Author's Note: New Yorkers, please don't come for me. I used the old Cobble Hill subway as the backdrop for this homeless camp underground, but as far as I can tell, nobody really goes down there anymore due to safety reasons. While it's true that it used to be a subway in the 1800's, and it was lost to history until the 80's, the part about the homeless camp is completely fictionalized, so yeah. Also, since there's no clear explanation of how to get down there - all I could find was that they now go through this manhole at the intersection of Atlantic and Court to get to it, I took creative liberties with how the guys made it into the actual tunnel. Mea culpa.

It wasn't long before horrifying news reports began trickling out of Boston about a tragic explosion in an apartment complex near Beacon Hill. Silently, Kabal sat on the couch in front of his and Stryker's television in their own apartment, watching the helicopter footage of a devastated building. Only half of the red brick complex remained; the rest had been all but vaporized by the detonation. On the ground, they saw that Massachusetts disaster teams were there, scurrying around, helping survivors and collecting evidence. Lieutenant Mansfield had already notified them of their mad bomber, but for obvious reasons, they were keeping a lid on that. For now, the byline at the bottom of the screen read: 12 dead in gas explosion in Boston.

"A whole block of apartments," Kurtis bitterly muttered. "Boston this time. This asshole gets around."

Kadeem - more than a little angry with himself - grabbed the remote and turned down the TV. "Yeah, well, I suppose I lost that round. Technically, we did solve the case, though, so-"

Finally his partner lost his temper completely. "What the hell does that matter? People are dying because of them!"

The burned detective didn't really notice as he thought about the events leading up to the explosion. "He killed that old lady because she was starting to describe him," he murmured. "Not 'them,' Boss. Him. Just for once, he's put himself in the firing line."

"What do you mean?" the other said in the same furious tone.

Kadeem shrugged. "Well, usually he's got to stay above it all. He arranges these things but no one ever has direct contact…"

"What?" he snapped. "Like Nikki Prince's murder? He arranged that? Are you saying that people come to him to get their crimes fixed? Like booking a vacation?"

"It's pretty original," he thoughtfully breathed.

Kurtis now pointed at the TV to show him that they'd both made the news. On the screen, Ramon Sanchez was currently being escorted in handcuffs out of his house and into a waiting police car by the detectives. Paparazzi cameras flashed at him while reporters thrust microphones into his face, hoping for a soundbyte. He hadn't said anything, though, and keeping his mouth shut was probably the smartest thing he'd done since he'd killed his employer. But Kurtis' partner was barely interested in that and now focused closely on the Bomber's iPhone. Kadeem's fingers drummed impatiently on the table next to him.

"Taking his time, this time," he said flippantly. What the hell was this guy doing?

Kurtis stared at him, unnerved by his partner's cold-bloodedness, and furious too. This was the shit he would expect from the old Kabal, the Black Dragon Kabal, the Kabal who was only in it for himself. He expected better from his partner, the Kabal who'd been an integral member of the Earthrealm Champions, the Kabal who'd been a damn fine cop. Kurtis thumped back in his chair with equal impatience, trying to fight down his overwhelming urge to clean his friend's clock.

"Anything from the Kyle Coffey lead?" he changed the subject, his voice tense.

"Nothing," Kadeem replied, oblivious to his partner's agitation. "All his living classmates check out. Spotless. No connection there."

"Maybe our bomber was older than Kyle," he suggested.

"The thought had occurred to me," he confessed.

Now Kurtis decided to address the elephant in the room. "So if this asshole isn't Black Dragon, why is he doing this? Playing this game with you? You think he wants to be caught?"

His partner shook his head no. "I think he wants to be distracted," he softly said. Then he cradled the yellow phone and looked at it longingly. He was like a junkie anxiously waiting for the next hit.

It was too much for the other to take. Rudely, he said, "Well, I hope you'll be very happy together." He got up like a shot, feeling restless, suddenly wanting to be a long way from his partner.

Kadeem looked at him in surprise. "I'm sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake!" he snapped. "Actual, human lives. I just want to know, do you care about that at all?"

His partner met his gaze. "Would caring about them help save them?"

"No," he scoffed.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake," he coldly replied.

"Find that easy, do you?" he hissed.

"Very," he firmly replied. And then, "Is that news to you?"

"No," he chortled. "No. I just wonder if you'd say the same thing if Anya was one of these hostages. Or if it was your sister, Khadija. Or if it was me." He'd wandered to the window now, staring out, knowing he stabbed his friend where it hurt the most. For all his faults, Kadeem was fiercely loyal to his friends and family and it would devastate him if something happened to any of them.

"Obviously, I would care because I know you personally," he slowly said, bewildered by the implication that he wouldn't give a shit, his heart quickening with a thorn of pain. "But I would also argue, Kurtis, that my worry for your well-being would cause me to second-guess myself and get myself twisted up with fear. How is that supposed to help any of you? How is that supposed to help any of these people?"

"There's more of the Black Dragon left in you than you want to admit," he muttered. "Guess it only took a psychopath bomber to bring it out of you."

Kadeem recoiled. "You're disappointed in me," he said in surprise.

His partner scoffed and faced him. "Oh, good. Good deduction, Boss."

Behind his mask, he narrowed his eyes. "Don't make heroes out of people, Kurtis. Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I sure as hell wouldn't be one of them." He thought about all the evil, twisted shit he'd done in his youth and knew that even if he could somehow walk the path of a saint now, it still would never be enough to erase his sins. So he just looked at his partner in terse silence for a moment pregnant with all manner of possibility.

Now the yellow iPhone beeped, signaling a new message. Their argument was immediately forgotten as Kadeem sprang into action and put the notification on the speaker-phone again. You have one new message. Beep. Beep. The burned detective clicked on it. Another picture, this time a view of the East River beneath a bridge.

"That's the East River near DUMBO," he told his partner. "We need to look for something out of the ordinary down there." When Kurtis just stood there, glowering at him, Kadeem sank back into his chair and met his gaze again. "Ohhh…" he drawled. "You're angry so you won't help me. Not very detective-like of you, you caring fellow."

Damn him for being right! Kurtis glared at him one more time before he sat down in his chair again and started looking at his phone through police reports. Kadeem, meanwhile, began tapping away at his laptop, scouring the local news. Both flicked rapidly through page after page of irrelevant topics.

"Archway suicide," he called out.

"Those are a dime a dozen," Kadeem replied.

"Two kids stabbed on Washington. Um...that dead guy found on the subway line. Benjamin Jones."

"Nothing!" Kadeem yelled in exasperation as he slammed his laptop shut. Then he grabbed his phone and speed-dialed someone. "It's me," he spoke into it a moment later. "Anything been found near the Manhattan Bridge? Or the East River?" He listened to the response and then nodded to Kurtis, snapping his fingers to indicate that they had something.

After Kabal had called her looking for the lead he needed, Lieutenant Mansfield had summoned them to the edge of the East River on the Brooklyn side, right beneath the Manhattan Bridge. Both he and Stryker walked along the exposed shore of the river to where a police tape had cordoned off most of the area. Above them, all along the buildings by the riverside, were posters that read Kieckhafer Gallery. The Lost Vermeer. The L-T wasn't hard to spot amongst the usual crime scene crew, and when she saw them, she nodded to them and then to the body lying at her feet, covered in a sheet.

"You think this is connected then?" she asked as they approached. "The bomber?"

"Must be," he replied. "He pulled the yellow iPhone from his pocket, checking it for fresh messages. There was nothing and he sighed. "Weird though, how he hasn't been in touch. By now we'd have heard from the hostage."

"But we have to assume some poor bastard's primed to explode, yeah?" she said.

"Yeah," he agreed before he bent down and lifted the sheet. The first thing that met him was the smell of rotting meat, like garbage that had been cooking in the hot summer sun for days, but the one advantage to his mask was that it kept him from inhaling most of that foul aroma. He looked the body up and down. It belonged to a rotund, middle-aged man.

"Any ideas?" the Lieutenant asked him.

"Seven so far," he distractedly said.

"Seven?" she repeated. Suddenly, Kabal was all over the corpse like a bloodhound, sniffing, pressing the cold skin, unbuttoning clothes, rolling up the body's pants leg, examining the wristwatch, tapping into his phone. He examined the bloated face last and then his eyes lit up. "Okay, maybe five now," he said. Then he shot a look at Stryker and jerked his head towards the body before he concentrated on sending texts.

"Dead about twenty four hours," Ella, the forensicist, said as Kurtis now knelt down as well with a camera. "Maybe a bit longer."

"Did he drown?" he asked her.

"Apparently not," she answered. "Not enough of the river in his lungs. But he was asphyxiated."

"Yeah. I'd agree," he told her. "There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth…"

"Yes. There would be," Kadeem now cryptically said.

Now Kurtis gestured at the corpse's hairline and ears. "And there are more bruises…here and here…"

"Fingertips," his partner volunteered, prompting him to shoot a look at him.

"He's mid-fifties, I'd say," he continued. "Not in the best condition."

Kabal vaguely nodded. "He's been in the river a while which has destroyed most of the evidence…" As he said it, his phone beeped, indicating a response. He smiled behind his mask. "But I'll tell you one thing," he began as he pointed to the posters advertising the Kieckhafer Gallery, "that lost Vermeer painting is a fake!"

"What?" Mansfield now asked, shaking her head in bewilderment.

"We need to identify the corpse," he mumbled as he typed into his phone again. "Find out who his friends and associates are-"

"Wait, wait!" the L-T cried. "What painting? What are you talking about?"

Kabal held up his phone to show them a picture of the painting. "It's all over the place," he told her. "Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master. It was supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago and now it's turned up. Worth thirty million dollars."

She shook her head. "Okay. So...What's that got to do with this poor guy?"

"Everything," he happily replied. "Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?" Kurtis now intervened. "It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?"

"Not a horror story, a Jewish folk-story," he corrected. "A golem is a gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin. His real name is Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. Kano employed him a time or two." He gestured at the corpse now. "That's his trademark style."

"Wait, wait, wait," Mansfield said as she held up her hands to him. "Are you telling me that this was a hit?"

"Definitely," he nodded. "The Golem chokes out his victims with his bare hands."

"What's this got to do with that painting?" she demanded to know. "I don't see-"

"You do see. You just don't observe!"

Kurtis stepped forward. "All right, ladies, let's chill out. Kadeem? Wanna take us through it?"

Kabal nodded and pointed to the man's body as a rush of adrenaline shot through his body, surging with excitement. "What do we know about this corpse? The killer didn't leave us with much to go on. Just a shirt and pants. They're pretty formal - maybe he was going out for the night. But the trousers are heavy duty…Polyester. Nasty and uncomfortable. Shirt's the same. Cheap. And they're both too big for him, so some kind of standard issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. But what is his job?" He paused and then pointed to the man's waist. "There's a loop on his belt that looks like it'd be for a walkie-talkie-"

"Subway driver?" Ella suggested, still kneeling by the man to gather evidence. Immediately, Kadeem scoffed at her.

"Security guard?" Kurtis now suggested.

His partner nodded. "More likely. That guess would be supported by his ass."

"His ass?" Mansfield repeated in disbelief.

"Flabby," he told her. "You'd think he led a sedentary life - yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs say otherwise." He pointed to the man's calloused soles and veiny legs. "So a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good." That made his partner smile as he continued. "And the watch helps support that theory too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular?" Mansfield challenged him. "Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died?"

Kadeem shook his head. "No, no," he argued. "The buttons are stiff. Hardly touched. He set the alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied." He sighed. "But there's something else. Killer must've been disturbed otherwise he'd have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off. Suggests the dead man worked somewhere recognizable. Some kind of institution." He held up a wadded ball of paper; it was soaked by the river but still it was obvious what the paper was.

"Tickets?" Kurtis asked.

"Ticket stubs," he nodded. "He worked in a museum. Or a gallery. A long, industrial-looking gallery. I did a quick check through Missing Persons. The Kieckhafer Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing. Allan Reynolds." He looked at his coworkers. "Last week they unveiled the rediscovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay a killer like the Golem to suffocate a dumpy, old gallery attendant? Inference: he knew something about it. Something that would stop the owner charging thirty million bucks for it. The picture's a fake."

Kurtis looked down at the body. "Poor bastard," he lamented.

"I'll put out some feelers for this Golem character-" Mansfield now said.

"Pointless," Kadeem told her. "You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Let me guess, you?" his partner asked.

The other scoffed. "Obviously back in the day, yeah, but my usual sources would never trust me now. My reputation amongst that crowd is trash." He crossed his arms. "But I do know someone who can track him down."

"Who?" the L-T asked.

He glanced from her to Stryker and back again. "Tomas Vrbada."

It took them a while to process the scene and take witness statements while forensics bagged and tagged all the evidence, and it wasn't until a few hours later when they finally felt like they could leave to continue on their investigation. They could've taken an unmarked car to their destination, but instead, Kabal insisted on catching a cab so he quickly hailed one and clambered into the backseat with his partner. He had the yellow iPhone in his hand and was restlessly turning it over and over.

"But why hasn't the phone - he's broken his pattern - why?" he mumbled to himself. Then he looked up to the driver. "DUMBO Archway."

"Where now?" Kurtis asked him. "The gallery?"

"In a bit," he replied before he took out a pen and a notebook and hastily scribbled a note.

His partner watched him write before he said, "The Kieckhafer's contemporary art, isn't it? So why do they have an old Dutch Master?"

Kadeem shrugged. "Dunno. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. I need more info." It wasn't long before the cab pulled up to the overpass to the Manhattan Bridge where people casually shuffled around, and as he started to get out of the taxi, he said to the driver, "Can you wait? I'll only be a minute."

"Yeah, yeah," the guy said in a Queens accent as he waved them off.

Kabal didn't bother thanking him as he got out and darted down the stairs towards the river while his partner followed. Almost immediately, his eyes lasered in on the person he was looking for, a tall man with hair like gravity-defying threads of molten silver. Once more, it was jarring to see Tomas Vrbada out of his uniform and this time donning the rags of a homeless beggar. Even his face had been grubbed up with so much dirt, it seemed embedded in the creases. He was wearing his sunglasses again and this time, he was clutching a blind person's cane.

"Change?" he said in amusement as both detectives approached and Stryker was unable to contain his surprise. "Any change, please?"

"What for?" the burned detective demanded to know.

"Cup of tea, of course," he said and now Kadeem grinned back at him from behind his mask as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and rifled through it.

"I've only got a fifty," he apologetically told him.

Tomas grinned. "In that case, a magnum of champagne!"

"What are you doing?" Kurtis whispered to their friend as his partner handed over the fifty.

"What you called me to do," he chuckled as he made a show of not seeing the money and letting Kadeem place it in his palm before he awkwardly slid it into his pocket. "We learn very young in the Lin Kuei that stealth merely means how good you are at the art of disguise."

"I thought they weren't in the business of selling their services," the other said, almost accusatorily.

"Well, that is patently untrue," he scoffed. "It takes money to run the Temple and our Grandmaster refuses to rely on the world governments for assistance. So we take missions, though they no longer involve assassinations. Besides, this money is simply-"

"An investment," the burned detective cut him off. Without another word, he turned around and returned to the cab with his partner in tow. As they got in, he looked to his partner. "Now we go to the gallery," he said. And then, "Got any cash on you?"

Stryker looked at him in exasperation and then jumped back in as well.

A few blocks away, the cab pulled up to a massive industrial building on the riverfront. Big letters on the side were painted in bright yellow letters and read KIECKHAFER. Draped from either side of the building were massive banners advertising the lost Vermeer painting due to be revealed to the public the following night. As soon as the taxi pulled to a stop, Kabal hopped out with Stryker prepared to follow him, but he stopped him.

"No," the burned detective said. "I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant."

His partner scowled at him. "Is this a thing where you actually need me to investigate, or is this a thing where you've already figured it out and you're using me to stall for time?"

"No, not this time," he answered. "We need to figure out what Allan Reynolds was all about, how he got dragged into this. It could help us find the Golem."

Stryker noisily sighed. "Okay." He slid back into his seat and then Kabal slammed the cab door shut before he headed towards the gallery.

Not even an hour later, Stryker was in Allan Reynolds' apartment being escorted around by his roommate, a middle aged woman named Julie who was almost as wide around as Allan had been. Her pudgy face was red and damp from crying, and she sniffed as she led the detective into his room. Kurtis wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to see when she pushed the wooden door open, but star charts and posters of galaxies papering the wall sure as hell weren't it. He looked around and made note of the astronomy books on a floating shelf beside the victim's neatly made bed. The crown jewel of Allan's collection was a large reflector telescope that couldn't have cost a dime under five grand. This dude, he immediately gathered, was an avid stargazer.

"We'd been roommates for about a year. Just sharing, nothing romantic," she told him.

Kurtis pointed to the telescope. "May I?" he asked and Julie nodded. He walked to it and looked through the lens. Night was falling so he could see stars twinkling in the view, but at the moment, it wasn't trained on anything specific. "Stargazer, was he?" he said, stating the obvious.

She nodded enthusiastically. "God, yeah. Loved looking at the planets and stuff. That's all he ever did when he had spare time." She looked down. "He was a nice guy, Allan. I liked him." She looked around the room and then her voice cracked. "He was never much for vacuuming, though," she croaked.

"What about art?" he now asked as he looked back at her. "Did he know anything about paintings?"

Julie sniffed and shrugged. "It was just a job."

Kurtis nodded. "Has anyone else been around? Asking about Allan?" he now asked.

"No," she shook her head. "We had a break-in, though."

"When?"

"Last night," she told him. "Nothing taken, though, so I didn't file a police report." Her eyes suddenly lit up. "Oh, and there was a message for Allan. On the landline. I must've missed it somehow because I only found it when I was deleting old ones."

"Who was it from?" he asked, astonished that they still had a house phone. That was a dying technology.

"I can play it for you, if you like. I'll get the phone."

She went out and a moment later, Stryker's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it. It was a text from Agent Walker: Progress on Benjamin Jones? Like a guilty school-boy, the detective's heart skipped a beat like a kid caught with hand in the cookie jar, so he quickly thrust his phone back into his pocket. By then, Julie had come back with a cordless black phone. She pressed a button to put it on speaker and then dialed a number. It beeped and was followed by a long pause.

And then a woman's voice said, "Oh. Should I speak now? Allan? Allan, love, it's Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right! You were absolutely right! Give me a call back when you get this."

"Professor Cairns?" Kurtis repeated, looking to Julia for an explanation.

"No idea. Sorry," she shrugged.

"Can I try to call her back?" he now asked and she shook her head no.

"Wouldn't do you any good. I've had other calls since. Sympathy ones."

He nodded his understanding and sighed.

The first thing people noticed inside of the Kieckhafer Gallery was its mellow lighting emanating from a massive yellow disc hanging from the rafters. The glazed brick walls, modern canvases, and sealed black concrete were all suffused with its amber light. But in spite of that warm glow, it didn't take the sting of coldness out of this old, renovated warehouse. If anything, it made that frostiness feel like false hope, much like the sun hanging over Antarctica. The lost Vermeer - a small painting of the city of Delft under a star-filled sky - seemed quite out of place here among these contemporary giants, even though it had been cordoned off with red velvet stanchions to indicate its importance while the other paintings had not.

Standing directly in front of it was a gallery attendant dressed in gray with a matching gray hat, drawing the attention of the gallery owner, a slim, severe woman with a gold name tag that read Andrea Wenceslas pinned to the breast pocket of her expensive Armani suit. She stopped, glared at him, and in a haughty voice that was unmistakably Eastern European, said, "Don't you have something to do?"

The attendant, Kabal in disguise, smiled behind his mask and nodded. "Just admiring the view." He did not turn. He didn't want to reveal his hand just yet.

"Yes," she agreed in a deadpan voice. "Lovely. Now get back to work."

"Doesn't it bother you?" he now asked.

"What?" her voice lilted.

"That the painting's a fake?"

"What?" she repeated, this time in confusion. "It's not a fake."

"It has to be a fake," he insisted. "It's the only explanation. Are you in charge, Ms. Wenceslas?"

Now the agitation returned to her voice. "Who are you?" she demanded to know.

"Allan Reynolds knew it was a fake, so someone sent the Golem to take care of him. Was it you?" he continued, refusing to answer.

"'Golem'?" she repeated. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Or are you working for someone else? Did you fake it for them?"

"It is not a fake!" she insisted.

"It is a fake," he argued. "I don't know why but there's something wrong with it. There has to be."

She shifted her stance, her high heels clicking loudly on the floor as she did. "What the hell are you on about?" she hissed. "You know I could have you fired?"

He chuckled. "Not a problem, lady," he smirked.

"No?" she haughtily replied.

"No. I don't work here, you see," he told her and then turned around, giving her a first look at his grotesque - albeit life-giving - mask. I just dropped by to gather evidence."

The slender, middle-aged woman's eyes bulged out in surprise as she recoiled in shock, but that shock quickly shifted to a cold glare. "Who are you?" she demanded to know once more. "How did you get in?"

Kabal laughed as if that was the dumbest question in the world. "Please," he goaded her.

"Tell me! I want to know!"

The detective began peeling off the attendant's uniform he was wearing to reveal his black NYPD t-shirt underneath. He'd previously hidden his trenchcoat in the men's changing room where he found the uniform. He dropped the uniform jacket and the hat on the ground in front of her, and she winced when she saw his extensive scars running up and down his arms. He ignored it; everyone had that reaction the first time they saw him.

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight," he told her, paraphrasing his Czech friend.

Her voice faltered in frustration. "Who are you?" she asked once again.

"Detective Kadeem Kabal, at your service," he replied with a smirk and small, flourishing bow as he briskly walked away towards a nearby exit.

Ms. Wenceslas crossed her arms. "Am I supposed to be impressed?" she called after him.

"You should be, I'm one of the best detectives in the city," he replied. "Have a nice day!" he called as he plowed through the heavy doors.

After he left Allan Reynold's apartment, Stryker found himself at Kelly Summer's apartment in Long Island to interview her about Benjamin Jones, her dead fiancé and possible traitor. It was a nice place, he mused, and very clean, with shiny wooden floors and everything arranged just so. Kelly herself wasn't quite so put together; her face was puffy and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and her ratty hair had been gathered into a messy bun at her crown and now hung lopsided over her ear. But in the pictures on her walls, she was a pretty young woman with a nice smile that somehow seemed brighter in the ones with Ben.

"He wouldn't," she was shaking her head. "He just wouldn't."

Kurtis sadly shrugged from the smaller couch. "Stranger things have happened," he gently replied.

"Ben wasn't a traitor!" she insisted. "That's a horrible thing to say." She started to cry.

He frowned. "I'm sorry. But you have to understand, that's-"

"That's what they think, isn't it?" she interrupted. "His bosses. The government."

"He was a young man, about to get married," he delicately suggested. "He had debts."

Now Kelly scowled, her face scarlet. "Everyone's got debts!" she snapped. "But Ben would never have wanted to clear them by selling out his country. He's not a traitor!"

Kurtis held up his hands deferentially towards her. "Okay, then let's move on, Kelly. How had he been? Recently?"

"Fine," she curtly answered.

"You're sure?"

"Yes." Then she looked down at her knees and wiped her nose with her tissue before she sighed. "I suppose he had been a bit...off. A bit distracted. Since our engagement party, really. But I thought it was just stress. People always think it must be so glamorous working for the CIA. But it's not. He was a desk jockey, not James freaking Bond."

"Can you...can you tell me exactly what happened?" he asked. "That night?"

She inhaled deeply and shifted her legs around beneath her. "We were having a night in," she thoughtfully replied, looking out the window. "Just watching a DVD. He usually falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was...quiet. Out of the blue he said he had to go and see someone." Once more, she burst into tears.

"You've got no idea who he went to see?" he asked, writing everything down in his notepad. She shook her head no and continued to cry.

Kurtis didn't stay long after that. He could sense Kelly didn't know anything. So he finished his interview with her and when they were done talking, she led him to the door. As he was leaving the apartment, a tall, trim man approached from the outside carrying a bicycle. He was wearing a helmet and bicycle shorts, clearly a courier. But his facial features and clear blue eyes were a dead ringer for Kelly's, so the detective assumed he was a blood relative.

"Oh," he said in surprise when he saw him leaving the apartment. "Hi, Kelly. You okay, sis?"

She nodded and clutched her wadded up tissues close to her heart. "Yeah."

"Who's this?" he now demanded to know, looking him up and down.

He pulled out his badge and showed it to the man. "Detective Kurtis Stryker with the NYPD."

"This is my brother, Joe," Kelly told him. Then she looked at Joe again. "Stryker's trying to find out what happened to Ben."

"Well, it's about time you all got off your goddamn asses," he spat at him. "It's ridiculous that you haven't figured this out."

"We're doing our best," he drily remarked. Then he looked at Kelly. "Well...thanks for your help. And again, I'm very sorry. You have my card if you think of anything else or if you need anything."

She nodded as tears flooded her eyes again. "He didn't steal that information, Detective Stryker. I knew Ben. He was a good man. He was my good man." She began to cry again as she went back inside. Joe gave him a curt nod and then followed her. Kurtis solemnly watched them go.

It was dark by the time Stryker returned to the precinct in a cab, and he arrived at the same time as Kabal, who was briskly walking up the street with his trenchcoat flailing in the wind behind him. But the burned detective wasn't paying attention to his partner. His sights were lasered in on the blind beggar huddled against the wall by the stairs leading inside. Tomas Vrbada.

"Spare change," he was calling as he held out an empty coffee cup. "Any spare change?"

Kadeem waited for his partner to join him and he looked at him expectantly as they approached their friend. "Allan Reynolds didn't know anything special about art," Kurtis told him.

"And?"

"And?"

"Is that it?" Kadeem impatiently asked. "He had no habits, no hobbies, no personality?"

"Give me a chance, dammit," he cursed. "He was an amateur astronomer."

"Spare change, sir?" Tomas asked them as they reached him.

"Don't mind if I do," the burned detective said. Their friend held up the cup, and as he did, covertly slipped him something that looked like a bank note. Kadeem promptly unrolled it. Inside was a scribbled message in the Lin Kuei warrior's handwriting. Behind his mask, he triumphantly smiled. "You know what, Stevie Wonder, why don't I buy you a cup of coffee? It's a cold night, you look like you could use a cup of joe."

A smile broke out on Tomas' face. "Why not?" he replied, gesturing grandly. "Policemen always know where the best coffee is. Donuts too."

"Don't get your hopes up, pal, my partner is a health food freak," he said as he took his friend by the elbow and helped him into an unmarked police car sitting on the street.

"We will try not to hold that against him," the Lin Kuei joked as he sat in the back seat.

As soon as they were in the car and had driven a few blocks, Tomas took off his sunglasses and shrugged off his trenchcoat. "I have always wanted to go on a police ride-along," he cheerfully told his friends. "And to do something so exciting? Thank you, my friends."

"Don't thank us yet," Kadeem told him. "This guy is bad news. Most of the Black Dragon thought twice about dealing with him."

"I have heard stories too," he replied. "Grim stories. When I was an assassin, I did what I had to do and I did it quickly, but I derived no joy in my work. But the Golem? I have heard he is a sadist. He is quick and efficient, but delights in his victims' terror."

"Yup, he's one sick puppy," the burned detective agreed.

They drove in silence across the bridge into Brooklyn, but then Kurtis said, "Listen, Kadeem, Allan Reynolds' apartment was broken into. And someone left him a message. A Professor Cairns-"

"Hold that thought," his partner said as he pulled to a stop in front of a Rite Aid on Atlantic Avenue. "This way."

The men jumped out of the car and then Kabal ordered Stryker to divert traffic around a manhole cover while he pried up the heavy circle with a crowbar that he'd fetched from the trunk, all of them ignoring the rude shouts of the irate drivers passing by. When he'd lifted the edge, Tomas helped him hoist it to the side and Kurtis set up caution cones around the hole. Then Kadeem led the way into the sewer with his mag-light on and ready.

It was very sinister down there, and very old. The sickeningly sweet odor of urine and feces hit them like a brick, and rats scurried in all directions, squeaking loudly. Kabal cringed when he saw them; he hated rats. His heart quickened with adrenaline as he gingerly tip-toed over the squirming vermin, grimacing and panting in disgust. If he could have smashed himself completely into the wall right then, he would've.

"What is your problem?" Tomas asked him as they crept along. "I can hear you breathing so loudly I can shoot you in the dark with a missile."

"He hates rats," Kurtis told him.

"Oh, yes, I forgot," the Lin Kuei warrior murmured. "But they are more afraid of you than you are of them."

"I highly doubt that," the masked detective replied. "They're filthy and disease-ridden."

"That is a common misperception," he argued. "They groom themselves more often than cats. They are very clean animals."

"They live in a sewer," the other retorted. "I don't believe you." That prompted Tomas to snicker but he said no more on the matter.

The men hiked for roughly a block towards the oldest subway tunnel in the world, the Cobble Hill Tunnel, which had been sealed in the 1860's, only to be rediscovered in the 80's. For years, it had existed in Acheron-like darkness and gloom, unseen by any mortal man, utterly forgotten to history. But lately, as the city had been cracking down on the homeless population topside, many people had sought shelter in its dimly lit, antiquated expanse. This was a tent city now. Kadeem now easily spotted vaguely human shapes under sleeping bags and cardboard boxes. Every so often, they walked past the odd barrel fire.

"Nice part of town," Kurtis drily remarked. "Why are we here?"

"To see a friend," Tomas answered.

"Friend," he scoffed. "Right." The men looked around.

Soon, one of the shapes detached himself from the shadows. A whiskery old man, though surprisingly luxurious and dignified for his age. "Good evening!" he greeted in a leathery London accent.

"Lord Huxley!" Tomas greeted. "How are you?"

"Mustn't grumble. Really, I mustn't," he said. "But I've been knackered all day and my arthritis is acting up tonight."

"You shouldn't sit on so many cold steps," Kurtis flippantly remarked.

"Occupational hazard!" the man cried as if his honor had just been impugned.

Tomas smirked. "This is Kurtis Stryker. He's a friend," he introduced. "And this is Kadeem Kabal. Also a friend."

The aging Brit looked the two men up and down. "I certainly hope so. I'd be bloody mad if you dragged the NYPD down here to evict us all."

"Now why would I do that?" he replied. "They're here on the business I told you about."

Huxley beamed. "Good lad!" he cried. And then, with a twinkle in his eyes, he said. "We found him, my friend."

"I never doubted you would," he smiled.

Huxley pointed down the tunnel. "He's way down there at the very end. Made himself a nice little nest but...he keeps himself to himself."

"Not surprised," Kadeem murmured.

"I got my lads straight onto it," he explained. "Hard to miss him. He's there at the minute. Came back about an hour ago in a tearing hurry."

"Thanks," he said. He and his friends began to leave.

"Careful, Tomas," Huxley said as he grabbed the cyber-ninja's arm. "There's something...unnatural about this one."

He nodded with a smile. "So I hear. Thank you, old friend. I'll be in touch."

"Ta, ta," he replied. "Nice to meet you, Kadeem and Kurtis!"

This time Tomas took the lead, and he moved quietly along the arching bricks. Both detectives followed him closely as they wove through tents and homeless people.

Kurtis spoke first. "Any time you want to explain-" he said to Tomas.

"Homeless network," he said. "Really is indispensable."

"True dat," Kadeem agreed with him.

"Homeless network?" his partner incredulously repeated.

"Yeah," he agreed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "My eyes and ears. All over the city. Apparently Tomas' too. Comes in handy since I don't have an in with my old contacts."

"That's actually pretty smart," Kurtis praised. "So, you scratch their backs-"

"And then disinfect myself, yes," Tomas replied. "Lord Huxley's in charge of the underground operation. At least in Brooklyn, though he knows a lot about the other major hubs too."

"Lord Huxley?" he derided. "What's that, like a Pearly King name or something?"

The cyber-ninja chuckled. "No, no. He's the real thing. Don't you remember? Pile of clothes on a beach about ten years ago? The disappearing Peer? It was all over the news that he vanished on a holiday to the States."

"Oh God, yeah," he breathed. "I forgot all about that. That was a long week for us. The city was twisted up in knots thinking he'd been kidnapped by the IRA or something like that."

"Not kidnapped, just decided that he prefers it down here. Better class of gentleman than the House of Lords-"

He suddenly stopped and blocked the detectives with his hand. They'd reached the end of the tunnel. Kabal narrowed his eyes and saw that in the shadows, something was stirring. Cardboard and trash slowly moved aside as an immensely tall, thin, hunchbacked figure slinked from the darkness towards a corner to take a piss. An icy finger zipped down his spine; it was the Golem. He'd never forget that terrifying frame. At the moment, though, he was still little more than a silhouette as he shuffled away from his hiding place, lumbering back the way they'd come.

"Come on!" the masked man whispered to his partners.

Nodding, they crept after him as sneakily as cats, trying to stay out of sight and to blend in with the homeless people surrounding them. But it wasn't enough. Perhaps sensing the approaching danger, the Golem turned around and looked in their direction. Quickly, all three pretended to be warming their hands around a barrel fire. Kabal lifted his eyes behind his mask to read the situation, unsure if the assassin had spotted them, but it was impossible to tell. His face was hidden by shadow. A long, uncertain moment passed. Then the Golem trudged on.

As he walked away, the three men hung back and Kurtis looked at Tomas. "What was he doing sleeping rough?" he whispered.

"He has a very distinctive look," the Enenra replied with equal quietness. "He needs to hide somewhere tongues won't wag. Much."

They started following the Golem once more, drawing his attention yet again when Kurtis accidentally tripped over a box, fell, and knocked over a barrel fire. The din was terrific as everyone around them looked at them in annoyance, especially the meth head woman whose teeth were half rotted out, because it had been her fire he'd knocked over. She began hurling curses at him, drawing a lot of unnecessary attention to the three men. It proved enough to spook the Golem, who immediately took off running in a bizarre stride.

"No, no, no, get him!" Tomas yelled as he took off after him.

Kabal had already beaten him to the punch. He zoomed after the assassin like lightning, kicking up old papers and trash in his wake. They slowly fell to the ground behind him like snowflakes. He caught up with his target in the blink of an eye, but he hadn't counted on the man's resourcefulness. The Golem had already tossed a grenade over his shoulder, and it exploded at the detective's feet. Instantly, it lifted him into the air and carried him into the tunnel wall on a violent shockwave, cracking him into it like an egg. Above him, the ceiling cracked, filtering dust and debris in fine sheets onto the heads of everyone down here.

"Kabal!" his partner yelled as he joined his side.

"I'm fine, you two get him," he groaned, slow to rise. There was a shard of shrapnel in his ribcage.

Both Tomas and Kurtis wasted no time chasing after the assassin, following him to the surface. For such a giant, the Golem was surprisingly fast and nimble. He scurried up the ladder to the manhole with ease, climbing through it just as they reached the bottom. Tomas wasted no time teleporting to the street while Stryker bolted up the ladder. Out of nowhere, a black Cadillac pulled up on the opposite side of the intersection and let the Golem scramble inside.

"No! No! No! No!" the cyber-ninja shouted as the car roared off in a cloud of dust. "Could take us a week to find him again!"

"Or not," Kurtis panted as he helped his partner through the hole. "I might have an idea where he's going."

"What?" Kadeem grimaced, clutching his chest.

He smiled. "I told you. Someone left Allan Reynolds a message. Can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book."

nadillandlaprasthefireandice, I will have to check them out!

the-06, yeah, it's different than the usual high-stakes MK Tournament stuff I usually write. But it's fun for a change, that's for sure. And obviously, blending Kabal with Sherlock is fun too. :)