One Week Later...
"Sort of. You can probably tell I didn't train 'em. I was hired to escort them and make sure they get that lady in custody." I pull my bow and arrow out and level my aim right between Cap's eyes. With the skills of Hawkeye and Bullseye at my disposal, Rogers knows that I can make the shot without much trouble, especially as he doesn't have his shield at the moment.
Without missing a beat, I pull another arrow out and let it fly directly towards his throat, and he would have never been able to raise his shield in time to block the shot at this close range if it weren't for his super-soldier reflexes, but it gives me an opening to press the attack.
"Sure, you've got your honest boyscout reputation, but I wouldn't put it passed you to try and bluff your way out of a bad situation to save the damsel in distress."
With the Avenger distracted, I pull out another one of Spider-Man's moves from my repertoire and maneuver my legs up and around Captain America, and use them to pull him off of me. I've got the skills, but no matter how hard I train, Rogers'll always have the edge over me in strength and speed. I can't let myself forget that again. I--
The H4H-Mobile - really wish that name hadn't stuck - is actually just a white 2003 Cadillac Escalade. It's missing a rim and has some exterior rust. It has over one-hundred-eighty-thousand miles on it. Best of all, it gets a whopping eleven miles-per-gallon. "God, this thing is a piece of junk," I remark as we approach the vehicle.
Little Rock, Arkansas
The Four stolen armored cars cruised along main street as fast as their heavy laden frames allowed. A number of police patrol cars form a loose square around the armored cars, sirens blaring. Behind them is an odd column of emergency vehicles made up of several other patrol cars, two swat vans, three ambulances and a firetruck.
It can hardly be called a high speed chase but it is a chase nonetheless. The officers in the squad cars, who have been at this for the better part of their morning, are frustrated and in some cases, angry. One exasperated officer, a young man who wears an expression of somber rage, leans out of the window of his vehicle and continuously fires away with side arm at the driver of the lead armored car. The driver of the car, an older man with a thick mustache and stripes on his shoulders, does nothing to reign the young officer in.
Inside the armored car the Wrecker smiles toothily. He's pretty sure he killed that cop's partner this morning. Serves him right if he did.
Several blocks away security guards at the Metropolitan National Bank help usher customers and staff to safety, behind them are a number of police officers manning a line made up of three squad cars.
The senior officer shouts hurried words of encouragement and the stolen armored cars come loping around the corner a few moments later with numerous police vehicles in pursuit in tow.
The men on the line nervously and tighten their grips on their weapons. Its been all over the radios. They know what's coming.
The armored cars lazily come to a halt, repeating a routine they have performing while robbing seven banks in the span of 4 hours.
Dozens of car doors open in unison and a precinct's worth of officers focus their attention on the armored cars as their doors, which have been pounded with bullets but remain intact, are also opened and four huge men in bold costumes step out onto the pavement.
The officers nearest them waste no time in opening fire.
The wrecking Crew mostly ignore the gunfire. Piledriver, being the exception. He taunts the officers and mocks at being hurt before bursting out in a full on fit of laughter with his hands on his knees and his sides shaking even as the bullets pinged off of him.
Thunderball follows Piledriver with his eyes then fires a look in the Wrecker's direction. The Wreckers acknowledges the look with a look of impatience. Thunderball thought Piledriver was having too much fun. For weeks he had been talking about how it was time to get serious. Frankly, The Wrecker didn't care. All he cared about was that the day was turning out to be a great one.
"Lookit these idiots." The Wrecker says over his shoulder to Bulldozer "This is all they've got to through at us."
"Heheh. Yeah. You were right Wrecker. We shoulda come here ages ago." Bulldozer replies before he lowers his head and sets off running at the barricade of police cars.
His feet leave deep imprints in the pavement with every step and The Wrecker laughs heartily as he watches him plough through the parked cars as if hey were nothing more than empty cardboard boxes. There were no capes in Arkansas. At least none that he knew of, and the national guard was at war somewhere. Hell even if the National Guard was here its not like they could do anything to stop them.
"Who's turn is it?" Thunderball asks as he casually tosses his wrecking ball through several in the haphazard array of parked vehicles behind the foursome. He tugs at the chain and the massive ball comes roaring back, upturning vehicles and churning up asphalt.
"My turn!" Piledriver declares excitedly. He's straightened up now and he cracks his knuckles them interlocks his fingers and turns his palms outwards till he hears them pop.
"Then get on with it. We've still got a few more banks to hit before we're through." The Wreckers directs as he takes several menacing steps towards a trio of officers with shotguns. The men bravely hold their ground long enough to let off of a few shouts before turning and racing for the relative safety of their vehicles.
Piledriver has already made his way to the door of the bank and he rips it off its hinges and leisurely makes his way inside. He would be back in a few minutes with as much money as he could carry and he would load it into his armored car. He would repeat the process until the bank's vault was empty while the rest of the Wrecking Crew guarded the four armored cars and the millions in hard currency they had already stolen.
The Wrecker grins and turns to Thunderball.
"Well?"
"I have to hand it to you Wrecker." Thunderball concedes. "So far so good."
This Wrecker's chest seems to visibly puff out when he hears this. He stands a bit taller, his head held a bit higher. Thunderball hadn't just been complaining about Piledriver. He'd been moaning about how they hadn't made any real money in a long time. Sure he was right, but it wasn't Dirk's fault there were so many damn heroes always sticking their noses into their business.
That's what had given him the idea to come to Arkansas. He had asked around and as far as anybody knew, Arkansas had no superheroes. Word is there used to be one, but he turned out to be a skrull. A Skrull! It blew the Wreckers mind that they had that kinda craziness here but had not a cape who could give them trouble.
Regardless, Thunderball's words of praise had filled a sense of narcissistic self satisfaction. It is a feeling he relishes, but one that is doomed to be short lived.
"So what happens after we hit all the banks?" Thunderball asks
"Whadya mean?" The Wrecker replies tentatively. His self satisfaction having suddenly been replaced with something that approaches doubt without quite getting there.
Thunderball's face is serious "I mean how are we going to get all of this money out of town without bringing all these cops, probably some helicopters and god knows how many news vans with us? When you said you had a great idea I assumed it was a whole great idea and not just half of one."
"I...uh..." The Wrecker stammers as he realizes that he doesn't actually have a plan for what happens next. Leaving a sour Thunderball to shake his head while an oblivious Bulldozer charges into a row of police cars and a gleeful Piledriver flings two large sacks of cash into the back of an armored car.
Four Weeks Ago
Marc Spector steps out of the just landed private jet and into the dull gray predawn light of the New York morning. He takes a deep, satisfying breath, taking in the still cold early morning air, then waves at the man waiting for him next to an all black S-class Mercedes Sedan.
The man, who nods politely in response, is tall and slightly heavy set with sharp gray eyes that look that they don't miss much and and thinning salt and pepper hair.
"Sir." He says with a thin smile as he opens the back door of the sedan for Marc "Its good to have you back."
"Thanks Samuels." Marc responds as he puts a hand on the man's shoulder "Its good to be back."
"You're looking well." Samuels observes as Marc lowers himself into the back seat.
Marc smiles at him
"I feel well." he replies "And this time I'm here to stay."
"Of course Sir." Samuels says before shutting the door. He's too polite to say it, but he's heard that before. Marc doesn't blame him for having his doubts. Samuels was not just a employee, he was an old friend, one of a precious few, and like all of Marc's old friends, he had seen his him at his absolute worst and stuck by him. It was something Marc was forever grateful for and something he long ago promised himself would never happen again.
This time really is going to be different. This time, he's finally whole.
***
Now
[FONT="]They call it the Deep End. 20 years ago this stretch of New York's harbor front would have been alive with the sounds of commerce. That was before new developments, including a modern dock further North pulled all the business away. Fewer and fewer ships began docking here. Warehouses closed. Business moved elsewhere. And as they left vagrants, junkies and gangs moved in to take their place. New York simply didn't have the money to reclaim and revitalize the harbor. So the city instead chooses to go about its business, all the while pretending that the problem doesn't exist.
But not everyone is so good at pretending. Moon Knight has been patrolling the Deep End for the better part of the past two weeks. Though he's intervened to prevent the odd crime here and there he has mostly chosen to remain unseen, to watch and gather information. His efforts have led him here, to the shadow of an abandoned warehouse coated with thick dust and adorned with broken windows. He sits perched on the edge of the derelict structure, peering into the darkened alley below.[/FONT] Sits and watches as a dark brown van with no license plates pulls up to a group of young men who all sport a variety of gang tattoos. The men have been spending their time rolling dice in the back of the alley and as the van approaches the largest of the men, a muscle bound latino man with a thick goatee and shaven head, stands up and makes his way towards it.
All the van's door open simultaneously and six men emerge, two from the front and four from the back. Marc immediately notices that the men stepping out of the back of the van all sport sub machine guns. He presses a receiver built into his cowl right next to his left ear and begins listening in to the conversation taking place below via a transmitter placed earlier.
"You're late." The Latino man says to the driver of the van "And you're packing a lot more heat than usual."
"Yeah well Boar said to take extra precautions." The driver, a fat man with slicked back hair and a leather jacket replies "Word is you've got a new hero operating in the Deep End."
The Latino man makes a mocking sound and waves his hand dismissively at the driver "You believe that crap?"
"Don't you?"
"Heeeelll no. Heroes don't play in the deep end. 'Sides If there was a hero down here I'd know about it. Junkies hallucinatin' is all it is man. They get high and start seeing things."
"Maybe" the driver says with a shrug of his sloped shoulders "All I know is the boss says take extra precautions so I take extra precautions."
"Fair enough." The Latino says "Lets do this thing."
The driver nods and gestures to the four men with submachine guns who let their weapons hang loose off of their bodies by the straps and start unloading boxes out of the back of the van. The latino man watches them for work for a moment then waves his men over to receive the delivery.
SHUKK
"AARRRGGHHH!!" The Latino man screams and holds up the hand he had just been waving. There is a silver crescent is embedded in the flesh.
"Oh Crap!" The driver blurts out as he stares at the crescent and rapidly puts two and two together. He opens his mouth to say something but is immediately silenced by three projectiles which knock him off his feet and pin him to the pavement.
With both leaders down chaos suddenly dominates the alleyway. Weapons are drawn, curses are shouted and in the middle of it all, two more dealers go down. A third feels something moving in the darkness behind him and turns around in time for the sole of a boot to hit him in the mouth, knocking out teeth and leaving him unconscious on the ground. His nearest colleague turns towards the sound and fires wildly. The rounds might have hit another of the dealers if not for the fact that a leg sweep brings the man down and out of the firing line.The shooter is about to fire again a flourish of white fabric fills his line of sight. He screams as his weapon is knocked from his hands, then is immediately silenced as a fist strikes him on the left temple.
Only two dealers remain now and they are of the tattooed dice shooting variety. They raise their side arms in Moon Knight's direction but he's too fast for them and his open palm flashes out in their direction, firing small sharpened crescents in the process. The crescents dig deep into the ink covered flesh of their arms, making them recoil in pain and giving Moon Knight the opportunity he needs to close the distance between him and them. He dispatches the first man with a snap kick to the chin and spins into a backhand that floors the second.
Relative silence, highlighted by a few groans and one man's pained sobbing, fills the air in the alleyway as Moon Knight straightens and allows his cloak to fall over his shoulders. He ignores the men and walks purposefully towards one of the crates from the back of the van. Armored fingers dig into the crate and rip the top off revealing row after row of small capsules of Mutant Growth Hormone.
Moon Knight looks at the drugs in disgust then takes a few menacing steps towards the muscle bound Latino man with the crescent in his hand. The man is still conscious but he's on the ground and his teeth are gritted in pain. He's lost enough blood to be woozy, but not enough for his life to be threatened and Moon Knight shows no sympathy as he grabs him by the shoulders and roughly drags him to his feet.
"Hello Tank." Moon Knight growls, using the man's street name "I've got some question for you."
