"Goodnight, Locke."
"Goodnight."
Locke and Gwen shared a kiss. He stood by the car, smiling and waving back as Gwen reached the apartment door and turned to wave one last time. He watched until she was safely inside.
A few days ago, George had mentioned that a random serial killer seemed to have appeared in New York City. Fortunately, that killer had not dared to mimic Locke's signature death notice. If he had, Locke might have hunted him down and turned him into a giant rat to keep that drug addict Barry company in the NYPD basement.
Word was that Barry-the-rat was being treated quite well down there; he got a fresh dousing of urine on his head every single day.
After a moment, Locke saw Gwen open her apartment window and look down. Once he confirmed she was truly home, he started the engine and drove away.
...
Inside the apartment, Helen was at the dining table going over the family ledgers. She looked up as Gwen came out of the kitchen, having closed the window with a happy glow on her face.
"Locke's gone?" Helen teased.
Gwen hummed in affirmation, holding a mug of warm cocoa. "I'm heading to my room."
Helen watched her daughter skip upstairs and smiled. She stood up and walked over to the sofa where George was watching the latest episode of a hunting show. "Locke is more nervous about Gwen's safety than you are these days," she remarked.
George's brow twitched. He kept his face expressionless. "Gwen is his girlfriend. Ensuring she gets home safely is his responsibility. When I was courting you, didn't I wait until your dorm light turned on before I left?"
If the boy couldn't even manage that much, George would deeply regret breaking his own principles to guarantee Locke a legal concealed carry permit.
Helen sat beside him. "I heard Locke's legal team is busy again. You know anything about it?"
George didn't take his eyes off the TV. "The Bell family. How could I not know? This time, they've kicked a steel plate."
Did they really think Locke was just an ordinary high schooler? He was a high schooler with a dedicated legal battalion.
Helen crossed her arms and laughed. "I was wondering how Locke would react if they played the discrimination card. I didn't expect him to deny them the chance to even hold the cards."
George shook his head. "Locke is an orphan from Texas. If he didn't have a few tricks up his sleeve, he wouldn't have made it this far. But tricks are fine. They're only scary when bad people have them. When an honest person has them, it just makes them safer."
Helen looked surprised. "George, weren't you the one who couldn't stand him? Didn't you want to take him out to the range for 'target practice'?"
George smiled. Just as he was about to answer, his phone buzzed. He checked the message and turned to Helen. "I couldn't stand him because he stole my daughter. That's all. Otherwise, Locke is quite polite and very responsible."
Helen pointed to the phone. "Who's that from?"
"Colin."
"The FBI Supervisor?"
"Yeah," George said. "There's a joint meeting tomorrow between the NYPD and the FBI. We're trying to catch that serial killer who fled here from New Jersey."
"Shouldn't that be an FBI case? It's interstate."
"The Bureau is handing the lead to us. Call it a peace offering to repair our relationship."
"Fair enough."
The relationship couldn't stay frosty forever. Although SHIELD was the one who broke the bridge, SHIELD was protected by the World Security Council's five major powers. The FBI had grievances they couldn't voice, so they had to work twice as hard to mend fences with local law enforcement.
A fleeing killer provided the perfect opportunity for cooperation.
Colin, the FBI supervisor, hadn't had a good night's sleep in two days trying to find leads on this killer. But it was worth it. He watched as the killer's location was successfully narrowed down. He breathed a sigh of relief, ordered his agents to maintain surveillance so they could hand the arrest over to the NYPD tomorrow as a "gift," and headed for the elevator.
"I'm going out for coffee. Anyone need anything?"
"Me!"
"Count me in."
"Boss, I need one too!"
Colin tallied the orders and stepped out of the Federal Building. The night breeze hit his face, clearing some of the fog from his exhausted brain. He lit a cigarette and walked toward a twenty-four-hour coffee shop nearby.
...
At that moment, Locke had just returned from setting the scene at Nina Bell's home in Queens.
Despite their history of extorting the NYPD, the Bell family didn't live in Manhattan. They had once bought a townhouse in the Upper East Side with their settlement money, but in America, buying a house isn't a one-time transaction. The mortgage isn't the killer; the property tax is.
In their first year, they lived in a detached house bought with NYPD blood money. But when the property tax bill arrived in the second year, the Bells tried their usual tricks. They claimed that as a minority family, they should receive preferential treatment and be exempt from taxes.
Unfortunately for them, they weren't facing the NYPD this time. They were facing the IRS.
Even Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Hell's Kitchen, paid his taxes religiously. Did a few scammers think they could dodge the taxman? When the IRS ignored their claims of discrimination and issued a final notice, they panicked.
They tried to borrow money from neighbors, but the residents in the area ignored them. Eventually, the IRS collectors arrived in force, tossed their belongings into the street, and they were forced into Hell's Kitchen.
They didn't last two days there. A few tattooed men—allegedly acting on orders from a local boss—gave them a polite beating and sent them packing.
After many twists and turns, the Bell family slunk into a community in Queens that they had previously claimed they would never set foot in. There, they finally understood who they could and couldn't bully. They became "human rights advocates" for their community, running a scam business of manufactured discrimination with the help of a certain shady lawyer.
They actually did quite well. Their house was large enough for nine people—the parents, Nina, and six younger siblings—to live without feeling crowded.
When Locke arrived earlier, he had overheard Nina and her parents planning to hire a crowd to protest outside the courthouse tomorrow. Locke had watched them from the second floor. With his Intermediate Concealment skill, he felt he could have slaughtered them one by one without any of them noticing a stranger in the room.
But Locke didn't kill them. He simply planted the evidence and left.
Protesting tomorrow? Keep dreaming.
Locke stood across the street from the coffee shop near the Federal Building. He watched his acquaintance, Colin, emerge from the building.
He had considered giving this "merit" to George. But the NYPD was still too "soft" when dealing with these types of issues. To ensure there were no slip-ups, Locke decided to escalate the matter. If the Bells were connected to terrorist organizations and human trafficking rings, it became a matter of National Security. That was FBI territory.
Besides, the FBI was desperate to get back into the NYPD's good graces. If they could "save" the NYPD from a defamation trap by uncovering a terrorist cell in the Bells' basement, everyone would win.
'I really am too kind-hearted,' Locke thought, raising an eyebrow.
As Colin walked back with several cups of coffee, Locke's gloved hand flicked. A heavy folder, wiped clean of all fingerprints, whistled through the air like a flying card.
Next second!
Smack!
"Ah!"
Colin cried out as he saw stars. He fell to the ground, his head snapping back.
"What the f—!"
Colin scrambled up, his hand immediately going to his unholstered sidearm. He looked around the empty, silent street with alert eyes. His gaze landed on a folder lying a few feet away.
"What?"
He rubbed his reddened cheek, which now bore a distinct mark from the impact. He holstered his gun and picked up the folder. He looked around once more before opening it.
His pupils contracted. His breathing grew heavy as he flipped through the pages.
Ten minutes later!
Bang!
Colin didn't even wait for the elevator doors to open fully before squeezing through. He roared at the agents working late in the hall.
"Jack, Ron, Martha! Grab your gear and get the SWAT team! We're going to make an arrest!"