Book II Chapter 14

Back on the roof of the parking garage, Tom found the keys to his truck where he had hidden them, and let himself sink into the driver’s seat with both a groan and a sigh. Before he even took off the ski mask he keyed the big engine over and flipped on the heater, cranking the temperature up as high as it would go. He groaned as the first draft of cold air hit him, then waited shivering for it to warm up. When it finally did he took off his gloves and mask with stiff fingers, then spent a full five minutes luxuriating in the warmth.

His powers, he had learned, had bestowed on him several benefits, some of which he was still discovering. The reduced need for sleep, the perfect balance, what appeared to be a slightly faster healing time for injuries, and a natural athleticism that he had never had before. And yet another benefit was that when he was lifting and his body was for all intents and purposes weightless, his blood circulation was also improved dramatically. This, he had found, had helped him in keeping warm on the increasingly colder San Francisco nights. And was probably the only factor that kept him from having a raging case of hypothermia right now.

When he finally felt warm again, Tom picked up his cell phone and dialed Murray’s number to let him know what had happened with Marcus Bitterman. The way his friend chewed him out for his foolishness told Tom more than words how anxious he must have been. Tom apologized, but also maintained that he had had no choice in the matter. In awhile, after Pablo had finished venting, Tom told him what he needed.

“I’m pretty banged up, Penny Girl’s cousin got in a few good ones. I don’t think anything’s broken, but I think it’s time to call in that marker with Sawbones. Do we have his new address yet?”

“Yeah, he and his family moved into a new house out in Noe Valley. But how’re you gonna find it without the suit or any of your gear?”

“My truck has a detachable GPS unit. Just give me that address and I’ll use that.”

“Okay, good idea, Flyboy. I’ll give Sawbones a call first to make sure he’s available.”

Tom broke the connection, then pocketed the phone. He wasn’t planning on going into action again, so the rule about carrying something identifiable didn’t apply. He unhooked the portable GPS unit from his dashboard, typed the address Murray had given him, and then slid that into his pocket as well. He picked up the mask and gloves, but paused before donning them. Instead he looked into the rear view mirror and closely examined his face for the first time since the fight.

The sight made him wince. His nose was definitely broken—again—and his left eye was swollen half shut. The rest of his face was a mass of cuts and bruises, already swelling and turning some interesting shades of red and purple. The way his speeded up circulation worked, by the time he got to Dr. Samuel Dray’s house he could probably take the mask off without worrying about being recognized.

With a reluctant sigh Tom put the mask and gloves back on, wincing at the way the fabric and leather rubbed against the abraded flesh of his injuries. He stepped out of the truck and locked it, then stashed the keys under one wheel, in case he had to get someone else to retrieve the pickup. He took the GPS unit in one hand, then rose into the night and disappeared.

*****

Dr. Samuel Dray stood atop the roof of his new home, looking nervously into the night. It was a cool evening, but the trees in the postage stamp sized yard were good at blocking the wind, and the sheepskin coat he had hastily thrown on was actually keeping him uncomfortably warm. In his hands he held a flashlight, aimed at the sky, which he was repeatedly flicking on and off. He had been doing so for five minutes now, and he was beginning to feel kind of ridiculous.

Sam glanced around the wide flat area of the rooftop, with it’s wrought iron fence and two benches. A widow’s walk the real estate agent had called it. Very popular in houses by the sea. Supposedly designed so that the wives of sailors could come up here and gaze upon the ocean, watching and waiting for their men to come home. A pretty romantic tale, possibly even the truth, he supposed. Meg had loved it, and the realtor had used it as a selling point to get them to buy the old Edwardian house.

The romance part of the walk hadn’t interested Sam very much. But the fact that it would make a terrific landing pad had.

He looked around, seeing mostly darkness, his mind filling n the details of what was there. Even after two weeks it still amazed him that for the first time he actually owned a house. He had lived in one as a child, but most of his life had been spent in apartments or condominiums. He and Meg had always talked about actually getting one, someplace with a small yard for their son Jordan, but even after twelve years of marriage they had never gotten past the talking stage. The idea had never been more than an idle one they might never have actually pursued, if it hadn’t been for the fire at their old residence. The horror of almost losing their son had put the idle dream into a whole new perspective.

It was strange, he had found. Almost awkward, having an entire building all to yourselves. Having to think about things like gardening and lawn care, home maintenance, plumbing and electricity, property tax. All things that now, for the first time, they were actually responsible for. But Meg and Jordan loved it, and truth be told he was getting kind of used to it as well.

With a start, Sam realized that he had been so lost in thought that he had forgotten about the flashlight in his hand, and the whole reason he was out there. He aimed the light at the sky and started flicking the switch again, on then off, on then off, on…

“Here.”

Sam gasped at the voice that came from behind him, spun around, swinging the flashlight onto the figure that now hovered in the air at the other end of the widow’s walk. He gaped, as the man who saved the life of his only child slowly settled to the roof, then suddenly sagged to his knees like a puppet with it’s strings abruptly cut. Sam stared for a second longer, before the healer in him made him leap forward to help.

“Easy…easy…you’re ribs?” he asked, noticing the way his visitor favored his left side.

“Yeah. Got my head handed to me, too. Maybe a little concussed, but I don’t think anything is broken.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. I have an examining room on the top floor. Can you stand?”

His answer was a grunt, but the man in black managed to gain his feet readily enough with Sam’s aid. Five minutes later they had managed to negotiate their way down the narrow flight of stairs into the small office. Sam helped him onto the table, then began a careful examination in his most professional manner, using the power of a well established routine to keep his own wildly raging curiosity in order.

“Nice little clinic you’ve got set up here, Doctor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an X-ray machine in a private residence before. Must have cost a lot.”

“It’s an older model that’s spent the last four years gathering dust in a storage room at the hospital. I’ll use it soon to take a look at your ribs and cranium. I need you to lift your arm so I can remove your sweater and undershirt.”

“Owww! Ahh, damn,” his patient muttered, as Sam slowly disrobed him. The figure of a well muscled man in his early thirties was revealed, strong definition, good muscle tone, he noticed clinically. His front torso also seemed to be one massive collection of bruises and contusions, the result of an obvious fight in which Jordan’s ‘Fireman’ probably came in second. And if the large, round bruise directly over the pectoralis major gave any indication of his opponent’s fist, it was probably a miracle he was even alive!

“Doc?”

“Hmmm, no obvious signs of breaks, although I’d be surprised if there weren’t a few fractures. Have you been coughing up any blood? Any numbness or tingling in the extremities?”

“No.”

“Then I’d say there’s probably nothing immediately life threatening about those injuries, although we’ll need the X-rays to know for sure. Any blows below the belt that I should know about? Knees, feet, groin?”

“No, he never got a shot in below the waist, he was having too much fun pounding on the rest of me.”

“Alright, then, here comes the hard part. I need to see the rest of you. Can I remove your mask?”

Sam had expected a refusal, or at least a show of reluctance that he would have to overcome. But to his surprise the stranger merely nodded and bowed his head, as if to the inevitable. Sam carefully peeled the knitted mask off, wary of causing more damage.

Slowly he revealed a head of short dark hair, matted to the skull with both sweat and blood. Two gray eyes, the left one swollen almost all the way shut, but neither with dilated pupils, thank God. A nose, swollen and obviously broken, and bruises across much of the rest of the face that were already going from red to a darkened purple. Sam clucked his tongue as he examined the stranger with a professional’s eye that had often seen far worse.

An hour later, and Sam stood back giving his patient a final examination, as he peeled the latex gloves off of his hands and dropped them into the biologicals container. The X-rays had confirmed that the ribs were not broken, although two did have hairline fractures and everything else was badly bruised. His whole upper body was now wrapped securely in tape and elastic bandages. His left cheek and two gashes on the scalp had to have stitches, as had a cut over the swollen left eye.

“Take this medication for tonight, after that use Ibuprofen as needed for pain and swelling. And take the antibiotic as directed until they’re all gone. If you have any unusual redness or swelling, if you feel dizzy or light headed, don’t be stupid and try to macho it out. Get a hold of me right away.

“As for the ribs, you need to limit mobility so that they get a decent chance to knit. Keep them bound until-”

“Daddy? Mommy says – oh.”

Sam spun around, startled. The door to his home clinic stood open, his five year old son Jordan standing in the entrance. Sam stared, shocked for the moment, then heard his patient scrambling behind him. Sam quickly stepped to the side so that he now stood between him and Jordan, but he could see that it was too late.

“Daddy, whosezat?” Jordan asked, pointing. The little boy wore a pair of pajamas colorful with cowboys and Indians, and under one arm he carried his ever present toy bear, Bubba. He peered past his father with eyes grown large with curiosity, not the least bit shy at meeting a stranger here inside of his own house.

“Uhmm, no one, Jordan. It’s just one of Daddy’s patients. Now, what was it Mommy said?”

“I goin’ to bed now. Mommy said you s’posed to tuck me in.”

“Oh, right! It is my turn tonight, isn’t it? Well, c’mon Champ, let’s get you and Bubba downstairs. You brush your teeth yet?” Sam hurried forward, trying to gently herd his son out the open door, but in doing so he moved too much to one side, giving Jordan a brief glimpse of the man on the examining table with the bandaged ribs. The man who had just pulled his black mask back on.

“FIREMAN!” Jordan squealed, his high pitched voice piercing inside the small room. With a sudden burst of five year old energy he easily dodged past his father and threw himself at the legs of the man sitting on the examining table. “Fireman! Fireman! FIREMAN!”

Tom sighed, then gave in to the inevitable and slid off of the table. He bent down and took the excited little boy up into his arms, wincing as he did so. Jordan threw his arms around Tom’s eck, squeezing with remarkable strength for such a small package, causing Tom’s battered body even more distress.

“Oww! Hey, it’s good to see you too, Jordan, but can you please settle down some? I think you’re about to bust a couple of stitches there.”

Eventually the little boy calmed down, enough to realize that there was something wrong with his hero and savior. He tentatively touched the bandages wrapped around Tom’s upper body, looked at him out of eyes gone impossibly big and soulful. “You hurted?”

“Yeah, Sport, I did. I got hurt. But it’s not too bad and besides, your daddy is the best doctor in the whole world, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Jordan said, grinning hugely, reassured by a child’s total confidence that their parents could handle anything. “Can we go fly? Now?”

Tom threw back his head and laughed. Yeah, kids definitely have their own priorities. His own son Benny would have asked the same question. “Uh, well…”

“Didn’t a little someone just tell me it was time for him to go to bed?” Jordan’s father said, pointedly, as he took his son from Toms arms. The little boy’s face fell, as he realized the same thing. “But…”

“C’mon, Champ, you know the rules. You and Bubba Bear need your sleep. Bedtime. Now say goodnight to Mr. Fireman.”

Jordan gave Tom a beseeching look, but the hero could give him only a shrug in return. Rules were rules, especially Daddy’s. Jordan’s face fell, as he looked around for an excuse to stay up longer. He spotted it over his father’s shoulder.

“Mommy! Mommy, look, izza Fireman!” he squealed, at the wide eyed, pale faced woman standing in the open doorway. The little boy did not catch the pained looks that passed between his two heroes.

*****

Tom and Jordan sat on the examining table, where Tom was listening to the little boy happily describe his birthday party the week before. As he nodded and made the appropriate noises in all the right places, Tom also kept an eye on the other end of the room, where Sam Dray and his wife carried on an intense but subdued argument. Not a conversation, definitely an argument. Meg Dray obviously did not like having a masked man inside of her home, even if he was the one who had saved the life of her child.

When Jordan noticed the intense conversation that kept occupying Tom’s attention, he fell quiet and watched also. Tom was just beginning to feel uncomfortable, when Jordan turned to him and confided, “They’re speakin’ Russin.”

“Uh, what?”

“They’re speakin’ Russin. When Mommy gets mad, they speak Russin.”

“Oh. Well, do you know what they’re saying? Do you speak any Russian?”

“Nyet,” the little boy replied, then giggled mischievously. Behind his mask Tom grinned back at him, then made him giggle some more by tickling him under the ribs. He watched Sam and his wife arguing in hushed tones, and wondered what other languages Jordan’s parents might speak.

The argument, whatever it had been about, seemed to end with both parties still dissatisfied. But when the Drays made their way over to him and Jordan, Tom noticed that Sam dropped his gaze and would not look him in the eye. He took that as a bad sign. From the doorway she called to her child.

“Jordan, it’s past time for you to go to bed. Say good night to, to our guest,” Mrs. Dray instructed. She cast a quick glance at Tom, but otherwise refused to look at him at all. Jordan put up the expected protest, but eventually gave in with as much good grace as a five year old boy could. He gave Tom one last hug before slipping to the floor, picked up Bubba Bear and toddled over to his father. Sam gave Tom and his wife one last look before picking Jordan up and carrying him off, leaving the two of them alone.

He took a moment then to examine yet another person who now knew that he existed, knowing that she was doing the same to him. He saw a small woman, little more than five feet tall, with pixie cut blonde hair and a thin, athletic frame. She did look Russian, he decided, like a thirty something version of those Olympic athletes. Not a child gymnast, more like one of the figure skaters with the aristocratic features. She had her arms folded across her body, defensively. Tom thought she looked frightened, but also determined, as if she was about to do something she did not like but also knew had to be done. After a moment she stepped into the examining room and approached him.

Sam Dray’s wife and Jordan’s mother stopped a careful six feet away from Tom, taking a deep breath as if bracing herself, and then carefully looked him in the eye for the first time. He could almost feel the stone wall she was putting up between them. When she spoke, he could hear the accents of Eastern Europe in her words.

“My name is Margarithe Dray. My husband told me that you are the man who saved our son’s life. If this is so, then we owe you… there are no words. Jordan is everything to us. I thank you, and I thank God for sending you to us.”

She stopped, turning her head to wipe at eyes that had suddenly gone moist. The raw expression of a mother’s gratitude took Tom by surprise, and he found himself unable to respond with anything but a nod. The moment lasted for long seconds, but then Meg Dray’s face suddenly took on a resolute cast. The wall was back, and had grown even taller.

“But Sam also tells me that you are asking him to do something that might break the law. That might end his career, maybe even send him to jail. I am sorry, terribly sorry, I know it contradicts what I said before. But I cannot allow Sam to endanger our family in that way. I wish you well, and I will pray for you, but please. Go. Go and do not come back.”

“Mrs. Dray… look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cause you or Sam any trouble. Like I told your husband, I would never ask him to do anything that was against his principles, or involve him in anything dangerous.”

“He said you might have him treat you if you were ever shot, and then not report it! You know what that could do to him as a doctor. Everything he has worked so hard for, all the good he has accomplished, would be ruined by such a charge. And it would not be the only thing you would ask him to do, would it? There would be more. There is always more.”

“…Alright, I guess I can understand your concern. I’m a parent myself, and I would do anything to protect my son. But sometimes there are things, events, that are just so important that you have to take risks. Look, right now my people and I are working on a case involving children, dozens of them who are being abused and brutalized in ways—“

“NO! No, don’t tell me about them!” she snapped, holding up one hand, as if she would block whatever he was saying from touching her world. “The world is full of pain and suffering, I know that, but there is nothing I can do to end it. I feel for them, but they are strangers. Sam and Jordan are my family, and I must put them first, above all others.

“I know how this works, you see. I saw it happen with my parents. Just a small thing, nothing wrong, nothing really dangerous. Just break a little law, no worse than littering in the park, or speeding late at night on an empty street. But the next time it is something bigger, and the next even more. And then you are in and you cannot get out, until the time they come for you in the middle of the night and take you away.

“No! No, I will not allow that to happen to my family, nothing you can tell me is worth that risk. Just take your violence, and your temptations, and leave us. And don’t ever come back.”

“Meg!” Sam snapped from the doorway. He scowled at his wife, but she barely spared him a glance. She gave Tom one last, meaningful look, before turning around and walking past her husband and out of the room. The space she left behind was filled by an uncomfortable silence.

Sam stared at him, red faced with shame. “I—I’m…” he began, trying to apologize.

“Doc? Do you want to help me get this shirt on,” Tom cut in, his tone only a little stiff. “I’m still having trouble getting my arms above my head.”

Sam nodded, and helped Tom get dressed. He then went to his medicine cabinet and returned with a bottle of pills. “A pain reliever and an anti-inflammatory. Take one now, then one every four hours until the swelling goes down. If it doesn’t or if you have any other symptoms such as dizziness or bleeding from the ears or eyes, get back to me right away. And don’t wait for night time either, take a cab and see me either here or at the clinic. You have my number.”

Tom cocked his head, considering. “Didn’t I just hear someone lay down the law a few minutes ago? I thought from now on I was persona non grata here.”

The doctor scowled. “Despite what my wife says, I will never turn a patient away while they are still undergoing treatment. Until your injuries are better you are welcome here, at least in my office.”

“Uh huh. Thanks. But, what about afterwards? We need you, Sam. I know I said that I wouldn’t ask you to get involved it you didn’t want to, but you offered, and now a lot of our plans have been formed around you. Time is running out, and we need you.”

“I—,” the doctor began, but then stopped, looking away. Tom could see him searching for the words, trying to find some way to explain what had just happened in that room ten minutes earlier. He waited patiently, as Sam Dray ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

“As you probably already guessed, my wife was not born in this country. She was raised in Bulgaria, back when it was still part of the old Soviet Union. Her parents were teachers, full professors at the University of Sofia. Her father taught mathematics, her mother did something in the humanities, I’m not sure what.

“They were privileged, well educated people, very highly respected in there own little community. I… well, I guess that probably made them feel invulnerable. As if nothing bad could ever happen to people like them. They became involved with this group of politically active students, who spoke out just a little bit too hard against local governmental policies.”

Tom remembered Mrs. Dray’s words about her parents, about men coming in the night and taking them away. “They were arrested.”

“Yes. Her mother died in prison, her father was sent to a gulag somewhere in Siberia, nobody knows what happened to him. Meg was nine years old. She became a ward of the state, which means something different there than it does in this country. She doesn’t talk too much about those years.

“She has her parents genes, though, and did well in school. She studied languages, and eventually became a translator. After the fall of the Soviet Union in the early nineties, friends of her parents managed to get her a sponsor here in the states, and she eventually became a citizen. When we first met she was teaching Slavic languages at the Presidio.

“Does she still do that? Teach at the Presidio, I mean.”

“What? Uh, no. She stopped doing that when Jordan was born, she wanted to be a stay at home mother. In fact, now that he’s older and enrolled in kindergarten, Meg is going back to school. She’s taking some classes in Child Behavioral Psychology, she might even go for her degree.

“But the point is, no matter how successful Meg has become, or how stable her personal and professional life are, she can’t forget how easily it can all be taken away. She has a deep and abiding terror of any form of governmental authority. And now…”

“And I come along and save Jordan’s life, then turn around and threaten her entire family?” Tom finished. He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking about a problem that might not have an answer. Damn it, he needed Sam Dray, and for more than just his abilities as a doctor. When they found the kids and got them away from the Wings they would need psychiatric help, trauma experts, caregivers. Rape counselors. All personnel that Sam would already have access to, people who would not only be willing to help, but would also keep the whole operation a secret.

And they would also desperately need translators. With the Committee he had English, Spanish, and German covered, and with Molly Wu he had Cantonese and Mandarin Chinese. But Margarithe Dray could have added who knows how many Eastern European languages. He wanted to respect her wishes and leave the entire Dray family out of it, but how could he?

The cell phone in his back pocket broke the interlude, chiming loudly in the enclosed room. Tom hastily pulled it from his pocket, fumbling some with his swollen fingers. Sam looked at him with one raised eyebrow, as the theme music from an old 1960’s TV show played merrily from the cell.

“ ‘Batman’ ?” he asked.

“Never leave your cell phone unattended around a couple of computer geeks. Just a second.” Tom flipped the cell open as he stepped across the room bringing it to her ear. He was surprised to hear Dieter’s voice, instead of Pablo or Mike. The words were a little muffled through the mask, but he could hear the big German well enough.

“Flyboy, this is Beowulf. We have an urgent situation developing. Tinker says that you were injured. How badly? Can you still perform?”

Tom blinked. Crap, all he wanted to do was head home, soak in a hot tub, and sleep for about forty years. But Dieter wouldn’t be asking this if this wasn’t important. “Uh, about 75 to 80 percent. I’m beat, but still functional. What gives?”

“Renfield called,” he answered, giving Lord Bennett’s code name. “He says that one of the Dark Wings stopped at the club for a drink, and told him that he was on his way to deliver a ‘package’ to one of their clients. It must be one of the children. Bennett is in his car following them now, they seem to be heading to Pacific Heights. If you get there in time…”

Dieter let the thought taper off, knowing that Tom would be thinking the exact same thing. If he could get there in time, he could follow the Dark Wing driver back to wherever they kept their captives. This was the break they desperately needed to rescue those children, and hopefully put an end to the whole damned evil little empire for good. It didn’t matter, then, how badly Tom was hurt. Nothing short of the Apocalypse would stop him from going. After a few more words he pocket the phone, then paused to look around the room. He saw what he needed in a corner and quickly strode over. An array of crutches and canes leaned against the wall, ready for use as needed by Sam Dray’s patients.

Under the mask Tom smiled grimly as he chose a plain, hooked rattan cane, identical to the one he had used the night he had first tried on the mantle of the super hero. This mission was supposed to be strictly reconnaissance, he shouldn’t have any need for weapons. But he couldn’t deny it made him feel stronger just to hold the familiar weight again.

“Mind if I borrow this?”

*****

David Bennett wiped the fog from his car window for the second time, peering out anxiously into the street. One lone streetlight at the end of the block provided illumination, meaning almost everything around him was a sea of gray shadow and complete darkness. He wanted a cigarette, but he was afraid the light would make him stand out like a neon sign. Dave used to like the dark, but these days it only made him nervous.

It made him feel edgy now, looking out at the line of row houses across the street. They were all narrow, three story Victorians, crowded next to each other like slices in a loaf of bread. He hated those kinds of houses, always had, even though San Francisco was famous for them. He always thought they looked like the fingers of a clawed hand, reaching for the sky. He tried not to think things like that, told himself it was damned stupid for a grown man to be spooked by a bunch of hundred year old homes. But then he remembered that he was sitting in a car in the middle of the night, waiting to meet with a fucking vampire.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that stupid.

Bennett sat and watched the darkened house, going over and over in his head exactly what he would tell the Master about how he got here tonight in the first place. Like how the guy from Delger’s crew stopped in and had too much to drink. No, wait, how ¬he had recognized the guy, and had got him drunk. Yeah. And then the guy had told him he was making a delivery for Delger, so he had followed the guy straight to here. No, wait, the guy had driven around a lot, making sure he wasn’t tailed. But Dave was too slick for that, he’d stuck to him like glue on a postage stamp. Yeah, that sounded good. He’d go with that. What else?

Bennett’s car suddenly shook, as with a loud thump! something heavy landed on it’s roof. Bennett jumped, shrinking down into his seat, then choked back a scream as gloved knuckles knocked on his window. He swallowed, briefly considered starting the car and driving like a bat out of hell out of there, but just as quickly decided that would be a very bad idea. He had no doubt who was rapping on his window. He quickly lowered it, letting a wash of cold damp air into the car.

“Where?” a familiar voice asked. Just the one word, nothing else, but Bennett had no trouble understanding what was required.

“Ac-cross the street. The house on the end of the row,” he answered, stuttering just a little bit.

“Which end, Puppy?” the voice came again, a little annoyed this time. The faint accent was there, just as he had remembered it.

“Right, the one on the right! The kid’s in there,” he answered hastily. Not Russian, he’d heard enough Russian to know the difference. Fuck, that must be what for real Transylvanian talk sounded like! He shivered with delight at the thought, feeling the excitement of a fan finding out a personal secret about his idol.

“And the other? The man who delivered the child here?”

“What, Delger’s guy? He took off, just walked the kid to the door and gave him to some guy, then he booked. I mean, he’s gotta come back for the kid in a couple of hours anyway, so why risk following him when he’s probably just getting some coffee, you know? So I figured you’d want me to stick around and watch the house. Was that okay?” The very last thing he wanted to do was to piss his new master off, especially the first time he asked him to do something. Bennett held his breath as he waited for the answer.

It was a short time before the answer came, the wait bearing on Bennett’s nerves. “You did well, Puppy. Go home.”

There was another lurch of the car, and Bennett knew that as suddenly as he had arrived the vampire was now gone, unseen. Bennett quickly rolled up the window, started the car and drove off. It was still early, he could hit a few clubs and maybe do some more business, but his master had told him to go home and that’s exactly what he would do.

His heart was still pounding, but a smile was also pulling at the corners of his mouth. In fact, he was almost giggling like a little kid. His first assignment, and he had done well. The vampire was pleased with him! He felt a rush of pure pleasure, not unlike a real puppy who had just won the approval of its master.

This was so fucking cool!

*****

Tom flew straight upwards, well above the weak nimbus of light coming from the poorly lit street, then circled around the house that was his target and came in from the rear. Like most of the properties here, there was a postage stamp sized backyard, with an overlarge tree that looked to be at least fifty or sixty years old. He came down slowly, checking the windows for light, but found them all dark. A closer look at the first two floors showed that the windows were covered with heavy drapes, but even the cracks around the edges showed no escaping light.

But the third, topmost floor gave the first sign of occupation. Probably because they were so high off the ground, the residents had been careless about drawing the curtains all the way closed, and a two inch gap between them allowed a spill of light. Tom kneeled on the side of the building just below the windowsill, and peered inside.

The third floor of the house was a converted attic, long and narrow, running the length of the building. The floor of the room was bare wooden planks, the two side walls leaning in to form the peeked roof at the center. The walls were unpaneled, showing the beams and bare framework that was the exposed skeleton of the building. The long room was mostly empty, with a few old trunks and suitcases, and dusty cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly in various corners. The light that came through the window originated at the far end of the room, near the front of the house. It took Tom a few moments to make out the three forms in that well lit area.

The first figure he saw was a tall blond man, young, maybe twenty to twenty five. The man was shirtless and barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of blue jeans held up by a leather belt with a large silver western style buckle. Across from his was a bed, small with a sturdy metal frame, the kind of cot Tom instantly recognized from his Army days. On the cot huddled a small boy, blond like the man, but wearing only a pair white cotton underwear. The boy was shivering, and had his arms wrapped around skinny knees that were brought up to his chest. He eyed the man across from him warily, unmoving, like the rabbit frozen by the sight of the snake.

The light came from two powerful lamps with reflectors, mounted on tripods and set against the back wall. Between them and almost invisible because of the glare, was a chair occupied by an old man. Thin and completely bald, he wore a long sleeved green sweater, and a pair of khaki pants that were undone and pooled around his ankles. One hand rested at his crotch, the other held a video camera to his eye. He was talking, and Tom could faintly hear his voice through the glass window. He seemed to be giving directions to the man in the blue jeans.

Tom wrenched himself away from the window, rolling onto his back. His breath was rasping harshly in his ears, and he felt like every muscle in his body was clenched as tight as a fist. He couldn’t stand by and let that kid, that little boy be raped by those two monsters. No way in hell. But if he broke in and rescued him, he could be risking the lives of the other thirty nine kids held by the Wings.

The Dark Wing Boyz would know that they were under attack maybe even by the police. They had already shown that they considered these children to be nothing more than a business asset, and when an asset became a liability they did not hesitate to dispose of it. ‘Dispose’, as in kill. Thirty nine dead children, to save one little boy from two hours of hell. No man should have to make that kind of choice.

It would be over in a couple of hours, and then the boy would be taken back to the crib where the rest of Taktarov and Delger’s victims were kept. When they came back for him Tom could follow, find out where the crib was, and then organize a rescue. Forty young lives saved from hell, including the little boy behind those curtains right now. He couldn’t argue the logic, yet how could he live with himself if he followed that path?

Damn it, damnit, DAMNIT! The boy had been violated before, this was nothing new to him. He’d survive. He’d survive. Just two hours. Just two more…

Tom grasped the cane in both hands and leapt.