Page 8 of Nobody's Hero

‘Not yet,’ Beetle-Brow said. ‘Everybody keep cool. That includes you, Koenig.’ He nodded to the far end of the parking lot. A woman and two kids were using it as a shortcut. The woman looked harried, like she’d just left work and now had to take her boys trick-or-treating, instead of kicking back with a Pinot Grigio. The boys were dressed as Batman and Robin. Koenig figured they were twins. He wondered how they’d sorted out who would be who. All things being equal, no one wanted to be Robin. Batman was asking the woman why, if he had a booger in one nostril, he always had a booger in his other nostril. It didn’t seem like it was something she wanted to discuss, though. She hurried the boys along, walked straight past them all. Didn’t even glance in their direction.

‘In the trunk, Koenig,’ Cunningham said after they’d cleared the parking lot.

‘I want to know how he knew who we were, first,’ Beetle-Brow said.

‘It’s not import—’

‘Itisimportant. If we’ve slipped up, we need to know.’

‘Lucky I’m in a sharing mood then,’ Koenig said. ‘You guys are cops. Have to be. I’ve only been in New York a few hours. I haven’t been followed, and no one’s given me a second look. I check my email account once a month and never in the same state as the last time. Yet you guys found me. The only way that could have happened is by facial-recognition technology. New York is Orwellian; it has over fifteen thousand FRT cameras. Plus, you know how to hold guns, you know how to pat someone down, and you all have regulation haircuts. You’re therefore serving NYPD officers. I imagine you uploaded one of the photographs of me that circulated after the incident last year. Probably never expected to get a hit.’

‘And that’s exactly what’s going to happen, my friend,’ Beetle-Brow said. ‘You’re about to get hit, and we’re about to get two and a half bricks richer.’

‘We call it retirement planning,’ Walks-Like-a-Duck said.

‘Hey, do you guys think you could beat Batman in a fight?’ Koenig said. He nodded at the woman. ‘I’m not talking about Cunningham here, of course. Weknowshe thinks she can beat Batman in a fight. She’d probably use razor-tipped playing cards or an acid-squirting lapel flower. The Joker always used something wacky.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Beanpole said.

‘Although I suppose it would depend on which Batman you were fighting. I kinda think Adam West’s Batman could be taken down with an old-fashioned kick in the balls. The way he wore his underpants on the outside of his grey tights. It would give you something to aim for. And George Clooney smiled too much. Made him look dumb. I’m going to be controversial. I think Ben Affleck’s Batman would be the hardest to beat. He had an edge the others didn’t.’

‘Oh, to hell with this!’ Cunningham snarled.

‘Not here!’ Beetle-Brow hissed.

But Cunningham was committed. She grabbed Koenig’s arm and Beetle-Brow grabbed hers. Which was a bonus. Up until then, they’d been spread out. They were keeping their distance. None of them was within Koenig’s strike range. From above it would have looked like a Venn diagram where none of the circles intersected. But when Cunningham grabbed him and Beetle-Brow grabbed her, their circles intersected with Koenig’s. Became three-fifths of the Olympics logo. He’d hoped for one, but now he had two. Two was better than one. Two was half their number. Fighting four people at once was impossible. It wasn’t like it was in the movies. They didn’t come at you one at a time. They didn’t take turns to punch and stomp. You can’t fight four people. The numbers don’t work. Koenig only had two legs and two arms; collectively, they had sixteen. The best he could do was block a quarter of their incoming blows. The East Coast Sweeney were four times heavier than he was. They had four times as many eyes. If he tried to fight them, he would lose. The only way to deal with multiple assailants was to flip a switch and go into full combat mode. Narrow the number quickly.

So, that’s what Koenig did.

He palmed the credit card he’d slipped up his sleeve. He flipped it in his hand so the edge, the one he’d filed down until it was thinner than paper, was pointing forwards. Without warning he reached out and slashed the credit card across Cunningham’s forehead. Did it hard and fast, like he was striking a match. Her skin sprang apart like elastic. Hung down like the butt-flap on a prospector’s long johns. Her own blood blinded her. Before she even had a chance to scream, he’d slashed at Beetle-Brow. Same trajectory. But Beetle-Brow was a couple of inches taller than Cunningham, and instead of his forehead, the credit card caught his left eye. Sliced it right open. Vitreous humour, the jellylike gunk that keeps the eyeball at the right pressure, burst out and hung there like egg white. Koenig followed it up with a punch, right in the soft part of Beetle-Brow’s temple. Felt his knuckles go into his skull. Beetle-Brow groaned and hit the concrete like a wet sandbag. If he ever got up, he was going to need speech therapy. Koenig grabbed Cunningham. One arm around her neck, another around her waist. Her blood made his hand wet. Beanpole and Walks-Like-a-Duck drew their weapons, but neither had a clear shot. They would have to go through Cunningham. And Koenig reckoned they wouldn’t want a gun going off. Not in this part of the city.

Cunningham began to struggle. Koenig increased the pressure on her neck, but all that did was make her panic. She kicked out and caught Walks-Like-a-Duck on the side of his knee. The knee is a load-bearing hinge, and Walks-Like-a-Duck was a big guy. There was a lot of load. His knee buckled. He staggered and tripped on the unconscious Beetle-Brow. Before he could get back up, Koenig stepped forwards and kicked him in the head. Heard the crack as his neck broke. Walks-Like-a-Duck went bug-eyed, twitched once, then either died or went into a coma. Koenig didn’t care which.

Koenig turned Cunningham so they were facing the last man with a gun: Beanpole. ‘I told you there was going to be a Captain Kronos test later,’ he said into her ear. ‘I don’t have a sword, but a sharpened credit card will do in a pinch.’

‘You’re a dead man!’ Beanpole snarled. He raised his weapon.

‘Actually, I’m fine,’ Koenig replied. ‘Can’t say the same for your friends, though. If I were you, I’d call nine-one-one.’

Instead of responding, Beanpole reached into his pocket for his shield. He held it and his weapon in the air. Koenig turned to see why. Eight uniformed NYPD cops had their weapons pointing at him. He let go of Cunningham, dropped to his knees, raised his hands.

This was going to take some explaining.

Chapter 6

The rib eyes were as big as a bible and twice as bloody. Finely marbled and dry-aged, they’d been pan-seared by a chef who knew how to cook meat. The two men had ordered them rare. It didn’t look as if they knew each other, just happened to be seated together as the restaurant had a single-diner policy on Saturday nights. Single diners sat at the grill, or they didn’t sit at all. The maître d’ lined them up like they were playing blackjack and the grill chef was the dealer. That they were sitting next to each other seemed like happenstance. A random encounter.

One of the men had grey hair, buzz-cut short, and a chiselled jaw. Strong arms and calloused hands. If you didn’t know him, you might think he worked a physical job. And as they were in Coos County, Oregon, maybe he was in agriculture or timber. He was called Hank Reynolds, and if you thought he was in agriculture or timber, you’d be wrong. Hank had an indoor job.

The other man was his physical opposite. He was small and neat and fussy and pale. He looked like he might be an accountant or an auditor. A job that kept him out of the midday sun. One of those jobs that no one at school dreamed about doing. The fussy man’s name was Stillwell Hobbs, and if you thought he was a cube dweller, you’d be wrong about that too.

Dead wrong.

The rib eyes came with a side of white asparagus and a scoop of mashed potato, loaded with butter and cream. All the steaks came with asparagus and mashed potato. The only choice was whether you wanted a fried egg on it or not. It didn’t cost extra and almost everyone said yes. It felt like you were getting something for free. Reynolds had said yes to the egg. He asked for it over easy but got what everyone did – sunny-side up. The chef didn’t have time to flip eggs. Hobbs said no to the free egg. Seemed like he couldn’t even look at it. Reynolds figured his dining companion must have an allergy. He’d heard about egg allergies. They sounded like a pain in the ass.

‘Don’t like eggs, huh?’ he asked.

‘Not a fan, no,’ Hobbs replied.