CITY UNDER SIEGE!
His name is Ian Forester. He is America’s foremost newscaster, the most trusted man in this country. Now he is running for Mayor of New York City, and he is certain to win.
So why is he so worried?
Is it because he is being controlled against his will by the man they call THE KINGPIN? The man who controls New York’s Underworld, who rules a nest of vipers with the power of his massive fists!
Is it because he knows the Kingpin is ultimately planning to destroy New York City?
Or is it because the only one who can save him is
the AMAZING
SPIDER-MAN
who is himself being hunted—for a crime he did not commit!
CRIME CAMPAIGN
THE WEB-SLINGER’S LATEST AND GREATEST NOVEL!
“YOU MISERABLE INSECT,”
KINGPIN ROARED.
Spider-Man rushed forward, his arms outstretched before him to grab the Kingpin’s lapels, but the big man, his reflexes unclouded by any substance, was faster. He grasped Spider-Man by the wrists, and Spidey yapped in pain as he felt the Kingpin’s powerful hold.
Throwing his weight back, Spider-Man propelled the fat man over his head with his feet. The floor of the restaurant fairly shuddered as more than a quarter of a ton of flesh and bone slammed to the ground.
“The bigger they are, hey, fats?”
Got to keep him angry so he doesn’t get a chance to plan any strategy. In my condition, I doubt if I could take Bozo the Clown, let alone New York Fats!
Spider-Man was correct. The Kingpin of New York crime was far too angered by this attack to bother forming any battle plans. He didn’t have to. Not when he could simply lumber forward, grasp Spider-Man by neck and crotch, lift him like a rag doll over his head, and heave him through a plate-glass window, hundreds of feet above the concrete pavement of New York . . .
Another Original publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of
GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION
1230 Avenue of the Americas,
New York, N.Y. 10020
Copyright © 1979 by Marvel Comics Group, a division of Cadence Industries Corporation. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Marvel Comics Group,
575 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022
ISBN: 0-671-82090-7
First Pocket Books printing August, 1979
Cover Art by Bob Larkin.
Printed in Canada
FOR MOM AND DAD
WHO LET US BE OURSELVES
One
The trick, Bunky, is not to let life’s little disappointments get you down . . .
. . . and if you buy that one, then I’ve got a couple of acres of swampland in Jersey you’d probably be interested in, too!
That rather sardonic thought was on the mind of the youth called Spider-Man as he arced gracefully through the air on a thin strand of webbing high over the congested streets of Manhattan. His dark blue-and-red-clad legs pumped out before him with smooth, practiced ease as he propelled his swinging body to the roof of the building on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Thirty-fifth Street.
Spider-Man stood at the edge of the roof and stared unseeing into the darkening streets thirty stories below. He perched precariously on the decaying masonry and heaved a weary sigh into the warm spring air.
Ah, what’d you expect Wall-crawler? I spend six-fifths of my time running after bad guys for a somewhat less than appreciative public and police department and I’m probably getting exactly what I deserve in return.
Nothing!
I hardly have enough spare time to indulge in life’s little luxuries . . . like eating, sleeping—breathing! So why should I expect Mary Jane Watson or Betty Brant to indulge me in my game of cops and robbers, especially when I can’t tell them what it is I do for a hobby!
He crouched at the roof’s edge and rested his elbows on his knees; the white orbs that were the eyes of his mask stared unblinking and macabre in the gathering twilight. Spider-Man sighed again and shook his head. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time sighing these days, Peter, m’bucko. That’s just gotta be a bad sign!
Spider-Man laughed harshly to himself. Of course it’s a bad sign, dumbo! You’re depressed! And who wouldn’t be after losing two fantastic chicks in a row, out of terminal stupidity! It’s not like I asked for this aggravation, either. I don’t remember waking up one morning and saying, “Hey, wouldn’t it just be great if I got bitten by a radioactive spider today and had my whole life screwed up by it!”
The Web-slinger stood, his mouth set in a grim line beneath his mask, and pointed his arms out before him. The middle fingers of his hands curled to touch two small buttons concealed in his palms under his gloves. With a low “twipping” sound, twin strands of a unique, unbreakable chemical webbing spurted from tiny nozzles secreted at his wrists. The webbing shot unerringly through the night sky and adhered securely to the cornice of a building farther up Ninth Avenue. Grimacing wearily, Spider-Man leaped out into space.
His legs kicked wildly as the Web-spinner swung himself away from the building. Reaching the apex of his swing, he fired another strand of webbing at another building farther up Ninth, each incredible swing carrying him the length of a city block.
But the Web-slinger’s thoughts were not on the delicate acrobatics that made this unique mode of transportation possible for him; he had long ago reached the point where such actions were as natural to him as walking. And even the exhilaration of swinging unencumbered through the air was not sufficient to drive the despair from Spider-Man’s mind.
Life may be a bowl of cherries, but I’m the one who’s always getting stuck with the pits!
Suddenly, a throbbing pain, like the pulsing of a raw, exposed nerve, flared to life in Spider-Man’s head, cutting off all thoughts. He swung his body with a concerted effort and made contact with the grimy wall of an old tenement building, clinging to its face by the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands like some giant arachnid as he caught his breath.
Spider-sense, I wish you’d just leave messages with my answering service like everybody else!
The telltale tingling in Spider-Man’s head was his unique spider-sense, a personal early warning system that signaled whenever danger was nearby or imminent. Thus, even before the muted echo of gunshots and the distant scream of sirens reached his ears, the brightly clad youth was swinging hurriedly to the scene of the trouble.
Tockman’s Sporting Emporium on Tenth Avenue and Twenty-ninth Street was that scene.
In the early evening, this street was normally filled with thousands of workers as they hurried to the security of home, hearth, and Walter Cronkite after a day of loud-mouthed bosses and hassles too numerous to mention. This evening, however, Tenth Avenue between Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth streets was an armed camp, blocked at either intersection by N.Y.P.D. barricades. In the middle of this tiny oasis, a dozen police cars were standing, their red and white roof lights blinking almost hypnotically on the brick canyon walls of the street. The occupants of those cars, helmeted police officers, were crouched behind them, most with their service revolvers drawn, some anxiously clutching shotguns to their chests. The car’s flashing lights were reflected in the officers’ gleaming eyes, all of which were fixed on the bullet-ridden plate-glass window of Tockman’s.
Either they’re filming the new Clint Eastwood flick down there, or there’s a peck
of trouble brewing in that sporting goods store. And unless my spider-sense has taken up film criticism on the side, I’m betting on the trouble!
Spider-Man clung to the face of the building overlooking Tockman’s, keeping himself safely out of view of the police below in the shadows. Tockman’s was the lowest structure on the block, surrounded on either side by taller office buildings. As he peered through the gloom, Spider-Man could detect no sign of activity on the peeling tar-paper roof below, and, making sure he stayed in the shadows, he began a swift, gliding crawl down the side of the building.
Suddenly, the calm of the early evening was shattered by the deafening roar of a handgun filling the street below, source of origin: the now shattered plate-glass façade of Tockman’s.
Looks like I win.
The police ducked behind their cars, keeping out of range of the shooting but making no move to return fire. A red-faced plainclothesman stuck his head up from behind one of the cars, a crackling bullhorn at his mouth. “HOLD YOUR FIRE, MEN! HOLD YOUR FIRE! REMEMBER, THEY’VE GOT HOSTAGES IN THERE!”
Spidey made a sour face beneath his mask. Just as I thought. Probably a couple of guys holed up in there . . . with God knows how many hostages! They must’ve botched a holdup and decided this was better than shooting it out with the cops without a shield.
And ain’t that just a fine nest of spiders! A sporting goods store is stocked with enough guns and ammunition for those guys to hold off the U.S. Marines forever. And do you wanna talk food? They’ve probably got enough of the canned and dehydrated variety on hand to last them and the Marines even longer than forever!
The shooting from inside the store stopped as suddenly as it had began, and Spider-Man dropped the last fifteen feet from the wall to the peeling roof below, staying well within the safety of the darkness cast by the taller buildings surrounding him.
Those turkeys could keep this show running longer than Fiddler on the Roof and the cops can’t risk any harm coming to the hostages by rushing in.
But guess who can get inside and put the bad guys into sleepy-land before the hostages get hurt? Say your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man and win the $100!
Spider-Man landed in a crouch and his eyes narrowed behind the one-way mirror lenses in his mask as he searched the shadows. He was alone on the roof.
Staying low, the Wall-crawler scampered across the tar paper, his booted feet almost gliding across the torn surface. He came to the edge of the darkness and stood there motionless for long moments, eyes and ears ever vigilant for the slightest disturbance in the night. The nearest cover was a good three yards away, a large metal air-conditioning duct that jutted four feet from the tar-paper roof. He crouched even lower and sprang forward, covering the ten feet between shadow and duct in a single, effortless leap.
So far, so good. But you’ve just got to know my luck isn’t going to last.
Spider-Man kept the duct between himself and the street as he dove over the rear edge of the roof . . .
. . . a mere moment before a bullet tore into the surface where he had stood!
He clung by his fingertips to the underside of the roof’s ledge and exhaled sharply. See? What’d I tell me?
But there was no haven for the Web-slinger behind the two-story building, even though it shielded him from the police-sharpshooters who continued to fire at the roof from the windows of the taller buildings across Tenth Avenue. For, clad in baby-blue crash helmets and bulky, black flak vests, each wielding a .30-06 shotgun, two policemen were advancing on the rear door of Tockman’s through a litter-strewn back alley. They started suddenly at the sound of gunfire from above and swung their shotguns and alert gazes upward, settling both on the dangling Spider-Man.
“Hi, guys,” he said brightly. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to phone before dropping in on you like this.”
The officers stared at Spidey for long seconds before one of them recovered his voice. “S-Spider-Man!”
“Give the man a cee-gar!” Spidey said. Any second now, one of them is going to remember they’ve got guns in their . . .
As if they had read his thoughts, the second officer brought his shotgun to his shoulder. “Get him, Campollo! Don’tcha know there’s a whole fistful of warrants out on this guy?”
The harsh roar of the shotgun filled the night.
But Spider-Man had taken full advantage of the second’s hesitation and had swung his legs straight up over his head in a backward somersault, landing on the roll back on the roof. Some enterprising cop had thought to shine a searchlight on the roof from across the street, however, and Spider-Man landed in a flood of light with no shadows to hide in.
High-caliber bullets tore up the tar paper behind him as Spider-Man leaped and rolled across the roof, his zigzag pattern creating an almost impossible target for the sharpshooters several hundred yards away. Then, with a powerful leap, he was above the circle of light, climbing with amazing speed straight up the adjoining wall.
Whew! If it’s my breath or something, I wish they’d just send me an anonymous letter or a bottle of Scope instead.
Eugene Bormann stood hunched over behind the remains of the plate-glass front of Tockman’s, a .45 Magnum clutched in his trembling, sweaty hand. He had stood thusly for the better part of a half-hour, his wide, frightened eyes darting over the assemblage of blue coats in the street. The gunfire on the roof moments ago had sent his already taut nerves near to the breaking point.
Bormann was shielded from the street by a bullet-torn manikin modeling a bright red goosedown coat. The interior of Tockman’s was dark, the aisles of sporting equipment and clothing shrouded in deep gloom. From the street, the inside of the store looked like a shapeless mass of dark shadowy figures.
“Bormann!”
The word was called from the darkened rear, of the store where Bormann’s partner kept their four hostages at gunpoint. The fierce whisper made Bormann jump as he whirled with the Magnum thrust out before him, almost slipping out of his sweaty palm.
“Put it down, stupid! You wanna blow my head off with that thing?” Jim Strickland walked casually down an aisle toward his partner in crime, a high-powered hunting rifle slung loosely over his shoulder. His hard, cruel face was set in a malevolent grin toward the cowering man by the window.
“I-I’m sorry, Jim,” Bormann stuttered. “I’m just a little uptight is all. I’ll be all right.” Strickland continued to grin at his partner, the spinning lights from outside glinting in his dark, evil eyes. “H-honest!” Bormann added hurriedly.
“Yeah, Gene. You better be okay, buddy-boy, because any time now, we may be up to our eyeballs in a shootout . . .” Strickland whipped the rifle off his shoulder and pointed it menacingly at Bormann. “And you better not let me down! Comprendé?”
Bormann nodded convulsively, his bulging eyes staring into the black barrel inches from his face.
Strickland turned his head casually as he heard the short, hesitant footsteps of a woman in high heels behind him. “What d’ya want now, lady?” he sighed wearily.
Ann DeLarye stopped beside a display of running shoes, her hands nervously shredding an already partially demolished Kleenex. An hour earlier, she had stopped in at Tockman’s on her way home from school to pick up a pair of those shoes for school. Now she was frightened to death, didn’t know if she’d ever get those all-important running shoes.
Strickland grinned at the pale, shiny face with obvious pleasure. It was evident that he was a man who liked to hold the upper hand in every situation—especially when that hand clutched a hunting rifle. “I said, what d’ya want?”
Ann put her hand to her throat. “P-please, the old man . . . the owner . . . he’s getting worse! His heart, I-I think. You’ve got to let him . . .”
Bormann rushed forward, his gun thrust out at the frightened girl’s head. “Shut up, dammit! Get back there with the rest of ’em and just shut up!” he screamed.
Whimpering, Ann DeLarye pulled back, her vision clouded by tears. They were b
oth crazy, she thought. Nobody was ever going to leave this place alive . . . not the crooks and not the hostages. And certainly not Chaim Tockman, aged seventy-three, who lay in the rear of the store to which he had dedicated a third of his life; his heart was attacking him.
Fifty-six-year-old Nettie Baum comforted the old man, holding his red, clammy face in her ample lap, listening in utter helplessness to his labored breathing. Her nine-year-old grandson, Howard, knelt on the floor beside his grandmother, frightened and holding onto her skirt with both hands. Nettie looked up hopefully as Ann sank wearily to the floor beside her, her hands unable to stop trembling.
“Nu?”
Ann shook her head. “They’re not going to let Mr. Tockman go, Mrs. Baum. They’re not going to let any of us . . .” Ann stopped suddenly, looking quietly at the boy. But he had not heard her. He was watching in fear as Strickland and Bormann walked toward the hostages.
“Comfy, folks?” Strickland chuckled.
“Listen to me, you men,” Nettie Baum said angrily. “This man is sick. You just can’t let him lie here and die!”
Strickland smiled evilly. “Why the hell not, lady? It just gives him a head start on the rest of you!”
The spotlight that shone on the roof of Tockman’s winked out, the officers manning it convinced that the object of their search had long since fled under a fusillade of bullets.
Beneath his mask Spider-Man smiled.
Once again, he scampered down the sheer brick face and dropped to the now dark roof of the squat building. In seconds, he had retraced his earlier route across the tattered tar paper and stood by the large air-conditioning duct. He looked about once and then quite effortlessly ripped the metal grille from the top of the duct.
He hoisted himself up and into the duct and slid several feet down, dragging the metal grille back into place above him. Why give some nosy cop something to trip over and worry about?
Spider-Man had to lift his arms straight up over his head in order to negotiate the tight fit of the narrow, vertical shaft, but, with a bit of wiggling, the Wall-crawler was able to slide slowly down the duct until he came to a grille that looked out into an empty, second-floor room. Spider-Man maneuvered his body in the narrow confines of the duct until he could brace his feet against the grille. Powerful muscles bunched as he pushed against the covering with his legs, forcing the metal grille loose from the wall with a minimum of sound. With a final shove, the grille came loose and hung against the wall by a single screw.
Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign Page 1
