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The bullet broke the pharmacy window before Alex heard the gunshot.
Safety glass burst inward across a display of discounted vitamins, sending everyone near the entrance diving for the floor. Alex was already moving. He dropped behind a newspaper stand outside, one hand closing around the white paper bag he had collected less than thirty seconds earlier, and looked through the confusion of headlights and pedestrians toward the opposite side of Lexington Avenue.
The shooter stood beside a parked delivery van. He wore a dark coat and knitted cap, ordinary enough to disappear into the city until anyone looked closely at the compact rifle tucked beneath his arm. He had chosen a suppressor rather than complete concealment, which suggested that he expected the situation to be finished quickly. A second man was approaching from the north, forcing his way against the people running in the opposite direction. Alex saw the wire behind his ear and the controlled way his right hand remained near his jacket.
Two visible. Probably one in the van. Another covering the intersection would have been sensible.
It was considerably more attention than a pharmacy collection should have attracted.
Alex pushed himself upright and ran.
A taxi leaned on its horn as he cut across the avenue, landing on the hood of a black SUV before vaulting over it. The driver shouted something through the windshield. Alex hit the opposite sidewalk without slowing, the pharmacy bag folded against his ribs beneath his coat.
The second gunman followed him into traffic.
That was useful. It meant their orders placed a higher value on recovering what Alex carried than on avoiding witnesses. It also meant Meridian Defense Solutions had either become desperate or had never been especially concerned about American law enforcement.
Neither possibility improved his evening.
Alex turned onto East Fifty-Fourth Street and nearly collided with a woman walking three small dogs. He caught the edge of a construction barrier and used it to swing around her without stepping into the road. Behind him, the gunman knocked one of the leads from the woman’s hand and continued without apologizing.
Definitely a professional.
Alex reached the scaffolding outside an office building. Instead of remaining beneath it, he jumped, caught a horizontal bar, and hauled himself onto the first level. His shoes struck metal as pedestrians scattered below. The gunman fired again, rounds punching through plywood where Alex’s legs had been.
The fire escape above him was six feet away.
Alex crossed the scaffolding in three steps, jumped, and caught the lowest railing with both hands. His shoulders jolted. He swung once, hooked one foot through the bars, and dragged himself high enough to climb over.
A dark shape dropped from the sky.
For one startled moment, Alex thought the gunmen had brought someone with a parachute. Then the figure twisted in midair, red and blue against the gray buildings, and a thin strand snapped outward from his wrist.
The pursuing gunman was lifted off his feet.
He flew backward with a strangled shout, the rifle torn from his hands by a second strand of webbing. It struck the side of the building and remained there, suspended twenty feet above the sidewalk.
Spider-Man landed in a crouch on the fire escape.
Alex stared at him.
Spider-Man straightened and looked over the railing at the gunman hanging upside down below. “Okay, that was a real gun. I was hoping it was maybe some kind of paintball thing, but that was definitely not a paintball thing.”
The white lenses of his mask narrowed as he turned toward Alex.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Great. Good. Stay here.”
Alex stepped backward.
Spider-Man pointed at him. “Seriously. Right there. Don’t move.”
The first shooter emerged at the end of the street and raised his rifle.
Spider-Man’s head turned before Alex heard the weapon fire.
He moved with impossible speed. One moment he stood in front of Alex; the next he had thrown himself sideways, one arm locking around Alex’s waist as a burst of bullets struck the brickwork behind them. The railing bent beneath Spider-Man’s feet. He jumped, carrying Alex with him, and they swung out over the street.
Alex had fallen from buildings, aircraft, and mountains. He had once crossed a flooded mine shaft inside a shopping cart. None of those experiences made being carried between Manhattan buildings by a stranger in red tights especially enjoyable.
“Put me down,” he said.
“What?”
“Put me down.”
“We’re four stories up.”
“I noticed.”
Spider-Man released the web line at the top of the swing. They rose toward the next building, and the arm around Alex tightened as the shooter fired again. Spider-Man twisted so the rounds passed beneath them. They cleared the roof edge and landed beside a row of humming ventilation units. He released Alex and immediately turned back toward the street.
“Stay here,” he repeated.
Alex looked toward the opposite edge of the roof. An adjoining building stood eight feet away and one floor lower.
Spider-Man followed his gaze.
“Don’t.”
Alex ran.
He reached the edge, planted one foot on the parapet, and jumped. Wind caught at his coat. His shoes hit the next roof hard enough to jar his ankles, but he converted the impact into a roll and came back to his feet.
Behind him, Spider-Man made a sound of disbelief.
Alex crossed the roof and dropped onto a maintenance ladder bolted to the side of the building. He descended quickly, ignoring the rust beneath his palms. By the time Spider-Man reached the edge above, Alex had already swung onto a balcony and forced open the door to an empty office.
He crossed between darkened desks, left through the stairwell, and removed his coat as he went. The pharmacy bag was small enough to fit beneath his sweatshirt. He folded the coat over one arm, reversed the charcoal scarf around his neck to show its pale blue side, and descended three floors before leaving the stairwell through another office.
The elevators were still operating. Alex entered one beside an accountant carrying a cardboard box and a woman speaking angrily into her phone.
Neither gave him a second glance.
He left through the lobby and joined the crowd moving toward Third Avenue.
He had gone half a block when a red shape dropped onto a lamppost ahead of him.
Spider-Man hung upside down from a strand of webbing, bringing his masked face level with Alex’s.
“That,” he said, “was the opposite of staying there.”
Several pedestrians stopped to take photographs.
Alex continued walking.
Spider-Man swung down and landed beside him. “You jumped between buildings.”
“It was a small gap.”
“It was eight feet.”
“Then you measured it.”
“I have a computer in my suit.”
“That sounds unnecessary.”
“It’s useful. Usually.” Spider-Man fell into step with him. “Right now she’s mostly asking why a seventeen-year-old has a Level Seven SHIELD clearance.”
Alex stopped.
Spider-Man stopped too.
Traffic moved steadily beside them. People passed on either side, some openly staring at the costumed vigilante and others apparently determined to pretend that Spider-Man did not exist. New York, Alex thought, had developed an unusual approach to crisis management.
“How do you know my clearance?” he asked.
“My suit scanned you.”
“You scan people without permission?”
Spider-Man’s lenses widened. “That is not what happened.”
“It sounds remarkably like what happened.”
“You were being shot at.”
“So naturally you searched my records.”
“I didn’t search them. Karen did.”
Alex glanced at the surrounding buildings. “Karen.”
“The computer.”
“You named your surveillance system Karen.”
“I didn’t name her. Mr. Stark did. That isn’t the point.”
“Who is Mr. Stark?”
Spider-Man stared at him.
Alex allowed the silence to continue.
“You’re joking,” Spider-Man said eventually.
“Perhaps.”
“The point is that your passport says Alexander Reed, but there’s a restricted SHIELD file attached to it. My suit can’t open most of it.”
“Good.”
“It says you have Level Seven clearance.”
“That sounds like information your suit should not be sharing.”
“Most SHIELD agents don’t have Level Seven clearance.”
“That sounds like their problem.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“I am aware.”
“And your passport was issued less than two years ago, but it has a fully authenticated history going back to your birth.”
Alex resumed walking. “Then it appears to be a very good passport.”
“That isn’t how records work.”
“You should raise the matter with SHIELD.”
“Do you work for SHIELD?”
“No.”
“You have higher clearance than most of their agents.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Carefully.”
Spider-Man moved in front of him, walking backward. “Who were those people?”
“I don’t know.”
“One of them tried to shoot you with an assault rifle.”
“I noticed.”
“Why?”
“You could ask him.”
“He bit through something in his collar while I was tying him up, and now he’s unconscious.”
Alex had expected that. A sedative capsule rather than cyanide suggested Meridian still intended to retrieve captured personnel. Their employer valued discretion, but not enough to kill trained operatives unnecessarily.
“He’ll wake up,” Alex said.
“That is not reassuring.”
“It was not intended to be.”
Spider-Man continued walking backward. “Okay. New idea. We call the police.”
“No.”
“The FBI?”
“No.”
“SHIELD?”
“No.”
“Someone’s parents?”
Alex gave him a flat look.
Spider-Man hesitated. “Your parents?”
“They’re dead.”
The answer stopped him.
Alex walked past.
Spider-Man caught up several seconds later. The rapid edge had gone from his voice when he spoke again. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
That was true of his parents. It was less true of Jack, but Spider-Man had not asked about her.
“Do you have an emergency contact?” Spider-Man asked.
“Yes.”
“Great. Call them.”
“No.”
Spider-Man stopped again. “Why not?”
“Because this is not an emergency.”
“You were shot at outside a pharmacy.”
“They missed.”
“That does not make it less of an emergency.”
“It does to my emergency contact.”
“Who is this person?”
“Someone I would rather not involve unless New York is actively exploding.”
Spider-Man glanced toward the shattered pharmacy window behind them, the suspended rifle, and the unconscious gunman still hanging from the fire escape.
“I feel like we’re getting close.”
They reached a subway entrance. Alex descended the steps, aware that Spider-Man remained behind him despite the people turning to look. The costume was not suited to anonymity. Neither, apparently, was Spider-Man’s personality.
Alex used his MetroCard and passed through the turnstile.
Spider-Man vaulted over it.
“That is fare evasion,” Alex said.
“I’m trying to save your life.”
“It remains illegal.”
“You were carrying three passports.”
“You cannot prove any of them are false.”
“Karen identified conflicting biometric data.”
“Your computer has already violated my privacy. I doubt its testimony would be admissible.”
Spider-Man was silent for a moment.
“You sound like my debate coach.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
The platform was crowded. Alex moved toward the far end, checking reflections in the tiled walls and dark windows of an advertisement display. No obvious pursuit. The two men outside the pharmacy might have been the entire recovery team, although he doubted it. Elias Varga had not survived fourteen years in illegal arms procurement by relying on a single approach.
Spider-Man remained beside him.
“You should leave,” Alex said.
“Because the mercenaries might come back?”
“Because you are attracting attention.”
“I’m Spider-Man. People notice me.”
“Yes. That is the problem.”
The train entered with a rush of warm air. Alex waited until the doors opened, then allowed the crowd to carry him inside. Spider-Man followed.
A little boy near the door gasped.
Spider-Man raised one hand. “Hey.”
The boy stared at him in delight. His mother stared at Alex with considerably more suspicion, as though he might be responsible for bringing a masked vigilante onto public transportation.
The doors closed.
Alex took hold of a metal pole as the train began moving. Spider-Man stood opposite him, apparently unconcerned by the way half the carriage had taken out their phones.
“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asked.
“Home.”
“You live in New York?”
“No.”
“Then where are you going?”
“To where I’m staying.”
“Which is where?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember where you’re staying?”
“I have had a difficult evening.”
Spider-Man’s lenses narrowed. “You’re lying.”
“That seems an impolite accusation.”
“I can hear your heartbeat.”
Alex looked at him more carefully.
The suit concealed most of Spider-Man’s body, but not the slightness of his build or the way he held himself when he was not actively fighting. His voice had been electronically altered, deepened enough to obscure his age, but its rhythm remained younger. He spoke too quickly when nervous and filled silence before it could become uncomfortable. The jokes were not the practiced performance of an adult trying to unsettle an opponent. They were defensive.
“You’re a teenager,” Alex said.
Spider-Man went still.
The train rattled through the tunnel.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m definitely an adult.”
“You just committed fare evasion because you probably do not carry money inside that suit.”
“Adults can forget money.”
“You mentioned a debate coach.”
“That proves nothing.”
“You also said the suit was given to you by someone else because you did not choose the computer’s name. You are local, but you still treat the subway as somewhere you can enter in costume without causing a security response. You are either extremely stupid or young enough to believe being difficult to kill makes consequences optional.”
“I’m not bulletproof.”
“That does not improve the argument.”
The train slowed as it approached the next station.
Spider-Man leaned closer. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“All of that.”
“I listened.”
The doors opened.
Alex moved with the passengers toward the exit, then changed direction at the last moment and slipped through the connecting door into the next carriage. Spider-Man followed easily across the gap.
“You’re avoiding the question,” he said.
“You have avoided every question I asked about you.”
“Because I have a secret identity.”
“So do I.”
“You have three.”
“That sounds safer.”
A sharp electronic sound came from Spider-Man’s suit.
He turned his head.
Alex saw the change in his posture immediately. “What is it?”
“My computer found an encrypted radio frequency.” Spider-Man raised one hand toward the side of his mask. “Karen, can you isolate it?”
A woman’s voice answered from inside the suit, too quiet for most of the carriage to hear. Alex caught only fragments.
Frequency hopping. Three transmitters. Proximity.
Alex looked toward the passengers.
A man in a brown leather jacket stood near the opposite doors, apparently studying the subway map. His shoes were too clean for the weather, and the tendons in his right wrist tightened as Alex watched. Farther down the carriage, a woman in a navy coat held her phone at an angle that concealed her left hand.
The third transmitter was not inside the train.
Alex dropped.
The window behind him shattered.
The shot passed through the space where his head had been and struck an advertisement above the seats. Passengers screamed. The man in the leather jacket pulled a pistol from beneath his coat.
Spider-Man moved first.
Webbing sealed the weapon to the man’s hand. A second strand caught his chest and slammed him against the carriage wall. The woman drew a compact stun baton and drove it toward Spider-Man’s side.
Alex caught her wrist with both hands, turned beneath her arm, and forced her elbow against the metal pole. She grunted as the baton fell. Alex kicked it beneath the seats.
The train entered another station.
A figure on the platform raised a rifle toward the broken window.
“Down!” Spider-Man shouted.
He threw himself across the carriage as the weapon fired. Webbing spread between the poles in a broad sheet, catching the rounds before they reached the passengers. The impact drove Spider-Man backward, but he remained upright.
Alex grabbed the emergency release beside the door.
The train had not fully stopped. The doors shuddered open, leaving a gap between the carriage and the platform.
Alex jumped.
He hit the concrete, rolled, and came up beneath the rifleman’s aim. The man tried to lower the weapon. Alex drove one shoulder into his knees, taking him down, and caught the rifle before it struck the ground.
He ejected the magazine, worked the action to clear the chamber, and threw the separated pieces in opposite directions.
The rifleman reached for a knife.
Alex stomped on his wrist.
Spider-Man emerged from the train upside down, one hand attached to the carriage roof. He looked from Alex to the disassembled rifle and the man pinned beneath Alex’s shoe.
“You know how to unload that.”
“I watch documentaries.”
“You cannot keep saying stuff like that.”
The woman appeared behind Spider-Man with the stun baton.
Alex saw her first. “Move.”
Spider-Man twisted, but the baton struck his shoulder before he could avoid it completely. Electricity flashed across the suit. He dropped hard onto the platform.
Alex kicked the rifleman’s knife away and ran toward the woman. She swung the baton horizontally. He ducked beneath it, struck the inside of her elbow, and drove the heel of his hand beneath her chin. Her head snapped back. Alex caught the front of her coat, used her momentum to turn her, and sent her into a tiled pillar.
The baton clattered to the ground.
Spider-Man pushed himself upright. Smoke curled faintly from one shoulder.
“You okay?” Alex asked.
“Yeah.” His voice had lost some of its electronic distortion. “Suit took most of it.”
“That is what the suit is for?”
“It has a lot of features.”
The rifleman lunged for Alex from behind.
A web caught him around the ankle and pulled him flat.
Spider-Man stood, rolling one shoulder. “Including that one.”
An alarm sounded throughout the station. People poured from the train while a recorded voice announced that emergency services had been contacted.
Alex searched the unconscious woman’s coat. He found a radio, two cable ties, a spare battery for the stun baton, and a laminated access card without a name. A silver compass rose had been printed in one corner.
Spider-Man crouched beside him. “Is searching people without permission only wrong when my suit does it?”
“She tried to electrocute you.”
“That feels like a separate rule.”
Alex pocketed the access card.
Spider-Man noticed. “What is that?”
“Nothing.”
“It has a logo.”
“Most things do.”
“Karen?”
The artificial intelligence answered immediately. “The image resembles the corporate mark registered to Meridian Defense Solutions, a private military contractor formerly headquartered in Virginia.”
Spider-Man turned toward Alex. “Meridian Defense Solutions.”
“I heard her.”
“The company dissolved eleven months ago after allegations of illegal arms transfers and unauthorized operations in Eastern Europe.”
Alex looked at the woman on the ground. “Apparently they disagreed.”
“Karen, send everything to the police.”
“No,” Alex said.
Spider-Man looked at him. “Why not?”
“Because Meridian purchased advance notice from at least two federal agencies before it was dissolved. Sending an automated report will tell whoever is monitoring those channels exactly what you know.”
The mask revealed no expression, but Alex could feel the stare behind it.
“How do you know that?”
“I pay attention.”
“In one of your documentaries?”
“It was very detailed.”
Sirens were approaching at street level.
Alex started toward the far end of the platform.
Spider-Man caught his arm.
Alex reacted automatically. He turned into the grip, drove his elbow toward Spider-Man’s ribs, and hooked one ankle behind his leg. It would have taken down almost anyone else.
Spider-Man did not move.
Alex’s elbow struck something that felt less like a person than a concrete pillar. Pain shot through his arm.
Spider-Man released him immediately.
“Sorry,” he said. “Are you okay?”
Alex cradled his elbow. “You grabbed me.”
“I was stopping you from leaving.”
“That is usually why people grab someone.”
“You tried to flip me.”
“It seemed worth attempting.”
“You weigh, like, a hundred and forty pounds.”
“And you dress like a traffic signal. We all make choices.”
For the first time, Spider-Man seemed unable to think of an answer.
Alex used the pause to continue toward the service door at the end of the platform.
Spider-Man recovered quickly. “Where are you going?”
“To finish what I came here to do.”
“What did you come here to do?”
“Buy antihistamines.”
Spider-Man looked toward the broken carriage, the unconscious mercenaries, and the rifle lying in pieces on the platform.
“I’m starting to think that might not be the whole story.”
The access card opened the service door.
That confirmed Meridian had prepared routes through the transit system in advance. It also gave Alex a way out before the police arrived.
He entered a narrow maintenance corridor lined with pipes and electrical boxes. Spider-Man slipped through behind him before the door closed.
“You cannot come with me,” Alex said.
“I’m not leaving you alone while trained mercenaries are shooting at you.”
“You were electrocuted less than two minutes ago.”
“I got better.”
“They know how to damage your suit.”
“They know one way.”
“They will have others.”
Spider-Man stopped walking.
“So you do know who they are.”
Alex continued down the corridor.
“That was not a denial,” Spider-Man said.
“It was not intended as an answer.”
The passage led to a steel staircase. Alex climbed two flights and emerged into the basement of a commercial building. A cleaning cart stood abandoned near the elevator.
He checked the access card. A handwritten number had been added beneath the compass logo.
417.
A storage unit, room number, or radio channel.
The pharmacy bag beneath Alex’s sweatshirt pressed against his ribs as he moved. Inside were two ordinary boxes of allergy medication and a prescription bottle bearing the name Alexander Reed. The pharmacist had checked Alex’s identification, found nothing suspicious, and given him the package.
One tablet inside the bottle had been replaced with a ceramic capsule containing six gigabytes of encrypted data.
Three weeks earlier, Nick Fury had sent Alex a financial report and the name Meridian Defense Solutions.
He had not ordered Alex to do anything. Fury knew better than to try.
The arrangement between them had been established from the beginning. Alex was an outside consultant with SHIELD clearance high enough to make career agents complain. Fury offered work. Alex accepted or declined it. Payment was negotiated in advance, information was shared according to need, and neither pretended that employment or guardianship had entered the equation.
This assignment had been straightforward. Confirm that Meridian remained operational, identify its current leadership, and determine whether rumors of a technology sale were credible.
Observation and verification.
Fury had said nothing about recovering stolen software or rescuing anyone.
Francis Taylor had changed that.
Taylor was a British defense engineer who had spent eighteen months consulting for a New York technology company. He had discovered that one of its senior executives was selling prototype intrusion software to a buyer connected to Meridian. Instead of contacting SHIELD, Taylor had found Alex through an encrypted address used by independent intelligence brokers.
Alex still did not know who had given it to him.
Taylor’s message had been brief.
Official channels were compromised. He needed someone who did not belong to them.
Alex understood the appeal.
The software was called Janus. It had been developed to let emergency teams assume control of damaged or compromised drone networks during natural disasters. In the wrong hands, it could hijack police surveillance drones, delivery systems, private security systems, and certain military platforms that relied on compatible architecture.
Taylor had copied enough data to prove the sale was real. They arranged the pharmacy dead drop together.
Then Taylor disappeared.
Fury did not yet know that Alex had collected the capsule. He knew Alex was in New York and that Meridian existed. Alex’s next check-in was not due for another three hours.
Spider-Man landed on the wall beside the rear exit, clinging to it horizontally.
“You still haven’t told me your name.”
“No.”
“Is it Alexander?”
Alex looked at him.
“The prescription bottle,” Spider-Man said. “The suit scanned it.”
“You really do not understand privacy.”
“Reed is the name on your passport.”
“Yes.”
“But your file is weird.”
“Most restricted files are.”
“It has sections that don’t exist.”
“Then how do you know they are there?”
“Because there are gaps.”
Alex reached the ground floor and paused near the reinforced rear door. Through the glass, an alley led toward Fifty-Third Street.
No movement. No parked vehicles. No obvious surveillance.
Spider-Man dropped from the wall. “My name is Spider-Man.”
“I had gathered that.”
“So now we know each other.”
“No. Now I know what newspapers call you.”
“What do people call you?”
“Usually Alex.”
Spider-Man brightened. “Alex. Great. Progress.”
Alex opened the door.
A round struck the glass at head height.
The reinforced pane cracked but held. Alex threw himself aside as three more shots struck in quick succession.
Spider-Man grabbed the back of his sweatshirt and pulled him behind the concrete wall.
“Sniper?” Spider-Man asked.
“Suppressed rifle. Probably from the parking structure across the street.”
“You can tell that from the sound?”
“Yes.”
“Documentary?”
“Very educational.”
Spider-Man leaned toward the glass.
Alex caught his shoulder. “Do not.”
“I can dodge bullets.”
“The first shot was aimed at me. The next three were grouped where you would naturally move to shield me. They’ve been watching you.”
Spider-Man looked through the cracked pane without exposing himself. “That’s creepy.”
“It is effective.”
“Karen, identify the firing position.”
“Probable source located on the fifth level of the parking structure, seventy-eight meters southeast.”
A live image appeared faintly across Spider-Man’s lenses, reflected just enough for Alex to see movement.
“Two people,” Spider-Man said. “One rifle. One is packing something into a case.”
“They are leaving.”
“I’ll stop them.”
“They want you to follow.”
Spider-Man hesitated.
Alex pointed toward the alley. “The route gives them three opportunities to attack from above and funnels you toward the intersection. If they know enough about your abilities to bring an electrical weapon, they know you will pursue anyone threatening civilians.”
“You figured that out from one alley?”
“I would use the parking structure to draw you away while another team entered through the front.”
A crash sounded inside the building.
Spider-Man’s mask turned toward it.
Alex removed the pharmacy bag from beneath his sweatshirt.
“They found us because of the capsule,” he said.
“What capsule?”
Alex tore open the prescription bottle, shook the tablets into his palm, and selected the one without a manufacturer’s mark.
Spider-Man stared at it. “That is what everyone is shooting at you over?”
“In part.”
“You had it on the subway?”
“I had not planned to take the subway.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
The elevator indicator began descending.
Six. Five. Four.
Alex slid the capsule beneath the rubber sole inside his right shoe. He returned the remaining tablets to the bottle and handed the bag to Spider-Man.
“Take this.”
Spider-Man accepted it automatically. “Why?”
“They will scan for the ceramic casing.”
“You just put it in your shoe.”
“I put something in my shoe.”
Spider-Man’s lenses narrowed. “You are extremely annoying.”
“So I am told.”
The indicator reached the ground floor.
The elevator doors opened.
Three mercenaries emerged in tactical clothing, their weapons fitted with suppressors. One carried a square device with a glowing blue display.
It began beeping as soon as he entered the lobby.
The scanner turned toward Spider-Man.
Alex moved left.
Every weapon followed the pharmacy bag.
Spider-Man looked down at what he was holding. “Oh.”
The mercenaries fired.
Spider-Man leaped onto the ceiling. Bullets tore through the bag, shredding cardboard and scattering white tablets across the floor. Alex ran beneath the gunfire, reached the nearest mercenary, and slammed the edge of the prescription bottle into his throat.
The man staggered. Alex caught his weapon, pushed the muzzle toward the ceiling, and drove his knee into his stomach. The rifle fired uselessly above them.
Webbing struck the second mercenary across the face.
Spider-Man dropped from the ceiling feet-first, knocking him backward through a glass partition. The third turned the scanning device toward Alex.
The beeping accelerated.
He understood the deception.
Alex released the first man and ran for the staircase.
The third mercenary shouted into his radio. “Reed has the drive.”
Spider-Man landed between them.
“Reed?” he repeated.
Alex reached the stairs.
The mercenary raised his weapon toward Alex’s back. Spider-Man webbed it aside, but the man had expected the move. He released the rifle and drew a small cylinder from his belt.
“Spider-Man!” Alex shouted.
The cylinder detonated.
The sound was too high to hear properly. Alex felt it inside his skull, a sudden pressure that drove the air from his lungs and turned the lobby into a blur. The windows trembled. Spider-Man fell to his knees, both hands pressed against the sides of his head.
The suit’s lenses flickered.
The mercenary drew a pistol.
Alex could barely stand. His balance had vanished, and every movement made the building tilt beneath him. He gripped the stair rail and forced himself forward anyway.
The mercenary aimed at Spider-Man.
Alex threw the prescription bottle.
It struck the man’s wrist. The shot went wide, punching into the wall beside Spider-Man’s head.
Alex reached him before he could fire again. He grabbed the gun hand with both of his own and forced it downward. The mercenary was twice his weight and considerably stronger. He turned, dragging Alex with him, and struck him across the face.
Pain exploded along Alex’s cheekbone.
He hit the floor.
The mercenary raised the pistol.
A red-gloved hand closed around his forearm.
Spider-Man stood behind him.
The damaged lenses opened and closed unevenly. His movements were unsteady, but his grip remained strong enough to bend the pistol’s slide beneath his fingers.
“You,” Spider-Man said, his distorted voice crackling, “really need to stop trying to shoot him.”
He pulled the mercenary off his feet and threw him into the elevator.
The impact dented the metal wall.
Alex pushed himself upright. Blood filled his mouth where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek.
Spider-Man swayed.
Alex caught his arm before he fell.
“I’m fine,” Spider-Man said.
“You are concussed.”
“I have enhanced healing.”
“That does not prevent a concussion.”
“It makes them shorter.”
“You are not helping your argument.”
The first mercenary had recovered near the shattered partition. He raised his rifle.
Alex pulled Spider-Man behind the concrete reception desk as the man fired. Splinters of wood and stone struck the wall above them.
Spider-Man crouched beside Alex with one hand pressed against his head.
“Any useful suit features?” Alex asked.
“I have an instant-kill mode.”
Alex looked at him.
“I’m not using it.”
“Then it is not currently useful.”
“I also have web grenades.”
“That sounds better.”
“The controls are glitching.”
“That sounds worse.”
The firing stopped. Footsteps approached cautiously.
A fire extinguisher hung on the wall six feet away. Above it was a sprinkler panel and a red emergency alarm.
Alex removed the spare battery he had taken from the woman in the subway.
“What are you doing?” Spider-Man whispered.
“Improvising.”
“Is that battery going to explode?”
“Probably not.”
“Probably?”
Alex slid the battery beneath the sprinkler panel’s loose metal cover, pressed the contacts against two exposed terminals, and pulled his hand away.
Sparks flashed.
The fire alarm erupted.
Sprinklers activated across the lobby, releasing a torrent of cold water. The mercenary swore as visibility disappeared behind the sudden downpour.
Alex grabbed the extinguisher, pulled the pin, and rolled it across the wet floor.
Spider-Man understood.
A strand of webbing struck the handle and squeezed.
White chemical foam burst from the nozzle, spinning the extinguisher wildly as it shot across the lobby. It struck the mercenary’s legs and knocked him sideways. Spider-Man webbed him to the floor before he could recover.
The damaged suit sparked at the shoulder as water ran across it.
“This feels unsafe,” Spider-Man said.
“You are standing in water while wearing an electronic costume.”
“Right. Good point.”
They retreated into the stairwell.
Alex climbed despite the throbbing in his head. Spider-Man followed with one hand trailing along the wall.
“You need a doctor,” Alex said.
“So do you.”
“I have had worse.”
“That is also not reassuring.”
They reached the second floor. Alex crossed an open-plan office toward the windows overlooking the street. Police vehicles had blocked both ends of the road. Officers moved toward the building entrances while civilians gathered behind barriers to watch.
The sniper team had vanished from the parking structure.
Alex checked the access card again.
417
The fourth floor contained private offices. Room 417 belonged to a company called Barlow Municipal Consulting.
The name meant nothing to him.
Spider-Man leaned over his shoulder. “You think the number is a room?”
“Possibly.”
“Or a storage unit.”
“Possibly.”
“Or an address.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t actually know.”
“I am narrowing the options.”
“That’s what I said during a chemistry test once.”
Alex looked at him. “Did it help?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps remain quiet.”
They continued upward.
The fourth-floor corridor was empty. Room 417 stood near the rear of the building, its frosted glass marked with the Barlow logo. Alex used the Meridian access card.
The lock opened.
Inside, the office was almost bare. A desk, two chairs, and a wall-mounted screen occupied the main room. Filing cabinets lined one side, but dust on the handles suggested they had not been opened recently.
Spider-Man entered behind him. “This is definitely a fake company.”
“You recognized that quickly.”
“There are no personal mugs.”
Alex glanced at him.
“Every office has mugs,” Spider-Man said. “People leave them everywhere. There should be at least one with a bad joke about Mondays.”
“An excellent investigative principle.”
“I’m serious.”
“That is concerning.”
Alex searched the desk. The drawers were empty except for an evacuation map and a packet of batteries. The computer had been removed, leaving marks in the dust where a monitor and docking station had stood.
Spider-Man crouched near the floor. “Someone moved equipment recently.”
Alex looked toward the wall-mounted screen.
A thin red light glowed beneath it.
“Move,” he said.
The screen activated.
Francis Taylor appeared on it.
He sat in a metal chair with his wrists secured behind him. Bruising darkened one side of his face. The room around him was poorly lit, but Alex recognized the curved steel ribs of a warehouse roof.
A man stepped into view behind Taylor.
He was in his late forties, with silver beginning at his temples and the heavy build of someone who had continued training after leaving active service. Alex had seen him in a photograph Fury supplied.
Elias Varga.
Meridian’s former director of overseas operations.
“Good evening, Alex,” Varga said.
Spider-Man turned toward him.
Alex ignored the movement.
Varga smiled faintly. “I wondered whether Fury would involve you.”
“He didn’t,” Alex said, although the recording could not hear him.
Taylor lifted his head. His eyes focused with difficulty on the camera.
“Don’t,” he said. “The data—”
Varga struck him across the back of the neck.
Spider-Man stepped toward the screen. “Hey!”
“You have something that belongs to me,” Varga continued. “I have someone you appear to consider worth saving. Pier Seventy-Six. Midnight. Come alone, and Mr. Taylor may yet leave New York alive.”
A timer appeared in the lower corner.
Forty-three minutes.
The image vanished.
Spider-Man turned toward Alex. “Who is he?”
“Elias Varga.”
“He knew your name.”
“Yes.”
“He knew Nick Fury might involve you.”
“It appears so.”
“You know Nick Fury.”
“Yes.”
“Nick Fury gave you Level Seven clearance?”
“Among other people.”
Spider-Man stared at him. “You work for SHIELD.”
“No.”
“You work for Fury.”
“No.”
“Then what do you do?”
“Consult.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“You keep saying that as though it will eventually surprise me.”
Spider-Man removed the ruined pharmacy bag from beneath one arm and dropped it onto the desk. “You’re going to tell me what is happening.”
“I do not have time.”
“Who is Taylor?”
“An engineer.”
“Why does Meridian have him?”
“He discovered they were selling Janus.”
“What is Janus?”
“Software capable of overriding networked drone systems.”
Spider-Man’s posture changed. “Military drones?”
“Among others.”
“And Fury sent you to get it?”
“Fury gave me Meridian’s name and asked me to determine whether the company still existed.”
“That sounds like sending you.”
“I agreed to investigate.”
“That is the difference?”
“Between employment and consulting? Yes.”
“Does Fury know you’re being hunted?”
“Not yet.”
“Why haven’t you called him?”
“Because he will send agents.”
Spider-Man gestured toward the damaged office and the blood drying at the corner of Alex’s mouth. “That sounds useful.”
“They will secure the capsule, arrest whoever remains, and remove me from the investigation.”
“Also useful.”
“I disagree.”
Spider-Man stared at him. “You would rather do this alone than let trained agents help?”
“They are not necessarily better trained than I am.”
“That is not a normal sentence.”
“It remains accurate.”
“How do you even know how to do all this?”
Alex looked toward the dark screen. “Experience.”
“What kind of experience?”
“The kind contained in the sections of my file your computer cannot access.”
Spider-Man’s lenses narrowed. “Who trained you?”
“Several organizations.”
“SHIELD?”
“No.”
“Fury?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Alex said nothing.
Spider-Man stepped closer. “Were you in some kind of program?”
There it was. Not quite the correct question, but close enough to be dangerous.
Alex checked the countdown instead.
Forty-one minutes.
“Pier Seventy-Six is on the Hudson,” he said.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are getting.”
“You’re going to trade the drive for Taylor.”
“Perhaps.”
“And then what?”
“I leave.”
“You think they’ll let you?”
“No.”
Spider-Man stared at him. “Then why go?”
“Because Varga has Taylor.”
“Call Fury.”
“No.”
“Call your emergency contact.”
“No.”
“Call anyone.”
Alex looked at him. “Taylor contacted me because he believed official channels were compromised. He asked for help. I agreed.”
“That’s it?”
“He had a reason.”
“And now you think that means you have to walk into a trap alone?”
“I know I can.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“To me it is.”
Spider-Man was silent.
Then he reached up and pulled off his mask.
He was younger than Alex had expected.
Brown hair stuck damply to his forehead. His face was pale from the sonic weapon, and a bruise was beginning along one cheek. He had the earnest, exhausted expression of someone who had not yet learned how dangerous it was to let other people see that he cared.
“My name is Peter,” he said.
Alex stared at him.
Peter waited.
“That was remarkably stupid,” Alex said.
“I’m trying to prove I trust you.”
“You have known me for less than an hour.”
“It has been more than an hour.”
“That does not improve it.”
“You could tell someone who I am.”
“You could tell someone who I am.”
“I already know your name.”
“You know one of them.”
Peter’s expression changed. “Alex Reed isn’t your real name.”
Alex did not answer.
Peter absorbed that. “Is Alex real?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“You accepted that very quickly.”
“I know what it’s like to need part of your life kept separate.”
“You just showed your face to a stranger.”
“I’m working on it.”
Alex looked at him more carefully.
Peter was not impressive in the way superheroes were supposed to be impressive. Without the mask he looked bruised, worried, and much too young to be carrying buildings on his shoulders or stopping bullets with his body. Alex had once believed adults in uniforms knew what they were doing. He had believed in soldiers, intelligence officers, and men whose names appeared in newspapers beneath words such as courage and service.
He had outgrown it.
Power did not make anyone wise. A costume did not make anyone good. Nick Fury was competent, Natasha was dangerous, Clint was more observant than he pretended, and Joe Byrne had done more for Alex than almost any adult still alive. Alex trusted each of them for different reasons.
He worshipped none of them.
Peter put his mask back on.
“I’m coming with you,” he said.
“No.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“I can tell Varga you are coming. He will prepare another sonic weapon.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would be dangerous.”
“For you.”
“For both of us.”
Alex studied him.
Peter crossed his arms. “I’m still coming.”
“You are very bad at following instructions.”
“You jumped off a roof after I told you to stay put.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I knew what I was doing.”
Peter made an incredulous sound. “You’re going to walk into a hostage situation with a data pill in your shoe.”
“Ceramic capsule.”
“That’s worse somehow.”
Alex checked the countdown. Thirty-eight minutes.
“We need transport,” he said.
Peter tilted his head. “So I’m coming?”
“I did not say that.”
“You said we.”
“I was speaking generally.”
“Sure.”
Pier Seventy-Six had once been used as a tow pound. Most of the vehicles had been removed, and the fenced lot was scheduled for redevelopment. Construction barriers lined the approach. Beyond them, the Hudson stretched black beneath the night sky, reflecting broken lines of light from the buildings across the river.
Peter had insisted that swinging would be faster.
He had been correct.
Alex had disliked every second.
They landed on the roof of a low warehouse two blocks from the pier. Alex stepped away immediately and adjusted his sweatshirt, which had ridden halfway up his back during the journey.
“You could warn people before changing direction,” he said.
“I did.”
“You shouted ‘hold on’ after we were already falling.”
“That was the warning.”
“It was a description.”
Peter crouched near the roof edge. His suit had partly repaired itself, though one eye lens still twitched occasionally.
“Karen found twelve heat signatures inside the main building,” he said. “Maybe thirteen. There’s interference near the center.”
“Taylor will be inside the interference zone.”
“Or a trap.”
“Both.”
Peter brought up a three-dimensional display over his wrist. A rough map of the warehouse appeared in blue light. “There are two river entrances, three facing the road, and skylights here and here. I can enter through the roof.”
“They will expect that.”
“They’ll expect you through the front.”
“Yes.”
Peter looked at him. “You’re not seriously planning to do that.”
“Varga wants to confirm I have the capsule. He will keep Taylor alive until then.”
“And afterward?”
“Afterward, you enter through the roof.”
Peter stared at him. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re using yourself as bait.”
“It’s not suspicious.”
“You cannot just announce it like that.”
“Would you prefer I concealed it?”
“I would prefer you not do it.”
Alex sat beside an air-conditioning unit and removed his right shoe. The capsule remained beneath the insole. He held it under the dim light.
“What does it actually contain?” Peter asked.
“Taylor copied sections of the source code and transaction records proving Meridian arranged the sale.”
“Could the software affect my suit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Karen?”
“The Stark suit operates through an isolated proprietary architecture. Direct interference is unlikely without prior access.”
“Unlikely,” Peter repeated.
“I was careful with the phrasing,” Karen said.
Alex rolled the capsule between his fingers. “Varga does not need this specific copy. If he has Taylor, he may be able to force him to reproduce the code.”
“So destroying it won’t solve the problem.”
“No.”
“Then why does Varga want it?”
“Proof for the buyer. He may also need something Taylor cannot reconstruct from memory.”
Peter looked toward the warehouse. “We get Taylor out, stop Varga, and give the evidence to people who can arrest everyone.”
“Which people?”
“SHIELD.”
“They will arrive after my missed check-in.”
“When is that?”
“Two hours and seventeen minutes.”
Peter stared at him. “Taylor has forty minutes.”
“Yes.”
“Did you plan that badly?”
“I did not know Taylor had been captured.”
“Can’t you change the check-in?”
“I could send an emergency signal.”
“Great.”
“It would alert Fury.”
“That is the purpose of an emergency signal.”
“He would send a team.”
“Yes.”
“They would not arrive before the exchange.”
Peter made a frustrated sound. “You have an answer for everything.”
“Usually.”
“Do you have anyone nearby?”
Alex returned the capsule to his shoe. “Possibly.”
“Who?”
“A friend.”
“Can she help?”
“Not from Prague.”
Peter paused. “Okay. Anyone else?”
“Another friend is in Arizona.”
“What kind of friends do you have?”
“The mobile kind.”
Peter looked toward the warehouse. “And your emergency contact?”
“Still not an emergency.”
“You are about to surrender yourself to thirteen armed mercenaries.”
“Twelve, possibly thirteen.”
“That correction did not help.”
Alex took out his phone and opened a secure application disguised as a weather service. He entered a six-digit sequence, attached the warehouse coordinates, and set a thirty-minute delay.
Peter leaned closer. “What did you do?”
“Sent a contingency.”
“To Fury?”
“No.”
“Your emergency contact?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Someone who will be annoyed if I die without telling him.”
“That is a terrible description of friendship.”
“He would find it accurate.”
Alex thought of Clint reading the message in Arizona, probably swearing before asking Natasha whether she had known Alex was in New York. The signal would not activate unless Alex failed to cancel it. It was not a request for Clint to reach the warehouse in time. It was insurance that someone Alex trusted would receive the location, alert Fury, and improvise the rest if the plan failed.
Clint was good at improvising.
He had taught Alex several new uses for ceiling tiles and fishing line during an extended period in which Coulson made the mistake of leaving them both unattended at headquarters.
Peter peered at the phone. “Who is Barton?”
Alex locked the screen. “You really need to stop reading things over my shoulder.”
“Barton as in Hawkeye?”
Alex stood.
“You know Hawkeye,” Peter said.
“Yes.”
“You sent a contingency to an Avenger.”
“It is not an emergency signal.”
“He is an Avenger.”
“Occasionally.”
Peter stared at him. “How are you not impressed by any of this?”
Alex considered the question.
“Practice.”
They crossed the remaining distance separately. Peter swung high above the river, keeping to the darkness between buildings. Alex descended through a construction site and approached from the south.
The perimeter fence had been cut and repaired with temporary wire. Alex slipped through, crossed behind stacked shipping containers, and stopped near the warehouse corner.
A security camera followed his movement.
He looked directly into it.
The side door opened.
A man in black tactical clothing stepped outside and raised both hands to show they were empty.
“Mr. Reed,” he said. “Director Varga is waiting.”
Alex approached him.
The man searched him thoroughly. He removed Alex’s watch, phone, wallet, and the Meridian access card. He checked the seams of his sweatshirt, the waistband of his jeans, and both shoes.
Alex had returned the capsule to the prescription bottle.
The bottle was tucked inside the lining of the man’s own jacket.
Alex had placed it there during the search.
“Clear,” the man said into his radio.
He gestured toward the door.
Alex entered the warehouse.
Temporary walls and shipping containers divided the interior. Work lights hung from steel supports, casting harsh circles across the concrete. Four armed men stood on upper catwalks. Alex counted three near the entrances and two beside a folding table covered in electronic equipment.
Taylor sat in the middle of the open floor.
His wrists were secured behind the same metal chair from the recording. A dark patch of blood marked his collar, but he was conscious.
Varga stood beside him.
“You came,” he said.
“You expected me.”
“I expected Fury to understand the value of what I have.”
“Fury does not know I’m here.”
Varga studied him. “You expect me to believe Nick Fury misplaced one of his highest-cleared consultants?”
“He did not misplace me.”
“And yet you came without him.”
“Taylor asked.”
“You entered a hostage exchange because a frightened engineer asked for help?”
Alex looked at the bruises on Taylor’s face. “He had a good reason.”
Taylor raised his head. “Alex, don’t give him anything.”
Varga rested one hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “Your concern is touching, Francis.”
“Where is the buyer?” Alex asked.
Varga smiled. “Still working.”
“You promised a demonstration tonight.”
“I promised several things.”
“You do not have a buyer.”
“I have several. None willing to commit until I prove Janus functions outside a controlled environment.”
Alex glanced toward the equipment table. “So the attacks were part of the demonstration.”
“Partly.”
Varga’s gaze shifted toward the roof.
Alex resisted looking upward.
“You have acquired unusual company,” Varga said.
“New Yorkers are friendly.”
“I had heard otherwise.”
One man on the catwalk moved toward a control panel.
Thick cables ran from it into the walls.
“Where is the capsule?” Varga asked.
Alex glanced at the man who had searched him. “Your employee has it.”
The man frowned.
Varga’s expression did not change. “Search him.”
The mercenary reached inside his jacket and found the prescription bottle. Confusion crossed his face as he removed it.
Several others laughed.
He did not.
Varga took the bottle and shook the ceramic capsule into his palm. “Still performing little tricks.”
“They keep me entertained.”
“And alive.”
“Occasionally.”
Varga handed the capsule to a technician, who placed it inside a scanning unit.
A green light appeared.
“Authentic,” she said.
Varga looked back at Alex. “You understand what happens now.”
“You shoot us both.”
Taylor closed his eyes.
Varga’s smile faded slightly. “You say that without fear.”
“I have met men like you.”
“And killed them?”
Alex did not answer.
Varga stepped closer. “Fury gives you a name, and you run toward the danger. Before him it was MI6. Before MI6, your uncle. You tell yourself you escaped them, but you still become whatever the next powerful man requires.”
Peter could not have heard the words from above.
That did not make them less irritating.
“Fury gave me information,” Alex said.
“And you turned it into an operation.”
“No. You did.”
Something cold entered Varga’s expression.
“So the stories are true.”
“Which stories?”
“That you no longer know what you are unless someone is trying to kill you.”
Alex looked at Taylor.
“I know exactly what I am.”
The man on the catwalk pressed the control.
Metal shutters slammed over the skylights.
At the same moment, blue light traveled through the cables.
Something struck the roof hard.
Peter crashed through one shutter before it closed completely. He landed in a shower of broken metal, skidded across the floor, and struck a shipping container.
Electric arcs crawled over his suit.
Alex had known Varga would prepare for Spider-Man.
He had not known the entire building had been turned into a trap.
Peter tried to rise. The suit seized and drove him down again.
“Janus,” Varga said. “It cannot control Stark’s system yet, but it can force the suit to defend itself against a simulated intrusion. Every processor is isolating, resetting, and isolating again.”
The lenses flickered open.
“Karen?” Peter said.
There was no answer.
Mercenaries surrounded him.
Alex moved toward Taylor.
Varga raised a pistol. “Stay where you are.”
Alex stopped.
“You see?” Varga continued. “Another golden boy arrives to save you. Stark’s protégé this time. How fortunate you are to inspire such devotion.”
Alex looked toward Peter, who was forcing one knee beneath himself while four weapons remained trained on him.
“He followed me,” Alex said.
Peter lifted his head. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”
Varga looked at him.
Webbing fired from Peter’s wrist.
It struck the pistol and pulled Varga’s arm sideways as he fired. The bullet passed Alex’s shoulder.
Alex ran.
He reached Taylor, dropped behind the chair, and pulled a narrow metal strip from the hem of his sweatshirt. Natasha had sewn it there after removing three different lockpicks from Alex during a training session and informing him that the first two had been obvious.
The restraints around Taylor’s wrists were plastic.
Alex cut through them.
Gunfire erupted.
Peter rolled behind a shipping container as bullets struck the floor around him. The suit still moved unevenly, but his web-shooters operated independently. He fired toward the overhead lights.
Half the warehouse went dark.
Taylor stood and nearly collapsed.
Alex caught him. “Can you walk?”
“I think so.”
“Think faster.”
They moved toward the nearest temporary wall.
A mercenary came around the corner. Alex pushed Taylor aside, caught the man’s rifle, and drove the barrel upward. The weapon fired into the ceiling. Alex struck the release, dropped the magazine, and kicked the man’s knee.
The mercenary folded. Alex took the pistol from his holster and threw it across the floor.
Peter webbed the man to the wall.
“I had him,” Alex said.
“I know.”
“Then why interfere?”
“He had another knife.”
Alex looked down.
A blade was half drawn from the mercenary’s ankle sheath.
“Fine.”
“You’re welcome.”
Varga shouted an order from the center of the warehouse.
The remaining lights turned red.
The electronic table came alive, screens displaying maps of Manhattan and dozens of moving symbols. Camera feeds appeared from police drones, traffic networks, and private security systems throughout the city.
Taylor stared at them. “He connected it.”
“Can you stop it?” Alex asked.
“Not from here.”
The roof groaned.
Outside, several dark shapes rose above the pier.
Peter looked through a gap in the wall. “Those are police drones.”
Their camera lights turned toward the warehouse.
Mounted launchers beneath two opened.
“Police drones have weapons?” Peter asked.
“Experimental crowd-control payloads,” Taylor said. “Rubber rounds, gas, electrical nets.”
Alex looked at him. “Can Janus change the targeting restrictions?”
Taylor’s silence answered.
The first drone fired.
Peter jumped in front of them. An electrical net spread across the room and wrapped around his body. He hit the ground, sparks flashing across the damaged suit.
Alex grabbed a fallen rifle and fired once at the drone.
The round struck its camera housing. It veered sideways and crashed into a container.
Peter tore through the net and looked at Alex.
“You shot it.”
“It was a machine.”
“I know. It was just very immediate.”
Two more drones entered through the broken roof.
Peter leaped upward.
His suit stuttered halfway through the movement, but he caught the first drone with both hands and redirected it into the second. They collided in a burst of metal and sparks.
“Get Taylor out!” he shouted.
Alex led Taylor toward a loading door on the river side.
Varga stepped into their path.
He had replaced the pistol with a knife.
“Go,” Alex told Taylor.
Taylor hesitated.
“Now.”
Taylor ran toward the door.
Varga lunged.
Alex moved aside, caught Varga’s wrist, and struck his forearm with both hands. The knife remained in his grip. Varga twisted, drove his shoulder into Alex’s chest, and threw him against the temporary wall.
The impact knocked the breath from Alex’s lungs.
Varga advanced. “They should have let you die in Egypt.”
Alex went still.
Varga saw it.
“Ah,” he said quietly. “So that remains tender.”
Jack’s car exploded again in Alex’s memory. White light. Heat. The force of it crossing the desert. The terrible absence afterward, shaped like a person who had once filled every room she entered.
Varga raised the knife.
Alex caught his wrist with his left hand and drove the heel of his right palm beneath his chin.
Varga staggered but did not release the weapon.
Alex kicked the side of his knee. As the leg buckled, Alex turned beneath his arm and forced the knife toward Varga’s throat.
The blade stopped less than an inch from his skin.
Varga’s expression changed.
For one moment, Alex could have finished it.
He knew exactly how much pressure it would take.
A strand of webbing struck the knife and tore it from both their hands.
Peter landed beside them.
Varga slammed his elbow into Alex’s face and ran.
Peter caught Alex before he fell. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“That looked like a no.”
“Varga is escaping.”
Peter looked toward the loading door where Varga had disappeared onto the pier.
“Stay with Taylor,” he said.
Alex pulled away from him. “Absolutely not.”
They followed together.
The river wind struck them with enough force to cut through Alex’s sweatshirt. Varga ran toward the northern end of the pier, where a black helicopter waited with its rotors turning.
Two mercenaries fired from beside it.
Peter pushed Alex behind a concrete barrier and shot webbing toward the helicopter. The strand attached to the landing skid.
The pilot lifted off.
Peter was pulled forward.
He planted both feet, cracking the concrete beneath them, and held on. The helicopter tilted sharply as the line went taut.
One mercenary aimed at Peter.
Alex climbed over the barrier and ran toward him.
The man fired. Alex changed direction, using construction equipment for cover. Rounds struck metal around him. He vaulted a stack of pipes, landed beside a mobile generator, and pulled its emergency release.
The lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the end of the pier.
Peter’s suit adjusted instantly. The mercenaries’ night-vision equipment did not.
Alex reached the first man and struck him across the throat. He took the rifle, swung it into the second man’s legs, and shoved both weapons into the river.
The helicopter climbed higher.
Peter was dragged across the concrete, his heels carving twin lines behind him.
“Any ideas?” he called.
Alex looked toward the crane positioned near the water.
Its hook hung above the pier from a heavy steel cable.
“Release the web!”
“What?”
“Let go!”
The helicopter banked toward the river.
Peter released the line.
The sudden loss of resistance sent the aircraft lurching forward. The pilot corrected instinctively, bringing it level with the crane.
Alex reached the control box and struck the lowering switch.
The crane hook dropped into the helicopter’s flight path.
It caught the tail assembly.
Metal screamed.
The helicopter spun sideways, losing altitude. Peter jumped, fired two web lines, and caught opposite sides of the aircraft before it struck the water.
The rotors stopped inches above the river.
Peter hung beneath the crane with both arms extended, holding the helicopter in place.
“That,” he said through clenched teeth, “was not a complete plan.”
“It worked.”
“The helicopter is very heavy!”
“Then put it down.”
“There are people inside!”
“There is water beneath you.”
“It’s freezing!”
“They attempted to murder us.”
“They can still get hypothermia!”
Alex stared at him.
Peter strained against the web lines. “Could you maybe help instead of judging me?”
Alex found the crane’s rotation controls and moved the boom toward the pier. The helicopter swung with it, scraping against the edge before settling onto the concrete.
Peter released the webbing and dropped beside it.
The pilot climbed out with both hands raised.
Varga did not.
Alex opened the rear door.
The cabin was empty.
“He jumped,” Peter said.
Alex looked toward the river.
A dark figure surfaced near the next pier, swimming toward a maintenance ladder.
Peter fired a web line.
It attached to Varga’s back.
Varga was pulled from the water and dragged across the surface before landing at Peter’s feet.
He coughed and tried to rise.
Alex stepped on his wrist.
Peter looked at him. “You really like doing that.”
“It discourages knives.”
Varga glared up at Alex. “You think this changes anything?”
“No.”
Police sirens converged from the road.
Varga smiled. “The Americans will want answers. Fury will bury the evidence, and whatever name you use now will disappear with it.”
Alex looked toward Peter. “Perhaps.”
Peter understood.
He turned toward Varga. “Actually, he was never here.”
Varga’s smile disappeared.
Peter webbed his wrists together.
By the time police entered the warehouse, Alex and Taylor had crossed the neighboring construction site.
Peter remained long enough to make sure Varga and the surviving mercenaries were found with the Janus equipment. He removed the ceramic capsule from the scanner and brought it with him, although the police would recover more than enough evidence from the warehouse systems.
Taylor waited inside an unmarked SUV beneath the West Side Highway.
The woman behind the wheel wore an ordinary black coat. She looked like an attorney who had been called away from dinner and had decided not to forgive anyone involved.
Alex recognized her as Agent Maren Lewis, one of Coulson’s people.
She gave Alex a brief nod and looked past him toward Peter, who landed beneath the overpass.
“Your friend?” she asked.
“No,” Alex said.
“Yes,” Peter said at the same time.
Lewis appeared unimpressed by both answers.
Taylor sat in the rear seat with a blanket around his shoulders. He looked exhausted, but his breathing had steadied.
“They’ll need the decryption key,” he told Alex. “The copy is incomplete without it.”
“Where is the key?”
Taylor tapped one finger against his temple. “Varga never understood that part.”
Alex nodded.
Lewis held out her hand. Peter placed the capsule in it.
She studied his mask. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Peter glanced at Alex. “Did Fury send you?”
“Eventually.”
“Does he know what happened?”
“Enough to be displeased.”
Alex opened the rear door.
Lewis looked at him. “Fury wants you examined.”
“Fury can want whatever he likes.”
“He said you would say that.”
“Then he already has his answer.”
Peter looked between them. “You’re not making him go?”
Lewis raised one eyebrow. “Mr. Reed is a consultant.”
“That means he can refuse?”
“It means he usually does.”
Alex climbed into the vehicle beside Taylor.
Peter caught the door before he could close it. “Are you safe?”
Alex considered the question.
Lewis was armed. There would be a SHIELD medical team at the secure site and an interview Fury would describe as a debriefing despite knowing Alex would object. Clint’s delayed contingency had been canceled with three minutes remaining. Natasha would probably learn what had happened by morning, if she did not already know.
“I will not be shot at in the immediate future,” Alex said.
“That is an incredibly low standard.”
“It has been a long evening.”
Peter remained beside the open door. The damaged lens of his mask twitched once before correcting itself, and when he spoke again, the distortion in his voice had faded enough to reveal how young and tired he sounded.
“You knew the exchange was a trap,” he said. “You knew Meridian would try to kill you, and you went anyway.”
“They had Taylor.”
“You could have called Fury.”
“He would not have reached us in time.”
“You could have called Hawkeye.”
“He’s in Arizona.”
“Apparently that doesn’t stop Avengers.”
Alex looked toward the passing traffic.
Peter lowered his voice. “You have people.”
“Yes.”
“People who would come if you called.”
“Probably.”
“Then why do you act like you have to do everything alone?”
“I don’t always.”
“That makes it worse.”
Alex looked at him.
Peter continued before he could interrupt. “You chose to do this alone because you knew you could survive it.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to keep proving you can survive everything.”
“I’m not proving it.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Surviving.”
“Those aren’t supposed to be the same thing.”
The words sat between them.
Peter did not know about Jack beyond the single mention of dead parents. He did not know about Ian, MI6, Scorpia, or Malagosto. He did not know how often the adults with plans had failed, lied, or arrived after Alex had already saved himself.
He had seen enough to ask the right question anyway.
Alex disliked him for that. Not seriously. Not quite.
“I did call someone,” Alex said eventually.
“You set a delayed message.”
“Yes.”
“That only helped if you failed.”
“Yes.”
Peter stared at him through the white lenses. “You planned for someone to find your body.”
“I planned for someone to recover Taylor and the evidence if I could not.”
“That is not better.”
“It was not intended to be.”
Peter looked away, the set of his shoulders tightening.
Alex recognized the reaction. Peter was angry because he had been frightened, and frightened because he cared more quickly than was sensible. It was a dangerous habit.
It was also, Alex suspected, one of the reasons people in New York were still alive.
“You followed me into a warehouse after being electrocuted twice,” Alex said.
“This is not about me.”
“You revealed your identity to someone whose file your surveillance system could not access.”
“I was proving I trusted you.”
“That was reckless.”
“It worked.”
“You do not know that yet.”
Peter looked back at him. “You could tell Fury.”
“I could.”
“You could tell everyone.”
“Yes.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Alex considered saying that Peter’s identity was operationally irrelevant. It was true, but incomplete.
“Because it belongs to you,” he said.
Peter went still.
Alex reached for the door. “That does not mean removing your mask earlier was intelligent.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You should not.”
Lewis checked the time.
Peter caught the door again as Alex tried to close it. “At least give me a way to contact you.”
“No.”
“What if Meridian has more people?”
“They do.”
“Alex.”
“What?”
“That was not supposed to be an acceptable answer.”
“Varga’s arrest will disrupt the network, but it will not destroy every cell.”
“And you’re going back to wherever you live?”
“After Lewis stops pretending she is not taking me to a doctor.”
“I am not pretending,” Lewis said.
Peter frowned at Alex. “I’m going to find you.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“I don’t mean it threateningly.”
“You should work on your delivery.”
“Alex.”
The SUV’s engine started.
Alex looked at him one last time. “Goodbye, Peter.”
Peter’s expression softened slightly.
Alex pulled the door closed.
They entered traffic.
Fury called nine minutes later.
Alex answered Lewis’s phone because his own remained in an evidence bag.
“Are you injured?” Fury asked.
“Nothing serious.”
“That phrase has been formally banned from your reports.”
“I do not write reports.”
“I noticed.”
“Taylor is alive.”
“He is sitting next to you.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I asked about you.”
Alex looked through the rear window. The overpass had disappeared behind them.
“Concussion, bruising, possible cracked rib.”
Lewis glanced at him through the mirror. “Definite cracked rib.”
“Traitor,” Alex said.
“She works for me.”
“That explains it.”
Fury was silent for a moment. “Your assignment was observation.”
“I observed Meridian trying to kill me.”
“At what point did observation become the destruction of an illegal weapons network?”
“Approximately three minutes after the first gunshot.”
Another pause.
“Romanoff said you would answer something like that.”
“She usually has more faith in me.”
“She is currently asking why Barton received your contingency instead of her.”
“Clint complains less.”
From the front seat, Lewis made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh.
Fury continued. “Barton was halfway to the airport when you canceled it.”
“He’ll recover.”
“He wants reimbursement for the ticket.”
“He has a SHIELD expense account.”
“He says Coulson suspended it.”
“That sounds unrelated.”
“It involved a remote-controlled pigeon.”
Alex considered the accusation. “That was mostly Clint.”
“I am sure.”
Fury’s tone changed slightly. “Peter Parker?”
Alex looked through the window at the city passing outside.
“What about him?”
“Stark’s system registered extensive damage to the suit. Stark has already asked questions.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Parker encountered Meridian during an unauthorized patrol.”
“That seems accurate.”
“He also accessed your restricted profile.”
“I noticed.”
“The attempt was blocked.”
“Eventually.”
“Do I need to be concerned?”
“About Peter?”
“About what he knows.”
Alex thought of Peter standing beneath the overpass in his damaged suit, angry because Alex had planned for failure rather than rescue.
“No.”
“You sound certain.”
“He asks too many questions.”
“That is not generally reassuring.”
“He also listens to the answers.”
Fury was quiet.
“I see,” he said.
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” Fury agreed. “But I expect I will.”
The secure apartment contained a medical room, two bedrooms, and windows that did not open. A doctor confirmed the concussion and cracked rib, cleaned the cut inside Alex’s mouth, and objected to almost everything he said.
Alex slept for three hours.
At seven in the morning, Lewis returned his belongings. His watch had been damaged, his wallet was missing twenty dollars, and his phone had acquired a new crack across the screen.
There was also a message from an unknown number.
Did you get back okay?
Alex stared at it.
A second message appeared.
This is Spider-Man. Not Peter. I definitely did not just write Peter.
Then another.
Please delete that.
Alex considered ignoring him.
It would have been the sensible choice.
He typed instead.
How did you get this number?
The reply arrived almost immediately.
Karen found it.
Your surveillance system continues to be alarming.
Are you okay?
Alex looked toward the closed bedroom door. Taylor was asleep in the next room. Lewis had gone downstairs to meet the SHIELD transport team. Fury would spend the morning containing the political consequences of Meridian’s operation.
Clint had sent eleven messages about the canceled contingency and one photograph of an airport departure board with a rude word drawn across it.
Natasha had sent only one.
Next time, call before the shooting starts.
Alex had not answered either of them yet.
He returned to Peter’s message.
Yes.
Three dots appeared.
They vanished, then returned.
That answer was too fast.
Alex leaned back against the headboard.
Stop asking sensible questions.
Peter’s reply came several seconds later.
No.
Alex looked at the message for a long time.
Then he saved the number under Spider-Man.
Not because Peter Parker was a hero.
Alex no longer believed in heroes.
He believed in choices, preparation, and the narrow collection of people who had proved that they would do what they said. Peter had followed him into a trap, kept his identity from the police, and returned after learning enough to make leaving the sensible choice.
That did not make him infallible.
It made him worth answering.