"So, what do you think?" she asked, wiping grease from her mouth with a napkin. I took a hasty bite of the pizza as we camped outside the little corner pizzeria in New York.
We'd tested the new Passport late last night, booking a one-way flight to the city, and arrived sometime in the morning. She'd taken me through all her favorite spots—cafes, restaurants, galleries, shops, and finally Joey's Pizzeria. Apparently, this was where it all began for her.
I chewed the slice of cheesy pizza slowly, making sure to savor every ingredient, sauce, and topping.
"Best thing I've tasted in a long time," I said honestly. Then again, that wasn't a particularly high bar to clear. Two days ago, I was chewing on the digits of dead sorcerers. It also didn't help that I grew up dirt-broke.
Alex beamed, nudging me with her shoulder. "Told you this was the shit."
"You did," I said.
"Joey's used to get me through the sleepless nights and the endless deadlines—trying to juggle college and moonlighting as the total badass that I am," she said, planting her hands on her hips.
"Uh huh."
She squinted at me and waved a hand. "Don't look at me like that." She sipped her cola. "Don't you have errands to run in the city?"
"Yeah, I do," I admitted. I needed to check out a Grade 1 sorcerer—Alan Witmer. The brief surveillance Alex had run placed him at his home office with his family. He had a young son and a ridiculously attractive wife.
I knew exactly how to handle him, but I found myself hesitating because of what it would mean.
Adam was the last person Artisan would expect me to go after. Shelim and the twins were more visible targets, and there were plenty of Grade 1 sorcerers worldwide. After the information Alex recovered, she was probably counting on some kind of legal offense.
Shelim had kept meticulous records on his past dealings in service to Artisan. Digital records of shipping manifests, dates and times of assassinations and removals, and even banking details gave me a comprehensive look at her global network.
But none of them was Adam. Adam was her money guy, and I knew him personally from the short time I spent in the ring with the motherfucker. His New York accent was thick. He had slicked-back hair, the fast-talking cadence of a finance bro, and he couldn't wait to gloat when he burned me with his fire.
Disaster Flames. That was his Jujutsu Technique. I never got the chance to adapt to it before the match was over.
It was pure serendipity that Alex found him based on the image I drew and his first name. It took her minutes to figure out just how vital he was to their operation.
Standing up from my seat, I took a sip of my cola. I produced a sheet of paper containing a list of poisons and their antidotes.
Alex looked up, disturbed. "What are you planning?"
"Insurance," I said simply. "You know how overzealous they can be."
She gave me a slow nod and jotted down an address. I memorized it and sent the paper into my inventory, planning to burn it later once I had a copy of Adam's technique.
A cab took me to Chinatown, where I found myself standing in a restaurant freezer with two Chinese men sizing me up.
As soon as I told them I was with White Shadow, they attended to me immediately. It was impressive. Alex commanded more respect and fear than my OG identity ever did. I wasn't sure Mr. Negative could've made them fold that quickly, not without at least a threat. Maybe there was a lesson in there.
I gathered my vials and antidotes and vanished into the alley, heading over to New Jersey. I camped out there. Over the next two days, I picked out the worst of the worst—killers, pedophiles, child abusers, traffickers, drug dealers—and followed them to the places they lay their heads at night. In between all that, I took the time to look up Adam Witmer.
He was more protected than I imagined. Artisan had Ade, of all people, guarding him alongside somebody new. I sensed no cursed energy from them, meaning they were likely metas. He reported to Ade, along with a team of five soldiers and one second-grade sorcerer.
That gave me some hope.
That night, I crashed at Alex's pad—some brownstone in Brooklyn owned by a wealthy older couple who embraced us like we were their long-lost children. The whole thing weirded me out.
"How's Chani doing?" Alex asked brightly as the woman took her coat.
"Off to college this year," she said proudly.
"Little heartbreaker," the older man said, shaking his head. "Tried to talk her out of it, but you can only do so much." He turned toward me, eyeing me up and down. "And who is this lovely fella?"
"A friend, I suppose," I said honestly. He looked back at Alex, then at me.
"I see where she gets it from," he said. Alex sputtered, protesting that we were just business partners, but Doug and Angie weren't having it.
After they fed us, they guided us to a study on the second floor.
"Kept it clean and updated according to your specifications," Doug said, suddenly serious.
"Thanks," Alex replied. "I'll reimburse you for the extra. Some of those parts are rare."
"Nonsense," he waved away. "After everything you've done for us? Not worth mentioning."
Alex's study looked miles better than the rinky-dink setup she had in Detroit. The walls were soundproof, and she had a literal wall of monitors mounted with the most complicated monitor arms I'd ever seen. The system itself was a beast, humming audibly as she booted it up and signed in with her voice, fingerprint, thumb scanner, and a ten-digit code.
Fail any security test, and the system locks down and self-wipes in five minutes.
Very ruthless. And this was just one of the fifteen safehouses she had around the world. Instead of maintaining empty lofts or dead drops, she kept full homes stocked with trustworthy people whose sole job was to tend to her local interests. Bars, clubs, investments, and the like.
Doug and Angie were her first. She had paid off their home before she left New York and erased her identity from the internet.
She cracked open a program and got to work. Five minutes later, she came up for air and handed me a cellphone.
"Your call will be completely encrypted. No one on Earth will be able to listen in or track you."
I thanked her. While no one except Batman knew the number of my old burner phone, it could still be traced if I stayed on the line too long.
I dialed Bruce Wayne's personal number, and he surprisingly answered.
"You should screen your calls more," I said casually. "I could've been a crazy fan, a scammer, or some other unsavory personality."
"Julius," his warm voice rumbled. "I've been trying to reach you for days. I got your message. We want you to come in."
"Nah, I don't think so," I said. "I'm enjoying my freedom a little too much."
"We never stopped looking for you," Batman said. "Your sister and mother… I'm sorry I couldn't protect them."
My breath hitched, and I gripped the phone so hard I nearly crushed it, but I centered myself before that happened.
"We have much to discuss," I said. "Come to New York and meet me in Times Square at 12 p.m. sharp tomorrow."
I hung up.
"That went well…" I muttered.
"I thought so," Alex said, then added with hesitation. "Are you sure this is the route you want to take with the League?"
"Not outright," I admitted. "But think of it as a worst-case scenario. The scum I picked out will be poisoned for a few hours, and the cure will be nearby."
"It won't put you on good terms with the League," she warned. "And if Superman is with them, they'll find the victims quickly."
"Probably," I conceded. "But not quickly enough. I'll time it so they have a ten-minute window at most before the poisons cause irreversible damage." It would be enough time to see if Batman would compromise.
Alex looked at me, surprised. "How long have you been thinking about this?"
"A few days," I said. "There are probably more gracious ways to ingratiate myself with them, but we've killed too many people, and we're out of time."