Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3) (48 page)

First of all, thank you. Thanks for taking another chance on me and for continuing to read this series. It’s because of you that I’ve made it to the end of this difficult ordeal. I couldn’t bear to disappoint.

I have to admit I had a hard time writing this book. I wrote a third of a book, then had second thoughts, then got side tracked (three times), then came back and decided to write from scratch. As a result, the book is a year and a half late – two and a half total years of no Blackjack. I also thank you for being patient with me while I worked out the kinks. I think the end result is worthy of the wait and of our effort.

Villain and Wayward have led to this, the “comeback” of sorts for our favorite ruffian, Blackjack. I’ve wanted to show the journey in its fullest, never fast-forwarding past a difficult part of his life, in order to make the destination worth it. In all ways, Blackjack is an unconventional character and his books are no different. We spend time on the things other people gloss over, and always try to bring a shred of realism to our world. I also relish the chance to add complications and see where things end up.

Other people to thank; Mom & Pop; Len Pimentel, Sam Khan and Edgardo Velarde; my amazing mother-in-law (Yeah, I found a good one); and of course my lovely wife, Jules and my awesome kiddo, Gaby. These folks in one way or another made sure that I didn’t lose my mind in the craziness that followed Wayward.

In particular, I want to thank my writing partner, Joshua Hoade. He’s been with me since the beginning (and he’s the “original” Blackjack), but you’ll notice his name on the cover for the first time. It’s no mistake on my part. Josh came on this time as a co-writer, helping me plot (the mess) and keeping me focused on the task at hand. He’s also a writer on this project, so if the language sounds a little cleaner (not Ben-dunsky so much), then it’s all thanks to him. I’m indebted to him for all his hard work and his unending dedication to the project. This book is as much his as it is mine, and moving forward, I doubt I’ll ever do it different.

As far as Blackjack himself, it might seem as if he’s come full circle this book. It starts with a fall and ends with another, but that’s not a metaphor for anything – things fall when their self-made plasma powered rocket boots are damaged beyond repair after doing battle with an Akira-esque psychokinetic godlike being. Right? What we wanted to do with this book is the next step, as always. Some of the complaints of book 2 mentioned that it started exactly where 1 left off – well, that was the point, and it’s the same case here. We’re trying to write the story of Blackjack, beginning to end, and I personally, don’t want to miss a thing (now I have that song in my head). In this book, Blackjack’s taken a major step forward, though. Given the option of hiding away in a time of great turmoil, he chooses to stand and fight, a form of selflessness that he’s only shown in small spurts. I mean, faced with the end of the world because the guy that hired you switches the effect of a Telluric wave and tries to scorch the Earth, I think most of us would try to stop him. That one’s easy. But what Blackjack does in this book is turn the corner, take a stand.

Moving forward, things look good for Blackjack, don’t they? He’s saved the life of his nemesis (the Senator), ended the threat of Haha (temporarily), proven himself worthy to much of the superhero community and finally earned the affections of the woman he loves. But the future is filled with doubt, and enemies abound. Haha is still out there, isn’t he? How will the emotionless A.I. react to Blackjack’s benevolence? The Senator isn’t going to change his mind in a day, now is he? After all, our boy killed his son. The world is still plagued by the villains Dr. Zundergrub released from Utopia prison, with quite a few powerful ones running around – some might not like the idea of Blackjack switching sides.

So the world will keep spinning, heroes and villains will keep warring, and Blackjack will return.

“So?” I asked, nonplussed at the almost five minute silence between me and the guy they had sent to be my psychologist.

He was a young guy, maybe in his late twenties, and I already didn’t like him. We sat in an office that wasn’t his, but instead belonged to some mid-level administrator of the rehab facility where I was trying to put back together my fractured body. The psych’s name was Jimmy Doyle, which made me dislike him even more. How could I trust all my life’s problems to a dude called Jimmy? But what was bothering me more than anything else, was how he was ignoring me, scrolling through his email on his Macbook, which he had plopped atop the administrator’s desk.

“What?” he asked, his reaction was almost as if a reminder that I was still in the room.

“We going to start or what?”

Jimmy smiled, “Yeah, just looking at a link my kid put on Facebook. Seven years old and she’s already sending me pictures of funny internet cats.”

He swiveled his laptop to show me an animated gif of a tiny kitten raising his paws up high over his head as he sat on a couch on his back. The cat would then lower his paws to cover his face, as if it was playing peek-a-boo, then repeat the whole thing all over again interminably.

“This kind of stuff just gets me,” he said. “So yeah, let’s get cooking. How are you feeling? How’s the rehab coming along?”

I shrugged, trying to set aside my growing anger for this guy, his stupid kid and the fucking lolcat.

“I’m way behind,” I said, and his expression changed. He shifted back in the unfamiliar chair and cocked his head slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“Huh?”

“About the rehab,” he explained. “What do you mean you’re behind.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m behind schedule. Where I should be, I mean.”

He shook his head, “Who’s schedule?”

I looked around, making sure he wasn’t fucking with me. “My schedule of course.”

Jimmy leaned forward, as if to go back on the laptop, but he just shut it closed.

“So you’re a physical therapist?”

I could feel my jaw clenching tight.

“Well, are you?”

“No,” I said.

“No you aren’t. So what’s this about ‘your schedule’, huh? How do you know how long it should take or how long it shouldn’t take?”

He smiled, satisfied at his little turn of phrase.

“I want it to go faster,” I said.

“Of course you do,” Jimmy said, picking at the hem of his leather jacket. “Shit, I wish I could fly, but I can’t.”

I could build you some rocket boots, I was about to say. So you can fly yourself to hell, I wanted to add.

“Stop worrying about how fast or slow things are going,” he went on. “I was reading that they invented all new technology to redo your bones. Is that right?”

I nodded.

“They replaced stuff with a laser or something, right?”

“It’s a three-stage process,” I said.

“Right, right. And it all happens at once, right?”

I didn’t want to go into it, but he seemed to be cozying up, being less of a prick, so I figured I’d info-dump on him.

“It uses an MRI as a guidance tool, mapping your whole bone structure, then a laser pass removes the bone structures while leaving the marrow.”

“That’s right. The laser zaps it. I got it backwards.”

“Yeah,” I said. “A split second after the bone is vaporized, a nanite injection 3d printer replaces the lost bone material with origami folded stem-cells programmed to reform themselves into bone structures.”

“Origami? I didn’t read that part,” he said. “Well, it sounds pretty cool. I get in good with you, you can hook me up with that procedure? I still have hopes of making the NBA, despite being 5’9”. Can they make your legs longer or something?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know.”

Jimmy leaned forward, setting his elbows on the desk, “I’m kidding, of course. I know that without the procedure, you probably would have died.”

I nodded.

“So why are you in such a hurry?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, you almost died. They had to replace more than half your bones, if I’m not mistaken. Then you had – if I read the file right – third degree burns over 100% of your body.” He paused, looking at me and raising an eyebrow. I had healed from those injuries in a way no normal man could. “So you almost die on two separate occasions and you’re in a hurry? What are you in a hurry to do?”

“Well, my friends need help.”

He cocked his head again and leaned back.

“There’s a lot of crazy stuff going on out there,” I said, alluding to the thousand or so villains that had escaped Utopia and were still at large. It was in the papers every day, some atrocity committed in some remote part of the world, or a villain getting revenge on the family of the hero that had originally put them away.

The world was under siege, and I was sitting on the shelf.

“You know what’s out there,” I said. “I don’t think I have to remind you.”

He smiled, “Remind me.”

I wanted to go down my personal hitlist of bad guys. Hell, just mention the official White Council’s top ten.

“Do like this,” Jimmy said, putting his hands on the arm rests and lifting his body up, extending his arms. Once he had risen, he took his feet off the ground, and held them straight forward, parallel to the floor. It was like a gymnastics pose, designed to test body strength, except he was doing it on a rickety chair.

“Go on,” he prodded, not even out of breath. He was a slim guy, but he had enough strength to control the difficult position and talk normally. “Do it. I want to see you do it.”

“I can’t,” I said finally.

“What?”

“I can’t do that,” I said. “The Brutal incident caused me to start rejecting the new bones and I’m kind of recovering from some heavy medication I was on for awhile. I can barely walk.”

“Come on,” he taunted. “It’s easy. I can stay like this all day. And you, you’re super strong or something, right? Come on, just try it.”

I shook my head in frustration, “I can’t.”

He pursed his lips in disapproval and lowered himself. Then he got up out of the chair and disconnected the Macbook’s power cable from the wall, winding it about the palm of his hand as he said, “You don’t need me.”

“What?”

Once he had finished with the cable, he tossed it into an open pocket of his beat up leather messenger bag, and put the laptop inside before closing the latch and slinging it on his shoulder.

“You don’t need a psychologist. Maybe a nanny or something,” he said as he put away everything, not even bothering to look at me. “I’m wasting my time here.”

“You’re leaving?”

He nodded, adjusting the strap around his chest and making ready to leave. I stood.

“No fucking way,” I said, standing in his way.

“Or what?”

“Or what?” I repeated, but the guy was staring right back into my raging eyes, totally unafraid of me.

“You were paid for an hour of time,” I said, changing tactics suddenly. I didn’t want to throw this guy through a window.

“You didn’t pay me,” he said, worming around me and heading to the door.

“What does that matter?”

He stopped, explaining it to me like if I was a child.

“What I mean is, why do you care if you got your money’s worth or not?”

I couldn’t believe this guy, he really wanted me to throw him through a window.

“It doesn’t matter who paid you,” I roared. “Hell, I’m practically fucking destitute, okay? I have nothing, so yeah, I’m not the one that’s paying you. Is that what you want to hear? A friend is paying for this. The same friend I asked to find someone that I could talk to.”

I leaned back on the back rest of the chair, frustrated and exhausted.

“I’m the client,” I said. “I asked for help. So help me.”

He did the lip thing again, which meant he wasn’t buying it.

“You don't want me. You just want someone to rubber stamp your recovery so you can go back out there and be a hero. I’m not that guy. I’m not going to facilitate you getting killed. It’s not what I do.”

“I’m just asking for-“

He smiled and wormed around me stopping at the door. “I know what you want.

I threw my arms up in frustration, slapping them on the sides of my thighs.

“Fine, then go. You don’t give a shit? The line starts outside,” I motioned out the door. “Join the fucking club, buddy.”

Jimmy started laughing, which at first seemed like he was faking, but then I realized that wheezing near-choking was his actual laughter.

“What’s really sad,” he said, still chuckling. “Is how little self-awareness you have about how far you have to go. It’s bewildering.”

“I’m a work in progress, Doc.”

He shook his head, waving his arms at me, “No, no, no, no, no. Don’t ever call me that. Oh, my God, don’t ever do it.”

“Doc?”

Jimmy physically cringed.

“Yeah, don’t. Please. Ever. I totally hate it."

“Okay, okay.”

He walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“It’s not that I don’t want to help. My heart bleeds for you, man. On a personal level, of course. I did my research, I know your story. I know what you've been through and I know what you’re going through. To live out your worst mistakes in the public eye, like that…I don’t know. I couldn’t do it. And now with this bunch of militant boneheads that you’ve got frothing at your every move, doing all kinds of crazy stuff in your name…I mean, your own personal cult. It’s crazy. I’m telling you, I’d be on meds. But professionally? I don’t think I can do it. I mean, it’s unheard of that someone like you asks for a therapist. It never happens. Unless they’re trying to game the system, if you know what I mean. And I’m not going do it just to be cool with the villain turned hero. I’m not.”

“I’m not trying to game the system. I really need help.”

The lip thing again – Jimmy didn’t believe me. But he stared at me long and hard, giving the matter serious consideration.

“Okay. I’ll give you one chance,” he said without giving the matter much more thought. “I run marathons. You ever run a marathon?”

I shook my head no, not really knowing where he was going.

“I do the whole iron man thing too, but marathons are what drive me. My times hover just above two hours, too. I’m real competitive.”

“Good,” I said, about to ask, "and what the hell does that have to do with me?"

“I’ll sit with you, but we’re going to have to tie it into some physical benchmarks. You’re worried that you’re recovering too slow? This might get you more motivated. Here, follow me.”

He said leading me towards the door. I had to get my walking stick to help me stay balanced. Jimmy walked down the hall, not bothering to wait for me, and I had to hurry, my motion more of a hip-dance as I shuffled to stay close to him. Every twitch of muscle closely tied to agonizing pain that no medication could remedy. He took us outside to a walking path that wound between the buildings.

“Okay, here’s the deal. We’re going to race. This path goes around that big building. If I win, I’m out of here. If you win, you get my services.”

I laughed, holding up my cane.

“Oh, poor baby can’t even walk,” he mocked. “You're a super for Christssakes! I'm just a regular schlub. Anyway, those are my terms. If you don’t like it, I can walk.”

“Fine,” I said and he took off his satchel laying it on grass beside the walk way.

“I’m even going to give you a head start, so don’t, OUCH!” he yelled as I smacked him in the stomach with the cane. He doubled over and crumpled to the floor.

“On your marks, get set, go!” I said, so fast it was almost one word, and hobbled down the path, headed for the building we had to circumnavigate.

“You cheating...” he managed but still lay on the floor. I had hit him pretty hard. Not so hard to injure him, but he wasn't getting up for a minute or two.

“Never trust a villain,” I said, moving away as quickly as my recovering legs would let me, but not too far away that I couldn’t hear him laughing at being outsmarted.