Superhero Nation

by

Mike Tanier

Part Four of Five

Chapter 1: Pressure

I edited that footage together and had the whole thing gift-wrapped for sweeps on the 21st of January. I was looking forward to a long vacation, far from street wars and superheroes and smelly apartments. When Gus called me in for a meeting, I was expecting the usual haggle: the lawyers giving us grief about some fine point, a creative "suggestion" or two motivated by Gus' years of experience in the field.

I wasn't expecting Ed Wasserman to be there.

It was standard practice for a sponsor to send a representative to development meetings for a situation comedy or action show, but a documentary? Wasserman didn't appear concerned about a potential conflict of interest. He sat at the head of the board table in his silk suit, his fingers pursed against his lips. And Gus was sweating. I didn't doubt for a second who would be calling the shots.

"Mr. Stone," Wasserman said coolly, offering his hand without standing up. I shook it. He dispatched with the formalities. "I've seen the final edit for your show."

I took a seat beside Gus. "Your thoughts?" I asked.

He nodded slowly, swiveling in his seat. "There were portions of the program I found extremely satisfactory," he said. "The depiction of the squalor in which these children lived was striking. Your psychological profiles of them were well crafted and handled very responsibly."

I tried to read everyone's faces: Wasserman was giving me nothing but cool professionalism, while Gus had his finger on the panic button. What was the problem here? "I hope you aren't concerned about the amount of violence . . ." I said.

Wasserman stretched back in his chair. "Not at all. As I mentioned in our last meeting, FamVal has no quarrel with programming that depicts violence with consequences." He stood to face the window, staring out at the crowded streets below. "You found yourself in an awkward situation. The . . . conflagration which erupted in Atlantic City presented a most challenging canvas for your little tale, and I think you did an excellent job weaving in the story of these Goths with the larger events surrounding them."

If this was a dressing down, it was taking the long way to get there. "Thank you," I said.

Gus leaned forward. "We all thought you did a great job," he said. "But, as of now, we can't use it."

"What?"

Wasserman whirled around to face me, his expression suddenly stern. "Mr. Stone, when the story ends, two of these youths have not been brought to justice."

I turned to Gus, looking for some support. He didn't come through. "That's what happened. Two got caught, two went free."

"Went free." Wasserman made this elaborate gesture, holding up his hands as though he were looking for something in them. He extended his palms. "Where are they?"

Again I turned to Gus and came up empty. "I'm not sure," I said. "Even if I knew, it wouldn't be appropriate to tell you. You don't take information in confidence then use it against somebody."

"I see," Wasserman said, turning to Gus. "And this is one of those journalistic principles?"

Gus wasn't comfortable trying to play the middleman. He scratched at his bald spot as he turned to me. "The network is concerned about showing the program in light of the weeks of violence after the fire at the gay nightclub."

Wasserman interrupted. "Some of the most tragic violence in the last few years was touched off by that incident, Mr. Stone. We were lucky to have a camera at the scene. But FamVal cannot sponsor a documentary which clearly identifies two of the culprits of this event, then shows them getting away scot free."

"We would like to be able to end the story by having . . ." Gus looked down at his notes, ". . . Alicea Mann and Jeremy Orczykowski brought to justice. No real work for you, just a tag at the end. Problem is, they've disappeared into the woodwork, and the ATF wants to lower its visibility in that town for a while."

Wasserman sat beside me. "Now, I can read between the lines, so to speak, of what I saw. You established a friendly relationship with both these young people, especially this Alicea. We think you probably know how to contact her."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "You want me to set them up."

Wasserman's faced tensed, then he sighed wearily. "I must be coming across as some sort of diabolical creature, Randy." He smiled. "The real antagonist here is pressure. Gus puts pressure on you, I put pressure on Gus. But I get pressure from 50 million Americans who support FamVal. I get pressure form my advertisers, my friends in Congress. The decisions are made well over my head; I have the thankless task of delivering the message and becoming the most onerous person in the room, while loftier persons escape the ugly consequences of their actions.

"Yes, I want you to set up these vigilantes. Deliver them to the authorities. Give the state prosecutors two more cases to wrap up in this Atlantic City nightmare. Then, complete a documentary we can be proud of, one that sends a real, unequivocal message about the dangers of the vigilante lifestyle to the American public."

All eyes were on me now. In his better days, Gus would have thrown this stuffed suit out on his ear, but Wasserman had the clout to boil all of us. Still, using my position as a reporter to set up two kids who voluntarily gave me their story? They must have known I would never go for that, even if they didn't know about me and Alicea.

"If I say no, am I fired?"

Gus turned to Wasserman, almost as if it were his decision to make.

"No, no. Not by my reckoning, anyway."

"The story's scrapped if you don't go along," Gus said. "It was a month of work down the drain."

More, I thought. Sweat, sleepless nights, exposure to danger, all of it culminating in a tough, honest look at a real problem. But Wasserman didn't want that, he wanted propaganda. It made me think how far a guy like that would go to manipulate the truth or engineer facts. Then I thought of our last conversation. He promised me on the Atoll that my team would get its action. Sure enough, Dennis Zane appears in a gay bar, followed closely by the Black Street Herd. Maybe it was a paranoid fantasy, but . . .

"Wasserman, you set up the fight at the Bashful Banana for my benefit, didn't you?"

"Randy," Gus interjected.

Wasserman laughed out loud. "Now, there's the diabolical creature I mentioned a moment ago. You believe I started a street war, Randy. In the name of what: ratings?"

"You seem comfortable rigging the dice now to get the story you want," I said. "Maybe you wanted to make sure the whole documentary fit your politics."

"You are so far out of line," Gus said, waving his finger at me.

Wasserman put his fingers over his lips, that confident little mannerism of his, staring at me with disapproval and a little sympathy. "I'm embarrassed to even respond to something like that. Randy, you've spent a month delving into the psyches of paranoid children. It must have gotten to you. You've taken a distasteful little exigency of politics and fashioned an elaborate conspiracy around it."

He turned to Gus. "If Ms. Mann falls into the hands of the authorities of her own accord, or Mr. Stone has a change of heart, we'll run the story. FamVal will still sponsor the program if it's held until May sweeps."

"That's kind of you," Gus said, the editor tuned sniveling supplicant.

"Otherwise, this documentary is nothing but a regrettable, if beautiful, failure. I would hate to be one of the few people in America ever to see it." He put a hand on my shoulder, like he was my brother. "Randy, get some rest. Spend some time back among adults. And if you reconsider, the door is wide open."

I just stared at him.

"I need to know," Gus said, still shell-shocked after Wasserman left, "what the hell that was."

"A hunch," I said.

His face turned red. "You accused the head of a national sponsorship consortium of blowing up a bar in an Atlantic City slum. What kind of half-assed theory do you base that on?"

All of a sudden, Gus was tough again. "I don't know," I said. "It was awfully coincidental."

"Right. So Wasserman controls the Black Street Herd."

"I didn't say that."

"That what did you think? Besides the coincidence, with all the unlikelihood of Wasserman being anything but a spectator, what did you think? Are you that important, that a billion dollar organization would blow up a city for your benefit?"

Gus stood, slamming the arms of his chair against the table. "Hell, the man knew what he was asking was difficult. I was around and around with him before you got here, Randy. I told him it was unethical." He was across the room, glaring at me. "But I also told him it was not unheard of, under the circumstances. These aren't graffiti artists; they're violent offenders. Still, it's like he said: pressures from above, pressures on us. You responded like an idiot, Randy. I'm humiliated."

Maybe Wasserman was right: a month with Travis had made me paranoid. Seeing him spook Gus, hearing him ask me to sell out my sources . . . A reporter's worst nightmare is being called upon to reveal his informants, or in this case, his subjects. It's always an abuse of power by the person doing the asking. My natural distrust of smooth talkers in silk suits got the better of me at just the wrong time.

"I'm giving you a leave of absence," Gus said. "Straighten yourself out."

This was how it would end: a few months of inactivity, with pay. The gilded cage. Then, crap assignments. Nothing to keep my profile high or build up my rep. Eventually, my book deal would shrivel up, bought out by a publisher uninterested in a reporter with no juice.

"Maybe circumstances will change and we'll get this report on the network," Gus said.

Yeah, circumstances could change. I could swallow my pride, go down to Atlantic City and betray the kids to the police. Maybe they would compromise and allow me to just turn in JD: he could use some rehabilitation. They probably wouldn't: Wasserman had mentioned Alicea specifically.

"Until then, don't even contact me unless you're willing to play ball. Are you listening, Randy?"

In fact, except for when he first looked at his notes, he had only mentioned Alicea.

****

A few months out of action were enough to kill a type-A character like me. There's only so much handball you can play, only so many lunches with the guys in the sports department. The first week felt like vacation, the next month like purgatory, until I started pacing through my studio in the middle of the afternoon, craving the sound of a floater over my shoulder and the sight of a police barricade in front of me. I was a chronic case, but Gus would hear nothing of reassignment until I caved in on selling out Alicea and JD.

Oh, I made little projects for myself. Ship in the bottle stuff, mostly. I snooped around the Joe Bell story discreetly, making an inquiry here and there and keeping tabs on the lucky stiffs who were assigned the story. I was hoping to find something to clear the congressman: some sign of foul play, some indication that the whole thing was a setup or a fabrication. The network had a digital video of him and the girls in action, but videos can lie, and I hoped this was one of those cases.

Unfortunately, while videos lie and congressman lie, Bell wouldn't lie about the video. He called me and confirmed that it was legit: he had indeed spent the evening with the underage girls. He swore to me that they told him they were 18, and I believed him. Hell, they had to lie to get onto the casino floor. He swore he was drunk, and there was no doubting that as well. And he swore that he was deeply, abjectly sorry for the grief that he brought upon his wife, his daughters, and his constituents. I told him I would pass his feelings along if they ever let me write another article.

The part that didn't add up was the video itself: no videos on the Atoll, remember? It was alleged to be a security video, but I've seen security footage and it doesn't look like that: all the faces were clear, as if the camera knew who to point to and when. I did some digging into the backgrounds of the girls, thinking that maybe one had stashed a minicam into the room, but the trail was cold. I was only able to get the name of one of the juveniles, a Debbie Zisk, whose name was leaked by a tabloid. It took every resource I could muster while on suspension to turn up a nearly blank page on her: average student at a sprawling regional school, no important relatives or ties to anything political. Just a trouble making kid who made serious trouble for a congressman with a drinking problem.

I watched Joe Bell's career unravel daily on the morning news. His seat was vacant by March, as he resigned a few weeks before demands for his removal could peak. Even an old supporter like me had to concede that it was time for him to step down; a few years away from Washington would give him a chance to sober up and heal his family. But between his indiscretions and the Atlantic City fires, the moderate platform for vigilante violence was disintegrating. Wasserman called the scenes I covered some of the worst violence the nation had seen in five years, and he was right. War hawks jumped on the incidents, demanding tougher laws and more jails and an even more high-tech McCoy force. With all the graphic footage (much of it supplied by yours truly) and no Joe Bell to speak with the voice of reason, harsh, vindictive laws were earning support on the House floor. Had Travis Hood been captured in early April, he would have been sentenced to fifteen years in prison, with no rehabilitation options. Under the circumstances, there was no way I would turn Alicea in to the authorities, even if I was inclined to do so: they would lock her away forever.

****

The weather snapped sometime in Early April. I was about ready to snap, too. Days were starting to blend together, and I stopped caring about the documentary or working or even writing hard news again. I kept a resignation letter on my coffee table; I was toying with the idea of going back up to Dartmouth, maybe opening a sports bar, maybe trying to get a gig teaching in the journalism department. You know things are getting bad when Randy Stone starts thinking about leaving New York City.

Then my Turing Machine broke down.

I had been using the little gray box as my doppelganger more and more as my suspension wore on. Oh, I had always used it as a stand in to marketers and other people I didn't want to talk to. Sometimes, I could even fool Gus with it. Most people's Turings are glorified answering machines, but the guys in R&D at the network were always setting me up with the latest artificial intelligence, and I'm in a unique position in that hundreds of hours of video of me are on file at the network. That makes it easy for the Turing to build a lifelike avatar of me, complete with a day-old growth of beard if someone contacts me in the morning or a slight frizz to my hair on a rainy day. If I program the old girl carefully, a casual acquaintance would never be able to tell avatar Randy from the real deal.

By April, I only downloaded messages from the Turning Machine every few days. My avatar was perfectly capable of turning away solicitors, setting up lunch engagements, and telling Gus to go to hell. But I woke up one morning to find the error light flashing. A quick inspection revealed that my programming had been scrambled: virtual Randy was babbling, and the babble was deteriorating. I quickly tried to retrieve messages, but the files were all corrupted: someone had slipped a virus into my root directory.

The chip-heads at the network had hooked me up with some killer anti-virus software, so I plugged a card right into the back of my Turing. Worse than no effect: the anti-virus booted up and promptly crashed. Meanwhile, virtual Randy stuttered and flickered on the screen. I watched helplessly as my avatar died in my arms.

Then, virtual Randy appeared to pull it together. "H-H-Hold please," he said, as if addressing me. I tried to remember if "hold please" was part of the interface I programmed, or perhaps it was a default in the artificial intelligence. I popped open the receiver, entered my security code, and requested access to the program.

"Program is being updated," Turing Randy said.

Updated? By whom? It was close to April Fools Day, but the jokers at the network wouldn't dare crash my system on a lark. I cut off the cellular connection, but as I feared, it was too late: whatever was rewriting my Turing program had already been uploaded.

Virtual Randy blinked on and off the screen, speaking in clipped syllables. "Network connection: offline," he said. "Secondary storage: disabled. Security of message transfer confirmed."

Then, suddenly, the interface was smooth. My avatar was his typical handsome self, and he smiled at me.

"Hello Randy," he said.

"Hello Randy," I replied.

"Actually," my twin said, all the while smiling coolly. "I'm a short, interactive messaging program."

"Well, you're very handsome for a short, interactive messaging program."

"I apologize for corrupting so much of your Turing technology. It was the only way to ensure that no eavesdropping software was enabled. This message traveled through the network fully encrypted, and should only be activated when you can confirm that you are in the room, alone, and under no surveillance."

I hate when computers give the orders and humans obey. "It's safe," I said.

"You have not secured the room. The sender of this program went to great lengths to ensure security and expects the same consideration from you."

"Whatever." Someone had sent a file into my machine, made it rewrite my Turing software so it would kill my cellular connection and use my own image to deliver a message, then had the gall to give the program a snotty attitude about security. I doubted that the ocular sensors on the gray box were enabled, but I obliged the machine by closing the shades and snooping in the flower vase my mom gave me for my birthday for a microphone. It wasn't a long shot that Gus or Wasserman was spying on me - Gus probably spied on me when I was in his good graces, to make sure I didn't abuse the expense account - but most snooping is done over the network, and the interactive messaging program had already taken care of that problem.

"The perimeter is secure," I said mockingly to the machine. "It's just you, me, and the toaster, although the toaster has been looking at me funny lately."

The program was not designed for sarcasm. "This message is urgent," it said, my digital face becoming very serious. "We must meet at the location designated below, at the date and time listed below."

Information flashed across the screen. "Uh, who is 'we?'" I asked the avatar.

"The identity of the sender cannot be safely included in this message," replied the computer. "However, I must assure you that this matter is of grave importance, both to you and Alicea Mann."

With that, the image faded, but I was reeling. There was Alicea's name again. Suddenly, the world revolved around her. I tore my Turing Machine chip from chip for more information, but the entire program seemed to have disappeared. If I wanted answers, I would have to show up for this face-to-face meeting.

I was going back to Atlantic City.

****

It was a warm spring day, but not warm enough for the beach, especially that desolate part of the beach near the south inlet. There were no big buildings there to buffer you from the wind, which whirled all at once off the ocean and the bay. She was easy enough to spot: the tall, slender black woman with her thick curls tied back, looking very casual as she tried to stay warm under a beach blanket. I tightened my hat around my brow as I knelt beside her.

"Salome, what a surprise," I said to the private investigator from the firm with the unlikely name of Valley Green Enterprises.

"Nobody goes to the beach in this town," she said, peering through sunglasses at the motor boats and sailboats negotiating the channel. "Do you notice that? It's all the casinos, as if these gamblers would die if they were exposed to fresh air for ten seconds.

"It's always been like that," I said, flipping the top off her picnic basket: sandwiches, cornbread, beer, and long-range surveillance equipment. "Ever since I was a kid."

She looked at me over her sunglasses and smiled. "Oh? You came to Atlantic City as a child."

"All the time. Mom loved the slots. My brother loved the salt water taffy. I like the ocean."

"Really," she said, fixing her glasses back over her eyes and watching the water. "That's interesting."

I pulled my collar up to fight off the wind. "It is?"

"Well, more interesting than sitting here on a stakeout by myself." She smiled coyly. "Help yourself to a snack, although I must warn you that the Listener is pretty spicy."

"I'll stick to beer, although it is quite a spread."

She patted the basket. "You think you have recording gear at the network. I can pick up a conversation in any boat on the channel right now. This is cutting edge."

"I take it that's what we're doing," I said as I sat beside her, turning my collar to the wind. "Spying on one of those boats." Hell, we weren't exactly inconspicuous, an over-dressed interracial couple enjoying a picnic in 30-mph winds.

"The 30-foot cabin cruiser approaching from the bay, to be specific," she said. "You'll notice the absence of any Coast Guard vessels. Our friends have the patrols scheduled."

I watched the big boat cut waves as it entered the channel. There was nothing special about it. "What am I looking for?"

She took off her glasses, wiping them with the hem of her skirt. "Try looking through these."

She handed me the glasses. Suddenly, everything was just five feet away, or so it appeared. The boat had no markings: not even a Coast Guard registration. The pilot wore a suit and tie. "He doesn't look like he's out for a Sunday cruise."

"Not at all. That ship came up here from Virginia, to meet party of the second part . . . here they come, like clockwork."

She pointed out a fishing boat to me, approaching from the ocean. Again, the crew was overdressed, and they didn't look interested in catching fish. The cruiser and the fishing boat tied off. Some crew hoisted two large crates out of the cabin of the cruiser. They lifted the cargo onto the fishing boat using the crane designed to haul fishing nets. They repeated the process several times.

"This show's boring with the sound off," Salome said, reaching into her basket and turning on her listening gadget.

". . . don't have a lotta' faith in this Russian shit," said one voice.

Another voice, sounding very smooth. "We tested everything. The lasers can pierce armor no sweat. The pulsers are sturdy: there's better ones out there, but not at the price."

"I know they'll work under testing conditions," said the first voice, the pilot of the fishing trawl, sounding irritated. "I don't want a power surge if the thing gets a drop of water in it."

"They've sured up the casings since the last time we bought from them. This is standard Russian military issue, the kind they used in Vladivostok."

I turned to Salome in alarm. "Weapons?"

"Big guns," she said. "The seller is one of the largest on the East Coast. The buyer handles purchases for a certain vigilante cell in New York City. Many of their transactions take place offshore, far from prying eyes. Atlantic City has recently become a popular destination."

"But they aren't far from your prying eyes," I said, offering her binoculars back to her. "For whom are you collecting this information."

She smiled widely; her teeth were perfect and beautiful. "I can't tell you that, Randy."

"Then why am I here?"

"I can reveal some things to you that I couldn't four months ago," she said. "I can explain some things to you about Alicea Mann, and tell you why she might be in trouble."

Alicea: there she was again. That was the carrot that had brought me out there. I asked Salome to fill me in on everything she could tell me.

"I'll do that," she said. On the channel, the two boats separated. "First, I have to ask you: do you believe in the Armorlitia?"

I laughed. Might as well ask a grown man if he believes in the Easter Bunny.

****

The Armorlitia has popped up about a dozen times already in this story. It's important to recognize that capitalization made a big difference at this point. The (capital A) Armorlitia means one thing; the (lower case a) armorlitia something very different.

There are armorlitias all over the country. They are the descendants of the chartered posses and neighborhood watch teams that were legal before the VPA were passed. Many of these organizations simply went underground when vigilantism was outlawed. Nationwide efforts to get these citizen groups to turn in their weapons were generally limp-wristed; a posse with 100 guns could turn ten of them in to local authorities and the matter would be put to rest.

Every few months, the McCoys would put the screws to some armorlitia out in Wisconsin or one of the big square states. Sometimes the armorlitia has been involved in some sort of violent activity, sometimes not; their very existence is illegal. The McCoys have made a science out of publicizing these busts; they're the only sting operations in the world for which press passes are issued. They 're lovely exercises in theatrical overkill. Officers in flight suits hover around some silo out in the sticks while a tank tears down a wall to reveal the weapons stockpiled inside. For big busts, old Charlie McCoy would fly in from Washington and ride the tank, hanging from the muzzle as it tore down a barn door. Then, the statistics are trotted out: $3.2 million dollars of hardware, 17 high-yield CFCs, over 1,500 metric tons of explosive force, or whatever. Everyone smile for the camera: the countryside is safe.

While McCoy tactics kept local militias underground, rumors began to spread that these groups were more than just localized cells. There was some circumstantial evidence: similarity of makeup and tactics among armorlitias thousands of miles apart, national flare-ups that seemed to be part of some agenda, and other coincidences. Radio commentators and some journalists began to talk about a capital-A Armorlitia, a national shadow organization that sanctioned and supported the local groups. This was a big-time conspiracy theory. Depending on whom you talked to, the president or the pope or some Middle East sultan was at the center of it all.

The public began to clamor for the McCoy Units to bust this national Armorlitia. The McCoys responded with a six month sting, targeting dozens of small militias throughout the country. Their determination: there was no affiliation whatsoever among these scattered groups. They found no evidence linking one militia to another. The McCoys would continue to aggressively defend the public from localized sects, but would not waste resources chasing a mysterious entity that did not really exist.

****

"So you believe the government's party line about the Armorlitia?" Salome asked. We walked along the beach, the wind howling around us.

"You have to understand that I've done a lot of investigating myself," I replied.

"And your conclusions?"

I collected my thoughts. "Any connection between armorlitias around the country can be attributed to the likelihood that they share weapon suppliers. That's more of a connection than the McCoys were willing to admit, but linking them all into a conspiracy based on this connection is a little contrived. It's a little like linking my mom to the mayor's wife because they both shop FAO Schwarz."

"That sounds like it came right from one of your stories."

"Thank you. And that demonstration you just gave me doesn't change my opinion. Naturally, a large supplier of weapons would have connections with several of these little militias."

"And what about the similarities in structure, tactics, and policies?"

"Salome, people are the same wherever you go, especially the people who are drawn to this sort of lifestyle. A church picnic in Oregon is probably exactly the same as a church picnic in New Hampshire, yet no one suggests that the people in Oregon called the people in New Hampshire to organize it."

"Right." She looked out over the ocean, probably a little frustrated at my skepticism. "And what about Dennis Zane, Randy. How does he fit in to your world of coincidences?"

I grabbed her and turned her to me. "How do you know that name?" I demanded.

Grabbing Salome was a mistake. She laid a firm hand on my wrist, and I felt that she could crush it if she wanted to. "That got your attention," she said as she removed my hand.

It had, and I realized how dumb I was being. A few months ago, I was accusing Wasserman of manipulating people like Zane, but now I was rigorously denying the Armorlitia. You can't have it both ways. You have to open your mind up to possibilities.

We found a park bench on the quiet end of the boardwalk, where houses and old hotels, not casinos, back up onto the beach. She took a computer and disk from her picnic basket. I reached into my breast pocket for my portable. "If you want to show me something . . ."

She grinned devilishly. "I'll upload this information into your system if you want, but I have to warn you. The disc contains a berserker virus. If every protected file isn't deleted from the hard drive within twelve hours after uploaded, it erases the entire hard drive. If you're attached to a server, it erases everything on the server. Everything is wiped out except the information on the disc itself.

I scratched my beard and put away my computer. "This message will self-destruct in three seconds," I said.

"Just a little data protection protocol from your good friends at Valley Green."

"Well, I've seen your software in action," I said. "My Turing avatar still has a nervous tick from what you did to it. I think he needs counseling."

She smiled, then turned her screen to face me. "Recognize him?"

I nodded. "Dennis Michael Zane."

She turned the screen back. ". . .Involved in a minor hostage incident which resulted in the destruction of a tavern called the Bashful Banana."

"I know. I was there."

"I remember." She tapped a few keys, then again showed me the screen. "What about him?"

I shook my head.

"David Martin Zorich, 27-year-old political activist. He was assaulted after distributing leaflets on the Clemson University campus."

That jogged my memory. "He was involved in that flare up at Clemson?"

"He started it. Not directly, but he was the instigator. His leaflets identified several students as being part of a racial hatred group. A buddy of one of the guys Zorich accused beat Zorich up, but word had gotten around campus. There were several incidents of violence, and several vigilante teams got involved and consequently apprehended."

She flipped the lid on her computer. "Notice a trend?"

"The initials," I said.

"And the modus operandi. But the initials: DMZ. Demilitarized zone."

"Cute, if dramatic."

"Yes. Any ambitious investigator would make the connection. But the tactics are designed to move the instigator to the periphery of the event. Zorich's assault didn't even make the papers outside of Clemson, and Zane was overshadowed by the violence that followed."

I felt a lump in my throat. "Salome, do you remember the name of the girl Joe Bell was caught with?"

She shook her head.

"Debbie Zisk."

She nodded coolly. "I suppose we can assume that her middle name is 'Marie' or something and I can add her to the database."

"In other words," I said, "these DMZ people have a habit of causing trouble, then slinking away before they get connected to it."

"Precisely," she said. "We call it an 'instigation agenda.' Somebody is very good at fomenting vigilante violence."

"And you think it's the Armorlitia."

She shook her head. "I'm not sure, but it's what I'm being paid to find out. There's someone in a position of power who needs definite answers."

I thought about the connection between the Armorlitia and this instigation agenda. Too much of it didn't add up, and I told Salome what I thought. "Most militias I've seen don't go in for subtlety. Anyway, it's armorlitias who get busted after these outbreaks of violence. That's what happened in Clemson. Here, it was the Black Street Herd that took the biggest hits."

"We're still filling in the pieces," she said. "Maybe it's a way of eliminating the competition. Cause some violence, get the McCoy's attention, then move in after the smaller groups are knocked out."

I couldn't swallow that theory whole. "That's too technical to be practical," I said.

Her eyes widened. "Do you remember stories of the FBI under J. Edgar Hoover?"

"Yeah," I said, making the connection. "They refused to acknowledge the existence of the Mafia, because some mob bosses had dirt on Hoover."

"Just as the McCoy Units actively refuse to admit the existence of the Armorlitia. In a situation like that, the government almost becomes a partner to the criminal element. They're pre-programmed to look the other way."

She had a point.

"Problem is," she said, "we have never been able to link an instigation agenda to any Armorlitia activities until now. From what we hear, there's an Armorlitia convention on the Atoll in a few weeks."

I cleaned out my ears. "Come again?"

She sighed. "A convention, Randy. It's probably advertised as an insurance conference, or a computer conference, but it's a militia conference for all the regional ringleaders. It will be out on the Atoll, away from the public eye, in an executive conference center with it's own security. They'll be two miles off the coast of a town that's been all but taken over by the McCoy Units."

"And the McCoy Units have no interest in the Armorlitia," I said, adding it all up. There was no Black Street Herd to get wind of things and cause trouble, and the locals will turn anything suspicious regarding tech hardware directly over to the McCoys, who will be in position to bury or redirect it.

"There will be weapons dealers there," she continued, "all spirited away in plush elegance, far from the public eye. Millions of dollars worth of goods will be loaded off the docks behind the Atoll."

"What does Valley Green plan to do about it?"

She bit her lip. "Gather evidence, then turn it over to our client."

"That sounds a little passive."

She gave me a dirty look. "That's what we do."

She didn't like it. She had all this evidence, albeit much of it circumstantial, but she wasn't allowed to act on it.

"Now how does Alicea fit into all this?" I asked.

"She's the missing link," Salome replied. "According to our sources, her presence in the city prompted the initiative to send Zane in."

"I thought your theory was that they wanted to create a power vacuum."

"My guess is that that isn't enough," she replied. She began typing into her computer again. "Word got through channels that a telepath was in Atlantic City. That fact caught someone's attention, for some reason. When we first contacted you, and offered Alicea employment, I knew there was interest in Alicea among members of the Armorlitia, although I'm not sure why."

My imagination kicked in. Maybe they wanted to recruit her. Maybe they wanted to kill her. Maybe they wanted to perform experiments on her brain so they could engineer an army of telepathic babies.

" Anyway," Salome continued, "that and the upcoming conference were the joint reasons for sending in Zane. They may have wanted her out of Atlantic City."

"I can see that, assuming you buy everything else. A real telepath is dangerous. She can find out what's going on in two seconds, if you're planning some covert weapons expo."

"Plus, she's a valuable ally to have on your side." She showed me the screen again. "Recognize him?"

My jaw dropped. "Wasserman," I said.

She didn't acknowledge my reaction. "We have no hard evidence linking him to anything, but he did place a phone call to a known militia organizer on December 17th."

My head sunk into my hands. "The day I sent the first footage to the studio."

She put her hand on my shoulder. "This is what I was trying to tell you when we first met. Alicea attracted a lot of attention. The Armorlitia wants Alicea. They want her alive, according to my sources, but they want her. Now, will you let me help her?"

I looked up at Salome. She shared a lot of information with me, although I had no way of verifying how much of it was legitimate. She was an expert about shady organizations, but wasn't she part of a shady organization herself? Who was Valley Green, after all? They could be part of the Armorlitia themselves, and my conversation with Salome could have been a disinformation session.

All I knew for certain was that I had brought all this attention down on Alicea when I pointed my camera in her face. That's when the DMZs and "instigation agendas" and Valley Greens came knocking. It made sense: Alicea was a diamond in the rough, a would-be major player in this business stuck in the slums. Everybody wanted her for something, and it was my fault. The last thing I wanted to do was turn her over to Salome and possibly cause further damage. I needed to let Alicea know what was going on, and isolate her from Wasserman, Salome, and whatever other treacherous suitors might be hiding in the dunes.

"I'll think about it," I said.

Chapter 2: Arm's Reach

Everyone was right about one thing: I did know how to contact Alicea, not that I was going to give that secret away. She had a secret web account, one all her own: Travis and the others didn't know about it, so it had never been used for vigilante connections. It was set up through false names and bounced off multiple servers, an arrangement Shorty Rock had set up for her months ago. I left her a message, she responded, and we set up a meeting.

Too many people were after Alicea; I couldn't run the risk of being followed. I walked the streets of Atlantic City all day. It's hard to be inconspicuous on the boardwalk in early April; unless you're a senior citizen carrying a jar of tokens, you look out of place. I rolled out to the Atoll and back, cruised some neighborhoods where you never see a white face, all the while glancing over my shoulder. Yeah, I had a tail: a multi-tail, three or four of them tag teaming me. The same kid in a college sweater kept popping up, then disappearing when I rounded a corner, only to be replaced by a comrade. Organized, but amateurish. I turned around in the middle of a block and walked right back toward one: he froze and almost panicked before feigning a non-chalant stroll right past me.

There was no way to get to Alicea without ditching these clowns, whoever they were. I bought a few roses from a street vendor, then picked out an old bungalow by the bay that was obviously unoccupied. I rang the doorbell and waited patiently. From the corner of my eye, I saw one of my shadows searching for a pay phone. When he was barely in earshot, I pounded on the door. "Alicea! Open up: it's me!" I shouted, making sure sweater boy could hear me. I waited a few more seconds, then dropped the roses on the porch and walked away shaking my head.

Two blocks away, I grabbed a coffee at a corner deli and watched the show. They bought it: sweater boy and two partners established an amateur surveillance routine, one hiding in the back property, the others circling the block. None of them made any effort to find me.

"Who lives at 3191?" I asked the Turk who ran the deli.

"All this block is summer rental property," he replied.

Good, I thought. My shadows could watch the house until Memorial Day.

I stayed cautious even after ditching the clown troupe, changing cabs twice on my way to the north end of the boardwalk. There, the old casinos, the most garish ones ever constructed, were long ago closed, and they hung over the boardwalk like ancient ruins. Far from Atoll entrances, this was the forgotten part of the boardwalk, littered with 24-hour bars and etching parlors and arcades you'd be nuts to let your kids go into. Madame Paisley's Tarot Readings fit right in to the surroundings, but Alicea didn't.

I parted the beads that served as a doorway and there she was, dressed like the gypsy princess, her hair longer and braided now, her delicate features filled out a little. "I guess this makes sense," I said, gesturing towards the fortune-telling bric-a-brac that surrounds her.

She smiled warmly. "You have no idea how money you can make when you're good at this."

"And I'll bet you're the best," I said, sitting across from her, observing the crystal ball and cards on the table between us. "What happened to the warehouse?"

She took my hand in hers. "I quit. After Travis and Julie got caught, I thought it was best to make a clean break. New apartment, new life. Would you like a reading?"

I felt her fingertips caress my knuckles. "You do palms?"

She drew in close to me. "I don't know palms or tarot, but it looks good. Once I tell them something I know about them, people are like bank machines."

"Doesn't all that reading hurt?"

He hand moved up my forearm, rubbing me gently. "Oh, it's not that much reading. One quick glance and I have all I need. The rest is just interpreting people's body language, just like any fortune teller who can't read minds would do."

I took both her hands in mine. "Well, then, Madame Paisley, what's my fortune?"

"Let me see . . . You are about to be reunited with someone very close to you, someone you miss very much."

"You're right so far."

She laughed, circling my palm with her fingertip playfully. "I see you and this special person together . . . someplace quiet . . ." She winked at me. "A bedroom? Like, right after this person gets off work?"

I blushed. "There's no hurry."

"No reason to wait, either." She leaned across the table, slipped an arm around my neck, and kissed me.

I eventually pulled away. "Actually, there is a reason to wait. I was followed coming to meet you."

She was puzzled. "By whom?"

"My first guess would be Valley Green, except that the people following me bungled everything, and Valley Green seemed like a professional outfit. Outside of that, it could be anyone. Everyone wants a piece of you. That's the main reason I came to see you: to warn you."

We met again at twilight atop the old historic lighthouse. It was a good location: out of the way, forgotten. A tail would be obvious following us through the ramshackle neighborhoods of the north beach or into the greens around the old structure. I watched her approach from the observation deck. Behind her, the ocean turned purple, then black, as the April sun began to set over the bay in the west. The neon and the lasers of the Atoll flashed brilliantly as darkness descended. I turned when I heard her footsteps climbing the spiral staircase. The gypsy princess had loosened her braids and dispatched her silver jewelry. Her hair swept over her cheeks again, set afire by the setting sun behind her.

I told her everything.

"So the network wants me in jail," she said when I was finished.

"That's their story," I replied.

"You don't buy it."

I leaned back on the brass railing, watching shadows fall over the bayside marinas. "It's standard in documentaries and investigative reports for us to interview people who readily admit to committing crimes. We darken their faces, get their stories, and protect their identities. In some cases, we're forced to reveal our sources, usually under the threat of a court injunctions. But that only happens in extreme cases, and nobody threatened me with a court order."

She brushed back her hair. "And no one said anything about Jeremy."

"Not really. You were the network's primary concern, and Valley Green is only interested in you."

She was nervous now, twisting her hair about her finger. "I thought it would be nice to be so wanted."

I put my hands on her shoulders to calm her. "My guess is that it's your powers that separate you. Salome made some allegations: they said the Armorlitia is looking for you . . ."

"Why?" she asked, turning to face me. My arms held her. "How do they know who I am?"

"Wasserman," I said. "He saw my documentary. He's somehow the kingpin for this operation."

Her breath became short.

"I realize this is my fault," I continued.

"No, Randy," her voice was faint.

"I talked you into the story. I made you demonstrate your powers. I should have been suspicious when Wasserman started asking questions."

"Don't blame yourself."

"I'm going to help you out of this. I promise."

She pulled away. "It still doesn't make sense," she said. "So this guy thinks I would make a great addition to the Armorlitia. What makes him think I would go along? I'm not a gun they can point at someone to read minds."

"And why would they want you in jail?" I asked. "That's why Salome's story doesn't add up for me."

The sun dipped behind a high rise apartment. Shadows crept over us. "Their going to close this place soon," Alicea said.

Her back was to me. I draped my arms over her; she leaned back and rested her head against my chin. "Has my fortune changed?"

She pulled my arms more tightly around her. "Right now, I wouldn't feel safe without you."

"Maybe my hotel would be safer than your apartment . . ."

Her eyes widened as I said those words. I didn't have time to ask what was wrong.

"Run," she said. "Oh, shit: run"

A figure came into view outside. An armored figure, hovering with the aid of flight boots, rose above the railing, brandishing a percussion rifle.

****

Glass shattered all around us as we took what cover we could find. But there wasn't much cover: the observation deck was a glass-enclosed ring, open on all sides. A second thug closed in on us, again with a rifle and flight boots. They weren't McCoys: their gear was in disrepair.

"Down the stairs!" I shouted, but we only started down the spiral staircase before laser fire greeted us from below. We were ambushed. We hid around the doorframe to the observation deck, wondering whether the fly boys would reach us before the gunman on the stairs.

"Wait," Alicea said, and she motioned to me with her finger. I couldn't hear the flight jets of one of our pursuers: had he left? Alicea slung herself into the doorway. I followed, only to be face to face with the Armorlitia goon, who stood there and hesitated despite a clean shot at Alicea. He had landed to save flight power, but he wouldn't fire. He needed Alicea in one piece.

He grabbed at her arm, and I drove my foot into a seam in his armor. Travis wouldn't have been impressed, but it knocked him backwards for a second. He was awkward in the gear, like he wasn't used to it. He fired an errant shot at me; another kick knocked him to the edge of the railing, with no more glass to protect us from a drop. I kept myself too tight for the range of his rifle. Using all my strength, I pulled off his helmet.

Sweater Boy.

Now I could pummel the kid's face, so he wasn't a threat. But the other goon had landed. Alicea, crouched beside me, turned to face him. He aimed that percussion rifle and fired. Alicea leapt for cover, but cover wasn't there when she landed. The whole deck buckled. The wood beneath us cracked; only by grabbing the now bent brass railing could I keep sweater boy and myself from sliding off the side of the tower. Alicea's dive landed her on some unstable beams. They collapsed as she flipped herself over on them, somersaulting out into the spring twilight.

She seemed to fall for eternity. My heart was in my throat. The Armorlitia kid was in no position to do anything. She tumbled, screaming, through the night air.

A winged flight suit cut through the night air. I thought it was a vision: JD? No, this was a high-tech suit; full body armor with wing and heel jets, hardware to put the Armorlitia to shame. The stainless steel angel closed in on Alicea as she fell. I thought of Amanda Douglass, the Jersey City girl. I thought of all the fumbles I had seen, and their gory aftermath.

The suited figure grabbed Alicea on the decent and kept dropping until it shaved the ground. Then, they swooped in a wide arc, the figure depositing Alicea a safe distance away. My attacker drew a bead on them, but couldn't aim reliably from a distance. I ripped the rifle from the gloved hands of sweater boy, subdued him with its butt against his jaw, took aim, and just missed my flying target. He turned to polish me off, but the winged hero blasted him with percussion beams mounted in the wings. The militia man was hurled backwards, his body crashing hard into the roof of the lighthouse.

Our winged comrade hovered for a moment to watch as our armored attacker's limp body slid down the curved roof and thudded against what was left of the observation deck. Then, a laser blast crackled against the winged suit. The staircase gunman had arrived. He turned his gun on me as our friend lost altitude and crashed in the green below. I rolled away from his blast. My shot missed; I wasn't that handy with a rifle. He took another shot, and I felt the searing heat as it melted the broken glass beside me. I aimed high, missing my attacker but bringing down mortar and plaster upon his head. He was dazed. I charged past him and down the stairs.

He followed, taking wild shots down the center of the staircase. I dared not fire back; the percussion rifle could collapse the stairs right on top of me. His laser blasts superheated and disintegrated the old cedar steps. My foot went right through one weak plank; I freed myself just in time to avoid a direct hit.

Finally, I was far enough down to risk a jump the rest of the way. Alicea appeared at the entrance to the keeper's quarters. She motioned to me with her arm. I was still about a story off the ground. Peering up the middle column, I saw the gunman aligning another shot at me. I hopped onto the railing and into the pit, landing hard, my knees buckling below me. His shot disintegrated the railing where I had once stood. I crawled past Alicea, noticing the weapon in her hand as she guided me to safety.

It was a percussion cannon, pulled right from the wing of our armored benefactor. It made the rifle I took from sweater boy look like a slingshot.

She secured the weapon against a door frame, engaged it, and hit the ground beside me. We scrambled through the keeper's house and out the door, the sound of crackling timber supports at our backs. We saw the damage from the outside; the cannon blew a hole right through the body of the lighthouse.

I dusted myself off. "There goes another historic landmark," I said.

"Guess who rescued us," Alicea said.

I had my suspicions. Salome's ankle was sprained and she had some burns, but top-shelf armor bore the brunt of the fall. One button unclamped her helmet and breastplate, her hair tumbling out as she tossed the helmet aside. "I hate to say this, Mr. Street Wise Randy Stone," she said, "but as you can guess by all this, you are an easy person to track."

****

"I'm too old for this field-op work, but when I saw you bungling around with those militia grunts, I had a feeling someone was going to get hurt."

Salome led us to a Valley Green safehouse, a handsome condo north of the city in Brigantine. She carefully performed maintenance on her armor, vacuuming out sand and soldering the wires where the cannon was disconnected. We watched the lights of Atlantic City from a tinted bay window, which allowed us to see out but no one to see in.

"One of the problems with the Armorlitia is that they don't attract the best talent. Those green horns chasing you were supposed to capture Alicea alive. But once the shooting starts, they tend to lose focus on the objective."

Alicea was still shaking with fear. I put my arms around her.

"Don't let me interrupt you two," Salome said. "I would at least expect a little gratitude for my daring rescue."

"Excuse me if I don't gush," I replied. "But what's the old cliché: out of the frying pan?"

Salome's shoulders slumped. "Randy, we've been over this and over this. I'm not your enemy. Haven't I just proved it once and for all?"

She had, but I was still suspicious. Maybe it was because I spent the whole day being followed, but I was suspicious of everything. I pointed to the armor she repaired. "You never told me about that."

She flashed her perfect white teeth. "It was none of your business. It wasn't supposed to have any impact on my assignment, but all Valley Green employees are trained in full tech combat."

"Thank you," Alicea said, "for catching me."

"You see, the young lady has some manners. She was raised right."

"Not me," I said. "They don't teach good manners in Tribeca."

Salome shook her head. "Not true. If I learned them in the South Bronx, then they teach them everywhere."

We tried our best to lighten things up, but gentle banter felt flat. We were just too tense, too geared up. Alicea spoke. "Where do I go from here?"

Salome put aside the flight suit and joined us by the window. "The next step is up to you, child," she said. "I think we've seen that the Armorlitia is after you. They won't rest until they've picked you up. My guess is that they'll monitor every move you or Randy make until they get you."

"I could go to the police."

"Except that's what the network wanted," I said. "Salome claims that Wasserman is involved with the militia, but he wants you in jail and they want you as part of the team."

"I never claimed to have all the answers," Salome said. "I'm investigating a weapons operation, not your case. It may be that the Armorlitia has some plans for you even if you are in prison."

Alicea squeezed her eyes tightly. "I'm very, very tired of running."

"You have another option," Salome said, turning Alicea to face her. "You can join Valley Green. We have the resources to protect you. We can train you to use your powers effectively and make a good living at it. Randy doesn't trust me much, but you can read my mind: you know that I just want you to join the team."

They stared at each other for a second. Was Alicea reading her? I wished that her eyes would glow when she used her powers, that way I'd know for sure.

"I know you can keep me safe. But what about Randy? And what about the Armorlitia?"

I didn't want to be the reason she turned her back on Valley Green. A few months ago, she didn't join because she was tired of the superhero lifestyle. That I could understand, but circumstances were different. This may have been her best chance to make something of herself, and I wouldn't stand in her way.

"I can take care of myself," I said. "They won't bother a reporter and risk the exposure."

"And with our organization, you can take the fight to the Armorlitia," Salome said. "Not directly, of course, but we monitor their whereabouts, keep them in check."

Alicea shook her head. "That's not enough."

She stepped away from Salome and I, away from the window. "I can spend the rest of my life working for you, hanging around restaurants, reading the minds of suspicious characters and passing the information on to you. You'll keep me safe. But I'll never have a choice. Walk away from Valley Green, and I'm out on the street, at the mercy of these assholes. Meanwhile, they're out there, using the Atoll as their private armory. The whole situation is unacceptable."

"Welcome to my life," Salome said.

Alicea examined the armor lying on the floor. She held up the silver helmet, turning it to admire the sleek design and complex mechanisms. She turned back to us. "I have a better idea. The only way I'll ever be free- the only way Randy will ever be free- is if we take the fight to them directly. Now. With all the activity on the Atoll you're talking about, we can hit them, expose them, and scare them underground."

Salome nearly laughed. "That's ambitious, but pretty naïve."

"Alicea," I said, "this isn't you and Travis beating up drug dealers. This is a national organization. You saw what they were capable of on the lighthouse."

"And that was just a small hit squad," Salome added, "with inexperienced members. There are hundreds of members active in this area at any given time, and all of them have plenty of tech at their disposal."

Alicea held up the helmet. "So does Valley Green. Call in your troops. Hit them hard. Randy and I will help."

Salome shook her head. "Dear, dear child. We aren't budgeted for that."

Alicea glared. "Budgeted?"

"Poor little thing, you're used to crime fighting as a labor of love. Valley Green is a company. Nobody would like to attack the Armorlitia more than I would, but if I asked my superiors to send agents and equipment, they would ask who was paying for it. We would be pulling agents off corporate cases, some of which are just as righteous and important as this one."

Alicea couldn't believe what she was hearing; it was like having your life reduced to dollars and cents. "I am here to spy and observe on weapon trading in this area," Salome continued. I report my findings to a client, who I believe is in a position to take action politically, not with force. While in this area, I'm within my budget to try to recruit you."

So that's what our little bull session on the beach was: a recruiting pitch. Salome was just priming me so I would find Alicea for her. I was being used. Again.

"I've gone to great lengths to contact you and prove that our offer is legitimate. Now, I need you to put aside this silliness about attacking the Armorlitia, and give me a straight answer: yes or no."

Alicea thought for a moment. "No," she said.

Salome shook her head. I might have expected more haggling, but she was disgusted with us. Something about her work must have killed her tolerance for idealism. "Fine. We have a spare bedroom; I won't throw you out into the night. Tomorrow morning, I'm afraid your presence here will be a liability to my objectives, so you will be on your own."

Salome stormed out of the room, probably a little hurt by the rejection from a person whose life she just saved. Alicea shuddered, feeling Salome's anger. I brought her to the couch to calm her. "You did the right thing," I said. "Gratitude only goes so far. You have to live with your decision."

"Now what?" she said, hugging me tightly and crying.

I held her, rocking her gently. "Were you serious about wanting to fight them?"

She sniffled and wiped tears away. "It's the only way."

"It just doesn't sound like you."

"For two years," she said, holding a palm outstretched, "I tried to keep the violence this far away. It was always right there: the patrols, the fights, the nights we came home with burns and cracked ribs. I kept all of it at arms reach. I figured if it was that far away from me, it couldn't hurt me, and eventually it would go away.

"You know what? As long as I kept it at arms reach, it stayed there. It was never going to go away. That was the worst place for it to be: right at my heels, hounding me in my sleep, always pushing to close in on me. It's grown now; Travis is gone, but the fear and violence is worse than it ever was."

She looked up at me, calmer now. "I've avoided taking action for too long. I can't go hide at some covert agency. I can't wait around for something to happen, like I did with Travis. I've got to get the people who are after me. You can help, Randy: if we can point a camera into the right faces, we can expose the Armorlitia."

She had a point. Live proof of the gun smuggling that Salome showed me on the inlet would cause a lot of heads to roll, including Wasserman's. But Alicea and I couldn't take on the Armorlitia by ourselves. We needed backup.

Salome sat at a computer terminal in her study. She didn't acknowledge me when I entered. "Is there anything you can offer us if we decide to hit the Armorlitia?"

She didn't look up. "My condolences?"

"This wouldn't be a suicide strike," I continued. "Just get some people out to that meeting on the Atoll, wave my camera around, catch some people in the act, then leave. We only need enough fire power to get us past their defenses. I thought maybe you . . ."

"No," she said, looking up over her glasses. "You thought wrong. I'm too old to risk my neck like that, and so are you."

She removed her glasses, wiping them wearily. "I know it's a worthy cause," she said, "and I don't want to see that little girl have to run for the rest of her life. But I offered her the only solution I have. Randy, you don't know the resources these people have."

"But you do," I said. "You can tell me."

She leaned back. "I suppose I can offer you some intelligence. But no manpower."

"Great. What about hardware?"

She rolled her eyes. "This guy wants the moon and the stars. OK. We have a rifle or two lying around that no one would miss. And that flight suit: I can claim it was destroyed in the battle. With all the damage to the lighthouse, I doubt my comptroller would blink."

"You know anybody who can operate a flight suit?" she asked.

"Yeah, we knew a couple of people who could help out."

****

Salome provided us with a little help, mostly in the form of intelligence. She gave me names, though: lots of them, from business leaders to politicians. But I couldn't use a word of it, because Salome's client wouldn't back her up, which meant she wouldn't back me up, which meant I would be shit out of luck if I went public. The disk she gave me even had one of those "berserker" programs on it, set only to run on my systems. The only thing her information was good for was eliminating the surprise element when we tripped over these luminaries while busting the Armorlitia.

Not that she asked us about our plan, either. But that was a good thing. It would have taken about two seconds for a cooler head to talk me out of it.

After Salome kicked us out, I contacted Gus and asked if we could still talk, hack to hack. I told him about the names I had. I told him that my suspicions of a conspiracy had been confirmed. I didn't provide any details, mind you: not even a location. But I needed him to know what was going on.

"Randy, you worked the vigilante beat a long time. I know you have sympathy for these kids. But aren't you getting carried away?"

His face was calm, coming across the web. He looked concerned. "Gus, if you knew some of the people who are involved in this conspiracy . . ."

He cut me off. "C'mon, Randy. I've got my own list of names. You don't know everything I know, either. I've got piles of incriminating evidence sitting in my system. Some of it I can't use, some of it I choose not to."

I fumed. How could he turn his back on something like this?

"It's called balance, Randy. You can ally yourself with the power brokers, all of whom have dirty secrets, which is what Wasserman does. Or you can wallow in the dirt with the hoodlums, which is what you've chosen to do. A good journalist knows balance: how to stay out of the story until right and wrong shakes out. You used to know how to do that, Randy, but now you're too close. I have a feeling you're going to do something stupid."

I thanked him for his concern and logged off. I still trusted him, but I knew there was no way he would help me.

But was I too close? He was sure right about the "something stupid" part.

"Are you going through with this because you love me, or is there something else?" Alicea asked me. We were spending one of our sleepless nights together in a casino hotel room. Gambling until four in the morning couldn't make us drowsy enough to sleep, so we would shack up and wait for sunrise, holding each other close and planning our foolish plan.

"If its just because you love me, then I don't want you to do it," she said. "Don't do this because you think I need you to be some kind of hero."

I ran my fingers through her hair. "If I didn't love you, I wouldn't be doing this. But I'm not doing it because I love you."

She thought about that for a moment. "I suppose I can live with that."

But why was I doing it? If this was an early midlife crisis, I was going about it all the wrong way. Hell, I already had the young girlfriend, so why go thrill seeking? No, it wasn't that, and it wasn't my well-documented thirst for justice.

"You know," I told Alicea, "when I was younger, around 15, I carried a CFC piece."

Her eyes widened. "No kidding."

I nodded. "It was just a small field generator, like brass knuckles. My brother and I and one of his friends all got them at the same time. They were illegal then, but it was before the VPA and nobody thought that much of it."

"Did you go to a tough school?"

"Any New York school is tough, but ours wasn't as bad as some. I'd love to tell you that I bought it because I didn't feel safe, but mostly it was just to show off."

She snickered. "Randy the Teenage Superhero."

"Yeah, we were real tough guys. Then my brother's buddy was flashing his piece on the subway when one of the Angels caught a glimpse of it."

"What happened?"

I made a little pistol with my fingers, and pulled the trigger. "Stun gun, from across the car. Joey was flat on his back in a split second. Me and Anthony wanted to help him up, but the Angel drew bead on us."

"He wouldn't let you help your friend up?"

I shook my head. "Joey was lying there, twitching and drooling. We thought he was going to die, but he wasn't really hurt. The Angel shook us down and took our pieces. There were maybe a dozen people in the car, and they cheered him on, like he had just collared three dangerous hoods."

She leaned against my chest. "Sounds like a chapter from my life."

I thought about that incident for a long time. For years, I thought that it motivated me to cover the vigilante scene: my first-hand experience with the Subway Angels driving me to expose superhero brutality. But that night, I realized what made me so angry on that subway. It wasn't the brutality; it was the misuse of power. The Angels abused theirs, and all the Family Values and Valley Greens and Armorlitias were abusing theirs, and they were creating a system that made everyone who tried to fight them as powerless as my brother and I were on that subway.

Chapter 3: The Best you can Find

Tracking down JD: it seemed like Alicea and I were always doing it, whether we were dredging the alleys of Manhattan or the flop houses of Atlantic City. The kid was doing his best to lay low, but as good as he was at blending in, he couldn't hide the tattoos. It was just his nature to show them off. Alicea made a few queries among the street punk ladies social club, the kids Shorty Rock turned out on the street when he went into stir, looking for the guy with the dragon on his back and the hawk on his arm and the American eagle soaring across his upper thigh. It didn't take long for the trail to heat up.

JD was living in a youth hospice, but we didn't find him there. It turned out that he had found some work cooking short order in a pizza joint off the marina district. He pulled the 3-to-midnight, the stop-and-rob shift, frying cheese steaks that the counter girl slipped to patrons from behind bulletproof glass. The kitchen should have been condemned, and JD wasn't exactly filling FDA specs when it came to hygiene, but he flipped a decent burger.

He didn't even look up from the grill when we came in. "The happy couple," he mumbled, his cigarette dangling over the grill. "Guess I should be honored."

"Take five, JD," I said.

He absently flipped flank steak, still not looking up. "You don't sound like my boss."

"Your boss said it's OK," I said. "Take five or twenty or two weeks. I promised him a little publicity in exchange for your undivided attention."

He cackled. "Guess a few words from you is worth more than two weeks of sweat off my brow." He looked up. "Guess I know where I rate."

"Jeremy, we're not here to put you down," Alicea said.

"No, I'm sure you ain't." JD said, shaking his head as he dried his hands. "You just came for the fucking freak show."

I didn't follow.

"You weren't here, Randy," JD said, pulling a soda from the freezer and taking a slug. "I mean, you were around - you two were hittin' the skins then; I don't know where you're at now - but you were up north interviewing Julie or somebody. I got out of the hospital, and the little lady laid down the law."

"I kicked you out," Alicea said, her jaw set.

"Hell, yeah. Then, she started threatening me."

"I couldn't have you out hustling people. It was too risky after . . . we got caught."

JD turned to me plaintively. "I was gonna get set up with some friends of Shorty, do a little sales, maybe some courier work. But the boss over here said she'd set me up if she ever got wind of it."

"You know I would find out. You know how I would find out. You know I could dime you without ever implicating myself." Alicea's featured hardened. I knew she had to be ruthless to keep JD on a leash. I had seen him do his own thing without thinking of the consequences, whether it was stealing a credit card or crashing a swinger's party. But it was frightening to see the power she wielded. There was no mistaking it: JD was terrified of her.

"Well, Miss Mindreader's got a college degree. Plus, she can get a gig on the boardwalk telling fortunes or turning tricks or whatever."

Alicea's eyes caught fire, but she let the remark pass.

"But I don't have all that going for me. So now I'm a burger jockey. That's the fuckin' freakshow: the banger who flips burgers. The hero who makes hoagies."

He threw down his towel in disgust, took a big pull from his drink and stared at the wall.

"Kind of makes you wish you were back in the life," I said, and I could tell Alicea didn't like the way I said it. Hell, neither of us was comfortable with what we were planning. Nobody wanted to seduce JD back into the vigilante racket, but the alternative was a life on the run.

JD looked at me cock-eyed. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means what it sounds like: Dangerbird flies again."

"Fuck you."

Alicea stepped forward. "He's serious. We need you. It's the only way."

He turned to her than looked back at me. He shook his head and threw up his hands. "This is crazy."

"We have a flight suit," I said.

"This is crazy! Shot Out! And the most fucked up thing about it is that it's you two. Travis walks through that door and starts talking like this: that I would believe. But he's in lock down . . ."

"Not for long," I said. "You're gonna help us bust him out."

JD's jaw could've hit the floor. He stared at me speechless, then turned to Alicea. She started to speak, but couldn't bring herself to say it. But she nodded, confirming that what I said was true, then turned away, embarrassed at herself. JD just looked back and forth at us.

"You're both nuts. I ain't listening to this shit," he said, grabbing a jacket as he walked out the door.

****

I caught up with him in the alley behind the restaurant. Alicea stayed behind; she didn't have the stomach for what we were doing, and her presence only rattled him. He wasn't in the listening mood, but I talked at him anyway. "We need some people we can trust. There's nobody in this town, or at my network, or anyplace else that we can really vouch for. All we have are you and Travis. Anybody else would sell us out, for all we know."

He just smoked his cigarette, leaning against a dumpster and watching traffic on the main drag.

"I'd go in with just you and Alicea, but Travis might have some information. When I interviewed him, he knew things. I thought somebody was just playing him for a sucker, but it turned out that he had some information on the inside. Plus, we could use some muscle."

JD blew a smoke ring.

"I don't have much to offer you, but it's a chance to get out there and fly again, and maybe if we can bring down the Armorlitia, or whoever's behind all this, we can make a difference."

He smiled. "I haven't heard that in months: 'make a difference.'"

I nodded. It was Travis' mantra. "Maybe Travis was onto something. Anyway, it's more than you can ask for working a grease pit."

JD turned to me angrily. "Hell, you don't even know what you're trying to sell me on. Give me some wings and I'm flyin' in a second. But why the hell should I fly for you?"

"Well, Alicea saved your life . . . "

"And I saved hers back in that warehouse. We're square."

I shrugged my shoulders. Why go back to the life? Why get into the life in the first place? "Aren't you interested in bringing down some of the sons-of-bitches that turned this town into a war zone?"

"Whatever, Randy. One set of mad heads for another. Snowball Travis with that shit."

I was through fooling around. "You tell me, then, JD. What's the problem? Is it because Alicea rode herd on you? Was she supposed to let you run with some other posse and get McCoy's attention?"

He turned away from me. "Randy, you talk to me like I'm three years old."

"What's that mean?"

"It means that you act like I'm stupid and I got know idea what's going on. Ever since the beginning: you could snow Travis, you could even snow Alicea. But you couldn't snow me, Randy. I'm 24 years old, I know how shit goes down. I know what you're after in all of this. I understand your motivation."

I folded my arms. "You think I'm just after a story."

He covered his eyes. "No."

"Enlighten me, then."

He took a deep breath. "A guy gets to be your age and he starts looking for meaning. Everything has meaning: when it rains, when it's cold, when it's not cold. It all has meaning, so you go looking for it. At your age, you think you should be able to find the answers to everything, and you get ticked off when you can't.

"You came down here and waived your cameras in our face because you were looking for answers. Hell, I know the network wanted a story, but you could have phoned that in. You chased us because you wanted to know what made us get into the superhero life, why we kept at it.

"You kept watching us till we got caught, but you didn't find the answer. You hooked up with Alicea, but you didn't find all the answers. Now, you got even more questions. Armorlitia? Valley Green? It's bullshit, Randy. It's not your fight."

He approached me now, the skinny little rail resting a bony hand on my shoulder. "You're filling Alicea with this crap - and we both know that she falls for a line of crap - and you're setting up a suicide run, all because you haven't found all the answers yet. And I ain't gonna risk my life for somebody who ain't got the grace to say it, or who ain't got the sense to figure it out for himself."

I looked down at his hand, and he removed it with a disinterested shrug. I have a low tolerance for street philosophy, but I took what he said to heart. Sure, this wasn't my fight, and curiosity might have gotten the better of my judgement. Maybe with all the teenage corpses I saw on the superhero beat, I wanted to see this story through to a conclusion that satisfied me, not to it's natural end.

But he told me nothing I hadn't told myself in the middle of the night. JD wasn't around to see them toy with Alicea's life and my livelihood. I could've explained it to him, but he had shut me off. He just leaned against that dumpster, trying to be nonchalant, when I knew he was shaken up by seeing Alicea again, shaken by the though of flying and living the life again. The nonchalant punk routine wasn't working; I wasn't snowed.

"Before that speech, I had forgot what it was like to be 20 and know everything in the world. Thanks for the reminder."

He scowled at me.

"I remember the feeling: 50 bucks in your pocket, grease under your fingernails, and you feel like a man. It doesn't matter if nothing's going on in your life: go out, get laid, get drunk, start over tomorrow."

"Don't think you can make me feel guilty. . ."

"Guilty about what? This is your life, buddy." I leaned close and whispered to him "And there's no way out. It'll be like this forever. Then, when you're 34 like me, you can look around for answers, like you said, but you'll be 10 times as fucked as I am." I leaned closer. "'Cause you never poked your neck out, JD. You'll think back on this, and the memory will be almost buried under a thousand identical days."

He just shook his head. I couldn't tell if anything was sinking in.

"We roll in three days, with or without you," I said, handing him my portable code. "Let us know."

He took my card, feigned like he was crumbling it up, but made sure it found his way into his pocket. "I'm going back to work," he said, almost in a daze, as if he was to busy dreaming of flying to walk and talk. He stumbled back into the parlor, ignoring me as he passed.

I wasn't certain, but I thought I had recruited him back into the life. God help me.

****

Seven hundred and eight out of the seven hundred and nine patients at the Morristown State Rehabilitation Center reported for breakfast that morning. Security wasted only sixty seconds before contacting the missing inmate. They called his room, but received no response.

Just three days before, the patient had received visitors. Visitation rights for this patient had been prohibited by the administrator herself, but these guests gained access.

A second call was made, and this time there was a response. The inmate's voice was faint. "I'm not feeling well," he said. "I think I have a virus."

A moderator stayed on the line with the patient. Following protocol, three security assistants were dispatched to his dormitory.

There were two visitors: a guy around 35 and a pretty girl in her early 20's. She had all the answers: she knew the names of all the supervisors, especially the ones who ask for special favors and circumvent the rules. She claimed to have gotten special permission. It all made sense.

The assistants activated the video surveillance monitors inside the room. The place was a mess, but the inmate was there, sprawled across the bed, his head on the telephone console.

The monitor spoke talking to the inmate. "Why didn't you report to the infirmary?"

"I can't get it together. I'm really messed up."

The girl even convinced the guard to leave them alone with the patient. He could leave the audio on, but Luther, the weekend supervisor, was asking for one of those special favors. Luther did that all the time. He was always up for a bribe, arranging for the kids to get cigarettes, liquor, even conjugal visits.

And nobody crossed Luther. The girl seemed to know that.

The monitor had worked at Morristown long enough to be distrustful of the situation. "There's a team in place, Hood. They'll have a look at you and get you to the infirm."

"Not a good idea," he replied. "I got sick all over the place. There's blood in it. That or taco sauce."

The monitor rolled his eyes. "Security team: verify."

One of the assistants reported back. "It looks like hell in there. It looks like the kid threw up."

Protocol had to be followed. "Everybody in their zero contact suits before they go in."

The guards monitored the audio, just in case. How the visitors had been in contact with a mutual friend, who was doing well, and was looking forward to going back to his old job. Then, silence. A good minute of it. No whispers, just a shuffling of feet and bodies. Conjugal visit, the guard thought.

It took four minutes for the security team to retrieve safety gloves, boots, and goggles. All the while, the inmate pleaded his case with the monitor.

"They'll be serving breakfast at the infirmary, too. Just the sight of it will kill me."

"I don't care."

"Let me sleep in for a few hours. Then I'll go."

"Hood, if our counselors find booze in there, you'll lose privileges for six months."

The girl smiled at the guard as they left. She said that Luther would thank him personally, the next time they worked a shift together. The guard was glad it was over. Too many supervisors play fast and loose with the rules. Then they don't back up the guards when the doctors get mad. That girl and her sugar daddy could have smuggled anything in to the kid. Cigarettes and pot weren't a major problem, but there were other things . . .

"Open the door."

"I can't even stand up."

"Security, take it down."

On the monitor's orders, the assistants overrode the privacy lock from the outside. The door swung open, and the room inside looked nothing like the mess they saw on the monitors. It was immaculately clean, and empty. Its inhabitant had left a half-hour earlier, right after reverie. It was the only time an inmate could slip away in the confusion, the only time activities weren't strictly monitored by guards or cameras.

Wired into the phone and surveillance jacks was a small gray box. It wasn't just any Turing machine, but one capable of cutting edge artificial intelligence, replicating realistic audio and video interaction for its user.

One of the assistants calmly disconnected the Turing machine and spoke into the telephone console. "Boss," he said, "we have a breech."

****

The alarm sounded, and seven hundred and eight inmates pounded their forks into their platters with delight. The counselors and guards took action quickly, rounding up the entire population and moving them to a central courtyard.

Travis followed the directions Alicea related telepathically to him a few days earlier. The Turing machine bought him several minutes of travel time at low alert. Most of the guards were needed in the cafeteria for breakfast. Perimeter guards were easy to allude, few that they were.

When the alarm did sound, he took to the trees. Guards formed a line near the main gate and began sweeping backwards, cutting off the escapee's access to the parking lot and the easiest means of escape. It was a predictable tactic; that's why we had Travis move south, to where the facility's electric fences cut it off from the hillsides and undeveloped land beyond.

Those hillsides were perfect cover. Travis moved to the edge of the tree line. Security towers filled with armed guards prevented him from moving further. But the guards watched the no man's land near the fence, and they watched the hillsides for escape vehicles.

They didn't watch the skies.

We spent three days acclimating JD to a flight suit twenty times more advanced than his old one. Valley Green operatives spend three months practicing in the suits. We didn't have the luxury of time. Alicea was in jeopardy, and it took us two days to locate JD. Any more time and I might have come to my sense about this operation.

He flew low over the hill to keep from casting a long shadow. The guards spotted him too late. He breached the fence while they confirmed the order to fire. Travis appeared on a thick branch, and JD spotted him. The prisoner squared himself on the branch, bounced on it as if it were a diving board, and leapt into his rescuer's path. JD caught him on the rise, barely losing altitude in the powerful suit. Two clamps from his breastplate were fastened to Travis' waist. The prisoner hung in the air as JD ascended, avoiding the tardy fire of the guards.

They flew across the complex, with guards spotting them and scurrying to make reports or find weapons. No one would get a shot off. As they crossed the central courtyard, seven-hundred-and-eight incarcerated men cheered wildly at the sight of one of their own, suspended from the body of an unlikely steel bird of prey, flying an improbable route to freedom.

****

We stayed on the secondary roads, the county highways that led nowhere. They wouldn't be looking for a getaway vehicle yet- and wouldn't know what to look for- but there was no reason to take chances.

"You're going west," Alicea said as she spotted a road sign. "Atlantic City is southeast."

"Exactly. They expect us to go back to Atlantic City. We're gonna cool our heels in Philly for a day. Then we go back: me and you in the car, JD by air, and Travis on a tour bus out of some dive neighborhood."

Travis fidgeted in the back seat. "I guess I landed in the middle of the three ring circus," he said.

Alicea asked him what he meant.

"Nothing, except that I can't figure all this out, based on that little sketch outline you planted in my mind."

"Be grateful we got you out of there," I said. "We'll explain once we're safely out of Jersey."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll explain," he said sarcastically. "Alicea, be sure to explain why I had to drag you out kicking and screaming to do any crime fighting for the past year, then you meet this old fart in a top hat and three months later, you're acting like Bonnie and Clyde."

"It's more complicated than that," Alicea said.

He leaned forward, his head between us as I drove. "I've heard, honey. I've heard. Your new boyfriend told me all about the two of you. Did he tell you about that?"

Her eyes darted at me. I watched the road.

"I'm doing time in stir and the screws are lighting me up for trying to talk shop and my one thought is of you," he said. "Just to find out if you're okay. Maybe I professed my never-ending love for you, but that's the way guys get when they're locked away. Emotional. But you know how I feel and Randy knew how I felt, and he sat there watching me get dragged away, and he dropped this bomb on me. 'I'm banging your girlfriend, punk,' he says, not in so many words. He just slips it in there, like- what's that French word for when somebody shuts the other guy up in an argument?"

"A bon mot," Alicea said.

"Just like that," Travis said, shaking his head. "Like he was mocking me: you're going to jail, your life is over, and I'm making money off your ass with my TV show and screwing your girl on the side."

I gripped the steering wheel tightly. "I thought maybe you deserved to know the truth."

"Yeah, you did me a big favor. Then, I risked my ass to tell you what I knew. I don't know why. I guess I'm just stupid."

He looked at both of us for a reaction.

"So, how surprised am I to see you two show up with a plan to get me out?" he said. "Now, what's the story: am I the comic relief in this little adventure? I got it: Randy can't get it up any more, so now he has to watch . . ."

The brakes screeched; the car spun out. I climbed over the back seat to take a swing at a kid who could wipe up the floor with me. "I'll put your ass back in that place," I said.

"Bring it on, old man," he replied.

"Knock it off, both of you," Alicea shouted, her hands pressed against her temples. I got a hold of myself. The situation was crazier than anything I was used to; I was on edge, less in control than I would like to be. Travis deserved an explanation, after all, and the past few months had been harder on him than the rest of us. Travis calmed down as well, sensing Alicea's anger and the futility of arguing under the circumstances.

"Wanna keep driving?" he suggested.

I thought it was a good idea.

****

We spent the night in a flop down by the airport, the four of us sharing a room and a bottle of scotch. We were old souls: I felt comfortable with these kids, more comfortable than I should have. Once, they were supposed to be nothing more than documentary subjects: not friends, not lovers, and certainly not partners in crime. But everything was upside down, and as we roughed up the ice machines and watched the neon sign blink outside the window, they were the only people I trusted.

"You took a risk, pulling me out," Travis said, after we briefed him. We told him what Salome told me about the Armorlitia, about the attack on Alicea, about my suspicion that the network was somehow involved. He smiled with satisfaction when he heard us confirm his jailhouse rumor about a team of arsonists-for-hire.

"We need good people for what we have planned," Alicea said, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting her hands on Travis' shoulders. "And you're the best."

He reached up and held her hand. His expression was sad. "The best you can find, anyway," he said, tearing himself away from her.

"We need people we can trust, Travis," I said. "People loyal to Alicea and each other and no one else."

He slumped in a chair with the bottle. It had been a long time between drinks for him. "I guess I'm in. What choice do I have?"

It was ironic. After years of leading her around, pushing her buttons, pressuring her to his will, the tables had turned, and now Alicea held the cards.

"Did you hear anything else about Dennis Zane in rehab?"

He drank and felt his muscles. "I feel weak," he said.

"You look fine," Alicea said.

"But I feel weak. It's been months without a dose. I don't know what good I'll be."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "You haven't lost any muscle."

"Don't tell me that. I can feel it. Monkey-boy has a new flight suit, Alicea can get into and out of heads without breaking a sweat. All of a sudden, I'm a 200-lb. weakling."

He took another drink.

"Why am I 'Monkey Boy' all of a sudden?" JD asked, and we all laughed, even Travis.

"You asked what I heard in stir," he said, finally returning to my question. "Not much. There were a lot of small-town guys in there, guys who liked to go head-to-head with the local Armorlitia. Well, no one called it the Armorlitia. Anyway, whenever they got close, McCoy came and shipped them away. Some of these guys never had a record before, never a scrape with the local cops, and sure as hell never saw McCoys flying around Podunk or Bumblefuck. Sure enough, they get close to the militia, and old man McCoy appears."

"And the local militia doesn't get touched," I said.

"Sounds like the McCoy's work for the Armorlitia," Alicea said.

"It's probably not that simple," I replied. "The way things are set up now, the McCoy's don't work against the Armorlitia, which in a way is like working for them, but I don't think their out doing favors for militia chapters."

"Then what is going on?" Alicea asked.

"That's why we're here," I said. "There something in this for everyone. Alicea, this will get the hounds off your back. Travis, this is your chance to a hero, if you still want it."

Travis was compulsively flexing and rubbing his muscles. He glared up at me, squeezing his bicep tightly and slamming the bottle into the nightstand, nearly breaking it. "I still want it," he said, his voice full of resolve. "More than ever."

I was glad to see the fire in his eye. "For me, this is the story of the century. More importantly, I'll expose the truth and find out who's been duping me. And for JD . . . well,"

JD flashed that gap-toothed smile. "Hell, Randy, I'm just here for kicks."

"It's settled then," I said. "We're a team. We're gonna expose the Armorlitia."

"We're not a team yet," Travis said. We all turned to him "We're short a member. Or has everybody forgotten my sister?"

That announcement didn't sit well with Alicea. "We didn't forget Julianna," she said. "We thought better about bringing her along."

"I don't know exactly how this is going to work, but we're going to need firepower," Travis said. "Julianna was our firepower."

"I got firepower now, Trav," JD said. "The new suit can blow the wheels off a fucking tank."

Alicea stared at Travis in disgust. "Julianna wasn't just firepower, she's a human being. Sometimes you forget that."

Travis pointed his finger at her. "Don't say that. Don't ever accuse me of that. I was taking care of her when you were cutting classes to bang frat boys and run up your dad's charge cards."

"You bastard," she hissed.

JD rolled his eyes. "Well, ain't this old times."

"And talk about forgetting her," Travis continued, "Where is she now? Did you think to rescue her?"

"We thought to get you," she said. "Isn't that enough?"

"Not if you're gonna turn around and accuse me of not caring about my sister."

Alicea tugged on the frayed ends of her hair. "Julianna has a good home," she said.

Travis smirked. "Yeah, that's what they said about Morristown. A good place for kids: with trees and flowers and classes, not to mention instructors who get their fascist rocks off by putting you in your place."

"This is different," Alicea said. "Randy was there."

"Yeah? What's the word?"

I swirled the ice in my scotch. "She has decent foster parents, a bit gullible, but good-hearted. She got into a scrape of trouble while I was there, but she's made some friends. Alicea and I agreed that she was better off there."

Travis thought for a minute, taking in what I told him. "It wasn't your fucking decision," he said, storming out of the room.

Alicea turned to me. "Do you think he'll find her? Even if he does, can he get transportation?"

"I'm not putting it past him," I said, and I ran to the car to program my floater.

****

Julianna attended one of those shiny new high schools in the wealthy suburbs. The marble and brick building basked in the April sunshine; all the girls showed off their fresh new spring togs. Julianna was one of them, bouncing down the steps in a baggy polo shirt and a tight little knee skirt. The burns and other wounds on her legs were almost totally healed. She was flanked by Dylan and Danielle, the kids from the documentary who took care of her when she got drunk. They were deep in conversation; she almost walked right by her brother leaning on a scooter in the parking lot. Travis looked like hell, like you would expect a guy to look after ripping the lock off a chopper and driving around North Jersey all night trying to find a street address. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him. He smiled warmly.

"It's good to see you," he said.

Dylan stepped forward. The gawky, long haired kid eyed Travis suspiciously. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Travis' voice was even. "I'm her brother."

Dylan cocked his head. "Aren't you supposed to be in jail?"

"Depends on who you believe."

Dylan stepped back from Travis, pointing a wary finger at him. "I know you aren't supposed to be here," he said. "I'll call the office and get you escorted off campus."

"Don't do that," Julianna said.

Dylan turned to her. "Are you sure it's OK?"

She put a hand on his chest to calm him. "It's fine," she said, smiling up at him. "I'll catch up with you."

Dylan glanced with displeasure at Travis one last time, then retreated with Danielle to some picnic benches.

Julianna joined her brother. They strolled casually across the parking lot. "Is he your boyfriend?" Travis asked.

He shrugged her shoulders. "I guess. We don't really do anything. He's just a sweet guy who looks after me."

Travis chuckled. "That used to be my job."

She looked away. "I know."

They walked in silence for a moment, slipping into a stand of trees beyond the school grounds.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I got out of rehab?"

She turned back to him. "Does it matter?"

"Maybe. I had help. JD, Alicea, even Randy."

She cocked her head. "Really?"

"Yeah. It was like old times. Everybody misses you."

She turned to face the school. Through the trees, she could see kids walking down the steps from the main exit.

Travis went on. "So, what's new with you?"

She turned back, showing some excitement. "I'm going to college," she said.

Travis was caught off guard. "Really," he said.

"Yeah. Community college. My foster family is gonna pay for it, if my grades stay up. I have a B-average."

He wasn't enthusiastic. "Great," he said.

"Make sure you tell Alicea. I think she would be proud of me."

Travis nodded. His sister could tell that he was less than inspired by the news.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" He asked. "I mean, college, foster parents . . ."

She interrupted him. "I don't know," she snapped. "But it's all I have left."

"No it's not," he said. "You can come back to Atlantic City. We're involved in some big shit. Alicea is in trouble, otherwise she and Randy would have let me cool my heels forever. The team is gonna make a strike against some real 90-caliber badasses, and we could use old Velvet Glove treatment."

She slumped against the trunk of a tree as he spoke. "I don't have a gauntlet anymore."

He crouched beside her. "We can get you a new one," he told her, although he knew he couldn't. "A better, safer one."

She put her face in her hands. "One last big strike . . . that's what got me here in the first place."

"I know. But we were on the right track then, and we're wiser now. You can't tell me you miss the life. Not a little bit."

She pulled back her hair. "When I first got here, I missed it. I missed you. Alicea. The Devlins took me in, and they had a rule for everything. There was a time to be home, a time to eat dinner, a time to get up, even on a Saturday morning. I hated it. I partied a lot, got into some trouble that could have put me into a rehab, like the one you were in. I dreamed of catching a ride back to Atlantic City, even just to go to Down Under and drink all night.

"Then one day," she continued, "I realized that the rules didn't bother me so much. I had nothing to be afraid of; there was no uncertainty. Maybe every day isn't an adventure, but I think I had plenty of days of adventure when I lived with you."

"So you won't help us?" Travis asked impatiently.

Julianna's eyes were sorrowful as she looked up at her brother. "Don't make me choose. I miss you all, but things are getting better here. If I leave with you, I throw all this away forever."

Travis shook his head and turned away.

"Does Alicea know you're here? Does she know that you were coming to get me?"

"Yeah. But I'd be lying if I said she was thrilled with the idea." He turned to his sister. "Boy, I could never compete with Alicea when it came to getting your respect."

She placed her palm on her brother's cheek. "You never had to," she said. "You were there for me when I was little. When dad died, when mom died, when things got crazy with Aunt Emma, you were always my hero."

"But I'm not anymore."

She looked down. "Maybe not in the same way," she said. "But if you tell me that you need me, that the team needs me, and that I'll have a better life with you than I have here, then I'll go back. That's all it takes."

There was a long silence. Travis watched Dylan and Danielle spy on them from a safe distance. He watched kids pass, carefree young people gossiping and sneaking cigarettes and heading back to safe homes with porches and two car garages. He looked at his sister, healthier and more robust than he had ever seen her, without the cloud of despair that once followed her.

"I can't say that," he said. He was upset, but he gave her a brave smile. "We'll find a way to work without you. You keep up what you're doing here: go to the prom. Go to college."

She hugged him. "Thank you" she whispered.

He fought back tears as he approached the scooter, sucking it up when he saw me there. "What's the matter, Randy? Don't trust me?"

I smiled. "Of course I do. Just watching your back."

"Were you listening in?"

I twisted a dial on my remote control. My floater obediently drifted overhead. "Eye in the sky," I said.

"Figures." He took a health bar from the scooter's saddlebag and tore into it. "You know, that's the most she's had to say to me in two years."

"It sounds like she's coming out of her shell."

Travis munched on his snack, thinking. "I guess she never really felt comfortable talking to me. I had been making all the decisions for her for so long, I never stopped to ask her what she wanted."

I leaned back against the hood of my car. "She's a young woman now. She can make her on decisions."

"Yeah, she's the same age now as I was when I started taking care of her." He finished his health bar and reached for another. "They really beat me up about her in those therapy sessions. They kept telling me: it's not what you did to yourself, it's what you did to your sister. I tried to tell them my point of view: I was protecting her, giving her an opportunity to be part of something."

"You feel differently now?"

He thought for a moment. "Maybe. I regret not giving her a normal life. But then, a normal life would be no good for me. You can relate, can't you?"

I told him that I could.

"Well now I can give it back to her," he said, taking one last look at the idyllic little suburban campus. "Let's go. We have work to do."

****

Three days in roadhouse hotels in Philly and the woods of South Jersey, hiding from the law and plotting a coyote-crazy scheme to take on the world: if I was 22, I might have seen it all as one great big adventure. But I was feeling my age. Watching the kids drink until dawn, power nap, then wake up fresh reminded me how old I was.

"You're only as old as you feel," Alicea reminded me as we ran along a county two-lane near the last flop we rented before d-day. Well, she ran. I half-jogged, half-stumbled, with my heart ready to jump out my chest. At least I could see her; JD was a mile up the road, and Travis was probably in Wisconsin or someplace.

"If I have to do any running," I told her, "we're all dead. Pretend you never met me."

She turned, jogging backwards and pushing hair back from her eyes. "C'mon Randy. None of us are in fightin' shape. And I know you have more stamina than this, when you're properly motivated."

She stopped running and beckoned me with a finger. "Come get a kiss," she said.

I took the deepest breath I could, gathered up my legs and jogged to her. She waited until I was a few steps away before she began jogging backwards, first slowly, then matching my embarrassing forward velocity.

"Cheap trick," I panted, "dangling a carrot in front of me."

"You must be hallucinating. Do I look like a carrot to you?" She was pumping her legs to stay ahead of me. I turned on what was left of the burners, and she squealed, turning to run into the woods. I scrambled after her and tackled her, both of us sliding into a pile of pine needles and giggling.

We could flirt like that when Travis wasn't around. Back in the claustrophobia of the hotel room, he would wear that hang-dog look if we got too close. The kid who trashed Shorty's a few months ago, the kid who could tear me in half, moped around us like he had no fight left.

"I did two miles in eight minutes, give or take," he said between sets of sit-ups.

"Not bad," Alicea said. We sat on opposite edges of the bed, watching Travis lift his shoulders to his knees again and again.

"Yeah, but I bet I can't lift shit."

"This won't be a lifting operation," I replied. We had spent the better part of two days mapping out a plan. "You need to get in, hook up some video, and get out."

"At most," Alicea added. "You may need to handle some security."

Travis stopped at the top of a rep. "Don't worry. I've been looking forward to 'handling' some people for a while."

Then JD returned with a bottle of booze, and Alicea and I encouraged the boys to drink. No sense staying up late, worrying about the operation.

****

We spoke in whispers.

"Who did you contact?" she asked.

"I have some connections on the maverick networks. When the feed comes in, they promised to go live. I talked to some local affiliates, but it'll be a big risk for them to do anything."

She nodded, bringing my drink to my lips for me. I sipped. "How many do you think will see it?" she asked.

I ran my hand along her bare thigh. It will be broadcast over the entire Atoll, assuming everything works. The guys I talked to have services in a couple million homes. How many are actually tuned in? These aren't the major networks. A few thousand might be watching, and if the video we provide isn't that great, they might tune out in the first few seconds."

She brushed back her hair. "So it's a long shot. We sneak video in there, we risk our lives, and there's a chance no one will see it because everyone has a short attention span."

I smiled. "Who's idea was this?"

"It couldn't have been mine," she said, sipping from my drink.

"It's not as bad as it sounds. I have one of Joe Bell's old campaign hacks ready to crank up what's left of his media machine when we blow the lid off. We'll generate some attention."

She nodded, pulling herself closer to me. On the other bed, JD rolled to his back and began to snore.

"Will we generate enough attention to get them off my back? To come out of hiding? To accomplish anything?"

I put my arm around her. "I have no idea, Alicea. I do know one thing: I'm glad we're doing this."

"Sure. You're glad to be an accomplice to a prison break. You're glad to be on the lam. You're glad to be in the middle of the Pine Barrens rather than your home in New York."

I tucked a finger under her chin. "No. I'm glad to be with you."

Those green eyes flashed at me.

"And I'm glad I'm making a stand. I'm happy that we're giving you a fighting chance, rather than sending you off to Valley Green or making you hide under a rock forever."

She nodded, and kissed my hand, and looked off into the dark of the room. We smelled of cheap scotch and spent cigarette smoke, and sweaty bodies. JD and Travis were sharing a bed, lying head-to-feet in a whiskey coma, JD snoring to wake the dead. Otherwise, the night was still, and the sky outside our window dark. Alicea meditated for a long time, lying cradled in my arms and just staring into the middle distance.

"Quarter for your thoughts," I said. "You're pretty far away."

She stirred. "Actually, I was right next door."

"Next door?"

"Yep." She propped herself up, leaning her frail body against my chest. "Room 14. These hotel walls are thin. Sound travels through. So do thoughts."

I asked her what was going on next door.

"There's a couple in there," she replied. "Married. Well, he is, anyway. Last call at that Tavern down at the crossroads was about an hour ago. They're both pretty drunk. Drunken brain waves broadcast better. It sounds like AM radio must have sounded."

"Does she know he's married?"

She sipped my drink again. "She knows what he is and he knows what she is. No secrets: not from each other, and sure as hell not from me." I watched her eyes flicker as she read. "She's disappointed by his body. She had an illusion of something more. He's not that impressed, either . . . guess who flashed through his mind when he closed his eyes."

"His wife?"

"Nice try. Nope. A girl in a little homecoming gown, vintage 20 years ago. Is that what goes through you mind when you see me naked?"

I blushed. "No."

She grinned. "I know. Now they're groping around, fumbling, really. We'll hear them soon."

She became quiet and waited. Sure enough, the telltale creaking of a cheap bed frame started, at first gently, then with gusto. The headboard rapped against the wall. Travis stirred briefly. Alicea winced.

"He's had too much to drink, Randy. He's half flaccid, and he's wondering what he's doing, why he isn't at home. And she's just embarrassed, trying to work up some enthusiasm. She's tired. She wants to be at home, by herself."

The creaking went on unabated. "Funny, that's not the story I'm hearing," I said.

"Trust me, Randy. They met at that honky-tonk, and she was feeling very old and unloved, and he was feeling very old and unappreciated. Coming here to fuck made perfect sense to them two hours ago. Now, they're trapped. They've gone too far, and they have to follow through."

I nodded, following her gaze out into the nothing. For a moment, I tried to hear what she heard. I strained my ears, as if I could will myself into hearing thoughts and reading minds. But all I heard was clanking box springs and rattling floorboards and JD sawing lumber and Alicea breathing.

"If only they both knew that they both wanted to turn back," I said.

She shook her head. "No. They hate what they're doing, but they would hate themselves even more if they turned back. It's too late to make anything good out this tawdry bullshit one-nighter. She knew that when she walked in the door of this sleaze dump. So they resigned themselves: throw themselves at it with everything they got, and hope the climax is worth what it took getting there."

Suddenly, the creaking stopped. The whole building seemed to settle. "Well, was it?"

Alicea pulled back her hair. "Not what I'm used too."

She turned to me, and I planted a soft kiss on her lips. We laid awake for a while. I didn't ask for any updates on the couple next door, and she didn't offer. We didn't plan obsessively, either, as we had for the past two nights. All the planning was done; what we needed was sleep, but it wouldn't come, not without boozing on JD's level, and this old timer doesn't bounce back like he used to. As I held Alicea, I envied the drunks snoring away on the next bed. They managed to drown their uncertainties for one night. But I couldn't. I couldn't figure out any more if I was helping Alicea or destroying her life, exposing the truth or making a fool out of myself. All I could do was throw myself at it with everything I have, and hope the climax is worth what it took getting there.