Chapter 3
As it turned out, Matt was wrong when he said they could move into the new space in three days. He hadn't counted on the landlord being a stickler about vetting prospective tenants. These days, most owners of commercial buildings didn't care who they rented to, as long as they had cash. Matt spent his days scrambling desperately to invent answers to the landlord's questions and make sure the information would hold up under the man's scrutiny. Finally, the landlord was satisfied, but it was a full week before they could move the clinic into the new space.
Karen used the time to plan Eve's escape route. She had decided to start a new life in California; she would travel to Canada via the resistance network that the media called "the New Underground Railroad," then fly to the West Coast Alliance.
Daredevil spent hours each night monitoring the neighborhood around the clinic for signs of black shirt activity. He didn't spot any, but he couldn't escape a sense of impending disaster. They had stayed in one place for far too long. If the worst happened, that was on him. He should've had an alternate location lined up in case they needed it. He wouldn't make that mistake next time – if there was a next time.
By the time moving day finally arrived, everyone was on edge. Matt scanned the area constantly, looking for any signs of approaching black shirts. He didn't find any, but that didn't lessen the dread that knotted his stomach.
It was mid-afternoon before most of their equipment and supplies had been packed and loaded onto a waiting truck, and Eve, their only remaining patient, had been wheeled out and helped into a van for the short trip to the new location. Matt and Foggy were about to take the last load out to the truck when Foggy's burner phone buzzed. He stepped away to take the call. The only word he uttered during the conversation was "fuck." When he came back, his voice was grim. "We gotta get out of here now," he said. He didn't have to tell Matt who he'd been talking to.
"How long?" Matt asked.
"He says they're seven minutes out."
Matt thought for a minute, then said, "You need to go. I'll distract them, buy you some time to get away."
Foggy started to protest, "Matt – "
Matt cut him off. "You're gonna do this now?" he snapped. "We don't have time to argue. Just go." He pushed Foggy toward the exit. "Go!"
Foggy swore under his breath. "God damn it, Matt." But he went, pushing the hand truck with the last load in front of him.
When Foggy's footsteps faded and the exit door clicked shut behind him, Matt ducked into one of the rooms along the north wall of the space. He needed a mask. He scanned the mostly-empty room and noticed a set of scrubs on a shelf. He picked up the scrubs and sniffed them. No blood or other bodily fluids. They would have to do. He tore off a broad strip of cloth and wrapped it around his head. He stood behind the door and waited.
A few minutes later, four men burst into the large central room. Matt didn't need to see the color of their clothing to know who they were. They were "black shirts," the government's extra-legal "enforcers." He smirked. The irony of Daredevil fighting the government's vigilantes wasn't lost on him.
One of the men – the group's leader, apparently – barked out an order. "Search the place and take out anyone you find!"
The men split up, going in different directions. Doors opened and slammed shut, followed by muttered curses and shouts of "Clear!" From the rear of the building came the rumble of the truck's engine starting. None of the black shirts seemed to hear it.
One of the black shirts was working his way along the rooms on the north side. When he opened the door of the room where Matt was waiting, Matt stepped out from behind the door and silently dragged the man inside, letting the door close behind them. He held his chokehold until the man went limp and slumped to the floor. None of the others had yet noticed their associate's disappearance. Matt picked up the man's gun, disassembled it, and threw the parts on the floor. Then he located the other three black shirts. None of them was nearby or heading his way. He opened the door and slipped silently into the open space, sprinting to conceal himself behind a pillar. There he considered his options. He wouldn't have the advantage of surprise for long; he needed to decide how best to use it.
The answer came when one of the black shirts noticed one of them was missing. "Hey! Where's Jason?" he yelled.
Matt stepped out from behind the pillar. "Looking for someone?" he asked, smirking.
The black shirt closest to Matt turned toward him and raised his gun, but Matt was on him before he could fire. He twisted the man's wrist viciously until bones snapped. The black shirt screamed and collapsed to the floor. A series of quick punches to his head ensured he was out of action.
The two remaining black shirts ran toward Matt, firing their guns. Matt leaped and twisted, then tucked and rolled to dodge the bullets. He took cover behind another pillar and waited for them to approach. Bullets ricocheted off the pillar as the two men got closer. They were almost there when a radio crackled. One of them – the leader, apparently – stopped and stepped back. Matt didn't hesitate. He surged out from behind the pillar and delivered a leaping kick to the center of the other black shirt's chest. He collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. Matt picked up his gun and struck him on the head with it to make sure he stayed down.
Still talking over the radio, the last black shirt charged toward Matt, firing his gun. Matt took cover again behind the pillar and stayed there, motionless, until a series of clicks told him the gun's magazine was empty. The black shirt dropped his radio and scrambled to reload. Before he could do so, Matt threw the other black shirt's gun at him. It connected with the man's hand, forcing him to drop his weapon. Matt rushed in behind his throw and delivered a series of jabs to the man's midsection and kidneys. He doubled over but didn't go down. Better trained than his fellow black shirts, he raised his hands and assumed a defensive stance, successfully blocking and parrying a flurry of punches from Matt. Then he made the mistake Matt had been looking for. Instead of attacking, he took a half-step back to catch his breath. He dropped his hands just enough to give Matt the opening he needed. Matt unleashed a series of uppercuts and jabs, connecting with the man's face and jaw. The black shirt wobbled but stayed on his feet until Matt delivered a final kick to his jaw. He fell to the floor and stayed there, unmoving. Matt inclined his head toward him, confirming that he was out. Time to go.
Matt went back into the room where he had hidden originally and picked up his jacket and baseball cap. Then he ran across the large central room to the exit. He stopped there before opening the door to the common hallway. It was unlikely he'd encounter another occupant of the almost-vacant building, but if he did, he wanted to look like just another tenant leaving his place of business. He tucked his shirt in and put on his jacket. Then he pulled off his makeshift mask, used it to wipe his face, and put on his baseball cap. His cane had been left behind in the rush to get Foggy and the others out, so his dark glasses went in his pocket, along with the mask. He planned to pass for sighted, anyway; a blind man would be noticed. He pushed open the door and stepped into the empty corridor.
Once out of the building, he headed away from his ultimate destination, the law office of Nelson & Murdock. He improvised a circuitous route back to the office, turning his steps toward it only when he was certain he wasn't being followed. After the door to the office swung shut behind him, he flopped down onto the reception room couch, letting his breath out all at once. He took a minute to gather himself, then pulled out his burner phone and turned it on just long enough to send a short text to Foggy, letting him know he was safe.
That evening, Matt, Foggy, Karen, and Claire met for drinks at Josie's bar in Hell's Kitchen. Matt frowned when he sipped his drink. It tasted raw, unlike any Scotch he was familiar with. Imports of real Scotch whiskey had stopped when the first round of sanctions took effect. He suspected the "Scotch" in his glass had been distilled recently, in Josie's back room.
The din in the bar – the music blasting out of the sound system's speakers, combined with the conversations (and arguments) of the other drinkers – cloaked their conversation. Still, Foggy kept his voice down when he raised his glass. "To our new home," he said. The other three echoed him and drank.
Claire was the next to raise her glass. "To Eve."
"To Eve," the other three said, and drank again.
"To Matt, who knows how to buy time," Karen said, raising her glass.
Foggy and Claire raised their glasses and drank. "To Matt."
"There were four of them?" Foggy asked.
Matt nodded.
"Jesus, Matt," Karen breathed.
"Son of a bitch," Claire added.
Matt shrugged.
"Eve's OK?" Karen asked.
"Yeah, I think so," Claire replied. "A little shook up, but she should be fine."
"How long until she can travel?" Foggy asked.
"Probably another week or so."
"Fingers crossed we don't have to move her again," Karen observed.
"You got that right," Claire said. "Today was a little too close for comfort."
"It was," Matt agreed, "but you know what really matters?"
"I have an idea you're gonna tell us," Foggy quipped.
Matt obliged him. "We're still here, all of us. We lived to fight another day."
They raised their glasses and clicked them. "Another day."
Author's Note: This story does not take place in an AU. Some of the things that have happened in the story are already taking place in real life.
