Chapter 2

Clark touched down on the roof of the building just as the last glow of sunlight disappeared over the horizon behind him, coming to a full stop a few inches above the roof and hovering for a moment before cutting his power and dropping straight down. He turned off and watched as the red rays shone by the taller buildings to the west. When he'd first come to Nairobi two weeks before, he'd expected to find a third-world hellhole straight out of Black Hawk Down; therefore, he was pleasantly surprised when what he found was more Metropolis than Mogadishu, with a few buildings that would look quite at home in many of the greater cities of America or Europe. His accommodations, however, were hardly noteworthy; the hostel's rates were low, especially by American standards, but its quality was even lower. One star my ass, Clark had thought to himself as he opened the door, still clutching the Michelin guide in hand as he took in the peeling wallpaper, yellowed mattress, and torn carpeting over stained linoleum. They should take away stars for this kind of thing.

But it was only his home base, and he wasn't staying long. In fact, Clark had surprised himself at staying there a whole fifteen days already; it was the longest he had stayed in one place in seven months, since he spent a full three-and-a-half weeks working out of St. Thomas. It's just so beautiful here, it seems foolish to get everything done so quick. However, he knew his time was running out.

Tonight, I'm going to do it, Clark decided right there on the rooftop as the sky finally lost all trace of the sun. Enough screwing around – there's work to do. With that, he pushed open the door on the roof and headed down to collect his things.

"All right, Mr. Kent, that comes to $87 U.S. dollars," the young woman behind the counter said in an accent that Clark could only describe has a few generations away from British as he reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts for his wallet. After a moment of groping for it, he pulled the billfold out and laid the bills dramatically atop his room key on the countertop. The woman smiled as she counted the money.

"So, where you headed now?" she asked, her eyes never leaving the money.

Clark looked up at her as he reached down for his backpack on the floor. "Not really sure. I go where I'm needed."

"What do you do? You part of some aid program or something?"

Clark smiled as he walked to the door. "Something like that."

And with that, he was gone.

Ten blocks and ten minutes later, Clark dipped off the street and swung into a dark alleyway. He glanced around nervously, looking first at the windows and on the roofs then through the walls themselves for any sets of eyes who might take an interest in a tall Caucasian man in an alleyway at nine o'clock at night. All clear.

Quickly, he lowered his backpack to the ground, pulled out the clothes he kept in the bottom pocket and began to change.

Black jeans for tan shorts. An old blood stain – not his own – was barely visible on the denim in the darkness.

Black long sleeves for red short ones. He fingered the patches of cloth he had sewn over all the bullet holes. It seemed like hundreds.

Black gloves and a black balaclava completed the image.

Clark glanced at his reflection in a piece of shattered glass lying against a wall in the alley; the ambient lighting of the city gave him an evil look. He hated the outfit; he hated having to cover his face, cloaking himself in darkness in order to do the right thing.

But I was too sloppy with my identity back in Smallville, Clark told himself as he always did when he saw himself in the "commando suit," as he'd come to think of it. I'm not going to let anyone learn what Clark Kent can do again. Never. Not after…last time.

The memories were smashing against the door to his mind, trying to fight their way in – and even he wasn't strong enough to hold them back very long. He shook his head violently to clear the thoughts. Head in the game, Clark. He grabbed the backpack and lifted up silently into the air, leaving the ground behind.

Let's do it.

The reinforced concrete wall of the Presidential Palace crumbled against his shoulder as Clark plowed through at half the speed of sound. Inside, he stopped for a second in surprise as his violent entry was greeted with – nothing. The hallway was deserted.

No alarms, no guards – for a supreme dictator, this guy's surprisingly confident in his personal safety. Either that, or he's just that dumb. A smile crossed Clark's face, invisible under the mask. Well, he's about to learn the error of his ways.

Just then, his hyper-sensitive ears heard the flap-flap of leather on marble off to his left, followed immediately by frantic yelling in a language of which he wasn't quite sure. He turned, and the thick wall faded to a transparent blue as he peered through it. Behind it, a pair of skeletons sprinted down the halls, large assault rifles floating in their bony hands. As he watched, the two men turned to a door through the wall and threw it open.

The guards screamed at Clark as they quickly brought their guns to their shoulders. He watched coolly as the men jabbered; though he didn't know the language, he understood the tone. He'd heard it before, in half a dozen languages.

Get on the ground.

Hands on your head.

Get down or we will shoot.

Clark smiled under his mask and took a menacing step towards the guards.

Their rifles erupted as the guards cut loose on full automatic.

Clark just kept walking towards them as the bullets rippled off him, bouncing off him like spitballs. He watched as the men's faces fell as their bullets found their mark to no effect, the dawning realization spreading across their faces that the power their weapons gave them was very quickly being drained. He'd seen it all before, too many times to count.

Each of Clark's steps brought him a couple feet closer to the men. Twenty feet. Seventeen. Fourteen. Eleven. Eight. Five. The guns click-click-clicked as their banana magazines ran dry. The guards' eyes were twice as big as they had been three seconds earlier.

With lightening speed, Clark reached up, grabbed the rifles by their barrels, yanked them downwards and shoved them backwards into their owners' solar plexes, sending them flying backwards a good ten feet. Clark heard the mushy sound of the stock slamming home to an accompanying whoosh as the air was knocked from the men's lungs. Clark listened closely to make sure the men still had a heartbeat as they lay on the marble, unmoving. Satisfied, he blurred from the room like a shot.

Halfway across the palace, the leader of Kenya, President Matubi, was being torn from his bed by his security forces and rushed across his bedroom to the secret passageway he had specifically designed for an escape in case of emergency when the ten-foot wooden doors at the room's entrance flew backwards from their hinges with a terrifying crash. Everyone whirled at the sound as Clark stood in their place, eyes sweeping the room for his prize.

Aha, he thought as his gaze settled on the small, chubby man in pajamas being sheparded away by two large men in black suits. The man's pale nightwear contrasted with the larger guards' attire, and for a second Clark was reminded of nothing so much as an Oreo cookie. Clark fought the urge to laugh; his efforts were just about to be in vain when he caught sight of all five armed men in the room yanking very large handguns from under their coats. His eyes narrowed as nearly half a dozen Desert Eagles aimed in his direction.

You want to play? Bring it on.

The first bullets were just whizzing by him as Clark leapt into motion and the world slowed to a crawl. The sound from the guns hit his ears as he ran towards the trio of guards on the right, Magnum rounds tearing holes through the air nearby. The roar of the pistols was smashed into a Doppler-induced high frequency shriek as he closed onto the men as fast as the bullets were traveling in the other direction. Clark dropped his speed for only a moment as he shoved the two men in front back into the third, then kicked back into high gear as the three flew backwards.

The two guards next to the president were still shooting at the now-empty doorframe, something Clark took a tiny bit of pride in as he skidded to a stop directly in front of them – much to their surprise. Three sets of jaws hung loose as the man in black seemed to their eyes not so much to run as to teleport through space from the doorway to directly in front of them.

Clark sized up the two guards. Whew, Clark thought as he looked them up and down. These guys are big. The shorter of the two was a good five inches taller than his six-three frame, while either of them looked as though they outweighed him by a good forty pounds.

None of which mattered as Clark effortlessly lifted them off their feet and slammed their heads together two feet above the head of the chubby pajama-clad man, who shrieked and covered his head with his arms as the bodyguards collided. It sounded like coconuts being knocked together. Clark dropped the two men to the floor as his blue eyes turned to the cowering, small man in front of him, who babbled incoherently as he averted his eyes from the masked stranger. Typical.

Clark reached down and grasped the man by the throat, heaving him up high enough so that his feet dangled well above the Persian rug beneath. Clark glared into the man's eyes.

"President Matubi." His voice had dropped an octave and taken on a gravelly harshness that was the very opposite of his normal Kansas tenor. "You have committed terrible atrocities against the people of this nation. Killed thousands. Raped more. Burned homes and beaten children in the name of power.

"That ends tonight.

"This is a warning to you, Matubi. Tomorrow morning, you will announce to the world that your government is finished, and you will welcome in the United Nations teams to help organize a full and free democratic election. You will do as they say, and obey their orders. If you don't…" Clark's eyes glowed red. "You will suffer far worse than a few broken walls and unconscious guards. That's not a threat. It's a promise. Do you understand?"

The man nodded as fervently as his position would allow.

"Good." Clark released his grip on the man's throat and let him fall.

By the time Matubi crashed to the ground, the man in black was gone.