Redemption E-Book

John Reinhard Dizon

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

An international crime syndicate has arrived to New York, and they have their sights on the Nightcrawler.

The collapse of the Russian Mob and Tryzub has created a power vacuum in the underworld. Mafia capo Al Piedmont joins forces with a European cyber-criminal known as the Thinker, who has strong ties with the Jerusalem Mob and the Russian Mafia. Together, they devise a scheme to bring a $500 million shipment of heroin into New York City.

Knowing that Sabrina has ties to the Nightcrawler, she is targeted by the criminals. Her business bombed, her mentor crippled and her fiancee lost, Sabrina is devastated.

Will she be able to avenge her loss - without losing her soul and crossing a point of no return?

Leseprobe

Redemption

Nightcrawler, Book IV

John Reinhard Dizon

Copyright (C) 2018 John Reinhard Dizon

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Part One

Chapter One

“Honey, what's wrong?”

Hoyt Wexford came up behind her as she sat in the window, staring sightlessly out the window of his Prince Street apartment.

“Nothing,” she said softly. “I'm good.”

“Baby doll,” he came up and put his hand on her shoulder. She involuntarily flinched and he quickly removed it.

“I wanted to wait for our wedding night too. It was just that, well…you know how it went down last night. It was too much to resist. No man on earth could have that willpower. Bree, I love you more than life itself. If I did anything to hurt you, by God, I'm sorry.”

“I'm okay, sweetheart,” she turned to squeeze his hand, then returned to gaze out the window at the early morning darkness. “I'll be fine.”

“This isn't about…that guy, is it?” Hoyt's voice thickened.

“Heavens, no,” she turned halfway, glancing up at him before looking down at the carpet. “I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the injury. I'll be all right, I tell you.”

“Injury?” he squinted.

“Look, I didn't end up in Bellevue by mistake,” she briefly flared, then turned to the window again. “Just let me sit here for a bit. I'll be in.”

“Okay,” he relented, retreating to the bedroom of the cozy apartment. He left the door cracked open as she sat in the shadowy living room.

She was the aggressor that night. He invited her over for dinner and she brought a bottle of wine, though she rarely drank. She was dressed in a sexy purple dress and dark nylons, hair and makeup done to perfection. He couldn't keep his eyes off her throughout their candlelit meal. He told her later he felt as if it was the best night of his life. Afterward, they sat on the sofa and finished off the bottle. She sidled up to him and began making out, which led to heavy petting. He touched her down there for the first time, and she got up and went into the bedroom.

She felt as if she had to atone for her sins against him. They had come to within a hairbreadth of breaking up last year. She knew he would have been upset by her not including him in her medical gambit at Bellevue. Only she had no idea that it would have wounded him so grievously. When she finally came to his apartment, he treated her like his worst enemy. He yelled and screamed at her, a side of him she had never seen before. It was weeks before he sent her a card, and days before he returned her thank-you voicemail. A week later they met for coffee, and they slowly began to mend thereafter.

She didn't know how she was going to confess this to Pastor Matt, or tell her best friend Rita. She knew she didn't have to do either, but it would be cathartic for her. She saw this as a blood sacrifice as written in the Scripture. She broke Hoyt's heart and nearly destroyed their wedding plans. She gave him her virginity in return. It was the thing of greatest value she had, and it was the price she felt she had to pay. Only if something happened and they did not marry, she would have lost something she could never get back.

Hoyt Wexford was her everything. She now knew that if she lost him, there would never be another.

She finally got up and returned to the bedroom. He had the night light on his side table and laid on his side, staring at the wall.

“I guess I should go.”

“Why don't you wait until it gets light? I don't want you driving so late.”

“I'm 'that guy', remember?” she said in a small voice.

“No,” he sat up and stared at her. “Don't you say that.”

“Okay, okay,” she held up her hands. She was dressed only in his shirt, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was getting aroused. Yet she knew he would fight it this time. “Can I make some coffee?”

“You go on and lay down, I'll get it,” he hopped out of bed, clad in his briefs. “It's okay, you don't have to…erm, you know. I won't…”

“Hey,” she grabbed him around his chiseled waist and pulled him close. She felt him catch his breath as if he had been jabbed. “It is okay. Why don't we just chill out for a while until it gets light?”

She pushed him back onto the bed and crawled on top of him.

Sabrina Brooks showed up at the new Brooks Chemical Company complex bright and early that Monday morning. They bought the property on Long Island six months ago after the residuals from their Ebola antidote formula began pouring in. Sabrina decided on it after realizing that the old campus at Staten Island held too many bitter memories after Dariya Romanova's death. Regardless of how it went down, she had thought of Dariya as a sister and always would.

“Well, good morning, boss lady,” Jon Aeppli greeted her as she moseyed into his office upon arrival. “You seem to be in a pretty good mood.”

“I spent the night at Hoyt's,” she admitted, dropping into an armchair along the glass window of his room.

“You did what?” he pulled his gold-rimmed reading glasses off, peering at her with his cobalt laser stare. “I mean, it's not any of my business.”

“I know,” she exhaled.

“Well, why did you…” he seemed nettled. “Look, what you do on your own time is your thing. I don't need to know about it.”

“I just had to get it off my chest,” she said grumpily.

“You always said you were saving it for your wedding night. Hey, I didn't need to know that then, and I don't need to now.”

“You're the closest thing I have to a father figure.”

“And your father would've gone over there and whipped the tar out of that man, let me tell you,” he shook his glasses at her. “I'm glad he's not here to hear this.”

“You mean,” she knitted her brow, “if he could come back to life…?”

“Don't get sassy with me, young lady.”

“Oh, don't be such a grouch pot,” she came around behind him and hugged his neck. “You should be happy for me. Just a few months ago, I thought he didn't want me anymore.”

“Yeah? Well, there's probably a million guys out there who'd love to take his place,” Jon grumbled, putting his glasses back on.

“My, my,” Ryan Hoffman sashayed into the room. He had been promoted to vice-president, and now took to wearing $100 silk shirts and ties to work these days. “Look at you two. Did we get another invitation to the White House?”

“Rest assured that if we get another one, it won't include you, young man,” Jon scoffed.

“You just try leaving me out, old man,” Ryan waved a hand at him, “and see what happens.”

“Oh, this one thinks he advanced the gay rights cause a dozen years with his shenanigans,” Sabrina flitted around from behind Jon's desk and adjusted Ryan's tie.

“More like he set them back ten years,” Jon muttered.

“You are just scrumptious today,” Ryan fawned. “I just might try to get myself done up just like you for Halloween.”

“I just love your sense of ambition,” she gave him a peck on the cheek.

“You better behave, or I just might get dressed like you and come over your house,” Ryan wagged a finger at Jon.

“Good,” Jon returned to his paperwork. “My wife'll get to try out the double-barreled shotgun I bought her last Christmas.”

“Mmm mmm mm,” Ryan swished off down the hall. “Have a nice day, you two.”

Sabrina headed off to her office, finally able to settle into her position as CEO of BCC at last. The Ebola research paid off in spades last year, and she had finally made her father and Jon's dream come true. They were a world-renowned company, and her accountants were advising her that they should go public next year. They had grown so rapidly that it was demanding all her attention. It seemed like the days of the Nightcrawler were finally behind her.

The world had finally given up on the vigilante. After an exhaustive investigation, Homeland Security announced that the Nightcrawler had disappeared without a trace. Hoyt Wexford and Bob Methot testified at a Department of Justice hearing that the Nightcrawler was shot by the terrorist Apollyon in thwarting his Ebola chemical attack from the Empire State Building. The Nightcrawler dove off the building in an escape attempt, and his body was never found. Considering the fact he survived plunges from the Statue of Liberty and a blimp above the New York Harbor, it was speculated that the crusader might still be at large.

Sabrina was reported to have finally recovered from her comatose state after surviving her abduction by Boko Haram. She was interviewed by Homeland Security and eventually cleared of suspicion of having ties to the Nightcrawler. Upon her return to BCC, she celebrated her staff's discovery of the Ebola antidote and their citation at the White House. Shortly afterward she and Jon decided on the new Long Island facility. It was followed by several proposals for private and public research projects that established BCC as a world-class institution.

Now she realized that the two most important people in her life, Hoyt and Jon, would never let her go back to nightcrawling. Hoyt had been so betrayed by her coma scam that any mention of the Nightcrawler might end their relationship forever. Jon had put up with more than enough of her escapades. He had sacrificed too much of his life to BCC to tolerate her distractions any more. She had come to a fork in the road, and she knew that she had accomplished enough in law enforcement to last a lifetime. The dream had been achieved. It was time to move on.

Only there were those who would not accept the fact the Nightcrawler was dead.

* * *

“My gosh, Bree, there's just so much evil going on in the world these days,” Rita Hunt shook her head as she and Sabrina met for lunch that afternoon. “Just when the City thought we found peace at last after the Russian Mob fell apart.”

“Well, you know what the Good Book says,” Sabrina said as she sipped her iced tea. “The world will be filled with evil and violence until the end of days. I guess we're kinda lucky we're not there yet.”

The two women were as close as sisters, kindred spirits who found a lifelong friendship with one another. They and Dariya Romanova were inseparable, and her death had left a void still felt by them both. Yet it seemed as if it had somehow brought them ever closer in the aftermath.

When the three of them went out together, men were stunned by the incomparable beauty of the titian-tressed Sabrina, the chestnut-haired Rita and the raven-haired Dariya. Their hourglass figures, generous bosoms and long-legged statures made everyone take notice, as was the case on this day. Even without Dariya, the men in the restaurant found it impossible not to take notice.

“It says here that the armored car thieves made off with $150 million in bearer bonds, the biggest heist in American history,” Rita read from her Kindle Fire. “The FBI determined that it was an inside job, and that a man known as the Thinker may have been behind it. They were working with a Russian firm known as the Kaspersky Lab that uncovered that $650 million cybertheft in 2015. They believe that the Thinker was a major figure behind both robberies.”

“Isn't that the naked fellow who poses for all those statues?”

“Silly,” Rita kicked her shin with her silk-stockinged foot beneath the table, having removed her heels for comfort. “And look at this one. A professional hit man was sprung from Attica in a raid involving a helicopter and a team of highly-trained mercenaries. It says that Ken “Black Panther” Stevenson was serving ten consecutive life sentences for over a dozen murders and two mass murders. He was in solitary confinement during the escape operation, which made the mission all the more impossible. The Department of Justice is launching a full-scale investigation. They say the manhunt for Stevenson is second only to that conducted during the search for Apollyon last year.”

“Well, either you put that thing away, or I'm going back to work.”

“Now, I don't get to be on the Internet all day like some big-shot executive I know,” Rita teased in her Kentuckian drawl, putting her Fire back in her purse.

“Yeah, you should know the half of it,” Sabrina pointed her salad fork. “We've got these Vacuu-Lan units coming in tomorrow. They'll be tearing up the place to install them. I wanted to have them put in over the weekend but the gang went bonkers. Seems like they have this thing about going in on weekends and having barbecue after work. It's gonna give us electronic vacuum control in a network instead of dedicated pumps at every station. It's supposed to help prevent inter-lab cross-contamination, which was a pain in the butt last year.”

“You know that shop talk of yours hurts my little brain, girlfriend,” Rita waved her off. “My goodness, I must've been out to lunch when they gave out brains when we were babies. You probably went and took my share.”

“Yeah, you're one of the sharpest gals I know,” Sabrina retorted. “You just like playing innocent, like a Southern belle. That's how you got Kelly Stone wrapped around your finger.”

“Now, why would you go bringing him up for?” Rita chided. “I swear I will have nothing to do with that man.”

“Hmm, I wonder who that was you went for coffee with last week? Playing your cards pretty fast these days, huh?”

“Miss Brooks, I'll have you know that I took pity on the poor fellow after weeks upon weeks of not having returned his calls. Yes, I had a cup of coffee with him, but that was all. I will not tolerate a man who keeps trying to stick his tongue in my mouth without revealing his intentions. End of story.”

“Oh my gosh,” Sabrina cupped her forehead in amusement. “So I suppose he'll have to come up with a ring for the privilege.”

“Now it's not a matter of trade or negotiation. I have not decided whether I would accept a ring from such a rogue.”

“A rogue,” Sabrina rolled her eyes. “What century are you from, anyway?”

“Speaking of which,” Rita lowered her voice. “Anything of the dark knight?”

“What?” Sabrina scowled. “Didn't we agree…?”

“I know, I'm sorry. You know I'm not the only one. I mean, God bless the man, he saved this City. If he decided to retire, well, all the best to him. It's just that, well, things seem to be so bad these days, and Lord knows the police don't seem to be able to get anything done. If they're not violating someone's civil rights, one of them is getting murdered in the line of duty. It's no wonder that most of them just feel like it's all so useless.”

“Well, I've got nothing to do with the Nightcrawler. I thought I made that clear. He served his purpose and now he's gone. People need to accept that.”

“I didn't mean anything by it.”

“It's okay,” Sabrina smiled at her. “Let's just not talk about him anymore. Like we agreed. Okay?”

“Okay,” Rita smiled sweetly. “And in turn, we won't talk about a certain Mr. Kelly Stone. Deal?”

“Deal,” Sabrina rolled her eyes again.

Aleister Piedmont was one of the last of the great Mafia Dons of New York City in the 20th century. He was heir apparent to Pietro Rossini, the boss of the 'sixth Family' Rossini Mob, having succeeded Angelo “The Blade” Vacirca in a bloody coup for the throne. A native Neapolitan, he lived by the ancient proverb that the true power lay coiled in wait, waiting for the time to strike. He watched as the Russian-Chechen mob wars went their way, and the Russian Mafiya crumbled beneath the onslaught of Homeland Security, the NYPD and the Nightcrawler. It was time for the American Mafia to reclaim dominion over the NYC underworld. Only everything had to be perfect. He would not consider failure an option.

He was quietly moving in on territory abandoned by the Russians, expanding his narcotics, loan sharking, gambling, prostitution, corruption, extortion and fraud operations throughout the five boroughs. The Five Families were incensed but would not risk open warfare against a man whose reputation was built on violence and murder. Piedmont saw the reluctance to confront him as a sign of weakness and accelerated his campaign. Only he knew he would require the best of the best in helping him hold everything he would take.

Don Rossini taught him that misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. Al found that, as time went by, the Shakespearean axiom was all too true. Just as the Don had made millions in partnership with the Haitian gangs of Harlem, Al was about to make a fortune in this deal with non-Italians. Yet he had reservations about these strange new characters lurking in the shadows. As a precaution he had two of his top crews providing security for this meeting at his Sheepshead Bay mansion.

“Hey boss,” Vito Scafati entered the long hall where Al sat at the head of an enormous banquet table. “They're here. You sure about this, bringing them in here?”

“Do you question me?” the blond, steely-eyed godfather asked.

“No sir, not at all. Coming right up.”

Al heard the sounds of a couple dozen people coming down the cavernous hall outside. He knew there was a party of six among the visitors, and his crews consisted of two twelve-man teams. There was a brief discussion before the door opened, and his lieutenants Vito and Guido led the way as five of the visitors entered the chamber.

“Mr. Piedmont,” Guido Rovigo made the introduction as a hooded man took a seat at the opposite end of the table, “this is the Thinker.”

The man pulled back his hood, revealing a close-cropped head of hair and a well-trimmed mustache and goatee. He had dark eyes which bored into focus, his intense gaze fixed on his host while appraising his surroundings. Al figured him at 5'9, 210 pounds of solid muscle, about his own size.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Al nodded. “That was quite a stunt your men pulled, breaking in and out of Attica like that. Not to mention that record-breaking cyber haul.”

“Money's money,” the Thinker replied. “Power is power. I've never believed them to be the same thing. Ask any old rich geezer locked up in his mansion at night. I've got more money than I could ever spend. I'd like to experience the feel of true power. And I think that very soon you'll have plenty of power to spare.”

“And, of course, you'll be helping me secure that power. If we pool our resources, I'm fairly certain we can bring this city to its knees. With my control of the streets and your control of cyberspace, we'll have everything covered. Should anyone fall out of line, I'm sure your special friend will be able to restore everything to normal.”

“Oh yes, he most certainly will, just like we said,” the Thinker turned to one of his gunmen by the door, crooking a finger. “Bring our colleague in, if you will.”

The Thinker studied Al's face as the 6'6”, 290-pound giant strode into the room. Ken “Black Panther” Stevenson was a six-time mixed martial arts champion who was framed for a murder he did not commit. He served four years and started a prison gang that joined him on the street upon his release. They took over the drug rackets in East Harlem, ruling the 'hood until a bloody massacre of the 137th Street Gang in broad daylight resulted in his arrest. He had served two years in solitary confinement at Attica Prison until the Thinker Gang sprang him loose.

“Welcome, my friend. Have a seat.”

“I'd rather stand,” the voice rumbled as thunder.

“As you wish.”

“You see, the time is past for your rank-and-file street crews—like these guys here—to go around waving guns in people's faces and trying to tell them what to do,” the Thinker said matter-of-factly. “It may work on the little people—civilians and the bottom-feeders—but not with the new breed of gangbangers. Everybody waves guns in their faces—the cops, the criminals, your everyday psychos. Everybody has that liberty or death mentality. Everybody's a slave to their own sin. Greed, sex, drugs, you name it. Everybody's locked in their own little cage, and if you kill them, you set them free. These guys with their little popguns just don't scare them anymore.”

“Yeah?” Vito snarled. “Maybe I show you otherwise.”

“Let him talk,” Al ordered, not taking his eyes off the Thinker.

“What they're more scared about is the fate worse than death,” the Thinker's eyes brightened. “Lying paralyzed or worse in their cage, unable to escape. The Nightcrawler brought that to the table. Breaking people's bones with titanium steel boots, spraying them with chemical weapons, tossing concussion grenades. Even the toughest guys in the Russian Mob didn't want to go up against him. He finally broke their will, then he disappeared. Where do you suppose he went?”

“He went off the side of the Empire State Building,” Guido scoffed. “From that height he would've splattered before he even hit the ground. If he bounced off a ledge he would've come down like tomato sauce.”

“For those of us unfamiliar with Nightcrawler lore, it's also been said that he fell from the Statue of Liberty as well as a blimp hovering over the New York harbor at over a thousand feet. Who is he anyway, David Copperfield? Well, perhaps. Or maybe the Government's secret weapon. Perhaps they put him in a glass-paneled box, like 'break in case of emergency'. Stored away for the next rainy day.”

“Well, why ain't he looking for the big guy?” Vito nodded at the Panther.

“I suspect he's about at the end of his warranty. Not much time left on his clock. They're saving him for one last detail. Only here we have our own insurance policy. The glove, Uno.”

The Thinker's enforcer, wearing a balaclava as were they all, pulled a thick black glove from inside his motorcycle jacket and handed it to the Panther. The bullet-headed giant pulled it on and, to everyone's surprise, lunged with a piledriver swing that broke a foot-long chunk off the end of the two-inch thick mahogany table.

“Whaddaya, outta your mind?” Guido went for his shoulder holster.

“I'll compensate you for the damage,” the Thinker held up a hand.

“That won't be necessary,” Al glanced from Guido to the Thinker.

“I decided to try my hand at having some titanium reinforced gloves manufactured,” the Thinker informed them. “I, too, hold my own mathematics-based degrees in various sciences beside computers. I think my product is as good—if not better—than those of our illustrious opponent. How does it feel?”

“Excellent padding,” the giant grunted. “Not that I need it.”

“You see, the Reaper and Apollyon were seasoned fighters, but not on the level of the Nightcrawler,” the Thinker folded his hands on the table. “Our vigilante is highly skilled in martial arts as well as the manufacture of chemical weapons and armored gear. Plus he obviously has sources inside the NYPD and Homeland Security. We must exceed him on every level if we are to eliminate him. I can outdo him scientifically, and I can put up enough money to outbid him in bribing officials. As far as beating him in a fair fight…Kenny?”

“He don't stand a chance,” the Panther growled.

“Good,” Al smiled. “Then we have a deal.”

“I'll call you,” the Thinker smiled as he rose from the table. He left the room with the Panther behind him, followed by his two gunmen.

“Why we doing business with these bags of garbage?” Vito snorted.

“As Don Rossini used to say, 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'. It doesn't matter how we seize control of this City, only that the task is completed.”

“That guy talks big, but he don't impress me,” Guido declared. “How do we know he was behind that cyber caper, or if he was the one who busted the nigger out? You mean there ain't one Italian who's as smart as him, or tougher than that melanzane?”

“Why go to the store when your neighbor's tools are on the other side of the fence?” Al was sardonic. “We will use them until the work is done. Then we will dispose of them.”

“Yeah,” Vito grinned. “Six feet under.”

They shared a hearty laugh.

“You don't look so good, kid.”

“Long night.”

Hoyt Wexford climbed into Bob Methot's new Jaguar as the partners left Police Plaza that next morning. They had been assigned to investigate the armored car robbery at the Wells Fargo bank. Although it was under jurisdiction of the NYPD Robbery Squad, Hoyt and Bob were taking a look as members of the Organized Crime Unit. They were checking to see if there was a possibility it had been perpetrated by any members of a known organized crime faction. It would have allowed them to conduct an independent inquiry in conjunction with Federal agents.

“Woman trouble?” Bob sailed out towards the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

“Nah, we're doing fine.”

“So how's she doing? Did the doctors give her a clean bill?”

“She's back to running things at the BCC. What's that tell you?”

“You told me old man Aeppli's been in charge. No pushback?”

“It's her company. Besides, like I told you, she loves him like a father.”

“Looks like you've lost some weight.”

“So is that a bad thing?”

“Also looks like you're not getting enough sleep.”

“What are you, a doctor?”

“We're partners, kid,” Bob glanced at him. “You want me to call it by the book here, I can say I'm putting my life in your hands while you're not at your best.”

“Screw you, Bob,” Hoyt looked out the passenger window. “Put in a request.”

“Don't get smart, kid. You and I have some serious time in together. We just beat an internal investigation.”

“Yeah, thanks but no thanks to you.”

“Yeah, well, the bastard deserved it. We saved the State the cost of a trial and maybe forty years of prison expense.”

“See, that's what's wrong with you,” Hoyt snapped back. “How do you know Kelly Stone doesn't have his Chernobyl satellite tracking us? They can hear a conversation from over a thousand miles away.”

“Yeah, I bet you believe in flying saucers too. Look, we're getting off topic. What do you think, the Feds may be still watching Bree?”

“I don't know, Bob. I just don't know. Everybody's looking for the Nightcrawler to resurface. Nobody believes he died jumping off that building.”

“Listen, I can put some guys on her house. If they catch anyone snooping around outside, it'll be in the morning papers. If they catch her doing anything suspicious, you'll be the first to know.”

“Spy on Bree? Geez, Bob, I can't do that.”

“Look, you're driving yourself nuts. You're falling apart. Let them watch her for a week. If they don't come up with anything, at least you'll have peace of mind.”

“All right,” Hoyt exhaled tautly. “Just one week. You promise me you'll take them off in seven days. If you don't, you and I got a problem.”

“Hey, who am I?” he reached over and punched Hoyt's shoulder.

“Okay, partner. I appreciate it.”

Neither of them would expect how badly their best intentions could go awry.

Chapter Two

“Miss Brooks, how are your relations with your fiancé?”

“What?”

“Have you had any domestic disputes, physical altercations?”

“Where's this coming from?” Bree asked Dr. Salvatore Altchek Jr. His father was the family physician before she was born, back when her Dad was an intern at Long Island College Hospital. She remained faithful though it had been years since her last exam.

“I'm seeing signs of internal injury. Kidney, spleen, liver and abdominal injury. It's not like something that happened during an isolated incident. It appears as a pattern of abuse. I've had survivors of fatal automobile accidents who've come out better than you.”

“I told you I was into martial arts. Plus I've been in a couple of car wrecks.”

“That you never reported to the authorities?”

“I think I came in here for you to check if I could have kids.”

“I think that's the least of your worries.”

“Yes or no?”

“It's hard to say. Considering the internal damage you've incurred, it is questionable at best. I don't see any damage to your reproductive organs, but keep in mind that the other injuries you've incurred could factor into any failure to bear children. My advice to you is to give up whatever you're doing for good. If it's a domestic issue, rest assured I could…”

“My fiancé can't and won't beat me up, just forget that. I just need to know what the odds are.”

“If you stopped what you've been doing here and now, I'd call it fifty-fifty. If you take another beating, or whatever you choose to call this, I'd bet seventy-five twenty-five against. Miss Brooks, you must cease and desist. I don't know what else to say.”

“Okay,” she pulled off her exam blouse, her generous bosom failing to cause a stir in Altchek. “So I can still have kids. That's a final.”

“There's no guarantee,” Altchek asserted as she snapped on her bra. “Look, you're a very successful businesswoman. Your name's all over the news. Whatever life issues you've had, just let it go. You're a success. Don't compromise the possibility of motherhood in your future. I can assure you you'll regret it.”

“Well, that's why I'm here. I intend to cut back.”

“How about the hairline fractures in your arms and legs? Are you taking prescription drugs I don't know about?”

“I'm the owner of a chemical company,” she chuckled, shaking her head as she buttoned her blouse.

“You know, what your company did was a game-changer throughout the medical industry. You have no idea how many lives you may have saved. Your life is precious, Miss Brooks. You need to know that.”

“I'll be okay, Doc. That I can assure you. Why would I be in here wondering if I could have kids if I was planning to opt out anytime soon?”

“Do be careful, Miss Brooks. Please. Do be careful.”

Sabrina left the doctor's report under Hoyt's apartment door and spent the evening waiting for his call. When she saw his name on her caller ID, she had to catch her breath before answering.

“Bree?”

“Hi, honey.”

“I got your envelope.”

“Okay, good. I just thought you'd be interested.”

“Of course I'm interested, what an understatement. I would've come over, but it's been a long day. I'm running on fumes. I told you about the Wells Fargo job. They've got me and Bob looking at it, and it's a real dogpile. I should go back to chemistry school and get a job with you.”

“Chemistry school?” she giggled.

“Honey?”

“Yeah?”

There was a pause.

“You know, I want to have a family with you more than anything else in the world. But even if we couldn't, it wouldn't matter. You know that.”

“Yeah, I guess,” her voice thickened. “I just wouldn't want you to…you know…be disappointed if something happened.”

“If it hasn't happened by now, it's never gonna happen,” he was emphatic. “And even if it did, it wouldn't change anything. I love you more than life, Bree. You know that.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Say it.”

“You love me more than life,” she half-whispered, wiping away a tear. “And no matter how much you love me, I'm gonna love you more.”

“I doubt it,” his voice quavered. “Look, I gotta go. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Love you.”

She walked listlessly to the picture window in the study with its panoramic view of the Brooklyn skyline, lost in thought. She knew that she was about to take an enormous risk. The prospect of losing would bring a cost too great to bear. Only she had left too much on the table, and she could not live with the thought of walking away just yet. It would be a decision she would second-guess for the rest of her life.

Although the Nightcrawler had broken the backs of the Russian Mob and the Tryzub Gang, Boko Haram was still at large. After being purged from the Black Muslim mosque in East Harlem, they still had control over large portions of the local rackets. They had parted bitterly with the 137th Street Gang, but their former allies were treading softly on Boko Haram turf. Both the gangsters and the NYPD were well aware of Boko Haram's terrorist roots in Nigeria and their penchant for destruction that could erupt at any moment. The cops and the criminals secretly wished they would fold up their tents and go back to Africa.

Sabrina knew that was never going to happen. They had the foothold in America that their masters in ISIS had been desperately craving. The cell attacks in Texas and around the country were hit-and-run random acts of violence. Boko Haram had built up political, religious and street credibility that put them above and beyond every other extremist group in the USA. They were on a roll, and she knew they had to make a big move sooner or later.

Only the whole world believed the Nightcrawler was gone forever. If she dared reappear in her notorious combat gear, the world press would announce the return. That would probably cause Hoyt to leave her and Jon to resign as President of BCC. She had to figure out a way to catch Boko Haram red-handed and turn them over to the police without revealing herself. She also had to figure out what they were up to in order to do so.

Whenever she thought of throwing in the towel, she thought of Dariya. Even though Dariya had betrayed her, she could not help but think of how close she and Rita and Dariya had been. If it had not been for Tryzub and her evil brothers, things might have been entirely different. She had always been an excellent judge of character, and she refused to believe the goodness she saw in Dariya was a sham. For whatever reason, a beautiful woman had been drawn into a blood pact with the forces of evil. It cost her life, and Sabrina was determined to avenge it.

There had to be a way to get into East Harlem unnoticed. She came up with a plan, and after a while she decided it was a risk worth taking.

Philemon Rubidium felt as if he had restored the prestige of the East Harlem Mosque at long last. The arrest of Chakra Khan for narcotics trafficking along with the exoneration of Philemon was proof that Boko Haram had infiltrated the mosque for their own purposes. He purged the mosque of her newly-appointed ministers upon his return, and personally visited those who resigned in order to invite them back to the congregation. He sent his followers throughout the neighborhood to assure everyone that the mosque's vision had been restored and its purpose reestablished.

He knew it would be a long uphill struggle, but the mosque was his life. He spent his evenings writing letters to leaders of the black community, assuring them that the mosque was rededicated to its mission. None of the letters were similar in content, each a personal entreaty to the recipient. He wanted them to know his heart was pure and his intentions genuine. He wanted them to know that the ministry might have stumbled, but Philemon would guide them back along the way.

He paused to rest after finishing his letter to the NAACP, savoring the words he had put together on his PC monitor before printing it. He leaned back in his leather desk chair in the comfort of his condominium on Lenox Avenue, relaxing for a moment before he thought he saw a rustling behind his curtain.

“Hello, Philemon. It's been a while.”

He felt as if the sweat on his nape turned to ice as he recognized the electronically-distorted voice. His eyes widened as he beheld the dark figure stepping forth into his living room.

“What—what do you want? What are you doing here?”

“Let's make a deal,” the Nightcrawler said, walking to within six feet of the cringing minister.

“I can't make no more deals with the devil. This ministry had suffered enough.”

“But you compromised your ministry and caused great harm to the people of East Harlem. You owe them. You can help right the wrongs you caused.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about!” Philemon hissed in righteous anger, gripping the arms of his chair. “You don't know what those murderous demons would have done. They killed the elders of the mosque for defying them. They would have killed me if I had not gone along with them.”

“You betrayed your faith to save yourself. You owe yourself a chance at redemption. You know in your heart that you owe the people of Harlem that much.”

“Redemption!” he leaped to his feet. “What do you know about redemption? Who redeems you? Do you know what they say about you on the Internet?”

“I don't care what they say. I did what I had to do to save the City I love. I thought the job was done, but there's still something left to do.”

“The war is over. Why don't you leave well enough alone?”

“Boko Haram's still out there. They're still trying to take control of the narcotics trade here in Harlem. It's all they have left. If we can take them down, that's when it'll be over. You can help me.”

“What are you going to do? Spray them with poison gas? Cripple them with your armored weapons? Or grenades?”

“Yeah, sure. Since you know so much, tell me about the hundreds of rounds of automatic shells they've found where I had my fights. You can bet your britches that no one's ever seen me carrying a firearm.”

“Look, I know what you've accomplished,” Philemon relented. “The City owes you. Everybody owes you a debt of gratitude. I owe you. But maybe you've done enough. Maybe it's time to walk away. Walking away while you're ahead isn't the same as walking away, you know. Everybody thinks you're dead. Maybe it's time to let go.”

“We're not talking about a gang on the other side of town, or in a different borough. They're selling poison to kids in your back yard, right here in Harlem. Are you gonna look the other way while they prey on your people?”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Ask your people to help. Find out where they are, where they're holed up. Show me where they are and I'll wait until they make their move. I can end this. You owe it to Harlem, Philemon.”

“I'm not gonna ask anyone to risk their lives.”

“I don't expect you to.”

With that, the Nightcrawler disappeared behind the curtain once more. Philemon waited for a long moment before approaching the sliding glass door to his patio. He looked out and stared for a long while into the deserted streets below.

That next evening, Carissa Fermanagh had arrived at her home after an evening of drinks on the Coney Island boardwalk. It was turning into an unending blur of nights ever since Max Mironov was murdered by the Mafiya. She had been unable to deal with the pain, and was entirely unsupported once the other members of their close-knit group left New York. She was the only one left in Brighton Beach, and she had given up looking over her shoulder for Russian gangsters for some time now.

As a result, she was entirely unaware of anyone stalking her until she was home safe in her apartment. She was changing into her nightgown just before she heard a sound in the living room.

“How the hell…!” Carissa gasped upon switching on the light. “I thought you were dead!”

“Yeah, falling off the Empire State Building can start rumors,” the Nightcrawler walked over and sat on the edge of the love seat by the far wall.

“You…you were there when Max was killed,” Carissa managed. Every time she thought of him she was on the verge of tears these days.

“Yeah,” the Nightcrawler's head drooped. “Those cowards never gave him a chance. I like to think he took Apollyon with him. Those other creeps are doing big time in Attica.”

“What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“I don't know if you read on the Internet where the Mafiya was in cahoots with Boko Haram. Even though Max helped me sink the Russian Mob, Boko Haram's still out there.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“I need help taking them down. I've taken some pretty bad bumps the last few times out. I've lost some vision in my left eye. I sure could use a driver.”

“Yeah?” Carissa managed a chuckle. “Why not ask Deadwoman?”

“I was gonna ask you to take her place.”

“What, me Deadwoman?”

“Why not?

“That's crazy. What do you possibly think I can do?”

“Just drive if I can't.”

“Oh my gosh. I'll have to think about it.”

“I'm only gonna ask you this one time.”

“All right. I'll do it. For Max.”

“I still have your cell number.”

“Why didn't you call me?” Carissa flushed.

“I didn't think I'd get a good response.”

Once the Nightcrawler left, Carissa collapsed in a heap onto her plush armchair. She remembered her meeting with the vigilante shortly after her cousin Margaret was being coerced by the Lipki Gang. The Nightcrawler had been watching Max as he moved around Brighton. When their circle of friends was compromised, the NYPD relocated them as potential witnesses to New Jersey. The Nightcrawler learned of Margaret's dilemma and soon contacted Carissa. Carissa agreed to allow the Nightcrawler to set a trap for the Russians at the hotel in which they were secluded. As a result, the Yakov brothers were caught by the vigilante and arrested by the Harrison Police.

She had been friends with Max, Lori, Ron and Chuck since high school. They began dealing drugs together as a means to comfortably afford the cost of living in Brooklyn. Max was considered a low-level dealer by the Lipki Gang. His boyhood friend Tamerlan Chekhov began moving up in the gang, and Max soon found himself being included in the loop. Only Tammy's brother was murdered, and the Nightcrawler enlisted him as a snitch in order to take down the Lipkis. It started a vicious cycle which ended in Tammy, then Max, being killed.

The loss of her closest friends left a vacuum in her life. The biggest one was caused by Max's death at the Empire State Building. She dreamed that someday they would all be reunited…everyone but Max. His spirit, joie de vivre, infectious smile, and wry humor were all gone forever. It made her sad and angry, and at once she realized that this was a way to find closure. Besides, the Nightcrawler had saved her from the Yakovs. She owed it to Max…and she owed it to the vigilante.

She had no idea what her job description as Deadwoman would entail. All she could do was gird herself up to giving it a try.

* * *

“Use of lethal force against the American people has become epidemic across our country,” Al Jazeera commentator and political analyst Lamont Estes decried the situation on his weekly show, which was becoming an Internet sensation around the globe. “Police departments in hundreds of cities throughout America have made themselves the judge, jury and executioner of minority groups on our city streets. Illegal stops, searches, seizures, beatings, maiming and murders have become rampant, and only a handful of these crimes are ever reported. It is time for our elected officials and our communities to take a stand and to end these atrocities. The United Nations Human Rights Council has condemned these actions, presenting our case before the whole world. We must refuse to allow the oppressors the option to suppress our voices, our freedom of assembly to protest of their actions. We will exercise our rights and rally in support of the persecuted citizens in our midst. Come out and take part in demonstrations in your area, for by your silence you are passively condoning the deprivation of the rights of your neighbors.”

“One of the most shameful examples of law enforcement's disregard of the laws of the land is in New York City. The Nightcrawler, the most infamous vigilante in the State's history, has conducted campaigns in East Harlem, Little Odessa and other ethnic areas targeting minorities during recent times of crisis. Using these emergencies as a subterfuge, the Nightcrawler has maimed and crippled dozens of suspects and has even left dead victims in his wake. Both Homeland Security and the NYPD claim they have been unable to capture this man and even question the fact that he is still at large. To many observers, this appears to be one of the most scandalous cover-ups in recent memory.”

“We call upon the citizens of our country to contact your local representatives, donate whenever possible and support local groups in protesting police brutality. When those appointed to protect and serve us are targeting our children and persecuting our minorities, we must wake up and realize there is no law and order. Don't let the Nightcrawler become a role model for militants and extremists across our nation. End the violence before it destroys us all.”

Sabrina had descended into a deep funk by the time she switched off the TV that night. The citizens of New York City were pushing back against the police crackdowns resulting from the terror attack by Tryzub just months ago. Analysts speculated that most of the police actions had taken place in lower-class neighborhoods. Stop-and-frisk incidents reached a record high, and blacks and Hispanics had been targeted despite the fact that Tryzub's connections were almost exclusively Chechen and Russian. There was no denying that there was a good measure of injustice having been meted out. Only she felt that people were forgetting that New York's Finest had saved the city from the plague of the century.

She had no illusions about her alter ego. She never saw it as more than a necessary evil. Only she felt somewhat slighted after all the abuse she had suffered in doing her share. Apollyon's metal-clad fists had taken a toll, as attested to by her recent doctor's visit. Plus her vision blurred at times and her hearing faded in and out. Declaring her a menace to society added insult to injury.

It wasn't as painful as knowing that Hoyt was having her watched. She spotted the surveillance team outside her house the day before yesterday. She made her countermove by renting a car and parking it a couple of blocks away, then slipping out in her Nightcrawler gear under cover of shadows. It was easy enough to visit Philemon, then Carissa, before sneaking back in. It was just that Hoyt, in his strong position at Police Plaza, could not have possibly been unaware of the coverage. If he was not behind it, then he at least knew what was going down.

She did not rule out the possibility that even Jon Aeppli was in on it. Jon had already made it clear that if Sabrina returned to her Nightcrawling activity, he would resign as President of BCC. He had suffered far too much emotional duress and sacrificed too much personal time and effort. He was in his early sixties, financially secure and had accomplished far more than he had ever imagined in his career. He was willing to stand by Sabrina in bringing BCC to the next level. Only he was not going to act as a footstool in doing so.

Taking down Boko Haram would be the final phase of her last campaign. She had ended Tryzub's terror operation and crippled the Russian Mob. Boko Haram was the last of the coalition, and they were the ones who injured her most grievously. She had been brought to Bellevue Hospital in a near-coma after aborting their attack on Wall Street. She used the situation to her advantage in taking down the Mafiya, but Boko Haram was still at large. This would be her curtain call.