JESSICA JONES 2.5: GIMME SHELTER
Ep. 9: AKA Frackin' Frat Boys
"Clearly, a little investigation is required," Jones said dryly. She shoved herself up slightly, resting her back against the wall, hugging herself against waves of pain echoing through her bones. The woman's liquid English accent and her electric venom blasts had confirmed her identity. "Which, for the record, is why I called you."
Drew stared at her. "Say again?"
"Yeah, here's the deal, Spidey cakes. Over the last twelve, fifteen hours, I've left at least three messages for you, asking for help on this. Helluva way to finally hit reply, by the way."
Drew's jaws worked, then she slid her cell phone from her pocket. Her eyebrows went up slowly. "Since Mattie vanished, I must've gotten like fifty 212 calls –"
"212-256-1084."
"Oh." Drew punched the screen and held the phone to her ear. Jessica could hear her own voice before the other woman punched the phone again. "You don't sound so good, here, Jones." She hung up, and slid the phone in her pocket. "Okay, so, yeah. Messing with Mattie is messing with me. Our whole spider connection and -"
"And when she disappears, you decide on suspects based on TV news? I'd be more pissed off you can't figure out a set-up if I hadn't fallen for it myself in the first place."
Drew stood, shifting her weight, staring hard, then said simply, "All right."
"What? Like that, we're all good?"
"Let's just say I believe an alcoholic rage-bitch these days a lot more than I believe – them."
"Big fan of yours, too," Jess glared but relented, taking Drew's hand when offered.
The woman pulled her easily back up to her feet. "Sorry for the – "
"Electro-venom sting-fucking me half to death thing?" Jess snapped. She folded her arms again, taking in the other woman's curtain of black hair as she swung it behind herself, her facial angles stark in the light coming through the windows of the darkened office.
"Yeah, that. That thing." She flexed her hands. "The powers come with the body, the body reacts, and – anyway. Sorry."
Jess sighed. "So, you're Jessica Drew."
"And you're Jessica Jones."
The two women shifted on their feet, then each allowed a smile to ghost her face.
"I thought," Drew said, "you'd be taller."
"Yeah, well, I thought you'd be smarter." Jess cocked her head. "So, Mattie's your protégé? You were the original Spiderwoman, right?"
Drew rolled her eyes in response. "Don't remind me."
"The Dark Angel of San Francisco and all that?"
"Bite me."
Jones rolled her shoulders. "But that was you, right?"
"Was. Kinda burned out on the whole costumes and swingy-stringy super shit."
"Welcome to the club."
Drew's smile grew. "Don't want to be an Avenger?"
"Like they'd care? Psychotic fucker raped me for months and I wasn't even missed by the guests of Chez Stark."
"You think the Avengers ignoring you is bad, try Hydra obsessing over you." She shuddered involuntarily. "The shit they did to me … well, look, it was S.H.I.E.L.D. that got me out. Nick Fury saved me. And put the Avengers together. So yeah, for a while later, I was with Earth's Greatest Heroes." She rolled her eyes, then tilted her head and smiled. "You know, if you joined Stark, I bet you'd get a really hot outfit to wear. Maybe a merch licensing deal. Still don't want to be an Avenger?"
"Bunch of frackin' frat boys with a hot Russian bodyguard?" Jones snorted. She gestured around her blown out, beat down office. "Decided being a PI fit better. Like," she added pointedly, "you did, in the Bay. I just skipped your bounty hunting middle step."
"Yeah," Drew sighed. "I've heard it said I could almost be you." She walked to a chair and slid down with silken grace, staring out the window. The light from the street struck her face fully now, which was a study in strain, bags beneath her eyes. "Almost."
Jones finally flipped the office lights on and leaned on her desk, staring down at the former Spider-Woman. "Jesus, Drew, you get any sleep at all lately?"
She shook her head. "Not since I saw about Mattie. I met her awhile back at the Ex. I went there, actually, to meet her when I heard about her powers. Talked to her, the usual welcome-to-spidey-club bollocks. She kept telling me I was her idol." Her voice turned angry – at herself. "Mattie kept telling me I was her … hero."
"I get that, too," Jones murmured.
"I was neck deep in the Red Hampton case, up in Chicago, last couple weeks, then I heard about this." She ran her palm hard over her face, then glowered toward the floor. "Sorry, again. Only, your name was all over this and you do have a certain reputation for – well."
"Yeah." Jess frowned but tossed her head back and forth, as if weighing things out. "I've been known to be a little punch first, cuss a lot during. Questions later. When they wake up. But that's mostly just when assholes paint me into a corner. Mostly."
"You've got amazing strength." Drew tilted her head to her left, hair falling to the side, staring at Jess from the corners of her eyes. "But you're still vibrating like a tuning fork from the venom blasts. You want to slug me? Might get the tension out and God knows I deserve it."
"How about I put that energy into telling you what I know," she said, walking around the desk, and pulling a fresh pint of Cutty Sark from the drawer. "And then you tell me what you know. Pool our knowledge. And we kinda take it from there. We'll find them. Both."
Jessica Drew's gaze snapped up. She raised an eyebrow. "Them both?"
"Yeah," Jess sighed. "Case I've been working."
Drew's eyebrow raised. "Let me guess. Another missing girl, and nobody cares."
"Not many, no," Jess agreed. "But then Mattie is powered and my girl may be, too. I'm thinking maybe Watchdogs or those Phineas Faithful sharks." She shifted on her feet, wagging the bottle in her hand. "So … as long as you're here …."
Drew tilted her head to the right now, that curtain of hair sliding. "Heard you didn't like partnering up."
"Didn't say 'partner,' said 'pool knowledge.'"
Drew smiled, watching Jess uncap the bottle as she came back around and set it on the front of the desk midway between her chair the vacant one next to it.
Jones looked around. "I have a couple of glasses …."
Drew took the bottle, tipped it to her mouth, and gulped hard twice. Wiping the back of her hand over her lips, she handed it to Jess and said, "Glasses are for Avengers boys."
Jessica held the whiskey up to the light, peered at the liquid level, and smiled. "We're gonna need a bigger bottle."
"We need her to go wild," Lawson muttered into his phone. "Why hasn't she lost her damn mind and lost her shit all over New York? I mean, who the hell is this woman? She's done. Why doesn't she know she's done?"
He paused, fuming.
"Oh, don't give me that shit! Look. I know PTSD, and I'm telling you we just keep squeezing." He rubbed his eyes. "At a minimum, I need her on a hair trigger if we go to the arrest scenario."
He stared down into the streets below his office. "What about that fat little prick down in Texas, the web-show host or whatever the fuck it is he does with his time. You had a thought on how to use him to turn the pressure on her more."
He listened. Smiled. And nodded. "Make the call."
Smithie was almost shaking, obviously nervous as her idol greeted her, scooting over to make room on the bus seat. Smithie's camera bag slung over her shoulder shifted to her lap as she sat. Jones hadn't been sure the girl would take the job, or be available, when she'd called Petit Temps and asked for her new number.
"Thanks for this," Jess said. "Just a recap of our conversation on the phone. The whole texting setup and what happened was not your fault. That's on me."
Smithie nodded slowly.
"You told me you'd been mugged, I let the detail slip, and … yeah. But clearly, you're on their radar enough they took your cell knowing it was a way to manipulate me. If I was, you know, stupid as shit, which I was on this occasion." She handed the girl her cell. "Put the number of your new phone there. We need to stay in touch 24/7 until this is over."
Punching in the number, Smithie whispered, "We just need to get Mattie back. And Rebecca Cross."
"That's what we're going to do." Jessica asked for Smithie's phone and punched several numbers into her contacts list. Her voice was steel. "But there's a pattern here. Somebody's taking young women. And that hits home with me. Hard. So I may not always be thinking clearly."
"Because of Kilgrave."
Jessica nodded. "I mean, all these girls, three now …" She rubbed her forehead. "That's counting that girl, Miranda Pritchett - everybody's implying I killed her? Look. She was dead when I got there. I was sent there by a woman who claimed to be her sister, Sandra. But now I know her real name is Sylvania Packard. Confirmed it while riding over here – found a photo of her with Lawson on the Net, some gala event." She paused. "Do you understand what that means?"
"Not quite …. Well, no, not at all."
"It's common in a covert operation for someone to adopt a fake name with the same initials as their real name. Makes so many things easier." She sighed. "But think about it, Smithie. Sylviana Packard came to me with this bullshit story and this fake name. They had to match her initials to somebody and they … must've just picked somebody at random. Who had nothing to do with anything but just her initials. They killed her just because her fucking initials worked for them, and they needed a dead girl to plant enhancement drugs on and then have me show up." She looked away. "That's who we're dealing with, here."
Smithie started to speak when Jess raised her hand.
"I've got somebody else approaching Packard – she'll see me coming. But there's one more thing you deserve to know." She told her about the S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet and Maria Hill. When Smithie finally seemed to have absorbed the shock, Jess said simply. "So, if you want o like, miss this stop, and go home, I'll call some of my friends to make sure you're safe while I wrap it up and otherwise you're out of this. I put Luke Cage's number in there, and a guy named Eddy Costa, he's the only cop I trust."
The girl shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere," she said quietly. "Until Rebecca and Mattie are safe, again."
"Good," Jess nodded.
Smithie laughed softy. "So, am I an official Defender, now?"
"Well," Jess said wryly, "for now, just stay sharp and let me make sure nothing aimed at me comes at you – again."
It's why I gotta end this fast, Jessica thought.
"Ms. Jones?"
She rolled her eyes. "Please. Jessica. Strictly a first name basis in the Sniper Target Clubhouse."
"You don't sleep. Not really. You get the shit kicked out of you and you just get up and keep going. And you worry about everyone else but you. And –"
"Okay, look – no offense, but you're starting to sound like Malcolm used to."
She frowned, not having heard of Malcom, and plowed on. "What you're missing," she said in a small but determined voice, "is the obvious."
"So tell me the obvious."
"You're trying to beat their game. But you are the game."
Jessica blinked.
"They're pushing you. You." She shook her head and looked away. "They want you to blow up. It's part of the game plan. Just don't play their game."
Jessica thought. Hard.
She folded her hand over Smithie's forearm and tease-murmured. "Clearly, a lot of potential. Let's just say you're on a trial basis as a Defender, eh? Maybe we need a video tech specialist."
They rode in silence most of the rest of the way. Jess found a reasonably concealed position for Smithie to film from across the street of the house she was set to visit.
"I walk in, I demand answers. Film me going in. From there, film everybody going in and out. You got the batteries for that?"
Smithie nodded.
Jessica exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Grab anything else on video you think I might want to look at." She ran her hands down her thighs, then shoved out onto the street with her fists doubled, calling over her shoulder. "I trust your judgment."
Smithie was glowing as Jones made her to the door at 177A Bleecker Street.
"Okay," Jessica said. "I'm here and you're on the clock." She collapsed in a chair facing him.
Dr. Stephen Strange just stared at her from behind a desk that could have doubled as a medieval fort. His gaze was hooded, his fingers were steepled at his lips, his chin up slightly, but it was the detachment in his eyes that particularly infuriated her. Jess was not a fan of detachment in others but cultivated its mannerisms for herself fanatically. Dr. Strange achieved the effect effortlessly.
"So, you actually read all these books?" she asked, looking around his office. "Or you just keep paying the Pretentious Asshole Book Club Monthly fees?"
"You don't like me."
"Keen deduction, Penn. Or is it Teller? Ever think of becoming a PI?" She folded her arms, slumping further in her chair across from him. "The medical insurance is crap, but you work fewer children's parties. Not that I don't like kids."
"You don't like me," he replied evenly, maddingly unoffended, "because you still love your sister. And you don't like her involvement with those in my fields of interest."
"Woah, bunny-in-the-hat." She stood up. "I'm not here to talk about Trish –"
"Hellcat."
"Hell, no. Not that it matters to me. We're two minutes in and already done here." She turned, headed for the door.
"I'd heard your temper tends to get the better of you."
She couldn't move. She pushed twice and could. Not. Move.
"I've arranged the meeting you want," Strange told her, "so you two can visit."
She kept her voice light. "You don't want an angry PI who punches thirty weight classes above her one-twenty-five to visit your face, you'll cut me loose right now, Cagliostro."
"So, you do know some history, then? Perhaps I could introduce you to more."
She stumbled forward as if invisible ropes had been cut away from her ankles and whirled to face him. "You just hit me with mind control? You know my history, right?" She paced toward him. "If you didn't want introduced to my fists, that was about the dumbest thing you could have done, magic man."
"If I may, Nancy – or is it Ann? You might want to look at the 'hat' behind you," he lifted one hand. "Playing the bunny this evening will be Mr. Anthony Edward Stark."
She whirled again and saw that a blazing circle had opened behind her. A well-dressed man in Vegas shaded glasses was just stepping through, glancing at the ring with cool admiration.
"Gotta say, this beats Uber," Tony Stark said to the man behind the desk. "Dr. Strange, I presume?"
He nodded once. "Mr. Stark."
Tony stepped toward Jessica, refocusing on her. "Ms. Jones."
"Tin Man."
"It's Iron Man."
She shifted on her feet, flexing her fists. "Yeah, well, we'll see."
He tilted his chin up. "Anyway, I'm here more as Tony Stark. You'll have noticed the lack of hardware."
"I didn't notice. Couldn't see past the ego. You know that's your real exoskeleton, right? The ego?"
"Have we met?"
"I'm familiar with your work."
"Just here to answer a couple questions, Ms. Jones," Tony plowed on, ignoring her, which only tapped open another valve of steam inside her. "And I'd appreciate it if you could keep this meeting between ourselves. Leave your street heroes club out of it?" He cut off a protest with his raised palm.
Circling around her, carefully beyond the reach of her arms and fists, he stopped forming a triangle point set between Strange and Jones. "I don't see how it helps the other – Defenders? Isn't it? You and –" he snapped his fingers, frowning, trying to recall the names. "Luke Cage, I think, right? And Danny Rand."
"Of course, you'd know the rich kid," she muttered. "Not the Hero of Harlem."
"Danny Rand? Well, he is the Immortal Iron Fist."
Jessica leaned to the side, arching her eyebrows while looking at Strange and making a fist of her own bobbing it up and down in the international signal for wanking. "More like the Eternal Knucklehead," she told the mage.
"Look, whether we're talking about sweet Danny McKnuckleface or your yellow shirted H.R. Pufnchest, there's no sense in them carrying the burden of your own enmity toward the Avengers. Or the government. Or – well." Stark smiled. "Seems like you've got it in for pretty much the entire world. But you're not going to work your way out of this one by getting mad and punching people."
"Seriously, guys, this is starting to sound like one of my anger management classes, and you're not even court ordered. And you, you're like, Head Avenger, meaning tied close to S.H.I.E.L.D., who kinda tried to fucking kill me. So, first question, why should I believe a word you say?"
"Well," Stark folded his hands in front of himself, stepping a bit closer, giving Stephen Strange a glance. "There is my famous sagacity."
She scowled at him, half turned, then turned back and squared off facing him. "Sweet Christmas, you really are a pompous piece of shit."
"I – really?" Stark winced and kept his brow knotted. "You think so? Because I was thinking of hitting on you after we wrapped up business."
"You so much as blink a 'come hither', Stark, and I swear I will hand you your eyeballs."
"Okay, guess I'll just chalk this one up as a brief relationship."
"Yeah," she drew the back of her finger-gloved hand over her mouth. "Even by your standards."
He laughed. "So, we keep it at a business level. Frankly, I'm off the market these days anyway, so don't get too hot and bothered."
"What bothers me," she said, "is that you're still here right now. Why are you still here right now?" She glanced at Strange. "You. Houdini. Feel free to weigh in, anytime."
"I'm quietly enjoying the show," he replied with a tight smile. "And you don't strike me as someone who'd appreciate applause." He arched a brow, stare shifting to Stark. "I'd move this along. Ms. Jones has many gifts, but patience isn't one of them. I suspect she's losing interest."
"Fine," Stark shot his cuffs. "Shots fired. Quinjet. S.H.I.E.L.D. logo." He smirked at the sorcerer. "Is it just me, or did the temperature here just take about five upticks?"
Pleased with himself, he didn't notice Jessica's prowl until she was reaching for him. By then, his instinctive reaction only led to her slapping his raised forearms away before seizing the collar of his suit.
"I'd rip this jacket apart to get you to focus," she seethed. "But I doubt I could even afford dry cleaning it, let alone replacing it."
"My checkbook," Dr. Strange offered, "is in the drawer."
"Really?" Stark frowned. "Just like that? You're giving up a bro for some woman you met, what, ten minutes ago?"
"I already like her better," Strange said. He was flipping rapidly through an old, heavy book on his desktop. "I'd say you and I have another ten minutes of conversation before I call you a douche bag, but I sense it'll have to wait for another occasion."
Stark had half-turned his head, pressing at his ear. "Thanks, Nat, copy that," he muttered, then looked up and spoke normally. "Or we could just keep this down to nine minutes."
"You got nine seconds, Tin Man. Then I'm gone. Clearly, you're not here to answer my questions. You think I'll believe what you tell me, anyway?""
"Strangely, though," the sorcerer interjected, his finger pinned at a point on a page of his book. "You should. Since he won't remember this meeting at all." He gave a lively mutter in some dead language.
The other two stared at Strange.
"Wait –" Tony said.
"- what?" Jessica snapped.
"Done. He won't even remember meeting either one of us. Arguably eliminates at least some motivation for Tony to lie." He muttered another short phrase, then snapped the book shut. "And that seals it. He'll speak the truth for at least the next four or five minutes."
A snark choked in her throat when she saw Dr. Strange slump in his chair, suddenly grey and weary. Whatever he'd just done had taken a lot from him.
"I can only do that spell every few years," he told her. "So, you might want to get started. And keep it terse for once, both of you."
She turned on Stark, who had straightened himself, squaring off against her. She had to admit he had guts. "Okay, Hefner. Shots. Quinjet. S.H.I.E.L.D.. Ring a bell? But start at the beginning. Why are you even here, talking to a mere Defender?"
Tony smirked. Jones almost protested that the spell hadn't worked, then realized Stark's superior air meant he was being as honest as possible. "Because whoever is behind all this, it isn't the good guys. Shots fired? Sure. But not by S.H.I.E.L.D.. All that's left of S.H.I.E.L.D. is a band of turned-out guerillas with a few nice toys. And not by the Avengers. Even if we didn't find your street anarchy useful, we don't have the time to mess with it right now."
"Go on."
"Divide and conquer, keep up this narrative about how dangerous and unbalanced you street powered types are – it would all work for a certain political pitch."
"Meaning Keaton."
"He's a cat's paw," he said, eyes bouncing back and forth considering all the possibilities.
"Explain Maria Hill taking shots at me."
"Not Hill. Her LMD."
Jessica arched her eyebrows.
"Life Model Decoy. Very lifelike androids originally meant as doubles for assassins to take shots at. Looks like somebody went a different way with that scenario."
"Jesus, Stark, you're into fembots, now?"
"Hey, LMD's weren't my invention. Totally a S.H.I.E.L.D. thing. But you know how tech proliferates. I hear the alley-way kettles are even cooking up animals, now."
Jessica quickly shifted her thinking from who (what?) she was confronting over to how she'd confront her. "How old is this Hill LMD? Ever fought an inhuman, a powered?"
"Don't know. But it's the first we knew she existed, so unlikely."
"She herself isn't 'powered' in abilities, right? To blend in she'd have to be 'merely' human, like the real Maria Hill."
Stark shrugged. "Usually that's the case. But I take your point. You'd have a strength advantage in a fist fight."
"Then let's get back to this. Fembot Hill slid into a S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet."
"Quinjet, yes, but not actually one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. Stolen. Re-detailed." He frowned. "Surely you're familiar with fast jack paint jobs in Hell's Kitchen?"
"Thought of it. Of course, that means that instead of an incompetent, self-appointed, guardian of us, all super powerful organization, I'm dealing with an evil but brutally effective one that's our self-appointed overlord. That's what you're saying, right. It was Hydra?"
"It wasn't Hydra."
She blanched. "Well, this ain't gangsta shit. I know gangsta shit and this ain't it. You two are the only outfits that fly those things."
"Again, I'm an Avenger, not S.H.I.E.L.D., and Natasha Romanoff has been tracing a 'lost' Quinjet, a casualty of the battle in D.C. Insight Quinjet, so weapon heavy."
"An Insight?" Dr. Strange stirred. "Shorter wingspan, I hear. Better for urban operations."
"Boys and their toys," Jess snorted.
"We're wondering if that's your bird. Hydra's survivors sold it to a Ukrainian arms dealer. She sold it to some guy in Africa. From there?" He shrugged. "Who knows."
"Some guy got a name?"
"Ulysses Klaue."
"I heard Klaue was dead." Strange murmured.
"He was feeling much better at the time," Stark answered. "Things went south for him after. And no Quinjet in his remaining inventory. Natasha drilled through the files. His files and everything out there concerning him. Then Hydra's. We even had a S.H.I.E.L.D. hacker suprema take a look."
"Who?" Jessica asked.
"Daisy Johnson."
"Quake? Actually, I'm okay with that," she said. "I'm kind of a fan."
"She's kind of an anarchist waiting to happen, or rather happen again, so I'm not surprised."
"Well, I ama freak," she said, acid dripping around the slur. "Quake stood up for us against the Watchdogs back when. You know, while S.H.I.E.L.D. sat on its ass and the Avengers sat up in the clouds?"
"Whatever, she didn't find anything. Where-ever this Quinjet was moved, it was way off book, and it's not Hydra's. Which is good, because anybody without that network is dry on ammo now."
Jessica sighed. "So, you don't know," she said archly, "who has this Quinjet, but you're sure the shooter was Fembot Hill?"
"The real Agent Hill was with me on the night in question, Ms. Jones," he said, mockingly mimicking a cop's formality. He pulled a thumb drive from his pocket and tossed to Jessica, who caught it easily. "Drone surveillance video from that night. The LMD's a good job, looks just like Maria, moves like her. But it's not her."
Jessica held the thumb drive up shoulder high. "Avengers got all of New York on camera these days?"
He hesitated. "The surveillance related to something you stumbled into the middle of. Cameras were on, you showed up, then Fembot Hill as you call her took her shot. We just happened to be drone-camming live at the time. Somebody's playing you, Ms. Jones."
"Is that you volunteering to help figure it out?"
"Nope. Got – stuff. Stuff to do. But I have confidence in you. Just in case, though -" He pulled a cell phone and flipped it through the air toward her. She caught it, turned it over in her hand. "Here. Use wisely. One time only. Like, end of the world time."
"What? We're playing Kim Possible now? Text you, beep you –"
"Oh, that call won't go to me. It'll go to Carol Danvers."
She arched her eyebrow skeptically. "Captain Marvel? Seriously?"
"She likes your style. Says in another version of your lives, you two might've been besties. A chick thing, I guess, I don't get it, but – for those very special emergencies, this is your 911. Not that you're without coverage."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, I didn't walk in here without putting some birds in the sky, and you know good and well what they've been seeing." He tapped the earpiece. "As do I."
She stared. He stared back.
"Fine, coy dog, don't tell me," Jessica slid the phone into her pocket. "You're sure," she asked Dr. Strange, not taking her eyes off of Stark, "this guy is still on the Truth-o-matic or whatever?"
Strange shrugged. "Ask fast."
Jones stepped toward Stark twice, her eyes gone from their usual liquid shadows to something like flint. "Guy named Samuel Cross. Ever run into him at Club One Percent or where-ever you rich kids hang out and harass the staff?"
He shook his head once, warily, but looking genuinely puzzled.
She sighed, glancing at Strange, swinging her duffle bag in front of herself to dig into it. "Your spell just fizzled. He's lying. For some reason."
Jess handed Stark the photo of himself with Cross, folded her arms, and glared.
"Ah, the Bunbury Club." He mockingly looked at it from five different angles, then handed it back. "So?"
"So, you know him." She held up the photo and planted her fingertip on the target's head. "He's right the fuck next to you!"
"I don't know who Samuel Cross is, but that's Aleksander Lukin. Quite a recluse, but so what?" he shrugged, cocking his head back and forth. "What's wrong with knowing him?"
Masking her shock, Jess turned to Dr. Strange a moment before looking at Stark again.
"How do you know him, exactly?"
Stark rolled his eyes. "You're the one hanging out with ex-Hydra spiders, so I hear, but do you see me getting paranoid?"
She planted her right heel and folded her arms.
"He's a … Bunburyist." He went on, and for the first time in the conversation, possibly one of the few times in his life, Tony Stark looked a bit abashed. "It's a game. The Bunbury Club, we go out and play at being entirely different people, develop and practice personae and – yeah, just build on them. It's useful for disappearing, enjoying another life from time to time. You can be Earnest in town and Bunbury in the country."
Jones groaned. "And rich kids with a lotta time on their hands every day of the week. Ever occur to you that's a great cover for spies, racketeers, con men?"
"Sure," Stark replied. "It's why probably half the members are CIA, FBI, what have you. Keeping track. Oh, by the way," Stark said, "you know Alec Johnson, right?"
"The junk supplement salesmen who uses conspiracy theories as click-bait?"
"Yeah, and talk-show host, although you've obviously focused on his business model."
"I'm well aware he buys into the whole powered-gifted-Nephilim bullshit."
"While selling seaweed to cure cancer, right. Thing is, he's new-doxing you on his show tonight. Thought you'd want to know. Little show of good faith."
"He's what?"
"New-doxing. The upgrade to doxing he invented, broadcasting your address and number so people will know where to harass you."
"I work where I live. It's no secret."
"But he's putting you on the radar screen for the nut jobs."
"Why would he bother?"
"Usually he does it to shut up the families of mass shooting victims who claim the event really did happen, or to make sure no pizza parlor goes without a shotgun visit or two. In your case, probably to distract you from your investigation. He's got his own money and that of a ton of listeners pouring into Keaton for Mayor." Stark shrugged. "Thought you'd want to know. You're welcome."
"How do you know?"
"It came up. Now – favor for favor?"
"Yeah, 'cuz you've done so much for me already."
"There's a Sokovian girl, lives in your building. I put her there, with her grandmother."
Jones dipped her chin at this shot from left field. "Blind. Right."
"Yeah. Wanda Maximoff wanted them looked after. And arranged for them to get a cat. So, actually, I kind of tweaked the cat. Didn't want it dying easily on them after all the – well, you know, all the dying the kid has already been through."
Jess plowed her fingers through her hair. "Jesus, Stark, do you ever just leave things alone?"
"Apparently it wandered off?" He glanced at Strange, seeming genuinely puzzled. "Did you know cats do that?"
"I already found the damn cat, Stark! Anything else I can do for you?"
"Yeah, is it true you got a connect to Ex Vivian? I'm looking for a band for a thing we're throwing for Thor and -"
She slid her gaze to Dr. Strange. "I got nothing else for this guy."
Stark held up one hand majestically. "But suppose the Avengers have something in mind for you when this is done? No costume, you could totally just Nat it -"
When Jess rolled her eyes, Strange nodded, waved a hand casually, and a second fiery circle swallowed Tony.
"Not gonna lie, Gandalf," Jess said. "That's one helluva way to hang up on a sales call."
Strange frowned, shoving back in his chair. "Just do me a favor. Hellcat? Let her grow. I'm not saying you have to resolve whatever the hell it is between you two."
"What do you care?"
"I know how hard transition is. I'm just saying, give her some room."
"Trust me," Jessica snorted. "Trish can have all the room she wants."
Only when Smithie shyly ran the video through the viewfinder did Jessica understand everything Stark had said.
"I'll be damned," Jess twisted her head.
Three clips, none longer than five seconds, but each one had seen a plain-clothes Drew slinging herself around in fine spidery form from rooftop to rooftop.
Jones had spent enough time snapping photos of people boning in alleys to admire how delicately well Smithie managed the glare of sun, the gleam of metal and glass, and still managed court-ready images clearly identifying Drew.
"That's –"
"Yeah, I recognized her from the Ex," Smithie said. "Well and then there's – what she's doing."
"Yeah, we made a deal a few hours ago that we'd pool information." Jess lifted her gaze up to the student's and asked, "What do you think this means?"
Smithie blinked. "She's just … protecting you? Maybe? Looking out for you?
"Then why is she following me instead of just telling me she was going to be there?"
"Ms. Jones," Smithie began, then at Jess' huff switched to, "Jessica. You don't make it easy, you know? I don't know Ms. Drew, but maybe she's figured that out, already?"
"Okay, re-thinking that whole Ms. Jones thing …." Jess said dryly. At the girl's face, she smiled. "Just kidding. And hey – great catch. We're gonna make a Defender out of you yet."
Trish had almost hissed at the screech of subway brakes as the train pulled into the stop, but she didn't sway like people around her as a strong back-breeze hit the commuters. She was still learning to mask her feline impulses when in "plain clothes," and suspected the magical elements introduced by Daimon weren't helping, but she was hooked on the power, the cryptic – everything she'd always wanted – that was blooming inside her.
Relishing it so fully, in fact, she didn't realize that Eddy Costa was standing behind her until she heard him say, "Yeah, what's up, Dinah?"
Trish had turned with a whirl of her skirt and stared at him. He nodded, started to say something, then grimaced humorously and tucked his phone into his suit coat's side pocket. "She's not much on protocol, that one." He offered his hand. "Detective Eddy Costa, NYPD."
Glancing at the badge folded outside the suit's upper pocket, she shook hands uneasily and said, "Yeah, you handled the situation with Jessica's mother. Didn't expect to hear from you again, did something turn up?"
His eyes narrowed, noting that she seemed nervous about that subject. Both Jess and Trish had denied she'd been anywhere near the park where – his final report concluded – Jessica Jones killed her mother in self-defense. He slotted her nervous interest in another file in his head; for now it was a good basis to ask, "Mind catching the next train?"
She shook her head, glancing over his shoulder, and let him lead her to a quiet spot further down in the station.
"So," he said. "I thought Jessica did a very good thing, but now I'm thinking it was you." He ran it down, abbreviated and without names: a tip to federal authorities allowed them to find and arrest a very dangerous fugitive; he wasn't allowed to know who gave the tip even though he had follow-up questions about an on-going conspiracy; he had reason to think it was because the tipster – while not Jones – had some strong connection to the her.
He folded his arms. "Somebody Jones might have sent the tip through, so to speak."
Her eyes flared, angry that – of course - it couldn't have her, it had to be Jessica that was the hero. She hunched her shoulders, stroking her jaw, and said, "Or somebody who knew on her own? And just happens to be associated with Jess?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Or," he agreed. "Sure. Somebody who's – a reporter, say – building her own 'brand', so to speak. Somebody good cops might look to in the future." He ran his thumb over his chin. "That would great."
She shifted her shoulder back, hand going to her hip, and smiled, staring down the way with what she hoped was an air of mystery and sway. "Yeah," she said. "A partnership, maybe." Her eyes shifted back to his. "What are you looking for specifically."
"Punk named Denny Haynes. Went to ground very recently, but we need to find him." He leaned in and dropped his voice, emphasizing a sense of confidentiality. "Got a life at stake here."
"Haynes," she shook her head in disgust. "Yeah, I know about him, but keeping track of him is hit and miss."
"Wait," Eddy frowned. "You've been tracking him?"
She shifted on her feet. "All I know – right now – is that he's been cozying up to a powered kid named Ian Soo. And he has – something – he wants to plant on, or use on, somebody, and means to use Ian to do it."
Reporter Trish noticed as Costa's eyes hazed a bit in thought. "Maybe Ian's in on it to begin with?"
She shook her head vigorously. "No. But Ian's friend with that new superhero in Hell's Kitchen. Hellcat."
"Hellcat?" Eddy mugged a second. "Look, you think you could track down this Haynes punk? You know, through your sources?"
Now she knew he was stroking her ego, but her soul still purred. She nodded, "I'll stay on it –if! If, you tell me what to watch out for around him? I mean, so I don't walk into a trap."
He nodded, deciding on what was "just enough" to keep her chasing the dot on the floor. "He's got some high-powered pill he can use to take down and turn even a powered person." He shrugged. "But who he wants to use it on? Don't know."
Her heart slammed at her chest. "But it fits. Ian Soo leads to Hellcat herself?"
"Maybe," he pondered. "You run into her, better warn Hellcat. And see if she'll talk to me."
David Lieberman's step slowed as he neared his car, but never quite stopped, staring the brunette in the passenger seat be sitting there so laconically, smiling at him.
"I –" he looked around the garage, then leaned back into the window. "I can see you sitting right there, you know?"
"Yes, I know," she said with a liquid English accent accent. "Hoped it would eliminate any sense of alarm."
He looked around again, then focused back on her. "This is an NSA facility. You with the cousins, or ….?"
"Free-lance, actually. Jessica Drew." She tilted her head, a long sheaf of dark hair sliding to her right. "And it's a private matter."
Lieberman was brilliant, street-wise, and fully aware of covert matters, but had no clue the former Spider-Woman was gently coating him with pheromones. Enough to bend him, not break him – and even at that she sensed an immediate push-back, confirming her source's claim about the man's devotion to his wife and family.
But everyone was at least a little pliable to chemistry and she only needed cooperation. He sighed and slid into the driver's seat. "So, what's this about?"
"I just watched two teams in covert surveillance over a friend of mine."
"I see," he rubbed his eyes. "And of course, it's the big bad us that's –"
"Not at all. One was NYPD, and they don't concern me. The other was merc, five contractors. Three men, two women. Spotter-shooter sniper team and six feet on the ground, two at each corner, all with press credentials, there to verify the kill if it had been ordered."
He frowned, staring at her. "Sniper squad."
"Got it in one. But they were lax, joking, taking their eyes off target – took me sixty seconds to realize it was just a practice run."
"So, what do you want from me?"
"An introduction."
"I have no idea who they were."
"I don't mean to them."
"Who?"
She leaned back, easing her aching muscles by flexing her legs hard, feet planting on the floor board, her back arched up, and then plopped back into the seat. "Ever try to smash a spider?" she asked him.
"What?"
"A spider. Takes a few swats, even with a boot, before you can finally keep one down for good. Because spiders are survivors."
"You want me to kill a spider?"
She laughed, and a wisp of a smile ghosted her lips.
"Not at all," she said. "I'm just saying, there are creatures who are very hard to kill." She leaned forward. "And I believe you know one of them. I want to talk to Frank Castle."
"Frank's dead. He ain't talking to nobody."
"I'm betting he's alive and will talk about protecting a friend of his."
Five messages from one client, and it was hard to blame her. She'd scraped up a modest fee, she'd paid Jess, she'd put her crumbling idyllic life in the PI's hands and hadn't heard from her in some time. So, in the middle of a shit-a-cane, Jones had realized she needed to take a couple hours and wrap up the Pastor McSwizzlestick case.
She had checked: his prayer cruise had ended; he was back to cruising online; and, yes, those long days at sea debating how best to crush the openly gay had left him starving for relief when he'd logged onto BearCubs-dot-com and found Jessica's alt apparently pining to finally meet him.
As much as she wanted to confront Sylviana Packard, she had to agree it made sense that Drew could get closer, faster, as an unknown factor in Packard – Lawson circles. She'd shoved the data to her west coast counter-part: phone bill, Facebook, Amazon account, credit card vacation billing – Jones had kept mining, winnowing, until she had one Sylviania Packard in New York City whose monthly payout could possibly be made off anything less than a Lawson, Stiviano & Silver salary.
A tip, a tap, and her screen had the woman's cell phone pulled up. Another tap: address.
"This type is so easy to squeeze," Drew had said. They worked through the plan and she had been out the door in a flash.
Then Jones logged on to BearCubs and her alt had begged to meet the good pastor.
Right away. Now.
The Reverend was annoyed at the coffee shop chosen for the meeting, tapping his cell phone idly on the table in between checking it every thirty seconds. When Jessica slid into the chair across from him, he glanced at her, flicked his fingers as if she was a fly to shoo away, and said, "Seat's taken. Sorry."
"He asked me to drop by, let you know he's running late."
He turned and stared. "Excuse me?"
She shifted to face him, sliding her phone casually onto the tabletop to record the audio, and smiled.
First, she laid the pretext on thick. The collegian's sister; only person in his family he trusted with his secret – oh, did he mention her during their online chats, wow, even described how she looked, why how nice! – and she was so glad a nice older man was interested.
Then she turned the talk to him, while they waited. She walked him through enough corroboration he was the man in the message box, with enough obvious subtext of what he wanted to happen next, that she had his ass on a plate.
Then she handed it to him.
PI license out, flashes of what she'd screen-capped, all the background notes. He was cooked and his protests ended sooner than she expected.
She knew the drill from here. She'd seen it plenty of times, researched it … from here the marriage was over and he'd have to spend at least a year out of active ministry, laying low and cruising lower while in theory he was in some sort of prayerful retreat. When he was welcomed back as redeemed, his loss of income and – more importantly to him – power, would run "low" for years. It was even possible he would have to get by on something in the high six figures, instead of his long-standing seven. She could almost see his eyes running the numbers in his head.
Then she pulled the print-outs from her jacket. The ones detailing the embezzlement, the money laundering, the various ways he'd insured his flock paid for his habits. It was one thing he'd never be forgiven – least of all, by the police.
She had to admire his reaction, if not the man himself. Devastated, fearful, but keeping control of his thoughts … and then leaning forward, handing her the papers back.
"Suppose I could give the cops something – someone – bigger?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Look, it's pen time, but frankly embezzlement and money laundering are how most business is done in this country. Bigger is easy to find. Still, what could you possibly –"
"Child pornography," McSwizzlestick said. "Active involvement in a dark web online trading ring."
"Well …." She stared, her heart racing. "How would you know unless you were involved yourself?"
"Because I was asked to be involved, but declined," he sighed. "Not my thing. But the fool knows how untouchable he is. He sent me things in writing, including his username. So a little federal level investigation and …."
"But you never reported it."
"Ms. Jones, in this world," he leaned forward, voice lowered, eyes scared. "You don't mess with Chris Hoskins."
She sat back, letting her phone recording app keep running, while ostentatiously pulling a small digital recorder like reporter's use from her jacket pocket. She snapped it on, identified herself; identified him; verified that everything he was about to say was being said voluntarily and was truthful and he was fine with it being recorded.
She exhaled slowly.
"Start from the beginning."
"Ah, now that is a heavy load! May I help you? I was just going inside myself, I've just found a flat on the fourth floor." Jessica Drew knew one could never under-estimate the disarming power of an English accent in disarming suspicions from Americans. When it came from an attractive, confident lady like herself, offering help, it was like putting on a leash.
So, she didn't need to do more than habitually suppress her fog of pheromones for the other woman to turn and smile at her.
Drew was walking up behind her in an expensive suit dress, having waited for two hours to see someone struggling with groceries at the apartment building's door while trying to punch the security key. The lucky winner of her help nodded, saying, "That'd be great! Thank you!"
"Let me just get that," Drew said, taking enough of the packages to let the woman push buttons freely. She carried them to the lady's door and demurred charmingly at the effusive thanks. "Just off to my flat for now, take care!"
She went to an apartment on the third floor and knocked. Satisfaction filled her at the shock short-circuiting an expectant smile on Packard's face.
"Where's David?"
Jess shoved her back, stumbling. "Screwing someone else, I should imagine," she said.
"But he –" she paused.
"Ah, yes, well," Drew said, prowling toward her after the kicking the door closed behind her. "The thing about you people who play games with others is you so often forget how easily they can be played back."
The lawyer blinked.
"Oh, the bloody text was from me, not his secretary, you silly bitch!" Drew exploded.
"Who are you?"
"Someone looking for Mattie Franklin and Rebecca Cross." She began dancing blue tendrils of electricity along her fingertips.
Packard's knees bent in as if she had almost feinted. "Oh, my God, you're one of them." She flustered through a half-dozen starts of a new sentence before settling on, "Look, I have no idea where they're keeping those girls."
Drew tilted her head, arching one eyebrow. "Now, there's a surprise," she said. "They didn't tell the dumbest one in the room where the prize jewels are."
It took Packard a moment. "Wait, then – you know I'm telling the truth?"
"About that?" Drew shrugged. "Sure. Do I care?" She turned one wrist, causing the fields of electricity to merge and crackle.
"God, God, God – I'll, what do you want? I'll pay you."
Jessica snapped off the energy and shook her head. "What you will do," she said, "is pack – quickly – and then we're taking a cab to a train station, where I will buy you a one-way ticket to a town you've not yet heard of. You'll tell me what you do know while we wait. You will call a number I'll give you every day at noon and tell me your where-abouts, so I can be certain the ninety-nine people I have watching you are all telling me the truth."
Packard's eyes showed she bought that last bit and it was all Drew could do to keep from laughing. Instead, she added, "And you won't come back until you hear from me."
"Why do I have to leave town?"
"Oh, time to make Mr. Lawson nervous, for one. And I'm fond of this city, hate to see you in it. Alternatively?" She pulled a single folded page from her jacket and handed it to the attorney. She let her read the laser-printed suicide note onto which Drew had made a pretty good facsimile of Packard's signature from a credit card application Jones had hacked.
"Christ," Sylviana exhaled.
"I forget," Drew said, snatching the page back. "How high up is the roof to this building, again?"
Packard stared. "What do you want to know?"
