JULY 8, 1977
SOUTH BRONX, NEW YORK
The administrative space of the old warehouse was a warren of corridors and offices that was far bigger than Hopper would have expected. There was no clue what kind of industry had used the building in the first place, and most of the offices he passed had been cleared out of their original contents, and were now mostly being used for storage. As Martha led the way, Hopper glanced through every open door, and saw packing crate after packing crate, all identical, all unmarked.
“So you’re a cop?”
Hopper turned his attention back to Martha, who was still walking ahead but glancing over her shoulder at him.
“I was.”
Martha’s eyes flicked over Hopper, then she turned her head back around.
“Is that it?” asked Hopper. “You don’t want to know any more?”
“Why, should I know more?”
Hopper didn’t respond. He still hadn’t quite figured Martha out, and she was the first Viper he’d met who had directly questioned his past. But she couldn’t have been the only one to be thinking about it.
Including the leader, Saint John himself.
Martha led him to the top level of the block, and into an office. The space was large, with wraparound windows on two walls that allowed any management executive who occupied the room to look down at the warehouse space. There was a long conference table in the center of the room—Hopper had no idea how on earth it had been brought in—and over on the other side, facing the windows, was a mammoth desk of matching design. Behind the desk were two doors, both closed. Narrow filing cabinets stood against the other wall, next to a set of wider drawers Hopper knew were designed for large-scale documents: plans, blueprints, architectural drawings, and the like.
But it was the man standing in the window that Hopper’s attention was drawn to. He had his back to the room as he looked out over his domain. He wore a purple robe, tied at the waist, that stopped mid-thigh, like some kind of martial arts instructor.
“Welcome to the Vipers,” he said. Then he turned around.
The man was older than Hopper, his hair razored into a brutal crew cut, a chinstrap beard clinging to his jaw. His nose had at some point been broken, and he wore mirrored aviator glasses. As the man stepped closer, Hopper could see his own reflection loom large in the silver lenses. Underneath the robe he wore a black silk shirt, unbuttoned almost to his middle, the collar turned up. Around his neck was a silver chain, two small rectangular medallions sitting against his bare chest.
A pair of dog tags. Hopper had a pair of just like it, sitting in a drawer at home beside the bed.
Before Saint John could speak again, Hopper took a chance. He nodded, gesturing to the tags.
“What unit?”
Saint John stopped. Behind him, Hopper heard Martha shift position.
“I was First Infantry,” said Hopper. “Did two tours.” He shook his head. “Saw a lot of shit go down out there, did my job, they gave me a medal shaped like a star and sent me back to the good old U.S. of A.”
Saint John smiled, showing a row of big, brilliantly white teeth. He held out his hand, and Hopper took it. The man’s grip was strong, but Hopper matched it.
“101st Airborne.”
Hopper grinned. “The Screaming Eagles.”
“Best goddamn time of my life.” Saint John cocked his head. “You were decorated?”
“Bronze Star.”
Saint John nodded in quiet appreciation. “How I envy you, soldier. I was seconded for special duties. They kept me out there longer than almost anyone, but what I was doing didn’t qualify for any kind of medal, star-shaped or otherwise.”
“I didn’t ask for mine. I just did my duty.”
Saint John’s smile tightened. “Oh, we were all just doing our duty, weren’t we?”
The two locked gazes for a few seconds, Hopper looking at nothing but his own eyes reflected in the leader’s glasses. Then Saint John turned away and moved to the big table. Hopper glanced at Martha, who stood by the door chewing gum and looking bored, then joined the gang leader at the table, the surface of which was covered with a large map of New York City and what looked like blueprints of some kind. But before he could get a good look, Saint John picked up all the documents, folded them in half, then in half again.
“Leroy tells me you’ve gotten into a little spot of bother with your own—the NYPD?” said Saint John. He glanced up at Hopper as he aligned the edges of the paper sheets.
Hopper shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Saint John nodded. “Good. Because that’s your business, not mine. You bring any of your own trouble here, and you’ll find that you’re not quite as welcome as you think.” He finished fussing with the papers, and then snapped his head up, the mirrored lenses looking right at Hopper. “The Vipers have been welcoming, have they not?”
“Oh yeah, they’re a fine bunch, just swell.”
Saint John’s smile flickered for just a second. Then he turned to the wide file cabinet and, pulling a set of keys from under his robe, unlocked a drawer, opened it, and then slid the papers inside. Drawer closed and relocked, he returned the keys to his pocket.
“The Vipers are not just any common gang of thugs and thieves,” said Saint John, his back to the room, his hands resting against the file drawer. “In fact, I don’t like that term at all.” He turned around, and Hopper once more found himself facing his own reflection. “We are an organization. You could even call us a congregation. One that I have devoted my soul to. Do you understand that, Mr. Hopper? Can you understand that?”
Hopper licked his lips. “Listen, I’m here because I’m looking for somewhere to belong. I came back from that hellhole and was expected to carry on like nothing had ever happened over there. Okay, it was a long time ago. And yes, I was just doing my duty, but I did my job and I did it well, and then they said so long and thanks and here’s a medal you put at the back of a drawer and forget about.”
Hopper took a step closer to Saint John. He stared at himself reflected in the mirrored glasses, and he saw his stubble, the bags under his eyes, and the blood down his shirt from what he’d done at the AV showroom.
He felt the adrenaline course through his veins and he used it to focus his words, sharpen his mind.
“So, yes, I did my job, like we all did out there. But how are you supposed to come back from that? We went to war for reasons I thought I understood but now I’m not so sure, and I came back to what? To this? One war zone to another, swapping one jungle for another. Only this time there was no job to do, no orders to follow, no country to fight for. So, yes, I’m looking for somewhere to belong. I’m looking for something to fight for. I didn’t find it at the NYPD. So maybe I’ll find it here.” Hopper paused. He glanced down at the dog tags around Saint John’s neck, and saw the man’s chest moving—he was breathing heavily. “And I think that’s why you’re here too, right?”
Hopper looked up into the mirrored glasses. Saint John didn’t speak. Martha chewed her gum.
Then Saint John laid a hand on Hopper’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry, my brother, you have come to the right place. You have come not only to your own salvation, but the salvation of all of us, of this whole city, this hell on earth.” He nodded, then turned back to the table. He leaned over it, elbows locked. The table was empty, the plans put away, but Hopper found himself following the mirrored gaze of the Viper’s leader, as though the mysterious plan that his organization was engaged in would somehow materialize before his eyes.
“The time is coming, Mr. Hopper. Our time.”
“The Day of the Serpent?”
Saint John dipped his head as he gave a chuckle.
“I think Leroy has spoken out of turn.”
Hopper shook his head. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Saint John looked up at Hopper. He tilted his head, this way, that way.
“There is still much to be done,” he said. “The city still has much to give me before I grant it sweet release.”
Hopper kept his eyes locked on his own doubled reflection. Sweet release? He didn’t understand what Saint John was talking about, but one thing was clear. The man was crazy.
No, scratch that. That was unfair, and Hopper knew it. He’d had to dig deep, dragging up long-buried feelings about Vietnam, but it had worked. And it had given him a fast insight into Saint John’s mental state.
No, he wasn’t crazy.
Saint John was damaged. Hopper had seen it plenty of times. War did that to people—Hopper included. The only difference between Hopper and Saint John was that Hopper, despite what he had just said, had found a purpose again. He had come back, and had wanted to make a difference, and had found a path that would let him get that work.
Saint John had taken a different path. Hopper wondered where their lives had diverged, whether it could have been as simple as one single decision that took them from a common history to such different places.
Saint John pushed himself up from the table. He nodded at Martha. “Take him downstairs. He can join Leroy and Lincoln’s crew.” He glanced at Hopper. “I think we will find much work for your idle hands.”
And then he walked across the room, back to the big windows. He stood where he had been standing before, hands clasped behind his back, as he looked down at the warehouse.
Hopper glanced at Martha. She had stopped chewing her gum and looked, for the first time since he’d met her…different, somehow. Not afraid, or nervous; but some of the authority—the arrogance—he had seen had gone. She looked smaller, younger.
Like Leroy had, back at the precinct.
“Serve me, Hopper, and serve the Vipers, and there will be a place prepared for you beside the burning throne.”
Hopper looked at the gang leader’s back, and then realized that in the reflection of the big windows, Saint John could see the whole room behind him.
Hopper didn’t say anything. Then he heard Martha move to the door.
“Come on,” she said. “I could use a drink.”