Flanagan placed Miss Rich in a cab and sent her home. He made sure to pay the hack

enough to cover the ride with a generous tip on top of that. He told Berra to let him

know when they were done cleaning up. He walked upstairs to his workspace.

It wasn’t a lab, but it had a ton of books and some equipment he could use for small

things. He couldn’t build more armor unless he decided to knock out a few internal

walls and have vats and other things dragged upstairs and put in place.

He liked to use it to catch up on reading industry reports and new patents. Some of

those he could reverse engineer and use for his own company. A few he bought

outright because he couldn’t figure out how they were supposed to work, and he

didn’t mind paying for things he felt could help his company.

He decided he needed a visual aid to keep him up to date on what he was doing, and

what he needed to do.

He pulled down a chalkboard from the ceiling and picked up the chalk on the tray at

the bottom.

He spent an hour assembling what he knew in short sentences. Each sentence had a

confirmation written down next to it. A lot of question marks took their places where

he didn’t know enough to proceed.

How did he tie Rydell to Courtland? He had no idea at the moment. He was sure they

were working together, even if he had no proof.

Maybe Westwood’s detectives could dig something up.

And then Shanks sat on the side. Whom did he work for? If he could be tied to the

Rydell-Courtland partnership, that would make things that much easier.

If he couldn’t be tied in, that meant another party wanted him dead, and he had no

clue who that could be.

He decided that everyone knew he was going to be home for the next few days.

Someone would make a play. Shanks was in hiding. This might draw him out, or

someone else who wanted Flanagan out of the way.

How long did he have to wait was the one question he really wanted answered.

A knock on the door drew him back to the present. He pushed the chalkboard back

in its hiding place before pulling the door open. Berra stood on the other side. His tie

and jacket had vanished since they had talked.

“We’re done,” said the caterer. “Everything is as it was.”

“Thanks,” said Flanagan. “You really came through for me.”

“You paid the money and provided the extra hands,” said Berra. “That was enough

to make everything presentable.”

“No problem,” said Flanagan. “Let me show you the door and lock up. I have a

meeting tomorrow I can’t miss.”

“The bill is on the kitchen counter,” said Berra. He turned and headed downstairs.

“I’ll have Miss Rich write you a check in the morning,” said Flanagan. “It’ll be in

your office tomorrow. I’ll send it by messenger.”

“Let me know if you need another party catered,” said Berra. “It will be my pleasure.”

“All right,” said Flanagan. He walked behind Berra. He casually looked around.

Everything looked like it was still there. He closed the door behind the caterer, noting

a van with the restaurant name on its side waiting in the street. He locked the door.

Flanagan searched his townhouse to make sure it was empty. He cut off the lights as

he went up to his bedroom. How long did he have before they tried to kill him?

He pulled on his armor as he waited. He had taken the week to put the thing together.

He wore coveralls, a piece of chain mail, and a tunic over that. He had adopted a

welder’s mask and hood to protect his face except for the glass eyeslit. Everything

had been dipped in his concoction and was a dark purple.

He had dipped a triangle of wood to make a purple shield. He strapped it on his arm.

He felt it would stop a blast of dynamite, and as many bullets as it could block.

Flanagan sat down in his chair, beside the door of the bedroom. He reached up and

cut off the lights. All he had to do now was wait.

Flanagan wondered where they would keep watch on his townhouse. He doubted

there was any place other than directly across the street. He supposed they might

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

come at him early in the morning. That was the usual time for raids.

If they didn’t show up by five, he would get some sleep so he could be fresh for the

office in the morning.

He would try this the next two nights. If it didn’t work out, he would have to try

something else.

He doubted it would come to that. As soon as they knew where he was, they should

have decided if they were coming right away, and what they were bringing. Any delay

hurt them.

A noise attracted his attention from downstairs. He went to the door. The solid coat

of mix kept the chain mail from rattling as he moved. He looked at the stairs. A light

shone somewhere on the ground floor.

He crept to the stairs. He realized that he had never tested if the chemical would

absorb falling damage as well as it did being shot and blown up. He doubted he could

fall three stories in his new suit and just walk away.

He didn’t want to test it now that he had intruders in his house.

The lights came up the stairs. He counted two flashlights. He couldn’t see how many

men were behind the lights. He stepped back from the railing. He wanted them away

from his lab, and caught flatfooted when they reached the top floor.

He leaned against a wall, raising his shield to maximize his coverage. He waited as

the group paused at the top of the stairs. One of the men pointed at his closed

bedroom door.

They assembled at the door. One of them tried the knob. It twisted under his grip and

he nodded. He pushed open the door and the group crowded in the door and started

shooting.

Flanagan frowned at the new holes he imagined being punched through his bed. He

walked forward. It was time to have a talk with his home invaders.

He walked up to the last man in the group. He kicked the man into the rest of the

group before they realized he was behind them. Then he started swinging as hard as

he could as the group tried to get away from him.

He realized that he could hit harder because his chemical soaked gloves spread the

impact as he punched. He wouldn’t want to hit a brick wall, but it worked great

against the bones of faces.

Flanagan took several blows to his shield, but he barely felt them. He used it to ram

a man into flight across the bedroom. The gunman hit the window and almost crashed

through to the street below.

The financier took a blow to the face he didn’t feel and backhanded his attacker into

a chest of drawers. He followed through with a punch that sent the man to the floor.

One of the men scrambled for the door. He had recovered his pistol, or never lost it

in the scuffle. He turned and started shooting into the room as he ran to the steps.

The obvious plan was to run down the stairs and out the front door. He never

expected a crazy man to jump the railing and fall down on him while he was shooting.

Then they both rolled down to the third floor. A purple gloved fist ended the fight

with two punches.

Flanagan got to his feet. He ran up the stairs to the fourth floor. How many of the

assassins were still ready to fight?

He ran to his bedroom door. He turned on the light. The room was wrecked. He shook

his head as he grabbed one man still trying to fight his way to an escape and slammed

his face into the wall.

The armor had worked better than he had thought it would. He checked it quickly.

Several slugs had hit his outer tunic and flattened against the covering. He had barely

felt the impacts in the struggle.

He started tying the men up with strips torn from his sheets and searching them. The

police could pick them up as soon as he was done.

He went to the man in the stairwell and dragged him back to the bedroom. He tied

him up with the rest.

Flanagan looked at the wallets and slips of paper he had tossed on his end table. He

went through them, taking any money he found. He paused in his examination of the

slips of paper on the end table. It had two addresses on it. One was his townhouse.

The other was one he had heard but never seen.

Where had he heard it?

He realized it was Miss Rich’s place. Had these goons hurt her? If they had, he

wouldn’t be calling the police for a long time.

He slapped one of the men awake. The gunman struggled against his bonds. He

punched the man in the face to get him to pay attention.

“This address,” said Flanagan. “Where did you get it?”

“What does it matter to you?,” spat the captive.

“I’m going to count to five, then I am going to throw you out the window,” said

Flanagan. “Then I am going to talk to one of your friends next. Where did you get the

address?”

“Screw you,” said the man.

Flanagan hefted him up and carried him to the cracked window. He started counting.

“What are you doing?,” asked the man. His face pushed against the cracked insets of

the window.

“Where did you get the address?,” asked Flanagan, pausing his count. He pushed the

man into the window. “Otherwise, you get to fly.”

“The guy who hired us gave us the address,” said the man. “A crew is already over

there.”

“Were they supposed to kill her?,” asked Flanagan. If the answer was yes, he was

going to get revenge the moment after.

“No,” said the gunman. “They’re just supposed to hold her until after the meeting

that’s going to be called. After that, it won’t matter.”

“You just saved your life,” said Flanagan. “I’m going to call her. Then the police. If

something has happened to her, I know who all of you are. I’ll find you and make

your life hell.”

He looked at where the phone should be by his bed. He didn’t see it. He looked

around. It rested on the floor. He picked it up and asked the operator to connect him

to the phone number for Miss Rich’s place. He waited, but there was no ringing tone.

He called the police and asked that someone be sent over to pick up the five men he

had captured. He told the man on duty he didn’t know where the owner was, but

doubted he had wanted his bedroom shot up. He put the phone down.

“I’m going over there,” said Flanagan. He picked up one of the pistols and stuck it in

his belt. “If something has happened to Miss Rich, I will make you sorry.”

Flanagan left the room. He knew he was too late if the two groups had struck at the

same time. Maybe there was a clue waiting there for him.

He headed downstairs and found the car his attackers had arrived in. He got in,

tossing his shield in the back seat. He pulled away from the curb and headed for Miss

Rich’s apartment.

What meeting would have been called with both of them out of the way? He thought

about it as he drove.