by Captain Sammitch
1300 hours:
"I'm home," Phil called as he walked through the door.
There was no answer.
Phil frowned. "Gabi?"
Silence.
"Gabriela!" Phil yelled as he ran back to the bedroom.
Gabi wasn't there.
Phil dashed into the study. No Gabi. He turned and ran back to the kitchenette. Gabi wasn't there. He ran to the bathroom and pounded on the door. It swung open. Empty.
This was not good.
Phil returned to the bedroom. Did Gabi finally change her mind? Might she have left him? He saw her luggage strewn about the floor. One of her bags was open, and a black lace brassiere was hanging halfway out of it. Phil thought a moment.
She didn't leave on her own.
Phil's jaw dropped.
40DD? Geez!
Snapping back to reality, Phil tried to figure out what to do. He didn't need to guess at where she was. And he knew for sure who she was with.
The phone rang. Phil dashed over. "Yeah?"
"Ah. You're home," Agent Fisher said. "Good man."
"Where is she?" Phil growled.
"She's unhurt," Fisher said. "And the police don't have her. She's with me."
"Why?"
"I just didn't want your decision to be too hard," Fisher replied. "Since I figured her out this morning - thanks to Mr. Flannery, who I might add was very reluctant to cooperate - I figured you might want her to come along when you join the MAW. So I saved you some trouble and got her myself."
Phil gritted his teeth. "Fisher! She's got nothing to do with this! If you hurt her-"
"What? What'll you do?" Fisher must have been smiling on the other end. "You can't touch me, Phil! I've got an entire division of the FBI on my side! We're more than capable of taking you out. So don't get all pretentious on me, Mr. Smith. Just because you're currently throwing the NYPD and most of the FBI doesn't put you in my league. Let's just get that straight right now. We are not negotiating as equals here."
"Why are you doing this, Fisher?"
"It's simple, really," came the reply. "I could use you. And I'm willing to give you what you want in return. Come on, Phil. You get the girl you love and the truth behind who you are, not to mention you get away from the mess you're in, all just for taking me up on a simple offer that really benefits you and every other metahuman in the end."
Phil couldn't think of anything to say.
"I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here," Fisher said. "You know the time and place to be. Gabi and I will be waiting for you. I trust you'll know what to do."
Click.
Phil listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, then slowly hung up the phone.
He was running out of options - and time.
1400 hours
The Subway
He had exactly seven hours to make the most important decision of his life. And he had come to the one place where he could remember doing something right. Maybe here things would make more sense.
But it was probably risky too. It wasn't too far from here that he had killed a man, after all. In fact, it was right about here where he had perched, unseen. Phil ducked out of sight and leapt onto a steel rafter. He followed the path he had taken that night, trying to retrace his steps, hoping against hope for some inspiration.
His eyes happened upon a scrap of paper taped to a rafter. It was out of sight of anyone on the ground, and it looked to have been placed there deliberately. Phil crawled over quietly and snatched the paper, careful not to attract the attention of anyone on the ground. He was wearing denim overalls, a flannel shirt, and a hard hat, hoping it would serve as a sufficient disguise, but Phil knew not to take any chances. He hoped that Fisher was running some interference for him, giving Phil time to ponder his offer.
Phil opened the paper carefully. It was scrawled in rough handwriting, in Spanish. Phil translated it carefully.
To the Unidentified Man,
You have given me another chance to be a good man.
I hope you will choose a similar path.
Scribbled beneath was a fifteen-digit number, followed by a twenty-four character access code. The information for Los Hermanos del Dolor's numbered Swiss account.
Now this was getting interesting.
1430 hours
Fourth Precinct
"Still nothing new?" Gant handed Patterson his lunch.
The ballistics expert shook his head. "Nothing."
"So you haven't heard that he was in the subway again?"
Patterson shook his head. "Not until you told me."
Gant pounded the table. "He returned to the scene of Number Fifteen and totally escaped detection by the police, although three different civilians and two security cameras positively identified him. No wonder this guy never leaves New York! The harder we try to find him, the safer he is!"
"Shouting about it won't help you, Robert," Patterson said softly.
"Don't you see though? The FBI guy - Fisher - he's seriously mismanaging things."
"It's possible," Patterson admitted. "Although you'd think a guy with his experience would be able to do a better job."
"Unless he's screwing this up on purpose."
Patterson chuckled. "Right. You think Agent Fisher wants the Unidentified Man to get away?"
"You know where the FBI and CIA get their expendable operatives, Patterson? The guys who do the impossible jobs and come home in boxes?" Gant paced around the crime lab. "Criminals, Rick. Criminals who would either get death or life without parole. The spooks give them an alternative, they go for it. Get out of jail free and maybe even do something for Uncle Sam on the side. Assassins, saboteurs, all the wet work. Then the cons can get caught or killed without compromising the people who sent them."
"So what are you saying?" Patterson asked.
"I'm saying that Fisher wants the Unidentified Man for himself," Gant answered. "If this guy really is a metahuman who can do all this crazy stuff, then Fisher must be thinking about what a damn good operative Smith could be. That new metahuman unit? No question about it, Fisher wants Smith for it." Gant sank into a chair. "And he's willing to buy anyone off to do it." He turned to Patterson. "That's why you misplaced the registry information for the .44 you identified back at the Vargas house, isn't it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Patterson insisted.
"Come on, Rick," Gant said. "We've worked together for nine years. You'd never let a case this big slip through your fingers. You're the best forensic dick in this town. There's no reason you'd fail to positively ID this guy's weapons unless..." He frowned. "Well?"
Patterson sighed. "I'm fifty-three years old, Rob. I've seen stuff nobody should ever be subjected to. I've tracked down animals that didn't deserve to live. I've had to tell countless wives and mothers how their husbands and sons were slaughtered like livestock." He looked at Gant. "I'm tired, Rob. I want out of here." He rubbed his eyes absently. "Fisher said he could get me a desk job as administrator of the county crime labs. He's got the influence. He offered me a chance to get out of here, get a nice, higher-paying job, maybe retire a few years sooner." He looked at Gant imploringly. "What's so wrong with that, Rob?"
Gant put a hand on Patterson's shoulder. "Nothing, Rick. Nothing. Fisher needed a fall guy for when the Unidentified Man slipped through the dragnet. You would be the logical prime suspect if any holes in the investigation turned up. I'll make sure you don't take a hit for this. But..." Gant looked out the window. "But the fact remains that there's a killer out there. He's dangerous. Even though his victims were criminals and he did everything to save people who needed it, the fact remains that he broke the law. And as long as he's in this city, it's our responsibility to make sure justice prevails." Gant slipped his jacket on. "You don't have to come with me if you don't want. But I'm gonna go find this guy whether anyone helps me or not."
Gant stopped halfway out the door. Patterson was clattering away at his computer. "Here's the address indicated in the gun registration," Patterson said as the printer started rattling off a sheet of paper.
"You're a hero, Rick," Gant said.