by C. S. De Mel
“Jerry Stiltson from Shocktalk Radio. Big fan of your work, Captain.”
Bruce grinned. “Likewise. Your program puts out some entertaining stuff in the morning.” Jerry looked at Bruce eagerly while pointing the microphone and video camera towards him. Bruce chose his words carefully: “Well, Jerry, the U.S. efforts in Kosovo were precisely just that. It was a United States military operation and—”
“So, are you denying you have any involvement with this secret society?”
Bruce paused a moment, then smiled. “It’s not a secret society—we just don’t advertise. But yes, I am affiliated with the organization.” In that instant, the press conference appeared to stop in time. Then slowly, mixed murmurs and buzzing filled the crowd. Jerry was absolutely thrilled with his scoop.
“So then, the Omega Ops Legion was involved in Kosovo, you heading the operation and all?”
“My orders to lead a team overseas came from the U.S. military, not the Legion.”
A new reporter interjected, with a tone of derision in his voice: “How can someone in the U.S. Army be involved with such an organization? Does it not boil down to an international vigilante group that holds itself above the law and government?”
Bruce continued to smile. “Members of the Omega Ops Legion are peacekeepers, mentors, and philanthropists. We share many of the same goals as local and international authorities: to stop crime and maintain peace.”
“Why not just join the police, then? Why is the Legion necessary?”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Necessary? This isn’t something that just sprang up overnight. But frankly, the more eyes watching from different vantage points, the better. And I can tell you this: clean up starts right here in New York.” As if pushing buttons on the podium, Bruce repeatedly pressed his finger into the wood, ready to drive home his message: “Alongside the NYPD, we’ve been cracking down hard on the drug and weapons trade facilitated by gang-bangers and the mob. It’s an ongoing battle that won’t let up, but neither will we.” The crowd broke into applause at these words, for they knew Bruce was not just a big talker but also a man of action.
Two men at the back of the crowd, Freddy Vickers and Ramon Salazar, watched Bruce deliver his talk, but neither seemed too impressed. “Boss isn’t going to like this, Ramon.”
“Not one damn bit,” Ramon mumbled, with a cigarette in his mouth. “Something’s gotta be done about him.” He fired up his lighter.
“Excuse me, but do you mind putting out your cigarette?” a lady asked, irritated by the smoke.
Ramon put the lighter back in his pocket and turned to the woman. “How about I put it out on your head?”
The reporters continued to have a shouting match with each other as Bruce attempted to answer as many questions as he could.
“Is this Omega Ops organization backed by any government?”
“No, we have no official ties to the government—all of our endeavors are privately funded. Although, we do have members within government and military positions, such as myself.”
Several angry looking men pushed to the front of the crowd. “The Legion is a shadow government planning to overthrow democracy! They’re in league with the New World Order in plotting for social collapse!”
Bruce tried his best to calm the rabble-rousers. “Now that is entirely untrue, we work together with—”
“You’re a traitor to this country!” A man hurled a large tomato towards the stage. Bruce caught the tomato, absorbing the impact so it wouldn’t break.
“I believe this is yours!” Bruce whipped the tomato back at the man, which hit him straight in the face and exploded. People laughed and cheered while police surged into the crowd to remove the delinquents. Bruce tried to restore order, shouting over the noise: “Let’s try to keep it civil, shall we?!” But the crowd was growing restless as several would-be instigators fought back against security.
Frank Cormac, who was sitting by the podium, walked over to Bruce with a smirk on his face. “Good job keeping things civil. Truly top-notch work.”
“Hey, Captain!” Jerry the shock jock yelled. “Rumor has it that the Legion conducts experimental bioengineering and has turned you into a modern day super-man. Any truth there?” The question drew several laughs as well as hushed whispers.
“Let’s see you do a few laps around City Hall with your super-flight!” a person in the crowd cried out.
“Let’s see it, Smallville!” shouted another.
Bruce grinned. “Right—maybe some other time. The crowd’s got enough action as it is.”
***
Chapter 2 – Backlash
Wednesday, October 6th, 1999
Manhattan, New York, 8:00 p.m.
“What—the hell were you thinking?! Do you even have the slightest inkling of what you’ve done?!”
Bruce looked at Dr. Guthrie with mild amusement. “Relax, Teddy. Eat something—you’re blowing this way out of proportion.”
Dr. Theodore Guthrie was a doctor of medicine and a philosophy scholar. Despite being viewed as a bit of an oddball by his academic colleagues, he played an integral part within the Omega Ops Legion. Dr. Guthrie was primarily responsible for coordinating and organizing the Legion’s efforts across North America. He never stayed in one place long, mainly travelling between California and New York. He was meticulous and well-connected to fit the role. In addition to this, Teddy was invaluable as a resource for getting people the things they needed.
Today, Dr. Guthrie had called an impromptu meeting to ‘discuss’ Bruce’s press conference at City Hall. The meeting was taking place at the Legion mansion, home of Bruce Kasparov. Though the title deed was in Bruce’s name, it was financed by several associates and Legion members to be used as the headquarters for their North American chapter. Present around the dinner table were Bruce Kasparov, Theodore Guthrie, Frank Cormac, and Legion members Peter Santos and John Varick.
“Take it from me, Teddy—” Frank paused to fork a large portion of ravioli into his mouth. “It really wasn’t that bad—I was there.”
Teddy narrowed his eyes. “Frank, remind me again why you’re here? This is a Legion meeting and you’re not part of the Legion.”
“Well, Bruce said he’s making pasta…so here I am, stuffing my face with it. Besides, the amount of time I spend running around with these guys, I’m basically a member by association.” Frank grinned with sauce on his lips. “You mind passing the juice this way, Teddy?” Dr. Guthrie sighed and handed the carton of orange juice to Frank.
“Listen, all I’m saying is that we have no reason to hide,” Bruce argued. “There’s no harm in answering a few questions.”
Teddy scoffed in disbelief. “It’s not about hiding, but the less the general public knows, the better. You didn’t have to tell the world that you were involved with us.”
Bruce smirked. “So, I was supposed to lie?”
“You were supposed to say nothing!” yelled Theodore, losing his temper. “Anything you give the press will just turn into a giant media circus.”
Bruce couldn’t help but get a little annoyed himself. “Oh please, the truth is far more preferable to all the rumors that will spawn from me refusing to talk. I say nothing, and they’ll assume the worst.”
Varick decided to toss his two cents into the squabble: “All due respect, Bruce, the public can think what they want. We have a job to do—we’re not out there to win any popularity contests.” Varick had jet-black hair, a goatee, and was in exceptional shape for a man pushing forty—he had to be for the type of thing he engaged in on a daily basis. Although he was no longer a part of the GSG-9 special operations unit in Germany, his Legion training sessions kept his field skills sharp as ever.
Bruce was surprised to hear Varick against him. Normally, he could count on Varick to back him up when dealing with Teddy. But before Bruce could respond, Santos countered on his behalf:
“Well, how can we be expected to do our job properly when we don’t even have the trust of th
e people we’re supposed to be helping?”
“Don’t be naive,” Varick spat. “The time for talking is done. Our actions are what will define this organization.”
Santos shook his head. “Not if they never find out what we do and leave it to a clueless media to feed them their truths.” Varick scowled darkly at Santos. Bruce could sense trouble.
Santos was an orphan that had grown up alongside Bruce in a foster home. He had greying blonde hair and a short, scruffy beard to match. Like Bruce, Santos was among the most powerful members in the Legion, having undergone extensive training and attaining guardian rank within the organization. Varick and Santos both got along well with Bruce, but not with each other. “I don’t think you’re seeing the big picture here, Varick,” Santos stated simply. Varick had enough. He stood up and walked towards Santos, who remained seated, looking curiously at Varick. Frank put down his fork to watch.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Bruce interjected, standing in-between the two of them. “What’s done is done—we’ll have to agree to disagree. Teddy, I stand by what I’ve said. So how about we stop wasting time on this piddly nonsense and attend to more pressing matters—like the best course of action to contain Scorcher’s expansion attempts and keep him from tearing this city apart from the inside out.”
Teddy removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Fine.”
***
The Chital Co. Tower, Manhattan: An office high-rise, where various, seemingly legit businesses are conducted. The catch was that the owners of the building worked for the notorious super-criminal known as Scorcher. Whether they were aware of it or not, everyone in the building was on the payroll of the world’s largest crime syndicate.
Gathered in a boardroom within the walls of the Chital Co. Tower were about two dozen bodies, watching the press conference on a big screen television. They watched in disgust as Bruce boasted about the Legion driving down crime in New York. Samuel Turly clicked the remote to pause the tape. He pointed at the screen, his finger visibly shaking from anger. He waited. No one said anything. “Do you hear...this man speaking?” Again, there was silence. “Do you hear him?!” screamed Turly. He looked around the room, positively livid. Turly reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a luxury silver ballpoint pen. He fiddled with the top end for a moment until it popped off to reveal a one-inch ceramic blade. Brandishing the pen around the room, he bared his teeth in fury. People within striking distance slowly edged their chairs away. Turly screamed angrily and slammed the pen on the table, driving the blade into the wood.
Samuel Turly was the North American speaker for the global criminal network he and Scorcher were a part of. Highly intelligent and meticulous, he has been on the most wanted list of several law enforcement agencies for the last fifteen years. The agencies tied Turly to several illegal activities including international drug trafficking, arms dealing, and the acquiring and distribution of classified intel that breached the national security of multiple nations. There was no doubt that Samuel Turly was a dangerous man. The pen knife remained lodged in the table, and everyone’s attention was on Turly. “Bruce Kasparov is a problem.”
“And I got the solution right here!” Ronaldo Hernandez stood up from the table and cocked back his .45 calibre. His accent was heavy, and he did not speak English particularly well. “Me and a couple of guys will find this Kasparov and put a bullet in his head—and then there’ll be peace and love all around.”
“Sit down you dirty hippie,” snarled Ramon Salazar.
“What you say to me?!” Ronaldo snapped back. “This man is on your side of the border—your problem. I took plane here to meeting, to find out what’s being done ‘bout it. He hitting our clients, and our drugs ain’t flowing freely no more, meng.”
“Yeah, he’s on our side of the border, and you haven’t tangled with him,” sneered Ramon. “I was at the press conference in person. If it was that easy to shoot him, I would’ve done it right then and there. A bullet won’t stop him.”
“That’s bull!” Ronaldo yelled defiantly. “Then you send a whole army at him! Where’s your leader, this Scorcher? He’s allowing all this to go down on his watch.”
“He’ll get here when he gets here,” growled Ulysses Frost, one of Scorcher’s heavy-hitters.
Ronaldo quieted down a little under Frost’s menacing gaze, but kept on the attack. “Way I see it, you need new management. Alvarez has the pipeline set up from Columbia to the States via Mexico. All you do is distribute and maintain clients. Now you can’t do that either! I hear this Scorcher is supposed to be so-so scary, so why isn’t he putting the scare into the competition stealing our clients? Right-right-right! ‘Cause he’s under Kasparov’s boot. When I hear the name Scorcher, there’s no fear...he’s a joke!” Ronaldo paused his angry tirade to catch his breath. He looked around the room, red-faced and breathing heavy. “Who’s going to respect an outfit being led by clown named Scorcher? Is this name meant to cause fear and panic?”
“You tell me...” The man known as Scorcher had arrived, although from first glance, it was clear he was anything but human. His presence created an ominous still in the room. He was a towering figure that looked capable of strangling a rhino with his bare hands. Ronaldo looked up at Scorcher’s face and gasped. Where he expected a face was some sort of misshaped animal skull with dark, leathery skin stretched over it. Framing his head was a lion’s mane of rose-colored hair. A cybernetic enhancement was strapped over his right eye; the left had the appearance of a chunk of golden amber. Two large horns jutted out of his skull like a bull...or like the devil himself. Scorcher looked at Ronaldo and gave him a big smile, baring his fang-like teeth. Ronaldo whimpered.
“I guess you got your answer about the fear and panic. Now...want to see why I’m called Scorcher?” He held out a massive gloved hand in front of Ronaldo. Flames erupted from Scorcher’s hand and danced around his palm and fingers. “Ready?”
“No, stop!” Ronaldo cowered, covering his face with both arms. “Please!”
“Scorcher, enough. Sit down; we don’t have time for your shit right now,” Turly muttered.
Scorcher laughed. “I wasn’t going to do anything; we’re all amigos here! Isn’t that right, you spic prick?” Scorcher’s head turned to Ronaldo, presumably staring at Ronaldo with his ‘eyes’. “I just like the grand entrances.”
“Yes, we know,” Turly said impatiently. “Now sit down, the Master is not pleased with you—with us.”
Scorcher found a seat beside Tony Calzone: a mob boss in Scorcher’s pocket. Tony shuddered as Scorcher sat down beside him.
Gregory Pike leaned over to Tony from the other side. “You got a problem with freaks?” Tony looked at Pike: he was a hulking figure with yellow skin, fiery red eyes, and a face like a gargoyle. His upper body was adorned with shimmering emerald and dark green armor. The material was unlike anything Tony had seen before. He never bothered to ask what Pike’s story was, and frankly speaking, Tony wasn’t even sure if Pike was from this planet.
“Tony has no problems with freaks.” Scorcher grinned. “Deep down, everyone here is a freak—why else would they be in this room of sociopaths?”
“Well, Scorcher?” Turly questioned, interrupting Scorcher’s banter. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Yeah, I heard about Kasparov…” mumbled Scorcher.
Turly shook his head. “It’s bad enough he’s running through our forces here in New York, but he has interfered with a very important operation in Kosovo. The authorities have Zamir.”
Scorcher sighed. “Well, you know how dealing with Kasparov is. And it’s not just him—all his other Legion buddies as well...teaming up with the police...the feds!?”
Turly scowled. “Kasparov is an important figurehead that we need to remove. If we take him out, his allies that rally under him will be demoralized. But you have failed to deal with him, Scorcher. You couldn’t keep that dog on a leash, and now he’s interfering on an international level. And
this isn’t the first time.”
“Well, what the hell do you want from me?!” barked Scorcher. “He’s too goddamn powerful. Every time I run into him, he gains the upper hand.”
Turly smiled grimly. “I know. That’s why we’ve recruited some extra muscle. In fact, the arrangements are being made by the Master as we speak. This fighter is being flown in from Thailand and is scheduled to arrive this weekend.” Turly walked slowly alongside the meeting table and leaned in, his face mere inches from Scorcher’s disfigured visage. “Together, you’re going to crush Kasparov,” whispered Turly. “And any of his ‘buddies’ who get in the way.”
***
Thursday, October 7th, 1999
Queens, New York, 7:15 a.m.
Oswalt Fletcher surveyed the mess in front of him, positively disgusted. “Ah hell, this just ruins my freakin’ day. Schucker, you should see this—goddamn!”
“I know… I saw.” Henry Schucker was a middle-aged cop who had been around the block more than a few times. He appeared indifferent to Oswalt’s revulsion due to his attention staying with the witness he was questioning. The two police officers were at a bloody crime scene: the front of a dark green sedan was crumpled around a street light. The driver was dead in his seat, and the passenger had flown through the windshield, several feet out onto the sidewalk. The vehicle itself was riddled with bullet holes, and another body was under the left rear tire of the vehicle. “What did you say your name was?”
“Quetzalcoatl, the holy feathered serpent of Queens.”
Henry stared at his witness, stone-faced. “Right… You mind if I just call you Q?”
“Whatever you like, Occifer.”
Henry Schucker sighed. “Well, Q...can you tell me anything else—number of attackers, what they sounded like, anything at all?”
The tired man looked at Schucker with bloodshot eyes. “Nawww… I sleeping, thinking, then everyone yelling, and I tell them, hay! Hay! Stop yelling, they are disturbing a deity, but they no stop and...” Henry’s eyes trailed to the forensics team combing the perimeter of the sedan; they had already picked up a handgun, presumably belonging to the man under the tire.
