Comic Book Hero Chapter 7

The Union Square Psychos were bottom feeders of the worst sort, a gang of San Francisco thugs whose main strength was a taste for violence and a yard wide streak of viciousness. Besides all of them having heavy criminal records, more than a few could tell you what the inside of a psychiatric facility looked like. They were stupid, even by the standards of other criminals, and so unstable that the rest of the city’s gangs shunned them. It was generally understood even by the Psychos themselves, that the whole lot was destined for either a violent death or a lifetime behind steel bars and concrete walls.

They were heavy users, and their drug of choice was, until recently, the crystal meth that they brewed in their own lab in a small tract house there in the Mission district. It had been a good deal, a 24/7 party where the drugs and the booze never stopped, with plenty of the magic crystals left over for sale to the rich yuppies and college kids who came to Union Square looking to buy a taste of something illicit. But the party had ended one night when their homemade lab had, unsurprisingly, exploded and burned to the ground. The loss of the drug lab had been bad, but it was nothing compared to the loss of the top three members of the Psychos, who had been there at the time of the explosion. In one gigantic ball of chemical powered flame, the street gang had lost their sole source of both drugs and income, and the only members of the gang who had I.Q.’s of more than two digits. By default, leadership of the Psychos devolved into the hands of Willis Stokely.

Stoker was never Rhodes Scholar material, and a lifetime of heavy drug use had long since fried whatever brain cells he might have once had. But he was big and tough and vicious, and he had an innate animal cunning that could sometimes pass for intelligence. He was also just smart enough to realize that he would never be able to put together another operation as sweet as the drug lab, which had ultimately failed anyway. So Stoker had fallen back on the lessons of his youth, and had led the Psychos into the profitable field of selling “protection” to the merchants in the Mission District. And it had turned into quite a lucrative business, at least until they had run into the damned Kraut.

Dieter’s refusal to bow his head to the Psychos had at first seemed nothing more than a typical bump in the road to financial success, a minor problem easily handled and then forgotten. The rule was simple; if they didn’t pay, you hurt them. But the rule hadn’t worked with the Kraut, and in fact the tall blond bastard and his bitch daughter had put four of Stoker’s boys in the hospital, and had even dared to file charges against them. Stoker himself had had to dip into their kitty and use the last of their reserves to bail the brothers out, leaving the gang so close to broke as didn’t make any difference. A problem that the rest of the Psychos now looked to Stoker to remedy.

A wise businessman, or even your usual half-wit crook, would have marked the incident down to the price of doing business. They would have left Dieter and the dojo alone and simply gone on to less dangerous prey. But Stoker didn’t have it in him to leave well enough alone, he saw Dieter’s defiance as a personal insult, a slap in the face that challenged his new found standing as the Psychos’ leader. In his twisted mind letting Dieter and Holly go was the same as admitting that he wasn’t good enough to lead the gang, and he knew that if the others ever came to the same conclusion he wouldn’t last a week before they brought him down. Like jackals, dragging down their next meal. And Willis Stokely was damned sure not ready to be dragged down.

*****

The first biker came in from behind, a skinny little punk with a Fu Manchu mustache and a six-foot length of chain swinging from one hand. He roared by, sweeping the chain at Dieter’s ankles, but it never landed. With a move so fast it was almost invisible, Dieter spun around and swept his cane up in an arc, catching the chain and tangling it, ripping it from the grip of the punk as he roared by. The sudden jerk caused the biker to lose control of his metal monster, the motorcycle slipping out from under him and sending both tumbling across the asphalt. With a practiced flip of his hand Dieter untangled the chain from his cane and sent it spinning after it’s stunned owner.

A second biker swept in, aiming a length of pipe at Dieter’s head. With a graceful turn sideways the tall German leaned backwards, the pipe missing his face by scant inches. With the same move the cane stabbed forward, poking the biker in the ribs like a striking sword. The biker wobbled like Fu Manchu before him, but instead of falling he recovered, swinging around the parking lot to come back for another run.

But the other bikers had learned from the skirmish. The next gangbanger roared by swinging a baseball bat, but let it fly before he came too close to Dieter’s deadly cane. Dieter tried to dodge the missile, to block it with his cane, but his injured leg betrayed him. The bat hit him in the hip and he stumbled, falling against the station wagon. As he tried to rise to his feet a thrown bottle struck his shoulder and shattered, a shard of glass cutting a red furrow across his cheek. A barrage of thrown objects appeared like deadly hail, striking Dieter’s body, driving him to his knees. Chains and pipes, clubs and bottles, even pieces of asphalt gouged from the parking lot. He tried to protect himself, covering his face with his crossed arms, but it was no use. Another biker raced in, snatching the cane from Dieter’s hand, kicking him in the chest as he swept by. He brandished the cane like a trophy, then sent it spinning off into the dark. The Psychos whooped with hellish glee as Dieter fell, and for the first time Holly screamed, her fear cutting through the night air like a serrated knife.

On his perch atop the burned out school Tom Blackwood jerked, snapped out of his shock by Holly’s scream. Up until now the sudden violence had held him in a grip of ice, unable to move or to even think. With a jolt he came back to himself, remembering for the first time since the nightmare below began, who he was and why he was there. With a curse Tom rolled away from the parapet and fumbled at his pocket, his fingers made clumsy by the rush of adrenaline in his blood. He pulled out the cell phone Murray had given him, flipping it open and hurriedly punching in the buttons, 9-1-1. He held it to his ear, but instead of a ringing tone he heard only static. Cursing out loud, Tom tried again, but once more he was met with the electric sound of open air. The desperation turned to despair, a cold greasy knot in his stomach, as he realized that he must be in a dead zone, an area with poor phone reception. Now he cursed himself bitterly. In the four nights he had been there to watch over the Reisbachs, he had never once tested the damned cell phone!

Tom turned back to the vista below, where the street gang still shouted and revved their engines, filling the parking lot with noise and blue exhaust smoke. Sickly he reviewed his options, realized how few he had. He could leave, fly to another part of the city, someplace where the reception was better and the phone would work. He could call the police and turn it all over to them, but he knew that it had gone too far. The violence below had escalated to the point where help could never get there in time. And by now leaving was no longer an option either, even the time it would take him to make the call could prove the death of the Reisbachs. He knew their only chance lay with him. Tom looked around, flew into the wreckage of the old school, frantically searching for something he could use as a weapon.

Down below the Psychos had ceased their attack on Dieter, pulling their motorcycles in a half circle, all lights glaring blindingly on the form of the downed man. The two bikers who held Holly dragged her around to the other side of the station wagon, pulling her to the side so she had a clear view of her injured father. One biker held her body against himself, grinning lasciviously, his hand squeezing her breast hard enough to make her wince. The other biker still held the sawed off shotgun, it’s double barrels pressed against the captive girls’ side. If it occurred to either of the two Psychos that pulling the trigger would kill not just Holly but also the freak holding her, they didn’t show it.

Holly Reisbach stared at the bloody figure of her father and felt fear like an icicle forming in her spine. The fear wasn’t for herself, for Holly was almost reckless when it came to her own safety. But the father who had always been tall and strong as an oak tree, the indestructible giant protector of her childhood, now lay defenseless at the feet of monsters. He had been the center of her world for as long as it had existed and now she knew he was going to die. The horror of his imminent death had left no room for thoughts of her own safety.

“Poppa!” she cried, anguish in her voice. Dieter looked up from blood caked eyes, a matching sorrow reflected there. He had several cracked ribs, he knew, and at least one bone in his hand was broken. He could barely move, and had to fight to keep from sinking into unconsciousness. The feeling of impotence, the knowledge of his and his daughters’ fate, made him look away in shame. The hyena laughter of their tormenters gouged him to the depths of his soul.

A sudden lull in the gangsters antics made Holly look up, to see the headlights of a car pulling into the lot. Hope momentarily flickered in her breast, but then died when she realized some of the bikers were escorting it. The car pulled up behind the parked bikes, adding its headlights to those already trained on Dieter. She saw that the car was a low rider, a tricked out cherry red Cadillac with swept back fins that shouted the early sixties, a ton of polished chrome and enough coats of car wax to make it a rolling mirror. The engine rumbled to a halt as the driver’s door of the car opened, and out stepped the king of the monsters.

Stoker was still a young man at twenty-five, tall and stocky, with short blond hair greased up into spikes. He had the heavy muscles that come from hours of serious weight lifting in a prison exercise yard, and he wore boots and jeans and a leather vest, but no shirt, the better to show off his bulging physique. His face could have been pretty-boy handsome, if it weren’t for the silver ring in his nose and the cruel sneer he habitually wore. He strode from the Cadillac like a disdainful tyrant, arrogant in his power, ready to inflict his own twisted version of “justice”.

Tom gave up his search for a weapon in the ruins. It was hopeless, the dark made the fire blackened hallways a maze, he could stumble around there for hours without finding anything useful. He returned to his perch just in time to see Stoker’s grand entrance. The over-muscled gangbanger was standing over the recumbent form of Dieter Reisbach, speaking to him in an overly loud voice. Tom couldn’t make out the words, but it didn’t matter, he knew strutting when he saw it. It was obvious that his speech was more for the benefit of his motley group of followers than for Dieter and Holly. And the Psychos were eating it up, growling and shouting, once or twice cheering on cue. Their numbers and the Reisbachs’ obvious helplessness had made them brave, and he knew that they were within minutes of working themselves into a killing frenzy.

Tom was frantic, and fast approaching desperation. He could fly down there and fight them with his bare hands, but he knew it would be a doomed gesture. He hadn’t been in a fight since his Army days, almost ten years now, and besides these guys had guns. His flying gave him an advantage in surprise, if nothing else, but he had counted nine of them besides their leader. In the brightly lit parking lot he’d be too easy a target to avoid that many guns long enough to do any good. Dammit, he needed something, anything, to—

The cane.

He remembered the cane that Dieter had used to such good effect. It wouldn’t be much, not in his untrained hands, but it would sure beat the hell out of bare knuckles. The guy who took it from Dieter had thrown it somewhere at the other end of the parking lot, where it was darkest. He remembered hearing it clatter on the asphalt. If he could only remember where…

Without thinking about it Tom was airborne, in a desperate race to find a wooden needle in a darkened haystack.

Stoker was on fire, man. He was in the zone, he could feel it, the power of his words was like the high he got doing coke. His so-called bros, all the ones who had bitched before and talked about making him step down, well now the bastards were cheering him. They slapped him on the back, said he was the man, brown nosed like the little dogs they were, just to kiss his ass. The same pricks who would have stuck a shiv in his ribs yesterday, were now swearing that they’d die for him today. His blood sang in his veins, roared in his ears, and every breath he took of the damp night air was electric. Hell, forget the coke! This was power, man, and it beat the hell out of any drug he’d ever had.

Not that he was fooled for a minute by their praise. Shit, no. Stoker knew how the wind blew in a street gang. They were all faithless bitches, who’d turn on him again as soon as things got tough. He expected it. But for now he was top dog again, and he had a good memory. He remembered each and every one of these freaks who’d openly defied him, or worse, the ones who’d talked crap about him behind his back. He knew who they were, and tomorrow would be payback time, in fuckin’ spades, baby. Yeah, he’d make them crawl and bleed, beg to kiss his ass, god damned right he would. But first thing’s first. Tonight, he’d give them a party they’d never fuckin’ forget!

Stoker raised his arms, and the shouting died down abruptly, his fellow Psychos hanging on his every word. When they were silent he dropped his arms and spun, launching a kick at the downed Dieter. His steel-toed boot connected cruelly with Dieter’s ribs, raising him off the ground, expelling the air from his lungs in an explosive cry of pain. Dieter tried weakly to grab at Stokers’ foot, but it was as ineffectual as a baby’s grasp. The Psychos roared with laughter as Holly screamed again, struggled against the two animals that held her, forgetting about the shotgun pressed against her belly. She was cruelly reminded about it when the Psycho with the gun slammed it into her soft flesh, the pain so great she would have fallen to her knees if the other gangbanger hadn’t been holding her up.

Stoker held his hands up again for attention. “This is the guy who defied us!” he said, his voice raised, echoing across the parking lot. “This is the guy who didn’t want to give us what was ours! He tried to steal from us! He not only tried to steal from us, he attacked some of our brothers, he hurt them, put them in the fucking hospital!

“This stupid Kraut, this piece of crap who isn’t even a real American, this foreigner that came here from some other country. He thinks he’s better than us. He thinks he’s tougher than us, he thinks he can come in here and walk all over us. He thinks he can tell everybody that the Union Square Psychos are soft, that we’re weak, that we’re bitches who’ll bend over and spread ‘em ‘cause he tells us to. Well, you know what I say? I say, look who’s bent over now!”

The parking lot erupted in bedlam, as the Psychos stomped their feet and howled their triumph. A half full bottle smashed against the wagon above Dieters’ head, spraying his hair with sharp glass and beer. Stoker let the mob vent for a while before he held up his hand again. As they quieted down he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a motorcycle drive chain, a brand new one that had never seen a drop of grease. It glittered evilly in the light like the scales of a snake, as he uncoiled it and began to swing it in a circle. All eyes were on the chain, as he walked negligently back towards his victims. He grinned, a wicked little boy about to pull the wings off of a butterfly for his own sick enjoyment.

Across the parking lot came the sound of a muffled explosion, and the shattering tinkle if broken glass. Stoker and some of the other Psychos who weren’t too stoned to notice looked up, to see that one of the pole mounted lights that lit the parking lot was broken, tiny shards of broken crystal still tumbling to the ground. Those who watched might have seen a flicker of shadow above the one remaining light, and then it too shattered, plunging the lot into near darkness. The Psychos looked around, suddenly nervous. Their brightly lit playground had suddenly become a sea of black, the lights of their bikes and Stokers’ car a small island surrounded by the unknown. The Psychos began to mutter, glancing nervously at their leader, like children seeking the reassurance of an adult.

Stoker looked around, angered, trying to process the sudden change. “What the hell is—” he started to say, but was cut off by a yelp of pain. One of the other gangbangers tumbled to the ground, clutching his head and moaning. Stupidly the other Psychos stared at him, uncomprehending, until with a thud another one of their brethren lurched forward and slammed to the ground, unmoving, blood staining the back of his head.

With shouted curses the Psychos grabbed for their weapons and spun around, trying to find their unknown attacker. Drug brightened eyes frantically searched the shadows, seeing ominous movement that was never really there. Inevitably one tightly strung punk pegged a shot at nothing, releasing the dam, and suddenly the night was filled with the roar of small arms fire. A hail of leaden death filled the air, bringing destruction to anything in its path.

Eighty feet overhead Tom hovered, unseen, well above the frantic fire below. His heart beat like a drum in his chest, and fear was leaving a metallic taste in his mouth, but he knew he was safe for the moment. The nimbus effect was once more in his favor, the uneven light cast by the headlights left anything more than ten feet above the ground totally invisible. Besides, by the looks of it none of the Psychos had even considered the possibility that the attacks came from above. The only danger, he knew, was if the gangbangers got their heads together long enough to threaten Dieter or Holly. He had no idea what he’d do if they did that.

The rush of events was leaving Tom more than a little lightheaded. He wasn’t following any sort of plan, the situation was progressing much too fast for that. Instead he was acting almost entirely on instinct, reacting as best he could to the changing events. So far, though, his instincts were right on the money.

When Tom had finally located the cane in the dark he could barely think. Fear and worry, the need to aid the Reisbachs, was overwhelming his ability for cogent thought. His mouth was dry as cotton, and nausea roiled like a worm in his belly. But as soon as his gloved hand grasped the hard wood of Dieter’s cane a change occurred. The fear and the sense of frantic urgency were still there, but it was if they had been pushed aside, and something else had stepped forward. It was something cold and analytical, that assessed the situation with the icy logic of a computer, and decided on a course of action. It was the animal part of Tom, the reptilian hindbrain, the part that develops in any predatory species with a million years of kill or be killed evolution. It is in us all, inherent, smothered under the protective layers of society, but always ready to come out when civilization inevitably turns savage.

Tom knew he needed more than just a piece of wood if he was going to take on ten armed sociopaths. Darkness had been his ally before, so he would use it now. Without a second thought or hesitation he launched himself into the sky, headed towards the two pole lights. He swung the cane like a bat, shattering the first light in a sparkling shower of glass and broken filaments. He spun around to the next light and smashed it too, then turned to face the crowd below. He saw them milling around in confusion, knew he had to take advantage of it soon.

Tom picked his first target, one of the gang standing near the edge of the nimbus, half in the dark. He struck him from behind, using the cane, inexperience causing him to pull his blow. The gangbanger fell down clutching his head, but still conscious. While the rest of the Psychos stood around staring at their fallen member, Tom picked his next victim from the opposite side of the circle of light. This one he hit harder, and the gangster stumbled forward two steps before collapsing to kiss the ground. By then the Psychos had woken up to their danger and the guns had appeared, and Tom had risen up to hover in safety well before they turned the parking lot into a shooting gallery. The din of gunfire was overwhelming, and briefly Tom considered how long it would take the SFPD to respond to the sounds of mayhem deep in the Mission district.

Eventually the gunfire began to die down, as a cursing Stoker managed to rein in the panicked gangbangers. The echoes were still fading when Tom struck again, flying five feet off the ground, striking feet first against the back and shoulders of a gangster wearing a red leather jacket, using him like a springboard to launch himself back into the night sky. He’d hit the man so hard that he’d flown through the air to land on top of the bikes, knocking three of them over and further reducing the level of light in the Psychos’ rapidly diminishing world. Another pistol shot rang out, followed by the scream of the freak that had shot it. The wooden cane had flashed out of nowhere and broken his arm, sending the pistol spinning off into the night. In quick succession two more members of the street gang collapsed, their attacker still unseen.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!!!” Stokers’ right hand man Crazy Eddie began shouting, over and over, his darting eyes wide and glittering in panic, giving credence to his nickname. He started firing randomly into the air, causing the other Psychos to curse and duck for cover. Crazy Eddie started to scream his litany again but was cut off as the hard crooked handle of the cane hooked him by the throat from behind. He was yanked off his feet and dragged into the darkness, his screams of defiance reduced to a pitiful gurgling sound.

The panic factor amongst the remaining gangsters rose by several magnitudes. Darkness was now the enemy. Darkness was death. Five of their original ten were now out of it, either unconscious or disappeared, a sixth had a concussion, and a seventh was moaning and clutching a broken arm. That left just three, Stoker himself and the two bros he had guarding the Kraut’s daughter. It suddenly occurred to Stoker that in the shadow of a hostage was probably the safest place in the whole damned lot. With a snarled curse he threw his chain out into the dark and snatched the shotgun from the hands of the one guard, and then grabbed the girl from the other. He held Holly tight against himself as a shield, the barrels of the shotgun pressed tight under her chin.

“Show yourself, Fucker! You hear me?! Show yourself, or this bitch dies. Goddammit, show yourself!!!”

Holly whimpered, terrified for herself now, not daring to move with the twin barrels of the shotgun digging so cruelly into the soft flesh of her throat. “Hilda!” Dieter called her name, reached his hand out to her, his voice a dry croak. Before she could respond Stoker turned and snarled at her father, screaming at him to be quiet. The other two Psychos looked over their shoulders at him, and in the split second when everyone’s attention was focused on Dieter, Tom went for the bikes.

Their were six motorcycles left standing, lined up next to each other, almost close enough to act like dominoes if one fell over. Tom took advantage of the formation. He landed behind the glow of the lights, on the seat of the bike on one end, kicked it over as he jumped to the back of the next one. He skipped from one bike to the next, all down the row, like jumping off stepping-stones crossing a stream. The gleaming street machines tumbled to the ground, plunging the parking lot even further into darkness. The two remaining Psychos shouted and fired their pistols at the half seen shadow that had just trashed their motorcycles, but they never even came close. Nor did they see the shadow swoop by overhead, to hover behind them. The sounds of two more rapid blows came, and the last two freaks fell to the ground like boneless bags of wet laundry.

And then there was one.

Stoker stood still, clutching the girls’ body tightly, like a drowning man clutching the only object that could keep him from sinking. His hot breath came out in fast little panting gasps, his eyes as big as saucers, and the fear sweat on his skin gave him a harsh rank smell. Holly fought not to be sick, to hold herself still and not struggle. She didn’t know who was out there in the dark, the mysterious defender who had done so much to save her and her father, but she prayed for him. She prayed harder than she ever had, that somehow he’d be able to pull off just one more miracle.

Tom hovered in the night air, panting, watching the scene below him with the cold analytical part that had surfaced that night. The gangbanger with the broken arm and the one with the broken head were scuttling off into the darkness, and Tom let them go. He knew they were beaten. He concentrated instead on their leader, the blond guy who was holding Holly hostage. There was no way he could take this guy, not while he had that shotgun at her throat.

Could he get him to point it somewhere else, just for a few seconds? Maybe, but only if he made himself a target, and then what good would that do? He’d be dead, and Holly would still be a hostage. Or would she? What had Pablo said, that Holly was almost as good as her father in the martial arts? Yeah, that’s right. She could probably kick that guy’s ass if the shotgun wasn’t in her face. If he exposed himself, got Blondie to take a shot at him, then maybe Holly would take him out all by herself. Yeah, sure.

If she was fast enough.

If she wasn’t too scared.

And if he could be sure Blondie would shoot at him and not freak out when he showed himself. He could end up getting Holly’s head blown off. No, there had to be a way to prepare Holly, to let her know what was going to happen without tipping her captor. And to make sure Blondie was mad enough to shoot at him and not her.

Tom flew, lighting on the ground behind the car, which was now the main source of illumination in the parking lot. For the first time that night, Tom spoke.

“Hey, Holly!” he shouted, his voice echoing eerily.

On the other side of the car, Stoker and the Reisbachs stiffened. The mysterious attacker had finally shown his presence, but how did he know Holly’s name?

“Hey, Holly! Fertig Machen. Fertig Machen, Holly!”

Holly blinked, surprised at the words in her native language. She tried to share a look with her father, but the monster who held her tightened his grip even more. The shotgun pressed under her chin dug in so deep, a trickle of blood flowed down her throat. The monster started to snarl a threat, but the voice out in the darkness stopped him.

“Hey, asshole! You, the stupid looking wuss who dresses like a fag! Remember me? I’m the guy who’s been kicking your ass. Now let me show you what I think about your car!”

Tom launched himself into the air, to come down seconds later with his full weight onto the roof of the Cadillac, his booted feet slipping a little on the slick surface. It buckled, and the windshield cracked. Tom recovered quickly, and swung the cane at one of the side mirrors, knocking it off the side of the car and sending it spinning. He jumped to the hood of the car and dented that also, then began to beat on it with the cane, blow after blow after blow. The hard wood of the cane left dents wherever it landed.

“NOOO-OO!!!” Stoker shouted, his voice a mixture of rage and anguish. He forgot about his gang, forgot about Holly, even forgot his fear. Without any conscious thought, he pulled the shotgun from Holly’s throat and pointed it at the shadowy figure that was trashing his beloved ride, and started to pull the double triggers.

But Holly was faster. The dark figures’ instruction to ‘make ready’ had prepared her, and two decades of personal martial arts training by a true master suddenly showed. Her head snapped backwards, smashing the nose of her assailant, breaking it, ruining his pretty boy good looks for all time. Her right arm arced in a circle, trapping the arm with the shotgun, deflecting the double blast from its barrels. Instead of hitting the figure dancing on the hood, it shattered the left headlight and tire, sending a spray of glass, paint chips, and pieces of chrome across the asphalt. She grabbed his wrist with her other hand and did something clever with it, making the dazed Stoker scream in pain and drop the gun.

As she twisted his wrist Holly felt his grip around her waist loosen. She locked the monster’s hand and arm tightly against her body, twisting her body a half turn to the left, throwing herself down on the ground. Stoker came with her, screaming as his arm shattered like dry kindling.

Holly crawled out from under the thug’s body, hastily scrambled to her feet and out of his reach, to stand staring down where Stoker lay writhing in agony. It had been a cruel and deliberate thing she had done to him, breaking his arm in that manner. The twisting motion hadn’t just broken the bone, it had shredded it in a spiral fracture. Like taking a handful of dried broom straw in both hands and twisting it, she had turned the bones of his arm into a thousand tiny splinters. The pain was horrendous, and the bones would never knit back together properly. She had deliberately crippled him for life.

Holly watched the monster who had terrorized and humiliated both her and her father. He writhed on the ground, his face a mask of agony, his curses and shouts now turned into a mindless mewling sound of animal pain. She looked into his eyes, and for a moment the pain peeled back as he recognized her. And then she did the most merciful thing she could for him; she kicked him in the jaw, shattering two teeth and leaving him unconscious.

Holly turned to her father, her concern for him overriding everything else. She knelt by his side, where he was trying to raise himself into a sitting position. He groaned with the effort, gritting his teeth against the pain of broken ribs and contusions, but with her help he finally made it. He looked up in time to see the bizarre figure in black coming towards them.

Tom barely restrained himself from flying to Dieter and Holly’s side, and instead held back enough to just leap from the car and trot over. He stopped about ten feet from the Reisbachs, stood there for a while to let them get used to his appearance.

Holly stared up at him, this hooded and masked apparition that looked like something from a B action movie. Who was he? Was he a threat? Was this night going to end in even more violence? He stepped forward once more, squatted down so he was at their level, and gave them each an appraising look. Holly could see now that he had gray eyes, unlike she and her father. For some strange reason this reassured her, maybe because she had always liked eyes of that color, and then for the first time since the nightmare began she felt the fist in her stomach begin to unclench. The dark figure spoke, and his voice was gentle, the tone the same one she would have used to reassure a child.

“Are you alright?”

Dieter nodded, answering for them both. “Yes. Yes, we are both all right. I will need medical attention, but it is not life threatening. Hilda?”

Holly nodded, and then swallowed the lump in her throat. Reaction was just beginning to set in with the realization that they were actually safe, and she could feel a bout of the shakes was imminent. She gazed up into the gray eyes of the dark man, the man who had saved them both, and tried to communicate her gratitude with her own gaze.

“Thank you,” she said, meaning it with all her heart.

Dieter nodded, winced at a sudden pain. “Yes, thank you. We owe you, more than we can ever repay.”

Tom stood up, feeling awkward, the gratitude of the two people before him making him uncomfortable. He became aware of the sound of sirens in the distance, knew that the SFPD must finally be responding to the gunfire. Finally? With a shock he realized that the whole fight couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes. He looked around at the carnage, the broken vehicles and the equally broken bodies lying beside them. It occurred to him that if he stayed around much longer he’d have a lot of explaining to do.

He turned back to the Reisbachs, and when he spoke there was a hint of steel in his voice. “The cops will be here soon, they’ll get you to a hospital. If you meant what you said, then don’t tell them about me.” With that he turned away, took two strides and leaped to the hood of the so recently trashed Cadillac, and then let the night swallow him up.

The Reisbachs stared after him for long seconds, and then Holly buried her head against her father’s shoulder. She started to cry, great shuddering sobs wracking her body, her blonde hair clinging to her cheeks where it was soaked by her tears. Dieter reached out a hand and clutched her arm, offering a father’s comfort. But his eyes were still on the darkness, where their mysterious savior had disappeared.

An unknown rescuer dressed like a commando was strange, even bizarre, but it was possible. Even one armed with only a wooden cane. But a man who can jump twenty feet without flexing his knees was an impossibility, and Dieter had just seen the impossible.