“I’m perfectly fine with pregnant women, as long as they keep themselves covered. By which I mean, no magazine nudity until you have your figure back.”
Jessica Jones put her hands on her hips. “Tony Stark…”
Luke stood up. “Want me to beat him up for you, honey?”
Tony shook his head. “Hang on, you want me to see your wife naked right now?”
Steve cleared his throat. “Tony, how about we leave the subject of other men’s wives and take a look at who’s missing from the Raft.”
“Good idea.” Tony did something Jessica couldn’t see, and the picture windows went opaque as a holographic wall of faces appeared in the middle of the room. There, in a triple-tiered row, were the faces and specs on the forty-two Raft inmates still at large. “Now, I’ve already unearthed some recovered security-camera footage from last night, and we were right about Electro being the proximate cause of the breakout. I’ve done a check on money transfers. Max Dillon has withdrawn money from a Swiss account and had it wired to a bank in Boston. I ran a facial-recognition search, and Dillon’s been spotted at a local restaurant.” Tony grinned. “Who’s up for a trip to Beantown?”
“You do know that most of us can’t fly,” said Luke. “What are you going to do, carry us all there in a big sack?”
“I could do that,” said Tony. “Or we could take the jet that’s parked on the roof.”
Tony led them to the glass elevator, which brought them to the very top of the tower. The night was cool and a little windy. All around them, the city lights twinkled. From this height, Manhattan looked like a playground. To anyone with powers, the urge to jump or leap from rooftop to rooftop was almost irresistible.
“Maybe you’ve heard rumors about a new generation of supersonic stealth plane,” said Tony. “Meet the reality.” With a showman’s timing, Tony pressed a button that caused two walls to fold down, revealing a sleek, futuristic black jet with a needle-sharp nose. “Who’s up for a short flight to bring back Electro?”
“You don’t really need all of us to bring in Max,” said Jessica, “and I think I’d be of more use doing some data analysis.” She didn’t mention the fact that she didn’t want to see herself on the news in gray sweats, featured under What Not to Wear, Super-Hero Edition.
“And I’d better take my wife home before she has to go to the bathroom again,” said Luke, pressing the elevator button.
“Actually, we’re going to go home and fool around,” said Jones as the elevator doors closed after them.
“Didn’t need to know that,” said Tony, turning to Peter. “So, you game?”
Peter lifted his left arm, drawing attention to the wrist brace. “Sorry.” Jessica remained on the roof with Peter. They watched together as the jet took off, moving with astonishing speed until the small, blinking lights on its wingtips disappeared over the horizon. “Hey,” she said. “You want to tell me what’s really going on? I’ve never known an injury to keep you on the sidelines before.”
“I wanted to ask you a favor.” He paused. “I need to get back into the Raft to question some of the inmates.”
Jessica stared at him for a moment, surprised, then laughed. “Hang on, you can’t mean you want me to use my S.H.I.E.L.D. influence for something. After all your lectures about the pernicious culture of compartmentalized loyalty?”
“You going to help me, or not?”
“Of course I am. I just want to get my licks in.”
Peter pulled his mask off so she could see his face. “All joking aside, Jessica, I still don’t trust S.H.I.E.L.D. And neither should you.”
Jessica put her hand on his cheek. “Ouch. They really worked you over. How is the rest of you?”
“Painful. I’m pretty much black and blue from crotch to sternum. But it’s better when I’m moving—it’s sitting still that makes everything seize up.” He pulled his mask back down so the bruises and scars were hidden behind the expressionless spider-face.
“Pete. You sure you should be doing this in your condition?”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“Very funny.” Jessica looked at the other, smaller skyscrapers, so far below them they seemed like toy houses. She put her hand on his shoulder and felt him tense. “I’m just saying, be careful.”
“That’s the plan. You going to make that call for me?”
“Wait a minute. You’re going there now?”
Peter shrugged. “Call me competitive, but I wouldn’t mind coming up with the goods before Mister I-Have-My-Own-Jet does.” Peter launched himself into the night, falling for a long while before catching himself on a web.
Jessica hoped he got to the Raft before the pain caught up with him.
JESSICA stopped in front of the nondescript Midtown building, one of several locations S.H.I.E.L.D. maintained for its Manhattan-based operatives. A retinal scan admitted her into the inner lobby, and then a guard checked her ID before allowing her into the elevator.
She punched in her personal security code and a password no one else knew, and then she was finally inside the tiny studio. She flicked on the lights.
“What took you so long?”
Jessica gasped and dropped her container of salad and soda. She went into a fighter’s crouch before she saw who it was. “Jesus,” she said, bending down to pick up a runaway tomato. “You made me ruin my dinner.”
“Nonsense,” said Nick Fury. “A little dirt won’t hurt you.”
Jessica looked up at the lean, battle-scarred man with the eyepatch. “Some kinds of dirt are harder to shake than others.”
“I don’t see the problem. It’s not like you’re really working for Hydra.”
Jessica didn’t try to explain that there were moments when she actually felt guilty about that. She knew Hydra was a terrorist organization, but not all the people who worked for Hydra were evil. Some of them had known her for more than a decade, remembered her birthday, teased her about liking anchovies on pizza. Since she couldn’t admit any of this to Fury, Jessica just said, “It just feels wrong, keeping secrets from my teammates.”
Fury sat up straighter in his chair. “So the Avengers are a team again?”
Jessica looked down at the squashed tomato in her hand. In the dim light, it looked a little like blood. “I don’t know, sir. Spider-Man is hesitant, and so is Luke Cage, because of his wife’s advanced pregnancy. I think Clint Barton is in, though.” He had certainly jetted off to Boston readily enough.
“And what did you tell Hydra?”
Jessica took a deep breath. “I told them it looked like it was happening.” She stood up and threw out the ruined container of salad. “Was that the right thing to do?”
“Yes.” Director Fury stood up and walked toward the door. Jessica noticed he was limping. “Any sign that their experimental treatment is working?”
“Yes,” said Jessica. “I think it might be.” She felt nervous saying it out loud, in case she jinxed something. Which was ridiculous, she knew.
“Show me.” Fury pulled a quarter out of his pocket and threw it in the air.
Jessica pointed her hand and concentrated. She zapped the coin, changing its trajectory by a foot and a half. “Not very impressive,” she said.
“Pretty good, actually. Fine work, Special Agent Drew. Just learning what technology their scientists have is going to be extremely useful to us.”
“May I tell the others?”
“Not yet,” said Fury. “I don’t want Hydra realizing that you’re not working with them until the last possible moment, and I suspect we may have leaks within S.H.I.E.L.D.”
Jessica steeled herself to ask the question. “And if anything happens to you, sir? And the others find out that I’ve been dealing with Hydra?”
“No chance of that, Drew. I’m as indestructible as a cockroach.”
“Wait. There’s one more thing. I was actually going to call when I got home.” Jessica told him about Spider-Man’s request for immediate Raft access.
“Didn’t want to ask Hill? I’ll take care of it.”
Fury left, and then Jessica was alone in the tiny apartment with its impersonal, chain-motel furniture; its serene and soulless prints of beaches and mountains; and the pervasive odor of industrial-strength detergents masquerading as violets and pine.
E I G H T
THE Liberty Café was a hotel restaurant pretending to be a bistro—as if a couple of umbrellas and brown paper table coverings could distract customers from the steel-and-glass structure surrounding it, and the $16 price tag for a hamburger and freedom fries. Clint had never paid $16 for a burger in his life and couldn’t understand anyone who did, even if the patty was dolled up with homemade tomato butter and a sprig of organic parsley. Not that he was in their target demographic. The café’s clientele was mainly gray-haired business folks in loafers and pumps, and hipster parents pushing the latest in stroller technology.
“And then we also have our famous Devils on Horseback,” the red-haired waitress was telling her customers, “which is dates and blue cheese, wrapped in a slice of bac…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze landed on something across the lobby.
“What was that?” The fedora-wearing father looked up from his iPhone.
“Sorry. Wrapped in bacon.” The waitress smiled. She had a rounded, puppyish face, accentuated by her chin-length bob.
Hipster mom clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “What was the fish special again?”
Concealed behind a barricade of potted plants and a poster-sized menu board, Clint held his arrow nocked and ready. “Is that him? The bald guy in the leather jacket?”
“That’s Max,” said Captain America. “The girl is Mia Matteo, an aspiring actress. She’s been dating Max for about six months.”
“No accounting for taste. He’s making his move,” said Iron Man. Down on the street, Max Dillon strode over to Mia, looking big and sinister and utterly out of place in the upscale hotel.
“Max?” Mia looked surprised and then annoyed. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a job in New York.”
“Job’s done. Come on.” Max grabbed her elbow. “We got to go.”
“Ex-cuse me,” said hipster mom, “but she’s got to take our order.”
“Max, not now,” said Mia. “You’re going to get me fired.”
“So what? Mia, baby, I am loaded. You don’t need to deal with idiots like this anymore.”
“You can’t talk to us like that,” said the hipster husband.
Mia wrenched her arm out of Max’s grip. “Two weeks, Max. You don’t call, you don’t text, you don’t tell me where you are or what you’re doing. And now it suits you so I’m supposed to drop everything and come running? I don’t think so!”
“We don’t have time for this!” Max looked around, a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead. “Honey, we got to get going now. I’ll explain everything, I promise.” Max held out his hands. “I’m going to take you to Tahiti, buy you a mansion. Hell, I’ll build you a mansion. We can stay up all night going over all my faults—but please, Mia, we gotta move it.”
“Oh. My. God.” Mia’s eyes rounded. “It was you! Last night, the blackout—that was you!”
“Mia, you’re talking crazy.” Max looked over his shoulder. “She’s talking crazy,” he told the couple.
“I’m calling the police,” said the woman.
“He’s going to bolt.” Clint stepped out from behind the sign. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw Iron Man and Captain America move with him.
“Oh, sweet.” The hipster man and woman both held up their iPhones to record the scene.
“Crap!” Max thrust out his hands, and there was a crackle of blue-white electricity. At almost the same instant, Iron Man pressed a button on his gauntlet, and the electricity arced backward, forming a translucent sphere around Max. “What the…” Falling back on his knees, Max reached out a tentative hand to touch the surface of the sphere. Energy crackled visibly; his finger hovered, not quite touching.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Iron Man.
Max, clearly one of those kids who did precisely what he was told not to, made contact. There was a sharp bzzzzt sound, and Max grunted and jerked back.
“Not too bright, are you?” Tony shook his head. “Now, talk to us.”
Captain America knelt down, bringing his face close to Max’s. “Who hired you? Who did you bring out?”
“Oh, man, no, this isn’t happening, this can’t be happening.”
Mia pushed herself forward. “Why didn’t you call me, Max?”
“Miss, you need to move back.” Captain America pushed her gently but firmly to the side.
“Don’t you manhandle me,” said Mia. “I’ll call my lawyer.”
Max’s head came up. “I want my lawyer! I’m not talking without my lawyer.”
“You sure about that?” Clint moved closer to Max, still holding his arrow nocked and ready. “This is a specially designed arrowhead that will instantly short-circuit any electronic device. I figure if I hit you in the thigh, you’ll short out and we can continue our little conversation.”
“Hit me in the…” Max scuttled back, the sphere moving with him.
Clint tracked him with the arrow. “You don’t have to keep still. I’m good with moving targets.”
Max stumbled back against the side of the sphere, and his body arched again as energy coursed through him. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the ground.
“Aw, that’s just perfect.” Iron Man released the button holding the sphere in place. Max remained immobile on the ground. “What are we going to do now?”
Captain America checked his pulse. “Still breathing. But I don’t think we’re going to get anything out of him tonight.”
Clint took out his cellphone. “Yes, this is Special Agent Barton. We have Max Dillon contained. Can you send someone over to the Liberty Café at the…oh, you got it already? Great.” He closed his phone.
“Max, are you okay?” Kneeling beside her unconscious boyfriend, Mia looked up at the hipster mom and dad, who were still holding out their iPhones. “Did you get all that? They threatened to shoot him with an arrow! That’s brutality, right?”
“I would say so,” said hipster dad. “Hey! Iron Man! Mind posing for a moment with my baby?”
As they left, Clint grabbed a fistful of freedom fries from a passing waiter’s tray, just so the evening wouldn’t prove a total loss.
N I N E
THE prisoners were all drugged, of course, or else placed in Stark-designed restraints that neutralized their special abilities. Some of the most powerful, like Purple Man, were both drugged and collared, to keep them from breaking free of their standard-issue detainment cells. Two different human-rights organizations were already launching investigations into the treatment of the displaced prisoners. In the meantime, the forty-four recaptured Raft inmates were being held securely on Ryker’s Island while their cells were repaired and, in some cases, rebuilt.
Peter knew all this, yet when he entered the corridor and looked down the rows of prisoners, he felt a blast of adrenaline that left him light-headed. Since he wasn’t invulnerable, Peter was used to coming back home with a few cuts and bruises, but last night had been different. There was a moment, before Captain America and the others had reached him, when Peter had been pretty sure he was going to die down here. And there was another moment when he had been pretty sure he wasn’t going to die quickly enough.
“Hello, boys,” he said. “Remember me?”
For a second, he felt as though he were back in high school, short and skinny and fair game for every bully who wanted to climb his way up the adolescent food chain. Peter had learned a valuable lesson back then, before acquiring his powers. The first time they hit you is a test. There’s no real way to pass it—bullies don’t usually walk away if you show no fear, they just hit you harder—but there’s sure as hell a way to fail it.
“Well, well, look who came back for more,?
?? said Carnage. “Last night’s dinner.” His glassy blue eyes were human—as was his rawboned, freckled face. A heavy, high-tech collar flashed a sequence of lights in quick succession. Peter wondered what the mechanism did to inhibit the symbiote’s power and figured Tony Stark knew the answer.
“What’s the matter, Spider-Man? Did you get a taste for something rough?”
“Tell me the truth. You’ve been waiting your whole life to say that line, and now it feels a little hollow, right?”
It took Carnage a moment to think of a comeback. “Come a little closer and ask me that.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” Peter ambled along the path between the two rows of cells. “In fact, I’m betting you’ve all got a bad case of the morning-afters. You had a little taste of freedom last night…”
“Not to mention the joy of tenderizing you like a bad cut of meat,” said Dr. Octopus, from the cell next to Carnage. Portly and bespectacled, the doctor seemed no more menacing than a gelded bull—but that was only because his articulated mechanical tentacles had been surgically removed from his abdomen.
Peter nodded. “And now, it’s back to solitary amusements and a slab of nutraloaf on a napkin.” Peter reached the end of the hallway, making sure all the inmates had gotten a good look at the brown cardboard box in his hands. “Kind of a shame you wasted so much time beating up on me, when you could have been making a run for it.”
Carnage made a low, growling sound. “Big talker. What’s in the box, Spider-Boy? Your…” He made a crude gesture with his hand.
“Actually, it’s doughnuts.”
“Doughnuts?”
“Last night, I bought myself this huge box of doughnuts from my favorite little coffee shop.” Peter opened the box and let the sugary smell fill the air. “Now I’m thinking that I shouldn’t go spoiling my girlish figure, so I’m wondering…does anyone else care for a doughnut?”
“Oh! Yes! Doughnut me!”
“Powdered sugar!”
“You got jelly?”
“Any of them chocolate?”
“Are those from Mike’s coffee shop in Bay Ridge?” Dr. Octopus’s myopic eyes grew teary behind his thick glasses. “I love their cinnamon rolls.”