Man of Steele

by Alex P. Berg

  “Have those two take a seat,” he told Rodgers and Quinto. They obliged by planting the captives into a pair of chairs.

  “Fasten them,” he said.

  Rodgers and Quinto did that, too, unlocking and re-locking the pair’s handcuffs around the chair back’s bars. For whatever it was worth, the two thugs had apparently decided to invoke their right to remain silent.

  “Good,” said the chief. “Detectives Rodgers and Quinto? If you two managed to chase down and apprehend this pair, then I trust you to handle yourselves out there. You’re familiar with the Old Town Precinct? It’s about five blocks from here. Please escort my family there. I sincerely doubt Captain Markow will be in at this hour, but if he is, appraise him of the situation. If not, tell whoever’s there to find him. This is an all-hands-on-deck situation. Captain Knox. You’ve said you’ve already rallied the Fifth?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Grant Street is on high alert, too. They’ll be spreading the word. And I sent one of our best to check on the armed forces.”

  “Excellent,” said the chief. “Detectives Rodgers and Quinto? I’m commandeering this post for the time being. I know the owner. He won’t mind. When you’re done rallying the troops, rouse the runners. They’ll be hard to find at this time of night, but spread word that we’re doubling pay until further notice. They’ll come out of the woodwork like termites, then. Order them to take direct routes between precincts, and to station themselves at key intersections for faster transit. Also be sure to tell them to take care of themselves. Who knows how bad this storm is going to be. After that, you’re to return here. Dismissed.”

  Rodgers and Quinto didn’t even look disappointed as they left, which was more than I would’ve been able to muster. Then again, they were better cops than I was, and they hadn’t been through the same hell I’d been over the past six hours.

  The chief waited for the sounds of Rodgers, Quinto, and his family to die amidst the howling winds and beating rains before addressing the Captain. “How bad is it? What are we dealing with?”

  “With all due respect, sir,” said Knox. “Detective Daggers is the one to tell you. He and Detective Steele have been at the epicenter of this since last night.”

  “Since last night?” The old badger glared at me. “Why wasn’t I appraised?”

  “There wasn’t anything to be appraised of until today, sir,” I said. “Last night, I was attacked in my home by a pair of goons not unlike these two. Suffice it to say, I came out on top. Literally, in one case. Don’t ask. We were pretty sure it was a gang case, but we didn’t have any motives until today. That’s when Detective Steele was abducted. Long story short, we managed to locate a known associate who we thought might’ve been involved. An ogre by the name of Bonesaw. He’s dead now, but his boss is very much alive. A former Wyverns operator by the name of Sebastian Markeville. Goes by the last name Cobb, or used to. Started a new gang by the name Winds of Change. He’s behind everything. The slaughter at the old King’s Theater. A basilisk attack. Your own assault and attempted murder, along with the elemental-driven cyclone.”

  “What’s his current location?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir. We were working on that when we found out about District Attorney Flint’s murder. That in turn got derailed by the cyclone’s arrival and trying to save you, sir.”

  “Succeeding in saving me, Detective.” He eyed the Captain. “We may need to enlist the aid of the SMRTs.”

  “That’s why we’re here, in part, sir,” said Knox.

  He nodded, turning his gaze to the captives. “You’re with the Winds of Change, is it? I don’t suppose anyone wants to tell me about their boss, Markeville? His location? His plans?”

  The chief circled them slowly, his stance coiled and menacing despite his injuries, like a jaguar sizing up his prey. “No? No one wants to be the snitch? Can’t say I’m surprised. What’s in it for you, right? You’re both going to jail for the rest of your lives. But you do realize I get the final say in where, right?”

  The orc spat at him, though the spittle barely cleared his own shoes. “Go to hell, pig. You don’t scare us. The winds of change are blowing.”

  “I was rather hoping you’d say something like that.”

  The chief crossed to the bar, lifting up a hinged portion before heading behind it. He leaned down and popped back up with a worn wooden bat in hand. He hefted it, a grim smile spreading across his face.

  “Told you I knew the owner,” he said. “This place doesn’t get rough often, but he likes to err on the side of caution. You’re all free to excuse yourselves for this portion of the interrogation. Might make forgetting it ever happened a little easier.”

  “Hey, now,” said the guy in the raincoat. “You can’t do this. You’re the po—”

  The chief’s bat took him square across the jaw. Blood sprayed, and a couple teeth flew into the darkness. That blow alone got him to moaning. His tougher-than-nails orc friend held out a little longer, but he was sobbing within minutes, too.

  I’m not some doe-eyed idealist. I know what happens behind the scenes at times. Hell, I’d toed the line myself on more than one occasion. Gotten rough with more than one suspect. I’d even done it early on in Shay’s and my tenure. I didn’t think any less of the chief for doing what he did. The thugs in front of him had beaten him. Tried to kill him. And even worse, at least in his eyes, tied and gagged his family and left them to die in a home that, if all things went according to plan, would’ve burned to the ground after being struck by lightning.

  No, there was no mercy to be had at the hands of the chief, and no pity to be had on my part. But that didn’t mean I had the stomach for it. And the chief was right. Better to see as little of it as possible in the event that someone, anyone, ever bothered to ask how those two gang members happened to end up as bloody, mouth-breathing piles of pulp in the back of a bar across the street from the chief’s house.

  Shay joined me, walking to the other side of the bar as the chief's bat bit into the goons with wet thuds and stomach turning crunches. For was it was worth, the Captain stood by his side, her face carved from stone.

  Shay crossed to a chair and sat down, but I headed behind the bar. I started rummaging through the bottles, looking for something to fit my needs.

  “You want to grab me something while you’re back there?”

  I looked up, surprised. “You never go for hard liquor.”

  She shrugged. “It’s been that kind of night.”

  “It has,” I said. “But as nice as a shot of Glendale might be, that’s not what I’m after.”

  I couldn’t see Shay’s face well in the darkness, but I could feel the force of her raised eyebrow. “Then what are you doing?”

  “Pocketing some insurance.”

  I found a trio of flask-sized bottles, each of them filled with a caramel-colored liquid. The labels said they were brandy, but I wasn’t familiar with the brand. Either way, I slipped them into my interior jacket pockets, then kept rummaging, eventually finding a box of matches under the counter near another unlit lantern. Hopefully the box would stay dry in my jacket, but under these condition, who knew? I’d still need cloth, though. I snagged some dish towels and started ripping them into strips.

  “Seriously, what are you up to?” asked Shay.

  “You don’t think this is over, do you?” I asked. “Markeville’s still out there. Whatever he has planned, we need to stop him. He may be weakened, but don’t doubt for a second that he’ll go down without a fight. I’m just trying to even the odds.”

  The sounds of the chief’s wetwork faded, and I heard low voices among the sobbing. Rapid footsteps preceded the Captain around the edge of the bar.

  “Well?” I said.

  She headed for the door at a jog. “It’s the mayor. He’s the next target, and Markeville might be heading this task up himself. Come on! We don’t have a moment to lose.”

  37
>
  I didn’t cherish the idea of abandoning the chief, and not because I was afraid for his well-being. Rodgers and Quinto would be back momentarily, and anyone who could survive being heavily beaten, lashed to a rooftop during a cyclone, and struck by lightning could handle himself with two barely conscious thugs. Rather it was the chief’s emotional state I doubted. Left to his own devices, I wasn’t sure the goons would live to see another sunrise, and as much as I cherished justice, I preferred the official kind, not the street variety. But we had bigger concerns at the moment than the chief’s emotional anguish and the safety of his prisoners.

  Shay and I dove after the Captain, plunging once again into the pounding rains and heavy winds. The cyclone’s center continued to bear toward the city, but it appeared to have weakened despite its closer proximity. Maybe it was my imagination—the storm’s winds couldn’t match those the elemental had unleashed on us in the chief’s house—or maybe my fight with the elemental had weakened it, in turn lessening what the storm could muster.

  My body groaned as I ran. My hand throbbed, my head ached, pins and needles stabbed at the undersides of my feet and into my shins with every step I took. I’d need an accountant’s help to tally the bruises I’d acquired over the past day. On top of that, my stomach rumbled. The burger I’d consumed was a fleeting memory, a mirage of meaty goodness on a heat-rippled horizon, and all I wanted to do was lie down and sleep for twelve days. Yet still I ran.

  I’d never considered myself a hero. One of the good guys, sure, despite my rough edges. Shay’d helped me sand those down. I rarely went on the sorts of fist-to-face tantrums the chief had embarked on tonight. I’d broken up with my alcoholic mistress, no matter how much the clinking bottles in my jacket cried out to me. I spent time with my son, paid my alimony, and generally treated people with kindness and respect, if not without the occasional bit of snark. But I was serious about my job. I cared about justice, public safety, and the rule of law. Being a homicide detective had grown to be more than a job for me. It was a career. My life’s work.

  That still didn’t make me a hero. Heroes were folks who put their lives on the line for the public good, those who knowingly ran into harm’s way for the mere chance to save others, whether guaranteed or not, like firefighters and the hardasses on the SWAT team and the occasional leotard and cape-clad lunatic who roamed the streets at night. Yet here I was, darting into danger with my body on the verge of collapse, chased by a whirlwind formed of unnatural forces in the wee hours of the morning, and why? Not for the woman I loved. She’d been freed. Not for my career, either. Everything I’d done since heading into the sewers outside the King’s Theater had gone beyond the line of duty. Yet still I ran. Still I persevered. Why? Because I cared about the city. Because I cared about people other than myself. Because I wouldn’t knowingly let others face the same risks, same dangers, and same fears I had, damn the risks! And because it was the right thing to do.

  It occurred to me then that even those people the rest of us recognize as heroes don’t see themselves that way. They’re just out there, doing the right thing, too.

  Unlike with the chief of police’s residence, I didn’t have to ask the Captain for directions as we traveled. We all knew where the mayor lived. The penthouse suite of One Freemont Plaza.

  The newspapers had covered the story with unwavering interest. Throughout his tenure in office, Mayor Greenburg’s most vocal campaign had been in the modernization of New Welwic. He’d proposed new public works, taller buildings, bigger universities, and better quality housing for all, so it was no surprise that when Bock Industries came along with their revolutionary generator, followed immediately by Tanner Sherman and his electrical globes, that Mayor Greenburg moved heaven and earth to outfit the city with said lights. Not that they’d spread to every corner yet—the darkened streets that greeted us on our sprint to his condo were proof enough of that. But they continued to spread, and One Freemont Plaza was their epicenter.

  The brand new Freemont Building, only a month past its official opening, was the toast of the town. At an absurd fifteen stories tall, it was by far the tallest structure in the city, double its closest competitor. I’d yet to see it in person, but word was Sherman’s inventions had been integrated into the core of the building. Not just his electrical lights, but electrical pumps to carry water to the highest floors, an electrically driven lift to carry passengers and cargo to the same levels, and even a contraption to convert electricity into sound. A sounder, they imaginatively called it, though word was the thing had only been installed on the ground level.

  We saw the building stretch toward the clouds as we approached, many of its windows lit even now with that all too white electrical glow. We kept running, crossing the rain-soaked street and dashing into the lobby.

  It spread out before us, every bit the epitome of modern luxury. White marble floors, twenty foot high ceilings of gilded tin tile, exterior glass as far as the eye could see, all lit by hundreds of Sherman’s electrical globes. A wide welcome desk, also topped with marble, curved into a wide ‘U’ at the center of the lobby. Stairwells stood past it, as well a steel grating with a fat black button to the side and a gauge over the top. The lift, perhaps?

  I glanced to my right, then my left, water dripping from my coat to the polished floor underneath. For all of the Freemont Building’s amenities, it seemed to be suffering from a major shortage.

  “Where are the doormen?” I said. “The guards? Shouldn’t there be some?”

  Captain Knox nodded, her breath labored. “There were when I visited a few weeks ago. Even at this hour of the morning, there should be several. This isn’t a good sign.”

  “So we’re too late?” said Shay.

  “Only one way to find out,” I said, moving toward the stairs.

  Shay grabbed me by the sleeve. “Daggers, don’t be stupid! If the guards are gone, that either means the Winds of Change have come and gone, or worse, they’re still here. We have no idea how many men they have, how well they’re armed, or what their plans are. We don’t know anything. No offense, but as much as I appreciate you freeing me from Markeville’s prison, you got lucky. You’re exhausted. I can see it in your eyes, in the way you walk. We all are. We need to wait for backup, and of more than one kind.”

  “You mean the mages and witches,” I said.

  “You saw the elemental same as I did,” Shay said. “It rocketed into the night when we escaped from the chief’s house. It may have played a role in the attack you suffered last night, and it almost certainly took part in the murder of District Attorney Flint. And we have no idea how to deal with it.”

  “Not entirely.” I tapped my jacket, causing the brandy bottles to clink. “The fire scared it. That’s how I was able to beat it back while you pulled the chief to safety.”

  “Scared it, yes,” said Shay. “Killed it, no. And if an entire two-story building on fire didn’t kill it, what good will a bottle bomb do?”

  “It’ll be enough to scare it again,” I said. “Which may not be much, I admit. But if it gets me close enough to Markeville to deal with him, maybe that’ll be enough. Think about it. Elementals and spirits don’t take orders from people. They don’t care about money or power or fame. And yet Markeville has managed to get one under his control. I don’t know how. Maybe dark magic or another form of coercion. But it is under his control, I have no doubts about that. We need to break that link.”

  “How exactly would you propose doing that, Detective?” said Knox. “Last I checked, you had neither the knowledge nor the ability to sever supernatural links.”

  “I’m willing to bet a swift boot to Markeville’s head would do the trick.”

  “Careful, Detective,” said Knox. “It sounds like you’re advocating for precisely the sort of thing your department fights.”

  “Never, Captain,” I said. “Just a bit of well-timed unconsciousness, that’s all.”

  “There is precedent for it, though
,” said Steele.

  We both turned and looked at her.

  “What do you mean, Detective?” said Knox.

  “The use of lethal force is permitted in some instances, notably where the loss of human life is an imminent risk.”

  “This isn’t a hostage situation,” said Knox. “At least we’re not aware of it being so.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant, sir,” said Steele. “If Markeville is in command of the wind spirit, and we have to assume he is, then he’s putting the entire city at risk. There will be loss of life from this storm, beyond what he’s already caused. You know that. That’s why you advocated to activate the army, not to mention SMRT.”

  Captain Knox took a deep breath. “You may be right, but it’s a moot point, mostly because you were also right in your previous assessment. We can’t do this ourselves. I know where my limit is, and I’m far past it. I’m also lucid enough to know that both of you are in rough shape. We’ll wait for backup.”

  “But sir,” I said. “The mayor… What if we’d arrived at the chief’s house fifteen minutes later than we did?”

  That hadn’t been the right thing to say. The Captain’s face turned gray, and her eyes shadowed toward the floor. “Then it’ll be my burden to bear, Detective Daggers. We’ll wait ten minutes. Detectives Rodgers and Quinto, at least, should be on their way shortly.”

  We settled in behind the welcome desk, our gazes split between the lift entrance behind us and the front doors. My mind raced with nightmare scenarios, so I forced my idle hands to work, using the opportunity to convert the brandy bottles and towels I’d taken from The Rat’s Nest into bombs.

  As it turned out, the Captain gave our fellow detectives too little credit. The cavalry showed up in five.

  38

  My heart skipped a beat when the front door opened, letting in a powerful gust of wind and a momentary roar of the storm, but instead of a herd of bloodthirsty Winds of Change gangsters coming to clean up the messes laid bare by those before them, it was Rodgers and Quinto who waltzed through the door, followed by a half-dozen beat cops in sodden blue uniforms, truncheons at their sides.