Twin Demons

by Georgia Kennedy

Peter Parker declares his undying love for Mary Jane Watson, who vows to help him confront his fear and guilt as SpiderMan joins forces with Daredevil to break up a ring of international terrorists bent on wreaking havoc all over the Big Apple.

12. Lucifer & Mephisto

TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy

Author's Note

Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the sinners saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Lucifer,
'Cause I'm in need of some restraint
So if you meet me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
Use all your well-learned politesse
Or I'll lay your soul to waste

Sympathy for the Devil, © 1968 by Mick Jagger & Keith Richards.

Disclaimer

This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon: Spider-Man, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Spider-Man 2, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Daredevil - Director's Cut, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and Hulk, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.

XII

LUCIFER & MEPHISTO

Swiftly and silently, Spider-Man slipped out of the air duct and scuttled across the ceiling, hidden from view below by the big halogen lights.Crawling upside down, he followed the cables that snaked between the support beams until they merged into the trunk cable that fed directly into the massive fuse box. At the connection point he planted his feet firmly against the side of the box, grasped the cable, and looked over his shoulder to Daredevil, who gave the go-ahead by simply nodding his head. "Nighty-night, boys!"Spider-Man whispered sarcastically as he ripped the wires loose, causing sparks to erupt from the now-ruined fuse box and plunging the entire room into darkness. With that one decisive stroke, he and Daredevil took complete control of the battlefield.

Daredevil leaped off the lamp in front of the air duct, did a triple somersault and landed in the middle of the room. Spider-Man landed right beside him after dropping straight down from the destroyed fuse box overhead. Daredevil's radar-like senses gave him a 360 degree view of everything around him, alerting him to threats from any direction. And although Spider-Man lacked Daredevil's sensory capabilities, his own extrasensory perception achieved a remarkably similar effect. The terrorists, thinking that the fuse box had blown by itself, were caught completely by surprise. They were totally unprepared for the human tornadoes that suddenly struck without warning.

All hell broke loose as Spider-Man and Daredevil dealt out punishing blows with their fists, elbows, knees, feet, webs, and nunchakus. They were becoming a unified, ferocious, and incredibly powerful fighting force, with each man acting in complete concert with the other. It was as though the terrorists were being attacked from fifteen different directions at once.

As he had done so many times before, Daredevil overpowered his hapless opponents with a unique martial style that fused ancient oriental techniques with his own immeasurable skills as a street fighter. In the dark, he was devastating and unstoppable, a one-man Roman legion. Those who'd somehow managed to stay clear of his hands and feet found themselves being attacked with a deadly combination of poles, billy clubs, and nunchucks, all of which were really the same instrument. He could hear bones cracking under the impact of his blows as they struck home.

Spider-Man too found himself thriving in the darkness. Thanks to the high-speed nerve conduction velocities that powered his spider-sense, he knew precisely where the enemy was and when to fire his webs. Playing off Daredevil, he utilized a combination of nets and balls to neutralize those who'd somehow managed to avoid being hit by the scarlet-clad human buzz saw.

Spider-Man was in the process of webbing seven men to a wall when, suddenly, his spider-sense warned him that someone was about to fire a machine gun, and that Daredevil was in the probable line of fire. The goon has no idea where he's aiming, Spider-Man thought as he pivoted around to lock in on his new target. And before the determined combatant could pull the trigger, he heard a thwippp, and felt a hard rubber ball strike him in the back, knocking him off his feet and driving him down into the concrete floor, chin first. An instant later, he heard a second thwippp, and found himself pinned to the floor by some kind of netting made of extremely fine but unbreakable threads. And then, the jihadist's eyes widened with terror at the crunching sound of his machine gun being broken in two . . . by someone . . . or something . . . with incredible strength.

As the battle raged around them, four terrorists, whose survival instincts had not yet been dulled by a desire for martyrdom, retreated to the South wall. They had no intention of ending up as cannon fodder for this terrible new weapon that the Great Satan had deployed against them. They were groping anxiously along the wall, desperate to find the nearest exit and get out with their lives. One by one, they made their way toward the tiny sliver of light that marked the South door.

All of a sudden, Peter's spider-sense flared. At the same time, Matt glanced toward the South door, hearing voices, a police dispatch radio, and guns being drawn from holsters. In the heat of battle, the cowled warriors had forgotten about the approaching cops. There was no time to warn them.

The South door burst open.

"Freeze!" Officer Joe Santelle shouted, his service revolver drawn. Behind him, Officer Paul Davis also drew his gun, as did, Detective Jared Korso, Detective Doris Grissom, and F.B.I. Agent Harry Somes.

But the terrorists did not freeze. Caught between the police and whatever supernatural force had destroyed their operation, they started shooting wildly into the frame of light that enveloped the cops. Two police officers went down, hit by fire from AK-47s. The others tried to get their wounded colleagues to safety. Unfortunately, the corridor offered few places of refuge and the back ups that Spider-Man had explicitly requested hadn't arrived.

Spider-Man reacted as fast as he could to the unfolding ambush. But because he'd been protecting Daredevil's flank, he had waited a fraction of a second too long before responding to the message his spider-sense was giving him. Although he had done the best he could under the circumstances, the staccato eruption of machine gun fire meant that he was already too late to avert a tragedy.

Spider-Man leaped through the door and attacked all four fleeing terrorists from behind, knocking them into each other and ensnaring them with a web net. Then he rushed over to one of the injured policemen. It was Officer Santelle. He was lying on the floor, clutching his side, his face contorted in agony. Blood was seeping from between his fingers. A female detective was holding his hand, murmuring indistinct words of encouragement in order to keep him from slipping into a coma.

"Here, let me take a look," Spider-Man said in a comforting tone. When Detective Grissom gave him a worried look he reassured her. "Don't worry ma'am, I'm certified in first aid and CPR." He glanced down at the area where the blood was coming from, gently unbuttoning Officer Santelle's s uniform shirt and folding it over. The bullet had struck Santelle in the side, below the rib cage, and had exited through his stomach. He was bleeding profusely from an exit wound that disclosed significant arterial damage. Spider-Man realized that he had to move fast if this officer was going to see the sun go down.

"It's okay," he said softly, looking into the young policeman's eyes, and seeing how scared he was. "You're gonna be fine son, I promise." Peter felt funny calling a man barely older than himself "son." But it was necessary, for the sake of appearances, and to reassure the terrified officer that he really was going to be all right. Using his webbing as a bandage,Spider-Man successfully staunched the flow of blood from Santelle's wounds. He just prayed that his makeshift arterial sutures were good enough to prevent substantial blood loss.

Suddenly, Santelle tried to speak. Spider-Man and Detective Grissom bent closer. "Par . . . par . . . part . . .ner!" Santelle gasped weakly, struggling to get one word out.

Spider-Man quickly understood what Santelle was trying to say. His partner! He's asking about his partner.He got up to look around for Officer Davis when suddenly he found himself stepping into a puddle. He cringed when he looked down and saw his boots drenched in blood . . . and gasped in horror when he saw Officer Davis lying against the wall. The police veteran's head was twisted around at a grotesquely unnatural angle, and blood was gushing like a waterfall from a gaping wound just beneath his left ear. Davis's pupils had rolled up inside his head, leaving his eyes completely blank, an unmistakable sign that the kindly police officer had already departed the world.

A wave of nausea slammed into Spider-Man, nearly causing him to vomit inside his mask. He'd had the same reaction when he saw Rosie Octavius cut down by shards of glass at Otto's ill-fated demonstration for Oscorp. But this scene was far, far more gruesome. Recovering, Spider-Man hurried over to Davis's body, hoping against hope that it was not too late. Another cop was already there. This officer, obviously a detective, sported a pencil-thin mustache and was dressed in civilian clothes. His badge identified him as Korso. He got up when he saw Spider-Man approach the mutilated corpse.

"Is he . . .?" Spider-Man gasped in disbelief.

Korso nodded sadly. "He was beyond help as soon as he hit the floor."

Spider-Man just stood there, numb with shock and grief at the magnitude of the cosmic cruelty that had just been played out. Why did it have to be him? Spider-Man cried out in silent anguish. He was the only cop on the entire NYPD who ever showed me an ounce of respect! HE HAD ONLY TWO WEEKS LEFT, DAMMIT!

Why did it have to be me? came his uncle Ben's soft, gentle voice, waxing philosophical. Life's that way sometimes, Michelangelo. Now get your ass back in there and finish your job before there are any more casualties. And then, before Peter even had a chance to reply, Ben was gone. But the daydreamed visit had served its purpose, reminding Peter that nothing further could be done for Officer Davis and returning Peter's focus to the task of preventing a far greater loss of life.

Spider-Man hurried back to the main storage area. The massive room was still dark, save for the area in the vicinity of the still-open South door. From what little he was able to see of his and Daredevil's handiwork, he got the distinct impression that he was in the middle of a war zone.

"Hey!" he called out, looking for Daredevil.

"Over here!" came Daredevil's voice from a few yards in front of the door in the East wall. As Spider-Man made his way over to where Daredevil was standing, his eyes caught a reflection from a small, shiny, cylindrical object lying on the floor. It was the billy club with angel-devil emblems on the handle.

As he picked up the club, Peter suddenly decided that he wanted to test the limits of his new partner's reflexes.

"Yo, Satan!" Peter yelled, throwing the club in Matt's general direction. "Wouldn't want to lose this now, would we?"

"Lucifer," Matt responded as he caught the club without missing a beat.

"What!" Peter exclaimed even as marveled at his blind counterpart's tremendous athletic prowess.

"I prefer to be called Lucifer . . . because I'm in need of some restraint."

"Obviously," Peter said, mindful of the carnage all around him and wondering what the punch line was.

Noting Peter's confusion, Matt added, "Sympathy for the Devil, Rolling Stones . . . way before your time, Peter."

"Oh yeah . . .I know that song, Gramps," Peter quipped, "I listen to the classical music station all the time!"

Matt suddenly cocked his head, picking up the siren of an ambulance approaching the building. "How's the cop?" he asked Peter.

"I think he'll make it," Peter responded, acutely aware that Matt had asked about only one police officer. All at once, his spider-sense kicked in, pointing to a dangerous situation developing inside the storage annex behind the East wall.

"What's going on here?"

"We've got problems," Matt explained as he and Peter rushed over to the East door. "One of those guys decided that he wants to be a martyr and take us with him. He locked himself in that annex and activated the bombs."

"Is he armed?" Peter asked, shocked at this sudden turn of events.

"To the teeth," Matt replied, "AK-47, forty-four magnum, and a five-inch switchblade."

"Sound's like that guy's ready to party," Peter joked.

Matt grimaced at the wisecrack. He did not appreciate Peter's flippancy at such a crisis moment. But he held his tongue in order not to create unnecessary friction between himself and the webslinger. He returned to probing the East door, a monstrous slab of metal that looked like it had been taken from Fort Knox. Matt moved his hands up and down along its surface. "Extremely low carbon, high tensile steel," he said. "There's a lead core as well."

Obviously, since they used to store radioactive waste in this dump, Peter thought, a little sardonically. "How much time?" he asked, trying very hard keep his heartbeat under control and not annoy his partner.

"No way to tell unless we see the bombs," Matt answered. "Unfortunately, this door's eighteen inches thick — think you could breach it?"

"No problem, Lucifer." Peter quipped as he stepped up to the door and hammered both his fists against it with every ounce of strength he had. There was a loud, deafening crash, followed by a thunderous echo that reverberated across the room. Those sounds were caused by steel reinforcements breaking away from the joints that held them.

As Peter continued to pound away at the massive steel door, he imagined himself as King Kong busting through the huge wall that separated the gigantic ape from his worshiping minions. Under the relentless rain of blows, each delivered with an impact pressure of twenty two tons per square inch, the massive steel door groaned and creaked before it finally gave way and fell backwards into the annex with a resounding clang.

The wannabe martyr inside the dimly lit auxiliary storage room, already terrified by the deafening noise, froze at the sight of the two apparitions advancing on him. Before he could even reach for his weapons, he found himself being swept off his feet, driven violently backward, and pinned to the far wall with some kind of netting that was thin as thread, but stronger than an anchor chain.

Their own security established, Peter and Matt sprang into the annex, where the arduous task of deactivating the bombs awaited them. Six of the devices were lined up neatly on a workbench.

"These are unbelievably simple." Matt explained as examined one of the bombs, gently picking it up and showing it to Peter. "There's a pulse detonator with a built-in timer that's wired into C-4 plastic explosives mixed with cesium. See how the C-4's wrapped around the detonator?"

"Yes," Peter answered. To him, the explosive compound looked like ordinary modeling clay. Matt, however, perceived it as a shadowy substance that emitted showers of tiny sparks . . . clusters of cesium particles that were invisible to the human eye. They probably bought the parts from Radio Shack, Matt thought, marveling at the terrorists' ingenuity. "This particular variation of C-4 is extremely concentrated, and can do a lot of damage very quickly," he continued. "And between all six bombs, there's enough fire power to take out this building."

"And irradiate half of lower Manhattan!" Peter said anxiously. As a science major, he knew a great deal about the destructive properties of the materials used to make dirty bombs.

"True," responded Matt, impressed at Peter's scientific acumen. "What do the timers say?"

Peter glanced quickly at all the bombs. The timers were all synchronized and moving backwards. "Four minutes and counting," he reported apprehensively.

"More than enough time," Matt reassured his younger partner. "You should see two wires running between the detonator and the explosive."

"I do."

"One wire transmits the electrical pulse from the detonator," Matt explained. "The other's a dud, put in there to confuse anyone who tries to disable the bomb."

"And you can figure out if a wire is live just by touching it?" Peter asked in amazement.

"It's my gift." Matt replied nonchalantly, "trust me."

"I do," Peter assured him.

"Okay, now listen carefully," Matt instructed. "It'll take soft hands with a very delicate touch to diffuse these things. You've got that touch. I don't."

"I do?" Peter asked hesitatingly, hoping his partner's faith wasn't misplaced.

"Yes, you do,"Matt assured him, "I've seen your reflexes. You'll have no problem." He continued his lesson on Bomb Disposal 101. "Now . . . if you pull the wrong wire, it'll set off the charge. Do exactly what I tell you . . ." He paused, picking up a slight acceleration in Peter's heart rate. "And above all, don't panic!"

"I won't panic!" Peter snapped. Damn he thought, can this guy read minds too? No, not minds . . . hearts.

Matt gently put his hands on the wires, as if probing them. "Alright, this is the live one," he said, pointing to the wire on the left. It was fairly easy. Matt perceived the live wire flashing like a neon sign while thedecoy remained dark.

Peter grasped the wire and was about to pull it when Matt suddenly stopped him. "Wait a second," he warned. "Don't just yank it out. It'll blow if you do it wrong."

"But C-4 is stable," Peter protested, recalling something he picked up in an advanced chemistry class he'd taken at Midtown. "It won't explode it unless you put an electrical charge through it first."

"And that's exactly the point," Matt said as he continued to pick up sensory impressions from the bomb in his hand. "Whoever built these things somehow rigged them to go off if you pull the live wire directly out of the C-4 or the timer."

"What the hell should we do then, bite it?" Peter demanded anxiously, realizing anew that the people who made these devices were not amateurs.

"Close," Matt answered calmly. " Grasp the wire very gently with both hands, like this." He made a circle out of his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate. "Good. That's it . . . On my mark, pull the wire apart, just like you're snapping a piece of thread. Three . . . two . . . one . . . now!" There was a tiny pop, perceptible only to Daredevil, as the wire snapped cleanly. The bomb was dead.

"Good," Matt said. "Now, let's do the same with the others." They moved rapidly down the line of remaining devices, finishing the last one with ten seconds to spare. Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief, grateful to have Matt Murdock by his side in such a precarious situation.

But their respite would be short-lived. "The dope we got indicated that they were going to plant these things in the subways," Peter reminded Matt. "And we still don't know which stations!"

"Let's ask our friend over here." Matt said, an ominous undertone creeping into his voice.

Spider-Man and Daredevil walked right up to the man webbed to the wall. Unlike the two terrorists who'd tried to murder Rahi Aziz, this one made no effort to hide his fright.

"Please allow us to introduce ourselves," Spider-Man said wickedly, not hesitating to exploit the jihadist's fear. "I'm Mephisto and this is Lucifer." He gestured at Daredevil, who fell right into step and picked up his cue.

"It won't be seventy virgins you meet when you cross the threshold of martyrdom. It'll just be us!" Daredevil threatened as he bared his teeth, grinning like a ravenous wolf. "So, if you don't want to spend eternity in our company, I suggest that you answer the questions we put to you. First of all, do you speak English?"

"Yes," the man responded, angry and ashamed at how easily he'd been broken by these creatures from Hell.

Daredevil got right to it. "Did you place any of these bombs in a subway station?" he asked harshly, ready to inflict severe pain if the man didn't give him the answers he was looking for.

"I placed one," the man answered.

"Where?"

"City Hall."

"What about the others?" Daredevil barked.

"I don't know" the frightened terrorist replied, "I wasn't privy to that information."

Daredevil stepped away from the man and turned back toward his colleague. "I believe him." Matt said quietly.

Peter was incredulous. How could this turkey not know what was going down? "Are you sure that lie detector of yours didn't get turned off by mistake?"

"Yes. His heartbeat didn't spike. In case you've forgotten, this is what I do for a living." Matt paused, and then added, "By the way, I've only missed once, and that was because the witness was wearing a pacemaker."

"That's all well and good boss, but meanwhile, we still don't know where or when," Spider-Man pointed out, his anxiety level rising again. But before Daredevil could answer, their attention was suddenly diverted by an army of police in S.W.A.T. uniforms who'd come bursting through the South door wearing bullet-proof vests and sporting 9-millimeter MP5 carbines. They were led by a plainclothes police officer, a balding, middle-aged detective with a thoroughly take-charge attitude.

One of the S.W.A.T. officers turned on the emergency power switch, and the main storage room was bathed in a dim, reddish light that was enough to illuminate the carnage left over from what had turned out to be a notoriously one-sided battle. They were shocked and awed by what they saw. Over one hundred men were either prone on the floor or pinned against the wall. They were covered with sticky but powerfully adhesive strands of goo. Many of them were bruised and bleeding. Many had broken bones. Some would require reconstructive plastic surgery. Whoever had done this had managed to reduce an entire battalion of the world's most dangerous people practically to pulp.

Daredevil and Spider-Man stepped through the East door and went back out into the main storage room to meet the police. As soon as the S.W.A.T. officers saw Spider-Man, they raised their weapons, but the detective in charge of the operation barked out, "Stand down!"

The detective addressed Spider-Man, having noticed him first. "Detective Captain Nick Manolis, 17th Precinct," he said, flashing his badge. He stopped and gaped when he saw the other costumed figure. For the first time in his life Detective Manolis had actually seen Daredevil face-to-face. Sure, he had been at the 58th Street subway stop watching Jose Quesada being carried away in two pieces. After he'd gotten through telling Ben Urich for the hundredth time that there was no Daredevil, the streetwise reporter had calmly flipped his still-lit cigarette onto a streak of lighter fluid, revealing the crimson warrior's mysterious interlocking "D-D" logo. And he was at the Church of the Holy Innocents when that bald Irish psycho with a dartboard cut into his forehead smashed through the church's stained-glass window and landed on top of a squad car. But even then there had been no solid evidence . . . no reliable proof of the "guardian devil's" existence. . . until today. So it's true! Manolis thought grimly. That son-of-a-bitch Urich was right all along. . . There really are two costumed freaks running around loose in this city . . . God save us all!

"From the looks of things in here, it seems like you guys beat us to the punch," Manolis said slowly as he gathered his wits, still in shock over the way that only two men could have effortlessly manhandled over one hundred heavily armed terrorists.

If it was a compliment, Spider-Man did not acknowledge it. He was still upset about the officers who had been struck down.

"How's Officer Santelle?" Spider-Man asked Manolis. The veteran detective was surprised and touched that the webslinger seemed genuinely concerned about a wounded cop.

"I just got word that he's on his way to Mt. Sinai Hospital. Looks like he's gonna pull through. You know, he might have bled to death if it weren't for you. . . . He's just a rookie.Graduated from the police academy last Spring. Has a wife and a four-year old daughter. He owes his life to you."

Peter felt grateful tears stinging his eyes. It was a vindication from the police that was a long time in coming. But it was tragically bittersweet. "I'm so sorry about Officer Davis," Spider-Man murmured, his tears for the fallen officer who'd treated him which such kindness and respect beginning to blur the insides of his eyepieces.

"Thanks," Manolis responded. He too was struggling to hold back tears. He and Davis had been close friends for over thirty years. "We were going to treat him to dinner at Sardi's next Friday . . . in honor of his retirement," he said, his voice breaking.

"I hope you put those sons of bitches away for a long, long time," Spider-Man said, barely above a whisper.

"Not a chance," Manolis replied as he regained his composure. "There probably won't even be a trial. My guess is they'll be turned over to the army as enemy combatants and sent to Guantanamo Bay, where they'll be held indefinitely. It'll be years before the feds tell us anything we need to know to beef up security around here. That's the standard operating procedure these days." He shook his head sadly, resigned to the harsh realities of the Patriot Act, with its glaring lack of support for first-responders like himself.

"Excuse me, sir," said a S.W.A.T. team member as he handed Manolis a marked-up brochure. It was a map of the New York City subway system. "We interrogated two of those guys, and took this off one of them." Manolis opened the brochure and started scrutinizing it very closely. There were ten subway stops circled in red. All of them were strategically dispersed throughout midtown and downtown. They included, among others, Wall Street and the Financial District; City Hall, Grand Central Station, and the Port Authority. Someone had scrawled 6:15 PM in pencil across the top of the map.

"They planted ten of these bombs late last night, right under the noses of subway security," the S.W.A.T. officer continued, clearly convinced that he'd heard the truth. "Apparently, they went in disguised as maintenance workers, so nobody gave them a second look. The bombs are rigged to go off at 6:15, tonight, simultaneously, during the height of rush hour."

"Are you sure these guys weren't lying?" Manolis asked, suspiciously.

Spider-Man heard that exchange. He'd been studying the whiteboard he'd spotted from the ceiling earlier. "Let's have a look at that," he called out to Manolis. When the detective handed him the map, he held it up next to the diagram on the board. The two were roughly congruent.

"Looks like a match," Spider-Man reported to Daredevil as he returned the map to Manolis.

"All right," the police captain barked out his orders as he gave the map back to the S.W.A.T. officer. "Get this to our bomb disposal teams and tell them to move in fast! How long do we have?"

The S.W.A.T. officer looked at his watch. "A little over two hours." He looked back at his superior, terrified. "Sir," he said in a subdued voice, "there's no way we can do this. Even if we could get a team to every station at the same time. we wouldn't know where to begin looking for these things."

"Well, what do you suggest?" a frustrated Manolis snapped at the officer.

"We could do it," interrupted Daredevil.

"What?" Manolis shouted, flabbergasted at the notion of having to outsource a vital police function to a pair of lunatic vigilantes. He could see himself being dragged through an Internal Affairs inquiry and relieved of post in disgrace, his name plastered all over the front page of the Daily Bugle. But on the other hand, he realized that if his own people couldn't do it, he'd have no other option. A large-scale radiological attack would reduce much of Manhattan to rubble and cripple the subways. Hundreds would die from the blasts, while thousands more would perish from radiation sickness. On top of all that, the destruction of the Financial District would set off a worldwide panic, bringing the global economy to its knees in a single stroke. And the blame for that disaster would be laid squarely at his feet.

The answers were not coming very easily to Manolis. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead as he agonized over the decision he had to make. He looked at Spider-Man, and then at Daredevil, straight into the blinds that covered the crimson-clad warrior's sightless eyes. "Can you guys understand the position I'm in?" he pleaded.

"We do," Daredevil said, exuding calm and confidence. "And let me assure you, Captain, that we can reach those bombs and deactivate them a lot faster than your people can." Spider-Man nodded in agreement, even as his own heartbeat went off the scale.

"All right!" Manolis snapped, the gravity of his predicament visible on his face. "Get going!" He turned to the S.W.A.T. officer. "Get those subways evacuated, now!" he shouted.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leaving Oscorp's nuclear storage facility behind them, the twin demons swung rapidly through lower Manhattan. They had less than two hours to clear away radiological devices at ten subway stops spread out across the city. From overhead, they observed a massive but orderly evacuation from the subways.

Spider-Man arced between buildings at speeds approaching two hundred and forty miles an hour, faster than he'd ever flown before. Though tightly wound, he forced himself to focus completely on one thing and one thing only. . . keeping those bombs from exploding. He also felt enormously relieved, now that he and Daredevil finally knew where to look for the bombs. The map was safely tucked inside his tights, but it scratched his stomach every time he fired a webline. He cursed himself for not thinking of putting pockets in his costume.

Like Spider-Man, Daredevil could navigate comfortably between skyscrapers. He kept himself aloft by using his grappling hook. Its cord was made of a thin but high-tensile material that could best be described as woven steel. It could extend to a length of more than one hundred feet. His muscular two hundred pounds was a considerable mass, but one which could move at an enormous speed when accelerated, making it quite easy for him to keep up with Spider-Man. Moreover, Daredevil did not limit himself to the use of his grappling hook to get around. He leaped from building to building, routinely engaging in three-hundred-foot free-falls, somersaults, and hurdles. Those moves would have easily qualified him for an all-world gymnastics team.

There were two stops near Wall Street. They would handle these first. Daredevil knew exactly what he was looking for. The sounds and smells and images of the devices were etched into his memory. Once they got into a subway station, he would be able to lock in on the bomb, regardless of how well-hidden it might be.

They landed at the first stop, near the intersection of Pearl and Rector streets. Moving rapidly in tandem, they leaped over pedestrians near the subway entrance and hurried down the stairs, to the now-deserted platform. Daredevil stopped and cocked his head to one side, straining to hear the sound made by a pulsating digital timer, and to pick up the distinct aroma of C-4 mixed with cesium.

"There," Daredevil said, pointing toward the track. He ran forward and leaped off the edge of the platform, with Spider-Man following close behind. His hypersenses locked onto a small device, about half the size of an ordinary shoe box, resting between two railroad ties. Sure enough, the telltale sparks were shooting off the device like tiny meteors, giving the lethal object a phosphorescence that shone through the blue fog that perpetually surrounded him.

"There it is," he said to Spider-Man. "Do you see it?"

"Yeah." Spider-Man replied, squatting down for a closer look. The device had been placed within the shadow of the platform, making it difficult for him to see, but he was able to make out its essential features . . . a large lump of grey-colored plastic explosive wrapped around the time-delay detonator.

Daredevil picked up the bomb and set it down gently on the platform. He and Spider-Man examined it closely in the dim light. Its construction was identical to that of the bombs they diffused back at the warehouse.

"Okay, let's handle this the same way as we did before," Daredevil coached the webslinger. Spider-Man knew the drill by heart. He waited for Daredevil to identify the live wire, knowing that if he tried to deactivate the bomb himself, he would probably blow himself up and irradiate everything around him in the process. He daintily grasped the wire between his thumbs and forefingers and pulled them apart on Daredevil's mark. A nod from Daredevil told him that the device no longer posed a threat.

Spider-Man glanced up at a large digital wall clock. They had one hour and forty three minutes to diffuse nine more bombs scattered throughout the subway system.

Their next target was the stop near Broadway and Rector, followed by City Hall, the Brooklyn Bridge, Herald Square, and six other locations around downtown and midtown Manhattan. Daredevil had to hand it to the terrorists—they'd chosen their targets well. Together those locations represented critical junctures along the city's jugular vein. Cut that vein, and the city would bleed to death.

Fortunately though, the combination of Daredevil's ultra-acute sensitivities and Spider-Man's extraordinarily fine motor skills was proving to be uniquely suited to the challenge at hand. As they proceeded from station to station, they began to function as a single mechanism, just as they had during the battle at the warehouse. Each was learning to pick up on the other's subliminal cues. By the time they reached the last stop on their "itinerary," it was as if they were two seasoned brain surgeons who'd been working across the table from each other for years.

But time was growing short. Their final destination was the stop at 49th Street and 6th Avenue - Rockefeller Center. Spider-Man looked around for a clock and flinched when he saw the time: 6:11 . . .less than four minutes! Even Daredevil started to get concerned that time would run out on them.

By now, the streets around the subway stops were totally cleared. The two warriors rushed down into the subway, with Daredevil struggling to detect the telltale electrical pulses thatwould give the bomb's location away.But this one was harder to locate, and Daredevil soon figured out why. It had been positioned dangerously close to the third rail, about thirty yards from the station. Both of them knew that the third rail carried the millions of volts of electricity needed to power the century-old subway system. Not only did the third rail's electrical field obscure the bomb's pulses, but anyone who got careless in trying to diffuse the bomb would be electrocuted. Wow, thought Spider-Man as he observed the elaborate, dangerous set-up, whoever placed this one really knew what he was doing.

Daredevil approached the third rail slowly and carefully. It appeared to glow like a white-hot streak of lightning that simultaneously emerged from the blue fog and receded into it. He had to struggle to ascertain the precise location of the device. When he finally succeeded in isolating it, he stopped dead in his tracks.

My God!, he thought, finally feeling a tiny thrill of panic, it's less than two millimeters from the hot rail! He started to reach in, very slowly, making absolutely sure that neither his hand nor the device made accidental contact with the third rail. His hand was about two inches away from the bomb, when he was startled by a sudden surge in Spider-Man's heartbeat that sounded to him like a thunderclap.

"Dammit Peter, you'll kill us both if you don't stay calm!" Daredevil whispered harshly, his anger masking his own anxieties. Spider-Man brushed it off quickly, having gotten used to the older man's difficult demands that he control his autonomic responses to external stimuli. Christ, I'm only human, he griped silently, and unlike you, hotshot, I'm very afraid! Ironically, he was beginning to hear hints in Daredevil's voice that the crimson crusader's armor was starting to crack. Maybe he isn't completely without fear after all, Spider-Man thought wryly.

After recovering his wits, Daredevil carefully lifted the device away from the hot rail's vicinity. He turned it over. To his dismay, he observed three wires running from the timer to the plastic explosive.

"Which one?" Spider-Man asked anxiously, knowing that they would have their answer in two minutes if they didn't pick one.

"I haven't figured that out yet, Peter," Daredevil answered as he heard his own heart beating slightly faster. With the other devices, it was easy to determine which wire to cut. But with this one, electricity seemed to be pulsing through all three, which meant that they could all be live. That made it all but impossible to know the right one.

One Minute. Spider-Man's internal clock had commenced the final count-down.

Daredevil was listening closely to the workings of the device, lightly caressing each wire with his left forefinger.

Spider-Man felt the world around him was slowing down, almost to a crawl.

Forty seconds.

Both of them perspired heavily under their masks. Daredevil couldn't quite nail down the direction of the electrical pulse. The frustration on his face was plainly evident to Peter.

Twenty five seconds.

Well at least I'll go out a hero, Spider-Man thought sadly as his life started to flash before his eyes. Aunt May, Harry Osborn, Mary Jane, Jonah Jameson, Ben Urich, Foggy Nelson, and Rahi Aziz all paraded across his mind's eye. There was Flash Thompson about to take him out, and John Jameson about to take Mary Jane away from him. Shouldn't Uncle Ben be picking me up in his Delta 88 about now?

Ten seconds.

The scene suddenly changed. There he was, kissing a sleeping Mary Jane on her cheek ashe whispered, "Arrivederci, Maria Giovanna" in her ear. What a damn shame, he thought mournfully, losing M.J. just as I was getting my act together. . .

Five seconds . . . four . . .

Daredevil pushed his senses to their absolute limit as he fought in vain to isolate the critical electrical circuit. Drops of sweat emerged from behind his cowl and trickled down his nose and cheeks. I can't figure this goddamn thing out! . . .

Three . . .

For Spider-Man, the world had come to a complete stop when . . . "CUT ALL THREE!" Uncle Ben shouted through the open passenger door of the Delta 88 . . .

Two . . .

In a high-speed trance, Spider-Man grasped all three wires firmly between his fingers.

One . . .

SNAP!

Zero. . .

Suddenly there was . . . nothing. No detonation, no explosion. Just a diffused radiological device in Daredevil's hand. . .

Ben Parker flashed his nephew a smile and gave him a thumbs-up sign as he closed the door to the Delta 88 and drove off.

. . . And an enormous sigh of relief coming from Matthew Murdock, who was obviously grateful that his day of reckoning had been postponed yet again. "That was an incredibly gutsy call you just made, Peter!" he said, in awe of the young man's remarkable decision-making under such enormous pressure. "How did you know to cut all three?"

"It's my gift," Peter said, smiling as he used Matt's own words. "Trust me."

Spider-Man and Daredevil walked out of the subway station, each carrying an armful of disarmed devices. Spider-Man cocooned the bombs with his webbing and, with Daredevil's help, secured them to his back for the trip back to the warehouse, where they would be turned over to forensics specialists from the NYPD. He wished that he had his back pack, uncool as it may have looked.

There was a CVS Pharmacy across the street from the subway entrance. "Hey, wait a minute," Spider-Man said as he made his way to the drug store. "I need a pen."

XXXXXXXXXX

Ben Urich arrived at the Oscorp nuclear storage facility at the same time as the Special Weapons And Tactical units of the 17th, 18th, 19th, and 20th Precincts. Police barricades had all ready been set up around the entire two-block perimeter of the building. An ambulance was pulling away, and a stretcher bearing a body bag was being loaded into a second ambulance. Urich hurriedly parked his beat up Toyota Corolla along a side street, five blocks away. Stuffing as many quarters as he could find into the parking meter, he hustled to get to the heart of what would ultimately be the biggest international news story since 9-11.

Most of the S.W.A.T. teams were already inside the warehouse by the time he arrived at the main entrance. There was a large contingent of bomb disposal and forensic specialists filing in as well. Ain't so deserted now, he mused, wondering how many times he'd passed by this site while driving to work without ever noticing it.

Flashing his press pass at the barricaded entrance, Urich was ushered through the primary access corridor and into the main storage area. His eyes widened in disbelief when he saw the carnage strewn around the room. The groans coming from broken, bloodied bodies held in place by webbing told him that the police were not the ones who had broken up the terrorist operation. There were a few medical teams on hand, trying to administer treatment to the wounded jihadi even as they were still locked in place by Spider-Man's web nets. From having covered Spider-Man so many times, Urich knew that it would take a few hours for the webs to dissolve.

At the eastern end of the room, near what looked like door to another storage room, Detective Captain Nick Manolis was holding an impromptu news conference. Urich sauntered up to the roped-off area designated for the press. It reminded him of a cattle pen. He pulled out his recorder just as Manolis commenced with his prepared statement. Lights from the television crews shone directly into the irritated police captain's eyes while videocams panned around theroom, capturing the two heroes' work for worldwide broadcast.

"Today, at approximately 2:15 PM, officers of the 17th Precinct were notified that a significantly large hostile operation was being planned and carried out from this facility by operatives of the Al Qaeda network. From the evidence we've thus far been able to gather, it appears that their plan was to detonate radiological bombs at sixteen subway stations throughout Midtown and lower Manhattan. As you can see, however, their operation was never carried out."

Manolis anxiously drew a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to say next would anger a lot of people, including his superiors, the F.B.I., Homeland Security, and a certain prominent tabloid publisher. But it was the truth, and the evidence backing it up was overwhelming . . . and in plain sight all around the primary storage room.

"We believe that the suspects had been neutralized by the individuals known as 'Spider-Man' and 'Daredevil' prior to our arrival and intervention. Based upon the results of interrogations conducted by 17th Precinct personnel, we believe that the suspects had successfully placed said devices at ten of the sixteen subway stops. The devices were set to go off at 6:15 this evening, but since it is now . . ." He stopped and glanced briefly at his watch. . . . "7:03 and there have not been any reports of explosions, I think it is safe to conclude that Spider-Man and Daredevil were able to find all ten bombs and render them harmless. We'll have more information once our preliminary assessments and forensic analyses have been completed. Now, I'll take one or two questions. . . Mr. Urich."

No sooner had Ben start to ask his question when he was rudely interrupted by a shrill, whiney, nasal voice, the kind that sounded like fingernails scratching a black board. The questioner was Eddie Brock, the loudest and most obnoxious newspaper reporter in the Big Apple. Brock was a rising star in the Daily Bugle's firmament. As a reward for consistent, outstanding achievement in sucking up to his boss, he was awarded the crime beat, the job once held by Jolly Jonah himself. He was definitely cut from the same mold as Jameson, which meant that he was an all-around asshole.

Brock was not there to report the news . . . he was there to create it. His agenda, or rather, Jameson's, was to gather only those facts that could be spun in such a way as to implicate Spider-Man in the commission or abetting of a crime. Facts that could not be shoe-horned into the preconceived storyline were to be disregarded, disparaged, or ignored.

"So, Detective Manolis," Brock whined in a tone that smacked of obnoxious sarcasm, "are you saying that Spider-Man and . . . what's-his-name . . . unjustifiably interfered in an ongoing police investigation of a major terrorist operation?" Manolis rolled his eyes. The ignoramus obviously doesn't even know who Daredevil is, he thought contemptuously.

There were boos and catcalls coming from the representatives of other news organizations. All of them knew what Brock's game was, and none of them were as dull or as gullible as the Daily Bugle's readership. As for Ben Urich, he was so furious that he wanted to turn around and jam his first down Jonah Junior's throat. He could not believe that the Bugle would sink so low as to publicly insinuate that Spider-Man was in league with America's deadliest enemies. But, knowing Jonah as he did, he would not be surprised if that was indeed the case.

Fortunately, Captain Manolis was savvy enough with the media that he could avoid having to deal with Brock's question and its implications. "I believe that I'd called on Mr. Urich." he said abruptly, pointedly snubbing Brock and making everyone aware that he had done so.

"Thank you very much, Captain," Urich responded, very much determined to remain worthy of the veteran police officer's hard-won trust. "The alleged terrorists were utilizing property belonging to Oscorp industries. In your view, does this imply that any of the suspects were Oscorp employees, or otherwise had connections to the company?

"We're looking into that, but as far as we can tell, Oscorp abandoned this facility a decade ago . . ." Before Manolis could finish his answer, there was a sharp whistle coming from somewhere above those huge halogen lights that blocked the ceiling from view. In the next instant, a strange object was being lowered from some kind of tether. From where he was standing, Urich at first thought it looked like a gigantic cocoon.

"That's all," Manolis said sharply to the reporters. "News briefing's over. No more questions until we've had a chance to look at whatever that is. So, everyone please clear out!" The reporters groaned in protest, and a few of them, including Eddie Brock, persisted in asking questions. They were sternly reminded by a S.W.A.T. officer that this was an ongoing investigation and the police were not at liberty to disclose any more details about their discovery. As the reporters filed out of the room, the S.W.A.T. officer discreetly tapped Urich on the shoulder. "The captain wants to see you, in private," the heavily armed officer said, careful to remain outside the earshot of the other reporters, especially Eddie Brock.

Manolis had an inkling of what was inside the cocoon. He wanted Urich on hand when they were positively identified. The reason he trusted Urich was a simple one — Urich was from the old school of journalism in the sense that he did not have any agenda other than accurate and fair reporting. That alone made him trustworthy in Manolis's estimation.

Manolis ordered one of the forensic specialists to retrieve the cocoon. Fastened to it was a yellow post-it note that read, Compliments of Lucifer and Mephisto.