Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009, 11:52 PM
Suicide Slum
Corner of Hob's Bay and Sullivan
The black cloth felt right against his skin.
James crouched on the fire escape three stories above the street corner, listening to the drug dealers below conduct their nightly business. Six of them tonight, more than usual. Word was spreading that someone had been interfering with operations in the harbor district.
Good. Let them worry.
"Tommy's late again," one of them was saying. Mid-twenties, nervous energy, kept checking his phone every thirty seconds.
"Tommy ain't coming," another voice replied. Older, more confident. The boss of this little crew. "Got himself arrested last night. Along with Marcus."
James smiled behind his mask. Tommy and Marcus were the two idiots from the alley who'd tried to kidnap the college kid. Their absence had apparently left a gap in the local distribution network.
"So what we supposed to do about territory?" Nervous Guy asked.
"We expand. Take over their corners until the boss figures out what's next."
The boss. James filed that information away. Someone higher up the chain was coordinating these street-level operations. Someone worth finding.
"What about that freak who's been messing with people?" A third voice, younger. Scared. "DeShawn said some crazy blind dude took out Tommy and Marcus like they was nothing."
"DeShawn's full of shit," the boss said, but James caught the slight uptick in his heartbeat. Fear, carefully controlled. "Ain't no blind man taking down two grown adults."
James decided it was time to introduce himself.
He dropped from the fire escape to the building's second-floor ledge, then used a window frame to swing down to street level. The whole descent took maybe four seconds and made about as much noise as a cat landing.
"Evening, gentlemen."
All six men spun toward his voice, hands moving automatically toward weapons. James stood in the mouth of the alley, letting the streetlight cast his shadow across the pavement.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" the boss demanded.
James tilted his head, considering the question. He'd been thinking about this moment for days, but the answer came to him now like it had always been there.
"Daredevil," he said.
"Daredevil," the boss repeated, like he was testing how it sounded. "What kind of stupid fucking name is that for a freak in a damn mask?"
"The kind you're going to remember for the rest of your life."
Nervous Guy went for his gun first. James heard the rustle of fabric, the click of a safety being released, the subtle shift in the man's stance that meant he was about to fire. By the time the dealer's hand cleared his jacket, James was already moving.
Three steps closed the distance between them. James grabbed the gun hand at the wrist, twisted until something made an interesting popping sound, then used the man's own momentum to drive his face into the brick wall behind him. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.
The other five were still processing what had happened when James turned toward them.
"Anyone else feeling nervous tonight?"
Two of them charged him at once. The younger one threw a wild haymaker that James ducked without effort, then drove his fist into the kid's solar plexus. The air went out of him in a whoosh, and he folded over like a lawn chair.
The second attacker was smarter, came in low trying to tackle James around the waist. James sidestepped, grabbed the man by the back of his jacket, and used his forward momentum to introduce him to the side of a parked car. The impact left a man-shaped dent in the door.
"Jesus Christ," someone whispered.
Three down, three to go. The boss and two others, all of them now backing away slowly like James was radioactive.
"You don't have to do this," the boss said, trying to sound reasonable. "We can work something out. Split territory, whatever you want."
"What I want," James said, stepping over the unconscious body, "is for you to find a new line of work."
"You're crazy. You know that? Completely fucking insane."
"Probably."
The fourth dealer tried to run. James let him get maybe ten steps before catching up, grabbing him by the collar, and spinning him back toward the wall. The man hit concrete hard enough to crack the mortar and slid down to sit in a dazed heap.
"Four down," James announced to the remaining two. "Want to make this easy on yourselves?"
The fifth guy pulled a knife, eight inches of steel that glinted in the streetlight. He held it like he knew what he was doing, balanced on the balls of his feet, eyes tracking James's movement.
"Come on then, blind boy. Let's see what you got."
James smiled. "Bad choice."
The knife man lunged, aiming for James's throat. James tilted his head six inches to the left, let the blade whisper past his ear, then grabbed the attacker's wrist and twisted. The knife clattered to the pavement, and James drove his knee into the man's stomach hard enough to lift him off his feet.
Five down. Just the boss left.
The older man was fumbling with his phone, probably trying to call for backup. James crossed the distance between them in two strides and plucked the device from his hands.
"No phone calls," James said, dropping the phone and crushing it under his heel. "Just you and me."
"What do you want?" The boss's voice cracked slightly. "Money? Territory? Whatever it is, we can deal."
"I want you to deliver a message for me."
"What message?"
James grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him close enough that the dealer could smell the cotton of his mask.
"Tell your boss that Suicide Slum is under new management. Tell him that anyone who wants to sell poison to kids or disappear college students is going to have to deal with me. And tell him that I'm just getting started."
The boss nodded frantically. "Yeah, okay, I can do that. Message delivered. We're cool, right?"
James smiled, and something in his expression made the man go pale.
"We're cool. Right after you take a little nap."
The punch was precise, controlled. Just enough force to put the dealer down without causing permanent damage. The boss crumpled to the pavement next to his unconscious crew.
James pulled six zip ties from his pocket and began arranging the dealers in a neat row against the wall, hands secured behind their backs. By the time they woke up, the police would be here to collect them.
He'd called in an anonymous tip from a burner phone before making his approach. Told them about a drug deal gone wrong, multiple suspects down, corner of Hob's Bay and Sullivan. The cops would find six dealers, a bag of product, and several illegal weapons. Open and shut case.
Standing over the unconscious criminals, James felt something he hadn't experienced since waking up in the hospital. Satisfaction. Deep, clean satisfaction that came from a job well done.
This was what all those new instincts and abilities had been preparing him for. Not photography, not journalism, not documenting problems and hoping someone else would solve them. This. Direct action. Making the world a little bit safer one dealer at a time.
In the distance, sirens were beginning to wail. James scaled the nearest fire escape and disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind six criminals and the first calling card of someone the underworld would soon learn to fear.
Daredevil had made his debut, and Suicide Slum would never be quite the same.
By the time the police arrived, he was already three blocks away, planning his next target. There were so many corners to clean up, so many predators to remove from the board.