The Daughters of the Dragon in…

SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME

By Curtis Fernlund

New York. The Bronx, 181st Street at Anderson Avenue.

Trevon Jackson was high. High on life, son, an’ living’ large. Larger’n life an’ buzzin’. He ain’t never felt like this in his fifteen years, an’ it was just gonna get better.

“Yeah, mo’fo’,” he shouted as he sidled down the street, breath clouding in the crisp autumn air. He didn’t care, man. Didn’t feel the cold he was feeling so good. Just rollin’ with the music an’ thinkin’ a’ the hot little snatch waitin’ back at the crib, wrapped up an’ waitin’. Yeah, he was gonna hit that again. Hit it hard, man!

Snoop blared in his ears as he made his way up the hill, grinnin’ like an’ idiot he figured, but he didn’t care. Weren’t many people out in the cold, but that was good. Didn’t need no a-holes bustin’ in an’ dissin’ his mood, wantin’ a fuckin’ quarter or a butt. An’ he felt too good ta listen to his homeboys talkin’ shit too. They was goin’ no where. Not like Trevon…

Soon as Daddy Whore-bucks- LOL- upped with the green, they’d all be livin’ large an’ outta the hood. Penthouse in downtown, right on the park, screw the Jefferson’s. Movin’ on up straight ta the top, son.

Trevon glanced left at the corner an’ saw the Spiks out, like always, pushin’ their crank. Man, don’t they ever sleep? They eyed him like always an’ he gave ‘em the stare right back. They knew him. Maybe didn’t respect him, but they respected Jason an’ knew not to hassle him an’ his. Felt like flippin’ the finger but it passed as he stepped up onto the curb.

Some bag lady huddled up in the door a’ the Chink joint. Prob’ly cold in that ratty ass coat, but Trevon didn’t care. She was blockin’ the door an’ Jase wanted food; big bucket a’ General Tso’s chicken, spare ribs an’ some chop suey, an’ another half rack a’ ‘Old Gold’ from the Deli.

“Move, bitch!” Trevon shouted over the music blastin’ through his ear buds, kickin’ the bag hag just hard enough ta get her attention. Bitch groaned an’ rolled but didn’t move. He kicked again, the steel toe of his Doc Martin’s thumpin’ somethin’ hard, but that got her attention.

Trevon blinked when she looked up at him. Whoa! Lotta hate in that look, her dark eyes cracklin, man. Then she focused like an’ smiled. Thought she might’a been pretty once but her face was smeared with grease an’ soot and she was missin’ a couple teeth. Real bag hag! Looked a little familiar too, in some odd ass way.

“Gimme a quarter,” she hissed, her voice crackin’ as she started hackin’ up phlegm.

Trevon backed up as a glob hit way too close to his two hunnerd an’ change boots. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he spat as he dug into his low-riders an’ pulled out a fistful a’ chump. He tossed the change on the ground out on the corner an’ that got her movin’, crawlin’ after like thirty-seven cents.

Trevon chuckled, his gold cap flashin’ with his wide grin as the hag scrambled after copper. Be damn good ta be outta this shit hole ‘hood, he thought as he shouldered through the chicken wire glass door of ‘Asian D-Lite’. Even the bums was better in the city, but later for that.

Time ta eat…

“That him?”

Misty Knight winced at the staticky voice in her ear and looked up trying to remain in character. She gathered up the coins that the little shit had tossed into the gutter, swaying slightly and head bobbing, muttering to herself as she looked around warily.

She glanced at the four Puerto Ricans gathered in front of one of the old apartment buildings that had sprung up in the hey day of the Bronx, when the area had been mostly Jewish. It had probably been nice once, just a few blocks up the hill from Yankee Stadium and overlooking the Harlem River. But like most neighborhoods in the five boroughs, after the ‘Whites’ with the money moved on to greener pastures, the less fortunate moved in. Less money, less opportunity meant less upkeep and the streets and buildings most usually degraded into poverty.

The four Latinos watched her with amused smirks as she stuffed the coins into the pockets of her threadbare, woolen overcoat. They were speaking in Spanish and calling her names, figuring her to be an ignorant old black lady and missing a few screws like 99% of the city’s homeless; kicked out of institutions when the money dried up. Misty knew what they were saying, though. In her line of work it was essential to be bi-lingual at the very least.

They were selling drugs; coke and crack by the look, though probably waiting on a definite score to show or maybe a drop tonight. It had been warmer last night and business had been good, but with the sudden drop in temperature there weren’t too many people out on the streets. Misty had seen a couple regulars brave the upper thirties for their nightly hit just as they had the last three nights, but otherwise trade was slow. The Bodega down the hill on Anderson was doing better; beer and food probably, cigarettes, all the staples. A couple people out walking dogs and three guys heading down the hill, probably for the trains at 161.

The Latinos ignored her as Misty crawled back to a spot just beside the door of the Chinese take-out place, smoking cigarettes and drinking, muttering about the cold. Misty settled on the hard, freezing sidewalk, wincing at the pain in her ass as she sat, back to the wall. Trevon’s first kick had been hard enough to hurt the little bastard. Luckily she had blocked the second with her right arm, and he was too wired to notice the prosthetic.

Misty Knight flexed the fingers of her bionic right hand, once again remembering the terrorist’s bomb that had taken her real arm years ago. She had been a cop, and a highly decorated one at that before the blast. In recognition Stark International had fitted her with a bionic prosthetic. It looked and did everything a real arm could, and then some, but it was still not the real thing. Still not her own…

Misty glanced through the wide, yellow streaked windows of the take-out and saw Trevon, over-sized Yankees hat askew, hands stuffed into the deep pockets of his 8-Ball jacket, baggy jeans hanging off his ass while his head bobbed to whatever he had wired into his ears way too loudly. Misty had heard the pounding bass even over his snarls outside. She saw the cute little Asian girl at the counter looking at her with fearful eyes. Probably wondering if tonight was the night.

Bet it is, sweet heart, Misty thought as she slumped back into position to wait. She had been sitting in various spots along the streets and avenues at night for three nights now. Walking up and down the hill hunched over her squeaky, overburdened shopping cart during the day so as to be seen. She had needed the people in the neighborhood to accept the fact that another bag lady was in their hood and ignore her so she could blend into the scenery. It had worked. Usually it was only the young bucks out to sew some oats that hassled the homeless, but aside from a few names thrown her way Misty had been left alone.

Last night she had shambled into the Asian D-Lite and flashed her old NYPD badge to the wide-eyed counter girl. She had explained that she would be setting up shop on the stoop and that there would be an arrest, which was fairly true. The girl looked terrified as she nodded then explained to the three men manning the tiny kitchen. Finally the man working the huge wok came forward and agreed after Misty had slid two Franklin’s through the opening in the safety glass partition; ordering broccoli in garlic sauce with the hefty tip. Then she had settled in to watch and wait.

“Misty?” Colleen Wing’s voice crackled in her ear again and Misty could hear the rise in pitch. Misty had to smile.

Colleen was her best friend and partner in their private detective agency, Nightwing Restorations Ltd., and had been for years. She had met the samurai warrior back in her days on the Force, saving her actually in the middle of a gun battle in Manhattan. Colleen in turn had later helped Misty through her depression after she had lost her arm and together they had formed Nightwing. It had been a roller-coaster ride of adventure ever since, not that Misty was complaining. They had seen the world and through Colleen and her late father she had met Danny Rand, the Iron Fist; the man she loved. And, Jeez, how many others? Luke Cage, Powerman had been the first, with the accidental exception of Spider-Man and the Human Torch of course. But then came the X-Men, the Avengers, the FF…

Definitely not the life she had envisioned as a little girl growing up on the mean streets of Harlem.

“Yeah, Col,” she said into the tiny microphone hidden in the folds of her wide collar, “it’s him. Trevon Jackson, the ‘Big Dawg’ hisself. Little bitch, kicked me.” She heard Colleen chuckle.

“You’ll live,” her friend replied. “You set?”

“Ready,” Misty replied. More than ready, she silently added.

Jason Jackson and his little badass band of kidnappers were going down tonight. And Trevon, the little shit was gonna fall hard.

Colleen Wing shivered as a chilly wind whistled over the rooftop, whipping at the tails of her longcoat. It was getting colder by the second it seemed, and Channel 4 had predicted freezing temperatures and even flurries overnight. Nasty weather even for New York so early in October.

Colleen gave a slight grunt as she shifted her position, putting her weight on her other knee. She hated stakeouts, so long and boring, but what had to be, had to be. She and Misty had to mark Jason Jackson and his friends before they went busting in, and it had been a long, grueling three days of effort. Probably even longer for Misty, as Colleen did not really fit into the neighborhood with her half-Japanese features.

While Misty had been roaming the streets as a bag lady, Colleen had been doing the leg work downtown in Manhattan. Re-visiting the club where the girl had been taken. Working Manhattan South and the NYPD computer grid (no small thanks to Misty’s links to the Force to get her in) to find Jackson and his friends, family and associates, addresses and likely hang outs. And worst of all, keeping the D.A. at ease and off their backs while they worked.

They had not been too surprised when Blake Tower, Manhattan’s District Attorney had shown up at their Times Square offices five days previous. The D.A. had called on the services of Nightwing Restorations Ltd. In the past and had known Misty for years, even longer than Colleen. Too, he was more privy than most to the circles that the Daughters of the Dragon ran in, and their resources. What had shocked them both a bit were the people that Tower had brought with him.

Of course they knew Lt. Rafael Scarfe, NYPD. He had been Misty’s partner in the days when she had been a cop in Blues, as well as being a good friend to them both. Along with Scarfe and Tower were two FBI Special Agents. Dena Neely was a short, pretty redhead who seemed a no-nonsense woman and looked exhausted. Her partner, Wolfgang Bender seemed more at ease, handsome with a hint of a smile always at the corner of his lips.

Both Misty and Colleen had wondered why the FBI were along, but DA Tower had quickly filled them in…

Manhattan. Times Square, Nightwing Restorations Ltd.
Five days prior…

“It’s a very delicate case,” Blake Tower said as he stared out the windows sparkling with the glow of neon and the flashing digital mega screen signs that now illuminated the Deuce since the incursion of Disney. It was a far cry from the grimy, crime-ridden streets that it once was years before. With Disney willing to invest billions the city had happily swept away the porn shops and XXX movies houses that had once lined every street, taking with them the prostitutes, junkies and pushers, the chicken hawks that had figuratively lived at the Port Authority and most of the homeless that had called 42nd Street home.

Tower sighed as he turned back to the group, and Colleen could not help noting the man’s resemblance to Robert Redford. “There was a kidnapping two weeks ago on the twenty-fourth,” he continued. “Which is why the FBI were called in. But it’s a bit more involved. The victim is a minor, and the daughter of a UN ambassador from Great Britain. A very rich man in his own right.”

Colleen looked at the photo of the girl, a cute blonde who looked maybe fifteen tops. Hillary Bernard, daughter of Malcolm Bernard, a name that was not lost on Colleen. Not quite Donald Trump he was Old World money built off of an investment banking empire in the British Isles.

“And I take it the kidnappers know who they have?” Misty asked and Colleen saw Special Agent Bender nod, the smile vanishing for a moment.

“Bernard was contacted via his daughter’s cell the next day, verifying the number. The kidnappers sent him a video taken with the phone that showed his daughter bound and gagged… and naked to a bed in a room. They were very thorough, focusing the image solely on the bed and the girl’s face; no shadows, no noise or voices in the background. Just the one who made the call; a man whose voice was muffled speaking over the video.”

“Bernard of course contacted the State Department and they in turn called in the FBI,” Neely continued, taking over Bender’s conversation without missing a beat. The two had apparently been partners for awhile. “We were assigned the case and contacted NYPD and DA Tower.”

“And that’s where I come in,” Lt. Scarfe said. Colleen noted that he had shaved off his mustache since the last time she had seen him, and the gray at his temples had spread a bit. Not an uncommon thing for a cop in New York.

“We visited Bernard at his Park Avenue residence and got what we could from him after watching the video message, though his PA did most of the talking. Bernard was still pretty much in a state of shock, and out of it on sedatives. And rightly so you’ll probably agree after you watch the vid.

“Anyway, seems Hillary and her best friend and school mate, one Lauri Leighton, were out that Friday night at that club down in West Chelsea, Hot Shot.” Scarfe looked between Colleen and Misty for recognition, but Colleen had never heard of it. “It’s fairly new and THE trendy place to go if you’re a minor. It’s a no alcohol disco club that’s apparently cutting edge with the glitter party girls and the up and coming hipster wanna-be’s. ‘Course it also drags in the young blood’s cuz the three floors offer varying music with Rap and Hip-Hop on the third.”

“Was the Leighton girl kidnapped too?” Misty asked and Scarfe shook his head.

“Oddly no,” he continued. “We talked with her as well as she and her parents were on hand. Rather, Agent Neely did.”

“According to Lauri,” Special Agent Neely continued, “the girls were out and having fun, just dancing at the club. At some point they slipped away from Bernard’s hired muscle- Hillary had a bodyguard twenty-four/seven. They wanted to dare the club’s top floor, thinking it would be a thrill. Turned out to be more than that.”

“Seems they met up with two brothers, JJ and Big T,” Bender said his lips curling again. “Stereotypical African American youths, not to sound racist, sorry.” He glanced at Misty and she shrugged. “Low hanging jeans, gold jewelry, baseball caps on backwards; the Leighton girl gave us the generic description. They danced and hung out most of the night, but around one in the morning JJ suggested they go somewhere else for a more ‘private party’. Seemed he knew an after hours club that didn’t check ID’s.”

“Lauri said that she didn’t want to go,” Neely added, taking over. “She said Hillary wanted to though. Apparently she was a little drunk as the brothers had smuggled a flask into the club. Lauri said that she begged Hillary not to go even as the brothers lead them outside and to the Car Park where they had stored their Escalade for the night.

“Once at the car, Hillary must have sobered a bit, but by then it was too late. Big T pulled Hillary into the back and JJ went to grab Lauri who screamed and ‘ran like hell’ as she put it. She said the black SUV almost ran her down even as she reached the attendant who was coming to investigate.”

“I assume then that we know who JJ and Big T are then?” Misty asked. “Parking garages have a registry and most in the city have surveillance cameras.” Scarfe nodded.

“The Escalade was registered to one Jason Jackson, resident of Manhattan, Harlem. A one-time offender arrested on possession of illegal substances, selling in the Hunter Projects on West Ninety-sixth. Served six months on Ryker’s and two clean years of parole, now aged twenty-six. Guilt by association, we figure Big T is his younger brother Trevon, age sixteen. NYPD and our two FBI friends raided their West One Twenty-third street apartment, but found it vacant. As in cleaned out and abandoned. Contacted the land lord, one William Cho but he had never seen the two since the signing of the lease just over three years ago. Talked to the Super and the neighbors but got the usual stone wall; ‘seen ‘em around, helloes, no friends in the building’.”

“So they’re holed up at a friend’s place we don’t know about,” Misty concluded.

“That’s what we figure,” DA Tower agreed. “We- rather Rafe looked into associates and we gathered a short list but came up empty after visiting each. Wherever they are, they’re keeping a low profile.”

“Did the bodyguard see anything?” Colleen asked and Tower shook his head.

“She was searching the club but apparently missed them as they left.”

“She?” Colleen asked.

“One Pamela Dawson; Age 27, ex NYPD,” Bender offered. “She was involved in a shooting incident her second year at the One-Oh-Eighth Precinct in Forest Hills. Forced to resign rather than face jail time, she became a security guard with Tri-Star Security and assigned to Bernard’s daughter eventually. Bernard liked her and her credentials and bought her contract.” Colleen looked to Misty, but her partner shrugged not recognizing the name or the incident.

“We have the videos from the club and parking garage,” DA Tower said, “plus the records on Jason Jackson, along with his booking photos. Nothing on Trevon. He’s apparently clean. We’ve obviously reached an impasse,” he said sagging. “I have the Mayor’s Office, the State Department and the UN breathing down my neck to find and rescue Hillary.” Tower slumped leaning on the desk and loosening his tie. “We need help.”

Colleen looked to Misty and nodded.

“We’ll try, Blake,” she said. “That’s all we can promise. Give us what you’ve got and we’ll do our best to bring the girl home.”

“That’s all we ask,” Scarfe said as he dropped a manila envelope on the desk. “Records on Jackson, all of his known family and associates. Flash Drive with the videos and recorded interviews. We talked to everyone on the list, but no one knew anything, or at least didn’t want to say anything.”

“Good luck,” Neely added as she rose from her chair and gave Colleen a card with her cell number.

“Or at least better luck than we’ve had,” Bender added doing the same with Misty. “Keep us appraised.”

Misty Knight nodded assurance as Colleen Wing shut and locked the door behind them.

Hey, Daddy Whore-bucks!

As you can see we gots little Annie Fanny. You want her back, yer gonna up ten million large or we’ll be sendin’ her back a piece at a time. An’ we’ll be takin’ a piece too while you’re dickin’ us around with the FBI an’ the NYPD. Ain’t even gonna tell ya no cops. Know yer gonna call, so fuck that. We’re smarter than Kojak an’ the Blues.

Know ten million’s a lot so we’ll give ya a few days ta get it together. In the mean time we’ll be havin’ a party with li’l Hill. I’ll be poppin’ that cherry real soon. You want her back in good shape, ya better hurry with the cash, Nigga. I’ll be in touch.

“Jesus…” Misty Knight said as she stared at the video image frozen on the computer’s monitor. Hillary Bernard’s blue eyes were wide with terror, tears running down her cheeks as she stared at the camera.

“Sick bastards,” Colleen said, agreeing with Misty’s unspoken sentiment. They had watched all of the videos on the Flash Drive several times, hoping to spot any clue that might have been missed, but there was nothing beyond what officialdom had found. Jason and Trevon Jackson had kidnapped Hillary Bernard, and the three had seemingly vanished. They were not holed up with relatives or any of their known friends. They had seemingly vanished and were staying with some unknown third party. Just whom that might be they as yet did not have a clue.

“First impression?” Colleen asked and Misty shrugged.

“I dunno. Seems a little coincidental that the brothers Jackson happened upon the daughter of a billionaire and impromtu-ly decided to kidnap her.”

“It could happen.”

“I suppose. Big step between selling and kidnapping, though.”

“Inside job, you think?”

“Maybe.”

Misty watched as Colleen slid her chair up to the computer and brought up the Internet Browser. She clicked on Google Search and hesitated, glancing back. “Best hunch?”

“The PA or the body guard.”

The files that Scarfe had provided had included information on Bernard’s staff; butler, maids, chauffeur, as well as his personal assistant and security. Colleen had searched Google for all the names. Some popped up with info, the maids were all on Face Book and a Net group called ‘Maids to the Rich and Famous’. They were all not squeaky clean like the PA who was a ‘gentleman’s gentleman’ from a stiff and old London family, but there was nothing to indicate that any of them would stoop to kidnapping.

“Maybe NYPD, or Interpol,” Colleen had offered after an hour’s worth of searching. Misty gave her partner the codes to access the more restricted files, but again they came up empty.

“Everyone seems on the up and up,” Colleen said. “No records to speak of in the families; a DUI on one of the maid’s brothers, a hefty fine on another for unpaid parking tickets.”

“Let me make a call.”

Colleen stepped over to the small kitchenette in their shared office and poured herself a cup of coffee while Misty thumbed through the old, dog-eared Rolodex sitting on the corner of her desk. Both women had joined the computer age enthusiastically. In their line of work and in some of the circles they ran it was a necessity. They had dozens of contacts and even files Apped to their ‘Droids’, but over the years both women had acquired many, many more that were worth saving, though they had not used in awhile. Misty especially had dozens in the Force, one of whom she seemed to be talking with as Colleen listened, sipping her coffee.

“Yeah, Jack…” she said tapping a hard fingernail to the ink blotter of her desk. Colleen noted the pock marks in the felt and even the wood from Misty’s impatient habit. “Dawson… Pamela… Right. That’s it. Can you shoot me the file? Great! I’ll give you the address…”

At Misty’s indication Colleen stepped to the computer and sat down. She opened the E-mail box for Nightwing Restorations and repeatedly hit the ‘Check Mail’ button until a new e-mail appeared. Misty by then had finished her call and was leaning on the edge of the computer desk as Colleen opened the message and the three attached files.

One was a .jpg image of Dawson, Pamela Eileen in her dark ‘Blues’ apparently just after graduation from the Academy almost six years prior. She looked pretty and happy, and was hugging arm in arm with an older black woman who was obviously her mother, mugging for the camera. Colleen smiled, having seen a similar picture of Misty from years ago, and imagined that every graduate probably had one.

The next attachment was another image; this one a micro file copy of the story of Dawson’s shooting incident. She and her partner, one Anthony Caruso had apparently been in pursuit of a mugger; Dawson giving chase on foot with Caruso trying to head the perp off in their patrol car. A shot had been fired. Weapons had been drawn and back up called in.

According to Dawson’s statement she had rounded the corner and found the mugger waiting, gun pointing her way. Instinctively she had fired her weapon and hit him. Unfortunately the alleged mugger had turned out to be a boy aged twelve out playing with a toy gun. The boy was DOA at Forest Hills Memorial. Dawson had been exonerated but forced to resign from active duty due to public outrage.

Colleen felt the tension emanating off of her friend as she opened the last attachment. Accidental shootings were something that every cop feared, and even after so long off the Force, the story apparently struck a cord within Misty Knight.

The last file was a three-page WORD document containing all of Dawson’s Stats: her work record first followed by her personal history; schooling, relatives, addresses, etc.

“Sucks,” Misty said as they both perused the work record. “Good cop, apparently, but that never means a thing to the public in a fatal shooting, accidental or not. Somebody always wants justice.”

“Definitely not a way to end a career, and to have a death hanging over you the rest of your life.” Colleen opened the next page and they began to read again.

“Had to be a rough childhood too,” Misty said. “Only child… father abandoned the family early on, mother on Welfare probably. If she wasn’t working three jobs to make ends meet, that is. Probably a ‘Latch/Key’ kid. And the Bronx was no picnic back in the day.”

Colleen nodded her agreement as she opened the third page and both women gasped.

“Can’t be that easy, can it?” Misty said as she leaned closer. Colleen could feel the warmth radiating off of her friend even as a tingling excitement of adrenaline bubbled up in her as well. The address given for Dawson at graduation was in Harlem, just two numbers off of Jason Jackson’s apartment.

“Think maybe Dawson knows our JJ?” Colleen asked.

“They’re about the same age; twenty-one and twenty at the time. And she was pretty, so I can’t imagine JJ passing up the chance to hit on her, cop or not. Young bucks that age think they’re indestructible.”

“So, we’ve got a probable connection, but Dawson doesn’t live there anymore either. And I doubt very much she’d be stupid enough to keep Hillary in her own apartment anyway. Figure she’s the brains telling the Jackson Brothers what to do, like the pay phones and such.”

“Smart enough to rent a new rat hole somewhere, you think?” Colleen shrugged.

“Could be,” she said thinking, “but the room in the video looked pretty large, despite they covered up the walls. Had to be a one bedroom and the bed looked to be a Queen at least. Can’t imagine they’d buy a bed, or even move one that size just to tie up a little girl. And doubt she would have rented a furnished, as that would jack up the price.”

“So, we’re back to square one, and there’s another friend involved that we don’t know about,” Misty concluded with some disappointment in her voice.

“I don’t know,” Colleen said as she scanned the page again, then brought up the second for another look. Something nagged at the back of her thoughts, and she brought up the graduation picture again. She stared at the happy graduate and the proud and loving mother in the image. “Looks like a lot of love there.”

“Yeah,” Misty agreed, then after a moment brightened. “Enough that maybe Dawson wants to take care of Mom in her old age?”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Colleen said as she brought the Firefox Browser window to the fore on screen. She clicked a small ‘Book’ icon on the Toolbar and brought up the New York Yellow Pages online. They had purchased the Premium version, which allowed not only a name search, but brought up addresses and let them search backwards with phone numbers. She typed ‘Dawson, Rose’ into the address search and two seconds later the mother’s address came up; still residing at the same place in the Bronx, along with a phone number.

“Definitely worth a phone call,” Misty said already dialing the number on their own landline, number blocked to Caller ID. Colleen watched as Misty put on her business face, waiting for someone to pick up. Finally…

“Good evening. May I speak to… Rose Dawson? I see… This is Mary Tyson for RJ Publishers. I’m just calling to see if Mrs. Dawson is still receiving her TV Guide and wanted to offer – “ Colleen had heard the ‘click’ and looked to Misty as she cradled the receiver.

“Man answered,” Misty said with a grin. “Surprise, surprise. Guess I’m off to the Bronx.”

“I’ll get my coat,” Colleen said as she started to save the information they had gathered. “Just give me a minute.”

“Uh-unh,” Misty said as she slipped her arms through the leather straps of her shoulder holster, then slid and strapped her Magnum into place after checking the cylinder. “I know the address. Just up the hill from Yankee Stadium, but it’s a little to dark for you to go prancin’ through. Especially this time a’ night.”

Colleen started to protest, then reluctantly deferred to her partner. She watched as Misty slipped into her long, leather trench and checked her wallet for her ID and Metrocard. “I’ll forward what we’ve got to Rafe and Blake and our FBI friends while you’re out, then see if I can dig up anything else on the Brothers Jackson. Y’know, there’s probably a webcam at the Yankee Stadium subway stop. I’ll see if Rafe can get into it. We spot JJ or Trevon getting on or off, I think we’ll have a tie.”

“Good thinking, Col,” Misty said as she grabbed the doorknob and slid back the deadbolt.

“Not too overdressed for the ‘hood?”

Misty smirked, “Naw. Figure if this pans out, my next visit I’ll be underdressed. See you in a few, partner.”

And with that, Misty was gone. Colleen returned her attention to the computer and got back to work with a new sense of purpose…

New York. The Bronx, 181st Street at Anderson Avenue.

It had taken five days to get to this point, but everything had fallen into place.

That first late night trip to the Bronx had driven the first nail into Jason Jackson’s coffin. Misty had just made the trek up the hill from Yankee Stadium, twenty blocks to 181st street and had been ‘smoking’ a cigarette outside the bodega across the street from Rose Dawson’s apartment building when JJ and Big T (she assumed) came rolling out and into the store. They had given her the eye as they passed, and she had smiled with a wink.

She had watched through the glass door as they bought beer and cigarettes, and some meager food, all quickly prepared; bread, cheese slices, peanut butter and Raman noodles. Misty had propped seductively against the wall as they came out, and of course they made their move.

“Hey, babe,” JJ had said as he sidled close, giving her an undressing and not even bothering to hide his lust. “Kind’a chill ta be hangin’ on the corner tonight. Wanna come up stairs? I’ll warm ya up.”

Misty had looked him up and down with a contemptuous look, then glanced at his brother with equal disdain. Both were wearing baggy, drooping pants, expensive tennis shoes and bomber jackets. She blew smoke between the two.

“My time’s money, boy,” she said with a sneer, “an’ it looks like you spent all yer’s on yer ghetto garb.”

“Bitch!” Trevon spat, stepping closer. “We gots more green than you-“

“Shut the fuck up, Yo!” JJ had snapped. “What’s wrong wit’chu?”

Misty had watched as Trevon bit his lip but deferred to his brother. Misty smirked.

“Pussy,” she hissed at Trevon. If she could get a rise out of the two she could end this tonight, she had thought. But even as the younger Jackson cursed and stepped up, Jason had blocked him.

“Yo, chill T. We don’t need this Ho. We gots better waitin’ up in the crib.” Jason had looked her up and down again and spat, the glob landing on the toe of Misty’s leather boot. It took all of her will not to beat the crap out of the two then and there.

“Keep walkin’, Nigga,” she had said, flicking her cigarette butt at Trevon who ducked to the side.

“Fuckin’ – “ Trevon stepped forward again, but Jason grabbed him, steering him away.

“Don’t be stupid, son,” JJ said as he half-dragged his brother back across the street. “Don’t need this cunt. An’ remember what Pam said.”

Thank you, Misty thought as the Jackson brothers headed back across the street and into the old apartment building, Trevon cursing her out every step of the way. Misty Knight had smiled knowing that had been the second nail. Colleen had provided all the rest when she had returned to the Deuce later that night…

And now she was waiting in the chilly autumn air for Big T Trevon to come back out of Asian D-Lite so they could end this. She glanced through the window again and saw Trevon paying, the pretty counter girl stapling his take-out bags closed, turning, heading for the door as Misty slumped out of sight and tensed…

The door swung open and Misty grabbed Trevon’s ankle with her bionic right hand. She heard him yelp even as she squeezed, then scream as she crushed his ankle. Trevon pitched forward, his bags flying and scattering their contents as he hit the sidewalk whining and thrashing.

Misty ignored his screams of pain as she scrambled to get on top of him, straddling the small of his back. He was cursing as she grabbed his right arm and wrenched it back, easily holding it in place as she dug into her coat pocket and slammed her police issue handcuffs over his wrist causing him to yelp again. She tugged his left arm back and locked that wrist as well before planting her bionic hand into the back of his head and slamming his face to the cold, cement sidewalk, just enough to get his attention. He groaned as she shifted her weight and leaned in close pressing his face to the cool concrete and hissing in his ear.

“Like to kidnap little girls, hunh, Big T?” Misty felt the boy’s body tense under her. He craned his neck and she saw the wide-eyed look of panic on his face.

“Wha- What’chu talkin’ bout. Who the fuck’re you? Fuckin’ cop?” Misty pulled his head up and slammed it down again. Blood spurted from his nose.

“You wish I was, boy. Then I couldn’t do half the things I’m gonna.”

Misty smiled as the younger Jackson struggled beneath her. Between the cuffs and her grip, he wasn’t going anywhere, so she rode his outburst until he tired himself out. She noticed two of the Latinos had sauntered to the corner to see what was going on, and the Asian counter girl was tentatively watching through the window behind her. No one made a mood to help Trevon.

When Big T finally settled down Misty leaned in again. “You done, boy? What JJ gonna say when he hears you got beat up by a girl?”

“Fuckin’, skank!” Trevon spat. “JJ gonna cap yo ass.”

“Please…” Misty chuckled, squeezing the back of Trevon’s head until he settled down again. “They call that delusions of grandeur in the real world, boy. You an’ JJ are gonna take the BIG fall tonight, son. Pammy too. I don’t think you know just how deep the shit’s piled up ‘round your neck. Course, things might go easier if you drop dime, Big T. Who’s upstairs beside JJ an’ Hillary?”

Misty hoped that the situation would sink in, and for a moment it seemed that Trevon might turn his brother. Just as quickly though he started to struggle again.”

“Fuck you, bitch! Who the hell are you?” he said, bucking uselessly under her. Misty raised his head again.

“Figured,” she said as she slammed his face none too gently into the sidewalk again. He groaned and finally lay still, blood pooling from his shattered nose. “It was worth a shot though.” Misty dug trough Trevon’s pockets until she found his keys, then got off of him and hefted him by his collar as she tapped her radio. She saw the Latinos had disappeared.

“One to pick up, Rafe,” she said into her mike. “He’ll be in the restaurant.”

At Scarfe’s acknowledgement Misty dragged the unconscious boy into Asian D-Lite and told the girl to open up into the kitchen. She hesitated but did with a worried look on her face. Misty dragged the boy to the back, took a moment to apply a plastic zip-tie cuff to his ankles and shoved him into a closet, shutting the door.

“Cop’s will be here in a minute. Give them that,” she said shrugging towards the closet, “and thanks for the help.” The girl nodded as Misty headed back to the door, the chill October air slapping her in the face. Snow whispered down on a swirling wind, small flakes that would probably not stick.

“One down, Col,” Misty said into her microphone as she hurried down the slight incline back towards Anderson Avenue. “Move in. I’ll let you know when I’m in place.”

“Kayo,” Colleen answered and broke the connection as Misty hurried across the street and towards the doors of the building…

Colleen Wing shivered as she crouched on the fire escape just outside and above of the front room windows of Rose Dawson’s apartment. The apartment, which Colleen judged to be two bedroom, overlooked the inner courtyard of the building, such as it was. Down below it was more garbage dump than courtyard. Most of the windows up and down the building were lit up, but too, most had shades or curtains drawn. Nothing to look at out here anyway.

She had on her ‘stealth’ suit, a skin-tight thing that she had fashioned after a run-in with Sabretooth alongside Iron Fist a few years back. It was slick and black and offered some resistance to the cold, though not enough as the wind bit whipping past and tousling her long ponytail. She had her katana ready and drawn, expecting the worst, shuriken in her fanny pack and tanto slipped into her knee-high boot just in case.

She had chanced a glance through the blinds and thin curtains of the apartment, hoping her silhouette would not give her away, backlit by the neighboring apartments. There were three people in the living room; two women and a man who she assumed to be Jason Jackson. One of the women could be Pamela Dawson, but she could not see faces, only shadows. They all seemed well on the way to getting drunk, which was both good and bad. Drunken people were slowed, but tended to lose their inhibitions.

She had not dared to step all the way down yet. She wanted to check on Hillary, and there were windows to both the left and right that opened on the fire escape; bathroom and bedroom she imagined. She had to hope for the best.

“At the door,” Colleen heard Misty’s whisper in her ear. “Ready?”

“Do it!”

Colleen Wing heard wood crack and shatter, metal rending and she knew that Misty had slammed the front door with all the force that her bionic arm could muster. Colleen gripped the fire escape and swung down, kicking out with her boot heels to shatter the glass of the window and swinging inside, shoving the blinds and curtains behind her.

She quickly scanned the room and saw the three people. A younger black man that she did not recognize sat between two even younger girls; a Black and a Hispanic on the long, threadbare couch. They were staring wide-eyed at her in shock as she glanced at the front door, broken but still held in place by a police bar. She could see Misty through the gap she had created, hear her cursing as she slammed her palm into the door again and again. She saw closed doors to the left and right, the entry to a kitchen.

“Damn it!” she said as she surged forward, the man on the couch reaching for a .38 sitting on the end table beside the sofa. The women started screaming even as her blade slid through the man’s wrist, severing it, gun in hand and spiraling away.

Blood spewed from his severed stump as he started screaming. Colleen ignored his as she kicked the police bar from the door and Misty burst into the room.

“Ahh!” Colleen cried out. She heard the rapport and felt the slug bury into her left arm, just below the shoulder joint. She spun to see that one of the women had another Saturday Night Special out and in hand, barrel smoldering. The other was scrambling to her feet, pulling up her pants.

Misty and Colleen moved as one…

In her peripheral vision Colleen saw her partner rush forward, her right hand slamming into the woman that was simply trying to get away. The woman’s head snapped sideways and Colleen hoped that Misty had not killed her even as she spun and dipped her hand into her belt pouch. She flung shuriken at the woman wielding the gun and charged forward.

She vaguely heard the woman’s scream, the gun clattering to the floor as she brought up her katana and spun again. She drove the hilt into the woman’s temple and she fell back to the couch unconscious. Colleen whipped her sword about in a tight arch, flicking away the blood even as the two bedroom doors opened…

Misty Knight glanced quickly left and right after making certain that the three in the living room were done. The man was on his knees with the stump of his hand shoved up into the opposite armpit, rocking on his knees and wailing. The two women appeared to be out cold, so she focused on the open doors, keeping Colleen at the edge of her sight.

To her left she saw Pamela Dawson standing in the doorway to one of the two bedrooms. She was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, her .45 in hand but pointed to the ceiling in standard police stance. Behind her Misty could see someone lying in a big bed. Her dark eyes were sharp as she surveyed the room, then seemed to widen as she caught Misty’s gaze.

To her right she saw Jason Jackson standing in the doorway of the other bedroom. His was naked but for his soiled white tank top, Glock in right hand with the muzzle pressed into the temple of a wide-eyed and terrified Hillary Bernard, even more naked. He had his left arm locked about the girl’s throat and Misty noticed damp juices running down her inner thighs.

“You sunnova…” she said as she whipped her Magnum up and eyed down the barrel. Not being stupid, Jackson dipped behind his shield and hostage.

“I’ll kill her!” he shrieked, jamming the muzzle of his gun into the girl’s head. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she cried and Misty saw that her hands were tied behind her back. “So help me, God, I’ll blow her away!”

“Hurt her again and I will explode your head, Negro!” Misty hissed, shifting her aim slightly. She saw Jackson lick his lips.

“JJ…” a voice came from behind her. Dawson… “It’s done, Jay. Let her go.”

Misty chanced a glance to the left and saw Pamela Dawson lowering her gun. Behind her now she saw the form in the bed; the proud mother lying there, her legs amputated at the knees staring blankly at the ceiling. Diabetes, Misty assumed as she turned her focus back to Jackson.

“Fuck that!” Jackson said as he pulled the sobbing girl tight. She looked terrified, her eyes clenched tightly as she hung in his grip shaking, chewing on the ball gag shoved into her mouth. “Tee gonna be back, even the odds! You see!” Misty could see the sweat running down his face, and Hillary’s body as well. It almost smelled like they were smoldering.

“Right about now I imagine Big T has an even bigger nightstick shoved up his ass,” Misty said. If he’s not droppin’ dime on you, JJ, he will be soon enough. Give up.”

“Naw… Naw, this my ticket out!” he shouted, pressing the Glock at an odd, Gangsta angle. “You ain’t gonna kill the goods. Li’l white shorty gonna get me away. I…”

Misty yelped as Jason Jackson and Hillary Bernard suddenly erupted in an explosion of flame. She heard terrified screams as Jason staggered away, his body engulfed, flames lapping about him. His hand disappeared as the Glock exploded in the sudden burst of intense heat. He screamed all the louder!

Misty saw a flurry of movement and suddenly Colleen was posing in one of her finishing moves. She heard the rapport of a bullet and saw Dawson standing in the standard police pose, her gun smoldering. The screaming stopped as Jason Jackson’s head slid from his shoulders and bounced across the floor. His body crumpled a moment later.

Hillary Bernard screamed, shaking her hands, her bonds burned away as a strange energetic fire rippled over her body. She was crackling with energy and heat, enough to catch the carpet ablaze and set the drapes to burning. Both Misty and Dawson stepped up aiming, but Colleen was there.

Misty heard Colleen Wing hiss in pain as she drove the hilt of her katana into a pressure point on the girl’s neck. Hillary dropped like a marionette with severed string, the flames lapping at her skin dying as unconsciousness claimed her…

New York. The Bronx, 181st Street at Anderson Avenue.

“I shall deliver her personally,” Ororo Monroe said, watching as the S.H.I.E.L.D. EMT’s loaded Hillary Bernard into the back of a transport. The girl was drugged and wrapped in a fire retardant bag filled with anti-fire gel. Misty made certain that the EMT’s handled her with care. The girl had been through a lot; held captive for days, raped repeatedly. It was a wonder she was not a vegetable after her ordeal. And now this…

“Thanks, Storm,” she said as the rear doors of the transport hissed shut.

Not hard to believe that Hillary Bernard’s X-Factor had exploded under the duress of the situation. Misty figured that the girl got a bit of revenge in the end. Jason Jackson was fried, his brother already on Ryker’s and his friends well on the way. Only Pamela Dawson remained, and only that because she had begged to make certain that her mother would be card for. No love for Dawson and what she had done, but Momma Rose was just a pawn that got swept up in things.

“I just…” Dawson started, then sobbed from the back of the NYPD cruiser. “It’s not fair. She worked so hard for me.” Dawson cried, her body heaving as she looked up with tear-streaked eyes. “I idolized you, y’know?”

Misty Knight blinked as she looked at the woman handcuffed in the rear of the squad car.

“I read your story,” Dawson said, sobbing. “Saw it on the news. You gave your all to help people. You saved so many! God, I wanted to be like you. I joined the Force because of you! What happened… What happened to my dreams… my life?”

Misty Knight stared as an officer closed the door of the cruiser sealing Pamela Dawson away. She licked her lips and watched as the car pulled away, Pamela Dawson staring at her with wide watery eyes until it rounded a corner and vanished from sight. She jerked feeling a hand fall on her shoulder. Turning, she saw her best friend looking up at her and forcing a smile.

“Life sucks, hunh?” Colleen Wing said, and Misty almost… almost hit her. She sagged and nodded.

“Big time.”

They had called Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters as soon as they had realized that Hillary’s Mutant gene had kicked in with the stress. Storm, being closer had arrived about the same time as the FBI swooped down. Hillary Bernard would survive, but she was someone else’s problem now. Misty Knight was more concerned with Dawson.

“She wanted to be like me,” Misty said, her bionic hand opening and closing in a fist. “Thought I was a hero.”

“You are,” Colleen said. “Don’t you know that? How many people did you save in that bomb blast? How many little girls out there must idolize Officer Misty Knight?”

“But look what Dawson did!” Misty said, her eyes frantic, searching.

“She was looking to help her mother,” Special Agent Neely said stepping closer. “An easy out when the system failed. Don’t diminish anything you’ve done based on her actions and decisions. Her mother was paraplegic from Diabetes, and in the second stages of Alzheimer’s. Tragic, but nothing anyone could do.”

“Life goes on, Misty, no matter what we do,” Scarfe said joining the group. “It sucks sometimes, but we take it one day at a time and move on.”

“But at what cost, Rafe?” Misty watched as the S.H.I.E.L.D. Transport rose over the buildings and arched away towards the north.

“What’s the cost to our souls?”