Part 20 - Red Fury
Mathews took cover behind his patrol car, taking out another magazine and quickly reloading his pistol before taking aim once again and firing at the dozen or so men taking cover before them.
The black van which had carried the men who ambushed the prisoner vehicle was now gone, taking some of the prisoners with it while leaving behind others with guns in order to allow some of the men they had 'rescued' to get away.
Bullets whizzed through the air, coming from both sides, but more were coming at the police then from them.
The prisoner van was positioned up against a parked car after ramming it up onto the sidewalk, making a perfect pocket for the severely armed criminals to fire from. There were sixteen men with guns. Those from the transport van had been supplied with automatics by those who had come in the black van.
Mathews continued to return fire, adrenaline rushing, six other police officers doing so as well.
Swoosh.
Mathews actually felt that one pass him, right by his ear. The heat from the bullet brushed by him.
That was too close, Mathews whispered to himself, just as a bigger and stronger swoosh came to all of their ears.
Superman.
Superman landed with a force that cracked the pavement, his eyes sharp and glaring red. His head was down a bit, his right foot in front of the other as his eyes locked onto the men taking cover behind the transport van and damaged car.
He was standing at a slight angle from the criminals, not directly between them and the police, but it didn't matter – all eyes shot to him anyway.
"My Lord…what's-?"
"Why are his eyes…?"
Clark knew something was happening to him.
His vision was in this strange mode, taking in every little detail, despite the fact that everything appeared to be warped.
Is this how it feels to be super-mad? he vaguely asked himself as he took in the scene around him.
The gunfire had stopped, all on the street now focused on him.
"I thought he had been taken care of!" one of the mobsters mumbled, barely loud enough for the mobsters around him to hear, but Superman heard it loud and clear.
"Isn't he supposed to be at the hosp-?!" another asked, but he stopped short, finding that Superman's gaze was upon him. He knew they had been heard.
Mathews and all who could see watched as Superman's face tightened in pure anger – some might even say rage – and his fists clenched, making his knuckles white.
The mobsters tightened their grips on their guns, not knowing what they should do. Things were no longer going the way they had planned.
Clark looked at the weapons in their hands: automatics. AK47's and Uzi's which were nearly lined up perfectly in his line of vision.
He then felt something refine in his eyes, an awesome power that he did not know he possessed.
Clark was vaguely aware of the sound of a helicopter above as time seemed to slow to a crawl.
His eyes felt hot, as if he had stared into the sun for too long, but that only lasted for an instant as the heat began to . . . leave.
It came as a beam, shooting forth, following the path he had set forth for it: the line of guns.
The laser trailed the ground for an instant, leaving a dark engraved mark upon the pavement, before going up and slicing through the guns.
Like a hot knife through butter it slid through the metal barrels, the sound of shearing and of hot flames fusing together as the front half of the guns began to fall, completely severed from the rest of the gun.
Clark blinked, the rage within him still present, but now the beam was off and the gleam in his eyes had quieted somewhat.
The silence in the air was deafening, the mobsters frozen, still positioned defensively behind the car and van but now holding unusable guns.
One of them slumped back, falling hard on the ground, passed out. Unconscious.
Superman continued to simply stand there, internally shocked at what he had just done, but from the point of view of those watching he appeared certain, his posture unfaltering.
Mathews and the other officers slowly stood up and went forward, not completely sure if it was safe yet. Some of the officers looked hesitantly toward Superman, never having seen him angry before.
As the other officers went and began taking the crooks into custody (the unconscious man out like a light), Mathews went toward Superman, knowing he was probably the one who had known him the longest out of the officers there.
"Superman?" Mathews asked, talking as normally as he could, despite his uncertain feelings.
The police helicopter above was just a dull hum in the air as Superman slowly turned to Mathews, his eyes no longer glowing, but now soft and gentle.
"What…how did you…?" Mathews stuttered, his confidence melting now that he had Superman's attention.
"I don't know… I –" He halted in mid sentence, hearing the police radio.
'Suspects in black van are now on foot. One is now in custody but two Caucasian males are still at large: Gregory Sarkov, 5 foot 10, black hair; and Alimzhan Tokhtakhounov, 6 foot 3, brown hair. Last seen heading northeast near the corner of Elroy and Triad.
'Suspects are considered armed and dangerous…'
"Go get 'em," Officer Mathews told him, before Clark could say another word.
With a nod, Superman shot up into the sky.
O o O
Superman flew over the city, x-raying the buildings below. He caught a glimpse of a frantic brown haired man run into the back of an Italian restaurant. A man with a gun.
Superman flew down, entering the back, hearing frantic people and things spilling and clanging to the floor. He quickly found the cause: Alimzhan Tokhtakhounov, a terrified cook in his grasp.
"Stay back, Superman! I'm warning you!" Alimzhan ordered, boldly pressing his pistol up against the unfortunate cook's neck.
"No. I'm warning you," Superman boomed, clearly not in the mood as the cook held back a gulp and watched Superman's eyes shift colors… into a blaze of fury that shouldn't be possible.
The other cooks in the back of the restaurant were rooted to where they stood, afraid that their chief cook was going to breathe his last very soon.
"I have nothing to lose, Superman, but I'm sure this man does," he replied, as he pressed the cold metal of the gun deeper against the man's neck.
"Please, I have a wife an' daughter," the man pleaded, tears in his eyes, his accent heavy Italian.
"Shut up!" the man hissed.
And that did it.
Clark knew he couldn't risk speeding over to disarm the man, but he now knew he no longer needed to.
He focused hard on the gun, the fear in the innocent man's eyes triggering his newfound power once again.
"AHHH!"
The gun fell, landing with a clang on the floor. The mobster clutched his hand, beyond confused about what had happened.
The cook, purely acting on instincts, grabbed the closest thing to him, which happened to be a skillet, and whacked it hard over the mobster's head.
He landed with a thud, out cold.
The cook looked up slowly, petrified by what he had just done.
He found Superman still glaring at the now unconscious man on the floor, but his eyes were no longer red as they looked to the skillet in the cook's hand.
The cook couldn't swear, but he thought he saw an amused expression pass over Superman's face before he went back to looking resigned, though not as formal as he had seen him on the news.
"The police will be here soon," Superman said before kneeling down and picking up the gun.
He was right; Inspector Henderson and other officers quickly arrived, running into the back after being told by the customers that the commotion had been back there.
Henderson entered first, finding the kitchen in a mess and finding a limp and unmoving criminal on the floor, at Superman's feet.
His eyes shot to Superman, praying that he was missing something.
Superman heard Henderson's pulse speed up, and soon after those of the men behind him. Clark looked down for a moment before looking back up, instantly understanding what Henderson and those who had just entered were thinking.
He met Henderson's eyes. He was for some reason relieved when Henderson kept eye contact.
"What happened?" Henderson asked, his voice forced into a steady and flat tone as if he was afraid of the answer.
"Superman saved us!" three of them piped up quickly. Henderson looked to the loudest one, who then continued, "He, uh, somehow made that gun hot and uh-"
"I tell you, inspector, he did not hit the man if that is what you are wondering. I did, with this," the Italian cook suddenly interrupted, to the relief of the stuttering man.
Henderson barely restrained a heavy sigh of relief, looking regretfully at Superman for nearly doubting him. Just the thought of having to arrest him…
Just then another officer entered.
"Inspector, we've lost the last guy, Greg Sarkov."
"He's got to be somewhere around here, he was with this guy not even a half an hour ago."
"I don't know what to tell you, sir, we can't find him."
"I'll go look. If I find anything, I'll tell you," Superman said, stepping up as two officers stepped around to retrieve Alimzhan.
"Alright Superman, uh… thanks for your help today."
"No thanks necessary. I want all these guys to get what they deserve, especially after today."
Henderson gave a solemn nod, remembering the red fury that had been within Superman's eyes before he had shot out of the damaged hospital. Henderson privately prayed he would never have to witness that again as he watched Superman leave, flying up to search for the man they all wanted to bring to justice.
O o O