Twenty-four hours later, at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 34th Street.
Butcher leaned against the glass door of a convenience store, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
He flicked his lighter repeatedly, the empty click of the flint wheel a poor distraction for his mounting frustration.
Last night, he had been drinking at a bar until three in the morning.
When Hughie’s call came in, he was still sprawled on a call girl, half-drunk and bleary-eyed.
All he could remember was the terrified, trembling voice of that idiot Hughie on the other end, sounding like he’d seen a ghost.
Something about a masked man showing up at his door, claiming to know how Translucent died, and promising to make A-Train get down on his knees and apologize in the middle of the street.
*Are you fucking kidding me?*
Butcher’s drunken stupor had instantly evaporated into a laugh.
There was only one person in this world who could make A-Train kneel, and that was that son of a bitch Homelander.
And Homelander sure as hell wouldn’t put on some cheap convenience store mask to knock on an apartment door in the dead of night.
“Oi, you’ve been played, kid.”
Butcher shoved the lighter back into his pocket, took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, and crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, leaving loose tobacco clinging to his calloused fingertips.
“Some lunatic in a mask shows up, says a few things you want to hear, and you just buy it?
You know what that’s called?
It’s bait.
It’s the favorite trick of those bastards in Vought Security.
They find someone whose face you can’t see, throw you a bone, and wait for you to bite.”
“He wasn’t Vought,” Hughie said, standing beside him with his shoulders slightly hunched.
His voice was quieter than usual, but his expression was incredibly firm.
“Vought’s people don’t knock.”
“Oh, so now you’re a Vought security expert, are you?”
Butcher flicked the tobacco shreds off his fingers and gave Hughie an exasperated sidelong glance.
“Mate, how many of Vought’s people have you actually met?
Translucent?
That old dog doesn’t count—you only met him when his guts were being blown out of his ass.
Who else?
Homelander smiling on TV?
Or the cashier working at the Vought-Mart down the street?”
Hughie didn’t say a word.
He knew Butcher didn’t believe him, and truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure if the masked man from last night was the real deal either.
But he had still come.
Butcher was right about one thing: the masked man might have exactly what Hughie wanted.
Seeing Hughie’s silence, Butcher scoffed.
He reached into his trench coat pocket for his pack of cigarettes, only to find it empty.
He crumpled the empty pack into a ball, tossed it onto the sidewalk, and ground it into the cracks of the pavement with his boot.
“I didn’t show up because of your bloody gut feeling, kid.
I’m here because you called me seven times in the middle of the night and ruined my drinking.
I want to see what this ‘John’ is made of.
Ten to one, Frenchie got wasted and is playing a prank on you, or some street punk is trying to shake us down.
Do you have any idea how much Vought is offering for our heads right now?”
He looked up, his eyes locking onto the opposite side of the street.
If he is, I’ll make sure he learns what happens when you stick your nose in this muddy water.”
Before long, a gray Ford sedan approached from the south side of Fifth Avenue.
The car pulled up to the corner, its engine idling as a small cloud of white exhaust billowed from the tailpipe.
*Click.*
A young blond man wearing a dark hoodie and a black face mask stepped out of the driver’s seat.
Seeing the target arrive, Butcher immediately wiped the smirk off his face, narrowing his eyes as he carefully sized up the newcomer.
He looked under twenty.
His posture was relaxed, hands hanging naturally at his sides, and he closed the car door with a steady, unhurried motion.
*Well, definitely not the Vought Security standard,* Butcher noted.
*Those bastards walk like they’ve got iron rods shoved up their rectums.*
*Not military either.
Soldiers usually use their left hand to close car doors.
This guy used his right.*
Butcher’s time in the CIA had trained him to analyze a person’s habits first, and this man’s movements didn’t align with any organization he knew of.
The masked man then reached into the passenger side, grabbed a handful of collar, and hauled another “person” out of the car.
*Oh…*
Or rather, a human-shaped lump of flesh that had been beaten into a pulp.
Blue and white uniform…
holy shit, it really was A-Train.
But could it be some body double meant to fool them?
*Fuck…
no.*
Butcher’s pupils dilated.
Comparing the details, he realized with shock that the body lying on the ground was indeed the genuine A-Train.
Which meant…
The fastest speedster in America, a member of The Seven, and one of Vought’s most valuable assets…
Was being dragged out of a car by his collar like a half-dead dog?
Butcher’s lip twitched as his brain rapidly discarded all the sarcasm and dismissal he had prepared.
*Fuck me.*
This definitely wasn’t Vought.
Those corporate bastards would never beat one of their own Seven members into this state.
“Oi, Hughie.
Looks like you really reeled in a big fish.”
Butcher let out his signature devilish grin, spat his unlit cigarette butt onto the ground, crushed it under his boot, and stared intently at the young man across the street.
He needed to watch closely and see exactly what this guy was planning to do.
Across the street, John let go of A-Train’s collar, stepped back, and jerked his chin toward Hughie.
The moment Hughie saw A-Train’s face, his fingers dug deep into his palms.
This animal—the monster he wanted to tear apart with his bare hands—was standing right in front of him.
“No introduction needed.
You know him, Hughie Campbell,” John said.
His voice wasn’t loud, but Butcher could hear every word clearly from across the street.
A-Train struggled to push himself off the ground.
He knelt, staring up at Hughie, his Adam’s apple bobbing before he finally managed to squeeze out a complete sentence.
“Mr.
Campbell…
I’m the one who ran through your girlfriend.
I didn’t stop.
I’m sorry…
please…
please forgive me!”
As A-Train finished, he bowed low, his knees cracking hard against the pavement of Fifth Avenue—and against the raw fury in Hughie’s heart.
“You son of a bitch!
Never!
You goddamn bastard!”
Hughie didn’t hesitate.
Putting every ounce of strength he possessed into his fist, he slammed it straight into A-Train’s face.
In the next second, a bloody white tooth flew from A-Train’s mouth, liberating itself in a sudden bid for freedom.
“So, Hughie, how’s that for a trade?”
…
Eight hours earlier.
John stood outside the door of Room 3207, listening to the loud, heavy funk music blasting from inside.
*For someone who’s still alive, A-Train sure knows how to live comfortably…*
John wrapped his fingers gently around the doorknob.
With a swift twist, he ripped the door handle and the electronic lock clean out of the frame, the metal deadbolt snapping instantly.
Then, he walked in.
The apartment wasn’t large.
There was a leather sofa, a flat-screen TV, and a coffee table littered with energy bar wrappers and several used syringes.
John sniffed.
The air smelled of a sickly-sweet mixture of rubbing alcohol, synthetic metabolites, and cheap air freshener.
On the sofa nearby, A-Train sat with his back to the door, his right hand gripping a tourniquet tightly while his left arm was stretched straight.
A needle was still plunged into his vein.
The pale blue liquid of Compound V was being pumped into his bloodstream drop by drop.
The moment the drug entered his system, A-Train’s body tensed violently.
His back muscles spasmed, sending the syringe popping out of his vein onto the floor, where the remaining liquid hissed and scorched a small burn mark into the carpet.
Then, he heard a faint footstep.
*Hum—*
A-Train’s reflexes were far shorter than those of an ordinary human.
This was one of the nervous system enhancements brought by Compound V, allowing his super-speed to keep up with his senses.
While a normal person took 150 milliseconds to react to a sound, A-Train needed less than 30.
And within those 30 milliseconds, his brain had already identified the threat:
*Someone is behind me!*
*Vought logistics?*
*No.*