"This is can't end well," Lois muttered. The evening had taken a sharp drop in temperature and seeing the fog of her own breath hang in the frigid air only intensified her scowl.
She and Clark walked side-by-side up the walkway to the home of Carmine Falcone. It was surprisingly modest, considering that its owner had once been rumored to be the most dangerous man in Metropolis.
Not anymore though. Cameron Locke had seen to that.
And while the dwelling was no mansion, it was certainly a far sight better than anyplace either of them would ever live. The architecture, especially the windows, added a regal charm that Clark found fascinating. His mind was gaily contemplating whether he should have his own rather drafty windows replaced when Lois jabbed him in the arm.
"I'm talking to you."
"No, you're talking to yourself. And rather pessimistically I might add. Cheer up, Falcone's not going to fancy an evening chat with a downer, no matter how pretty."
Lois pretended to ignore the compliment. "He's not going to fancy an evening chat period. He's going to get very angry, as a matter of fact. Probably kill you. Worse, kill me."
"So dramatic," Clark couldn't help commenting as he reached for the knocker and gave the door four solid raps, each one reverberating through the twilit air.
The following silence seemed interminable. The house resonated a stillness that made Clark wonder how anyone could have ever lived there. There were no vibrations, no movements. . .nothing.
Lois tugged on his sleeve. "Maybe my information was wrong. I don't think anyone's lived here for at least-"
The door opened. Just an inch. Just enough for an eye to peer out of the darkness on the other side.
"What do you want?" The voice was low and hoarse and male. Weary, with a not-unsubtle trace of New York in the vowels.
Clark gave Lois a reassuring glance before answering. "My name is Clark Kent and this is my associate Lois-"
The door opened just a fraction further, revealing a bit more of the face that the eye belonged to. Haggard, wrinkled, and gray.
It also revealed the barrel of a long revolver that was pointed right at Clark's stomach. Surprisingly the hand that held it remained absolutely steady.
The voice spoke again. "What do you want?" Each word as its own.
Clark spread his slowly and non-threateningly. "We want to speak with Carmine Falcone.
"Why?"
"Well-"
"Because we can help him," Lois chimed in.
This earned them another incremental opening of the door. The man behind it stared at her as if he'd assumed she were a mute decorative statue on the porch. The gun stayed pointed at Clark but it was Lois who now commanded his attention. "What, precisely, do you think I need your help with."
Where to begin, Lois thought. You're a shriveled old man living alone in a drafty, cold house who hasn't had visitors in so long he doesn't know not to greet them with a loaded gun. As she often did when harboring uncharitable thoughts about someone (a not infrequent occurrence) she arched an eyebrow, cocked her head to the side, and said the thing most likely to spur her target to action.
"You need to settle a score, Mr. Falcone."
He let out raspy, bronchitic chuckle. "I know more about settling scores than a pretty little thing like you could even imagine. Should even hear about."
"If we could just come in-" Clark started to say before Falcone silenced him with a wave of the gun. "Shaddup four-eyes. The lady's talking."
More miffed than frightened, Clark nonetheless kept silent.
"There is," Lois, continued nervously, "one score that you have not settled. I think we both know that it is Cameron Locke.
His eyes glinted dangerously. "Been a while since I've heard that name."
"He's not as active here in the States" Lois said. "Not anymore. But he's been very busy overseas, I assure you."
Falcone let out a harrumph. "You two associates of his?"
"Of course not. We're reporters and we want to see Locke brought to justice. We think you can help."
The old man seemed to find this answer satisfactory. "You'd said different and I'd have gutshot you both and let you bleed in the cold." His gun dropped and disappeared into the folds of his robe. "Come on in. We can talk in the study. Provided the useless one keeps his mouth shut."
Clark shot Lois an aggrieved look but she ignored it. If Falcone wanted to abuse him a bit in exchange for vital information. . .well, it wasn't as if Clark was unaccustomed to the occasional putdown. She'd seen to that.
They followed Falcone inside, Lois taking lead and Clark trailing behind like a wounded puppy. Her first instinct was to take off her coat but it was readily apparent that the interior of the Falcone home was only fractionally warmer than the wintry outdoors. It was also very dark, the only light coming from half-draped windows along the front of the house. Carmine moved silently in his slippers but the click-clack of her heels and Clark's sensible shoes seemed to echo down every corridor of the gloomy abode.
"This way," Falcone practically wheezed as he ushered them into the study. Even in the dim light, Lois could sense that something terribly amiss about the room. "Bookshelves," she murmured. And indeed, the room was lined with them. Wall to wall and floor to very-expansive-ceiling.
"But no books," finished Clark, gazing forlornly at the empty shelves.
Falcone took a seat on the larger of the two sofas, leaving only a single-cushioned seat for his guests. "Your boyfriend's just terribly observant," Falcone said, rolling his eyes. The sarcasm brought out his New 'Yawkah' accent like nothing else.
Lois gave a thin smile as she sat down next to Clark on what was most assuredly a one-person seat. His broad shoulders left her little room to comfortably arrange herself, an interesting observation that spiraled into all sorts of even more interesting ones. Even as hard as he tried to slouch, Lois could feel the solid muscle of his frame. All that work in the fields as a boy, perhaps? Either way, in this cold, strange room she found the feel of him oddly comforting. It wasn't the first unprofessional thought she'd harbored about the farmboy and it probably wouldn't be the last, but she figured as long she remained collected and kept her thoughts from showing, Clark would never be the wiser.
Clark, shifting to accommodate Lois as much as possible, merely wondered why she kept looking at him like that. It was a bit unsettling.
"This study wasn't mine," Falcone said. "It was my wife's." He gestured to the portrait hanging high on the wall behind him. High enough that Lois hadn't even noticed it when entering. It was a painting that almost redeemed the embarrassing lack of literature on the bookshelves. Lois couldn't tear her eyes away.
"Beautiful, wasn't she." Falcone's voice was tinged with genuine sorrow. Clark and Lois could only nod. Beautiful was the height of understatement when describing the woman pictured. All of the high marks were there: creamy complexion full, red lips, piercing green eyes, and strawberry blond tresses that fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Somehow, the whole was greater still than the sum of its parts. It was vibrant. Dynamic. It looked like frozen moment in the woman's life. A smile just beginning, the glint of warmth and familiarity in her eyes.
"My beloved Scarlett," Falcone rasped. "I loved her like I have never loved another woman. And in the days when we met, there were plenty to choose from. She put them all to shame. Not just with her beauty, but with her confidence, her grace and her wisdom. My best memories are of her. My worst are of losing her. And while a part of me thanks God for the time we shared, the other wishes that she had never met a bastard like me. That she had lived and loved long past me, untainted by the filth these petty turf wars." He stopped to catch his breath. Then, a surprising question. "Have you ever been in love?" Given that he'd seemed perfectly happy thus far pretending Clark was invisible, there was little doubt as to which of the reporters Falcone was addressing.
Still, Lois leaned forward, sure she'd misheard. "I'm sorry?"
"Love. Absolute, unconditional love. Have you ever felt that for another person?"
Unbidden, an image of the man sitting next to her sprang into her mind. It was so startling and unexpected that she gasped out loud. Clark? How absurdly. . .impossible. "No," she answered a little bit louder than necessary. "No I most certainly have not."
"Well, if you had loved someone, you might have smallest inkling of what it would be like to lose them. And if you had lost them, you might have a fractionally more substantial idea of the misery I have endured since Scarlett's death. I know who it was that nailed her into that lawn you just walked past a few minutes ago." He stopped, interrupted by a coughing fit that wracked his entire body.
"Are you alright?" Clark ventured.
"No, I'm dying," Falcone wheezed. "But then aren't we all." He coughed a few more times and then continued. "Some of us. . .some of us die before our time. I've seen it happen. I've. . .made it happen. Cameron Locke made it happen to my Scarlett. If whatever he did to put you on his trail was half as bad, then I believe you and I have something in common. I will cooperate with your investigation." He chuckled. "Help. . .bring Locke to justice," echoing Lois's earlier words.
Outside, a rather eclectic group of individuals waited sat in a large carriage just a ways down the road. Three men and a woman. Their ages ranged from mid-twenties to mid-thirties, with the woman bringing up the youngest end of the spectrum and a man named Maxwell Lord at the older. He was the leader of the group. Not because he was the oldest but because he was the one who had assembled them and managed their tasks.
This particular task was a bit puzzling for his subordinates, but the woman, lithe and athletic with gold-flecked auburn hair, was the first to voice it aloud. "They could be in there for hours," she said.
Maxwell Lord raised his head, unsurprised by the show of frustration. "Patience."
"Patience?" the Widow Holden repeated dubiously. "I'm freezing." She wore the same basic uniform as the men: a dark gray overcoat and matching tunic with an obsidian clasp fashioned into the letters CJ secured at the throat. As far as Maxwell Lord knew or cared, her first name was The Widow. Certainly there was some tragic story behind the appellation but then, couldn't the same be said for all of them?
The Widow Holden had once asked one of her teammates the meaning of the letters. Circumspect Juveniles? Curious Juxtaposition? Crown Justice?
Said colleague, seated just across from her and playing idly with the emerald ring on his finger, had laughed and shaken his head. "Now you're throwing nonsense words together," John Stewart had said. "It's Latin. The C is for Concilium. The J, Justitia. This is a very special organization you've become a part of."
The Widow Holden didn't know that the throwing about the anachronistic trappings of a dead language qualified any organization as 'special'. Nor did she feel particularly special on this particular stakeout, chasing around a couple of reporters. She looked at John, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't judge her minor insubordination.
He flashed a smile back, just brief enough that Lord didn't catch it. Then, to Lord. "She does have a point."
"The only point Ms. Holden makes to me is that perhaps my superiors were a bit hasty in allowing women to serve as active field agents." He was referring to Abraham Lincoln, 16th president of the United States and founder of The Elite, the more-or-less official name for government unit they all served. Lincoln, having been impressed with the accomplishments of female operatives on both sides of the Civil War, had mandated that female candidates be recruited for each 'generation' of agents.
"Luckily for us, ol' Lincoln was more of the open-minded sort," spoke up the last man. Tall and slender with a runner's build and a shock of orange-red hair. Wallace West was no doubt suffering the most. Sitting still was no doubt hell on a hyperkinetic personality like his.
Still, he was sticking up for both John and the Widow Holden. Lincoln's edict hadn't only mandated that women be accepted into the ranks of the Elite. It had also opened the doors to African-Americans. John Stewart was the son of freed slaves who had been fortunate enough to eke out a living on the property their deceased master bequeathed them. How exactly he caught the eye of a federal recruiter was a mystery to his teammates, but rumors abounded that he had singlehandedly retrieved a girl, the daughter of a black minister, who had been kidnapped by one of the Ku Klux Klan derivatives that continued to plague certain southerly parts of the U.S. None of the 12 kidnappers. . .alleged kidnappers, were ever found. It was as if they had been erased from the face of the earth. No more young black girls were kidnapped in the area and John Stewart found himself with the chance to do more with his considerable skills than sharecrop for the rest of his life.
Maxwell Lord knew all of this and, looking between John Stewart and the Widow Holden, knew that before him were some of the best intelligence operatives in the entire country. Despite his personal misgivings about women and coloreds, he was above all a rationalist and an empiricist, and empirically, John and the Widow had more than earned their place on his team.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Ms. Holden, you've proven your worth a dozen times over. As have you, John, And you, Wallace. I suppose I could be more forthcoming." His contrition cost little and more or less mollified the other three, so Lord didn't mind using it. "As you may know, Clark Kent has been the focus of our organization for some time now. All of you have remarkable skills or you wouldn't be here. But there is a very small percentage of humans, less than one percent of one percent of the population, who manifest abilities that could well and truly be deemed supernatural.
John, Wallace, and the Widow Holden exchanged glances. They had all heard the rumors about a reporter in Metropolis with genuine superpowers, but gossip whispered in the dark corners of an organization like theirs often proved to be more fiction than fact.
It was John who spoke up. "And we think Clark Kent is one of those individuals?"
"We know that he is," corrected Lord. "There are files on that young man thick enough to stop a bullet. He would probably be in custody right now being poked and prodded by the Starlab whitecoats if it wasn't for one thing."
"Which is?" John wasted no time asking.
"Somehow, our superman has managed to cross paths with one of the few people who represent a greater priority for us than he does. Cameron Locke. I've managed to convince the powers that be that it would be best to observe from a distance for now. To wait."
"Makes sense," said Wallace. "But I thought Locke was the Brits' problem now."
"Make no mistake, from what we know he's everyone's problem. Fortunately, it appears as though one of the Brits will be hopping to our side of the pond very soon."
British Intelligence?" The Widow began skeptically. "But I thought-"
"Not a government agent," Lord amended. "A private detective. British high command is practically fawning over Locke's weapons systems. They've shut down all official inquiries into his more sordid dealings and they've stopped talking to us on the subject altogether. From what I can gather, the only man in all of England who is pursuing Locke is the detective."
"How did you discover this again?" John wanted to know.
"Intercepted telegrams, not that it really matters. The important thing is-" Maxwell Lord froze mid-sentence, which was a true rarity for a man so fond of the sound of his own voice. "What on earth-"
"I see them too," Wallace said.
John and the Widow Holden craned to see an automobile turning around the bend of street. It was large and completely covered, with a softly-purring engine that would have been lost on a busier day.
It was. .. wrong. Despite the growing popularity of motorized transport, they were rarities this far out of the city. Further, a clunky, unsightly machine like that, no matter how nice the engine, could never belong to someone who lived in such a neighborhood. The slow, unsure manner in which it traveled down the street was a final giveaway. The driver had never been here before. He was looking for something.
Lord's eyes narrowed as the automobile stopped right in front of Falcone's house. Then it ambled down just a bit further, coming to a rest on the side of the road. The engine came to a stop.
"He's going to wait there all day," John said, once again fiddling with his ring.
The Widow Holden disagreed. "They are going to make their move any second now." Her weapon of choice was not as small as a ring, but it was certainly more concealed.
And she was right. The automobile's doors opened and four men stepped out on the icy ground. They were rough-looking types. Solidly built and clad in sorts of overcoats that could hide anything from a pistol to a lumber axe.
One of them stepped to the front of the group. He said something and their hands disappeared into their coats to come out with pistols.
"Well," Lord muttered, his eyes piercing the Widow Holden. "It seems we're not in for a simple stakeout after all."
She smiled.
"Something the matter, Clark?" Lois asked, noticing the distracted look on his face.
"Not. . ." he seemed confused, as if trying to focus on many things at once. "I thought I heard something."
"I heard nothing," Lois said impatiently. She turned back to Falone. "Please, continue."
Falcone harrumphed a bit, clearly put off by Clark's lack of attention, but true to his word the story continued.
"I don't know where the man who calls himself Cameron Locke came from, but I can tell you that the man he took that name from was about the most hopeless waste of pure air and fresh water I'd ever seen. He was a con man and a two-bit thug and I faintly remember having him beaten off of my porch when he had the temerity to try to join my organization. If he'd glanced at my wife one more time, I might very well have killed him."
Lois gawked at him. "You-you mean there are two Cameron Lockes?"
"No. Listen to what I said. I said, that there was one Cameron Locke. He was a nobody destined for obscurity at the bottom of the goddamn river until someone else made him disappear and became him."
"Who?" Clark pressed.
Falcone shrugged as best he could, painfully yet defiantly. "He's a ghost. I'd never seen him before and anybody with that kind of muscle behind him, I'd know. By face. I can count on one hand-" He stopped. "Well, let's just say there aren't many people who even know about Locke. The real Locke. But when this new guy showed up with that name, Cameron Locke became infamous. Started buying up all the shorefront properties. Then he set his sights on all the vice joints. Mind you, I wasn't a part of the Metropolis. . ." He put up air quotes "'underworld' at the time. But I was planning on it. So it certainly caught my eye when the Boxcar Boys-" another pause. "Low-level street gang. Anyway, they aimed to send Locke a message. Firebombed a bar he'd just taken over. You know 'get outta town' type stuff'. So Locke sits back and sends his army after them. Except it's not an army. It's one guy. The Joker. White skin, mouth all cut up, horrible, horrible laugh. This barbarian just takes things to a whole new level. The Boxcar Boys vanished off the face of the earth for a few days until they were found nailed to the roof of their own clubhouse. All cut up every which way. Parts missing. One of 'em was still alive but the poor bastard probably wished he wasn't. Didn't have much of a face left and sure enough, he blew his brains out with a pistol first chance he got. Not before allowing the story of this. . .Joker to spread of course. Just as I'm sure Locke intended."
"Let me guess, no one knows who this Joker is either?" Lois asked.
"It's like they popped out of the ground, smellin' of fire and brimstone. Investigators turn up nothing and all anyone can see is the dead bodies in their wake. In his first month, the Joker wiped three different syndicates off the map. Every day, a new body. People dying in ways haven't even been thought of since the goddamn Inquisition. From the Boxcar Boys all the way to. . ." His voice faltered.
"Scarlett?" Clark offered.
For that moment, Falcone smiled the smile of a man who had once loved a woman more than anything else in his world. "Yes. My beloved Scarlett."
The four men ran through a checklist in their heads. They took note of the architecture. The windows. The door. They ticked off points down the list and nodded in absolute agreement. Complete certainty. This was the Falcone residence. The reporters were inside.
They'd done this many times before. The visual sweep of the street. Pace brisk, hands on their pistols. In most cases, residents opened the door a bit puzzled but otherwise perfectly courteous. They died seconds later, along with anyone else in the house. All in all, a process that tended to go very smoothly.
"Excuse me, gentlemen?"
The four men turned as one at the sound of a young woman's voice. How exactly she'd gotten on the street so fast was a mystery. Her attire was odd as well. The leader stiffened and fixed her with a stony expression. "Stop there. Where did you come from?"
She kept walking, hands unfolding from the folds of her overcoat. She smiled. "Lovely day, isn't it?"
"Stop!" he barked again.
The woman kept walking, her pace brisk and smooth.
"Waste her," came the whispered command as the leader raised his own pistol and fired.
Seemingly without breaking stride, the woman leaned out of the way as the round flew past her cheek. Then she really moved, closing the last remaining meters in less than a second and leaping to deliver a full, two-footed kick. He went flying back, landing painfully face up with the woman standing on his chest. She swept the nearest man's from under him and danced just enough to the other side to trap the third man's gun hand and snap the elbow backward at an unnatural angle. She broke his nose with an elbow strike and kneed him in the groin. The last man tried to fix her with a shot of his pistol but she whipped around into a savage roundhouse kick that caught the side of his knee, destroying the joint. She trapped her thumb into the trigger guard of his pistol, preventing him from firing while it was pointed at her face. With a final wrenching motion she broke his wrist and kept the gun while the rest of him crumpled into a heap.
The Widow Holden turned just in time to see John lower his ring and adjust one of the dials, muting the emerald glow within. "I had it under control," she said.
"I know." He tapped the ring. "But just in case."
"We need to move these men right now. Someone could have heard that gunshot."
"On it." Wallace had shown up quick as a flash. "We'll question this lot in the carriage. Shouldn't be putting up too much of a fight after taking that kind of beating. From a woman no less.
The Widow Holden knelt to where the presumptive leader was slowly forcing himself into a seated position. She said, "I wouldn't think about trying your luck with me again. Or trying to hide the truth from us."
His mouth curled into a defiant sneer. "Lady-"
"Or," she continued, her fist closing around the index finger of his right hand. "I'll fix you so you'll never hold a gun again." To her it was a flick of the wrist to beind the digit back but for him it was an avalanche of pain.
"Having fun Shayera?" John chuckled softly as Wallace unceremoniously dumped the first of the assassin's into the carriage that Lord had so obligingly brought to bear. Of the group, he was the only one that knew her first name and, when telling him, she'd asked that he not reveal it. Still, when it was just the two of them he preferred 'Shayera' to 'Mrs. Holden' or the odious 'Widow Holden'.
She smiled innocently, working to secure her victim's hands behind his back. "For a simple stakeout? Absolutely."
Lois could sense the interview coming to an end. It was clear that there had something cathartic for the old man in telling two perfect strangers his tale. And quite a tale it was. Still, she could sense that their time was drawing to a close. There wasn't much more that Falcone could help them with and it was evident that reliving the experiences as he recounted them was taking quite the toll.
"One more question?" she suggested.
Falcone answered with a wave of his hand. "Go ahead."
"One of the first properties Locke purchased was a junkyard. Curiously, he didn't attempt to resell it or convert it into a successful business. Do you know anything about that?"
Falcone shook his head. "I know about the junkyard. Kids used to play over there back in the day. Hide out in the railcars and whatnot. It was always dangerous of course but then kids started disappearing around there. Whatever Locke was doing over there he kept it hush hush and probably killed more than few people to keep it that way. Beyond that I don't think I can-"
Clark suddenly bolted out of his seat, alarm written all over his features.
"Clark!" Lois reprimanded him. "Honestly-"
"That was a gunshot! Surely you heard it."
Falcone rolled his eyes. "Jesus, not this again."
Clark's jaw set stubbornly however and he ran to the front door, flinging it open and running down the steps. He knew he'd heard a gunshot, Lois' suspicions be damned.
"I'm so sorry," said the street's lone resident below the streetlamp. A woman with dark red hair and green eyes. Her clothes were odd, almost like a uniform of some sort. But she seemed harmless enough and she was standing next to an automobile.
Clark looked at her, frustrated and confused. "What happened out here? I could have sworn I heard a gunshot."
She patted the hood of the automobile apologetically. "My car. I do apologize, sir. She's a beauty on the outside but the on the inside. . .her valves are practically worn away. When the engine backfires it produces the most awful commotion." She paused. "Is that what you heard?"
Clark didn't know what to think, but he could feel his cheeks growing warm. Perhaps all this Locke business had gotten him a bit too paranoid. "It's. . .certainly possible."
The woman popped the hood of the car. "I don't suppose you know anything about these infernal engines?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm afraid I don't ma'am."
"Oh, that's alright. I'll figure it out. And I promise no more gunshots."
"Right. Of course." Clark laughed with her politely or a few moments then turned to head back up the stairs. "I'd best be going back in. Good luck with your engine ma'am."
"Why thank you."
Shayera Holden watched him go back into the house before walking around the other side of the automobile to where John was waiting, arms casually crossed. "Quick thinking," he said approvingly. "I was afraid Kent might pick up on our little scuffle out here."
"The files said there was a strong possibility of enhanced hearing capabilities," Shayera said, somewhat basking in the compliment. "Not too bright though. I'm surprised he bought that story."
John just chuckled, offering her an arm. "He and the other reporter will be out soon. Shall we?"
They walked back to the carriage in which they'd arrived and scant minutes later the four agents and the four prisoners were gone as if they'd never been there at all.
Lois met Clark just at foot of the hallway. "The interview is over and Falcone has retired for the night," she informed him. Then, with no small amount of sarcasm, "I don't suppose you found anything amiss?"
He sighed. "I'm afraid not. My apologies, for the disruption Lois. I'm. . ." he cocked his head to the side, brow furrowed. "'not too bright', it would seem."
"Yes, it would," Lois said as they walked outside together. But Clark was only half-listening. His suspicious gaze came to rest first on the unoccupied automobile and then on the far-off carriage rapidly making its way toward the city lights of Metropolis.
AN: This mini-chapter introduces this universe's version of the League (the Elite) and some other of my favorites (versions of Hawkgirl, Green Lantern, and Flash, with a little Max Lord thrown in). None of them will be major characters but as a group they do have a very important role to play in the story. That said, I think I can safely say no more new characters. The major players are all in place and set to clash with explosive results.
-C