Warnings for this chapter: Excessive violence/LOTS of language
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CHAPTER EIGHT - Nightmares Begin Slowly
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Mac's Sale - Adrian Toomes
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It's the new kid's first exchange and I'm watching him like a hawk. Or a vulture, I guess.
I still question whether or not he is legit or some sort of spy.
If there was ever a time to find out he was one, it would be the first time he actually has to do something against his moral code. Not so much something illegal, but something that asks him to dirty his hands a little.
As far as Davis told me, he didn't even blink when he blew up a car. Davis was impressed with him, he said, just blew it right up without a single complaint. But that's small potatoes. Boys like to destroy things anyway.
No, the real test comes when something illegal is something so morally wrong that it would physically hurt to turn a blind eye and let it happen.
I remember making my peace with this feeling back in 2013. After my first year of moving operations of my salvage company underground due to Tony Stark's interference with damage control. I remember a sale went south, and I killed the potential client. I remember the fear of getting caught evaporating, remembering there is a reason why I am the best in the business. It's because we're needed. We're not going to get caught as long as we're still needed.
It is not that night for Peter Parker. His time will come to try something morally objectionable, something so corrupt it could even darken his naive heart a little bit.
Tonight is an exchange of goods and money and a little extra fun I've planned. If he can't make it through tonight, well, he has no business working with us, period. The trials get harder as we go along.
Peter is nervous, but he's lost the trembling terrier look, and the cast, too. He only wore it for two weeks by my approximation, meaning he either is a quick healer, or I actually didn't screw his arm up as badly as he thought I did. I don't think I busted him too hard, he just hollered loudly because he's a kid and he was scared outta his mind. But hitting a broken arm few times with a shoe clearly didn't permanently damage him.
I would hope he forgets the whole frisking thing as just part of the initiation. Maybe even comes to like us, be friendly with us. It's better to have the young ones with a history of violence mistake their coworkers for friends. Protects everyone in the long run.
We meet our customers at the waterfront where some industrial company stores empty semi trucks across brown and cement lots.
The open area between lots in front of the Expendables Plus Inc. is ideal for a quick escape without exposure, enough protection without getting claustrophobic. Myself, Davis, Jackson, Schultz, and Peter line up, prepared for any trouble or last-minute negotiations to the previously settled price.
Mac Gargan, flanked by his crew of five, looks strangely pleased with himself tonight.
It makes me fucking uneasy to meet with a client that looks like a cat cornering a mouse.
Especially when we're not mice. I'm the fucking cat tonight.
"There's four other guys here," Peter whispers to me.
"What?" I ask.
"There's four other guys hiding. Warehouse roof, crane, the truck cab, and back by the security tower."
"How the fuck did you see them?"
Peter gives his ear a little tap. "Heard the shoes."
"Jesus Christ," I mutter. I nod at my men. "We might get a little messy, boys," I hiss. It is time to play along thanks to Parker's sonic talents.
"Well, fuck," Jackson sighs.
I jerk my chin towards Mac. "What sort of game are you playing, Mac?"
Mac holds out his hands. "I'm not playing any game. I'm just here to buy the guns I want." He throws a duffel bag down on the ground. "Ten thousand. What we agreed upon."
"Maybe I upped my price," I sneer.
"You can't renegotiate the price, Vulture!" Mac exclaims tiredly. "I just want to get this over with. I DVR'd the game."
A pause, while I consider. All right - not in the mood to be present for his bloodbath tonight.
I nod wordlessly at Schultz. Schultz takes the cases in each hand and walks forward, sets them down, opens them up.
"Semi-automatic rifle with Dark Elf matter-alterations," Schultz narrates, "Three of the Ulton-blaster-guns. Completely remodeled; equipped with computer technology for personal programming. You don't have to just pull a trigger, you can tell it to pull the trigger for you in three minutes."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm already buying it, you can hold the sales pitch." Mac waves his own guy forward to collect the case. "Ten thousand," he repeats firmly. Schultz picks up the money bag and returns to us.
I see Peter shake his head out of the corner of my eye.
Simple. Just the way it should be when we sell to our fellow career criminals who keep creating the demand for our supply.
Three things happen too quickly for me to take stock of which comes first.
I think I hear Peter shout LOOK OUT and before I can react, he's completely body-slammed me against the ground and a gunshot bursts nearby, the clapback echoing painfully against the cement with the ringing pain in my shoulders and back from hitting the ground hard. There's a ricochet and a dusting of broken cement just behind me - would have gone right through me if not for the kid -
I feel rage filling me up. Those extra guests need to work on their aim.
I shove Peter off and drag him to his feet quickly, Mac's wearing a look of panic, shouts incoherently echoing as both parties have their guns sighted at each other's heads, a Mexican stand-off with too many players.
"Who the fuck just shot at me?" I snarl, blood flying off my mouth from biting my lip as I went down. "The fuck is this, Mac?"
"Not us! Not us! Not us!" Mac's crying, though he's got an ordinary handgun pointed at my chest. "I don't know where that came from!"
"Your guys!" Peter Parker is saying, his voice hoarse.
"That's not me!" Mac screams back.
"Fuck you guys!" Jackson shouts back. "You fucking set us up if that's not you up there!"
This time I see it - the shadow.
Climbing down the crane headfirst, elbows sticking out like spider legs, skinny like a corpse painted black.
For the first time in a long time, I feel fear - real fear - curling in my stomach.
That thing… that creeping, crawling, black-gloved thing coming towards us like a like a schoolgirl in a fucking Japanese horror film - that is absolutely unplanned.
"We've been had," I command. "We're leaving. Back to the car."
Mac nods at his guys too. "Good sale, good sale," he shouts nervously. "But we're getting the fuck outta here."
They begin to back away, guns still pointed at us.
Another shot goes off, this time from the rooftop of the warehouse.
The duffel launches from Schultz's hand, the smell of hot metal erupting in our nostrils. He quickly picks the bag up again, staring at the bullet-sized hole in the canvas upholstery.
"Back, back, back!" I shout, and we begin to run.
Mac's guys run the opposite direction.
Peter takes off towards - the warehouse.
"Fuck, Parker! Get back here!" I shout.
Jackson takes off after him, but damn, the kid is fast.
"Get to the car," I shout. "Th' fuck is Vale?"
Never known for his great timing but never unwelcome, Randy Vale flies through the harbor labyrinth, the SUV's wheels screaming as he drives towards us, wrenching the steering wheel and pulling around, giving us some cover so we can get in.
There's another shot from the other side - this one hits.
One of Mac's guys screams and falls to the ground in a hard slam, skull bouncing off the asphalt. They keep running, clutching their precious cargo and leaving their man shot and bleeding out on the ground.
I lean out of the open window from the front-passenger side. Randy hits the gas and starts to go, but I shout at him to angle out.
"Drive us by the warehouse over there," I point. I can see Jackson's tiny figure now chasing after Parker, who not only outran him as only obscenely young and wiry guys can, but he's pulled himself on the back of a truck bed next to the building.
Peter runs up the empty truck bed, climbs on top of the cab, jumps from the cab to the tall stacks of empty pallets, scales them like a ladder to -
Fuck, this kid is going after the guy on the roof using parkour like those skaters on YouTube. Holy fuck.
Jackson shouts and waves at him from down below.
The kid hooks his hands over the gutter of the warehouse roofline, hoists himself up like he's exiting a swimming pool, and throws his legs over the side.
Then, running down the slanted roof angle and holding out his arms for balance, I watch his dark figure move towards where first shot went off.
We pull up beside Jackson. There's a dead body beside him.
I growl. "Who the fuck is that?"
"Boss, the dude - dude just climbed up the thing, Parker's on the roof," Jackson is breathing hard. "This one, this one," he points at the body of a middle-aged man in black clothes beside him. The man's back and neck are broken. "It looks like a cop to me!"
"So if a cop is shooting, who else was on the roof?"
Jackson shakes his head, looking truly terrified. "Don't know boss, only saw it for a second, the thing was wearing a black scarf 'round his head like a frickin' ninja."
There's more shots back at the plaza, and I wonder if any more of Mac's guys got hit. Honestly, the less the merrier. He's a paranoid little cockroach.
Suddenly another shadow rises from the roof, wearing all black wrappings around his face, hands. Drawing a slightly curved sword from a red belt around his waist.
Fuck. It's an actual literal ninja? What poorly crafted cable show did I just fall into?
The shadow stands and flies towards Peter's approaching figure, blade of steel flashing in the orange hazard lights from the lot. I see Peter duck out of the way, hitting the roof hard and sliding down the decline to the edge. He catches the gutter with his fingers, stopping himself from a deadly fall.
The ninja follows suite, running, but also slipping towards the edge. He swings his sword down to try and cut his clinging hands -
Peter reaches up with one hand, grabs the ankle of the ninja, and yanks backwards as hard as he can.
With a cry, the shadow loses footing, falls over the edge of the roof, and plummets to the cement below. Landing in a crouch, unharmed, but -
Jackson shoots his favorite Chitauri gun.
BOOM!
The ninja's head explodes like a burst watermelon, then crumples to a lifeless heap beside the other dead guy.
Peter pulls himself back up the roof, trots as carefully as he can to the pallets, jumps down to the stack, and then struggles down the side. It's a lot harder going down than it is going up.
"Get the fuck in the car," I say. "We'll leave without Parker if we have to."
Jackson shoulders his weapon, proud of the mess, and climbs in.
There's a sudden flurry of gunshots from both Mac's crew, and figures climbing down from the cranes, the roofline, out from underneath the parked semis, the stacked pallets -
Jesus, these things are everywhere. I count twelve before I lose track.
Peter practically falls off the cab and into the truck bed, throwing himself off, and running as fast as he can back to the SUV. He does a double take at the bodies and nearly trips.
Davis opens the door from him and catches him when he jumps inside.
"Go go go!" he screams.
There's volleys of shots, echoing painfully behind us.
I look out the window. The crawling figure from the crane is running lithely across the plaza, an inordinately long, silver blade in his hands. It stops when it realizes it can't keep up.
Another figure steps out from behind the nearest truck bed, plants his feet, and takes aim for the SUV. Vale zig zags expertly, the shot missing the back window, taking out one of the side mirrors with a burst of shattered glass.
The man firing at us is wearing a bullet proof vest and doesn't see the masked-crawler with the sword sneak stealthily up behind him.
The sword swipes too easily across his throat, and the gunfire instantly stops, the body crumpling to the ground.
Vale keeps pounding on the accelerator, tires screaming and burnt rubber smell filling the air as head for the exit.
"You hit?" I say to the crew.
Everyone's shouting at once.
"Shut the fuck up, all of you," I snap. Vale screeches around the corner, pulling out of the industrial park, and rides the side streets heading for the exit to the freeway.
"Any hits?" I ask.
"We good, boss," gasps Schultz.
"Too fucking close, too fucking close!" Jackson roars angrily. "If Mac didn't set us up then who the fuck were those guys?"
"That was two different - two different things," Schultz says. "Looked like cops and ninjas. Did they fucking coordinate or surprise each other?!"
"Looked like ninjas man, like real ninjas," Davis says calmly.
Why does the man always sound like he just smoked a few joints when he doesn't even smoke? Doesn't anything get his blood pumping?
"Call Mason," I tell him. "Tell him what happened. Ask him if he knows anything about… ninjas."
Davis dials Mason, crawls into the back trunk and talks quietly.
Jackson punches Peter hard in the shoulder. "You don't just take off like that!" he scolds. "Didn't matter if they were ninjas or Mac's guys. You get caught, you get killed. End of story."
"CIA," Peter gasps, pressing the heel of his hand to a nasty cut over one eyebrow.
"What?" I ask. This little dick is way too observant for his own good.
"The guy on the roof had an CIA jacket on."
"I didn't see no CIA."
I did. The man in the bullet proof vest who got his throat cut. The stance, the procedural shooting at the fleeing vehicle - I knew it was CIA.
"The first one, that's who I was after," Peter explains. "He ran up the roof and down the other side. I woulda followed but…"
"Then the ninja came out of nowhere!" Jackson fills in.
"Another ninja got that guy behind us too," Schultz says. He saw what I saw. His phone starts ringing, and he looks at it with surprise. "It's Mac," he says.
"Give it here," I hold out my hand, answering the call. "Talk," I command.
"Fucking CIA," Mac snaps.
"You didn't see the other guys?"
"WHAT other guys? They were shooting, we were running!"
"There was a fourth party."
"Who?"
"Hoping you could tell me. Black scarves? Curved swords?"
"You mean the fucking Hand?"
"Who is that?"
"A literal ninja clan that uses wealthy businessmen as a front for spreading their anarchy and discord. They bust deals all the time and take what they can for themselves."
"And you didn't see them."
"No, fuck, I just heard shots! I lost two guys! Are you telling me the fucking ninjas were there too?"
"We have the ninjas to thank, in fact," I say, nevermind the fact that one did try to kill Parker not three minutes ago. "They went after the CIA agents."
"How'd the fucking CIA know about our sale tonight anyway?" Mac shouts.
"Because you fucking SOLD US OUT," Jackson shouts over my shoulder.
I reach around shove Jackson hard in the chest. "Put your damn seat belt on!" I shout at him. "I will throw you out of this car."
"We didn't sell you out!" Mac exclaims. "It won't do for our business relationship to throw around false accusations!"
"I think I know when we've been stung, Scorpion," I taunt. "See you on the flip side." I hang up the phone and chuck it back to Schultz. "Turn on Kent," I say to Vale. "We're stopping at Bryan's."
"What for?" Davis asks.
"I have every reason to believe that his big mouth is probably the reason for multiple things going wrong tonight," I say. "We're going to take care of it once and for all."
Jackson shouts back to Aaron. "Give me the Chitauri blowtorch."
Aaron hands the gun over the back seat to Schultz, Schultz hands it to Jackson. Jackson trades it for the Chitauri semi-automatic he used to turn the ninja's brain into a strawberry smoothie. The blowtorch is the better choice. It's nearly silent, for one thing.
"Parker, you're going in with me," Jackson snaps.
"Okay?" Peter responds. "What are we doing?"
"Plugging up any potential leaks," I reply. I give Jackson a hard look. "Don't screw around. Just get in and do it fast."
Vale pulls into the sidestreet, the car rumbling quietly into a handicapped spot in front of Bryan's brownstone.
Jackson opens the door. "Let's go, Peter Parkour!"
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Murderer - Peter Parker
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I feel adrenaline sluicing through my veins. Dread winds through my stomach and into my chest, constricting my lungs and bobbing in my throat.
I follow Jackson's shadow up the stairs to the silent, dark-windowed brownstone.
I don't know what Jackson is planning on doing with this massive alien gun in his hands, with purple light twinkling at the muzzle, huge exposed wires lining the barrel, strange cylindric devices attached to bracers in the front.
"When the door opens," Jackson whispers. "We just run straight through the entry and right into that dining room. He's probably in there."
"How do you even know that?"
Jackson looks like he wants to flip me off, but can't, because he's holding a massive gun. "Because I know the habits of the fucking people I work with, Parker," he snaps. He turns and points the gun at the door.
Pulls the trigger -
A hot ray of orange light pierces the door handle, the beam disintegrating right through it, and catching the edges of the door on fire. Jackson lifts the muzzle, and I push the busted door open with my shoe.
Jackson takes off down the dark, long hallway, and I take off after him. Along our right, a huge ornate staircase leads into pitch darkness. On our left, there's a yawning fireplace in an old fashioned parlor. We push through to the end of the hall that opens into a dining room and family room, another door leading back into a kitchen.
A man stands behind his dining room table, wearing nothing but boxers and a gray T-shirt. There's a spilled glass of scotch on the table running and bleeding through a discarded newspaper.
We caught him completely unawares. He only had time to jump to his feet, knock over his drink, and look startled at us bursting through the entrance.
His brown eyes wide with fear, he holds out his hands defensively.
"Brice," he says urgently, panic laced through his voice. "Brice - whatever you want - just ask - just tell me what's going on - whatever you think, I didn't, I didn't…" Bryan grabs the bottle of scotch from the table, hikes his arm back, intending to throw it our way.
"Oh, Bryan, stop, I'm not here to shoot you," Jackson says.
Bryan's arm relaxes.
Jackson pulls the trigger.
The beam of light makes a thick vibrating sound, like a vacuum in reverse, shooting across the room and punching a hole right through Bryan's body.
I can see through the singed edges of his abdomen to the cabinet on the other side, a hole as thick as my fist. The bottle of scotch crashes to the ground and shatters.
The smell of burnt meat fills the air.
Bryan's gray face falls first into the the edge of the table, cracks, and bounces off.
I stare.
I stare.
I stare.
"Oops," Jackson says with a shrug. He reaches over and slaps me hard in the face. "Wake the fuck up," he snaps. "We get in, we get out. Boss's orders."
He turns and begins running back through the hall.
My stomach twists so hard I think I might vomit, but, suddenly robotic in my movements, I find myself turning and running after him.
I hear a creak of footsteps on wood at the top of the stairs.
My spider-senses tell me it is a woman.
A woman tugging a bathrobe around herself, confusedly, taking one tentative step forward.
Just before I shut the broken door behind Jackson and I, there's a sound of a baby crying in an upstairs bedroom.
"Oh god," I whisper, physical pain leaching through my stomach, back, my throat and ears. Maybe this is the heart attack.
That didn't just happen.
This couldn't have.
Spider-Man would have put a stop to this.
This is a nightmare…
I just need to wake up.
Wake up, Spider-Man. Wake up.
It's not worth it. It's not worth it. It's not worth it.
To hell with Hydra. Let Captain America find Hydra on his own steam. Vulture is not worth the effort to track down the moles in Shield.
Vulture and his crew need to be killed or imprisoned.
There is no, no other way. None. That's it.
I'll do it myself if I have to.
I climb into the SUV behind Jackson, shutting the door behind us and dropping into the seat. I methodically put on my seatbelt.
"Bryan's dead," Jackson reports nonchalantly, handing the gun back for the trunk.
"Bout time," the Vulture mutters. "Asshole's been feeding them our shit long enough." He slaps Vale's shoulder. "Let's hit Punzi's."
We are leaving a widow and child behind -
- and he wants to celebrate with drinks.
The car pulls away from the brownstone and speeds off down the neighborhood again, the dark brown shadows of a neighborhood under orange street lamps look sickly, nightmarish. Like illustrations of hell in old Greek classics from school.
I chose this.
This is my fault.
"On second thought," Toomes looks around the seat at me, and there's something almost like fatherly concern in his expression, but it is hidden behind that white-tooth sneer of his. "I think it's a little past Pedro's bedtime. Drop him off over on Eagle street. While we're in the neighborhood."
I stare at him, my jaw clenched, my heart piercing my chest like a jackknife.
"I guess tonight was your night after all," he muses out loud. "A real make it or break it moment for the youngest recruit."
Jackson scoffs. "Other than holding the door open for me like a real gentleman, he wasn't much help."
"You didn't need my help," I respond slowly. My voice sounds detached from my body. I'm an invisible, omnipresent ventriloquist controlling a body that only looks and sounds like me.
I keep my eyes on Vulture. "I still don't have a gun yet, after all."
"Oh, atta boy, you'll get your turn," Toomes smiles. "I knew you'd pass your test."
"That was a test?" I ask, my voice giving out.
"School's out, kid," Toomes says. "No more teachers, no more books."
"No more teacher's dirty looks," Aaron chimes in.
"Did you get a hold of Mason or what?" Toomes asks angrily.
"Sure thing, boss."
"Well? What the hell did he say?"
"Same thing Mac did. The Hand interrupts sales to steal the goods. They must've gotten distracted by the CIA and decided to take them out instead." Aaron shudders. "Mason says if they hadn't, we'd all be dead. They do not leave survivors. Ever."
"Shit," Toomes turns back to the dashboard. "Now we gotta make friends with them."
Randy Vale slams on the brakes a little too hard at the head of the alleyway on Eagle St.
"Home sweet home," he says to me.
"Thanks," I say shortly. I start to open the door, but Toomes stops me with a look.
I imagine pulling out my web shooters. Web across the mouth, web tying his hands behind his back, dragging him out into the street, stringing him up on a power line for the cops to find… with a note that says MURDERER.
In my fantasy, it turns into a nightmare. They rip aside the web covering his face and it's my face instead.
Standing by and letting it happen is just as bad. No, it's worse.
I could have stopped it…
"The hard part is over, Pedro," Toomes says. "Next time you'll get to pull the trigger yourself."
I give him a dead smirk. "Yeah? With what gun?"
"Smart ass. Get outta here."
I get out of the car and walk down my alley towards the garage door. I hear the SUV disappear, and the street behind me is silent.
The adrenaline wears off instantaneously.
My knees turn to jelly and I fall right over.
Catching myself with one arm braced against the dirt of the lot, struggling to right myself and remembering what it feels like to breathe, to think...
I unlock the deadbolt and go inside my garage, shutting and locking it behind me. This door wouldn't do anything against ninjas, I think. Maybe I'm dead already.
I walk stiltedly over to the counter where I keep the phone.
Numb fingers hitting the call button for the only contact.
Mouth filling with bile, stomach's contents turning up, and over, and splashing onto the cement floor.
The call is ringing. My ears are ringing.
"Yes," says Captain America's voice.
"It's Peter," I say.
I'm gasping for breath. Hyperventilating, and badly. I push my back against the counter and slide down to the floor, hugging my knees and trying to concentrate.
"It's okay," Captain America says soothingly. "Take your time."
Suddenly, and I don't know how, I take a shuddering breath and swallow the shock away. This can't be healthy, but there it is. Survival instinct is kicking in, hard, and fast.
"We need to meet," I say, my voice trembling, but resolute.
"We can meet tonight. Where?"
"I can't," I say shortly. "I can't. I can't meet tonight. I'm sorry. I can't. But we have to meet. But I can't… tonight. Not… not…"
"Deep breaths. It's okay. Stay where you are tonight. We can meet tomorrow morning. Where is a safe place for us to meet you? We can't come there, and you can't come here."
"Across the river? They're keeping things fairly contained to Brooklyn."
"Dress as a tourist and we'll go to a park."
"The Roosevelt Island Ferry terminal. There's a baseball field and a walk on the waterfront."
"We'll be there."
"Fine, fine…"
"You all right?"
"Yes," I lie.
He does not answer at first. "Try again."
"No."
"I'm sorry." I can tell he means it. "Let's go over your options tomorrow."
"Yes sir."
"Try to get some sleep."
"Yes sir." I end the call, and I press a hand on my chest to convince myself it's still there, still breathing, still working.
I don't know how I make myself move. It truly is the work of a puppet.
I sneak into the bathrooms on the business-owned building attached to the back of the garage, and use the sink to wash my hair, hands, arms, and as much else as I can.
When I hear someone coming I dart across the hall again and return to my side.
I crawl into bed. Waiting for sleep.
Waiting still.
BRRRVVVTTTT…
When I close my eyes I hear the sound of the Chitauri blowtorch, beaming a burning hole through the man's stomach. I see his look of horror. I notice things about the room now, things I didn't notice when we walked in. The highchair pulled up to the side of the table. The baby pictures on the fridge. The baby toy underneath the couch.
I dream about going home to Aunt May.
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Reader Personal Replies :)
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NEXT TIME: Peter and Captain America have a long overdue meeting to figure out how to put the brakes on the undercover operation, and then Peter makes a last-minute detour to see about a girl. Things are heating up between Bucky's infatuation with Black Widow while the Winter Soldier tries to make work for the Avengers difficult.
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