Okay, so this chapter is late. Fleming hits on Vince, and Hitchhiker's Guide makes an appearance!
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Chapter eleven: The City Looks So Pretty
Vince perched on the rooftop of the skyscraper next to ARK Tower, keeping an eye on the billionaire who ran the company. Fleming had yet to dismiss his bodyguard, despite the fact that it was nearly midnight. Chances were, the billionaire wasn't going to get rid of the man for a good while yet. The vigilante sighed and wished he'd brought a thermos of coffee or some chemical hand warmers with him—it was freezing up on this rooftop.
The pack he'd brought with him—with the full intention of turning everything over to Fleming, if only to get this current nightmare over with as fast as possible—was resting behind him, safely off the ledge and on the rooftop. It wouldn't do for his carefully collected and organized files to go flying off on the wind, after all.
Twenty-four hours ago, he wouldn't have even considered this…
- o – o -
Vince had never dealt well with boredom, which was why he'd chosen the careers he had. Military wet works (alright, he'd been under orders to call them Black Ops because wet works terrified people), detective with the Palm City Police, and now…vigilante. He hated sitting still, with nothing to do.
This was an exception, however.
He, Orwell, and Anarchy were seated around the command center in his cave, watching the small TV with bated breath. They were waiting for the other shoe to drop, honestly. An hour ago, Fleming had held another press conference.
The only suspect they'd had in the Appraiser case had been released, due to a decent alibi. (It was airtight—he'd been in prison until three days beforehand.) On the upside, Fleming was pulling funding from noncritical areas to provide more resources to the search for the missing Officer Philips and the person or persons unknown who'd abducted him.
The second downside, as the trio discovered a few minutes later, was that checkpoints were being set up all over the city. All major roads out of the city were now being watched, and individual checkpoints had been set up at random locations throughout the city. Cars were being searched at random, and photos of the missing officer and his deceased comrades were being circulated everywhere possible. In short, Fleming was using his power of martial law to full effect.
It could have been worse, Vince decided as he switched the set off. Fleming could be ordering a curfew.
"I'm going for a run," the vigilante announced, standing up. Orwell wordlessly passed him his headset as he passed by. She and Anarchy were busy with some project that had captured their attention shortly after the TV had been turned off. At least they were occupied.
Vince headed for Ditmus Park at an easy lope, trying to clear his head. On the upside, he had a date with Dana tomorrow night… Alright, it was just pizza with her and Trip at the apartment, but it still counted. On the downside, he had to survive to tomorrow first. The increased ARK patrols weren't going to make his life any easier… (He could take a night off, but the last time he'd tried for a day off, he'd ended up getting chased by assassins. Maybe he could just be on-call instead…)
In the past few days, he'd come across no leads as to what might have happened to Philips. The only reason he even remotely cared about the man was that Dana's best friend and co-worker, Kia Moreno, was upset. Dana was very empathic when it came to her friends, and if she was unhappy, he was going to be really unhappy. So, he needed to find Philips.
Despite the unusually warm weather Palm City had been experiencing the past few weeks, this week was the exception. March weather had come back with a vengeance, and it was too cold to go anywhere without a hoodie and a scarf at least. Vince was quite happy to take advantage of this, and was wearing a knit grey cap pulled low over his forehead and a red scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. Not having to wear sunglasses while on one of the running trails in the darker parts of the woods in Ditmus Park was a blessing.
The vigilante was halfway through his run down one of the longer trails when he hit the first checkpoint in the park. Given that he'd seen the press conference less than an hour ago announcing the checkpoints, he was a little unprepared. The ARK troopers patrolling this little area had a few dogs with them—cadaver dogs, if Vince had to make a guess. Either they thought the runners were toting bodies with them, or they were checking for more burial sites.
Either way, it was not a good day to be him. He'd forgotten his fake ID, and the troopers were checking IDs of anyone who came past the checkpoint. They were also showing the runners photos of what Vince assumed were the victims and potential suspects. Judging by the body language, it wasn't going well.
Vince sighed and turned around to run back the way he'd come. He had no desire to deal with this now—and besides, it was a given that everyone in the city would know what his face looked like, given that his supposed crimes were the favorite fall-back story on a slow news day.
Getting chased by one of the extra guards who wasn't otherwise occupied was just par for the course, honestly.
"Hey!" The guard was a fast runner, Vince decided as he veered off the usual path. If he remembered correctly, there were a few trees a reasonably fit male (usually one with an insane amount of gymnastics training or a vigilante career under his belt) could climb with few problems.
The vigilante leapt for the lower branches, scrambling up out of sight just as the man who'd been chasing him thundered into the same clearing. Vince was sure one of them (probably him) was overreacting to the whole situation. Considering that he was supposed to be dead, though…
Vince watched the ARK trooper search the clearing for a few minutes before leaving, talking into his radio. The former police officer breathed a sigh of relief and hauled himself up to another set of branches. He'd have to head for the other side of the park, or at least to another path, via the trees.
Twenty minutes later, Vince had achieved a new level of appreciation for squirrels and gymnasts. His hands and knees were sore from how often he'd had to climb trees, and how many times he'd nearly fallen to the ground. He'd also discovered that all of the running trails in the park had checkpoints on them, which meant he'd have to find a new route to run on when he needed to think.
The former police officer pulled his scarf back up around his face and dropped to the ground from a lower branch. He took off running at an easy lope as soon as he was sure of his place on terra firma. Getting back to his cave wouldn't be a problem from here.
He really needed to discuss getting a paper trail and ID with Orwell…
Twenty minutes later, Vince was back at the hideout. He discovered just what Orwell and Anarchy had been up to all day: They'd been researching the Jackals and the last mission he'd run before finally acquiring enough blackmail to secure retirement for everyone on his team. It had been so wonderful to finally be able to have time with Dana…
The vigilante pulled himself out of his more pleasant memories and leaned over Orwell's shoulder to read the information. Everything was exactly as he remembered, if a little more clinical in the retelling than it had actually been. Reports were like that.
"Morning Vince," Anarchy said, taking a sip of his coffee. Judging by the number of empty coffee filters in the trashcan under the hotplate, and how wide-awake he and Orwell looked, it probably wasn't his first cup. Wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but Vince was pretty sure the clerk at the corner market he bought his coffee at was beginning to recognize him on sight.
"Morning," Vince replied. He'd gotten used to the second hacker over the past few days. The multicolored neon hairstyles had grown on him. Like a bad case of fungus or mold, but they'd grown on him. At least the man was quiet and unobtrusive, as far as personality went. Good hacker, though—not that he'd say that in front of Orwell.
"We're out of coffee," Orwell commented, stirring a packet of sugar into her cup. "Again." The vigilante sighed, rubbing his temples. Maybe he'd take the clerk up on his offer and just get caffeine IVs for the two junkies currently living with him.
"I'll get some more," he sighed, flopping down on his sofa. His bed had been taken over by a duffel bag with hardware sticking out of it, along with a mountain of paper. It was typical—at least he could spend time with Dana now, although he wasn't about to turn the apartment into his base of operations. That would have been…awkward.
"Thanks," Orwell said, eyes focused on another line of text. "A-hah! There it is!" She was practically laughing now, and sharing high-fives and yells of triumph with Anarchy. Vince gave a mental shrug. Maybe they'd uncovered the Ultimate Question or something…
"I knew the DoJ wasn't that hard to crack with two!"
Vince pulled a pillow over his face and wondered how long it would take to smother himself. He shouldn't have asked.
"Vince, sweetie," Anarchy said half an hour later, breaking the silence. Vince pulled the pillow off his face and glared at the green-haired hacker. The spikes had been traded in for a Mohawk, which wasn't helping. "Wow, is your face red. Were you trying to kill yourself, or just breathing hard?" Anarchy asked.
"Get back on track," Vince rasped, seriously considering—not for the first time—the possible upsides to murder. Anarchy held up his hands defensively.
"Alright. Listen, we have a job for you." Vince glared up at Anarchy, wondering if a broken nose would make the hacker talk faster—like Orwell after one too many espresso shots, or beers. "We need you to tell us which files are most relevant to Al-Amman. Because we've downloaded everything off the Department of Justice mainframe, and we're too lazy to sift through it ourselves," he added, seeing Vince's look.
Vince decided not to question the man's squirrel-powered, red bull-fueled logic and padded over to the computers to help out.
- o – o -
And that was how he'd found himself on a rooftop in the wee hours of the morning, waiting for Fleming to send his bodyguard away so that he—the crazy vigilante—could break in again. He was still cold.
Vince was about ready to cheer when the bodyguard finally left and Peter crawled into bed. He'd set up the tightrope an hour ago, and was thanking whatever god was looking over him that no one had spotted it. He was forgoing the pole this time, and had opted for hand-over-hand instead. It was easier and much less terrifying. (The vigilante chose to ignore the fact that he was hanging upside down from a thin metal rope, nearly five-hundred feet away from the nearest hard surface.)
Fleming's penthouse hadn't changed much since he'd first gone through it last year. The same creepy artwork was up on the walls, and the drapes were still pulled out of the way. The window in the living room with the piano in it had been repaired. Vince wondered if there was a story behind why it latched on the outside, but decided not to question his good luck as he slid in.
"I expected you five minutes ago," a voice drawled.
Vince decided his good luck was really bad luck, and resolved to throw Peter out a window as soon as this case was over.
"Nice to know I'm wanted, Peter," Vince replied, dropping into his "vigilante rasp," as Dana called it. "I have information."
"Really?" Peter drawled, sounding surprised. "I thought you just wanted to see me!" He actually sounded hurt, a little voice in the back of Vince's mind muttered. Obviously it just went to show that with a massive fortune came massive insanity as well. Oh well.
"Shut up!" Vince barked, not in the mood for games. "Sit down," he added, pointing at a chair next to the bed. "We've got a common problem, I have potential answers. Here. Enjoy. Good bye." Vince left without another word, still fuming slightly that his plan of scaring the hell out of Fleming wasn't going to work. (The outside latch on the new window should have tipped him off to that one, honestly.)
- o – o -
Chess waited until he was sure the vigilante was gone before laughing softly to himself. Being the one to drive was fun, once in a while. Around his vigilante, it was even more fun. He picked up the bag and began pawing through the contents.
By the time the criminal mastermind had finished reading the files, it was almost dawn and his head was spinning. How he'd ever managed to kill and frame not one, but two Jackals was beyond him. (Maybe they were secretly running their own chess game, in which case he should have tried to keep Vincent alive for longer…)
He looked at the camera in the ridiculously small phone Peter kept on his person. "Peter, while I don't appreciate being locked up for nearly a month, I will forgive you completely if you just tie the Cape up and bugger him senseless."
Let his alter-ego ponder that for a few days. Chess sighed in regret and slid back into the recesses of Peter's mind to enjoy some peace and quiet—and his latest fantasy.
"Bloody hell, not again," Peter groaned. The spilling migraine he had could only mean one thing:
Chess was back. Bugger.
- o – o -
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