Spider-Man Page 4

  “Apologies, Mr. Fisk. I know I’ll be seeing it shortly, but…what’s it like?”

  The Kingpin saw no harm in indulging his assistant. He ran his finger-pads along the stone’s intricate writing. Each pictograph was so uniform, it was as if they’d been engraved by machine.

  “It’s strong, Wesley—like me. I’ll want to secure it in the vault upon my arrival. Only a temporary precaution. You should be able to begin work in a few hours.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Wesley hung up, but the Kingpin continued to stare at the tablet. Holding the “greatest secret in all the world” made him think of his own secrets. Sooner or later, Vanessa would learn the truth: Richard was dead. She would leave him, and without her love— without an heir—whatever he was would fade in time.

  This rock held an advantage: It had existed for eons and would exist for eons more. By doing nothing other than simply being, it had bested him.

  Well, if nothing else, luring the spider into his web would provide a distraction.

  * * *

  CLINGING to the smooth, windowless face of the Hell’s Kitchen luxury building, Spider-Man watched the private garage open to admit the limousine.

  Don’t want to say this was easy, but…

  His torso nearly flat against the surface, Peter’s hands and feet propelled him upward in that special, spidery way. It was second nature to his body, but still freaked him out a bit if he thought about it too much.

  An egomaniac like the Kingpin wouldn’t take anything less than the penthouse, no matter how obvious it makes him. And speaking of obvious…

  Every window on the uppermost floors was dim save one, right at the top. Steel shutters covered it, but the light escaping along the seams glowed invitingly. Spider-Man didn’t need his spider-sense to warn there was imminent danger on the other side. All the same, as he drew closer, it tingled nice and loud.

  Those shutters won’t keep me out for more than a few seconds, but if the Kingpin’s the cheese, then I’m the rat. Let’s see if I can grab a peek before I step into the trap.

  He leaned upside down over the shutters, peering through the same seam that let the light out. Inside and below, in some sort of huge private gym, was the big man himself. The Kingpin sat in an oversized chair that looked like a cross between a throne and a Barcalounger. Armed flunkies stood around him in a semicircle, craning their necks up as if the closed shutter was the best TV show ever.

  The men were tense, uncertain—first aiming their guns up at the window, then lowering them, then snapping the barrels back up a second later. They looked like mutts who’d thought they’d seen a squirrel, realized it was only a leaf, but still wondered whether they should chase it anyway.

  Just to mess with them, Spider-Man used his web to yank a shingle from the roof above and send it skimming sideways against the wall next to the window. The nervous minions practically jumped out of their skins.

  “Boss?”

  Fisk remained motionless. “Steady! Show some patience, and I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  Frankly, I’m already disappointed. To think he respects me so little he’d try such a cheap trick. Not that it’ll stop me from using his lame ruse against him…

  Shortly, the steel shutter tore open with a pained, earsplitting squeal. After a melodramatic pause, a figure flew in, bearing the familiar Spider-insignia on its back.

  “Look!”

  “There he is!”

  “You were right, Kingpin!”

  The gunmen opened fire. As the form writhed and twitched with each bullet impact, they cried out with boyish glee: “We finally got him!”

  The Kingpin was far from delighted. “Hold your fire! Are you all deaf? The point was to keep him in check while I faced him myself!”

  Smoke still curling from their guns, they approached the body. It dangled limply in the air, not falling.

  Shoving his minions aside, Fisk finally noticed the web-line that kept the body suspended in air. The decoy itself was made of a gooey mesh that drooped from its sleeves and waist. Seething, wordless, Fisk turned back to the window while his men kept their eyes on the dummy.

  “What is it? Some sort of mannequin?”

  “He must’ve made it out of his webbing.”

  A few quick thwips of webbing yanked several weapons from their hands. As the guns sailed out, a shirtless Spider-Man sailed in.

  “Brr! It’s cold! Someone leave a window open?”

  As he dropped, he kicked the two nearest thugs. They flew across the room and collapsed into the Kingpin’s empty throne. Before landing, Spider-Man drove his fists out to either side, smashing two more in the face.

  Furious, the Kingpin howled. “You think you can make a fool out of me?”

  “Gonna have to go with ‘yes’ on that one.”

  Getting his goat is almost too easy. I had no idea someone’s face could turn that red.

  One mob-soldier aimed, about to fire; another rushed forward, hoping to catch the wall-crawler off balance. Spider-Man brought down his fists on both and used their heads to propel himself back into the air.

  “Given that cheesy trap, I have to ask: Do your foes mistake your brain for fat, too?”

  He landed in a crouch and waited for the irate Kingpin to make his move. Not bothering to remove his tailored jacket, Fisk lumbered toward Spider-Man. He shoved his own remaining men out of the way with such force that one slammed into another.

  “Sheesh! If that’s how you take care of your employees, no wonder mommy and daddy never got you that puppy.”

  Expecting the fuming Kingpin to keep coming straight at him, Spider-Man leapt to meet him halfway. But Fisk somehow stopped short, defying the physics of his own forward momentum. One second, the wall-crawler was sailing through the air—the next, both wrists were caught in a viselike grip, his spider-sense screaming Too late. The Kingpin had reached out faster and farther than Spider-Man believed possible.

  Pivoting at the waist, Fisk hurled him straight into the web mannequin.

  No! Stupid, stupid! I handed it to him.

  With no time to maneuver, Spider-Man felt his arms sink into the gummy sludge.

  Angry at himself, he pulled and tore, but only entangled himself further. His web fluid could assume three forms: swinging strand, webbing, and thick globs. The adhesive quality faded fast when exposed to air, but the globs he’d used for the dummy had a sticky, gooey center.

  Dammit! How many times have I made fun of some struggling crook tightening my web? Here I am, doing the same thing! If I could just relax, I’d get free in seconds.

  But seconds were all the Kingpin needed. His trunk-like right arm pulled back for the first punch. Still stuck, Spider-Man managed to swing the hanging mannequin, and himself, out of the way. The ham-sized fist caught the exposed edge of the meshed web, sending the ensnared wall-crawler into a dizzying spin.

  “Look at you now! Your mannequin put up a better fight!”

  The next attack came with startling speed, but Peter’s spider-sense told him when to move. The Kingpin’s fist flew through empty air and down into a heavy oak desk, cracking it in half. Taken off-balance by the strength of his own strike, Fisk had to reach backward to keep from falling.

  “How long do you think you can keep dodging me?” the Kingpin asked.

  Arching his back against the mannequin’s exposed surface, Spider-Man wrenched his legs free. “At least until you change your mouthwash.”

  Spider-Man’s left leg kicked out awkwardly, allowing the Kingpin to grab it by the ankle. He didn’t see Spidey’s right leg coming, though, until it was too late. The kick sent the Kingpin tumbling backwards over the broken desk.

  With more of the mannequin’s goo exposed to the air now, Peter pulled himself and his shirt free. Unrestrained, he tucked the shirt into his pants, hopped to the wall and scooted across.

  Rising, the Kingpin tried to swat him off with a contemptuous backhand. But thanks to his spider-sense, Spider-Man w
as already jumping back to the floor.

  That was close! I’m still underestimating him. Fortunately, he hasn’t seen everything I can do, either.

  Executing a midair flip that would break a normal person’s spine, Spider-Man wrapped his legs around what he could find of the Kingpin’s neck and pulled him down hard, doing his best to ensure the thick head would take the bulk of the impact.

  When they hit, the floor shook and the paintings rattled.

  “Did that hurt? Sorry, must’ve mistaken your fat for muscle.”

  Unfazed, the Kingpin grinned. “Actually, it didn’t hurt at all.” His hand wrapped around Spider-Man’s wrist. “This will, however.”

  Again with the squeezing? If he thinks he can crush my bones, he’s got a…

  A thumb thick as a hammerhead found a spot and pressed.

  “Combat isn’t just about raw strength, bug. It’s about knowing the right pressure points.”

  Peter tried to use his free hand for a counterstrike, but a searing pain shot from his wrist across his back and shoulders, causing his arm to seize up. The agony collided with his screaming spider-sense. Black spots swam before his eyes.

  * * *

  SOMETHING more than the night air hovered outside the broken window. Unnoticed, held aloft by silent rotors, a drone was relaying images of the gloating Kingpin and his helpless foe to a black armored car below. The vehicle resembled an SUV, but longer and lower to the ground.

  At the wheel, the Schemer watched the built-in screen, tapped his chin, and thought a moment. Then he placed a call.

  “Silvermane? Are you aware of the theft at the Exhibition Hall?”

  Manfredi’s croaking response was so loud, the Schemer had to hold the phone away from his ear. “Of course—it’s all over the news! What do you…?”

  Hoping the Maggia leader would do the same, the Schemer lowered his voice. “The Kingpin is currently under attack by Spider-Man. It’s left his defenses seriously compromised. Should you notify the police and give them the address I’m sending, I’m sure they’ll have no trouble finding him—and the evidence they’d need to charge him for the crime.”

  The aged mobster growled some expression of gratitude.

  The Schemer hung up and went back to watching the fight.

  FIVE

  ON THE second floor of a venerable brick precinct house a few blocks from ESU, City Editor Joseph “Robbie” Robertson turned away from the window to face his son. The group outside was a fraction of the mob that had occupied the plaza, but he worried it was about to grow. News of the arrested organizers’ location had yet to spread.

  “I know how badly you want to help, but how is getting a criminal record going to do that?”

  A few months ago, Randy had been a high schooler eager to start college. Now he looked more angry than eager. Robbie admired the passion, recognized and remembered it from his own youth. But as a father, he was more afraid than angry.

  Randy picked his eyes up and glared. “How has working for a racist like J. Jonah Jameson helped you?”

  Robbie stiffened. “Racist? Is that what you think? The man can be a complete ass, but racism is one of the few flaws you can’t pin on him. Do you understand that if I wasn’t his City Editor, and didn’t know the people here, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me? You’d be locked up with the others.”

  “His news editor? Like he owns you?”

  “No!”

  “So I’m supposed to be grateful for the privileges some rich white guy bestows on you? And let everybody else be damned?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I…”

  He turned back to the window to take a few breaths. Below, there was some sort of argument going on among the students. A flash of platinum blonde hair told him Gwen, Captain Stacy’s daughter, was one of the participants.

  He wondered what issues Stacy had with his daughter, but doubted it was the same as his own problems with Randy.

  Either way, looks like everyone has something to be angry about tonight.

  * * *

  HOPING to see how her father was doing, Gwen Stacy found herself facing off against 20 steaming peers. Backing down would be the easy thing to do. But years of worrying whether her dad would come home safe had taught her that the easy thing was seldom the right thing.

  When the group’s tall, lanky spokesman got all puffed up and in her space, she climbed up a step to respond eye-to-eye. “Look, I understand why you’re here, but protesting at the precinct keeps the focus on the theft, not on tuition! It isn’t helping.”

  Listening, he nodded. “Okay, I get it. You’re sticking up for what you believe. That’s cool.”

  She thought it was over, but then another voice called, “Where’s your runaway boyfriend, Parker? He hasn’t got the guts to make any stand!”

  Gwen walked up to a smug junior in a vaguely fashionable crewneck and raised her finger at his chin.

  “Was that you? You said Peter Parker doesn’t have any guts?”

  Unlike the other protestors, he had liquor on his breath. “Yeah, I did!”

  He was an idiot, not worth the effort. But she still found herself slapping him. The sharp crack made the others stare.

  “He could be half the man he is and still take 10 of you!”

  He rubbed his cheek, shocked into silence.

  Gwen stormed up the steps to the door, the protestors’ childish chorus of “Ooooh!” hot on her back. Officers Fenway and Huntington, who’d known her since she was a child, let her by without question.

  Peering beyond Sgt. Murphy at the front desk, Gwen spotted her father’s snowy white hair. His sharp blue eyes were glued to a printout, but, seeming to sense her presence, he looked up and greeted her with a gentle smile.

  “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

  She folded her arms and hissed out a breath. “Why not? I’m a student at ESU, aren’t I?”

  Captain Stacy’s smile waned. “Of course you’re concerned about the protests—I wouldn’t expect any less of you. But you’re shaking. What’s got you so riled up?”

  She pursed her lips and eyed the floor. “Some loudmouth outside.”

  Sgt. Murphy aimed a thumb at the door. “Fenway says you socked that kid good. One hand, hey, good for you. Other hand, be careful you don’t get accused of assault.”

  When her father’s brow furrowed, his thick eyebrows almost met. “Did someone get rough with you?”

  In a flash, the anger drained, leaving only embarrassment. “Nothing like that. He just…said something about Peter.”

  He studied her with the keen eyes that had analyzed a thousand crime scenes. “I can see getting annoyed, but striking someone? Are you worried that whatever he said might be true?”

  Gwen loved her father more than anything, but no one liked having their mind read—especially before you were ready to read it yourself. Her thoughts raced back to all the times Peter had vanished at the first sign of trouble, how once she’d hated him for it. But hadn’t that changed? Hadn’t her doubts vanished yet?

  Or do I still think Peter’s a coward?

  * * *

  IN HELL’S KITCHEN, Wesley watched his boss grapple with the impressively brave Spider-Man. Seated comfortably in the security office, with cameras covering every inch of the penthouse save the private quarters, Wesley had a perfect, and perfectly safe, view.

  He’d been wary of the brash decision to lead such a powerful enemy here. Between the Maggia pushback and his strained relations with his wife, the Kingpin was facing some unusual challenges that might cloud his judgment. But it looked as if his instincts had been correct, as always.

  Wesley might have held the wall-crawler longer, but when the Kingpin did let go, Spider-Man slipped weakly to the floor, barely able to curl into a fetal ball. The hero was probably stronger pound-for-pound, but he was young, overeager, and inexperienced. Mr. Fisk had taken full advantage of those facts.

  As for the unconscious mob-soldiers strewn across the gym, repl
acements were already on the way. Wesley’s bigger concern was the crushed desk: If the dealer was to be believed, Al Capone had once owned it. But Wesley was sure he could find a suitable substitute.

  Perhaps Silvermane’s desk would work.

  As the Kingpin gloated, Wesley indulged in a rare bit of his own reveling. The tablet he’d spent years studying was here, and while its physical attributes might belong to his boss, the task of unlocking its strange script fell to him.

  Not that he wanted to use its secrets himself. Wielding power struck him as garish, but the thought of cracking the ancient code, when so many others had failed—well, that gave him a heady tingle.

  On screen, Fisk raised half the broken desk and prepared to bring it down on the helpless Spider-Man. Despite the apparent victory, Wesley decided to heed his own paranoia. That was his job. He checked the other camera feeds, then scanned the police bands for unusual alerts.

  One came up at once: “We have a 10-34s on 46th and Ninth Avenue, Hell’s Kitchen. All available units report. The Kingpin and the stolen tablet are believed to be at the scene.”

  Wesley seized up. That was their address. A 10-34s meant an assault in progress, shots fired. How could the police know? Besides being carefully soundproofed, the penthouse was so far above the loud streets that the Kingpin had once fired a missile launcher without anyone blinking an eye. Even if the handpicked tenants below were to hear something, they’d be too terrified to contact the police.

  Some sort of breach? An informer?

  There was no time to figure that out now. The law was on the way. Wesley slammed the intercom button: “Sir?”

  The line was dead, perhaps damaged by one of the bullets fired when the wall-crawler had first entered. Just as Wesley shot to his feet, things got worse. On the screen, the “defeated” Spider-Man sprang up into action. The web-slinger’s speed reminded him of a jumping spider, of the Salticidae family. He didn’t seem to move from the floor so much as vanish and instantly reappear in midair, his fist driving deep into Mr. Fisk’s abdomen.

  “If playing dead’s all it takes to surprise you, I get why you thought that window-thing might work.”