Sharp, frigid gusts of the evening wind howled through the lonely streets on the West outskirts of Metropolis, penetrating a solitary man's feeble warming layers with ease. Chilled to the bone, but nervous and not wanting to be late for the train, he pressed on a little faster, the wind whipping his scarf around his face.
Only a few more blocks
, he thought; soon he'd be safely through the entrance to the Metropolis subway system. His teeth chattered as he half-walked, half-ran, with his hands in his pockets. This was insane, he thought. He was Brandt Martin, the district attorney of Metropolis. Not only was taking the subway...
beneath
him, it was also incredibly dangerous for someone of his political stature.
And yet, Martin was thankful. Not ten minutes earlier, he'd—on a paranoid hunch—had the urge to inspect the undercarriage of his late-model luxury sedan before he entered it. This was not something he normally did, and so what he found was of great surprise. Ominous wires snaked back and forth over the bottom of his car, connected with plastic explosives expertly placed near the fuel tank. His car was ready to blow as soon as the ignition was keyed.
He'd shivered in fear at the sight of the technical devilry; yet more so at how narrowly he'd missed losing his life. He'd heard of things like this happening to political figures in big cities before, but the fact that someone had wired
his own
car to explode, right in
his own
reserved parking spot—under constant camera surveillance, no less—was chilling, to say the least. And so, after calling the Metropolis bomb squad, he'd quickly taken the keycard elevator to the ground floor and struck out for the nearest subway station, eager to get home and to safety. However, he hadn't counted on the weather being so cold.
"B-b-brrrr..." he shivered.
Anticipation of the warm retreat of the underground considerably cheered Martin as he shuffled along, reflecting momentarily on the other disturbing events of the day. The mayor's body had been found that morning, twisted and lifeless on a downtown boulevard. The cause of death had been obvious: plummeting from a great height. An elderly Russian couple had been hospitalized for post-traumatic stress, after the falling body had struck the pavement only a few meters away from where they waited at a public bus stop. The Metropolis Eagle had described the aftermath of the impact as horrifying and gruesome. Needless to say, there had been no photo spread accompanying
this
front page story.
Martin continued to recall the article's finer points: Less than an hour after the shocking headline rolled to print; the city had worried itself into political uproar. Without leadership, the article read, a monumental increase in street police forces approved only the day before now floundered without strong political backing. Martin sneered at the Council's balking just because of one man's death.
Now,
he thought,
the true colors of Metropolis bureaucracy will be revealed.
And without the intrepid Mayor McCullough's support, those colors were mostly yellow.
Except for me,
Martin thought. Twelve years he'd served as Metropolis' district attorney. In his time he'd locked away countless miscreants, and had openly waged war against the crime lords that defied his every move. The fact that his weapons were words and evidence made it no less a war.
Over the years, he'd also become very accomplished at positioning himself in places where it was more likely he'd hear information pertinent to current events. And the talk around the water cooler today had been mostly speculation on whether a heretofore unknown group of international criminals called the Trifecta could have been responsible for the mayor's death. Some had believed not; any number of gangs could have decided to knock off someone key to implementing to the crime-reduction resolution; just to make a statement. Conversely, those in favor had argued against the likelihood that any common gang members could gain access to the Skyrail system, specifically at the private station the mayor had allegedly fallen from; not without bypassing MetroTowers' own security forces, which was no small feat.
Earlier today, Martin hadn't known what to believe. Neither argument had sounded particularly convincing. But something had changed since then. He was now affected by the problem. He knew that something
different
was afoot, and he didn't like it. The fact that he'd nearly just been a victim himself had considerably helped him to make up his mind where he stood on the matter of who could have killed the mayor. But then, he thought, simply thinking about it would do no good; and besides, his first priority was to get to safety. He reluctantly shrugged off the topic and continued on through the inclement weather.
But as he loped along the barren sidewalk, he gradually began notice rhythmic sounds of labored exhalation, raspier than his own, and carefully timed to matched his own strained breaths. Immediately unnerved, and sharply alarmed at the prospect of someone running up behind him with malicious intent, Martin quickly slowed, whirling to observe his surroundings through the fog. He scanned the sidewalks across the street, looked behind and around himself carefully... he even looked up, attempting to visually ascertain the source. Yet not a soul was in sight.
Confused, he surveyed the area a second time; how could that noise have disappeared? Just then, a chilly gust of wind struck him, and he shivered against the biting cold, still straining to see further through the murky atmosphere. But there was nothing here to be seen. And so, resolving to keep an ear out for anything else out of the ordinary, he continued toward the subway entrance again, hands still in his pockets, eyes vigilant.
He crossed the final street, ignoring the traffic signal's blinking orange
don't walk
sign. The streets in this part of town were nearly deserted anyway: all the heavy traffic was in the heart of the city, not here on the fringe. It was only another half a block. He could see the lights ahead of him, and he quickened his gait.
Suddenly and without warning, he heard footsteps running up behind him, closing in. He started in fear and panic as he whirled to face the unknown.
A dark figure rushing at him. A flash of silvery white.
He ducked swiftly in fear, and the blade missed him. Looking up, he sidestepped to dodge a second blow and then, stumbling, turned and ran headlong to the subway station entrance nearby. Footsteps pounded behind him, matching the reckless pounding of his heart. He reached the station's opening and virtually threw himself downward, vaulting each flight of steps while holding the handrails on each side. He cleared flight after flight of concrete steps, gasping wildly for breath.
Think, Brandt, think!
He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner, hoping to buy himself some time.
With any luck, someone would be down here to...
he didn't finish the thought as he looked behind himself to judge the distance between himself and his pursuer.
A shout, and another flash of the knife. Much closer than he thought. This time, he saw a face. The eyes were pure menace.
Letting out a yell of his own, he lashed back, striking for the jaw with a closed fist. The attacker bellowed in pain and recoiled, giving Martin a chance to dash away. He jumped over the turnstile and sprinted for the underground platform, hoping against hope that somehow there would be a train ready to board.
There was not. But mercifully, there were at least some people waiting for the train, and he ran toward them, shouting in fear. Both turned to look, and immediately he regretted having called for help. He recognized the tall, thick form of Raoul Sanchez, an enforcer in the West Side Saints, a violent street gang whose leader Martin had put behind bars only two weeks ago. He couldn't distinguish the other's face in the low light, but his heart dropped through the soles of his feet regardless. He skidded to a stop, even as Sanchez quickly sized up the situation and pulled a large pistol from under his leather coat. Behind Martin, the running footsteps echoed ever closer.
Time stood still for a split second.
The look in Raoul's eyes was grim as he brought the weapon to bear. Martin covered his face with his arms and threw himself to the pavement.
A deafening shot rang out. Martin heard a sickening crack, followed by a heavy thud; the fallen knife rang with a metallic clatter on the paved floor of the platform. The single gunshot echoed down the tunnels, reverberating with an eerie finality. Surprised that he was still alive, Martin looked up, and saw his mysterious pursuer lying on the ground two meters away, a pool of blood spreading around his head. He also saw Sanchez stalking purposefully toward him, weapon still raised, with the other man not far behind. Martin quickly rose to his feet, with no idea in the world how he'd escape this impossible quandary. As the two men drew nearer, Sanchez spoke.
"You." he growled with an accent. "Give me one reason not to blow you away." He raised the gun to point at Martin's temple. Martin started visibly and fumbled for words. Just then, the other man came into the light. Martin recognized him: a short, stocky cop he'd worked with for years to lock up the worst of Metropolis...
"Casavetti!" he exclaimed. What was
he
doing here?... Martin had always perceived Casavetti to be honest, competent and sincere. But what was he doing with this criminal?... Immediately thoughts came to Martin's mind about all of the movies he'd seen featuring crooked cops working with crime lords, either for the perks of drugs and money, or for the sheer rush of playing both sides of the law.
"Better talk fast, Martin." Casavetti grinned evilly. "Raoul's not known for his patience." Martin realized that his body had gone cold; his undershirt was soaked with a layer of perspiration. His mouth felt dry, like it was full of cotton; he couldn't speak. Raoul tightened his grip on the pistol, his knuckles white. Casavetti coolly observed Martin's debilitating discomfort, and his smile slowly disappeared.
"Raoul. Ease up,
hombre
." he snapped. "This guy's about as street smart as my eight-year-old daughter." In response, Sanchez begrudgingly lowered the gun to his side, though his eyes still blazed. Martin's heart was still pounding nearly out of his chest, but oxygen abruptly flowed into his lungs and he could see clearly once again.
"What are you doing down here, Martin?" Casavetti questioned.
"Running for my life." Martin answered shakily. "You can see that much for yourself."
"Ah...
that
." Casavetti motioned to the body lying only a few feet away. "Good shot, Raoul. Quick thinking." Raoul grunted, unappreciative of the compliment. Appraising Martin as no immediate threat, he returned his weapon to its holster inside his coat and went over to the body. After searching the pockets for identification, he pulled out a wallet and looked inside.
"Empty." he grunted, holding it open, upside down. But something he'd missed fell out onto the pavement, and he picked it up and handed it to Casavetti, who read it to himself, and then confirmed aloud his thoughts.
"'Trifecta.' Them again." he spoke in disgust, looking up to Raoul and Martin. "They've been popping up all over the map in the last week or two, running hits, taking out priority political targets, causing complete havoc. They're the entire reason for the surge McCullough was pushing. You know all about that, Martin."
"Yes I do. Though if I may, now I have a few questions of my own." As if in reply, Casavetti looked to Raoul, who scowled.
"Shoot. No guarantees you'll be satisfied with the answers, though," replied Casavetti.
"What's going on here? Why did that guy want to kill me? And what are you doing here? What business do you have with the Saints?"
"Whoa there, Brandt. Slow down." admonished Casavetti. "You should know good and well what's happening. Don't be naïve." He shifted his weight and then continued. "The Trifecta is coming from the far side of the world, looking to prove themselves worthy of running the greatest city on the planet. Why do you think they took out Dan?" he asked, then answered his own question. "To make a statement."
"But what are you doing here? and with
him?
" Martin demanded, gesturing to Sanchez.
"You really can't tell? I'm a low-down, crooked cop, playing both sides of the law, just like in the movies!" Casavetti grinned widely, and held his palms wide. "What do you want from me? The pay is great up there, but the perks on the underside can't be beat." He smiled again. Martin gaped in disbelief, and looked from Casavetti to Raoul, whose face was unreadable.
"But how... why..." Martin struggled for words. It didn't make sense. Casavetti had always been too good of a cop. To fathom that he was crooked was nearly impossible...
Casavetti saw the look on Martin's face, and he rolled his eyes. "For pete's sake. I'm just messin' with ya, Marty. Raoul's been informing for me for almost two months now. How do you think we got Slater locked up two weeks ago? D'you think that evidence just
happened
to be found... right in the middle of his trial? And do you think it's mere coincidence that the crime level on the West Side has actually gone
down
in past weeks, unlike the rest of Metropolis?"
Slowly it dawned on Martin that Casavetti was telling the truth this time. It all made sense. The arrests, the evidence at the trials... it all fit together. He felt like a fool for believing that Casavetti was corrupt. But Casavetti wasn't done.
"Now that you know, you have to keep a lid on this." he continued. "As far as we can tell, nobody from the Saints suspects Raoul yet, and we'd like to keep it that way. One errant word could seal his death sentence, if spoken to the wrong person." Casavetti's face was serious. "So far, he's done his part, so I'm gonna do mine to make sure he stays safe."
Relieved beyond words, Martin immediately promised not to speak of the clandestine arrangement Casavetti had established with one of the most dangerous enforcers in the West Side Saints. Raoul grunted again, in disapproval that a witness to their arrangement had to be left alive.
"Don't worry, Raoul. Everything will be fine." Casavetti assured him, turned to face Martin. "Martin will keep his mouth shut, and he'll do just as he's been doing."
"I will... I will!" Martin nodded profusely, looking back and forth from Casavetti to Sanchez. He was extremely thankful for his life, and completely stupefied by this patently unexpected turn of events.
"Now then... what are we gonna do about
that?
" Casavetti motioned to the body, implying something should be done to sanitize the scene.
"The train will be here soon. Let's get to work."
