CHAPTER 44: LIBERTY
The photograph was grainy, slightly water-damaged, pulled from a corrupted database that Frenchie had accessed through methods he declined to explain.
But the face was unmistakable.
High cheekbones. Blonde hair pulled back tight. A confident smile that didn't reach the eyes. The woman in the 1972 Vought personnel photo looked exactly like the woman who'd mocked me on social media three days ago.
Fifty years. Not a single wrinkle. Not a single gray hair.
"Liberty," Hughie read from the file metadata. "Active 1971 to 1984. Powers listed as electrical manipulation and enhanced durability. Retired from active duty, quote, 'by mutual agreement.'"
"What does that mean?" I asked, even though I knew.
"Usually means they fucked up bad enough that Vought couldn't keep them in rotation." MM's voice came from behind us—he'd arrived silently, drawn by the notification Frenchie had sent. His eyes were fixed on the photograph with an intensity that went beyond professional interest. "Let me see the full file."
Frenchie handed over a printed stack of documents.
MM read in silence for two minutes. When he looked up, his jaw was set hard enough to crack teeth.
"Myron Hunter," he said. "1979. Liberty responded to a 'burglary in progress' in Baltimore. The 'burglar' was a Black man named Myron Hunter walking to his car after working a late shift. Liberty killed him. Internal Vought memo called it 'unfortunate collateral' and recommended enhanced PR protocols."
The room went cold.
"Same face," Hughie said quietly. "Same exact face. Fifty years later."
"Same person," I confirmed. "Stormfront is Liberty. She's been around for at least fifty years, maybe longer, and everything about her current identity is a lie."
Butcher arrived twenty minutes later.
He listened to the briefing in silence, his face unreadable, fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that meant he was thinking violent thoughts.
"How do we use this?" he asked finally.
"We go public." MM's voice was harder than I'd ever heard it. "Tomorrow. Myron Hunter deserves justice."
"Myron Hunter's been dead forty years. Justice isn't going to wake him up." Butcher's pragmatism cut through the room like a blade. "The question is how we hurt Vought the most."
"She's building a platform right now," I said, choosing my words carefully. "Three million followers and climbing. She's becoming the face of a movement—the 'authentic hero' brand that counters everything Vought's traditional image represents. If we expose her too early, Vought spins it. Buries it. Claims she was a 'rogue operative' they're investigating."
"And if we wait?"
"We wait until she's too big to disavow. Wait until she's so integrated into Vought's public image that her fall takes the whole tower with her. The bigger she gets—"
"The harder she falls," Butcher finished. He almost smiled. "I like it."
MM didn't look convinced. "How long?"
"Three weeks. Maybe four. Enough time to build an airtight case, find corroborating witnesses, prepare media distribution." I met his eyes. "Nadia Kazan can break this. But she needs time to verify, to build the legal protection, to make sure it sticks."
"Four weeks is a long time for a Nazi to keep walking around free."
"Four weeks is enough time to make sure she never walks free again."
The silence stretched. Then MM nodded once, sharp.
"Four weeks. But Myron Hunter's family gets told first. Before any media. They deserve to know what happened to him before the rest of the world does."
"Agreed."
Kimiko signed something to Frenchie after the others had dispersed.
I caught only fragments—my sign language was still rudimentary—but the gesture she made toward me was clear enough. Frenchie translated, his voice carefully neutral.
"She says you talk like you already knew. Like this isn't new information for you."
My blood went cold for one heartbeat. Then I forced a smile.
"Strategic thinking," I said. "When you've analyzed enough corporate cover-ups, the patterns become predictable."
Frenchie relayed my response. Kimiko's eyes stayed on my face for a long moment—too long—before she turned away and returned to her French films.
"She's noticing," I realized. "The most perceptive person in the room, and she's noticing that I know too much."
I'd have to be more careful.
MM was still sitting at his workbench when I left, the Myron Hunter file open in front of him.
"You okay?" I asked.
He didn't look up. "Myron Hunter was twenty-six years old. He'd just gotten engaged. Worked night shifts at a warehouse to save up for a house." A pause. "She killed him because he was walking while Black in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time."
"I know."
"No." Now he looked at me, and his eyes were harder than I'd ever seen them. "You don't know. You think you understand, but you don't. Every time you walk into a room and calculate angles and strategies and belief metrics—you're using your head. This?" He tapped the file. "This is personal. This is every Black man who ever looked over his shoulder walking home. This is my father, who told me stories about heroes who were supposed to protect us and never did."
I didn't have an answer for that.
"Four weeks," MM said. "Then she burns. And I want to be there when she does."
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