I must really be behind the times. When I called Hallie for the whereabouts of the Lynchpin, I hadn’t realized how centralized and, to the public eye, legit his operation has become while I was “dead”. I wonder if this is how Captain America feels sometimes.

    I touch down in front of the Lynchpin’s tower in Gothametropolis, stowing my Winnipeg Jets cap in my backpack. I then pause to consider my options. There aren’t many.

    I don’t have any hard evidence of the Lynchpin’s involvement; at best what I have is flimsy and circumstantial. Walking in the front door and flashing my Legion Level security clearance won’t get me anywhere. If I wait until I have more information to go in officially, who knows what atrocities could be committed with my Hatlity Belt?

    Just as I decide that my best bet is to sneak in and snoop around a powerful hand grasps me by the back of the neck and makes the decision for me. I freeze as I feel a slight application of pressure; not enough to really hurt me, but enough to let me know the hand’s owner means business.

    “Move.” Gamona.

    The assassin guides me to a back door and, before I can protest, flings my cape over my head, completely obscuring my vision. She roughly shoves me forward while I attempt not to trip on my feet, or anything else for that matter.

    The assassin rams me into a wall, and I can feel something break in my pocket. The only things in there are my Communicard and that pen that Dancer left for me. I hope it’s not my Communicard, in case I need back-up. At the same time I don’t want an ink stain on my pants either. I don’t have time to worry about it, as Gamona rips me from the wall and continues to push me forward. Apparently she gets pleasure out of tormenting blinded victims.

    After what seems to be a great many twists and turns, and a great many flights of stairs, we stop. Gamona shoves me forward with her right hand while her left grasps my pack. The nylon straps are no match for her strength and they give way, leaving me spun around and weaponless. I flip my cape off my head and face my captor.

    Sitting smugly behind a walnut desk is the Lynchpin himself, Harry Flask. To the general populace, Flask is a legitimate businessman. To those of us in the business though, he’s known as the ruler of a criminal empire. His legitimate and illegitimate doings are so finely intertwined that it would take a whole team of lawyers years to pull them apart. And ever since the Abandoned Legion’s been off the radar nothing’s been preventing him from expanding in Gothametropolis. That wasn’t meant to be a fat joke, by the way.

    “I hear you’ve been looking for me, Mr. Boaz. In the future, I would recommend making an appointment.”

    “That’s Hatman to you, Lynchpin.”

    “And that is Mr. Flask to you. Now then, would you mind explaining what you were doing loitering outside of my building?”

    “I was unaware that pausing on the sidewalk was considered loitering in Gothametropolis.”

    “It will be considered whatever I want it to be. You’re not in Paradiopolis anymore, Legionnaire. You’re in my city. And I don’t take kindly to unwelcome guests.”

    “And I don’t take kindly to threats, Flask. Tell me what I want to know and maybe this time I’ll leave you be. For now.”

    “You talk tough Mr. Boaz, but I’m sure you must be feeling a little nervous. Gamona went easy on you last time, and those bulges under your shirt look like bandages to me. Imagine what she could do to you if she actually set her mind to it?”

    “The same can be said of me, Flask. Do you have any idea what my abilities allow me to do? There’s nearly no limit to my capabilities.”

    “You would never use lethal force. Your own personal code of honor would prevent it. Gamona has no such compunctions.”

    “I won’t use lethal force, that’s true. But last time I was trying not to damage a neighborhood that already has enough troubles without buildings being destroyed. Now I’m in your house.”

    “Am I being threatened by a senior member of the Lair Legion? A member separated from his arsenal, I might add.”

    “Just stating a fact. Now then, what have you done with my Hatility Belt?”

    “Is that what this is all about? That trinket? You should have said so sooner. I don’t have it.”

    “Evidence points to the contrary, Flask.”

    “I had possession of it, true. But I no longer have it.”

    “So you’re admitting to theft?”

    “Please don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Boaz. You are not here in an official capacity or you would have simply entered with a warrant. Even if you were carrying a concealed recording device, which I doubt, it would be inadmissible in court. Your associate, Miss Waltz, may be a brilliant attorney, but I employ more brilliant lawyers than I can conveniently count.”

    “So where is my Belt now?”

    “That would be very unprofessional of me to reveal confidential information about my clients, now wouldn’t it? I’m afraid I simply can’t share that knowledge with you.”

    “So we’ll be doing this the hard way then?”

    “You’ll find it as such, yes. To us, it’s really just an inconvenience. Gamona?”

    I take a defensive posture, preparing to defend myself without my caps. I’m no slouch in hand-to-hand combat, having been trained by the Dark Knight as well as from recent sparring sessions with Mr. Epitome.

    The fact that I block Gamona’s first blow doesn’t change the fact that she still hit me hard enough to propel me through the window. As I crash through the glass I see my backpack containing my caps resting on the Lynchpin’s desk. All of them.

To be continued…