Chapter One
(Two Years Ago)
Detective Cara Wilks slammed her phone down in disgust. The war's over' she scowled to herself. Why won't these bastards let go?'
Wilks had been working for months on a case which, she was sure, would throw open the floodgates on organised crime. However, just before she could petition a judge for a warrant a Hero had flown in and arrested all the criminals. Now they were locked up, they refused to talk about anything, letting their boss, a criminal called Anthony Mitchell, free.
Six months. Half a year of careful planning, research, talking to informants, and enough paperwork to explain the decline of the rainforests, all blown to shreds because of one Hero. Cara sighed, and span on her chair, to face the man using the desk opposite her.
"Hey, Regetti!" She tried to smile. "Why does the city even keep us on payroll? We're not needed anymore."
Her partner shrugged into his newspaper, never turning to face her. "We're always needed, Wilks, you know that." He held up his paper, and showed her the headline.
First Annual Worldwide Lottery – One Winner!
"You see this? Lucky guy. It says here the guy won about $105 billion. Man, what I wouldn't give for that kind of cash."
Cara sighed, and chose to ignore him. "Sure, if they want to demote us to beat cops, that's when they'll need us. Or maybe garbage-men." She sighed, and bit the end of a pencil absently. "I wonder if I could transfer to traffic duty."
Regetti snorted. "Sure, I'm guessing they'd love an OC Detective on their payroll, busting parking violations instead of making them." He finally turned to face her, a stick of jerky in his hand. "Just ask them to dock your salary for the money you owe them for double parking."
Cara leaned down, and took a strip of the dried meat from her partner's desk, munching on it slowly.
"You'd miss my ugly face, Regetti, admit it."
"Sure, I'd miss risking my life every time I go out."
"That's part of the job."
Regetti grinned around a mouthful of dried beef. "I won't get a 21 gun salute for dying because you can't drive, Wilks."
It was an old game between them, sparked up for the fact that Regetti, although ten years her senior, still couldn't drive. Before Cara could retort, however, Regetti's phone rang. Reaching forward and picking it up in one smooth movement, he listened carefully, only replying with the "Yes", "Sure", and "Uh-huh's" that peppered his usual speech, carefully writing notes in a small pad he kept on his desk. After a minute, he hung up the phone, and ripped the paper free of the jotter pad.
"We got something."
"Oh? Let me guess, another Hero needs someone to clean up after them?"
"If we want Mitchell, we've got him."
Anthony Mitchell. War profiteer, drug runner, murderer, rapist. You name it; Mitchell had been a part of it. Always hiding his acts behind a veneer of propriety, Mitchell had started off life well, by earning his law degree, and took an interest in politics. However, the more he progressed through life, the more disillusioned, and poisoned, he had become by it. He had made a name for himself as a criminal defence lawyer…a good one, by all accounts. Then, as the years went by, he started following in his clients' footsteps, until, one day, there was no difference between himself and various members of The Family he defended. Always immaculately dressed, well spoken, and handsome, Mitchell was the poster boy for organised crime. There were rumours that Mitchell had, in the past year, undergone plastic surgery, but the low visibility in recent months made it hard to prove.
Cara wanted…no, needed, to take him down. To show the world his true activities, and to have him locked away in a small cell, for the rest of his life.
She gazed at her partner. "Where is he?"
"On the South Side of Talos. Small warehouse owned by one of his fronts. He won't be there long, though. My contact says that he's booked a plane ticket, and is flying out tonight."
Cara frowned. "Flying out? Where to?"
"I dunno, do I?"
She sighed, and stood, grabbing her worn leather jacket from the backrest of her chair. "I'll be there in 20 minutes."
"Woah, woah!" Regetti geld his hands up. "Don't you mean we?"
"Reg," She said, as kindly as she could. "You're in no shape to take on Mitchell's thugs."
She put it as nicely as she could, but Regetti knew what she meant. He was far from the young, slender, and muscular man he had once been. He sighed. "At least take some back-up."
"I've got my ankle holster on, I'll be fine."
"Cara, I meant real back-up. Take some of the guys with you, maybe some uniforms.…"
"No, Reg! I want this guy. If tonight's my last chance of nailing the creep, I'd better go now."
Regetti sighed, and gestured towards the door. "Good luck, Wilks."
"'Good Luck', he says" Cara thought to herself, as her car pulled into a car park, across the road from Mitchell's warehouse. "I don't need luck, I'm a damn good detective. Although," a frown passed over her face momentarily, "It's nice to have a guy who isn't a relative care about what happens to me."
Studying the warehouse for a few minutes, Cara spotted an open door, with nobody guarding it.
"My lucky break." She muttered, getting out of the car, and drawing her weapon. Casting glances all around her, she made her way inside, gun straight out, but pointed across her body and downwards.
"So far so good." She mused, before opening up another door just a crack…
"There."
Anthony Mitchell, recognisable as ever in his silk suit, with his back to her, sitting at a desk on the phone. Unable to make out what he was saying, she crept closer, and closer…
"Yes, of course", he was saying. "I'll be able to meet you in my offices there…shall we say February 2nd? I'm flying out in a few hours, but have a few things to do before then. Very well, I'm looking forward to it. Yes, sir, I'll see you in two weeks. Goodbye!" Mitchell put down the phone, and sighed.
"Do come in, Detective. Wipe your feet, though."
The trap had proven itself to be remarkably effective. Mitchell grinned at his captive, beaten by his henchmen, trussed up and hanging from a crane's hook, over a vat of industrial waste.
"You know," He remarked. "I tried to think of the best way to end your life, Detective Wilks. I wanted something…original. Something different. I wanted to make my mark on the world, before I vanish into obscurity in another country."
Cara snorted through her swollen lips. "So you're going to lower me into a vat of waste…why?"
"Oh, you know how difficult it is to do something new." Mitchell waved his hand in a 'what can you do' gesture, and shrugged. "I figured…why not go with something tested and true?"
"It's so over-done!" Wilks spat at him. "You're pathetic, Mitchell."
Mitchell shook his head. "Flattery, my dear, will get you nowhere. Besides, I added a few ingredients of my own. Hydrochloric acid, and arsenic. Of course, you're adding your own blood to it as we speak. Soon, my dear Detective, you'll die."
"Well," Cara began, "You're shit outta luck. Any second now, my partner will lead a SWAT team in here, and you'll be finished. There must be a dozen Police Drones circling this building already."
"Yes, yes, you're not alone, you have back-up, and you're probably wired, so everything you see and hear will be recorded, etc, etc. How very droll." Mitchell smirked. "However, I happen to know you're here alone, so don't try to bluff, Detective."
"What makes you think I'm alone?"
Mitchell's smirk widened into a full blown, predatory, grin. "What makes you think Detective Regetti doesn't work for me?"
"What? That's not…no…" Cara sputtered, as Regetti walked out of the shadows, and waved half-heartedly.
"I warned you to go with back-up, Wilks." Regetti sighed. "You never listened."
"Just as you assured me she wouldn't." Mitchell crowed, and opened his wallet, handing a large wad of cash to Regetti, who neatly pocketed it.
Cara felt herself rapidly slipping out of consciousness. The last thing she saw before slipping under again was Mitchell, blowing her a kiss.
"Bye-bye, Detective!" He laughed. "I'd simply love to stay and watch you drown, but I have a plane to catch." Still laughing, he and Regetti slipped out of a side door, and were gone. Then…blackness.
When she woke up again, she had been lowered into the vat, her arms unhooked from the crane somehow, and all she could see was green. Green, viscous liquid, thick and dark, rolling around her under its' own power, as if it was a sentient being.
It wasn't, of course. It was the industrial waste.
She tried to scream, but found she couldn't open her mouth. She couldn't breathe, and thrashed about as much as her beaten, bloody body would allow. Wasting her final few moments of air, she kicked back, until she hit a wall – the metallic wall of her imprisonment, and undoubtedly her tomb. Kicking harder, and harder, she thought she felt something give…
Then, the blackness overtook her once again.