Blindside (2 page)

“We’re still investigating what exactly happened.” A second male voice, clipped and steady. “The damage from the explosion and the resulting fire led to severe loss.”

“A loss already estimated to cost tax payers millions of dollars.”

“She’s a fucking banker now?” Wojo’s raw, hollow words filtered through the ruby-red heat. The sheet rasped at her skin, a suffocating web of blankets tying her to the bed.

“Let’s turn this off, so you can rest.”

“I’m fine. Just hot in here.” A lame attempt to hide the truth. Not something she could tell a doctor.

“Can you comment on the officer who was rescued from the fire?”

“San Michael will call me cold hearted.” She pictured Williams on the screen, tired, flat eyes, his suit jacket carelessly tossed over his shoulder. His media presence, one that would take him to the commissioner’s tower and beyond. “ But Officer Lana Rossini should have waited for the HAZMAT team instead of running unprotected into the fire. An explosion of that kind….”

Tears prickled Lana’s burning eyelids.

“She’s a rookie cop. Less than a year on the job.” Another pause, as if Williams prepared the perfect sound bite. “She is alive because Narc chose to save her instead of helping to contain the fire. Yes, this is horrible to say. Some will call me a monster. I’m a cop and not a politician, and cops train to minimize the loss of life. Narc, Mr. Gamble, acted on emotion. He knew Officer Rossini, trained her in the dojo that he ran. He did what he thought was right, but in the end, he saved one person. One versus many. I don’t know what I could’ve done in his shoes, but from where I’m standing, that choice wasn’t right.”

Wojo paced somewhere beside her. “This is fucking ridiculous.”

“At this point, how many casualties?” Sympathy bled through the Southern charm like cream into a shot of whiskey.

“Five confirmed deaths and over forty injured.”

As if on cue, a group chanted, “Get out of San Mike.” Nausea churning in her belly, Lana imagined a crowd waving handmade signs.

“Those injured,” Wojo said, “are alive because of Narc. Not that Reporter of the Year will air those interviews. Or show the clips of Mac collapsing on the docks.”

“He what?” Her veins shriveled under yet another shock. She had blacked out after he handed her to the paramedics, when pain and lava boiled so bright she couldn’t think past her screams.

“Smoke inhalation. Three cops barely muscled him out of the docks. He kept trying to get back and–” A pause vibrated heavy in the air. “Tomorrow’s the big day. You need to sleep.”

As if she could. “It didn’t work. The surgery.” Lana hopped right back onto the pity train. “I’m blind.”

“Is that a fact?” No sympathy, just hard, cold anger. “Train Al to be a guide dog.”

Tears prickled her burning eyes, but after that whip of a tone, like hell she’d cry. Instead she pictured floppy ears, that happy canine grin. Paws that Big Al still had to grow into, an orphan now that her brother was gone.

She steeled herself. “You know what I mean.”

“You’re not blind, and we both know it. You’re just feeling like shit.” Blunt to the point of pain, and exactly what Lana needed to hear. “When you’re ready to hop off the pity train, you’ll find plenty of ways to live your life.”

“Like a damned vampire? Go out at night and burn in daylight?”

“Start eating garlic, kid.” He quickly squeezed her fingers when he pushed the remote control into her hand.

“My parents will take Al.”

“Your business.” He didn’t need to say that her parents—no, Nick’s parents—probably wouldn’t want the dog as a reminder. Not to mention, they probably wouldn’t be able to handle a Sheppard mix the size of a small horse.

“Thank you.” But for what? Going to her brother’s funeral? Kicking her ass when her parents, Nick’s parents, damnit, couldn’t? “Listen, I’m really—”

“Save it. Come by the dojo when you’re better.”

She forced a smile despite the damned bandages smothering her face.

A crinkling of the plastic curtain was followed by a soft click of the door. Funny how she learned to live by sound, recognizing the world by things she hadn’t paid attention to before.

With the TV still on, the dimmed monitor light poking her eyelids, she raised up the remote to turn the bastard off.

Wrong button.

“Captain, you spoke of Officer Rossini. Is Internal Affairs investigating her brother’s death?”

She froze, gripping the remote with bloodless fingers, her attention, her every cell, focused on the television set. “No comment at this time.”

“Did he open fire in a meth lab as a form of suicide?”

Rage burst with sparks of heat, nearly drowning out another terse, “No comment.” Her pulse roared in a wild staccato beats, and Lana clapped both hands over her lips to keep from screaming. Power rushed out of her throat, shrieked out of her lungs, pumped out of every shuddering pore. White scalding jets streamed out from her fingertips and glass shattered from the direction of the now silent television set.

***

New York, present day
….

The dirty lights above the urinals bounced off the needle Mac held at his neck. A quick plunge of his thumb would freeze his blood with poison. A quick shove, a quiet painful kiss. This cocktail of herbs, muscle relaxants, and inhibitors would drown his powers and ensure his “fans” didn’t regret spending their money watching a has-been hero fight.

Yeah, he was real super, shooting up over the cracked sinks, listening to the boos and whistles from the audience waiting for him outside the john. The dives and cities changed, but the syringes and the groupies didn’t. Ten grand a night, with the only stipulation that the fight was “fair.”

His dead parents would have been so proud seeing their one and only on the news, his stats up for the world to memorize.
Can shield himself from bullets. Can push himself off the ground or solid surfaces to give the illusion of flight. Projects a form of energy as a result of the adrenal glands fused with an unclassified functioning similar to blood sugar
.

The whole world knew his real name. He’d been offered millions so governments could probe him. And some nights, when the alcohol couldn’t drown out the aches and pains of busted joints, Mac wondered if he should give those scientists a call.

“Are you ready to Rrrrock!” The drawn out
R
had fans chanting for blood. With a long steady plunge, his focus cold in the cracked mirror, Mac Gamble, Narc, San Michael’s unmasked hero, thrust the needle into his neck.

Seconds ticked by. He waited for the heat to shrivel up and die inside a fresh doze of the poison, a relic from the Cold War he bought with money left over from each fight.

“Let’s bring him out then. You know him as Narc, San Michael’s Superhero, or Mac Gamble. And on his last day here, he’s ready to take on the baddest of New York. Shall we give him something to worry about?”

The answer was a resounding roar.

His neck stinging from the needle, Mac pushed through the double doors to make his way through the sweaty, alcohol-drenched crowd. The cage with its bright lights loomed ahead.

“I can’t hear you, New York.” The bold voice rolled over the tightly packed arena, rattling the mesh cupping the stage. “Ready to take on Narc?”

The noise shot up in volume, whistles and boos and screams like fists beating him down.
Watch an ex hero fight
—a damned good tagline. No one to save, no innocents to choose from.

“The first challenger is an MMA fighter from New Jersey.” Everyone and their mother claimed to be MMA. “Weighting at two hundred pounds. Welcome the Hammer!”

The first “client” bounced already center stage, knuckles taped up, lights glistening off a recently shaved head.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen. Before each match, Narc must prove he has no powers.” Translation: a free sucker punch in the gut.

“I saw him on TV. Didn’t he kill a bunch of people outside San Michael?” Voices floated around him. The wired cage rose up behind the pile of bodies in his way.

“No, it was their harbor. He sat fire to the docks. And didn’t he blind a cop?”

Clenched fists, guilt a familiar potent bile in his mouth. Mac pushed away the memory of her still form, a broken doll sprawled on the burning planks, blood coloring her sunshine hair crimson.

His screams for her roaring in his head, he made his way through the tunnel of fans to lean a hand against the cage and down the standard pre-fight shot of whiskey. The client stared daggers from above with wide determined eyes, his taped hands convulsing in an attempt to shadow box.

Lights flashed then dimmed, the stands went wild. Whiskey sloshed in the greasy pit that was Mac’s gut when he vaulted up into the cage and closed the door cut out of steel behind him.

“Whenever you’re ready, son.”

Three years ago, he used to taunt them. These days, he didn’t give a shit. Win or lose, he still got enough money to pay old debts and have enough left over to buy drugs for the next round.

The client took a couple of shuffles forward, jabbing the air with both fists, pectorals flexing under trendy tribals. Elbows too high above his ribs, he shot off a few practice crosses before a mile-wide hook sent Mac into the cage wall. The crowd roared in sync with the rattle of steel, whiskey and bile a foul combination in his mouth. He let himself hang on the cage for a moment, a confidence builder for the opponent and a tense moment for the fans.

The bursts of pain, the black spots in his vision were par for the course in his chosen vocation.

“Got all the proof you need?”

The guy gave a sharp nod to go with his sharp smile, then raised his gloves. “Let’s go.”

A tap of gloves as if they were honest sportsmen.

Without wasting time after the bell, the client laid quicksilver punches at Mac’s elbows, pushing him back against the wire. “Come on, muthafucker.” Spit flew with each word. “What can you do?”

A kick to his ribs got Mac to pay attention. A barely missed back-fist was followed by a knee aimed at his gut. Good thing New York hadn’t wised up to lining their cages with barbed wire.

“Come on, come on! You’re givin’ up already? ” The client hopped from side to side then wheeled a high and useless hook kick. “Aren’t you some sort of hero? Or, with your shit gone, can you barely fight?” Each word hissed through the black mouth guard shiny with saliva.

An elbow in his gut had the stands going wild. Mac blocked a foot aimed in a too-high kick and shoved the man a few steps back, gaining a second to get up, letting the whistles and the boos wash over him. Tonight, he’d lose, and all his haters would get a show worth their money.

A hand swiped over his stinging mouth came away with blood.

“Jesus, you’re nothing. You got a black belt in run-Fu?”

Mac meant to lose tonight—not every fight, but the first and last match would be those his fans would remember. His power frozen in his veins, he had nothing but regret and skill, bruises like badges of courage.

Three more rounds, two minutes each, the pain’s edge dulled but never quite blocked out by whiskey. Instead of waiting for a KO punch, he drew the fight out to keep the fans chanting for blood.

Another kick, another defensive elbow. A short jab into his chin sent Mr. Tribals into the mesh, the cage shuddering under the impact. The air drowned in shocked and sudden silence.

“Get up.”

Nothing but that same quiet, his opponent’s gaze an empty stare amidst the growing hum of derision from the crowd.

“Come on, get up.”

Eyelids rapidly blinked before closing shut. The boos and whistles swirled, this time not for Mac, but for the asshole who couldn’t last more than ten minutes in a cage fight. Good thing they both got their pay upfront.

Despite the unexpected win, he lost the last fight of the night as planned, giving the fans something to talk about for next stop in Boston. Another ten thousand dollars in his pocket, Mac found the nearest quiet bar with its low murmur of the news and patrons brooding into their Irish coffees. More cop layoffs throughout the country. Strangely enough, homicide rates kept inching up.

“Slow night for you.” Amusement in a rough familiar voice–the guy must’ve followed him here from the arena.
Are you really a super hero? Did you really kill those people and give up your mask? I have this great business idea, not exactly legit but
….

Mac would’ve gotten up if the man didn’t stop him with a gloved hand on his arm, spot on the fresh bruise blooming above his elbow.

“I need your help.” He finished off his drink, his face hidden by a Dodgers cap, his posture of sweeping the room for exits and troublemakers screaming law enforcement.

“I’m out of the helping business.”

“Not what you used to say.” A small, sharp smile, toothy enough to spark a jolt of recognition.

“Commander Williams.”

“My men call me Doc. You want another?” Under the low drawn hat, Williams tilted his chin in the direction of Mac’s emptied shot glass.

“No thanks.” He hadn’t drunk enough to drown pride and the arrogant bitch refused to let him flee from the man who ran him out of town.

“I’m here to offer you a job.”

“My body fluids go for millions.” Sometimes he considered dealing with fed and private science types when the aches of busted joints kept him awake till morning.

“I’m offering you a chance to come back. Be a hero. Do something right for once.” Williams flicked up two fingers to signal for another round. “You got my city crazed with vigilantes. I got them everywhere, running around in idiotic capes and tights. Kittyway, Invince. Some nerd rigged up a coat with cameras so people could see through him. Some of them even do some good. And then I get the real deal.” That last part barely carried over the splash of whiskey.

Mac lifted his glass to his lips, letting the taste warm up his gut on the way down. “Super powers?”

“Same stats as you but doesn’t fly. Power used as some sort of shield. The Night Rook—that’s what the papers call him. A friend of yours?”

“No one I know.” Whiskey turned ashen in Mac’s mouth.