The S.H.I.E.L.D. laser rifle came apart in my hands with practiced ease. Disconnect the power cell. Remove the focusing assembly. Check the actuator coils for wear. Clean the contact points.
I'd been doing this for a week now. Different rifle each day, same mechanical rhythm. Wake up, exercise until my muscles screamed, field-strip weapons until my hands stopped shaking,then read until the words blurred and I could finally sleep. The routine kept my mind empty. Kept me from thinking about the redhead's face. The way he'd fallen.
"It gets easier" Catherine had said. I wasn't sure I wanted it to get easier. But I also wasn't sure I had a choice. I reassembled the rifle piece by piece, then reached for another.
When I was done, I set it aside and stared at the armory's inventory terminal.
Maybe looking at what I had to work with would give me some direction. Figure out what I could leverage, what I could sell, what advantage I actually had in this insane world.
I pressed 'I' to check the current inventory status. Taking stock of what remained, I saw two ballistic assault rifles. (I had held the one with the underbarrel back for myself). Three of the SHIELD energy rifles, four AIM plasma rifles, two Silver Sable International concussion rifles and a prototype energy weapon.
Tucked away in a separate case was the prototype rail pistol from the Deterrence Research Corporation.
Something tickled at the back of my mind.
There was someone... an arms dealer with DRC connections. What was his name?
I closed my eyes, trying to remember. Peter something. Peter Coel-Coelho. That was it. Peter Coelho. He'd worked for the DRC before going freelance, using his connections to move high-end hardware through the underworld. He had only shown up once on-page, but he should be active right now.
I opened my eyes and stared at the railgun pistol listing on the screen. If Coelho was still active, a DRC prototype would be exactly the kind of thing he'd be interested in buying back for his company. I also needed to follow up on the lead that Marcus gave me on the monk for psychic help.
I didn't need to think about the big picture right now. I didn't need to process what had happened in the Jersey safehouse or what it meant about who I was becoming. I just needed to do the simple things. Build back up to the complex stuff later.
Decision made, I grabbed my jacket and headed for the elevator.
I stepped out of the elevator into the warehouse's dim interior, the pneumatic hiss of the doors sealing behind me feeling like emerging from a tomb. The side door's rusted hinges protested as I pushed it open, and autumn sunlight hit me like a physical force.
New York City in the afternoon had a particular quality to it. The light slanted beautifully between the buildings. I squinted against the glare, letting my eyes adjust as I stepped onto the sidewalk.
I started walking, letting the rhythm of the city seep back into my bones. A taxi blared its horn at a double-parked delivery truck. Someone's radio was playing music through an open window. The scent of garbage from the alley mixed with someone's laundry detergent and the acrid bite of bus exhaust.
After a week underground, moving through the same sterile concrete rooms in an endless loop, the sensory chaos was grounding. Real. The city didn't care that I'd put a bullet in someone's head. It just kept moving, kept living.
Something to learn there.
The payphone was two blocks from the warehouse, the same one I'd used before. I fed in some coins and dialed Vito's number.
He picked up on the third ring. "Yeah?"
"Vito, it's Quince. Quick question. You know how to get in touch with Peter Coelho?"
Silence on the other end of the line. Then: "You're more than a bit late on that."
My stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"
"Coelho turned up dead in Hong Kong about 2 years back. Somebody really worked him over." Vito's tone was curious now. "Where'd you hear about him?"
Shit. I'd completely forgotten that Coelho got killed by Sebastian Shaw at the end of his first appearance.
"Uh, Turk mentioned him in passing," I lied. "Said something about him being the guy to talk to for high-end hardware."
Vito snorted. "Turk's not exactly the most reliable source of information. Guy talks more than he thinks." A pause. "Why do you need someone like that?"
"I've got something the Deterrence Research Corporation might be interested in," I said carefully. "Figured it was worth exploring."
"Hmm." Vito's tone shifted slightly. "Look, it's not my business what you're moving. But if you're approaching the Deterrence Research Corporation directly, make sure whoever you're dealing with isn't too uptight about protocol."
"What do you mean?"
"DRC's got a lot of illicit exposure," Vito explained. "Underground connections all over the East Coast, move a lot of products through back channels. But it's been a rough few years for them. Makes people nervous when money gets tight."
"West Coast incident?"
Vito's voice took on a storytelling tone. "This is secondhand, so take it with a grain of salt. Back in '82, DRC tried to kick off a gang war by attempting an assassination on the Kingpin during a summit with some California crimelord. Figured they'd start a shooting war and rake in the weapons sales. Spider-Woman stopped it."
I frowned. That tracked with what I remembered from the comics. "And?"
"And the Kingpin doesn't forget when someone tries to kill him." Vito's tone was matter-of-fact. "DRC thought they were being clever. At the time, Elektra was missing and Bullseye was a quadriplegic, so the Kingpin's top enforcers were out of commission. They probably figured he couldn't retaliate effectively. The California guy was..." He paused, searching for the name. "Christ, what was his name? Some ex-general from South Vietnam, made it big out west after Saigon fell. One of those guys who got out with a suitcase full of cash and connections, you know the type. Can't remember the specifics."
I knew what character he was talking about, but his name also slipped my mind.
Ah well.
"They figured wrong?"
"Very wrong. About six months later, two members of DRC's C-suite turned up dead. One was found in his bathtub. The coroner said it looked like he'd been literally scared to death, massive heart attack, and died with his eyes open. The other one was found splattered on the sidewalk outside his penthouse. The official story was a bad fall, but the way I heard it, some west coast merc just flew right through the front door of the place, grabbed the suit by the neck, and tossed him through a hundred grand worth of reinforced glass."
Something about that description made my skin crawl. Scared to death. That sounded like...
"Nobody knows who did it," Vito continued. "Kingpin never claimed credit, but everyone in the business knew it was him sending a message. The deaths were too weird to be coincidence, too specific to be random. The first guy, the one who died of fright? Word is Fisk hired someone new for that job. Real subtle work, the kind of job that tells you a message was sent, not just a murder. The second job, though? The one who went through the glass? That was someone different. What was his name... that damn tiger guy. Yeah, the one with the claws. Our friend the general sent one of his own people to make a point."
Typhoid Mary. It had to be. The timeline would fit. This would have been right around when the Kingpin first recruited her. Using her mental manipulation to literally frighten someone to death.
The second mercenary was probably Flying Tiger. I didn't really know much about him, mainly because he was boring.
"Point is," Vito said, "DRC's been playing it safer since then. They're still in the game, but they're much more careful about who they piss off. So if you're selling them something, just... be professional. Don't give them a reason to think you're trouble."
"Got it. Thanks for the heads-up."
"No problem. I can give you a name. There's a guy named Lawrence Reynolds. He's in their sales department, handles a lot of the discrete acquisitions. I can arrange a meeting with him when you're ready."
I scribbled the name in my mental notes. "Appreciate it, Vito."
"Just be careful. DRC's had a lot of heat on them over the years. FBI's been sniffing around their operations, and they're touchier than ever now."
I nodded. "Understood. That said, I'd like to reach out to that Deterrence Research Corporation contact you mentioned. Lawrence Reynolds."
"You sure about this?" Vito's tone was neutral, but I could hear the question underneath. "DRC's not exactly small-time."
"I'm sure. I've got something they'll want back, and I'd rather handle it professionally than have it turn into a problem later."
Vito seemed to verbally shrug "Fair enough." A pause. "Hold on."
I heard papers rustling, then Vito was back. "Alright, give me until Wednesday. I'll make some calls, set up a meeting. Probably going to be somewhere public. Reynolds isn't stupid, and you're an unknown. Coffee shop, diner, something like that."
"That works for me."
"Good. Now, about that other thing, the Stane International intel."
My attention sharpened. "You've got something?"
"Yeah, my guy came through. Full writeup on what's happening inside, plus some blueprints of the Long Island facility. Security layout, building schematics, the works." Vito paused. "He talked to someone with clearance and loose lips. Says morale with the employees is pretty low ever since the Stane takeover. A lot of people are unhappy, a lot of people are talking when they shouldn't be."
"That's exactly what I need."
Vito cleared his throat. "Consider this your compensation for that technical job for the Hammerhead family. Besides, I figured it was worth getting anyway. Stane's making moves, shaking things up. Information like that has value to more people than just you."
Something tightened in my chest. It was a small thing, a fixer trusting me enough to invest in information. But it hit harder than it should have.
"I appreciate that," I said, and meant it more than Vito probably realized.
"Don't mention it. We'll do a handoff. Keep things clean. You know Thompkins Square Park in Greenpoint?"
I cleared my throat, pushing down whatever that feeling was. "I can find it."
"There's a bench on the north side of the park, near the Slocum memorial. Tomorrow morning, seven AM, there'll be a man reading a newspaper on the bench—Daily Bugle, folded in half. At 7:05 AM, he will leave his newspaper. The documents will be in a manila envelope inside the sports section. You take the paper and go. Simple as that."
I pulled out my notepad, scribbling the details. "Thompkins Square Park, northeast corner, seven AM. Daily Bugle with envelope in sports section."
"Right. And Quince? My guy went to some effort for this. If anyone asks where you got those blueprints, you don't know me. Clear?"
Of course. Doesn't want to risk me blowing his sources.
I cleared my throat. "Crystal."
"Fair enough. Call me Wednesday about Reynolds."
"Will do. Thanks, Vito."
After I hung up, I walked back to the warehouse through the gray October afternoon. The streets were busy. People heading home from work, kids walking home from school. Normal life, continuing on.
I stretched.
What the hell, might as well celebrate getting the intel.
Chinatown shouldn't be too far, and some takeout would help further lift my mood.
The smell hit me first as I stepped off the train at Canal Street. That particular blend of roasted duck, incense, and the underlying funk of fish markets that meant I'd arrived in Chinatown. The streets were as packed as they were in my time, vendors hawking everything from knockoff watches to live crabs, but something felt off.
People were moving differently. Faster. More purposeful. Eyes darting to side streets before crossing intersections. A group of old women clustered outside a grocery store spoke in rapid Cantonese, their body language tense. A shopkeeper was boarding up his windows in the middle of the afternoon.
I slowed my pace, taking it in. This wasn't normal. This was a neighborhood on edge.
Still, I was here for food, not trouble. I spotted a restaurant with steamed-up windows and a handwritten menu in Chinese characters taped to the glass. The kind of place that didn't bother with an English sign because they didn't need tourist money. Perfect.
Inside, I pointed at what other people were eating and managed to walk out ten minutes later with two bulging plastic bags. Roast pork, lo mein, dumplings that were still hot enough to warm my hands through the bag. My mouth was already watering.
I was halfway down the block, mentally debating whether to eat on the subway or wait until I got back to the warehouse, when I heard the screaming.
Not the startled yelp of someone getting their purse snatched. The raw, terrified kind that made your hindbrain light up with every prey instinct evolution had given you.
People started running.
I turned toward the commotion and immediately wished I hadn't.
A figure was striding down the middle of the street, flanked by half a dozen men in matching gang colors, leather jackets with a stylized golden dragon emblazoned on the back. But it was the leader who made my blood run cold.
He wore a bodysuit, but done up in white and blue with scaled patterns and red trim that screamed 'supervillain' in a way that should have been laughable. Except it wasn't. Not with the dragon-styled mask covering his face. The mask was elaborate and theatrical, with a mane of red that flowed down behind him. The whole ensemble was topped off with what looked like actual claws on his hands.
As I watched, frozen, he raised one clawed hand toward a storefront.
Flame erupted from the mask, a roaring jet of fire that washed over the shop's facade. The glass cracked and shattered from the heat. People screamed and scattered.
Oh, fuck no.
I didn't wait to see more. Didn't try to be a hero, didn't reach for the gun I'd left back at the warehouse because I was supposed to be getting goddamn takeout. I just turned and walked in the opposite direction. Fast. Not running, but moving with the flow of panicked civilians heading away from the costumed maniac.
Behind me, I heard more shouting. Something that might have been gunfire, or might have been more glass breaking. A man's voice, amplified somehow, calling out in accented English about defying the White Dragon.
White Dragon. The name rattled something loose in my memory. There'd been a Chinatown gang war storyline around this time in the comics, hadn't there? Spider-Man and Moon Knight, had gotten involved. I couldn't remember the details, just that it had been one of those street-level crime stories that got overshadowed by the bigger events happening at the time.
Didn't matter. Whatever was going down, I wanted no part of it.
I kept walking, kept my head down, and clutched my bags of Chinese food like they were my anchors to a saner world.
Three blocks away, I finally let myself look back. Smoke was rising from where I'd been standing. People were still running, pouring out of side streets. In the distance, I thought I heard sirens starting to wail.
Welcome to Marvel New York. Where you couldn't even get takeout without stumbling into a turf war.
I made it to the subway station. The familiar grime and fluorescent lighting seemed welcome. Even the scuttling rat couldn't ruin my relief to get off the street. My hands were shaking slightly. The adrenaline crash was already starting.
At least I'd kept the food.
After reheating some of the Chinese food in the bunker's kitchen, I set my mental alarm for 5 AM. The dead drop was at 7, and I didn't plan on being late for this.
I woke up at around 5 AM on the dot. Groggily stumbling my way to the bunker's kitchen after throwing on some clothes, I had some of last night's Chinese food as a rushed breakfast to assuage my rumbling stomach, then I was rolling. I put on my holster this time, needle pistol firmly inside, just to be on the safe side.
The subway ride to Tompkins Square would take about half an hour with the transfer at Union Square, which meant I needed to leave by 6:15 at the latest to have any buffer time. I grabbed my jacket and headed for the elevator at 6:10, giving myself a comfortable margin.
The early morning subway had a different character than any other time of day. At 6:15 AM, the platform at 50th Street was populated by the city's essential workers. Nurses in scrubs heading home from night shifts, construction crews with lunch pails, cleaning staff with tired eyes. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. When the train arrived, I found a seat easily, the car maybe a third full.
The ride downtown was quiet except for the rhythmic clatter of the tracks and the occasional screech of brakes. A man across from me slept with his head against the window, his Transit Authority uniform suggesting he was heading to work. At Union Square, I transferred to the LL train, following the familiar signs through the tiled corridors. The eastbound platform was even emptier. By the time I emerged at First Avenue, the sky was beginning to lighten.
Tompkins Square Park was quiet at this hour, the kind of tranquility that only existed before the city fully woke up. A few early risers walked dogs along the paths, and a jogger in a faded ESU sweatshirt circled the perimeter. The October air was crisp enough that I could see my breath.
I found the bench on the north side, near the Slocum memorial, facing the monument just as Vito had described. A man was already sitting there, middle-aged, white, and utterly unremarkable. He wore the kind of business casual that could work anywhere. Tan slacks, a pale blue dress shirt with the collar open, and a brown Members Only jacket. Sensible shoes that had seen a few commutes. The uniform of middle management from Midtown to the outer boroughs. He was reading a copy of the Daily Bugle folded in half. He didn't look up as I approached.
I sat down on the opposite end of the bench, leaving a respectful distance between us. Neither of us acknowledged the other at first.
The man turned a page of his newspaper with a practiced rustle. "Pretty morning," he said conversationally, still not looking at me.
"It's a nice sunrise," I replied, keeping my voice neutral.
He nodded slightly, folded the paper closed, and set it down on the bench between us. Then he stood, stretched like a man finishing his morning read, and walked away without another word. His pace was unhurried, just another businessman starting his day.
I waited a beat, then reached for the newspaper. The Daily Bugle felt slightly heavier than it should. I opened it carefully, flipping to the sports section. There, nestled between articles about the Yankees' off-season prospects, was a manila envelope.
I closed the paper around it, tucked it under my arm, and stood up. The whole exchange had taken maybe three minutes.
The subway ride back seemed to fly by. Anticipation had a way of compressing time. By the time I keyed into the warehouse and rode the elevator down, I was practically bouncing on my heels.
I whistled as I rode down the elevator to the bunker.
Walking into the armory, I spread the contents of the envelope across the workbench. Architectural drawings, security layouts, guard rotations, all of it splayed out in front of me.
My eyes skipped over most of it. The floor plans could wait. The guard schedules would be important later. Right now, I didn't want to think about patrol routes or shift changes or any of the human elements.
I went straight for the technical documentation.
There. Photocopied pages with handwritten notes in the margins. Vito's contact, had documented the computerized badge system in detail. This was what I needed. This was safe. Clean. A technical problem with a technical solution.
I felt something in my chest unclench as I read through the notes.
The computer running the badge system was running a custom Stark chipset with a R-2000 based architecture. Of course. This was Stark International; they wouldn't use off-the-shelf chips. The computer running the system was running a "proprietary UNIX variant." The badge readers were in-house Stark designs too. Custom magnetic stripe readers, custom encoding.
This was familiar territory. The kind of problem I could lose myself in. Just electronics, encoding schemes, and clever engineering.
Badge printer in Admin Bldg, Rm 214.
Restricted access. 4000-level clearance required.
Security: 4000-series. Management: 5000-series. R&D senior: 3500-3999.
I pulled out my notepad and started writing.
Acquire sample badge
The badge was the key. Get one, take it apart, figure out how Stark was encoding the data. Magnetic stripe technology wasn't complicated, three tracks, standard format. But how Stark was using those tracks, what they were storing, how they were formatting it, that was the puzzle.
And puzzles I could handle. Puzzles didn't have faces. Puzzles didn't bleed out in living rooms.
I couldn't help but smile. Time to plan.