Chapter 16: Storms
The door closed behind them.
Betty Brant didn't move immediately. Just stood with her back against the door—escape route blocked by her own decision—while this stranger named Bell Reily stood in her living room with his hands visible and posture carefully open.
Non-threatening.
Except his eyes were cataloging everything. The corkboard covering half her wall. The red string connecting Bennett's face to locations, dates, dead ends. Her laptop open on the coffee table, sixteen tabs of missing persons databases and legal aid services. The three coffee mugs—all hers, all from today.
Taking inventory.
Betty moved first. Walked to the couch, pulled out her phone, opened the recording app.
"Sit," she said. Not a request.
Bell noticed the recording. Smiled slightly as he settled into the armchair across from her. "Professional."
"Always." Betty pulled a notebook from the table. Pen ready. "You said you have information about my brother. Start talking."
No preamble. No small talk. This was an interview now, and she was running it.
Bell's smile widened a fraction. Like he'd expected exactly this.
"Your brother was last seen on March 14th. Brooklyn docks, Pier 32. He was buying drugs from a dealer who goes by Blackie—works for Hammerhead's organization."
Betty's pen didn't stop moving. "Source?"
"Can't reveal that."
"Then I can't verify it."
"You can verify the location. Cross-reference with your own timeline."
Betty pulled her laptop closer without breaking eye contact. Three clicks. A document opened—Bennett's last known movements, compiled over three months of desperate investigation.
March 14th. Last phone activity pinged near Brooklyn waterfront.
She felt something cold settle in her stomach.
"That's circumstantial," she said. Voice flat. Controlled.
"It's a starting point." Bell leaned forward slightly. "Ms. Brant, I'm going to be direct with you because I think you're tired of people being polite and useless."
"I don't need your assessment of what I'm tired of." Betty's voice had an edge now. "I need verifiable facts and actionable leads. If you can't provide either—"
"Fact: Your brother bought drugs from Hammerhead's people. Fact: He disappeared immediately after. Fact: Every official channel you've contacted—police, private investigators, whatever—has told you some version of 'we're doing everything we can,' which is code for 'we're doing nothing.'"
The accuracy stung.
"And you're different because?" Betty asked.
Bell's smile turned sharp. Almost playful. "Because I'm not bound by jurisdictional limitations. Or professional ethics. Or the general expectation that I'll follow the law."
Silence.
Thunder rumbled outside. The storm was getting worse.
Betty stared at him. Really looked. Young, maybe mid-twenties, forgettable face except for something in his eyes that was very, very wrong. Not dangerous exactly. Just... absent. Like he was looking at her from very far away even though he sat three feet in front of her.
"Who are you really?" she asked.
"Someone who can help you find Bennett."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting tonight."
Betty's hand tightened on her pen. Three months of investigation. Three months of bureaucratic runaround and sympathetic-but-useless police officers and private investigators who took her money and found nothing. Three months of watching her brother's trail go cold while the city descended into checkpoints and vans and people disappearing without explanation.
And now this stranger shows up in a thunderstorm with information that matched her timeline exactly.
Too convenient.
Too perfect.
Too desperate not to pursue.
"Why come to me?" Betty's voice was quieter now. "If you have intel on Hammerhead, why not go to the police? The FBI? Someone with actual authority?"
Bell laughed. Actually laughed—brief, genuine, almost sympathetic.
"The police? Right now?" He gestured vaguely toward the window. Toward the checkpoints outside. "DMPS is crawling all over this city hunting mutants. You think they have resources for a missing drug buyer? The FBI's even worse—they're too busy coordinating with Homeland Security on 'enhanced individual threats.'"
He leaned back. Casual. Relaxed.
"But you? You're a journalist. You know how to build a case. You have access to resources, databases, contacts. And most importantly—you're motivated. Personal stake. That makes you useful."
"Useful," Betty repeated. Flat.
"Yes."
At least he was honest about it.
"What do you want in exchange?" she asked.
"Smart question." Bell reached into his jacket—slowly, showing he wasn't going for a weapon—and pulled out a small USB drive. Set it on the coffee table between them. "Intel on Hammerhead's operation. Locations. Financial records. Shipping manifests. Enough to prosecute if you verify it properly."
Betty didn't touch it. Just stared at the drive like it might detonate.
"Why give this to me?"
"Because if you expose Hammerhead's operation, it becomes easier to find out what happened to Bennett. More pressure. More attention. More cracks in the organization."
"Or you're a rival gang using me to eliminate competition through media exposure."
"That would be smart," Bell admitted. "Elegant, even. But if I were a rival gang, I'd just kill Hammerhead myself. Faster. Cleaner. No journalists involved."
"Unless you want media cover for gang warfare."
Bell's smile was genuine now. Delighted, almost.
"You're good. Peter said you were sharp, but I thought he was being sentimental."
The world stopped.
Betty's hand froze halfway to the USB drive. "What did you say?"
"Peter Parker." Bell's tone was conversational. Friendly. "Photographer at the Bugle. You two dated for a while, didn't you? Or maybe still do. I lose track of civilian relationship timelines."
Her throat was suddenly very dry. "How do you know Peter?"
"Mutual acquaintances."
"That's not an answer."
"Like I said—it's the only one you're getting."
Betty's mind raced. Peter knew this person? Peter, who barely had time for a social life between photography jobs and whatever the hell else he did that he never quite explained. Peter, who kept strange hours and stranger secrets.
Peter, who'd helped her look for Bennett until the trail went completely cold.
"Does Peter know you're here?" she asked carefully.
"God, no." Bell's laugh was soft. Almost affectionate. "He'd have opinions about my methods. Strong ones. We don't see eye to eye on... well, on most things, actually."
"But you know him well enough to discuss me."
"I know him well enough to know he cares about you. That you're competent. That you don't give up on people." Bell's expression shifted slightly. Something harder underneath the charm. "I'm counting on that last part."
Lightning flashed outside. For a moment the room was stark white—the corkboard, the red string, Bennett's face staring at her from a dozen photographs.
Thunder followed.
Betty looked at the USB drive.
At Bell's patient, expectant expression.
At her laptop with its sixteen tabs of failure.
"If I take this," she said slowly, "and it's real—if I can verify it—what happens then?"
"Then you write your story. Expose Hammerhead. Let the consequences play out."
"And Bennett?"
"If he's in Hammerhead's organization, pressure might shake him loose. If he's in government custody..." Bell's voice went flat. "That's harder. But more information is better than less. At minimum, you'll know."
Betty reached for the USB.
Stopped.
"One more question."
"Shoot."
"Did you hurt my brother?"
Bell met her eyes. His expression didn't change. "No."
"Do you know who did?"
"Not yet."
"But you're looking."
"In my own way."
The honesty of it—the transactional, mercenary honesty—was somehow worse than a comforting lie would've been.
Betty took the USB.
"Check it on an isolated system," Bell said, standing. "You're a journalist. You know how to handle anonymous sources."
"I do." Betty stood too. "How do I contact you?"
"There's a number on the drive. Use it if you find something worth sharing."
He walked toward the door. Betty followed, maintaining distance, still processing the fact that this stranger knew Peter, knew her, knew entirely too much about her life.
Bell's hand touched the doorknob. Paused.
"One more thing."
"Yeah?"
His voice changed. Something colder underneath. "If you publish this story, Hammerhead will probably try to kill you."
Betty's stomach dropped. "Probably?"
"Ninety percent certainty. I'm accounting for the possibility he's too distracted to notice right away." Bell glanced back. The smile was still there but wrong now. Empty. "Just thought you should know. Professional courtesy."
"And you're okay with that?"
"I'm okay with you having all the information before you make a decision." He opened the door. Rain and wind rushed in. "What you do with it is your choice."
Betty's professional instincts warred with basic human concern. This stranger had just handed her a weapon that might get her killed and acted like he'd done her a favor.
Which, in a sick way, he had.
"Wait," she said.
Bell turned.
"Will you be alright? The storm—cabs are probably stopped by now."
For just a second, something genuine crossed his face. Surprise, maybe. Like he'd forgotten people asked questions like that.
Then it was gone.
"Don't worry." His smile was warm again. Almost kind. "I've seen many storms. This one's just a baby in the cradle."
He stepped out into the rain.
Betty watched him walk down her front path. Watched him reach the sidewalk.
Closed the door.
Stood there for a long moment, USB drive warm in her hand, listening to thunder shake her windows.
Then she walked to her laptop.
***
Twenty minutes later, Betty Brant sat in the blue glow of her screen and tried to process what she was seeing.
She'd opened the USB on her isolated partition—VPN active, no connection to her main system, all the precautions she'd learned from years of handling sensitive sources.
A single folder: TRUTH.
Inside: dozens of files. Spreadsheets. Scanned documents. Photographs. All meticulously organized by date and location.
She'd clicked the first file almost casually.
Financial records. Shell company in Grand Cayman routing payments to a Brooklyn LLC. She cross-referenced the date—March 14th—with customs records.
Different cargo. Completely different.
Her hands started shaking.
She opened another file. Photographs of men loading crates onto trucks. Time-stamped. Geo-tagged. Faces visible enough for identification.
Another file. Encrypted communications between Hammerhead's lieutenants. Decoded. Annotated with context notes explaining criminal shorthand.
"Jesus Christ," Betty whispered.
This wasn't amateur work. This was surveillance. Professional-grade intelligence gathering that required resources she couldn't imagine. Months of effort. Serious money.
Or serious connections.
She clicked through more files. Each one verified details she'd been unable to confirm through official channels. Pier locations. Money transfers. Supplier networks. Personnel rosters.
It was all real.
Which meant Bell Reily wasn't a concerned citizen.
He was something else entirely.
Betty sat back from the laptop. Stared at her corkboard. At Bennett's face staring back from a dozen photographs. At three months of dead ends and bureaucratic indifference.
She pulled out her phone. Found the contact number embedded in the USB files.
Her finger hovered over the call button.
If she called now, she'd be committing. Accepting the bargain. Becoming part of whatever this was.
But if she didn't...
Lightning flashed outside. Thunder followed close enough to rattle her windows.
Betty set down the phone.
Opened a new document.
Typed: HAMMERHEAD INVESTIGATION - CONFIDENTIAL SOURCE
Underneath: Pier 32. Cayman shell companies. Cross-reference customs records. Verify personnel rosters.
Not an article....yet.
A roadmap.
She'd verify the intel herself. Build the case from the ground up. If it held together—when it held together—she'd write something her editor couldn't kill.
And then she'd call Bell.
But on her terms.
Not his.
Betty pulled up her database access. Started cross-referencing financial records.
Outside, the storm continued.
Inside, Betty Brant did what she did best.
She investigated.
***
Three blocks away, Bell Reily turned into an alley between a closed bodega and a building with boarded windows.
No cameras. No witnesses. Just rain and darkness and the distant wail of sirens.
The polite smile dropped from his face like a shed skin.
His shoulders relaxed. The careful, measured steps became efficient strides. The warmth in his eyes iced over completely.
By the time he reached the alley's deepest shadow, Bell Reily was gone.
What remained was function.
He pulled out his phone. No preamble when Tombstone answered.
"Prepare the package."
Tombstone's voice was careful. Cautious. "They've been asking questions. Want to know why they're—"
"I don't care what they want." The voice was different now. Colder. Stripped of charm. "Secure them. Make sure they're presentable. I'm coming."
A pause on the line.
"Kid's scared," Tombstone said quietly.
"Good." No hesitation. No sympathy. "Fear makes people cooperative. Twenty minutes."
He ended the call. Pocketed the phone.
Rolled up his left sleeve.
The purple wristguard underneath pulsed faintly with sealed chakra. Intricate black marks spiraling across the surface in patterns that had taken weeks to perfect.
Modified from Hashirama's techniques, adapted for purposes the First Hokage had never imagined.
He pressed his thumb to the seal. Channeled his chakra.
Kuchiyose: Raikō Kenka
In the puff of smoke the armor materialized around him. Bone-white plates growing from nothing. Bronze roots spreading across the surface like infection. Helmet forming over his head, lenses catching what little light existed in the alley.
The civilian clothes compressed underneath. Still there intact.
Planning for failure wasn't pessimism.
Arbor stretched. The armor moved like a second skin.
Then he jumped to the roof.
And ran.
***
The city blurred beneath him.
Building to building. Never stopping. Rain hammered his armor—white noise loud enough to drown thought. Spider-sense warned of obstacles before his eyes registered them: water tower ahead, dodge left. Gap between buildings, twenty feet horizontal, easy. Keep moving.
He ran on walls when the buildings were too tall to jump. Ran upside-down under overhangs when it was faster than going around. His stamina was Hashirama's gift—the kind of endurance that didn't quit, didn't fade, didn't acknowledge limitation.
Peter would've been swinging. Web-lines and momentum and that stupid exhilaration he got from flying through the air like physics was optional.
Arbor preferred this.
The destination mattered. The journey was just distance to cross.
He stopped on a high rooftop— the tallest in the skyline. Wind howled across the exposed surface. Rain came sideways now, hammering everything.
The city spread below him.
It looked different.
Before, it had been breathtaking. Neon bleeding into night. Traffic sounds like a heartbeat. Light and noise and relentless life.
Now it was dark. Silent. Storm-battered and alone.
Checkpoints glowed at intervals—sterile white light cutting through rain. The only consistent illumination. Everything else was shadow.
Below, maybe six blocks away, a checkpoint stopped a family. Three people. Two adults, one child. The scanner swept over the kid.
Beeped urgent.
Officers moved in.
The mother screamed.
The primal and desperate.sound cut through rain and wind and distance.
Arbor watched the child—twelve, maybe thirteen—get pulled toward the unmarked van. Watched the father held back by two officers. Watched the mother collapse to her knees.
Not my problem.
The thought came automatic. Defensive.
I didn't pass the MRA. I didn't build the checkpoints. I didn't put that scanner in their hands.
Below, the van doors closed. Drove away.
The parents stood in the rain. Alone. Broken.
Not. My. Problem.
The words felt hollow even in his own head.
I killed criminals. Harlem's cleaner because of me. Banned drugs, reduced violence, increased profit. The math works. None of this—
The mother's scream echoed in his memory.
—is my responsibility.
Arbor turned away from the edge.
Dismissed the doubt before it could take root.
The city below didn't care about his justifications.
It just kept bleeding.
He continued toward his destination.
The storm continued.
Thunder cracked overhead like the sky breaking open.
And somewhere in the darkness, a young voice was asking questions no one wanted to answer.
Arbor moved faster.
He had work to do.
END CHAPTER 16