Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3) (2 page)

Their faces were grim, Moe’s eyes were moistening.

“I don’t know what to do, Dale,” Superdynamic said, and between his use of my real name and the undercurrent of helplessness I got from his tone, I could tell there was more to come.

“Fuck them,” I said.

“No shit,” Moe whispered, his only sign of dissent.

“It’s not that easy,” Superdynamic said. “And you know it. You’re an escaped felon, convicted of crimes against humanity, including attempted genocide. You can’t just wipe that away.”

I laughed, “I didn’t do half the shit they convicted me of, and you know it.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“It matters to me,” I said. “I know you’re going to recite the rules of conspiracy or some such crap, so save it. I didn’t do those things. It was some crazy stupid fuckers I was with, who I was later responsible for stopping from ending the whole goddamned world. Twice!”

He waved his hands, trying to quell me.

“So don’t give me any of that shit,” I said, rolling right over him. “I saved the world, you hear me? If not for me, Lord Mighty pancakes Moe and everyone else in the White House,” I said, referring to the fight that had put me in the hospital in the first place. I didn’t feel the need to remind them of the first time I had saved the world, when Zundergrub had betrayed us, and driven Dr. Retcon to madness. If not for me, Retcon burns the Earth to ash. Inside the light cast, past enough pain meds to put a rhino in a coma, I felt the scars itch on the back of my right hand, scars earned breaking down an unbreakable door so the heroes could save Apogee from wounds inflicted by Zundergrub. I had given them everything that day, and pretty much every day since.

And now they wanted to repay me the only way they knew how.

“I’m not going back to that fucking mind jail,” I said, and I glared at Moe, suddenly understanding the point of his more recent visits, fluffing me up for this moment, taming the beast. He bore the full brunt of my hurt anger before turning away, resting his forehead in his hand. He was on the verge of open tears, but I didn’t care. He deserved every shitty thought rolling through mind and more.

“I’m telling you it’s not that easy, Dale.”

“Don’t ‘Dale’ me, Jeff,” I said. “You know it’s a bunch of bullshit.”

He looked down, “Did you, or did you not kill Pulsewave?”

My mouth dropped. He was going to do it, he was handing me over.

“Huh,” he prodded. “If any other person does something like that, kills another human being, what happens to him, Dale? What about the guys on the rig?”

“That was Zundergrub going insane,” I said, feeling like I was losing a battle against the tide, getting swept out to sea regardless of how hard I paddled.

“You were his accomplice, whether you intended it or not,” he shot back in a neutral monotone, as if he were teaching me to read. “What about the German commandos?”

“They were trying to kill me,” I said. “It was self-defense.”

A bitter little smile bloomed on his face. “They were responding to a murder in the German countryside and followed your ship into the North Atlantic. They were deputized officers, trying to arrest you. See what I mean? It’s not that easy. And what about the dead guy in the woods?”

“He was a villain,” I said.

“I know who he was,” Superdynamic said. “The house burned to the ground, but they found a body shot through the chest with an arrow.”

“Enough, D,” Moe said, pleading. “Man’s done some wicked shit, okay? That’s plain as day. But he’s also done some good shit.”

“I’m not God, Moe. I can’t just wave my hand and make it all disappear,” he said. “I’m under an unreal amount of pressure here. You were convicted by the World Court, Dale. Even saving the President of the United States doesn’t make that moot. They’ve threatened my sanction. They’re threatening me with charges for aiding and abetting a criminal because I didn’t let you die in D.C.”

“You have to be kidding me,” I said.

He shook his head, looking at me like you would a man on his way to the gallows. “Ever heard of Dr. Samuel Mudd?”

“Yeah, the guy that fixed John Wilkes Booth’s leg.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And you know what happened to him, right?

I said nothing.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, sitting back down on the bed next to mine, in a gesture of defeat.

“They’re not going to forgive and forget,” I said, wanting to laugh.

From Superdynamic’s expression, the answer was obvious.

“What are my options?”

“I can keep you here,” he said. “But then they’ll-“

“They’ll get upset and send someone after me; maybe you might get a smudge or two on your shiny walls.”

He stared at me, angry and frustrated. “You know it isn’t like that,” he said.

“Why bother saving me then? Why not just let me die back in D.C.?”

Jeff couldn’t look me in the eye. “You know who I did it for.”

I rolled out of the bed and stood, feeling the tension spike in the room. Moe’s attention was squarely on me, as deep lines creased Jeff’s young eyes, his feet sliding apart into a fighting stance. .

“Then let’s take this shit off,” I said, referring to my solid-light casts. “And I’ll go.”

Superdynamic gave me one last look as the techs came in to take my casts off and left me to my fate. He didn’t have the courage to watch me get taken away. I was bare underneath except for boxers, so they gave me green scrubs, similar to what they wore in the hospital wing, along with a pair of purple socks with plastic tread. Normally, I would have been fitted with one of Superdynamic’s trademark skin tight onesies, but he would never let the feds get their hands on it. The scrubs fit snug, but I could move without tearing them. I would be changing clothes again soon enough.

Moe drove us to a small airport near the tower and waited for my pickup. I could tell he wanted to say something, but I closed all angles of approach. Nothing he could say would excuse what was happening, and I didn’t want to see the guy cry anymore. I didn’t have many friends, and Moe was more devoted than most. I knew he was hurting, just like I knew he didn’t see any other choice. The landscape was empty and arid, with two pathetic trees the only landmarks within miles besides the small tower and a structure made of clay that served as the airport terminal. After months indoors, being out in the fresh air was bliss. There was no breeze, and the dry heat had sweat pricking under the scrubs. I reveled in it all. I was alive.

I heard the big C-17 Globemaster III before I saw the little dot in the sky approaching from the north. It was a big ship to come pick up little old me, as it was usually used to carry over 100 soldiers or up to 160,000 lbs. of cargo. I go about 260.

The pilot had a task ahead of him, landing that big bird on the tiny runway that was more accustomed to a Piper Cub than a military transport. They dipped their wings and soared in a wide circle, gauging if they could land at all. The pilot finally grew a pair and swung back, taking the big bird down on a hard touchdown just as close to the start of the runway as was safe. The engines whined painfully as the reverse thrusters struggled to peel speed, the brakes adding to the squeal as the tires left rubber in long black strips across the tarmac. The C-17 turned around and raced across the runway to the opposite end, rotating so it faced the wind for takeoff. We drove right up to the big bird as they turned her on the far end of the strip, intending to take off without staying longer than it took me to get on the plane.

Moe pulled up to the Globemaster’s ramp, swinging wide to avoid the jet wash and came to an abrupt stop, his face averted.

“At least say goodbye, you bastard,” I said.

He shook his head; a small, hitched sob was his only reply. I got out of the car and walked up to the welcome committee, which included a cadre of armored guards spilling from the ramp, along with two supers I instantly recognized. One was Warspite, a young newcomer, and favorite with the magazines for his fancy blue and yellow costume and handsome face. He wore goggles and his beach blonde hair danced with the heavy winds brought up by the engines. The other was Obliterate, a sword wielding dude with heavy medieval-styled armor and a whole undead warrior motif going. Two red pinpricks denoted his cold eyes on me from behind the view slit of the elaborate bucket helm, which was engraved with an ornate pattern of roses intertwined with vines.

Moe got out of the car, coming up behind me, wiping his face on his shirt.

“You Blackjack?” one of the guards said. He alone from the others wore no helmet to protect his baldhead. He had a hard face and cold, distant eyes.

I nodded.

“I’m Darren Hendley, Commander of ISDF, and I’ll be transporting you today,” he said, reaching for a pair of power suppressing manacles that hung at his belt. “You’re now officially under arrest under the Wattley and Meyer Acts. You have no Miranda rights, do you understand?”

I nodded.

“I’m authorized to take you to the Super Containment Unit at Florence ADMAX facility. You understand?”

I nodded.

“Let me see those arms then,” he said.

“Hang on one motherfucking second,” Moe said, interposing himself between the warden and me. His eyes were red and swollen from the tears, and coupled with his size, he looked terrifying. “No shackles, you hear me?”

Hendley took a step back to avoid Moe’s bulk, and while none of the soldiers raised their weapons, I saw that Obliterate was squared, little wisps of red fire burning through the slit visor. Warspite hovered an inch off the ground and his face was tight with concentration.

“I have my orders…” the commander paused.

“Name’s Moe,” Moe said, more upset than I’ve ever seen him in my life. “You can take my friend here, but you can shove those fucking shackles up your ass and if I see them again, ain’t none of these bitches gonna like the shit I come up with. You know what I’m saying?”

Hendley smiled and raised one shoulder in a weird shrug, “I understand, Mr.…Moe,” he said, clipping the manacles back to his belt. “As long as our friend here behaves we won’t need them.”

I nodded.

Moe turned back to me, his emotions returning in an instant and his eyes welling with tears.

“Man, I don’t believe this shit.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t count me out,” I said.

He took me in, hugging me hard, and held me as he wept in shame. Hendley shifted, and Moe let me go, shaking his head, saying, “I don’t believe this shit.”

Hendley sidestepped and motioned to the ramp. I looked over at the two heroes and something about Obliterate came back to me, something that was gnawing at the back of my head from the instant I saw him.

He was a reformed villain.

I walked in his direction, forcing him to sidestep out of my way as I headed to the C-17 Globemaster’s ramp.

“He looks weak,” Warspite said.

As I walked up the ramp, the dozen armored guards flanked me until I entered the main cargo bay. The sides of the bay were lined with seats; big enough to handle the large armored men, and in a pattern surrounding a restraining harness that was bolted to the middle of the deck.

“You’re kidding,” I said, but I wasn’t as surprised as I sounded.

“Turn around, bud,” Hendley said, standing behind me.

The last of his men were aboard, as were the two heroes meant to keep me in line and one of the Globemaster’s crew raised the back ramp, yelling to the pilot through his mike when they were ready for takeoff.

I tried to catch a last glimpse of Moe but he had torn off with the Jeep, the cloud of dirt he had churned up trailing backwards with the jet wash.

“Your boyfriend’s gone,” Hendley said, a wicked smile playing on his lips. “Now give me your arms.”

I must’ve looked confused, staring at the manacles as he pulled them out again.

“Listen, it’s nothing personal, but everyone that comes on my ship gets cuffed,” Hendley said. “I didn’t do it in front of your buddy back there because of the obvious racial undertones to the thing and I don’t like being insensitive, if you know what I mean.”

My arms rose almost on their own, as if my spirit was defeated and my body was complying without my will to work against it. I looked over at the two heroes and saw Warspite smiling as Commander Hendley locked the power suppressors on my wrists.

“Good man,” he said.

I’ve had them on before – several times, in fact – and no amount of experience can prepare you for the nausea-inducing ability of those bracers. I felt my legs fail and I slipped toward the ground, only to fall into the arms of four armored guards who were ready for the effect. They were strong guys, amplified by the powered armor, and they easily slid me back to the chair designed to hold me. The room spun and the floor slid away from me as the plane seemed to move, the engines roaring to life and the plane shooting forward.

“Rest of you get secured,” I heard Hendley shout with a voice so powerful a Marine Drill instructor’s knees would have buckled. “Four of you hurry,” he said to the men strapping me in to the metal contraption that had more in common with an electric chair than anything else.

When I was strapped in, someone turned it on and the effect of the manacles afflicted me by a power of ten. I fought the urge to vomit as the takeoff rockets of the C-17 fired off, helping it clear the tiny runway and the nose of the plane rose. An instant later, the fat back of the Globemaster lifted off the ground, and we soared into the sky, leaving Mali, and my friends, behind.

*              *              *              *

Those power-suppressing manacles were nothing of the sort, meaning, they don’t reduce or control powers, nor do they don’t manipulate the natural energies that make you super. They work through a technology similar to an electromagnetic pulse, a charge that is usually associated with a nuclear bomb, called transcranial magnetic stimulation. In essence, the manacles emit a special kind of magnetic energy that fries your brain, making it impossible to concentrate on anything but the simplest actions, like keeping from drooling. The chair worked in a similar, amplified fashion. I wasn’t going anywhere.

The guards and the two supers were window dressing, when compared the effect the manacles had on the thought process. In theory, each set was keyed to a particular person, designed to focus on their specific brain patterns and waveforms in order to maximize the chaos. One of the guards was the control tech, coming over every half hour to check the readouts on the panel between the manacles that faced away.

Warspite fell asleep as soon as the plane took off and remained that way for the first few hours. Obliterate didn’t seem to need any rest, nor did he appear to blink – If those red dots were even his eyes – and his attention never wavered. Commander Hendley went forward, along with most of his men, where they had a private area setup between my holding chair and the cockpit, demarked from the rear of the plane by a metal frame and a burlap tarp that acted as a door. I could hear them talking and joking, contrary to the serious demeanor of the four that were on station, guarding me. They rotated every hour or so, keeping the men on watch fresh.

About two and half hours into the flight, the plane banked violently without warning, hard right to almost forty-five degrees to starboard. A repetitive popping rang out along the rear fuselage that sounded like auto-chaff firing. Obliterate stood straight, ignoring the effects of the sudden maneuver and keeping his balance without difficulty. Warspite rose from his slumber as his body pressed hard against the seat. The four guards’ eyes opened wide, staring forward as if for guidance, but the men up front were thrown about, some to the floor, shouting and screaming. The big C-17 nimbly corrected, the chaff firing without pause, the maneuver now reversed just as aggressively to port, with the nose pulled back hard.

Commander Hendley came from behind the tarp, looking stolid, his head craned to one side, and I saw the smallest edge of an earpiece. He nodded once and said, “We got contact. Warspite, go.”

Warspite nodded, and if he were still drowsy, I couldn’t see it. He gestured to one of the four men guarding me, and walked towards the plane’s back ramp. The armored soldier followed him, Obliterate taking the soldier’s place guarding me. The red flames had intensified behind that narrow slit again, and this close I could feel heat emanating from him.

The other soldiers had trained their weapons on me, so large and elaborate they were almost comical, and suddenly I was sitting in an L.A. bar listening to a bunch of villains cringe about some new energy weapons they were using to arm up against super villains. Even Black Razor, insane and powerful, feared them. These were probably the next generation, and while it didn’t make sense that a power dampener that scrambled my brain would scramble my tough skin, I held extra still.

Behind me, I heard the rumble of metal moving and felt my eardrums pop as the plane’s internal pressure shifted. I turned my head and saw the back hatch half open, the armored man holding it easily with one hand, giving thumbs up with the other. Warspite returned the thumbs up and propelled himself through the opening. The soldier closed the door and returned to guard me, Obliterate stepping back so the guard could take his place in formation.

Hendley approached me from the side, careful not to obstruct the line of fire, and knelt next to me. I could smell the acrid stench of cigar on his breath as he spoke, “This one of your guys? Did you hire someone? This is not going to help you.”

I shook my head, the dampener making it hard to think. Superdynamic would never have changed his mind, and he was the only one of Battle who could fly. If Moe had wanted to bust me out, he would have done it on the airstrip. For an absurd moment, I wonder if he could have hired someone to down the plane and free me. There and gone in an instant. That was not Moe. I had no idea who was doing this, and I shook my head again, more for my benefit than Hendley’s but he nodded and stood straight, walking towards the cockpit.

A moment later, something streaked by, audible to us inside the plane, exploding so close that it shook the Globemaster like a depth charge rocking a submarine in one of those old World War Two movies. The explosion was to starboard, and aft, peppering the tail with shrapnel and shaking the plane with such violence it slipped in its track, almost losing attitude. The pilot was skilled, though, yawing the tail in the direction of the explosion to keep the C-17 from going into a flat spin. He overcorrected once, then again before getting full control of the plane. Small windows lined the fuselage, but hard as I could try to catch a peek, there was nothing visible outside save for the passing clouds.