The masked man cocked his head, listening for activity on the other side of the partitions. He could hear nothing, which probably meant those inside had not noticed his entrance.
He slipped silently through the door that lead to the interior of the warehouse and found himself in a vast, dimly lit room of poured-concrete construction. Scattered around the perimeter of it were a few crates; but aside from that and judging from the immaculately clean quality of it, it was obvious this warehouse had not been used to store anything in a long while. The information he had received was correct.
He ran on tiptoes across the concrete floor to a single firedoor on the opposite side of the room. He pressed down on the bar and, after checking to make sure no more guards awaited him on the other side, he went through the door. It was like he had stepped into the finest hotel in the city.
The walls of the wide corridor were lined with heavy oak paneling on which hung a variety of paintings by famous artists. The masked man was sure they were not copies. After several yards, the corridor branched off into two, one lined with doorways leading, the man assumed, to offices, sleeping quarters, and the like, and the other, much shorter, with a single plain wood door at the far end. He took the shorter corridor.
The door opened onto a stairway that led down to a basement. The costumed man started to descend into the darkness when he heard a sound behind him.
It was the shuffling of many feet running across a linoleum-covered floor.
He turned to face a trio of men rushing down the hallway at him, guns drawn. Cursing under his breath, he dashed down the stairs, the three gunmen at his heels. He came suddenly to the bottom step and, lost in the darkness of an unfamiliar place, tumbled to the floor with a thud. He lay there, holding his breath as he listened to the gunmen’s shoes pounding against the wooden stairs in pursuit. In a moment, the first man reached the bottom of the steps, but, like the masked man, he, too, was hampered by the darkness and therefore did not see his prey lying in his path. With a yelp, he tripped over the huddled shape on the floor and crashed to the floor, his gun flying from his hand. That was one.
The masked man’s eyes had partially adjusted to the dim light and he could make out the dark forms of the remaining men on the stairs. They had stopped short when they heard their comrade’s cry and now they were listening, waiting for the intruder to make the next move. He obliged them. Keeping low to the floor, he crept up to the foot of the stairs and reached up until his fingers closed around an ankle. He pulled on it.
With a startled cry, the man in the lead found himself flying through the air and landing on his rear end with a spine-jarring crash. The masked man knocked him unconscious before he could utter a second sound.
That was two.
He didn’t worry about subtlety with the third and final member of the group, preferring instead to launch a frontal attack, knocking the gun from the man’s hand and punching him in the jaw.
And that was three.
The costumed man peered into the darkness and found that what he had previously mistaken as an optical illusion was actually a very narrow strip of light by the floor—like the glow from under a door. He felt his way carefully across the small basement until he came to the source of the light. Feeling around with his hands, he could tell it was indeed a door, a reinforced metal door held shut by a slip-lock over the knob. This was the place.
He pulled back the bolt and swung the door open. Inside was a ten-by-ten-foot room, furnished simply but comfortably with a bed, an easy chair, a small desk-and-chair set, and a television and radio built into the whitewashed wall. Lying asleep in the bed was a teen-aged girl. She was sixteen, but she looked much younger in repose, practically a baby.
The man in the Spider-Man costume knelt by the bed and gently shook the girl’s shoulder. She responded sleepily, pushing away his hands, but he persisted, and soon her steel-gray eyes opened. She looked into the red, eerie mask the man wore and her mouth opened as if to scream. Quickly, the man placed his hand gently over her mouth and brought a warning finger to his own lips.
“It’s okay, Amy,” he whispered reassuringly. “I’ve come to take you back to your folks!”
No one challenged the brightly garbed man and the young girl clad only in a nightgown as they hurried quietly through the sleeping headquarters of the Kingpin, past the still-unconscious guards. Once free of the criminal boss’s hideout, they ran across the silent dock to a silver limousine parked several hundred yards away on the dark street. The man in the Spider-Man costume gestured for her to get in the back seat while he slipped into the front.
“Daddy!” the girl sobbed as she saw one of the two men who waited patiently in the spacious seat. She threw her arms around Ian Forester’s neck and held him tightly to her, crying convulsively against her father’s strong shoulder. Forester clung to her just as tightly, touching her to make certain she was really with him once again after the weeks of uncertainty and torturous waiting.
“Well, Forester, you have your daughter back,” Silvermane smiled warmly at the tearful reunion.
Forester nodded. “Yes,” he managed to say. “Thank you, Silvermane. Thank you so . . .”
“You know how you’re supposed to thank me, Forester. That’ll be more than adequate, I’m sure.” He smiled. “Driver!”
The silver limo pulled smoothly away from the curb with its four very unlikely passengers: one of New York’s most powerful criminal bosses; a candidate for the job of mayor of the city and his young daughter; and a man clad in the crimson-and-dark-blue garb of the super-hero called Spider-Man.
Twenty-One
“I still don’t trust that man, Silvermane,” Ian Forester said, seated now in the master criminal’s Westchester hideout.
Silvermane glanced over at the man in the Spider-Man costume who leaned casually, arms folded across his chest, against the wall of the silver study. “Adler?” he said. “I explained about him to you already, Forester. He was necessary to the plan.” Silvermane spread his hands in front of him and smiled wanly at the candidate. “I assumed you’d understand there was nothing personal in the attacks.”
“It’s hard not to take being threatened with murder personally, friend.”
The criminal waved this aside. “He wouldn’t have killed you, Forester. But I had to force Kingpin into a position where his plan was in jeopardy. I had to make sure there was enough interference so that it couldn’t possibly succeed.”
“You mean you wanted me to lose the election? But why? I thought you were the Kingpin’s partner?”
“So did he,” Silvermane chuckled. “True, we stood to make billions of dollars each with you under our control in City Hall, but frankly, it’s more important to me to have Kingpin out of my hair at this moment. Besides, now that I’ve gotten your daughter back for you, we can still proceed as planned.
“Only without the Kingpin!”
The door to the study opened and Amy Forester, dressed now in blue jeans and a man’s shirt, entered. She didn’t speak to anyone as she crossed the room and stood by her father’s chair. Though she was freed of the Kingpin’s clutches and back with her father, she was still frightened by the hawk-faced criminal who had arranged for her rescue.
“How are you, honey?” the candidate asked softly.
She nodded, keeping her eyes on Silvermane. “Fine, Daddy. They found some clothes for me upstairs. Is that really Spider-Man, Daddy?”
“No, honey. He works for Silvermane.”
Suddenly the door flew open and a man clutching a rifle in his hands rushed in, his face taut with excitement. “Boss . . .”
Silvermane rose, eyes blazing beneath silver brows. “How dare you enter without permission, Daniels!”
“Sorry, Silvermane,” the man stammered. “But this is an emergency! The Kingpin and his gang are attacking the mansion!”
“What!?”
“There’s gotta be two dozen of ’em, boss, and they’re all armed to the teeth. We tried to hold ’e
m off at the front door, but they blasted their way right past us! Those goons are out for your blood, boss!”
Silvermane was already running through the door, a silver-plated pistol from his desk drawer clutched in his hand. “Damn them,” he said through clenched teeth. “How’d they know?” He stopped abruptly and turned to the man with the rifle. “Get Forester and the girl downstairs, Daniels. They’ll be safe there.” He pointed to the costumed man with the pistol. “You come with me, Adler!” Then he was gone, running to lead his troops into battle.
“You heard the boss,” Daniels said to the masked man who had yet to move.
“Sure did, chuckles,” the man in the Spider-Man costume said. “Only he’s not my boss!” With that, he raised his arms and curled his fingers to touch the hidden buttons in his palms, sending a thick stream of indestructible web-fluid in Daniels’s direction. In seconds, the armed man was trussed up in a tight strait-jacket of sticky webbing.
Ian Forester stared. “Good lord, man! Y-you really are the real Spider-Man, aren’t you?”
“I ain’t Casper the friendly ghost, Mr. Forester!”
“But how’d you . . . ?”
“I seriously doubt we have the time to go over all the details, sir, but suffice it to say, I took Silvermane’s flunky’s place yesterday. Although it beats me how anyone could’ve mistaken that guy for me. I’m much better looking, don’t you think?”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“Sir, any second now this place is going to look like the big battle scene from any World War Two movie of your choice. I don’t think you want to be in the middle of that, especially with your daughter here!”
The veteran newsman gripped his daughter tighter to him. Already, in the distance, he could hear the crackle of gunfire and the shouts of many men engaged in battle. He nodded quickly. “You’re right, Spider-Man. What do you want us to do?”
“I’m going to get you out of here and then I want you to get to the nearest telephone and get the cops here, pronto! Think you can do that?”
Forester nodded.
“Great! Let’s go.”
The Web-slinger stepped cautiously out into the hall, looking both ways. It was clear. He signaled for Forester to follow. They hurried along the empty corridor, Spider-Man in the lead to make sure the way was free of gunmen. Only once did someone appear around a bend in the hallway, but the Web-slinger grabbed him by his shirt before he could shout out and knocked him into unconsciousness.
Finally, the trio reached a back door. The fighting had yet to spread to the rear of the big mansion.
“You should be able to grab a car from the garage, sir. Just start driving away from here and don’t stop for anything! If someone with a gun gets in your way on the road, run him down. Got it?”
Forester nodded. “Yes. I don’t know how to thank you, Spider-Man. You’ve . . .”
“Forget it,” the Wall-crawler said lightly. “Just make sure the newspapers spell my name right. Now, get going!”
Ian and Amy Forester ran out the back door and off the portico, then headed in a beeline for the garage around the side of the building. Spidey turned and ran toward the front of the house where the sounds of gunfire had grown closer together and louder. It’s going to be the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre all over again if I don’t get in there and stop those clowns!
Outside the kitchen, a lone thug stood, his gun cocked and aimed down the hallway as a last line of defense against the invaders lurking beyond a single, fragile door. He whirled when the opening door bounced off his arm, not bothering to see who he was firing his gun at. Spidey leaped straight up, his fingers adhering to the ceiling as he swung his legs out, kicking the gunman in the face.
He dropped to the floor next to the unconscious man and took off in a low crouch to the end of the corridor. There he paused next to the door, peering through the keyhole. Even in the narrow strip of the room he could see through the small opening, it looked like the climax to an episode of “The Untouchables.” Silvermane’s men had overturned the long sofa that ran the length of the wall opposite the entrance to the huge living room and were kneeling behind it, popping up sporadically to return fire. Spidey could not see the door to the room, but he could see bullets from that direction drilling through the plush, silver fabric of the sofa, ripping it to shreds. The settee’s heavy antique wooden frame protected the men from harm.
Neither Silvermane nor the Kingpin was anywhere to be seen.
Straightening his shoulders and sighing heavily, Spider-Man grasped the doorknob.
Here goes nothin’, Charlie!
After he had organized his men, Silvermane disappeared from their midst. None of the men was bothered by this fact. After all, he was the boss and he had more important things to do than shoot it out with a gang of rival criminals. That’s what they were paid for, wasn’t it?
The criminal mastermind had not reached his high position without learning something of the hazards the leader of a crime empire faces. Thus, he had an escape route planned for just such a contingency as this, a route unknown to any other man in his organization. He should have anticipated the attack by the Kingpin, though, and moved his operations elsewhere. But, he realized, locking himself in his silver-lined study, this was not the time for an analysis of his mistakes. That would come later, when he was once again safe.
In his haste, Silvermane almost tripped across the web-covered man on the floor, still struggling to release himself from the almost suffocating confines of the sticky chemical substance. The crime boss cursed. “No, dammit! It can’t be him!”
“I-I didn’t know, boss! You said he was Adler under that mask. Honest t-to God, Silvermane!”
Silvermane growled and kicked at the man’s head. Stupid jackass, he thought as the helpless gunman moaned in pain. To hell with him. He’d leave him for Kingpin’s guns! He stepped over the man and moved quickly to the wall behind his desk. He jabbed his finger into the narrow crevice between two of the sterling-silver wall panels, and, with the low hum of a well-oiled machine, the panel slid open.
The crime boss stepped into the dark tunnel beyond the panel, pausing to look back with wistful eyes at all the glittering, shiny silver that decorated the room. He hated to leave it all behind. Perhaps if he just took . . . No. A loud pounding on the door brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand and, with a sigh, he ran down the dark tunnel as the silver panel began to slide closed.
The pounding on the door grew louder and more forceful until, with a crash, the lock burst open and the door slammed into the wall. The Kingpin, his beady eyes shiny with hatred, burst into the room right behind it. His eyes flickered quickly over Daniels, squirming on the floor in terror of the fat man, to the almost closed panel, behind which he could hear the fading echo of retreating footsteps.
Kingpin lumbered across the room and shoved his hands into the remaining space between the panel and the wall. He grunted as he applied his powerful muscles in a contest against the mechanism that operated the hidden entrance. Slowly, he halted the progress of the sliding panel and, with an extra burst of strength and the screeching protest of metal grinding against metal, he tore the panel almost completely from its track.
The footsteps were almost inaudible by now, but the Kingpin of New York crime knew his rival was down there, somewhere, and he would not get away. The huge man knew he could let no treason, no matter how insignificant, go unpunished. Silvermane’s acts warranted nothing less than death!
Far ahead, he could see a pinpoint of light that grew larger as he approached. Obviously the tunnel, hewed from solid rock beneath the mansion, culminated in a cavern or room of some sort. The fat man slowed as he neared the crudely carved entrance to the lighted area. He could hear the sounds of splintering wood coming from there, like someone was tearing frantically through a crate.
Someone was, for when the crime king peered carefully into the room, he saw Silvermane, his silver-plated pistol lying on top of a stack of crates j
ust out of his reach, rummaging through packing material in a hastily opened crate. The small rough-walled room was likewise carved into solid rock and was filled with boxes and packing crates marked “ammunition” or “guns.” The silver-haired criminal had quite an impressive arsenal hidden beneath his Westchester hideout.
Kingpin entered the room silently while Silvermane’s back was to him and effortlessly hefted a crate of guns over his head.
“Silvermane!”
The other criminal whirled, something long and metallic, from the crate clutched in his hands. He saw the Kingpin and then the crate he held and, as the big man tossed the two-hundred-pound weight at him, Silvermane threw himself headlong to the cold, stone floor. The crate shattered on the spot where Silvermane had stood just a second before. But before the thing had even landed, the Kingpin was running toward his rival, an animal-like growl growing in his throat.
“Don’t do it, Kingpin!”
Silvermane was on one knee, the metallic object in his hands pointed straight at the big man’s ample belly. It was a rifle, of sorts, but its barrel was far wider and its ammunition clip bulkier than the norm. The Kingpin came to an abrupt halt.
“This gun shoots special explosive charges, fat man,” Silvermane hissed menacingly. “And even though I’m not the best shot in the world, even I couldn’t miss you!”
“Then you had better kill me now, Silvermane,” the Kingpin said calmly. “Otherwise . . .” His words trailed off and he smiled evilly.
Silvermane rose carefully to his feet, mindful that his aim did not waver from his rival’s belly. “I don’t think so, Kingpin,” he said. “You may be the strongest man in town, but even you aren’t going to be able to survive this thing.”
Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign Page 13
