Vigilante (10 page)

B
ranford wiped gathering sweat from his forehead that was threatening to douse his eyes as he watched the events playing out on his screens.

Nolan didn’t stop to count the number of policemen who had spilled out of the stairwell. He ran as shots were fired, and another tiny but powerful impact jabbed into his thigh. He raced into the corner office, locking the door behind him. He ran to the room’s center, grabbed the oversized desk, and dragged it quickly to the door to serve as a makeshift barricade.

“Get out of there!” Branford roared.

Nolan looked about, taking in his surroundings and by extension, his options. The five hostages were still kneeling on the floor up against a side wall, and with a wave of his hand, Nolan ordered them to stay put.

He ran over to the corner plate-glass window and looked out at the city. But he’d no sooner arrived there than his view was obstructed by a police helicopter that dropped into position and hovered right before him.

“Open this door!” shouted a policeman out in the hall.

Behind him, Branford heard the sounds of whispering. He figured Alice must be praying again. She seemed to do that a lot.

Branford had no interest in prayers, instead scanning the building blueprints again, looking for options to feed to Nolan. All the while, he glanced back and forth to the primary monitor that relayed Nolan’s point of view. Nolan’s eyes were trained on the helicopter and the two men who sat in the open cargo area, rifle sights focused on the glass window.

Angry pounding came from the office door, and then the thin door was cracked open and an arm pushed through, blindly searching for the doorknob.

Nolan backed up five paces and then ran flat out toward the window and the helicopter waiting thirty feet beyond it.

The glass shattered in an explosion of shards and Nolan plunged, first out and then down. Branford couldn’t believe his eyes as the picture swiveled from showing the ground rushing toward Nolan to the helicopter rushing away. Nolan’s grappler came into view in a flash and suddenly Nolan was no longer falling. He’d stopped in midair, the hook of the grappler having punched through the floor of the chopper.

The pilot responded to his jump by pulling the helicopter away from the building, taking Nolan along for the ride. Seventy-five feet below, he dangled, clutching the grappler with both hands. Nolan built up momentum when the helicopter swerved away from the skyscraper and used it to swing toward another building close by that had a roofline only twenty feet or so below his current elevation.

Branford held his breath as the helicopter glided above the second building and Nolan retracted the grappler at just the right moment to fall onto the rooftop and into a rolling stop.

On solid footing again, Nolan ran for cover, dropping down from the opposite side of the rooftop, beyond where the helicopter could see, and found his footing on a lower ledge.

Conversationally, as if nothing had just happened, Nolan said,
“Okay, then. I’m going to reconnoiter that warehouse on the Lower West Side we talked about. I’ll check in when I get there.”

And with that, he was off on his next task.

Branford took off his own headset and dropped it on the table before him. He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and shook his head slowly. He had to take a few deep breaths to shake off the death-defying escape that Nolan had regarded as just another day at the office.

I am way too old for this. . . .

When he opened his eyes, he found Alice still staring at the computer monitor, frozen in place with both hands over her mouth.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “Don’t worry, he’s fine.”

Alice dropped her hands. “I’ll never get used to this.”

“I still haven’t,” Branford said, rubbing the cobwebs out of his eyes, “and I’ve commanded men in two wars. But he thrives on this.”

Alice shook her head. “Are all soldiers trained to do the things he can do?”

Branford sat back in his seat but turned to face her, letting his attention wander from his screens for the first time in hours. “Nolan’s unlike any other soldier I’ve ever served with. He’s had training in every form of combat that our armed forces teach. If he were from a different time, he’d be a ninja or a samurai or something. He was born for the fight.”

“He’s not superhuman,” observed Alice. “Everybody has limits.”

“Nolan’s the best physical specimen humanity has to offer. And that’s not an easy thing for an old war horse like me to say. When he was training for the Army Special Forces, every time his drill instructors thought they’d found his limits, he’d prove them wrong. He excelled at every discipline. Survival. Sharpshooting. Martial arts. Heavy artillery. Bladed weapons. Hand-to-hand. It was as if every one of these skills had been created solely for him. He broke records. He could adapt and improvise in the heat of the moment like no other. All forms of combat boil down to one thing: will. And Nolan had the strongest will power of anyone I’ve ever met. He’s absolutely
bent
on making this ‘better world’ of his, and if it were anyone else, I’d balk. But he stands a real chance of pulling it off.”

“You don’t have to convince me that he’s one of a kind,” said Alice, looking back over at the computer that was showing Nolan’s point of view as he made his way across the city. “I just hope he knows he’s not indestructible.”

Branford paused. “A buddy of mine, one of Nolan’s instructors in firearms proficiency, once said something that’s always stuck with me. He said that maybe once in every five to ten generations does a soldier like Nolan come along. He’s one in a billion. The way that Mozart played music or Van Gogh painted—that’s what it was like watching Nolan go about the art of war.”

Alice paused. “ ‘Was.’ You keep saying he ‘was’ . . .”

Branford scowled but said nothing.

“What really happened to him?” she asked, her voice dropping in volume. “During the war. What did they do to him?”

Branford shook his head. It was a long moment before he responded, and even then he wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Stuff I can’t put words to. Way beyond torture. Beyond indecency. They were kept naked and treated like animals. They were abused . . . and violated . . .” Branford lost his train of thought, realizing he’d likely said too much.

Alice was quiet for a moment. “And the president too? How was someone who’d been through that kind of thing ever deemed fit to serve in public office? If it was as bad as you say, wouldn’t those men have been driven to madness?”

“Officially,” Branford explained, “the tortures they suffered were never that bad. The captives testified in their debriefings that it never went beyond beatings, electrocution, starvation. But off the record, we all knew the truth. They were my men, all of them. I could see it in their eyes. They were alive, but there was no life left in them. They had been stripped of their humanity and reduced to something else. Something hollow. It was a long time before most of them healed, though Nolan and Hastings seemed to recover faster than the others. It was like they were both more
driven
than the rest. . . .”

Alice was silent for a moment as Branford went about returning to his normal surveillance of city police bands and random switching between views from various street cameras at New York’s most populous intersections. He also pulled up his city grid and checked for any major emergencies, of which thankfully there were none at the moment.

“Ask you something else?” said Alice.

“Mm,” he grumbled, a dispassionate yes.

“Why are you helping him?”

Branford stopped what he was doing and turned to her.

“This isn’t your crusade, any more than it’s mine,” she said. “It’s his. I know you two have this history, but you retired years ago, right? So why do this?”

Branford felt the muscles in his neck tense, clenching slightly.

She wasn’t wrong. This entire plot was Nolan’s brainchild. Unofficially, Nolan was in charge, because he was the one who was going to be putting himself out there, and Branford and Arjay worked for
him
. But since Branford was there to strategize, direct, and oversee Nolan’s actions in the field, it sometimes proved an uneasy tension between their respective authority.

Still, there was no one else on the planet Nolan would have chosen to be at his side for what they were doing, and Branford knew it. And there was no one else in the world Branford would have agreed to help.

He frowned, searching for the words. “That young man is the most talented soldier I’ve ever seen. Talent like that isn’t supposed to be wasted. When I saw that he was determined to go through with this plan of his . . . I knew he would need somebody watching his back. Keep him from getting himself killed. That’s why I’m here. I’m doing this to keep him alive,” Branford said and remembered the day, twelve months ago in Cancun, when he’d been convinced to do that very thing.

I
t was miserably sticky that day in Mexico. Branford would always remember the smell of sweat carried by the air.

Neither man had bothered to offer a greeting when Nolan approached Branford’s table and sat down. That’s just how it was for men who’d fought together for so long. There were no hellos or good-byes. There was only the current situation.

“You wanna tell me how you found me?” growled Branford.

“I
know
you,” Nolan replied, quickly adding, “sir.”

Branford frowned, letting out a sound between a snarl and a
hmph
. “Always
were
good at finding things . . .” he mumbled. “Heard you got religion after the war.”

“Nah, I always had it.”

“Good for you,” said Branford without enthusiasm. “You go to church too?”

“Now and then. Still not big on crowds. Or small spaces.”

Branford gave a conciliatory nod, Nolan’s history coming back to him in a burst. He tried a different tack. “I’m impressed you could hold on to any kind of beliefs after . . . well, after what happened to you.”

“What happened
strengthened
my faith.”

“What’re you doing here, Lieutenant?” Branford asked.

“I need your help,” Nolan said. “New mission.”

Branford, staring off into nothing, eyed him for a moment before speaking. “Not interested.”

“I can pay you,” Nolan replied.

“As if
you
have money.”

“I have some.”

“Don’t need money. Don’t need anything. Now go on, get back to your fame and your Jesus and leave me alone.”

Nolan stood. “If that’s what you want, sir.”

He had turned to walk away when Branford said, “Oh, for crying out loud . . . What’s the target?”

Nolan sat back down, seemingly steeling himself. This was the hard part. “Multiple targets.”

Branford raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“Immorality. Pain. Cruelty. Suffering. Apathy. In a word: evil.”

From anyone else it would’ve sounded absurd. From Nolan, those words almost became actual enemies. Almost.

“Those ain’t things you can destroy with weapons,” said Branford.

“No, sir,” Nolan replied. “But if you can change
them
, even on a small scale, then it might send a message to the rest of the world. And this message will be sent from New York City.”

Branford almost frowned, but instead crinkled his eyebrows up. “I’ve never known you to do anything you weren’t completely serious about. And I’ve never seen you fail. At anything. But what you’re talking about . . . it can’t be done. One man can’t change an entire city, much less the world.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Nolan, coming alive with confidence and drive. He leaned in to the table. “My grandmother taught me the difference between right and wrong.
You
taught me that distinguishing the two isn’t hard. Everybody learns these things at some point. It’s not a puzzle. It’s the most obvious thing in the world. But people have lost faith and they need a reminder. They need something to rally around. A symbol. I’m going to give them one.”

Branford shrugged. Idealism was never his thing. Objective and engagement. Battlefield terms, that’s how he approached life.

“How’s that going to work?” he eventually asked. “You gonna fight the good fight by destroying the wicked?”

“I’m going to push back evil by doing good,” said Nolan. “I’m not naïve. I know how the world works. This has to be done just right, with intricate planning and focused intention. It’s a war to be waged on two fronts. We draw a line against evil and don’t let it cross. We cut off the criminals’ supply lines and expose their biggest players as the dangers to society that they are. That’s the first front. The second is inside the hearts and minds of the public. That’s a battleground of words, ideas, emotions—a war that’s fought by giving everybody the one thing they want most: hope. A symbol of hope to get behind, and bring them together. The way to make a change is to lead by example.”

Branford studied him at length. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I had plenty of time to think about it,” Nolan replied. “I made a promise to a friend that I would find a way to make a difference. Look, I know it’s probably impossible, but I
have
to do this. To not at least try . . . would be worse than dying.”

That was another reference Branford wouldn’t dispute. Whether he knew about the promise or not, Branford certainly knew about Nolan’s experiences behind enemy lines during the second half of the war.

Most of his fellow hostages succumbed to death long before their captivity ended.

“You and I have never talked about that” was Branford’s cautious reply. “What you went through. Do we need to?”

Nolan crossed his arms, leaned back against his chair, and searched the ceiling. “No, sir.”

“You sure about that?” Branford pressed. “Because the things you were put through, that does stuff to a man—”

“Sir,” Nolan said, swiveling to meet his eyes. “This subject is one you may respectfully consider off-limits.”

Branford didn’t argue. He was hardly the person anyone would or should choose to talk to about their personal demons.

“There’s one thing I need to know,” he said, softly so that only the two of them would hear. “Just one, and we’ll never talk about it again.”

Nolan met his gaze, his tics so subtle that Branford doubted anyone else would have been able to tell just how annoyed the younger man was. “What?” he asked, in a voice that was almost a dare.

“This plan of yours. Are you doing it because of what was done to you, back then?”

Nolan’s expression never changed. “Does it matter?”

With that, he got up from the table and walked away, leaving Branford to consider his decision.

In the end, he was forced to concede the point. Nolan was already committed to this path. And his reasons why weren’t going to change a thing.