Sins in the Shade

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.

The sins in the shadows get lost in the light. there's nothing mold loves more than dark voids. The corners of your home or a city block you pass everyday and wouldn’t give a seconds notice until the smell overwhelms you. It has to be cut out.

An inoperable medical condition is one that cannot be cured by a surgical operation. It’s a term that could be applied to the medical report under my desk or the condition of the urban sprawl outside my apartment.

You cross paths with enough super-criminal lairs, your lungs and skin get a nasty surprise.

The doctor said I couldn’t take any more hits to the head.  The grey hairs started to overshadow the blackish-brown features of my Aztec roots, but I didn’t see a broken-down old man in the mirror. 

I cracked a smile as I popped my knuckles in the armored gauntlets.

Men would rather dress in leather and jump into burning buildings rather than face their inner demons. We tell ourselves that is true courage, trust me, the real heroes have the guts to bear their soul in a therapist’s chair. 

The first gunshot cracked across block as the grey fog rolled in from the bay. I ran my fingers through the stitches and jelly-filled plates in the impact suit.

People in my industry didn't receive a noble death, it doesn’t exist. We all piss ourselves in the end, it doesn’t matter it is in a hospice with our loved ones or looking down the barrel of a Glock.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, all that fun stuff. 

I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye as I traced the outline of the blue and orange handprints across the white construction paper. I wanted to see that baby grow up. I missed so many little moments when my kids were little, the wife made so many excuses for where I was at night.

 “Don’t touch daddys locker.” She scolded.

It was cute, until one day, I found the ring on the kitchen table and the papers in the mail box. I refused to sign them and she refused to push the issue. The kids are on winter break and still won't return my calls.

The fog and shadows broke up the frame of my body as I stalked amongst the black. 

There were two types of offender profiles capes encounter. There were zealots and there were thugs. Thugs you can can use the carrot or the stick, they wanted gold, girls and glory. Most of them aged out of the life-style by the court system or having a baby too young.

 Zealots wanted the fairy tale. They were terminal cases that were near impossible to operate on? Well memes and ideas were viruses that had very little effective treatment. The Third Ghosts were the latest variant. Here's a little known pattern in America, every time the economy takes a nice steamer, armed men take to the streets. The sad part is they aim their cannons at everyone but the people who left us holding the bill.

But its rude to discuss politics at the dinner table.

Three masked men approached an armored car that took the longer route from the bay area harbor. The security forces inside the truck prayed to anyone that would listen as the bullet resistance glass splintered against live fire.

 I’d bet my last dollar, they were manufactured by the lowest bidder. Everything we trust to keep us safe in the world was made by the a CEO that cut corners to inflate the imaginary numbers on a financial reel.. Buckshot scattered across the street as the wingman inside the truck fumbled with the loading port.

Rookie mistake, once against silent professionals cost more than the bean counters in the security field want to fork out. The opposition popped smoke and let the concrete barriers from the construction team absorbed the buckshot and hot lead. I’ve heard about trucks like these.

They are always gassed and ready to go on a moments notice. They carry weapons that are not supposed to exist outside of a blueprint. Other times they carry prisoners that are kept out of sight and out of mind for the attorney general.

“We have orders, the canisters go to the grey zone.”

The shooter softly spoke into his visor.

“We have unfinished business, but first business must be finished.” Two dented canisters rolled across the floor. Light moves faster than an echo. The gel plates in the suit burst as the force of the blast rocked my senses.

It was better than a needle going straight to your veins. I patrolled skid row many times in the cape and witnessed people strung out. Somebodies loved one was wrapped in worn out sneakers underneath a tarp.

The cable-lined slowly my descent into the the fire zone toward The white air kissed the cloak and soaked into the fiber of the hood. The armored truck had become a tomb for the security agents inside.

The metallic vapors of bullets and blood stung my nose as I spit out the taste in my mouth. I’d be lying if it wasn’t the sweetest flavor in the world. I spied an agent spiraling out of the truck. The shock of savagery had washed over his body. He looked for his guardian angel, but found me instead.

Eric Montoya grew weary from wrestling with the fallen angels on his shoulders. Happily ever ever ended a little too soon for his liking. His daughter's braces didn’t come cheap, nor a few sports bets that went south.

 The housing racket pushed him out of the city he grew up in. That gave Mike all the time in the world to cook up ways to have his cake and eat it too. In fact it was fellow officers that told him how the game was set up. He didn’t have the schooling to make it past Detective First Grade, even if he made enough busts on the street.

Eric took small tributes and tolls during each bust, just enough to log enough into evidence, but more than enough to keep his girlfriend and wife happy.

I sent the evidence to the district attorney and the channel 7 news.

 But it was just that news, it was buried by wars and corporate lay offs.

In the movies, bad cops go to jail. This is the real world, they update their resume.

I spied the inconsistencies in the crime scene. Montoya had no limp and there wasn’t a trail of blood leading to his steps.

Some things never change.

“The hospital is in the other direction.” I announced from the alley. Montoya reached for the Glock out of instinct. This wasn’t the first time he pulled a nine millimeter on me. Never sneak up on a dirty cop whos caught with his pants down. I had no issues with consenting adults did in the backseat under the concrete mazes that split between Oakland and the North Bay.

I had issues with men one trying who flashed their badges for free samples. I forgot to mention I get real testy when people pull a gun on me. Montoya forgot that lesson. The moment he looked for witnesses I smothered his comfort zone and snaked my limbs over his. It was like a cheap magic trick, one minute the pistol was in his hand, now its in mine.

Not bad for an aging man. A hero in the midst of a mid-life crisis was a liability. But right now the city went black and it was about to run red.

My lenses uploaded the files and numbers inside the van. Broken canisters and black crates were all the evidence left of the raid.

The lack of a helicopter or squad cars in the arena was an alarm within itself. The contents would be in violation of new treaties or human rights accords. 

“You have a better chance of fighting the tide under the bridge.”

He shook as the words left his mouth.

Montoya only worshiped at the altar of himself. But men like him were open to fringe groups and conspiracies.

 ‘fringe’ that’s a funny word. This country has faced insurrections every fifty years since the colonies. They start and end with the crack of a bullet.

Speak of the devil a bullet appeared. The muzzle flash clawed from the window and split the veins in Montoya's neck. A cloud of scarlet haze mixed with the fog off the bay.

Condition terminal. Just like me.

I placed the steel truck between me and the hot copper.

I fired the cable line towards the rooftop of the construction site. The steel beams carried me on what should have been my last ride.

“Enjoying the show?” The voice snapped me from the fog of the gunfight. I reached for the small silver lined pods in my satchel. The heavy coat of ash and sparks engulfed the site. The man dropped the rifle and caught my assault by surprise. Too slow to tackle from under the corner of his eyes.

Heavy hands crashed down under my cheekbones.  Too cocky old man.

. There are blue, white and red handprints on his mask brought up memories of my grandsons art in the workshop. No! No! fight through the fog.

Or there won’t be a grandkid to come home too. My elbow jammed against his free arm as my other hand reached for his the wrist. Orange and white flashes erupted from the barrel as we crashed for control.

“We ran the risk factors on this excursion and you were a low on the totem pole for opposition.” The distorted voice echoed on the rooftop. 

“It’s a shame I looked up to men like you as a kid. Boys need heroes and the world is lacking in that field.”

Keep him talking, amateurs' liked to talk, a professional would have had me dead to rights. Look at me projecting. I couldn’t stop flapping my gums.

“I knew otherwise. No one had seen you in years,” The glass under his boots crackled against the weight of his armor. He waisted no time popping a fresh magazine under the grip of the gun.

“Withdraws are a bitch.” The words pierced deeper than the copper slugs with my name on them.

I couldn’t give up the cloak and dagger night life. I gave everything for the cape and the city, but what did it give me?

A rush! The biggest one in the world. The first symptom of relapse is Romanizing the past.

Oh god! there's nothing like cracking the skulls of a few dirty cops

The flames of a burning flop houses overpowered the five senses. You made up little white lies when your kids asked why daddy has stitches and scrapes that over daddy’s didn’t have. Of course, other daddies didn’t stop city hall from a hail of gunfire.

“Are you afraid of being a irrelevant?”

He mixed in a tone of awe and snark.

“Putting on a cape and putting hands working-class suspects isn’t in vouge these days.”

The merc had a point, All Capes Are Bastards.

“We are too busy fighting each other. It’s a tale as old as time.”

This guy was preaching to the choir. I crunched the links in my head. It wasn’t hard for these guys to get radicalized and hype each other up. Every time the economy takes a dump, it triggers the triggermen. There are Restless men who miss the war a little too much, they bring the campaign to the home front.

I rolled a canister towards the heavy footsteps. The broken glass echoed under his boots. Might as well be a trail of crumbs. The white flares violently hissed as the smoke bounced across his night-lenses.

He emptied the magazine in a whom in may concern manner. I believe that was a violation of Penal Code 246.3 PC – negligent discharge of a firearm. A major felony in a blue state. The frequent flyer miles keep racking up.

The night-stick met his long knife. The blade chipped under the weight of my baton. Sweat soaked the inside of the suit. Heavy blows rained down on the militiaman’s protective armor. I couldn’t let up.

Those bullets would find a sweet spot against the plates.

God I missed this.

You can hit the heavy bags. You can make love in every room in the house, but it doesn’t come close if your being honest with yourself. Months of therapy went out the window for one night of fun.

We all wear masks during the day, the ones at dusk are less invasive.

“Its an honor truly.” He vigilante claimed as he placed the knife in a saber-grip fashion. “You're fighting the tide with toys.”

The merc was poetic, I always relied on gadgets and guile. My wife always said I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. He didn’t see the cable wrapped around his legs as the hydraulics dragged the man across the sea of glass to my position.

 This is the part where they make threats, when the threats don’t pan out they make bargains. 

“Look at us, fighting in a city that’s pushed everyone without a silver spoon into the cold.”

Can’t say the man was wrong, the cloak and cowl have gone through many avatars, and we rarely targeted the ones that created the desperate and forsaken.

The more we sold our souls to the captains of industry the more people would turn to desperate measures. Of course just like me, these vanguards never had their weapons pointed at the right people either.

As I frisked the man, I caught glimpses of skull and dagger tattoos.

He was one of uncle sams wayward sons.

“The red fog never leaves us.” The militiaman said. “I can’t see your face but I don’t need too.” He betrayed a smile as I wiped the blood off his lips. Call it a professional courtesy.

“The black raven hangs over your head. You're never more alive when between brawls and bullets.”

This is the part of the story where I'm supposed to beat a confession or uncover the plot. I’m not Johnny law but he is entitled to a lawyer.

“Everything we took from the convoy was taxpayer funded. Its going to make 1776 look like a backyard scabble."

You don't have to beat a confession out of most dudes, they will talk themselves to the gallows.

A healthy dialogue helped him stay awake. I couldn’t be sure if there was brain swelling from the fight.

“We have no intentions of getting this country back on track. We’re going to bow out the bridge while driving at full speed.”

I still had a family willing to give me a second chance. The longer I stayed in the cape the farther it would take me away from home. I seen the look in this man's eyes, if I did nothing there wouldn't be a home to go too.

Sin breeds in the shadow, the world needs torches.