ON THE second floor of a venerable brick precinct house a few blocks from ESU, City Editor Joseph “Robbie” Robertson turned away from the window to face his son. The group outside was a fraction of the mob that had occupied the plaza, but he worried it was about to grow. News of the arrested organizers’ location had yet to spread.
“I know how badly you want to help, but how is getting a criminal record going to do that?”
A few months ago, Randy had been a high schooler eager to start college. Now he looked more angry than eager. Robbie admired the passion, recognized and remembered it from his own youth. But as a father, he was more afraid than angry.
Randy picked his eyes up and glared. “How has working for a racist like J. Jonah Jameson helped you?”
Robbie stiffened. “Racist? Is that what you think? The man can be a complete ass, but racism is one of the few flaws you can’t pin on him. Do you understand that if I wasn’t his City Editor, and didn’t know the people here, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me? You’d be locked up with the others.”
“His news editor? Like he owns you?”
“No!”
“So I’m supposed to be grateful for the privileges some rich white guy bestows on you? And let everybody else be damned?”
“That’s not what I meant. I…”
He turned back to the window to take a few breaths. Below, there was some sort of argument going on among the students. A flash of platinum blonde hair told him Gwen, Captain Stacy’s daughter, was one of the participants.
He wondered what issues Stacy had with his daughter, but doubted it was the same as his own problems with Randy.
Either way, looks like everyone has something to be angry about tonight.
* * *
HOPING to see how her father was doing, Gwen Stacy found herself facing off against 20 steaming peers. Backing down would be the easy thing to do. But years of worrying whether her dad would come home safe had taught her that the easy thing was seldom the right thing.
When the group’s tall, lanky spokesman got all puffed up and in her space, she climbed up a step to respond eye-to-eye. “Look, I understand why you’re here, but protesting at the precinct keeps the focus on the theft, not on tuition! It isn’t helping.”
Listening, he nodded. “Okay, I get it. You’re sticking up for what you believe. That’s cool.”
She thought it was over, but then another voice called, “Where’s your runaway boyfriend, Parker? He hasn’t got the guts to make any stand!”
Gwen walked up to a smug junior in a vaguely fashionable crewneck and raised her finger at his chin.
“Was that you? You said Peter Parker doesn’t have any guts?”
Unlike the other protestors, he had liquor on his breath. “Yeah, I did!”
He was an idiot, not worth the effort. But she still found herself slapping him. The sharp crack made the others stare.
“He could be half the man he is and still take 10 of you!”
He rubbed his cheek, shocked into silence.
Gwen stormed up the steps to the door, the protestors’ childish chorus of “Ooooh!” hot on her back. Officers Fenway and Huntington, who’d known her since she was a child, let her by without question.
Peering beyond Sgt. Murphy at the front desk, Gwen spotted her father’s snowy white hair. His sharp blue eyes were glued to a printout, but, seeming to sense her presence, he looked up and greeted her with a gentle smile.
“I didn’t think you’d be here.”
She folded her arms and hissed out a breath. “Why not? I’m a student at ESU, aren’t I?”
Captain Stacy’s smile waned. “Of course you’re concerned about the protests—I wouldn’t expect any less of you. But you’re shaking. What’s got you so riled up?”
She pursed her lips and eyed the floor. “Some loudmouth outside.”
Sgt. Murphy aimed a thumb at the door. “Fenway says you socked that kid good. One hand, hey, good for you. Other hand, be careful you don’t get accused of assault.”
When her father’s brow furrowed, his thick eyebrows almost met. “Did someone get rough with you?”
In a flash, the anger drained, leaving only embarrassment. “Nothing like that. He just…said something about Peter.”
He studied her with the keen eyes that had analyzed a thousand crime scenes. “I can see getting annoyed, but striking someone? Are you worried that whatever he said might be true?”
Gwen loved her father more than anything, but no one liked having their mind read—especially before you were ready to read it yourself. Her thoughts raced back to all the times Peter had vanished at the first sign of trouble, how once she’d hated him for it. But hadn’t that changed? Hadn’t her doubts vanished yet?
Or do I still think Peter’s a coward?
* * *
IN HELL’S KITCHEN, Wesley watched his boss grapple with the impressively brave Spider-Man. Seated comfortably in the security office, with cameras covering every inch of the penthouse save the private quarters, Wesley had a perfect, and perfectly safe, view.
He’d been wary of the brash decision to lead such a powerful enemy here. Between the Maggia pushback and his strained relations with his wife, the Kingpin was facing some unusual challenges that might cloud his judgment. But it looked as if his instincts had been correct, as always.
Wesley might have held the wall-crawler longer, but when the Kingpin did let go, Spider-Man slipped weakly to the floor, barely able to curl into a fetal ball. The hero was probably stronger pound-for-pound, but he was young, overeager, and inexperienced. Mr. Fisk had taken full advantage of those facts.
As for the unconscious mob-soldiers strewn across the gym, replacements were already on the way. Wesley’s bigger concern was the crushed desk: If the dealer was to be believed, Al Capone had once owned it. But Wesley was sure he could find a suitable substitute.
Perhaps Silvermane’s desk would work.
As the Kingpin gloated, Wesley indulged in a rare bit of his own reveling. The tablet he’d spent years studying was here, and while its physical attributes might belong to his boss, the task of unlocking its strange script fell to him.
Not that he wanted to use its secrets himself. Wielding power struck him as garish, but the thought of cracking the ancient code, when so many others had failed—well, that gave him a heady tingle.
On screen, Fisk raised half the broken desk and prepared to bring it down on the helpless Spider-Man. Despite the apparent victory, Wesley decided to heed his own paranoia. That was his job. He checked the other camera feeds, then scanned the police bands for unusual alerts.
One came up at once: “We have a 10-34s on 46th and Ninth Avenue, Hell’s Kitchen. All available units report. The Kingpin and the stolen tablet are believed to be at the scene.”
Wesley seized up. That was their address. A 10-34s meant an assault in progress, shots fired. How could the police know? Besides being carefully soundproofed, the penthouse was so far above the loud streets that the Kingpin had once fired a missile launcher without anyone blinking an eye. Even if the handpicked tenants below were to hear something, they’d be too terrified to contact the police.
Some sort of breach? An informer?
There was no time to figure that out now. The law was on the way. Wesley slammed the intercom button: “Sir?”
The line was dead, perhaps damaged by one of the bullets fired when the wall-crawler had first entered. Just as Wesley shot to his feet, things got worse. On the screen, the “defeated” Spider-Man sprang up into action. The web-slinger’s speed reminded him of a jumping spider, of the Salticidae family. He didn’t seem to move from the floor so much as vanish and instantly reappear in midair, his fist driving deep into Mr. Fisk’s abdomen.
“If playing dead’s all it takes to surprise you, I get why you thought that window-thing might work.”
Wesley watched, assuming the Kingpin would strike back immediately. But Fisk fell over backwards.
“Mr. Fisk!” Wesley’s cry was pointless in more ways than one. He could hear the combatants, but they couldn’t hear him. Worse, microphones in the the sound system were picking up a high-pitched wail.
Sirens? So soon?
Thanks to the recent setbacks, Wesley had managed to broach the subject of a police raid with his boss. Thinking it would be madness to confront the cops head-on, he’d advised Fisk to let himself be arrested, at least temporarily, and allow the legal team to handle any charges. By the letter of the law, Mr. Fisk was innocent until proven guilty.
And unless they found proof, Spider-Man was the criminal here, breaking and entering private property.
That might work, save for one piece of incriminating evidence: the tablet.
* * *
PRESSING his advantage, Spider-Man advanced on the prone Kingpin. “No wounded college kids around this time, baldy, so you’ve got my full attention.”
But the mobster’s assault on his pressure point had done more damage than he’d thought. His wrist and right arm were completely numb. He rubbed them to get the blood circulating.
A kick from the Kingpin’s heavy foot caught him off guard. It was weaker than the earlier blows, but it still pushed him a few yards up and away.
He’s either rattled, or he’s finally getting tired.
Spider-Man landed lightly near some thick curtains. The Kingpin rose, lowered his head, and charged. As he came, Peter tore the curtains from the wall and, with a bullfighter’s flourish, whipped them in the Kingpin’s direction. “Olé!”
The cloth twirled around Fisk’s legs, tripping him into what seemed a vulnerable sitting position. But Peter’s spider-sense suddenly sent him leaping away, clinging to a high spot on the wall. He didn’t understand why—until he noticed that the Kingpin had grabbed a fallen AK47.
“Have you ever actually been to a bullfight, insect? I can tell you it’s far more enjoyable when the bull wins!” Fisk spun around, but before he could engage the trigger, Spider-Man fired a thick glob into the barrel.
The gun didn’t explode, as it might in a cartoon, but it did split open—and the unexpected backfire slammed the stock into Fisk’s gut. Wincing, he tossed it aside and raised both arms to strike.
Spider-Man tensed, ready to leap as soon as there was an opening. But then he noticed something else.
“Uh…KP, is that green smoke coming out of your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”
Confused, the Kingpin looked down at his sweat-stained jacket. The rifle butt had shattered a gas pellet— apparently he was still carrying some in his pocket. Cursing, he frantically tried to tear off the jacket.
As Spider-Man crawled a bit higher to stay out of the way, the wafting smoke reached the Kingpin’s head.
“I will…!” His eyes swam in his skull.
“Hold that thought.”
He fell.
Once the gas dispersed, Spider-Man hopped down. He was about to wrap the mobster in webbing when the sound of scurrying footsteps caught his attention. He turned and spotted a hallway entrance the curtains had previously concealed.
Probably one of Fisk’s stooges, making a beeline out of here.
But when he poked his head into the hall, he realized that the exit was in the opposite direction.
Or maybe he’s after the stolen tablet?
Fisk looked down for the count, but Peter had already been wrong about the guy more than once.
I need that thing to prove Fisk, not the students, was behind the bombing. What to do? Stay here, or go after the tablet?
* * *
SECONDS later, the panicked Wesley reached the vault where the tablet was stored. Purchased from a savings-and-loan bank before its demolition, the classic steel-reinforced concrete door was secure enough. But once the police knew it existed, they would get a warrant and demand entry.
Panting, he entered the code only he and Wilson Fisk knew. The bolts disengaged at once. Wesley pulled at the thick handle. He strained and yanked, but it wouldn’t budge.
Mr. Fisk had talked about reinforcing the door with additional composite metal. The extra weight wouldn’t be a problem for someone with the Kingpin’s strength. For Wesley, it might as well have still been locked.
Why had Fisk contracted for the work without consulting him? The thought rankled. Given events, the extra precaution made some sense, but Wesley had never given his employer any reason to doubt his loyalty. Now he’d need three men to budge the thing— and thanks to Spider-Man, they were all unconscious.
The sirens grew louder—so loud he could feel them in his jaw. An almost forgotten sense of self-preservation kicked in. Wesley turned to run.
“Hey, pal. Where are you going?”
There was a short whoosh—like a thin, high-powered spray—and Wesley felt an odd pressure just below the nape of his neck. Something yanked him upwards, his knees coming up to press against his chest. A sticky mesh crisscrossed his field of vision, and he found himself dangling in a sack of webbing.
“I won’t tell you anything!”
“Fine by me. Stay right there, and I’ll see if I can guess what you were up to, okay?”
Twisting, he spotted the smug wall-crawler standing on the ceiling. Tapping a finger to his chin, Spider-Man looked around, then pointed at the vault door.
“Tablet’s in there, right?”
Briefly, Wesley hoped the door would hold. But once Spider-Man hopped down and braced a foot against the wall, it opened easily. Seconds later, the prize tablet was in his hands.
Wesley moaned. “No! You have no idea what you’re holding!”
“Again, lemme guess. Is it…the mysterious tablet whose undecipherable hieroglyphs are believed to contain the greatest secret in history?”
As if things weren’t bad enough already, the infuriating philistine sounded like he was reciting from the insipid signs at the Exhibition Hall.
Spider-Man lifted the tablet. “Time to get this back to the hall.” He cocked his head. The sirens were louder. “Or better yet, the police.”
Wesley clenched his fists. “Wait! You can’t just leave me here!”
He thought he caught a smile beneath the mask. “It’s not every day I find such a great straight man—but to answer your question, sure I can. Don’t worry. I’ll let the boys in blue know you’re hanging around up here. I’m sure they’ll find you before you get too lonely.”
* * *
THE KINGPIN awoke surrounded by police. His dry mouth tasted of bile; his sense of helplessness infuriated him.
They’ll never be able to hold me, but now is not the time for a fight. I have a better idea.
“Gentlemen, come in—I have nothing to hide.” The lead officer whistled at the unconscious men. “If you say so.”
Fisk held up his wrists. They handcuffed him—with oversized cuffs, he realized. The cops hadn’t responded to some nuisance call. They’d expected to find him there.
Someone had given them inside information. A traitor.
It took three straining officers to force their “collar” to his feet. As they read him his rights, he congratulated himself for managing to protect what he held most dear.
Thank heavens I sent Vanessa to Long Island. I’m used to dealing with vermin, but she should never have to deal with such indignity.
The lead detective finally asked the obvious.
“Where’s the tablet, Kingpin?”
Fisk smiled at the man’s predictability. “If I had it, do you think I’d be foolish enough to keep it here where it could incriminate me? Perhaps it was that very issue that caused the little disagreement with my web-swinging ally.”
“Spider-Man’s your partner?”
The grin he gave in response wouldn’t be admissible as a confession, but it spoke volumes.
The officer at his back, still holding his wrist-clamps, sighed. “Jameson was right: That guy’s a menace!”
Their disappointment was charming.
The bedraggled detective grabbed a walkie-talkie. “Anyone spots Spider-Man in the area, I want him taken in for questioning.”
That was almost too easy. Loathe as I am to admit it, I owe that vigilante-obsessed publisher J. Jonah Jameson my thanks.
LEAVING the crook dangling behind him, Spider-Man found the nearest window and sailed into the night. The cool air felt good against his bruises. As he snagged the side of the luxury building with his web, the wide arc of his swing provided a great view of the flashing squad cars surrounding the front entrance and garage.
Excited, he scrambled down the side of the building.
I’d know that shiny dome anywhere. They’ve got the Kingpin!!
As soon as he was close enough for the officers to hear him, he pulled the tablet from his back and held it aloft like a trophy. “Hey, boys in blue! I’ve got something for you!”
In retrospect, given his history with the law, their reaction shouldn’t have surprised him. But it did.
“It’s Spider-Man!”
“He’s got something in his hand!”
“Could be a bomb!”
“Wait—a what? Are you guys—”
Bullets sparked against the building façade.
“Geez, I’m only trying to—”
“Watch it! He’s probably out to free the Kingpin!”
The bullets drew closer. He leapt from one spot to another to keep from being hit.
“Why the heck would I free him? I just caught him!”
But the sound of gunfire drowned out his words—and the odds that a lucky shot would get him were growing by the second. The more pinned he felt, the more his far-from-ordinary body flushed with adrenaline.
Catching the high-rise with another web, he swung up and out. At the peak, he let go. A second web, anchored to a water tower across the street, carried him far from the line of fire.
Losing the police among the rooftops was easy; letting go of his outrage was not. The long day had taken its toll. By the time he landed on the asphalt surface, he was grinding his teeth and sweating.
Is it too much to ask for a thank-you now and then? Just something small, like having the police not try to kill me while I’m trying to return a priceless artifact. But no, no matter what I do, nothing changes. Nothing!
More distance from the cops would be good. But when he shot another web, he yanked it so hard that the flagpole at the other end nearly broke in half.
Instead of putting myself in harm’s way like a sap, I could be earning a decent living! Decent? Hell, with my powers, I could be rich and respected, not a starving photographer with a rep as a coward.
At the apex of his swing, he yanked at the web. This time, the flagpole did break. Part of him hoped the rush of the freefall would snap him out of his rage.
It didn’t.
A second web steadied his path, but not his mind.
Fine. Screw it. If the world’s going to be against me, I’m done being too stupid to fight back. Call me a menace? Treat me like a menace? I might as well be a menace.