Gotham City.
The Secret Society.
Saviors.
"It would have taken the collective swallowing of pride for the Old League to have just turned Dr. Light over to the authorities after what he did to Sue Dibny. But, like it or not, that comes with the job. Superheroes are sworn to serve and protect the people, not impose their will on us. Once the League crossed that line by manually winning hearts and minds, they became the catalyst for their own destruction. They not only tarnished their reputation, but helped prove that absolute power corrupts absolutely. The Justice Leaguehas become lessa trusting organization and more resembling—as I've said many times before—superhuman judges, juries, and executioners. The legitimate issue here is that these people are dangerous. Period.
"They must be stopped. And you are the men and women to do it. Do you understand?"
They reply in unison, their voices all unusually grave: "Yes."
The Reserve Society members—villains that, while not warranting admission into the core advisory group, are essential nonetheless. With military precision and soldier's discipline (which is strange enough, given that none of them, save one, has ever served in the military in any capacity), they stand before the aforementioned core advisory group of the Society:
Myself; once the President of the United States, now the coordinator of this entire operation.
Talia Head; the estranged daughter of the now-dead ecoterrorist Ra's al Ghul, now in control of HIVE shock troops and the KOBRA organization
Deathstroke the Terminator; once a member of the US Armed Forces, subjugated to a 'super-soldier' type experiment which augmented his physical and mental faculties.
Black Adam; the first man to have the powers of Shazam bestowed upon him, now the ruler of the nation of Khandaq.
Dr. Psycho; an enemy of Wonder Woman, a powerful telepath capable of swaying even the strongest of minds to his will.
And the Reservists. Men who have plundered and pillaged their way into a high-risk and high-yield kind of life; who have made names for themselves out of the misery and defeat of others. Strong, capable men.
Prometheus. Hush. Zoom. Dr. Light.
And standing behind them, the Secret Six. The renegade villains who declined the Society's generous offer for protection. However, as I so explicitly told Thomas Blake some days ago: there are ways around dissenters. Coercion, for one.
After all, there are two kinds of people in this world of ours: assets and threats. Interchangeable they may be, but useful just the same. Perhaps our newest operation will help the League examine which side of the knife they fall on. I have no doubts it will, of course.
The hangar is darkened, as is the benefit of striding into Goodwin Airport in the dark of night; three low-efficiency lights suspended from the ceiling give off just enough light to discern bodies. Tactically speaking, of course, this will work to our advantage. The hangar is—or was—used to house LexCorp Gulf Stream jets. As the jets went out of production nine months ago, the hanger's sat unused ever since. We won't be bothered by…unnecessary callers. Just the ones we wish to bring to us.
The core Society is on one side of a narrow tarmac in the hangar. The Six and the reserves stand on the other. And we seem to be staring each other down, sizing each other up. It's an inspection, of a kind. Are they ready? They should be. Each of them, in their way, possesses a quick wit and a sharp mind. In the event of an unforeseen circumstance…they'll know what to do.
Yes, we've come prepared. As always. The ones who can't fight have been made over so they can. Talia carries twin Ruger pistols on her belt, as well as a link to HIVE reinforcements. Deathstroke is at the pinnacle, as always.Even Kuttler mentioned something about an old Colt .45. Black Adam carries his fists and his strength as his weapons. Dr. Psycho has his mind—and a .25 caliber pistol strapped around his ankle, underneath the pinstripes. And the Six…
My earpiece gives three short beeps. Noah's on the other end, gathering intel or parading around in that old costume of his.I tap my ear, and he comes online.
"Noah," I say expectantly. "What is it."
"You wanted to be kept apprised, sir. Uh, who the League decided to ferry along."
"And?"
"The core League, Lex. Plus two Titans—"
"Which ones?"
"Uh, Robin and the Kid Flash." Noah stutters when he gets anxious…scared. But he has nothing to fear.
"Who else?"
"Aquaman's a no-show. The bug on the Watchtower worked perfectly. They've gotten the Flash and Green Arrow to come. As well as some of the, uh…"
"What?"
"Well…it's sketchy information, but I think they're getting the Old League sir. Black Canary, Zatanna, Hawkman."
My eyebrow arches in surprise and delight at the mention of Hawkman. "Who else?" I ask and smile—slow and confident. "Elongated Man?"
"Hard to tell. Dibny's had a rough couple months. He's off the juice now, you know."
"Then he'll go down easier."
"Right," Noah says dubiously. He wouldn't dare say it aloud, but somewhere inside him, he questions my motives. It seems to be a popular thing to do.
"Thank you, Noah. If you'll excuse me--"
"Where are you going?" Noah's voice is equal parts curious and fearful.
"To get my armor. And to network."
Luthor's Chambers.
Luthor presses a finger to his ear. The channel opens to Brainiac's skull-ship, orbiting 22,000 miles above the Earth. Static at first, then Brainiac's eerie monotone chimes in.
"Luthor."
"Yes."
"Are your forces marshaled?"
"Oh yes," Luthor says confidently. "Is your weapon online?"
"Awaiting my command."
"And you know your targets?"
"I am a level-12 intelligence, Luthor, not a fool. As per your request, the targets have been acquired. Do you wish to know of their arrival?"
"Sure," Luthor says lightly. "Unless you have something better to do."
"Satisfactory. I will feed the coordinates to your armor's interface."
"That's good news." Luthor starts pacing. Nano-controls inside the gauntlets bring the armor's weapon systems online: mini-missiles, a 10,000-volt shock net, and the shields. "Then, my fine friend, let's get going."
"Move your forces to the surface. That will draw the Kryptonian to you, and I can view the field more clearly."
"Good," Luthor says darkly. "There is no turning back."
Gotham City.
Archie Goodwin International Airport.
The Justice League.
"S-Superman?"
The gal running the TSA booth seems much more impressed when Clark flashes her the baby-blues than when, say, Green Arrow walks up with, let's be frank here, amug that would melt hearts. Even so, she lets us through the metal detectors—allseven of us—Batman, Clark, Diana, Robin and the Kid Flash, Connor and myself. When Robin and Bruce trip the detectors, she smiles at us and waves us on through. . I wait for the rest of the group to pass through security. When they're all through we start down the terminal together. The TSA gal waves at me before I start walking, and I blow hera kiss. For good luck.
At least some people think we're still doing the good-guy thing. Outward appearances, I guess it what it comes down to. Different people see us in different lights: good…or bad. Take ten minutes of someone's memory and suddenly you find yourself being crucified for it. Save a lady from getting assaulted in an alley—and still manage to get her purse back to her—and she's forever in your debt. What was that old television show: Diff'rent Strokes? Yeah. A comedy back then. But this is real-life stuff. The kind of thing where one slip-up can land you in the hospital indefinitely. Or a cemetary.
That's what we're doing here. Trying to make sure thoe slip-ups don't happen anymore.
Following a weeks-old lead from Robin and Kid Flash—plus an outright warning from Catman—we've come to Goodwin Airport. Apparently, this Society of Luthor's is headquarted 'round these parts.
We make our way through the terminal at a quick pace—all of us—stopping for interviews or God-knows-what-else is a risky thing to do. Period. As we walk, Connor spots a group of teenage gals eyeballing him. He winks, points at one of them (who promptly melts into her seat) and keeps walking. A small child a few feet in front of the group just stands in the middle of the terminal and stares at us with glazed eyes. The group walks by him, and he still stares at us like that proverbial kid in a candy store.
We come to a halt at the end of a t-junction. Two more long terminals lead away from us on either side, with ramps on both ends. There's a panoramic window in front of us that shows the western side of the airport, and a hanger beyond the end of the runway—just inside the tree line.
"There," Superman says, pointing to the hangar.
"What?" I ask. "You found something?"
"Yes," he says grimly. "A thermal pattern. Not much, but it could be something."
Diana throws her two cents in. "Then let's go," she says forcefully. It's not a request either. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she's on some kind of war path. "The kids are with me."
Before any of us can say anything or try to call her off, she's walking away fromus; towards the ramp a few yards away, with Robin and Kid Flash in tow.
Continued...
