanted. Either way, she was tiring of him already and decided to cut to the chase.

  She pulled a legal-sized envelope out of her carryall and dropped it on Tommy’s desk. He swiveled to glance at it, and then he stopped his typing and opened it quickly, like a hungry animal smelling meat.

  Several dozen photos slid out, and he shuffled through them quickly. “The Hand. Been watching this guy. Been to his website? He’s getting incredible traffic. I’m amazed it hasn’t crashed.”

  “That’s virtually every photo that’s been taken of him,” Agnes explained.

  Tommy kept shuffling. “He’s pretty camera shy. Not a single shot of his face.”

  She nodded. “Exactly. But if you look closely, you can see little bits here and there. Tiny parts of his face that peek through from under that hood—mostly his chin and jowls. No one’s gotten a real clear look at him, several of these shots are blurry. But I hear you’re good at 3-D rendering, among your other—”

  “You want me to map each of these bits of his face onto a 3-D model, and see how much of the puzzle can be pieced together,” Tommy assessed.

  “How long will it take?”

  “Three days, maybe four.”

  She handed him a business card and ten one-hundred dollar bills. “Make it two. And call me the minute it’s done.”

  Without stopping to find out if this price was agreeable to him, or to see if he wanted to negotiate a particular rate, she closed her bag, turned on one heel, unlocked his heavy oak door, and marched out.

  24

  It was after eight o’clock in the evening when Nolan wearily returned to his underground home after a very long day. There had been four crimes in progress to attend to, in between which he’d turned his focus to his ongoing efforts to uncover deeper, systemic examples of crime.