A-Train’s private suite on the 82nd floor of Vought Tower was a shrine to his own ego.
The walls were lined with gold medals, framed magazine covers, and customized aerodynamic display suits.
But the man sitting on the edge of the circular bed didn’t look like the fastest man in the world.
He looked like an addict going through severe withdrawal.
I stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, watching him sweat.
A-Train’s leg was bouncing at a superhuman speed, vibrating the heavy mahogany floorboards.
His eyes were bloodshot, and he was chewing aggressively on his thumbnail.
Ever since I faked Popclaw’s death, relocated her to a secure safehouse, and completely hijacked the Compound V vault from Sub-Level 50, A-Train’s supply had completely dried up.
Homelander was too busy hunting terrorists to authorize any V-drops, and A-Train was too terrified of me to go looking for it himself.
“You look terrible, I said softly, stepping into the room and closing the soundproof door behind me.
A-Train flinched, his head snapping toward me.
He immediately stopped his vibrating leg, forcing himself to sit perfectly still.
He was terrified of me.
He knew I held Popclaw’s life in my hands, and he knew I could crush his skull before he could even blink.
“I’m fine,” A-Train lied, his voice raspy.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“Just…
you know.
Waiting for the boss to give the all-clear.
Can’t exactly go for a run with the tower on lockdown.” “Sure,” I smiled, walking over to his glass coffee table.
I reached inside my suit jacket and pulled out a small, heavy silver briefcase.
I set it on the glass with a solid, echoing clack.
A-Train’s eyes instantly locked onto it.
He could smell it.
His pupils dilated slightly.
“I have a job for you,” I said smoothly, popping the latches and opening the lid.
Inside the case were ten glowing blue vials of pure Compound V.
They were part of the massive stockpile I had stolen from the vault.
A-Train actually let out a pathetic, desperate whimper at the sight of them.
He practically leaned off the bed, his hands twitching.
“I need you to make a delivery,” I said, closing the lid and locking it with a sharp click that made A-Train flinch.
“Tonight.
Midnight.
There’s an abandoned train yard in the Bronx, right off the decommissioned 4-line.
You’re going to take this case there and leave it in locker number 42.” “The Bronx?” A-Train swallowed hard, trying to focus on my face instead of the briefcase.
“That’s it?
I just drop it off?” “That’s it,” I nodded.
“But you are going to take the long way.
I want you to run at street level.
I want you to kick up some dust.
And when you get to the train yard, I want you to be sloppy.
Linger for a few minutes.
Make a phone call.
Let the security cameras on the street catch a good look at you.” A-Train frowned, his drug-addled brain trying to process the logic.
“If Homelander finds out I’m running V while the tower is on lockdown, he’ll kill me.” “Homelander isn’t going to find out,” I assured him, stepping closer and lowering my voice to a cold, authoritative hum.
“But if you don’t do exactly what I say, I’ll make sure a piece of Popclaw is delivered to this room tomorrow morning.
Are we clear?” A-Train swallowed hard, the remaining defiance instantly draining out of his eyes.
“Yeah.
Clear.
I drop the bag.
I get seen.” “Good boy,” I patted him on the shoulder, leaving the silver briefcase on the table.
“You can keep one vial as a delivery fee.
Consider it a bonus.” I turned and walked out of the suite.
I didn’t need to read his mind to know what he was doing.
The second the door clicked shut behind me, my hearing picked up the frantic pop of the briefcase latch and the desperate, greedy gasp as A-Train grabbed a vial.
Miles away, deep in the subway maintenance tunnels beneath Brooklyn, Billy Butcher was staring at a map pinned to a corkboard.
The underground hideout was damp and freezing.
Frenchie was hunched over a pair of stolen police scanners, quietly adjusting the frequencies, while Kimiko slept curled up on a dirty mattress in the corner.
Hughie was sitting on a rusted barrel, staring blankly at his shoes.
“We need a bloody target,” Butcher growled, stabbing a red push-pin into the map of Manhattan.
“The ghost threw the rock to warn us, which means they want us alive.
But we can’t do anything sitting down here in the mud.
We need to grab someone from Vought and squeeze them until they tell us who the ghost is.” “We cannot hit the tower, Butcher,” Frenchie pointed out without looking up from his dials.
“It is suicide.
And with Black Noir looking for us, every Supe in the city will have a panic button on them.” “Not all of them,” Butcher muttered, his eyes scanning the photos pinned to the board.
He bypassed Homelander.
He bypassed Starlight.
His eyes landed on a glossy photo of A-Train.
“The speedster,” Butcher tapped the photo.
“Before all this vault nonsense, he was running Compound V for the company.
Hitting underground clubs.
Doing back-alley drops.
A junkie always goes back to his route.” “Butcher, he is the fastest man alive,” Frenchie sighed, taking off his headphones.
“How do you propose we catch him?” “He’s fast,” Butcher smirked darkly, “but he ain’t invisible.
And he ain’t smart.” Suddenly, one of Frenchie’s encrypted scanners crackled to life.
A burst of automated police dispatch chatter flooded the speakers, but Frenchie quickly filtered it through a digital descrambler.
“…multiple 911 calls reporting a sonic boom on 5th Avenue…
shattered windows on 42nd street…
moving northbound toward the Bronx…” Frenchie sat up straight, his hands flying across his keyboard.
He pulled up a municipal traffic feed.
He couldn’t catch the blur on camera, but he tracked the path of the shattered glass and the triggered car alarms.
“Someone is running,” Frenchie said, his eyes widening.
“He is not moving at top speed, though.
He is…
pacing himself.
Sloppy.” “Where is he heading?” Butcher demanded, grabbing his trench coat off a rusted pipe.
“Tracking the trajectory…” Frenchie squinted at the monitor.
“He is moving into the Bronx.
The old industrial rail yards.
It is a dead zone, Butcher.
No Vought patrols there.” A vicious, predatory grin spread across Butcher’s scarred face.
The ghost had warned them about Black Noir.
But the ghost wasn’t the only one playing the game.
Butcher was entirely convinced that A-Train was out making a rogue V-drop, isolated and completely cut off from Homelander’s protection.
It was the perfect opportunity to strike back.
“Get the heavy tranquilizers, Frenchie,” Butcher ordered, racking the slide on his handgun.
“Hughie, get the van started.
We’re going hunting.” I sat on the balcony of my penthouse, feeling the freezing night air wash over my face.
I closed my eyes, tuning out the sirens of the city, and listened to the rhythmic, booming footsteps of A-Train tearing through the Bronx.
And several miles behind him, moving fast up the highway, I heard the rattling, struggling engine of Butcher’s rusted cargo van.
I took a slow sip of my coffee.
Butcher didn’t trust the ghost.
He wanted to find his own leads and fight his own war.
So, I had simply wrapped a lead in a silver briefcase and placed it perfectly in his path.
He thought he was outsmarting Vought by ambushing their speedster.
He had no idea that I had handed him the speedster on a silver platter.