"My God," Singer muttered. "If the public finds out Vought lied about his death... if they find out he's back..."
"Vought will welcome him back with open arms," Raynor said cynically. "They'll call it a miraculous return. They'll put him in a cereal box."
"I don't think he's looking for a welcome home party," Higgins noted, his tactical mind analyzing the pattern.
Singer looked at Mallory. A calculating gleam appeared in his eye.
"Grace," Singer started, leaning forward. "This... this could be an opportunity."
Mallory narrowed her eyes. "Bob, don't say what I think you're going to say."
"Think about it," Singer insisted, gesturing to the photos. "He hates Vought. And he has decades of operational experience. We are currently trying to funnel targets to our 'Phantom Platoon' to disrupt Vought. Should we... should we establish contact with Soldier Boy? Bring him in? Offer him a pardon or a position? Use him as an official counter measure against Vought?"
"Absolutely not," Mallory snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. She slammed her hand flat on the table.
Singer recoiled slightly. "Grace, I'm just considering the strategic value… "
"There is no strategic value, Mr. President," Mallory interrupted, abandoning protocol entirely. She glared at Singer, then at Higgins. "You didn't read his classified psychological profile from the seventies, did you? I served with his team during Nicaragua."
"He was an American hero," Higgins argued defensively. "The propaganda… "
"The propaganda was bullshit," Mallory said coldly. "He was a vicious, narcissistic and arrogant thug who thought he was a god. He didn't follow orders. And he didn't care about collateral damage. He killed our own men in Nicaragua because he couldn't control his temper. He is a walking disaster with the emotional maturity of a schoolyard bully."
She picked up the photo of the Newark parking garage and held it up.
"You want to try and put a leash on a man who has spent forty years being tortured by Russians and who is currently murdering everyone he used to know? If you approach him, he will likely kill your agents, take your intelligence and then do whatever the hell he wants."
Mallory dropped the photo back onto the table.
"We are already dancing on a razor's edge with this 'Phantom Platoon'," she warned. "At least they avoid civilians. Soldier Boy does not care. If we try to use him, it will blow up in our faces. Literally."
Singer looked down at the photo, the color drained from his face. He rubbed his temples again.
"Fine," Singer conceded, his voice heavy.
"What do we do, then?" Raynor asked, looking between them.
"We monitor his movements," Higgins said grimly. "We let him and Vought tear each other apart. And we pray to God he doesn't decide to march on Washington."
…
The air in the safehouse was thick with the smell of stale coffee, cold pizza and nervous sweat.
It was a disused auto repair garage on the outskirts of the Bronx, the windows boarded up, the heavy steel roll up door padlocked from the inside.
Hughie Campbell sat on an overturned milk crate, his knees pulled up to his chest, staring blankly at the oil stained concrete floor.
Across the room, Mother's Milk was pacing. He was on a burner phone, his voice a low whisper. He was talking to Monique, ensuring she and Janine were still secure in the upstate safehouse. He hung up the phone, rubbing his hand over his close cropped hair, the tension radiating off his massive frame.
Frenchie was sitting at a workbench, meticulously dismantling and reassembling a high caliber sniper rifle. The rhythmic clack clack of the metal parts was the only constant sound in the room, a nervous tic masquerading as maintenance.
The heavy metal door connecting to the office groaned, the hinges protesting.
Billy Butcher walked in.
He looked energized. He was wearing his long black coat, a wicked grin plastered across his face. He carried a ruggedized laptop under one arm and a thick manila folder under the other.
"Right, you miserable lot of wankers," Butcher announced, dropping the laptop onto the center table with a loud thud. "Gather 'round. Daddy's home and he's brought presents."
Mother's Milk stopped pacing and walked over. Frenchie set down the rifle bolt. Hughie slowly stood up, looking like a man walking to the gallows and shuffled toward the table.
Butcher flipped the laptop open. He plugged in a secure USB drive and hit a few keys.
"Now," Butcher said, leaning his hands on the table and looking at his crew. "We've had a bit of a rough patch. Got Vought breathing down our necks with this 'Z Drug' bollocks. We need a win. We need a bloody big win."
"We need to stay underground, Butcher," Mother's Milk argued, his voice a low rumble. "They are sweeping the city. If they catch a whiff of us, we are dead."
"They're looking for someone else, Mother's Milk," Butcher grinned. "And while they're looking left, we are gonna hit them right in the bollocks."
He hit the spacebar.
The video filled the screen. It was CCTV footage from a parking garage.
It showed a man in a dark green suit, holding a brass shield, standing over the bloody body of a man.
The camera had captured the moment perfectly… the man in green bringing the edge of the shield down on the victim's neck with sickening force.
Hughie flinched, looking away from the violence. "Who is that?" he whispered.
"That, my fragile little friend, is Gunpowder," Butcher said, pointing at the dead man on the screen. "Former member of Payback. Arrogant prick with a gun fetish."
"And the other one?" Frenchie asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied the green suit. "The costume... it looks familiar, no?"
Butcher slapped the manila folder onto the table. "An old friend of mine has been very busy. This footage was suppressed by Vought an hour after it happened."
Butcher tapped the screen, pointing to the man with the shield.
"That," Butcher said, his grin widening into something manic, "is Soldier Boy."
Mother's Milk stared at the screen, his jaw dropping. "Bullshit. Soldier Boy died in a nuclear reactor in the eighties. My daddy used to read me the comics."
"Your daddy read you Vought propaganda," Butcher corrected. "Russians had kept him on ice. But a few days ago, he broke out. He blew up a Russian base, flew commercial back to the States and is currently working his way through his old teammates."
"He killed Crimson Countess yesterday," Butcher continued, his eyes gleaming. "Blew the TNT Twins to kingdom come this morning. He is on a roaring rampage of revenge, right under Vought's nose."
"Mon Dieu (My God)," Frenchie whispered, staring at the frozen image of the legendary hero.
"Why are you showing us this, Butcher?" Mother's Milk asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.
"Because," Butcher said, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a magnetic whisper. "Homelander is invincible. We've tried bombs and we've tried blackmail. Nothing works."
Butcher pointed a thick finger at the image of Soldier Boy.
"But this bloke? This bloke is the original Homelander. He was the strongest thing on two legs before Vought upgraded the model. And right now, he hates Vought just as much as we do."
Hughie looked from Butcher to the screen and back again. The color drained from his face. "No. No, no, no. You cannot be serious."
"Dead serious, Hughie," Butcher said cheerfully.
"He's bashing a guy's head in with a piece of metal!" Hughie yelled, gesturing wildly at the screen. "You want to go talk to him?"
"I want to offer him a job, mate," Butcher smiled.
"You are insane," Mother's Milk said, taking a step back. "He might kill us the second we look at him funny."
"He needs us," Butcher argued, slamming his hand on the table. "He doesn't know where Vought hides their dirty laundry. We have the intel. He has the muscle. It's a match made in heaven."
"It's suicide," Frenchie stated calmly.
"It's our only bloody shot!" Butcher roared, his charisma filling the room, overpowering their objections. "Homelander is going to find us eventually. When he does, all your hiding, all your safehouses, won't mean shit. He'll laser us and he'll laser your families."
He locked eyes with Mother's Milk, holding his gaze until Mother's Milk looked away. Then he looked at Hughie.
Butcher pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. It had a set of coordinates written on it.
"My CIA bird gave me his trajectory," Butcher said.
Butcher turned around, grabbing his coat.
"Pack your bags, boys," Butcher said, walking toward the garage door. "We're going to meet a legend."
PS: Here's the second bonus chapter for this week. We need 68 more Power Stones for the next one, so come on guys, let's push a little more. Haha