The Power of Ten Book Four: Dynamo

The floor was trembling.

They were alone, tied to chairs in small, dark rooms, single lights on overhead. All of them knew they were in a bad situation, and there was an oppressive weight in the air informing them that things were going to be worse.

They didn’t know where the others were, either. Small room, light overhead, mooks in chairs, the floor trembling from heavy, heavy footsteps.

Lights appeared ahead of them, unfolding in the air. Cards? Playing cards? An ace, of each suit? Hovering in the air, glowing in heart and diamonds, clubs and spades, spinning around.

The very big man stepped in from underneath the hypnotic circle of cards. Another card, a King of Spades, swelled in size to match him and the very long, voluminous trench coat he was wearing. A face that looked carved from stone, grey eyes as cold as granite, fixed on them all.

All of them swallowed.

“You boys,” he began in a voice deep enough to make their bones shake, and an accent right from the pragmatic potato fields of humanity, “are in a spot of trouble.”

They all swallowed at the same time, and made to speak, to stammer and plead, maybe to threaten.

Nothing came out.

“You speak when the card says you can speak.” Each of them saw a different card glow, and knew it was meant for them. They swallowed at the absolute power being held over them, without the ability to even protest their treatment.

“You may know who I am, but I’ll tell you anyways. They call me The Mountain out west. You will address me as Mister Hill.” The ground shimmed under their feet.

Their cards glowed. “Yes, Mr. Hill!” “You got it, Mr. Hill!” “Yes, sir, Mr. Hill, sir!”

They couldn’t hear one another, and had no idea they were all being spoken to at the same time.

“I have been retained to address a problem. I am under contract.” The severity of those words made their hearts skip. “This matter has to do with money. They came to me because they know I take money damn seriously.

“So, understand this. Right now, you boys have no value. You are worth nothing. What you are attempting to do right now is buy back yer lives by giving me my money’s worth fer my time.

“If you fail ta do this, yer going in the ground. Five miles inta the ground. Maybe they’ll pick up yer fossilized body in ten million years or something, wondering what era of dinosaurs you came from.” He waved his big hand as dismissively as disposing of a fly.

“The money yer going to pay me with is going ta be measured in information,” he said pointedly. “Let me lay out what I already know, and save you some time.

“I know you work for Alderstein. I know you work for Fisk. I know you are skimming off Alderstein’s clients. I know one of your lawyers who wasn’t in on the scheme stumbled onto it, and got himself killed. I know a couple capes got involved in the murder, and your Hand buddies failed ta get rid of them.

“I furthermore know you were sent in ta clean up the evidence, and someone took you all out, and stole all that evidence from you. Someone then decided you might know something, and then wheels began ta spin.”

Mr. Hill brought out his cigar, lit it with a match struck against his emotionless face, and puffed on it, giving them time to think.

“Let me be blunt here, boy. You are dead. If I cut you free, and you go scampering and screaming back to your bosses, yer dead. Fisk already took out an innocent man who stumbled onto the edge of what he was doing. You Know Stuff, and furthermore, you failed him.

“Yer dead. He’s gonna bury you in the Hudson, maybe pay some life insurance to yer families if he’s feeling nice, and life will go on without you.”

Sweat was dropping down on all of them, lawyers and mooks alike. They were indeed in a bad spot.

“Now, here is my offer. I got a figure in my head, an’ that figure buys you yer life, and I cut you loose. What happens then is up ta you.

“I got me another figure in my head. That figure buys you a ride a someplace far away, probably South America, where ya probably won’t have to be lookin’ over yer shoulder for the knife, and can maybe find a new life.

“I got me a third figure in my head. It’s a big figure. If you somehow hit that figure, you get a ride ta someplace far away, and you get some cash ta go with it, a nice little seed egg ta make sure you can live fer a while.

“If you screw up by contacting yer friends and family an’ letting them know where ta find you, that’s on you. I don’t care if ya wanna be stupid and get yerself killed after I’m done with ya.

“So, boy, I have some questions. Answer them as good as you can. You wanna hit the numbers, you offer me sumthin to make it worth my time.

“I’m under contract. I will find out what my employer wants ta know. You got this one chance to hit a number, so calm down, organize yer thoughts, and get ready ta buy yer life.” He held his cigar off to the side, tapping the ash off it. “If ya wanna be loyal to Fisk and get killed, no skin off my nose. Just tell me straight up, don’t waste our time, and I’ll put ya in the ground clean and quiet.

“There’s plenty more of you where you came from.”

All of them shivered at the absolutely level tone of his voice. Thoughts of dying loyally for the Kingpin flittered away as they considered the question. If they could get a ride somewhere, anywhere, that was the same as dying, right? Nobody would know they were alive...

“I’ll give ya ten minutes ta think. A man needs some time ta get his priorities in order.” He puffed away calmly, waved his hand, and a clock on a background of ten spades blinked up next to him. “Get ta thinking, or tell me ta off ya.”

------------------

Most of the scene was purely mental, playing about in the illusion I had the men trapped in. Mr. Hill was enjoying himself, and I was recording everything they were saying as they began to spill their guts about basically everything they could.

They were already dead men. How long and comfortably they could be dead men was up to them, and fools or not, they wanted to live, so they were trying plenty hard.

And as Mr. Hill said, this was about money. Money they could understand.

------------------------

“Mr. Sawyer.” The balding, bespectacled man jerked up as the voice, a smooth and assured woman’s voice, spoke in his ear. He looked around sharply from his office desk, but there was nobody there.

“What? Who?” he blurted out despite himself.

“Keep your voice down, Mr. Sawyer,” the woman’s voice answered calmly, assuring him that it wasn’t a hallucination.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he hissed, tensing up despite himself. He had hoped a day like this would never come, and now that it had, he was wondering if he had the nerve to deal with it.

“Reed Richards of the Fantastic Four is in need of a civil servant with your expertise in tracking down the people behind various businesses he has dealings with. However, these people are watching for signs of his curiosity, so complying with his requests through normal channels is potentially lethally problematic.”

Cam Sawyer’s thoughts spun. Reed Richards himself! And the woman was alluding to the corruption in the department, corruption he had carefully stepped clear of, although it had cost him much in his career.

“You will be compensated for your time, and only be doing the duties you would undertake during normal business hours, accessing publicly available information without tipping off those looking for signs of interest, pursuant to an ongoing investigation and potentially very large lawsuit.

“Are you willing to help out the Fantastic Four, Mr. Sawyer? You’ve kept yourself clean, very clean, and we think it is finally time something good happened to a good person.”

Cam Sawyer found himself smiling slightly, realizing that maybe, if he was very careful, his time had come, and those who had played the game and sold their offices and souls were about to get what was coming to them.

“Tell me what to prepare for, ma’am!” he said, wondering if he was talking to Susan Richards, or someone else, and decided that it didn’t matter. This talking to the air certainly felt like the FF, and definitely wasn’t some common trick being played on him.

----------

“Grimm. Nice ta meetcha. Your rep precedes you.”

Ben Grimm grumbled, but took the hand, almost as big as his own, and shook it. Just that was enough to establish that the Mountain in front of him was at least as strong as he was. “Likewise, although I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” he said pointedly.

The Mountain just chuckled grimly. “I work for who pays me, Grimm. You may not know how seriously I take money, but I will tell you that I am very, very, VERY well known for taking my contracts seriously back West. So, don’t go thinking I’ll be doing any backstabbin’ or welching. I make a deal, I stick to it, as long as the other does the same, and I don’t take kindly ta those who break deals with me, especially if they use fancy lawyerin’ language on me.”

“So, what’s the reason yer meeting me?” Ben asked, sitting down on the reinforced chair that was both sturdy enough and wide enough to take his weight. A similar chair on the other side creaked as The Mountain sat down. It was a thoughtful move, and despite himself, Ben appreciated it.

“The people I’m representin’ are a bunch of rich fatcats of various types,” Mr. Hill said, bringing out a tote of beers and handing a double-size bottle to Grimm.

“Dealer’s Best?” he mused, looking at the label, appreciating how easily it fit his very large hand. “Some custom brewery?”

“Very custom. That’s about two hundred bucks in raw materials in your hand, from one of the best Alchemists there is.” Hill popped off the cap, and to Ben’s surprise, flipped it into his mouth. “Keep the cap on your tongue as you drink it.”

Now intrigued, Ben popped off the seal easily, and tossed the cap into his mouth. His blue eyes popped as he instinctively sucked on it. “Hey, now...”

Hill held out his bottle formally, and Ben tinked it despite himself. They both kicked back a swallow, and Ben had to jerk it out before he swallowed the whole thing. “Sweet Aunt Petunia,” he murmured, trying hard not to cry as he stared at the bottle.

“Haw haw!” Mr. Hill hit the table gently. “Damn good beer, isn’t it?!” He reached out for another tink, Ben did so quickly, and this time they both drank the bottles all the way down.

Ben took a deep breath as he stared at the empty bottle in his four-fingered, rocky hand. “I haven’t had a good beer in... well, before the trip...”

Another beer hit the table in front of him. “Normal person drinks this, they probably straight up die, Grimm. Swallow that cap, get the new one.”

Ben did so, finding the old one had crumbled to popping bits that kinda tasted like lemon sugar pops. With relish, he popped the new one and put the cap on his tongue, just sucking on it. “What is this made of?” he had to ask.

“Lightning Water Magnesium or something.” Hill sat back in satisfaction. “Dynamo and Dealer make ‘em for me. Well, Dealer makes this. Dynamo, not so inta the booze.”

“You’re her Earth Coffee taster?” Ben brought up, astonished.

Hill’s smile was quiet and hard. “She makes me the best food in the world, because it’s the only food that tastes like damn food should taste. Helluva girl. I’m like a quarter-mil in hock to her.” His grey eyes turned shrewd. “She can’t get rid of me now. I owe her too much money.”

Despite himself, Grimm had to grin. “Pretty damn sharp way of keeping a good woman around,” he observed.

“Damn right. But I work mostly with Dealer, not Dynamo, because I’m a little looser on who I take money from then she is.” He shrugged it away. “Which is why I’m here.”

“Let’s hear it,” Ben said, waving his hand. “Keep it simple. I ain’t Reed.”

Hill nodded approval. “You have a money problem going on right now. Dyna called an associate of mine to dispose of the truck. I decided there was a better use for it, and had it parked in the back lot of one of Silvermane’s warehouses.”

“Fisk and Silvermane have been having some pointed arguments, the papers say. The kind that end with holes in people,” Ben pointed out thoughtfully.

“Yeah. That’s a nice diversion for what I’m doing. Mr. Grimm, I am here representing a rather large number of people of high-falutin’ social standing, who are also rather loose with their moral codes. They share a great amount in common with the FF.”

“That so?” Ben asked archly, taking a sip.

“That great amount being money under management by Alderstein and Associates.”

“Hooooo...” Ben murmured, taking another sip. Another bottle was deposited in front of him, and he slid it off to the side for the moment, acknowledging the gesture. “How is this concerning us?” he asked directly.

“I’m not here to butt heads with you, Grimm. I’m not gonna try to shaft you on behalf of my clients, because honestly they aren’t worth the hassle it’ll bring if I do. I am gonna tell ya straight off that I’m going to be doing some extralegal stuff in order for them to get their money back, and it’s pretty much a given that some of those fancy cats in suits are gonna disappear before this is all over.”

Ben thought about that, and nodded shortly. You don’t grow up on Yancy Street without figuring out how that part of the world works. It didn’t have anything to do with him. Those guys in suits with their degrees and fancy colleges of law were just another kind of crook, and now things were catching up to them and their clever operation.

He knew just how vengeful and petty rich people could be. He’d seen them at work when younger, and closer up when working with Reed. They were just the kind of people to hire The Mountain for some payback.

“What do you want from me?” he asked shortly.

“Ta be kept in the loop and not hit by surprise, or undercut. You don’t have the rep of doing stuff underhanded, and I take a man’s rep seriously. You do that, I’ll do the same. If we have ta argue, we argue. We got people ta take care of, right?”

“That we do,” Ben agreed, and tinked with the extended third beer bottle. “How do we keep in contact, then? Dynamo?”

“I’ll give ya a number. Shouldn’t need ta talk much. If there’s a point, we’ll work it out so neither of us like it, but we can live with it.”

“Ain’t that life?” Ben asked nobody, tilting it back.

“Another thing. Ya gots a Schmot Guy there. Schmot Guys can do some mean, cruel, and totally justified stuff. Things like finding a way to transfer out stolen millions of dollars in secret accounts to other places from under the noses of the private banks and individuals who stole said nest eggs, and either return them to their original owners or to some eminently suitable charitable foundation... or sumthin’.”

Mr. Hill took out a couple cigars from his coat, lit a match off his face, and offered one to Ben, who took it calmly. Ben puffed it a couple times as Hill held the match, nodding in approval. “Good cigar,” he said, puffing out a cloud of something with white sparkles in it as he fingered it with experience.

“Dealer soaks ‘em in something. Blah-blah Magnetic Salts or whatever. Okay for normal folks, got a special air to us types.” He puffed out a blue cloud of something that was rippling and vibrating inside weirdly, almost like it was completely made of a soap bubble.

“Reed’s pretty good with them computers, and he’s taken an interest in what’s going on here. He’s not the kind to dwell on the money, but... the lying and the stealing really hit him. He’s known Alderstein and his boy for years,” Ben said grimly. “Seein’ if Jake has some money squirreled away that he shouldn’t is the kind of puzzle Reed might enjoy solvin’ right now,” Ben remarked.

“I’m still lookin’ inta how Fisk got to the boy. I think it has sumthin’ ta do with a sex club over in Queens. Pretty sure the Hand uses it as an operating base and honey trap,” Hill said flatly.

“Gonna shake it and see what falls out?” Grimm smiled hard.

“I got someone looking inta it.”