George had never once abandoned the thought of capturing the Legendary Assassin.
After all, when George was still a detective, the Assassin had taunted the NYPD and even kidnapped his future son-in-law. Although George rarely went out on field ops these days, he kept a constant watch on the case.
Naturally, Locke's Audi R8 was a focal point of George's attention.
The Assassin had a notorious obsession with the R8. He used a "disposable" one for every mission, from the shootout at the textile mill to the hit outside the prison gates.
George had ordered the officers patrolling the New York harbor to check on Locke's R8 three times a day, looking for any signs of tampering. He even ensured the harbor's security cameras remained fully operational at all times.
However... instead of catching the Legendary Assassin, they had caught at least five different crews of petty car thieves trying to lift the vehicle.
Those thieves would cut the camera wires and, within five minutes—before they could even drive out of the lot—find themselves surrounded by NYPD units. Thanks to George's "personal interest," a parking lot that usually lost three cars a day hadn't lost a single one, significantly raising the safety rating of the harbor.
The wife of the New York Harbor Company's owner had even mentioned George's initiative during a lunch with Mayor Casey. This led to an unexpected lunch invitation for George and Helen with the Mayor—a pleasant surprise George hadn't seen coming.
But... there was still no sign of the Legendary Assassin.
Locke chuckled inwardly. Of course not. He had been busy playing survival and battling monsters in the middle of the Atlantic. If he wasn't in New York, the Assassin couldn't be in New York.
In the passenger seat, Helen looked back at Gwen. "Your father has become obsessed. His study is filled with files on this Assassin. He even contacted friends in Texas to get their full case files for his 'research.'"
Gwen smiled sweetly. "I believe in Dad. He'll get him eventually, right, Locke?"
Locke nodded, feeling a bit "honored."
'Good grief. My future father-in-law is so devoted to me he wants to throw me in prison. What should I do? Waiting for advice online—it's not urgent, but it's not not urgent.'
George huffed. "I'll catch that guy! Vigilante justice isn't justice." He believed in that principle with every fiber of his being.
...
By evening, a massive crowd had gathered at the New York harbor. The NYPD had deployed a significant force to maintain order. Every person entering the pier area had to be searched to ensure no weapons were brought in.
The Poseidon tragedy had only eleven survivors. Behind the 3,700 dead were at least 3,700 grieving families. The police had to be careful; sometimes, grief turns into misdirected rage against survivors. Plus, one of the survivors was one of their own—the Commissioner's daughter.
Tonight, the harbor was exceptionally safe. The specific pier where the Poseidon usually docked had been cleared. Three NYPD helicopters circled overhead.
The sound of sobbing and mourning filled the air. By the time Locke and his group arrived, the news that the Poseidon had been confirmed lost to a rogue wave with no other survivors had spread across every media outlet. All hope for the missing families had been extinguished.
Locke and Gwen arrived by taxi. Locke blinked as he saw the sea of people.
Just then, a homeless man walked up to them. "You two here for the vigil?"
Without waiting for an answer, he pulled two candles from his tattered coat and handed them to the couple.
Locke watched Gwen take the candles and looked at the man. "How much?"
The man waved him off. "I don't make money off things like this."
He moved on to an elderly couple nearby whose eyes were red from crying, handing them candles without asking for a cent.
In stark contrast, a young man was standing not far away with a cardboard box, a greedy grin on his face, hawking candles for $5 apiece.
Locke narrowed his eyes. "Gwen, I have to tell you something."
Gwen looked at him curiously.
Locke gestured toward the smiling candle-seller making a fortune off the tragedy. "I'm not a good guy, but this imagery is a bit too ironic for me."
Gwen followed his gaze to the young man who was currently pestering a sobbing family member while wearing a wide, joyful grin. She pursed her lips. "There are always people with no class."
"I agree," Locke said. But some seem to lack it more consistently than others.
Locke reached into his pocket—accessing his inventory—and flicked something. Two invisible "markers" landed on the homeless man and the greedy seller respectively. "Let's go inside."
He usually didn't meddle. But tonight was different.
...
Inside the cordoned area, they found the rest of the group.
"Pepper?" Gwen sounded surprised to see Pepper Potts wearing jeans and an inconspicuous jacket.
"Sorry I couldn't fly back with you," Pepper said softly. The group waved it off; they understood that if Pepper had been on the government flight, they would have been swamped by the press.
Locke and Dylan stood to one side, each lighting a cigarette.
Dylan looked at the empty dock. "I'm going to settle down."
Locke wasn't surprised. "Congrats."
"Lend me some money."
"..."
'Son of a—!' A thirty-something-year-old man asking a seventeen-year-old kid for a loan? Was that reasonable? If it were anyone else, Locke would have told them to piss off.
Dylan looked at Locke's judgmental stare with a melancholic expression. "My life savings went down with the ship." He had won millions in the casino, but those were chips. He hadn't cashed them out before the wave hit. "If you don't support me, I'm basically bankrupt."
"Where are you staying?" Locke asked.
"Maggie's place. It's in the Upper East Side, pretty close to your Star Tower apartment."
"You could just keep staying there."
"No." Dylan shook his head. "Maggie's ex-husband was a lazy bum. That's why she divorced him. I need to have something of my own, or I'll end up just like him."
Locke considered Dylan's skill set. "What do you plan on doing?" Aside from being a submariner and a gambler, what else did he have?
Dylan took a long drag and blew a smoke ring. "Start a fire safety company. Robert says he can give me the contracts for a few of his factories, and Pepper said she could toss some smaller Stark Industries fire safety maintenance my way. I just need the startup capital."
Robert Ramsey, a former mayor, was a capitalist through and through. It wasn't surprising he owned factories. Pepper's influence at Stark Industries meant she could easily swap a few safety contractors for a friend. This was the kind of friendship forged in the face of death.
Locke dropped his cigarette. "How much do you need?"
Dylan thought for a second. "Fifty... no, thirty thousand. If things get tight, I'll hit Vegas a few times. I'll pay you back within a year."
Locke glanced at him. "Thirty thousand? That's it? Where are you going to live?"
Dylan shrugged. "I'll find a motel for a bit."
Locke chuckled and pulled a fresh checkbook from his jacket. He wrote out a check for $3 million, signed it with a flourish, and handed it to Dylan. "Pay me back whenever."
Locke had cleared over $50 million in profit on the Poseidon. $3 million? Pocket change. If it wasn't for the thrill of the extra points, he'd be tempted to retire from the assassin business entirely.
Dylan stared at the check, his face lighting up. Then he looked at Locke suspiciously. "I thought your wallet went down with the ship like ours did?"
Locke tucked the checkbook away. "If you have $50 million in the bank, the branch manager will personally drive to your house at midnight to bring you a new card and checkbook."
Dylan: "..."
After George had dropped Locke off at the Star Tower at noon, the bank manager had arrived by mid-afternoon with everything he needed.
This was America. For those with money, it was heaven.
***
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