Vigilante (17 page)

T
hornton Hastings leaned back, resting his tired bones in the comfortable plush leather chair that only the president was allowed to sit in. It lived behind the enormous wooden desk that he’d picked out for himself shortly before he’d taken the oath of office.

The Oval Office was empty at this late hour save for the standard Secret Service agents stationed outside. He felt a little silly being here in his long robe and pajamas, and wasn’t even sure why he’d walked all the way down here in the middle of the night. Other than his inability to sleep.

The latest edition of the
New York Gazette
was all alone on his desk, having already been read cover to cover. He picked it up again and turned it over to find the column on the bottom of page one. There it was. “The Hand That Hides the Face,” by Agnes Ellerbee. A piece about the scars that some claimed were visible under The Hand’s hood.

He didn’t particularly like the tone of the article. It was diplomatically written to appear to showcase both Hand supporters and detractors, but he’d been in politics long enough to recognize a veiled attack. Maybe something about The Hand had gotten under this Ellerbee woman’s skin. Maybe she was just using him to advance her career.

But then, if that’s the case, she’s not exactly alone. Is she.

Hastings knew that it wasn’t like he was doing any better by this selfless hero of the people. He’d signed off on the equally passive-aggressive attack that his press secretary had fed to the media a few days ago, calling into question The Hand’s character by linking him to the “mysterious” figure behind the destruction of Yuri Vasko’s home. It was a calculated lie, pure and simple.

What kind of man did that make him?

He’d done it for the greater good. The OCI stood a better chance of taking down the major players in modern organized crime than any other government agency in recent memory. If the OCI was no more, millions of Americans would pay the price, suffering under the boot of mob bosses, drug cartels, even homeland terrorists.

Was one good man’s reputation worth sacrificing if it meant saving countless others?

He folded up the newspaper and threw it in the garbage. After staring at it there for a moment, he searched his desk for the remote control. With a single button, a large TV appeared behind the wall to his left and swiveled to face him. Instantly it blinked to life, already tuned to a twenty-four-hour news network.

He wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or not that Agnes Ellerbee was the topic of conversation among a roundtable discussion of four journalists and pundits. A heated debate was unfolding on the screen as two members of the panel ardently disapproved of Ellerbee’s “attention-grabbing” work, which they said was written “solely to sell newspapers.” The other two showed stronger interest in what Ellerbee had written, suggesting that a balance of skepticism and integrity was healthy for journalists—something that many members of the media seemed to have forgotten when The Hand appeared on the scene.

The show’s host returned to the screen, interrupting a spirited round of discussion. “We’ve conducted a new poll among New Yorkers, in which the disparaging comments of Ms. Ellerbee’s exposé article are the primary focal point. I’m sure it will interest all of our panelists to find out that the vast majority of those polled—89 percent—said that Ellerbee’s articles had no impact on their opinion of The Hand. A separate poll indicated that The Hand still commands a positive opinion from an astounding
97 percent
of New York natives. This is effectively the same level of approval the hooded crime fighter has maintained since he initially appeared on the first of July. So it would seem that the
New York Gazette
’s article—as well as the implied accusations of the White House—has had no discernible effect on The Hand’s popularity.”

Hastings let out a short burst of air that was almost a laugh. Whoever he was, this Hand guy wasn’t just bulletproof, he was scandal proof.

But he was actually relieved that the OCI’s ruse had had no impact on The Hand and his standing among the people. It was proof that he should never have signed off on the idea. Trying to connect The Hand to the disaster at Vasko’s house was a bad call from the start, and Hastings had felt it in his blood. He should have trusted his instincts and put a stop to it before it started. That sort of political maneuvering was not appropriate for the kind of man he was, and not for the kind of president he was elected to be.

Maybe he should take a page from The Hand’s playbook and just
be good
. In every way, in everything he did. Never let anyone talk him into compromising. Not ever.

Maybe Hastings could do even better. This Hand guy had done so much for the people of New York—and the entire country, as the numerous Hand copycats popping up all over the nation were proof of—and had asked for nothing whatsoever in return. Instead of gratitude, the police and even the FBI had labeled The Hand an unlawful vigilante and were incessant in their attempts to find and stop him.

That
was one thing Hastings had the power to do something about.

N
olan descended the stairs into the beautiful bronze interior of Grand Central Station’s main concourse. The vaulted “sky ceiling” seemed impossibly high, and the famous four-sided clock at the very center of the concourse was instantly recognizable.

He’d been there before, of course, but while he appreciated the historic architecture and grandeur of it, at any given time the big open space could be filled with so many people it was difficult to get from one spot to another. He didn’t imagine he’d ever get past the claustrophobic panic that so many people in one place caused him. Another gift from his merciless captors during his overseas imprisonment.

As always, he changed the subject to compartmentalize those emotions. “Zipping around the city is quite a rush, but it’s very demanding physically. Maybe I should have a motorcycle. Or a car.”

He heard Branford
hmph
in his ear.
“Don’t you dare tell me you want Arjay to make you a
Handmobile
.”

Nolan scanned the area, hoping to pass with a minimum of attention.
Not an easy thing to do when you’re dressed like a battle-ready monk.

“It’d make it a lot easier to get around New York,” he replied. “Wouldn’t have to constantly be hitching rides on trains and such.”

“You honestly think it would be easier navigating through New York traffic?” Branford deadpanned.

Nolan smirked. “Yeah, maybe not. So where was this big ‘public disturbance’ you mentioned, again? Because I’m not seeing anything.”

“Lower concourse,” said Branford. “That’s what the police dispatcher said. You’d better hurry, they’re almost there.”

Some kind of public demonstration had been called in to NYPD, and the caller claimed it was nearing riot proportions. Something about a union dispute with the subway drivers. They’d been delaying trains, and the natives who relied on the tightly kept schedules were growing agitated. Several people had already been trampled, and the crowd was getting angrier by the minute. The local terminal cops were horribly outnumbered.

The big staircase at the back of the hall led down to the lower terminal, and Nolan sprinted toward it as fast as he could, ignoring the stares he drew. A few flashes even went off from pedestrians with cameras, but he sped past them all.

Suddenly, he drew back and froze. He turned and looked back up at the top of the stairs, and for a second, he thought he’d caught a glimpse of someone watching him. It was an afterimage, the last moment of someone already turning away from him and then disappearing from sight.

It might have been his imagination. But it was the second time he’d felt this pair of eyes on him; the first was at Coney Island. He wanted to turn around and run back up the stairs to find his mysterious stalker, but there wasn’t time. Someone was going to get killed downstairs in this angry riot if he didn’t get there fast.

He’d stepped off the last stair when something jabbed him in the head from behind. His fatigues lit up and surged with electricity, and he lost consciousness.

———

Drifting in and out, Nolan caught snatches of imagery as the world passed by. He was in a subway tunnel of some kind, a smallish one that the public didn’t seem to be using, in some kind of old fashioned–looking rail car. There were at least a dozen men in black suits standing around him and throughout the car.

But why was his hood still up around his face? They’d gone to all this trouble to acquire him but didn’t care to find out who he was? Not that seeing his mangled face would help them all that much, but still.

The train zoomed through the narrow tunnel, but the ride didn’t last long. He wanted to move, to act, to escape, but his body was tingling, nearly numb and unwilling to respond. It felt like every inch of his skin had been fried by lightning; he half expected to look down and see his body smoking from the massive current.

He knew he’d been hit with some kind of electricity, and somewhere in his memory he had a vague recollection of Arjay saying something about how graphene was a highly conductive material. If someone had hit him with a Taser from behind, they wouldn’t have realized his suit would carry the charge. Whatever it was, it had apparently knocked out his communications as well, so he was unable to hear Branford in his earpiece. Imagining the old man frantic over losing contact with him was a worrisome thought, yet one that also gave him an odd chuckle.

Now he was being carried—or rather dragged—by the arms, by a pair of large men in black suits. The others walked in tight formation behind. He wasn’t in the subway anymore; he was in some kind of small underground tunnel that was just wide enough to accommodate him and his two escorts. It was decorated with sconces on the warm-colored walls, and ornate burgundy carpet.

When next he awoke he was riding in a gold-colored elevator with five of his captors. He was relieved to notice that he was regaining feeling throughout his body now, but he kept up the ruse that he was unconscious. That he could take all five of these men was not an issue. But whoever these guys were, they’d gone to a lot of trouble to abduct him—was that public disturbance at the train station even real?—and he had to at least find out why they’d done this before making his escape.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened to what looked like a hotel hallway, with numbered doors on both sides.

The other half dozen or so men joined up with the ones surrounding him, and as one, they carted him inside an empty hotel room, where they dropped him on the carpet.

Nolan dared to raise his head—lazily, to keep up the appearance of being incapacitated—to get a look around, but it was dark and without his glasses he was left staring at shadows.

He guessed they had brought him there to wait on whoever had ordered his abduction. But Nolan had no interest in such games. It was time to pounce, to turn the tables and get some answers.

As he coiled in a heap on the floor, ready to spring, a single lamp in the room was illuminated and the suits filed out without warning. Not a word was said between them; they simply moved as one to the door and exited. All but one of them—a man Nolan hadn’t noticed before, who was also wearing a suit but looked decidedly different from the others.

Standing as the remaining man walked toward him from across the room, Nolan found himself staring into the face of President Thornton Hastings.

N
olan fought to maintain his equilibrium. He made a show of brushing himself off so that it would be clear he didn’t appreciate the way he’d been treated. If Hastings wanted to meet The Hand, that was fine, but did he really have to do it like this?

Frankly, the thought of Hastings discovering his identity was of no concern; he’d always assumed that his old friend would find out the truth sooner or later.

“Hello,” said Hastings, smiling. His voice was carefully modulated to sound light and jovial. “I want you to know that you’re not under arrest, and you’ll be free to go when we’re done here. I just thought it was time you and I met. Forgive the less than cordial welcome. Our Tasers apparently interacted with your . . . costume in an unexpected way. This was the only private way that you and I—”

“Thor,” said Nolan, after clearing his throat.

Just that one word escaped from his lips. Nothing more.

Hastings stopped short. His smile vanished, and he seemed to be stuck in place, unmoving, just staring. His lips slightly parted, as if words were on the tip of his tongue but couldn’t find an exit from his mouth.

Nolan nodded in a mechanical way, his body still sore and weak. “It’s me, Thor.” He threw back the hood from around his severely damaged face, not even sure how much of it Hastings would be able to see in the room’s low light.

“Nolan?” said Hastings, unable to accept what he was hearing—or seeing. “But . . . You—you’re
alive
?”

“Here I thought you were smart,” replied Nolan. “All this time, it never once occurred to you that it could be me under this hood.”

A hand came up to Hastings’ mouth, then traced upward to his hair, where it stayed. His head shook back and forth, and Nolan could tell his old friend was finding it impossible to swallow this. “It was you! All this time. It
is
you!
Of course
it’s you. . . . I mean, really, who else could possibly . . . But how?”

For a long time Nolan had pondered what this conversation might be like. So far it was exactly what he’d expected. “The idea came to me during the war. Took a long time to plan it all out. The evidence at the murder scene, my dog tags, the billboards, Times Square. I’ve been working toward this for years.”

Hastings was shaking his head again, but his hand finally fell to his side. “Why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you bring me in on this? I could have helped you.”

“We both know you wouldn’t have,” replied Nolan, his voice even and controlled. “When we came home after the war, I watched you ride the sympathy train straight to Washington. I really hoped that you might do some good, make some real changes there, but it was clear pretty quick that you were being held back by the same bureaucracy as every other politician.”

Hastings had left behind the shock of this revelation and was moving on to offended. “Nolan, do you even know
why
I entered politics? Why I wanted to be president?”

“ ’Course I do. It’s the same reason I’m doing
this
. If I stop, evil wins.”

Their pact was forged near the end of their imprisonment together. As the days and weeks became one big blur of pain and hopelessness, their captors devised inventive new ways of trying to break their prisoners. These despicable acts were designed to rob inmates of sensory input, nutrition, dignity, and even identity. A sort of theater was held in a large room within the prison, where every day a new batch of victims was brought forward. And when he and Hastings weren’t subjected to the tortures, they were made to watch as others were. Day in and day out. On and on it went.

Some time into their second year of captivity, when several of their fellow army captives had already died, Nolan and Hastings were placed in a pitch-dark, freezing-cold isolation chamber together for three straight days, and they made a promise to each other. There, in the absolute darkness, they vowed that if they ever escaped from this hell, they were going to change things for the better, so that no one else would ever have to suffer as they had.

But their promise went even deeper. They weren’t out to change laws or depose wicked rulers. It was an unspoken understanding between them that their real goal was to change
people
. Change their minds and hearts, so that wickedness would never take hold of an entire society again.

“I gave you your chance,” said Nolan, pushing those buried memories back where they belonged. “That’s why I waited this long to begin. I only acted once it was clear that you weren’t getting results. Thor, you did your best and I don’t fault you for being ineffective. You’re buried inside a system that’s damaged beyond repair. So now it’s my turn. All you have to do is stay out of my way.”

Hastings turned his head up to the ceiling as if searching for the words to say, written up there. He massaged his eyes for a moment before turning back to Nolan. “I can’t believe you let me think you were dead. I’m hurt by that. But I know the real reason you didn’t let me in. You know I don’t have your faith. It’s the one thing we never could find common ground on. You’re doing what you’re doing because you think God will reward you with an eternity of bliss after you die. But isn’t it better, isn’t it nobler and more selfless, to help others because you actually
care
about the suffering of your fellow human beings?”

Nolan was fighting a rising anger. “I would think that as a politician, you of all people would know better than to try to speak a language you don’t know. I’m not doing this for a reward; I’m doing it
because
I care about others—because God does too. And hey—you not sharing my beliefs doesn’t invalidate them.” Another thought occurred to him, and he added it before he could stop himself. “God’s not responsible for what they did to us, Thor.”

“He’s responsible for not stopping it!” Hastings shouted back, raising his voice for the first time. “If he’s real, and he’s as good and loving as you say he is, then why didn’t he prevent it?”

Nolan fell silent and had to look away. Unspeakable memories that he’d worked to put aside for so long were threatening to rush to the surface. He swallowed them down with everything he had. “We survived
because
God was there with us,” he said, his words barely a whisper.

Hastings was breathing hot air like a bull, a war going on between his mouth and his head. “Forget the faith stuff. Do you have any idea how much your funeral cost me? And I’m not talking about money! Do you know how much I sacrificed to give you the memorial I thought you deserved?”

“Yeah, I do.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Hastings caught on and his gaze turned dark. “Oh, I see. You know how much heat I took for it, and you think that works to your advantage.”

Nolan shrugged. “I didn’t plan it that way, but it’s convenient. You expose the truth about me, and the media will make you out to be the foolish president who spent taxpayer dollars burying a man who wasn’t dead. Your friends on the Hill will string you up. Face it: you have a lot more to lose than I do.”

Hastings closed his eyes and swallowed a very long breath. “I always knew you were methodical, and you
know
I don’t disagree with what you’re trying to accomplish, but you can’t do it this way. You’re so far outside the system, you’re starting to make others believe
they
can do anything and get away with it too.”

“Guilty people walk free if they have enough money, while the innocent suffer without any recourse. Your ‘system’ is a failure in every way. It’s tired and useless, and I don’t acknowledge it. I answer to a higher authority.”

Hastings sighed again. “Nolan. We want the same things. I want to find a way to make them a reality just as much as you do. We’re on the same side.”

“Are we really?” Nolan shot back. “Do we really want the same things, like absolute truth? Because I’ve seen the so-called truth your administration gives the people.”

Hastings put up both hands in a show of capitulation. “The Vasko thing was a mistake. It wasn’t my idea—”

“Your mistake,” Nolan interrupted, “was trying to pin it on me.”

“Nolan . . .”

“Having the support of a politician won’t help my cause,” said Nolan, his manner suddenly formal. “It’ll harm it. People don’t trust elected officials anymore, and rightly so. They’re all corrupt, all willing to do whatever it takes to get elected and stay in office. I know you’re not like the rest of them, and I know you’re genuinely interested in changing things from within . . . but, Thor, you’re still one of them.”

Hastings’ frown deepened, and his tone changed. “You’re not leaving me with a lot of options here. I have the power to shut you down and I’ll use it if you make me.”

“No you won’t,” Nolan said simply.

Hastings blinked and had to take a moment to regain his footing. His next words came out at a lower pitch. “There are very few people in this world who would presume to predict the actions of the president of the United States.”

But Nolan shook his head, his voice full of conviction. “You won’t stop me. You can’t afford to. Because with all due respect,
Mr. President
 . . . my approval ratings are higher than yours.”

Feeling a surge of both confidence and indignation, Nolan turned his back on his oldest friend and left him in the darkened room.