The Good Fight 2: Villains Page 3

  One thing government training did give him was a good sense of time. He knew they only had seconds left. And he knew they needed to move if they were going to survive the amount of C4 loaded into the walls of the tiny shack.

  He started a count to fifteen as he sprinted after Olee, straight out towards the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. At fourteen, he grabbed her and pulled her down with him into the water.

  A moment later, the shack exploded with a massive shockwave that shook his bones even in the water. Fire, dust and smoke shot up into the air. He didn’t care. He was safe and alive.

  And he had a beautiful woman in his arms.

  He stared into Olee’s face as he kicked to keep himself afloat.

  She smiled back at him. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Mister Barnes.”

  “Please, call me Coop.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  She pulled him in close and kissed him deeply. He kissed her back as they floated in the water.

  “Now, I think it’s time you take me home. I’m pretty sure I have a few ideas to keep the night going.”

  Coop could only nod as he held her in his arms.

  * * *

  Afterword

  DB Cooper and the Quadrant Universe

  The Quadrant Universe is an expansive place. When I started to build the idea of an entire connected universe filled with super-powered beings, I decided on one conceit that made my universe different than so many others built up over decades of stories. I wanted the metahumans that populated the Quadrant Universe to not just be a modern phenomenon. They’ve existed for thousands of years, since the dawn of mankind—or perhaps even earlier.

  With that in mind, tales set far before the present day needed to be told. I’ve started an entire campaign of stories called “Times Past” in 2015 that will start to bring looks at previous eras.

  When I heard “The Good Fight 2: Villains” would raise money to help James Hudnall, I realized it would be the perfect time to develop the 80s era adventures of D.B. Cooper. I first discovered Hudnall’s writing in that decade in the pages of Alpha Flight, but in my mind, his strongest work was a series called Espers. His tale of psychic heroes on the run made me want to bring forth my own psychic subsection of the universe, one that I long ago connected to the mystery of the real life D.B. Cooper.

  Coop Barnes builds on the legend of the famous disappearing hijacker. But he also builds on the real life Project Stargate, the mad monk Rasputin and in the future, a few other real world bits of weirdness. At the same time, he connects to the developing history of the Quadrant Universe, seen in my modern era set novels like Lightweight: Senior Year and Epsilon.

  And while this is the first story in “The Second Life of D.B. Cooper”, it is far from the last. He will return very soon for more oddball adventures around the world.

  Back to Table of Contents

  Frankie

  By Scott Bachmann

  Scott Bachmann writes heroic fiction and has published two novels and two graphic novels (soon to be three) and more under his own imprint Scottcomics. Scott’s stories range from light and all ages fun to dark and clearly not for children - but they still inhabit the same universe. Don’t worry, ages are clearly marked. By the way? The story below? For mature audiences. You can read a free all ages story in the prior volume of this anthology series.

  If you really like free, you can follow the free web version of his all ages comic ‘Our Super Mom’ at http://oursupermom.com. Even better browse through all of his works at http://scottcomics.com. All of his works are available in print and a variety of digital forms because we live in the FUTURE. If you enjoy being social you can find Scott on Twitter at ScottABachmann, Facebook at OurSuperMom, and Pinterest as Scott Bachmann.

  * * *

  “Monsters. Monsters. Everybody needs a good monster, sometimes . . .” - The Ford Theater Reunion

  Trying to make a dramatic entrance is such a pain in the ass most of the time. Anybody can storm in with guns blazing. Anybody. A grandma with a shotgun zip-tied to her walker could do that. It’s cliché. To make an impression though, one that reaches into the deepest illegal poker game gossip and dominates smokey barroom banter? That takes effort. It’s the mark of a pro. The mark of a legend. One day, that legend will be me.

  But drama takes patience. I’m not big on patience.

  I chewed at a thumbnail. It was nervous habit, but admittedly my right hand did need trimming. Maybe I should add nail clippers to my kit?

  I spit the nail deep into the shadows. Tacky, but no one was looking.

  I stopped my foot from tapping before it even started. That leg has always had a mind of its own, but I couldn’t blame it. I was antsy. Two weeks I’d worked this job so that I could be here at just the right moment in just the right place. Proper murders and heists don’t just happen you know. Those guys all locked up? Amateurs. Thugs. I’m a pro.

  The planning? The sneaking? That’s the fun part. Engaging your mind in what ifs. Testing your body to do what it wasn’t meant to do as you plan your routes. Stalking people, learning their patterns - that’s a voyeuristic high. But oh the waiting. It’s the waiting that kills me. Kills me! Not only is waiting boring, it’s unfair. I mean come on! I make all of this effort to impress, and all you have to do is pay attention. Easy job. One job. Just look. That’s all you have to do. But until you do? I have to wait. Makes me want to leap out guns blazing. Not that I brought any, but if I did? It would serve your ungrateful ass perfectly.

  To be fair my client (I prefer the term ‘client’ to ‘target’, this is a service oriented job after all) was distracted, and it was a pretty good distraction as distractions go. His secretary (or assistant or whatever his title was, doesn’t matter) had been blowing my client, his boss, for a good ten minutes now - and going at it pretty enthusiastically I might add. Based on the moans from his boss, I’d have expected the big shot to make his big shot a long time ago. Stockbrokers are all about timing aren’t they? No such luck.

  My client kept urging the young man to go faster. He punctuated his demands by pounding on his desk with his left hand. It made the papers and pens and whatever important tchotchkes on his desk to jump in unison. The poor lackey kept doing his best (I assume it was his best, the desk was blocking my view, fortunately) but my client seemed impossible to satisfy. I started checking my watch. I wanted to be sure the time dilation was only “watched pot not boiling” stuff and not some new twist on purgatory that forced you to watch bad porn for eternity. Several checks later, I was sure my watch was lying. I held it to my ear and listened to it ticking just to be sure it worked. It was tough to hear over the gagging and the pounding, but yes, it worked.

  There was a silver lining here. This proved my client told security to ignore any noises in this room, or he’d soundproofed it. Either way? Good for me.

  A flash of light in the window distracted me. It was a news copter, and it began circling a Manhattan skyscraper like a moth around a porch light. I could easily make out the station’s logo and see the faces inside, which was surprising given the deep tint on the office’s floor to ceiling windows. When I cased the place you couldn’t see in, but from this side, no problem.

  Well, when I say ‘surprised’ I don’t mean ‘SURPRISED!!’ it’s more of a ‘huh, well look at that’ kind of surprise. I do know how window tinting works. I’m not stupid.

  The copter slowly made its arc. Perspective made it tiny enough to squish in my fingers, and I tried to imagine the size of a bug zapper needed to blast it into dust. I knew it would be monstrously big, but from this perspective it seemed reasonable. Minds are such tricky things.

  A louder choking noise startled me and adrenaline, or it’s equivalent, snapped me into focus. I was done waiting. This poor wage slave needed to be spared from enduring any more of his boss’s bile.

  I cleared my throat. I was obvious about it.

  Nothing.

  I did it again. Louder.


  I blinked. No reaction. None.

  I took a LONG drag on my cigarette, making the cherry tip glow bright. I flared my nostrils with mirror practiced precisions, and shot of plumes of white frustration that managed to catch the meager light.

  Nada. Screw this.

  “Hey!” I yelled as I slid off the bureau I was sitting, moving just to the edge of the dim spotlight from the lone desk lamp. I glanced at the shadow effect. It wasn’t ideal. Sitting on the bureau was certainly a better look. There, only my eyes would gleam. Like this I was half visible. Sucks, but I’ll make it work.

  Yelling created the reaction I was going for. The blower pulled back so fast he hit his head on the desk corner. The mahogany didn’t yield, and it carved a deep scratch across his cheekbone. The blowee bolted back in his chair, the locked wheels grinding.

  There was shuffling, zipping, yelling. I rolled my eyes and silenced all of it with a, “Hi,” boomed in my best stage voice. “My name is Frank, and I’ll be your executioner this evening. A pleasure to make your fine, but brief, acquaintance.”

  No laughter. Clients never laugh at that. Retell the story over a beer, though, and everyone’s squealing away.

  The client frowned and played his indignant rage card. “Who the hell are you? I’m calling security!” Blah blah blah. This was a traditional counter move to the game, and not very creative, but he preformed it well. He’d clearly practiced his pompous schtick as much as I had my nose flaring.

  His chubby fingers punched at intercom buttons as he shouted. I gave it a beat then tossed my wire cutters onto the desk with a lazy underhanded throw. They clacked on the wood and made the clients eyes go wide and stop shouting. I took another drag from my smoke, purely for effect.

  Since I had an audience, I puffed out a ring. Rings can be hard to do when you change body parts often. It’s a muscle memory thing I have to reteach my lips when I replace a face.

  I let the silence become thick and cloying before breaking it.

  “No one’s coming, and you know why. You disabled your own alarms. You made sure this ass kisser here and you could have a private moment.” I let that sink in. “Oh, and by ass kisser, sorry, I don’t mean it literally. Just a figure of speech. Though given your proclivities, it could be true. But that’s ok. Who am I to judge? Each to his own I say.”

  The blower revealed himself to be quicker witted. While his boss fumbled with his zipper and shirt, stammering on with indignities that I ignored, the blower went for the top drawer of the desk. Wasn’t rocket science to guess what he was after.

  “Hey! Don’t be stupid kid. I’m not here for you.”

  He didn’t listen.

  He pulled a gun from the drawer. Tough to tell from the light and shadows, but I thought it was a Beretta.

  I let out an exaggerated sigh as I reached for the throwing knife I kept in the sheath on my belt. The movement was a little awkward though. My repelling harness was partly covering it, making me fumble to free it. I should have checked that when I was bored. When your arm length changes you need to watch for these things.

  Damn. I hate it when I don’t look graceful.

  The blower - wait, let’s give him a name, he should have a name, I think John works - John pulled the trigger. Twice. The first bullet went wildly to my right, but John had clearly fired a gun before and recovered his mistake well enough to bury the second bullet in my chest. My cigarette sputtered out of my mouth as my lung collapsed. I vaguely felt the needling of bone poking into me from the splintered rib. Then the, um, whatever squishy bit was behind the lung, went goosh as the organ imploded.

  Despite being accustomed to this sort of pain, this one hurt more than most, and I ground my uneven teeth as my arm whipped out with a perfect throw. Despite my wound, the blade flew true. I simply loved the way these fingers pointed after release. No wasted movement, all style like a hunting dog marking the kill. Without a doubt this was my favorite throwing arm.

  The knife protruded from his windpipe, and I could tell I’d thrown it too hard by how little of it stuck out of his neck. It was excusable. I was just shot in the same side as my throwing arm, thank you very much.

  The blade dug in hard enough to part the bone in the spine. He staggered back into the glass, which made a low tong sound. Then he slowly slumped down with a slight but comical squeegee sound against the glass.

  It was a good kill, but I was nonetheless annoyed. I hadn’t intended to kill John. It was a possibility sure, but still unfortunate. Goodbye John. Sorry.

  The client had turned a pleasing white. I’d assumed all of his blood had already migrated to his crotch, but there was enough left to drain out of his face. Even better, he’d stopped yammering. No more indignation. No more threats. He was frozen in fear and staring at the corpse of the man who’d only moments ago been sucking him off.

  That was better. He finally understood the gravity of the situation. Absently I nodded. This will make the rest go so much easier.

  I picked up my lost cig, looked it over, and then took a half-lung volume choking drag. “I warned him. No one ever listens.” I moved fully into the light so he could make out the scars and sutures. Nobody looks like me except cadavers cleaned up after an autopsy for family viewing. I know exactly how unsettling I look.

  “Now how about you, Mr. Spinach. Are you ready to listen?”

  His name wasn’t spinach, it was Spinache or Spinchee or something. There was a nameplate on his desk if I really wanted to check, but I didn’t. Doesn’t matter. After I’d staked out the building and verified I had the right guy, I’d promptly forgotten the spelling and pronunciation. Spinach was good enough. Besides, I hate that stuff.

  “You killed him,” Spinach said through a clenched jaw.

  “Yeah,” I said with extra sarcasm. “That was SO thirty seconds ago. Keep up.” Then I got off track and looked at the body. Technically, John was still alive and bleeding out. He still gave out an occasional artery spurt, but he had to be paralyzed. His brain could survive being deprived of oxygen for a bit longer, but he would be dead shortly. Close enough to make my point. “And since no one is coming? It’s just you and me.”

  In response, he fainted.

  I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t even done anything to him yet!

  The oversized oaf just collapsed backward and knocked over his chair.

  Damn it.

  I flicked aside the filter stub in the most pissed off way I could. Cigarettes are good for that.

  I grunted while hauling the stockbroker back into his chair. He was as heavy as he looked. Also? Dead weight is a real thing. A body’s muscles hold it up. Turn ‘em off, and oof.

  He also reeked of enough cologne to kill a date from twenty paces. Amazing the things money can cover up.

  I glanced at my watch, not sure if security would arrive after the gunshots, but after two minutes cleared, I stopped worrying. I already knew the floor was completely empty, so no chance of looky loos wandering in. Planning, kids. It makes a difference.

  After getting the client into the chair he, kept slumping forward. I made a quip about him being spineless, but without anyone to hear me, it was like a tree falling in the woods - who gives a shit? I tied bound him to the chair to keep him upright, using large zip ties around the limbs to secure them. In the movies they tie you up with rope. Stupid. Who has the space to carry around two rope coils? My dry rope is for climbing and repelling. It’s two hundred bucks a coil to get the lightness and strength I need. Not worth wasting it on a client when fifty cent zip ties will do.

  With the client secured in his fancy ass chair I found there wasn’t enough room to continue. I had to move John out of my way to make room behind the desk. Moving him took care to avoid getting blood on my clothing. I’m just wearing black cargo pants and long sleeve black v-neck, and blood spatters do look cool, but it was against the plan. I was going to walk out of here. Looking like a butcher would not be advisable.

  I tried booting up his computer, but when
it didn’t turn on, I looked under the desk to see his surge protector switch was off. This required me to awkwardly crawl under the desk and shove the client’s legs aside in order to flip it back on. Who turns off a computer with the surge protector switch? Idiot.

  I retrieved my knife as the machine booted, wiped it clean on John’s shirt, and then took a deep breath and shoved it into myself. The goal was to dig the slug out of my chest, but I wasn’t having any success. The black ichor inside of me climbed out of the hole and fought against the intruding knife. Sometimes I think the crap inside of me has a mind of its own. I fought it, but after a minute of paper cut feeling probes, I gave up. The slug was in too deep. Or it ricocheted. Or whatever. Bullets do dumb things.

  I slapped the client awake. This time, I was careful and pulled back my strength. I didn’t want to snap his neck with a slap. Not yet anyway. Everything in its proper time.

  “Where?” he blubbered, “Oh my God... Help!”

  I hopped up to sit on his desk and held the knife point up to his eye. “Hellooo, Mr. Spinach? We have work to do. And here’s some good news. I’m instructed that it’s preferable you live, but, and I must emphasize but, that is up to my discretion. So it’s an option. You don’t want me to exercise that option do you?”

  I shook my head no for emphasis.

  He aped and shook his head no.

  “Good.” I pointed my knife at the computer screen. “Now this here? This is your company’s portal. You’re going to log in for me. Then you are going to log in to your brokerage account.”

  “Wh...why?”

  Huh. There was a bit of guts in him still. “Why isn’t important. Yet. Just do it.”

  I wheeled his chair closer to the keyboard. His hands didn’t have enough slack to type so I had to move the keyboard closer. He obligingly clacked the keys.

  “Perfect. Gold Star. Now it’s my turn.”

  I wheeled him back and started typing. This part I knew. Sort of. The tech I’d ‘coerced’ for instructions hadn’t been very easy to understand. He had spouted all kinds of useless geeky details, and I had to ‘coerce’ him to be concise. Fortunately, I’d taken good notes. Unfortunately, I now had to pull them out consult them. My little black spiral notebook was my most powerful tool on many occasions. Even though it made me look stupid to use it, it also made me efficient. Fair trade-off in my mind.