Half a day of trudging through the neighborhood's gun shops had taught Nolan one thing: the legal route was a dead end.
He stood on the corner of Canal Street, mentally reviewing his options. Unless he flew to Mexico or the Middle East, or somehow established a company large enough to attract arms dealers through high-value contracts, there was no legal way to acquire firearms in bulk. Not quickly, anyway.
Which meant, short of robbing an arms dealer's warehouse, his only local option was the gangs.
Every gang controlled at least one smuggling route. Snakes had their ways, rats had theirs. It was an old truth in New York, written in blood and cash across generations.
So he was back at square one.
Almost.
The day hadn't been completely wasted. For five hundred dollars, he'd acquired a proper sling holster for his plasma pistol. And more importantly, one gun shop owner had slipped him a phone number scrawled on the back of a receipt.
"Private dealer," the owner had said, leaning close and keeping his voice low. "No gang ties. But don't bother him with anything less than a hundred guns, or he'll think you're a cop trying to set him up."
Nolan had pocketed the number with a noncommittal grunt. Whether the dealer was truly independent or just another gang operative, he'd find out when the time came. At least it was a lead outside the usual criminal networks.
Now, walking through the afternoon crowds, Nolan's mind shifted to his other obligations. The Evening Hearth's renovation needed his attention. His aunt would want his input on the design changes. And then there was Midtown High School, still waiting for him to show up for that makeup exam.
He stopped mid-stride, suddenly remembering something.
His hand smacked against his forehead with a sharp crack that made pedestrians around him flinch and scatter several meters away. They gave him a wide berth, eyeing the muscular young man warily.
His bicycle. He'd left it outside the school.
Given New York's current security situation, anything parked outside for more than a day was basically donated to the city's thriving theft economy. The bike was gone. Had to be.
Nolan took a deep breath and kept walking, refusing to look at the alarmed pedestrians. As long as he wasn't embarrassed, they were the ones who should feel awkward.
He'd gone another block when his eyes caught on a storefront: a motorcycle dealership, its windows displaying gleaming machines in chrome and steel.
After a moment's hesitation, Nolan decided it was time to upgrade his transportation. He pushed through the glass doors.
A black-haired man in a crisp suit intercepted him before he'd taken three steps. The salesman's smile was bright, professional, and slightly predatory.
"Hello, sir! Welcome! Are you looking for anything specific today? Do you have a preferred model in mind?"
Nolan shook his head. "I don't know much about motorcycles. My main requirement is range."
The salesman's smile somehow grew even wider. He gestured enthusiastically, leading Nolan toward a raised platform where a luxury motorcycle rotated slowly under spotlights.
"Then let me show you something special." The salesman's hands swept toward the machine like he was presenting a work of art. "Hand-crafted by master artisans from a premium luxury brand. Every metal component on this rugged beauty is assembled by hand. The base model starts at only five hundred thousand."
Nolan's eye twitched. "Uh, my second requirement is that it should be cheaper."
He was a pragmatist, not a collector. Any motorcycle was just a tool to get from point A to point B. And besides, the world of the rich was still far beyond his reach. Half a million dollars? He'd need to rob Tony Stark first.
Maybe I'll get the chance to shake down Stark for cash in the future, Nolan thought with dark amusement.
"Ah, of course, no problem!" The salesman pivoted smoothly, undeterred. He gestured toward another bike. "Then perhaps this spring's latest model? Same color scheme as Iron Man, very popular with young people right now. One hundred thousand, and we accept credit card payments with installment plans. Maximum discount of ten percent!"
Nolan took a slow, deep breath. He was beginning to regret entering this shop.
Desperate to end the torture, he squinted and scanned the various motorcycles scattered around the showroom. His eyes locked onto one that looked sturdy enough.
He pointed. "That one. How much?"
The smile on the salesman's face froze for just a fraction of a second. Professional training kicked in, and he maintained his composure, though his enthusiasm had noticeably dimmed.
"This is... a scooter. Popular with ladies and, ah, gentlemen of your build." The helplessness in his eyes was subtle but unmistakable. His smile became strained. "It's commonly known as a 'lamb.' The price is only five thousand. But it doesn't really meet your first requirement regarding range..."
Nolan smiled. "Doesn't matter. It's cheap. I'll take two. I'll just use them up as I go."
"Use... use them up?" The salesman blinked, clearly unable to process what he'd just heard.
But a sale was a sale. When Nolan pulled out a thick stack of bills from his pocket, the salesman's confusion evaporated. He moved to process the transaction with renewed efficiency.
After all, the customer was always right.
In Hell's Kitchen, the ruins of the Treasure Mall crawled with FBI forensic personnel.
White-suited technicians moved through the devastated building like ghosts, carefully extracting evidence from debris and bloodstains. In the weed-choked parking lot outside, a single white police cruiser stood out among a cluster of black federal vehicles.
Police Captain George Stacy sat in the driver's seat, a cup of coffee cooling in his hand. Papers were spread across his steering wheel: case files, forensic reports, preliminary findings. As the liaison between the NYPD and the FBI, he'd been granted basic clearance to review the investigation.
Twenty hours after the incident, the picture was becoming clearer.
The genetic tests weren't complete yet, but dental records had already identified all the dead. Every single one.
The Slavic "Tracksuit Mafia." Except for their leader, a man known as Boban the Kaban, who had mysteriously vanished, every corpse belonged to the gang's core membership. If nothing else surfaced, the Tracksuit Mafia had officially become history. Just another entry in the NYPD's closed case files.
George took a sip of coffee and flipped through another page. Then he froze.
His hand trembled. Coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim of his cup, nearly spilling onto his lap.
Even though he'd seen the bodies with his own eyes at the scene, seeing the photographs again hit him like a physical blow.
The children. Those small, broken bodies.
George's throat tightened. As a father, he couldn't help but imagine his own daughter, his bright, laughing Gwen, in their place. If something like this happened to her, could he still believe in the justice the law promised? Could he remain the man he'd sworn to be?
He wasn't sure he could.
The case itself wasn't complicated. Despite the difficulty of collecting evidence from the destroyed building, the truth was painfully obvious. Even a rookie could piece it together.
Bloody revenge for dead children.
A vigilante who'd been fighting crime for years had finally crossed the line. Pain and rage had pushed someone beyond the boundaries of law and order.
George's eyes drifted to a photograph in the file: the remains of a weapon, stick-like, shattered into pieces among the rubble. He stared at it, lost in thought.
Somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, someone had decided they'd had enough.
And George wasn't sure he blamed them.