Civil War Prose Novel by Stuart Moore Page B

S.H.I.E.L.D. Mobile Bus One—an eight-ton urban paddy wagon with Adamantium-reinforced holding walls—lit up in a blare of lights and sirens. It swung around in a U-turn through the crowded intersection, its bulk straining against the force, passenger-side wheels rising up off the pavement. Then it settled down with a low crunch and took off at full speed, heading south down West Street.
    “S.H.I.E.L.D.-TAC, this is Bus One,” Cap said carefully. “Moving in for pickup.”
    “Roger, Bus One. It’s a mess down there, but we’ll have the locals clear you a path.”
    “All right. This is what I’m talkin’ about.” Axton leaned forward, called up a dossier photo of the Young Avengers on the dashboard computer screen. “Patriot, Hulkling, Stature, Speed. Speed? That’s a hero name?”
    Cap blasted the siren again. A minivan skittered to the side of the road, making way.
    “These kids,” Axton continued. “They’re what—sixteen years old? Seventeen, tops? And they’re out there in their pantyhose laughing in our faces. Time somebody taught ’em a lesson.”
    A green sign appeared, big white arrow labeled: TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE. Cap pulled hard left, steering the bus onto Chambers Street.
    Up ahead, he could see flashing lights. Echo of sirens in the night.
    “It’s not like we’re banning ’em, man. Nobody’s stopping these punks from doing their thing. Government’s even paying these clowns to go official now. But you know something? They don’t want that. They don’t get a buzz off bein’ legit. Freaks get off on the masks an’ all that ‘mystery man’ crap.”
    To the right, a phalanx of lit-up cop cars blocked the ramp leading to the Brooklyn Bridge. Cap slowed, moving in. A gray-haired police captain signaled to his men, and the cars broke ranks, opening a lane.
    Axton was still talking. “Gonna be one cold shower when they see the new pen they’re building for these super-creeps. Frank in supplies says it messes with your head, makes it so you can’t even think about escaping.”
    The bus lurched over a pothole, bumping between the line of police, up onto the bridge. The two lanes heading into Brooklyn had been cleared. Up ahead, Cap could just make out a small figure lying in the middle of the road, surrounded by another pair of police cars.
    Wiccan. Last of the Young Avengers.
    “Tranq’d,” Axton said. “Hope it hurt the little creep. My sister used to date a super hero, you know. Turbo , he called himself. Thought he was pretty hot stuff.”
    The bus approached Wiccan, an unconscious teenage boy in gray. Tattered red cape around his neck. Cops stood in a semicircle around his body, their guns drawn and pointed.
    “No real powers, though. Turbo, I mean. Always wanted to get him alone when he took off that power-suit—I woulda given him the swirly of his life. Hey man, shouldn’t you slow down a little?”
    “You know something, Axton?”
    Cap pulled the wheel around again, and Axton slammed against the far door. Cap thumbed the door-lock open and kicked out sideways, aiming carefully for Axton’s arm. The agent’s elbow jabbed into the door-latch, clicking it open—and Axton tumbled out of the moving vehicle.
    “You talk too much,” Cap said.
    Screaming, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent rolled to the pavement, narrowly missing Wiccan’s prone body. The row of cops drew back, startled.
    Cap thumbed a hidden transceiver in his lapel to life. “Falc,” he called. “Extraction. NOW!”
    The Falcon’s reply was drowned out by a flood of swearing on the S.H.I.E.L.D. frequency. “S.H.I.E.L.D.-TAC,” Axton’s voice yelled, “Mobile Bus One has been compromised!”
    Should have hit him harder, Cap thought.
    In the rearview mirror, Cap saw a blur of red-and-white flash down out of the night sky. Nine-foot wings spread wide, scattering the cops. The locals squeezed off a few quick shots, but Falcon was already airborne again, carrying the unconscious Wiccan in his arms.
    “Got ’im,”