JSA: Atrocity
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.
Chapter 3
"I've got a question for you, Champ --"
Ted Grant raised his right hand, stopping the young Flying Squad sergeant. "Please, it's Mr Grant. I stopped being the heavyweight champion of the world a few years ago."
"That's what I wanted to ask, sir," the sergeant persisted. "How did you get involved in the boxing world? And I think you're still young enough to get your belt back from Sonny Liston."
Ted Grant smiled and leaned back against the chalk ledge of the blackboard, studying the eighteen faces he'd come to know in the past few days.
He looked down at the boxing gloves on the table in front of him. Grant moved away from the blackboard and walked across the platform to lean against the table where the gloves lay.
He sat on the edge, then began to speak. "I grew up in Queens, New York. Throughout my childhood, I was pretty good at sports. But I was best at boxing. When I graduated high school, I didn't pursue a boxing career, I went to college. You see, I really wanted to be a doctor. I did take part in the college boxing team on a part-time basis. My coach was Joe Morgan, who was, at one time, a championship boxer, himself. Just after my sophomore year, my dad died and his debts consumed whatever savings he had. So, I wasn't able to continue college and had to get a job. The American economy, at the time, wasn't very good and I really couldn't find a good job."
The Flying Squad members nodded in understanding.
"One night, I came across two muggers assaulting a famous boxer. Some of you may had heard of him -- "Socker" Smith. With some help from me, Smith chased off the assailants and he thanked me for helping him. I joined him as a professional boxer and eventually went on to become the heavyweight champ. That's all she wrote."
The Flying Squad members laughed. Grant shrugged and felt himself smile. "So, gentlemen, here I am." He looked down at his hands for a moment, then at the Flying Squad members. "Any other questions?"
The young sergeant raised his hand again.
Grant nodded.
"Sir, what happened to you in your last fight? How'd you lose to that bloody masher?"
Ted Grant cleared his throat. "I was a little under a weather. I should've been in better shape to defend my title."
Grant forced his mouth into a smile, thinking back how the night before his title defense, he, as Wildcat, had taken some serious blows and was hurt pretty bad by his old nemisis -- The Huntress.
"Now any questions? About self-defense, perhaps?"
A voice called out from the back, "Corporal Simmons, sir!"
"Yes, Corporal?" Grant nodded to the man, whose hair seemed darker than the black overalls he wore.
"Could you tell me why your prefer the 'one-two' combination in a fight? Could you tell us why, sir?"
Ted Grant nodded. He pointed to another policeman sitting in the front row before him and motioned him to stand. The man looked somewhat nervous, not sure if he was going to be an improvised punching bag for the former heavyweight champion of the world. Grant gentley grabbed him by the shoulders and stood him where he wanted.
"It's a personal preference largely. First of all, it will help to put down a larger man than you are -- and you'll need that on the street. Who remembers what I said was one of the primary virtues of striking an opponent square in the solar plexus?"
Several hands shot up, and Grant picked a brown-haired, slightly older corporal. "Go ahead."
"I believe you said, sir," the clipped voice came back, "that such a blow would most likely surprise your opponent and knock him off balance."
Grant threw some very quick blows to his improvised punching bag, but did not touch the man. The man rocked back on his heels and blinked at the air punches that were thrown at him.
Grant said to the man, "Forgive the poor breach of not warning you before I started throwing punches at you, but weren't you knocked off balance, even though I didn't touch you -- just for an instant?"
The man nodded.
"Now imagine what would had happened if I really did strike you. That's my point gentlemen -- keep your opponent off balance and you should have a good chance of coming out victorious."
The former boxing champ continued, "On the street, you have to make do with your hands as weapons since, for the God of me, I don't understand how you can do police work without carrying a gun. The more you learn how to defend yourself, the better off you'll be. It's simple logic."
Suddenly an alarm sounded. The siren's wail grew in intensity. The men jumped from their seats at the sound of the voice over the loudspeaker. "This is not a drill. This is not a drill."
The eighteen men of the London Metropolitan Police Flying Squad were moving toward the polished brass firepole dominating the far right corner of the room. One after the other they dived toward it and disappeared below the circular hole in the floor.
Only one man beside Grant still remained in the room -- Inspector Hall, who was smiling oddly. "I say, Ted!"
"Yes?"
"Just a moment, will you?"
Grant watched Hall walk across the room to the red wall-mounted telephone beside the chalkboard.
Hall picked up the receiver. "Central? Hall, here. What's the flap for the Flying Squad?" Hall nodded, looking thoughtful, his right thumb hooked into the right front pocket of the vest of his Oxford-gray suit. "Hmmm, I see." He nodded again, extremely sober looking, Grant thought. "At Marchand's -- yes. How many? There was a pause. "And the bobby? Ethington -- yes. Good chap. No -- yes." Another long pause. "Cheerio," Hall said, and hung up.
Grant looked at him.
"Nasty business, I'm afraid, Ted."
"What is it, Sir Edward?"
"IRA -- that lot. They've taken over one of the top floors of Marchand's Department Store in the central business district. Ethington -- Metropolitan man, known him for years. IDed them. Shot him dead through the chest. What you'd call a 'hit squad,' no doubt. Not sure how how many hostages. They may have a bomb. Care to see the Flying Squad in action?"
Grant raised his eyebrows. He looked at Hall. He felt under the table for a briefcase he carried some gear in.
Ted Grant started toward the firepole, getting a good grip on the briefcase. He reached out to grasp the firepole. He glanced back.
Sir Edward Hall was looking at him strangely. "My God, man, aren't you planning to use the stairs?"
Grant smiled. "Always wanted to try one of these." Grant threw himself out, wrapping his legs around the pole as he started to slide. His stomach lurched. It was faster down than he'd thought.
***
Police vans and cars with flashing lights were everywhere. Firefighters stood near their gleaming trucks, hoses strung out along the streets and sidewalks. Ted Grant and Sir Edward Hall exited from a black Jaguar sedan. The car was parked diagonally across the road from the main entrance to the store. The building seemed to occupy an entire city block; its brown stones and gray trim rose eighteen stories into the gray sky.
The tall and dark-haired Grant followed Hall in a fast loping walk toward a knot of uniformed officers and plainclothesmen who were standing on the farthest side of the street from Marchand's.
He spotted a BBC television film crew, their sound trucks back behind the police and fire lines.
Hall, slightly flushed, stopped at the center of the knot of police. Some of the men turned to him. A tall thin man with graying hair nodded, extending his hand. "Sir Edward, good to see you as always, sir."
"A hearty second to that, Bill," Hall murmured. Then Hall turned to Grant, explaining, "Bill Thompkins is with the Home Office. Bill, this Ted Grant, former boxing champion who is here to teach the lads some self defense tricks."
Ted Grant took Tompkins's outstretched hand.
"Mr Grant, I understand we share a mutual friend -- Dr Charles McNider."
"The crime writer?"
Tompkins laughed. "The one and the same, sir."
Grant looked up toward the higher floors of the department store. "What's the story here, if I may ask?"
"Not very pretty, I'm afraid. Too many unknowns. Marchand's was running a heavily advertised sale in their ladies' foundations department. Could be any number of persons on the eighth floor ---"
"Nine stories up, right?" Grant interrupted.
"By American reckoning, yes," Hall answered for Tompkins.
"We have evacuated all the floors above and below with the help of the fire-brigade chaps. But no telling how many are on the eighth floor. Anywhere from a dozen to hundred or more. All elevators and stairwells are blocked. Our lads are on the rooftop." Grant followed as Tompkins pointed out the positions of his men. "Every exit is blocked. Architectural plans for the building were on file in our offices, as they are for most edifices in the central business district." Tompkins smiled. "Been fighting these IRA bastards for quite some time. Like to be ready for them when they throw an unexpected soiree."
"How many in the IRA team?" Hall interrupted.
Tompkins turned around, tapping a tall thin policeman on the shoulder. The man saluted when he saw Hall. Tompkins said, "This is Carrington -- first man on the scene when Ethington went down. Carrington, tell Sir Edward and this gentleman what you told me."
"Very well, sir," the young bobby began. "I reached Mr Ethington at approximately eleven forty-seven. A chest wound seemed the most serious of the various wounds about his body."
More sirens were sounding; more police vans were pouring into the street from both directions. Ted Grant watched as their occupants spilled out.
"What kind of weapon would you say was used, Mr Carrington?" Grant interrupted.
"Automatic, I'd say from the pattern of the wounds. Looked to me like a small submachine gun, the kind that can be hidden under a coat. Close range, Ethington never had a chance, sir."
"He gave you numbers?" Grant asked, trying to remain dispassionate.
"Yes, sir. Five he saw, but there could have been more, sir. No mention of their arms. He recognized the leader, bloke named O'Malley. We've been wanting O'Malley for some time now."
"What say we go into the building and attempt to contact the hostage-takers. That's what they're waiting for, I presume," Sir Edward Hall suggested.
"How about if I go along? Maybe I can help."
"That's irregular," Tompkins chimed in.
"Yes. So irregular I don't have time to make a policy decision or consult with superiors." Hall smiled and turned to Grant. "Come if you wish. Perhaps you can help."
Grant picked up his briefcase. "Ready when you are."
Hall nodded, starting forward, with Tompkins on his left and Grant falling in on his right. Carrington, a sergeant, and the field commander for the Flying Squad, Harold Morgan, followed as the group entered the store. They stood next to the perfume counter, and Sir Edward Hall picked up the receiver of a telephone from a support-pillar-mounted cradle and began talking into it.
"This is Sir Edward Hall, Assistant Superintendent, Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard. I'm addressing the men on the eighth floor. If you hear me, contact me using the telephone located near the foundation garments' dressing room. Dial three one six two and you'll reach me," he added, reading the typed number affixed to the cradle.
He hung up the phone. "We wait," he said, raising his eyebrows.
The telephone rang. Hall picked it up. "Yes, Sir Edward Hall here."
Ted Grant watched as Hall turned to Tompkins. "They have a list of demands." Tompkins nodded, taking out a pencil and notebook. Hall spoke into the receiver. "I'll be repeating what you say so it can be transcribed. Go ahead."
Grant was becoming impatient. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Then unzippered his brown leather jacket, waiting.
"All police are to move six blocks away from the store --" Hall looked at Tompkins. "A bus to take you, along with some of the hostages, to Heathrow, and an aircraft to fly you out of the country." Hall cleared his throat. "And if we don't, what then?" Hall blanched, then seemed to turn gray. "I see. No, no need to repeat that. Yes, I'm certain I've got it. Yes, I'll call back." Hall hung up.
He took a gold watch out of his vest pocket and flicked open the case. He studied the watch for a moment, then snapped the case shut, placing the watch in his pocket. "They claim," he sighed heavily, "to have a bomb and eighty-two hostages -- women mostly, some children." He laughed. "They have a homosexual up there. He was trying to buy a brassiere -- for himself, apparently. At any rate, they claim they intend to detonate their bomb -- a large one, fifteen sticks of dynamite -- in exactly --" he looked at his watch again "-- nine minutes and fifteen seconds if we don't begin to comply. One of the children is in a wheelchair. A little girl, O'Malley told me. And it was O'Malley."
Ted Grant felt his jaw setting, the tendons in his neck going tight. His voice strained as he asked, "This O'Malley -- you figure he'd --"
"Detonate the bomb, killing eighty-two people, along with himself and his comrades?" Tompkins broke in. "Most assuredly."
"He's just killed a bobby," Tompkins added. "He's wanted for any number of crimes and acts of violence. It would be the end for him if he were taken alive. He knows that."
Grant sighed and picked up his briefcase. "I best leave you gentleman to do your job," he said. "This is really no place for a civilian such as myself. You're all professionals here. I'm just a former boxer."
"I say, Ted. Your presence here is --" Hall started.
Tompkins ignored the conversation and turned to some of his men. "I think we should only send three men up. He nodded toward Carrington, the sergeant and Commander Harold Morgan.
Before he started to leave, Grant looked to the left at the architectural drawings for the store, which laid unrolled on the perfume counter.
Tompkins said to the men, "There's a utilities shaft. You three men can go up the shaft to the eighth floor and hopefully surprise them.
The men nodded.
Ted Grant quietly slipped away. But instead of finding the exit from the store, he was able to make a quick turn down an aisle and found the Men's department on the first floor. From there, he went into a changing room and opened his briefcase. A very dark blue costume stared at him from inside the leather case.
"It's been a long time," Grant said to himself.
***
Wildcat makes his return in chapter 4.
***
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