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Issue #7 by Steve Crosby
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“THE EUROPEAN CANDIDATE”
Everything happened at once in slow motion. Images rushed into my head from all directions. The young woman I had met in the aftermath of last night’s riots was dead, somehow killed in the brief span after I left her alone in bed and before I returned with two Paris police officers. Across the room from the door was the large closed window that had been open when I’d exited from it less than twenty minutes ago. In front of and behind me were the two officers, in various stages of drawing their firearms on me.
Slow-motion can come in handy at the best times. In less than a second I had seen everything I needed to see, and had decided on what had to be done. The officer in front of me was in the process of raising his gun when I grabbed it. In my hands it came apart, worthless pieces clattering to the floor. My leg shot out at the officer behind me and got him hard in the sternum. He flew through the open doorway, firearm likewise flying from his hand.
For one split instant I was alone with an officer of the law and a corpse I had slept with less than an hour ago. Using my grip on his arm and leverage, I threw the officer against the wall, away from the bed. Quickly I bent down, grabbed the shield and the uniform.
When I rose to my feet, a bullet struck the shield. Out of the corner of my eye I had seen the second officer pick up his gun. I’d angled the shield accordingly, so that the bullet went high and into the ceiling. My throw hurled the shield at the officer, striking him in the forehead. As he fell back and the gun dropped from his hands, I had rushed forward, grabbed the shield on its return and jumped off the landing into the stairwell.
Down three flights I had fallen, to land on my feet and roll through the lobby. At the checkout desk I stand into a run, throwing several bills at the clerk to cover the room. On the move I got dressed, something I had a lot of experience with during the war. The uniform was bright and gaudy, a disadvantage while on the run but I could make due. When faced with a confrontation, however, I would rather have the uniform than not.
Dressed in the uniform and armed with my shield, I ran off into Paris, a fugitive.
# # # # #
Photographs were being taken of the young woman’s body when the French detective walked into the room. Quickly his eyes gazed over the crime scene, and he leaned towards one of the officers standing guard.
“Nothing has been touched?”
“No sir. Romene – the officer who called this in – did not even collect the pieces of his gun.”
“How is he and the other, Dranaque?”
“At the hospital with bruises, mostly. Dranaque may have a concussion, but not too serious.”
“That is good. What of the girl?” he motioned at the body. “Have we identified her yet?”
“Not yet, no. It is possible she may not be native to Paris.”
“Unlikely. With what has been happening, few tourists would be visiting. We should canvas the neighborhoods the American had walked through last night. And we must run her fingerprints. It is possible she was a looter, and could have been arrested previously.”
“We shall check immediately, sir.”
“Good.” The detective turned, again gazed over the room. Pieces of a gun were scattered on the floor. He took note of some damage on a wall, a bullet hole in the ceiling, and the closed window. In his hand was a notebook, and the detective flipped through several pages and read the writing.
“Hmm.”
“Sir?”
He looked up at the uniformed officer. “The clerk downstairs, he said he saw the American escorted inside and flee several minutes later. Yet he does not recall seeing the American leave earlier.” He gestured at the view outside. “The lobby, it is the only way into the courtyard.”
“Perhaps the window? This American, he is said to be athletic.”
“More than said, we see the evidence here. And yet,” the detective frowned at the closed window. “This window is closed, and the glass not broken. However skilled the American is, I do not believe he could open a window and close it behind him as he jumps through.”
“Perhaps he closed the door later, after assaulting our officers?”
The detective nodded in thought. “Perhaps. I will ask them about it later, when they are able to give statements.”
# # # # #
Whoever was framing me, they were doing it clumsy, in a manner that wouldn’t stick. The window I had been willing to accept as an amateur mistake. But the address given by the man I’d attacked was a fake. I stood on the building’s roof, one of many clothing stores in the Paris fashion district.
How had they known I was going to attack that man? The green clothes with yellow suspenders wouldn’t have normally been enough to press me into action. Unless…yes, they’ve been monitoring me. My actions had the party the other night would have given them an idea of my mental state.
That woman, a supposed relative a man I’d known in the war…that poor woman. A part of it, no doubt, given a role to play and not told her function beyond that. A flawless set-up, yet why are there so many holes? The window and address, the police should see right through that.
Sirens put me instinctively on the move. To the next building I jump, higher up, and then to a lower building behind that. Attacking those officers had been a mistake, something else they had anticipated. If I’d only done nothing, they would have taken me into custody and released me once the inconsistencies were discovered. Now they were hunting me, and no flaws in the case would make them stop.
This had been their intention, something I was playing right into. As the police and likely others hunted me, I had to see things through, track the frame to its source and bring the killers in myself. As a fugitive with no leads, one would think that’d prove difficult. But all one had to do was consider the other flaw.
How was it those two officers happened to arrive at that precise moment?
# # # # #
Smoking wasn't allowed in prisons anymore. This annoyed Jessica Jones as she lit up outside the building, because she really could have used a cigarette while inside. Thirty minutes of filling out paperwork and being processed, then another twenty goddamn minutes of waiting, and all a waste of time. If it hadn't been for the fact that getting arrested would have meant days without nicotine, Jessica would have smashed through the glass and beaten the son of a bitch to death.
Several deep breaths of sweet tarry flavor lightened Jessica's mood, and she was ready to make the call. One of the first things she'd learned as a private investigator was to never be in a pissy mood when talking to the client. Angry people got other people angry, and it was never a good idea to get the person who signed the checks angry.
"Hey, it's me. Jessica." She rolled her eyes, and made a note to call her machine. Was her voice phone really so different? "He refused to talk to me. Yes, they can do that. No, you're not allowed to call him. They wouldn't give him the phone. Hey, go ahead and try, even come down here if you want. I'm going to his office, see what I can find out."
The cell-phone flipped shut. Jessica took another long drag of her cigarette. "Stupid bitch," she muttered to herself. Not for the first time did she regret taking Catherine Webster's case. The woman insisted on always getting in the way, curtailing the investigation she hired. Ironic that she called herself Freespirit.
If it weren't for Jack Flagg, Jessica would have begged off the job right then and there. But as much as she was pissed off about Jack refusing the visit, it did make Jessica think. A guilty person would have at least told Jessica not to waste her time, that he was guilty and didn't want any help. But Jack Flagg had simply shaken his head and walked away. That sort of quiet, fearful guilt screamed cover-up to Jessica Jones.
And according to Jessica's notes, Jack had worked for a Congressman.
# # # # #
Under heavy guard, two officers of the Paris police lay side by side in a hospital room. One lay asleep, resting, but the other, his head bandaged, lay awake with eyes open. Alongside his bed there appeared Captain America, unnoticed until he spoke.
"Who are you working for?”
The bandaged officer jerked his head to look up to the side. He hadn’t realized it would hurt, but this awareness was evident on his face as soon as it came. And at the sight of the American hero he’d encountered earlier that day, the officer’s eye widened. It was more than the fear of harm, Captain America recognized. What he saw was the fear of exposure.
“I, I don’t know what-”
“One call to a friend gave me your patrol schedule.” Captain America moved to the foot of the bed. “Going off route was a mistake.”
Glances alternated between the door, with guards on the other side, and on the call button inches from the officer’s hand. “Yes, if you press that button, I’ll have to fight my way out of here. But then whoever you work for will know that I was here, and they’ll wonder how much you said before I had to leave.”
Eyes told Captain America everything. Whomever the guard worked for terrified him more than the man who stood in front of him.
“Now all that you can hope for is that I deal with them before they find out. Names.”
So the guard spoke a name. Swiss in origin, and it tickled at Captain America’s brain. He knew it, but only in association with an alias. The man only ever called himself Flag Smasher.
# # # # #
“For too long America has forced it’s will on the rest of the world. Their economy has bullied other nations into following their policies, into granting American business power in their lands. With this foothold they use division and in-fighting in those countries as an excuse to send in their armies for the purpose of ‘safeguarding American interests.’ Joined together, the economy of a whole Europe will rival America, push their businesses back and ensure that the riches of Europe are enjoyed by Europeans alone!”
A few small cheers announce Flag Smasher, and far too much clapping for my taste. What makes it worst is that I actually agree with him. The economies of Europe have been struggling ever since World War II and the subsequent Cold War. A central regulating economy between all the European nations could be beneficial. But with a man like Flag Smasher involved, such a project would be corrupted, ultimately rendered worthless.
Other people would recognize this, realize the risks of given a known terrorist voice within an international consortium and move to prevent his involvement. The best way to strengthen his position would be to discredit me, a prominent and respected face who is already an outspoken opponent. Now that I’m a fugitive, other opponents will keep their silence.
However, I know Flag Smasher, and he’s not smart or subtle enough to plan something like this. Whoever it was wanted me to know of Flag Smasher’s involvement, but I didn't realize this until the end. Security in the building was tightest around the main auditorium, but I saw a way into the control room on the other end, looking out of Flag Smasher. I opened the door planning to leap out into the auditorium, to reach Flag Smasher before anybody could stop me. After that, I wasn't sure. The events of the day had left me tired and angry, the exact condition they wanted me in.
The control room had a box seat that looked out onto the auditorium, and on the ledge I saw the rifle, perfectly balanced with only a draw string to support it. Everything struck me like an avalanche. Flag Smasher's ultimate purpose was as a martyr, with Captain America set up as the assassin. A split second was all I had to recognize the rifle as a Mauser, known for its accuracy, and that an extension piece at the butt flashed when I entered the room. A motion detector that released the trigger. I ran, as fast as I could I ran, but all I could do was just brush my fingers against the sniper rifle as it fired.
The crack was deafening. The screams were worse. Had I been fast enough?
Either way, people saw me. Captain America had just tried to kill Flag Smasher.
Next Issue: Now wanted of more than just murder, Captain America must race to evade capture and find those responsible. But he can't do it alone. In the meantime, a professional is hired to hunt a super-hero gone rogue. Nomad and Silver Sable guest star!
Slow-motion can come in handy at the best times. In less than a second I had seen everything I needed to see, and had decided on what had to be done. The officer in front of me was in the process of raising his gun when I grabbed it. In my hands it came apart, worthless pieces clattering to the floor. My leg shot out at the officer behind me and got him hard in the sternum. He flew through the open doorway, firearm likewise flying from his hand.
For one split instant I was alone with an officer of the law and a corpse I had slept with less than an hour ago. Using my grip on his arm and leverage, I threw the officer against the wall, away from the bed. Quickly I bent down, grabbed the shield and the uniform.
When I rose to my feet, a bullet struck the shield. Out of the corner of my eye I had seen the second officer pick up his gun. I’d angled the shield accordingly, so that the bullet went high and into the ceiling. My throw hurled the shield at the officer, striking him in the forehead. As he fell back and the gun dropped from his hands, I had rushed forward, grabbed the shield on its return and jumped off the landing into the stairwell.
Down three flights I had fallen, to land on my feet and roll through the lobby. At the checkout desk I stand into a run, throwing several bills at the clerk to cover the room. On the move I got dressed, something I had a lot of experience with during the war. The uniform was bright and gaudy, a disadvantage while on the run but I could make due. When faced with a confrontation, however, I would rather have the uniform than not.
Dressed in the uniform and armed with my shield, I ran off into Paris, a fugitive.
# # # # #
Photographs were being taken of the young woman’s body when the French detective walked into the room. Quickly his eyes gazed over the crime scene, and he leaned towards one of the officers standing guard.
“Nothing has been touched?”
“No sir. Romene – the officer who called this in – did not even collect the pieces of his gun.”
“How is he and the other, Dranaque?”
“At the hospital with bruises, mostly. Dranaque may have a concussion, but not too serious.”
“That is good. What of the girl?” he motioned at the body. “Have we identified her yet?”
“Not yet, no. It is possible she may not be native to Paris.”
“Unlikely. With what has been happening, few tourists would be visiting. We should canvas the neighborhoods the American had walked through last night. And we must run her fingerprints. It is possible she was a looter, and could have been arrested previously.”
“We shall check immediately, sir.”
“Good.” The detective turned, again gazed over the room. Pieces of a gun were scattered on the floor. He took note of some damage on a wall, a bullet hole in the ceiling, and the closed window. In his hand was a notebook, and the detective flipped through several pages and read the writing.
“Hmm.”
“Sir?”
He looked up at the uniformed officer. “The clerk downstairs, he said he saw the American escorted inside and flee several minutes later. Yet he does not recall seeing the American leave earlier.” He gestured at the view outside. “The lobby, it is the only way into the courtyard.”
“Perhaps the window? This American, he is said to be athletic.”
“More than said, we see the evidence here. And yet,” the detective frowned at the closed window. “This window is closed, and the glass not broken. However skilled the American is, I do not believe he could open a window and close it behind him as he jumps through.”
“Perhaps he closed the door later, after assaulting our officers?”
The detective nodded in thought. “Perhaps. I will ask them about it later, when they are able to give statements.”
# # # # #
Whoever was framing me, they were doing it clumsy, in a manner that wouldn’t stick. The window I had been willing to accept as an amateur mistake. But the address given by the man I’d attacked was a fake. I stood on the building’s roof, one of many clothing stores in the Paris fashion district.
How had they known I was going to attack that man? The green clothes with yellow suspenders wouldn’t have normally been enough to press me into action. Unless…yes, they’ve been monitoring me. My actions had the party the other night would have given them an idea of my mental state.
That woman, a supposed relative a man I’d known in the war…that poor woman. A part of it, no doubt, given a role to play and not told her function beyond that. A flawless set-up, yet why are there so many holes? The window and address, the police should see right through that.
Sirens put me instinctively on the move. To the next building I jump, higher up, and then to a lower building behind that. Attacking those officers had been a mistake, something else they had anticipated. If I’d only done nothing, they would have taken me into custody and released me once the inconsistencies were discovered. Now they were hunting me, and no flaws in the case would make them stop.
This had been their intention, something I was playing right into. As the police and likely others hunted me, I had to see things through, track the frame to its source and bring the killers in myself. As a fugitive with no leads, one would think that’d prove difficult. But all one had to do was consider the other flaw.
How was it those two officers happened to arrive at that precise moment?
# # # # #
Smoking wasn't allowed in prisons anymore. This annoyed Jessica Jones as she lit up outside the building, because she really could have used a cigarette while inside. Thirty minutes of filling out paperwork and being processed, then another twenty goddamn minutes of waiting, and all a waste of time. If it hadn't been for the fact that getting arrested would have meant days without nicotine, Jessica would have smashed through the glass and beaten the son of a bitch to death.
Several deep breaths of sweet tarry flavor lightened Jessica's mood, and she was ready to make the call. One of the first things she'd learned as a private investigator was to never be in a pissy mood when talking to the client. Angry people got other people angry, and it was never a good idea to get the person who signed the checks angry.
"Hey, it's me. Jessica." She rolled her eyes, and made a note to call her machine. Was her voice phone really so different? "He refused to talk to me. Yes, they can do that. No, you're not allowed to call him. They wouldn't give him the phone. Hey, go ahead and try, even come down here if you want. I'm going to his office, see what I can find out."
The cell-phone flipped shut. Jessica took another long drag of her cigarette. "Stupid bitch," she muttered to herself. Not for the first time did she regret taking Catherine Webster's case. The woman insisted on always getting in the way, curtailing the investigation she hired. Ironic that she called herself Freespirit.
If it weren't for Jack Flagg, Jessica would have begged off the job right then and there. But as much as she was pissed off about Jack refusing the visit, it did make Jessica think. A guilty person would have at least told Jessica not to waste her time, that he was guilty and didn't want any help. But Jack Flagg had simply shaken his head and walked away. That sort of quiet, fearful guilt screamed cover-up to Jessica Jones.
And according to Jessica's notes, Jack had worked for a Congressman.
# # # # #
Under heavy guard, two officers of the Paris police lay side by side in a hospital room. One lay asleep, resting, but the other, his head bandaged, lay awake with eyes open. Alongside his bed there appeared Captain America, unnoticed until he spoke.
"Who are you working for?”
The bandaged officer jerked his head to look up to the side. He hadn’t realized it would hurt, but this awareness was evident on his face as soon as it came. And at the sight of the American hero he’d encountered earlier that day, the officer’s eye widened. It was more than the fear of harm, Captain America recognized. What he saw was the fear of exposure.
“I, I don’t know what-”
“One call to a friend gave me your patrol schedule.” Captain America moved to the foot of the bed. “Going off route was a mistake.”
Glances alternated between the door, with guards on the other side, and on the call button inches from the officer’s hand. “Yes, if you press that button, I’ll have to fight my way out of here. But then whoever you work for will know that I was here, and they’ll wonder how much you said before I had to leave.”
Eyes told Captain America everything. Whomever the guard worked for terrified him more than the man who stood in front of him.
“Now all that you can hope for is that I deal with them before they find out. Names.”
So the guard spoke a name. Swiss in origin, and it tickled at Captain America’s brain. He knew it, but only in association with an alias. The man only ever called himself Flag Smasher.
# # # # #
“For too long America has forced it’s will on the rest of the world. Their economy has bullied other nations into following their policies, into granting American business power in their lands. With this foothold they use division and in-fighting in those countries as an excuse to send in their armies for the purpose of ‘safeguarding American interests.’ Joined together, the economy of a whole Europe will rival America, push their businesses back and ensure that the riches of Europe are enjoyed by Europeans alone!”
A few small cheers announce Flag Smasher, and far too much clapping for my taste. What makes it worst is that I actually agree with him. The economies of Europe have been struggling ever since World War II and the subsequent Cold War. A central regulating economy between all the European nations could be beneficial. But with a man like Flag Smasher involved, such a project would be corrupted, ultimately rendered worthless.
Other people would recognize this, realize the risks of given a known terrorist voice within an international consortium and move to prevent his involvement. The best way to strengthen his position would be to discredit me, a prominent and respected face who is already an outspoken opponent. Now that I’m a fugitive, other opponents will keep their silence.
However, I know Flag Smasher, and he’s not smart or subtle enough to plan something like this. Whoever it was wanted me to know of Flag Smasher’s involvement, but I didn't realize this until the end. Security in the building was tightest around the main auditorium, but I saw a way into the control room on the other end, looking out of Flag Smasher. I opened the door planning to leap out into the auditorium, to reach Flag Smasher before anybody could stop me. After that, I wasn't sure. The events of the day had left me tired and angry, the exact condition they wanted me in.
The control room had a box seat that looked out onto the auditorium, and on the ledge I saw the rifle, perfectly balanced with only a draw string to support it. Everything struck me like an avalanche. Flag Smasher's ultimate purpose was as a martyr, with Captain America set up as the assassin. A split second was all I had to recognize the rifle as a Mauser, known for its accuracy, and that an extension piece at the butt flashed when I entered the room. A motion detector that released the trigger. I ran, as fast as I could I ran, but all I could do was just brush my fingers against the sniper rifle as it fired.
The crack was deafening. The screams were worse. Had I been fast enough?
Either way, people saw me. Captain America had just tried to kill Flag Smasher.
Next Issue: Now wanted of more than just murder, Captain America must race to evade capture and find those responsible. But he can't do it alone. In the meantime, a professional is hired to hunt a super-hero gone rogue. Nomad and Silver Sable guest star!