Chapter 1: Remembering Jaynie

May 1. Manhattan — Ten Years Ago.

“But why are we going back?” Jaynie asked, her voice quiet. She stood at the window, looking over the city. She’d crossed her arms and stood holding herself, her posture rigid. Without looking back, she said, “We got away clean. Why isn’t that enough?”

“We talked about this,” Frank said.

He tried to fight off his frustration but couldn’t quite manage it. Despite all his carefully laid plans, he could still feel fear smoking off his wife’s body. It fouled the atmosphere like some noxious gas. 

He hated seeing Jaynie like this. He had things under control. She should know that by now.

The job had come off perfectly. Too perfectly. He’d then checked them into a gorgeous two-bedroom suite on the fiftieth floor of the Times Square Hilton. He would have gone bigger, but he didn’t want to attract undue attention. Still, they’d ordered a bottle of champagne and plenty of room service. But what should have become a night of celebration had soured the moment they walked through the hotel room door. 

Now, though, Anton finally slept in the other room, a liter of vodka down and oblivious to the world, while Jaynie had settled, at least enough to listen. She didn’t look relaxed, exactly, but Frank thought she’d maybe calmed enough that he could walk her through it.

He just had to make her see things his way.

He went over to the window and wrapped his arms around her. She stiffened for a moment but then — finally — leaned into him. Not fully, perhaps, but enough. Outside, the lights of Manhattan lit the night like earthbound stars. Traffic sounds drifted up softly from the streets below.

“They’re eventually gonna notice that giant hole where fifty million dollars’ worth of gold bricks used to be,” she said, her voice tight with worry.

“I know,” Frank replied. The thought made him a little giddy. “Those sorry bastards.”

“I’m serious, Frank.” She turned and looked up at him. “We don’t have to go back. It’s not like we need the money. We’ll never need money again. We could go to Costa Rica tomorrow. We could—”

“Baby.”

“But—”

“Shhh...” 

He kissed her ear and then caught it in his teeth. He nibbled lightly. His hand found her breast through the fabric of her nightshirt.

“Are you even listening to me?” she asked.

Frank inhaled, smelled her hair, and felt her body where it pressed against his. Felt her taut breasts close against his own chest. He imagined her face down and splayed, him taking her from behind, and heard her cries of passion in his mind. Already excited from the heist, he let himself smile. His hand came up under her nightshirt, and his fingers circled her nipple. He waited for it to stiffen or for Jaynie’s back to arch.

Instead, she pulled away. “I’m trying to talk to you, Frank. I don’t understand what we’re doing here.”

Frank took a breath and then let it go. She’d gotten like this all too often of late. Would things be different down in Costa Rica? he wondered.

“I’m tired of talking,” he said. “You know I’m right.”

He just had to make her see it.

“I remember when you used to be careful.” She turned away again and looked back out the window. “Going back seems reckless.”

“They’re never gonna just let us go, Jaynie. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“So? By the time they realize what happened, we’ll be long gone.”

“We’ll be running for the rest of our lives. Is that what you want?”

“But how does going back help?”

“It’s a warning. It’s a threat. It’s—”

“It’s insane,” she said, cutting him off.

He looked at her and then took her hands in his. “Don’t you trust me?”

She hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “You know I do.”

“Then trust that we need to do this,” he said. “Trust that I — that we — can do this right. That we can set the terms. That after this, Oberon and all the rest of those smug assholes will have no choice, they’ll have to let us live our lives in peace.”

“But that’s the insane part! They’re never gonna let us just… go our own way.”

Frank sighed, but he didn’t want to rehash the whole argument again. Instead, he kissed her forehead. “Just trust that I know what I’m doing,” he said finally. “After this, we can go to Costa Rica in peace. I promise.”

Jaynie closed her eyes, and then she nodded. She leaned her head against his chest and held him tightly, as if unwilling to let go.

This is about the best I can hope for, Frank decided. He’d already had to agree to an extended break down in Costa Rica. After that, who knew? Maybe Jaynie would start talking about retirement… or even kids. 

Frank didn’t want to think about kids, and he didn’t want to retire. Not now. Maybe not ever.

She’ll see it eventually, he told himself. We just need to get through tomorrow, and then she’ll see that no one can touch us. Not those pussies in the government. Not the Diogenes Society. Not even goddamned Oberon. 

Frank hated them. He couldn’t help it. They were always telling him what to do, never hearing him out or understanding what he’d said or meant. Not that they could understand. They wouldn’t do the work that understanding required and didn’t care to make the attempt. They just wanted to cut themselves in on a piece of his action, and if that didn’t work, they’d as soon send him to jail.

Or try, anyway.

Frank squeezed his eyes shut and forcefully pushed those thoughts away. He kissed Jaynie’s forehead again and then looked down at her. She was all he’d ever wanted. 

But she shook her head and pushed him gently away. “Can’t we just sleep, Frank? Please?” Her voice had gone flat, the fight drained out of it. “I’m tired, and tomorrow is — apparently — going to be another very long day.”

Frank forced himself to nod and smile. “Yeah, okay. Just know that I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said. But when she got in bed, she turned away, putting her back to him.

By the time Frank finished brushing his teeth, their hotel room lay dark and quiet. He climbed into bed, shut his eyes, and tried to clear his mind. This wasn’t what he wanted, obviously, but it was a compromise he could make easily enough. Jaynie’s feelings mattered. It was fine, really, if he could just get himself to fall asleep. 

He lay still for a long while, thoughts rushing past in a never-ending string. He remembered Oberon and his too-smug smile, the bank vault’s layout, the extensive preparations he’d made with Anton and Jaynie, the city street grid in and around the Federal Reserve Bank, and finally, the feel of Jaynie’s skin and of her body pressing into his. 

She lay right there. He could almost feel her. 

He suppressed another sigh and tried not to think of Jaynie or Anton or the job or any of it. He tried to lie still and listen to his own breathing. But then his pillow felt too flat, and the hotel mattress, for all that it came as part of a thousand-dollar-a-night suite, felt entirely too stiff and too alien for comfort. He rolled over, fluffed his pillow, and then straightened it. He shut his eyes again. Jaynie still lay right next to him, though, and again, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. 

About the feel of her body and the smell of her hair. Despite everything, he remained hard. 

Frank rolled over again and tried once more to force himself to relax. He forced himself to shut his eyes and—

“Goddamn it, Frank!” Jaynie cried, “You’re driving me crazy!”

“Sorry, baby. I guess I’m just too keyed up. You know, about tomorrow and—”

Jaynie sighed. Something like resignation flashed across her face. “Do I have to do anything, or can I just lie here?”

“What are you—?”

“If it’ll help you get to sleep, then you can come over here. But I’m tired, and tomorrow’s gonna be a long day. I don’t want to do anything. So can you just—?”

“Look, I’m not trying to guilt you into—”

“You’re not,” she snapped. “Shit, Frank, if it’ll get you to sleep, it’s more than worth the trouble. I love you. I told you that.”

She sat up and pulled her nightshirt over her head in one smooth motion. She suddenly sat nude, silhouetted by the moonlight and by the lights from the city below. She looked even better than Frank’s imagination had remembered her. 

Jaynie rolled onto her stomach, not looking at him. Even after six years together, Frank still marveled at how good she looked. Slim but soft, athletically toned but neither ripped nor overly muscle-bound. He stared openly, and it felt like an act of worship. He let his hands trail over her, kissed her shoulder, ran his hands down the back sides of her thighs. His fingers trailed up, and he caressed, touched, and explored.

Jaynie didn’t so much as look at him. “Just try to be quick, okay? I want to go to sleep.”

Frank smiled, shifted toward her, and tried to steady himself. “Don’t worry, baby. You’ll barely know I’m there.”

Then he was up, and she shifted, and he took her. He moaned, momentarily caught up in the sensation. But she never looked back, and after a few strokes, when she still hadn’t looked back, he felt his concentration slip. In his mind, it hadn’t been like this. The real Jaynie seemed entirely serious about not doing anything. Frank couldn’t help but wonder if she really was trying to sleep through it. The thought threw him. He tried to touch her, to kiss her, and to draw himself back into the fantasy. 

“Jesus Frank, just go, please.”

Flustered, he forced himself to push harder and faster. If he lost it, that would be worse. But then, thankfully, he felt the pressure begin building. He smiled despite everything, and a moment later, he let go.

Thank God.

Jaynie rolled over and looked at him. “Now go to sleep, dammit. I love you, but I’m tired, and I want to go to Costa Rica. You promised. You said we’d go after this one last job. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t forget,” he said a little too easily.

He looked at her for a long moment and tried to parse his own emotions. Jaynie, though, had already closed her eyes and rolled away again. He too rolled over. He grabbed a few tissues and then paced across the room until he could stare out onto the Manhattan cityscape. Cars moved fitfully below, but traffic had slowed as the night grew late.

Somewhere out there, the Federal Reserve Bank waited. Somewhere out there, Oberon waited, as well.

Frank turned back and let himself watch his wife’s sleeping form. For all the night’s frustrations, he knew he could watch her sleep for hours. 

“We really will go,” he said softly. “We just need to do this one thing first.”

* * *

Sing Sing Correctional Facility — Today

“Hey Convict! D’j’you see your buddy made the papers?” Scott Grossman asked. “‘Siberian Tiger Strikes!’ See here, it’s right on the front page and everything. They got him big as life and in full color. What d’you think of that, Doc?”

Frank sat up and ran his fingers across his scalp, trying to banish the bittersweet sting of memory. He’d had hair once, but it had started receding while he’d still been in graduate school. His life as Dr. Necropolis hadn’t helped, but the nine years, eight months, ten days, and — he checked his watch — six hours, twenty-seven minutes he’d spent in prison had made him truly bald. The stress of life inside hadn’t broken him, exactly, but he’d begun to feel tired most days, and his body creaked in ways he’d never imagined back in his alter ego’s heyday.

Dr. Necropolis lay dead, alas, and Frank’s new life had grown all too simple over the past many years. He had a ten-foot by seven foot white-painted cinderblock cell, a small metal toilet, a three foot by seven foot bunk, threadbare white sheets, a scratchy yellow wool blanket, and bars separating him from the rest of the world. 

Mostly, though, he had his memories, and he had time.

Still, he refused to be baited by some idiot prison guard. “The fuck do you want, Scott? Or did you just come by to fuck up my day?”

“Oh, it’s ‘Scott’ now, is it? Huh Francis?” the guard asked. 

Grossman stood six-foot-three, carried plenty of bulk, and liked to throw his weight around. He kept his blond hair buzzed to a high and tight and spoke constantly of his own personal toughness and patriotism. However, his fleshy features and outsized bulk made his supposed pretensions toward military bearing as laughable as they made his eyes look beady and dim-witted. Overall, he was exactly the type of career prison guard with which Frank had become all too familiar over the past ten years. 

He leaned into the bars of Frank’s cell, one hand resting meaningfully on his nightstick. “Don’t make me come in there and thump you, Francis. You wouldn’t like that very much, I don’t expect.”

The part of Frank that had once been Dr. Necropolis wouldn’t have minded so much, truth to tell. But unfortunately, Sing Sing sat a hell of a long way from the good Doctor’s old laboratory. Even with something as rudimentary as his electric knuckles, Necropolis could’ve folded a fat fucker like Grossman in half and then literally torn him a new asshole. With any of his other gear…

But what did it matter? Dr. Necropolis wasn’t coming back, and yeah, maybe plain old Frank McGuinness could still take Scott one-on-one, even with the nightstick. But what then? He could see Grossman’s partner, Keith Little, standing right there, just a few yards behind him. Frank himself stood just five feet, nine inches tall, and if prison had given him a leaner, stronger frame than he’d once possessed, he still doubted his ability to take on two guards at once. And the prison had plenty more guards where these two had come from. Maybe back in his heyday, Dr. Necropolis could have taught those fuckers some manners and lived to tell the tale. Plain old Frank McGuinness, though, stood far too likely to get his head caved in.

Best just to give these two the show they want, Frank thought sourly. He fought to put some meekness into his voice. “I’m sorry, Officer Grossman,” he said, “I meant no disrespect. Can I see the paper, please?”

The fat bastard smiled and handed the late edition of the New York Post through the bars. The paper unfolded, and Grossman pointed to the front page. “Ain’t that your girl, Doc? Hoo-boy! She and the ol’ Siberian Tiger look awfully close.” He shook his head, his voice mocking and sarcastic. “You reckon he’s been tappin’ that the whole time you been sittin’ here in the joint? I’ll bet he has. Ouch, man, that’s gotta suck. You’d’a thought they’d at least have tried to spring your skinny ass on account of the way you went down for them. But,” Grossman shrugged, “I guess now we know why they ain’t bothered. Don’t need no third wheel gettin’ in the way of that!”

Despite himself, Frank snatched the paper out of Grossman’s hands. And there it was. Acid in a wound he’d thought long since scabbed over. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

A security camera had caught them on their way out of a heist. Anton stood in the foreground, claws out, hulking and larger than life, long hair flowing behind him like some wild mane. He wore a new uniform, a crass red leather thing with white tiger stripes, naturally, because Anton would never be anything other than a gigantic white-trash Russian goombah with vulgarly bad taste alongside exquisitely ultrahuman genetics. He wore a vaguely familiar headband but otherwise looked almost entirely unchanged from the last time Frank had seen him.

Jaynie stood behind him and a little to one side. She wore mirrored sunglasses, and she’d either bleached her hair blonde or she’d worn one of her old wigs. She’d also gotten a boob-job. Still, Frank would have known her anywhere. Even without having once been married to her, the long green duster jacket and custom-designed titanium-alloy Colt .45’s that he’d made for her would have given her away. The girl knew her guns, and that jacket alongside those particular Colts had become the indelible trademark of her erstwhile alter-ego, Gun Girl Gracie Gibson, almost fifteen years ago. 

Frank stared at their picture for a full minute. 

It made no sense. They’d gotten away with it. Frank had been caught when they went back, but Jaynie and Anton, they’d gotten away clean both times. Frank had made sure of it. Just thinking of bikini-clad Jaynie laying on some Costa Rican beach, sipping a mai tai, that thought had kept Frank going for years. He’d made a mistake that had blown up his life, but at least with that image in his head, he’d learned to live with it. He might be stuck in prison forever, but his wife had gotten the life she’d always wanted. As solace went, that wasn’t much. But it was all he had.

Staring down at their picture, at the sight of his ex-wife and his old partner back doing jobs, back in the life, Frank felt something inside himself crack. That same old wound split open and started to bleed. But then he remembered fat fucking Grossman and his lackey both standing there watching him, and it all became too much to bear. Anton was out there with Frank’s own wife while Frank himself sat trapped like a zoo animal inside a cage.

Grossman turned to his partner. “Would you look at that, Keith? I think the infamous Dr. Necropolis is about to cry. Man, I wish I had my phone on me. I’d take a picture and sell it to the papers.” 

“Fuck you!” Frank snarled. “If you two don’t get the hell out of my space in the next five seconds—”

“You’ll what?” Grossman asked. “Doc, you been in here for ten fucking years. In all that time, you ain’t done jack shit. Now shut your fucking hole, and I’ll let you keep that paper. Otherwise Keith and I’ll both come in, and then you’ll be leavin’ on a stretcher. You get me, convict?”

A moment passed in which Frank didn’t trust himself to speak.

“That’s what I thought,” Grossman said, sounding satisfied. 

Thankfully, they’d both gone a moment later.

Frank blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He’d started shaking, and that made him even madder, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. The walls of his cell seemed to close in around him, but like it or not, he wasn’t going anywhere. He knew that all too well.

Eventually, he cracked the paper and started reading.

SIBERIAN TIGER ON THE RAMPAGE!

Mad Russian and Gun Girl Gracie Restart Reign of Terror

The Russian madman known only as the Siberian Tiger attacked the Diamond Exchange in Midtown Manhattan yesterday, making off with more than $6 million in gold and uncut diamonds and leaving a trail of bloody bodies in his wake. Accompanied by his long-time accomplice, the mysterious Gun Girl Gracie, the Tiger struck just after closing, ripping one guard to shreds with his infamous “man-ripper” claws and incapacitating two more via unknown means.

Asked for comment, NYPD Detective Gary Prudhomme offered the following:

“We don’t know where he got the device, but we certainly don’t believe that he made it himself. Still, at least for now we have no reason to suspect that the Tiger and Gun Girl Gracie had any outside help. The investigation remains open, but for the moment, we believe these two acted alone.” 

Prudhomme was referring, of course, to the Siberian Tiger’s long-time partner-in-crime, Dr. Francis “Necropolis” McGuiness, now serving consecutive life-sentences in Sing Sing Correctional Facility in Upstate New York in connection with a massive explosion at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York more than ten years ago. Indeed, although McGuiness himself remains firmly behind bars, this latest crime wave has many of the hallmarks of his incredible run at the top of New York’s criminal underworld. From the smoke bombs and gas grenades to the bleeding-eared victims who appeared after the fact to have suffered from some kind of mental attack… 

Wait, Frank thought. Bleeding-eared victims? 

He felt his stomach drop. His veins ran with ice. In his mind’s eye, he saw the billowing clouds of ash-gray smoke, the massive rebarred concrete boulders, the smoking crater that had once been the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. He smelled the acrid cordite smoke, remembered Oberon’s shocked, anguished face, and saw the lifeless bodies splayed around him like so much red-cut chaff. 

Oh my God, Frank thought. The Neural Disruptor. That maniac’s gotten hold of one somehow. But how? And why? And how’d he get it to work?

But none of that mattered. Not yet, anyway.

I’ll learn soon enough, Frank decided.

He looked up from the paper. He couldn’t stay here, not any longer. He couldn’t stay plain old Frank McGuinness. Anton had taken Frank’s wife and his greatest creation, and he’d used both to murder God-knew how many people. Frank couldn’t let that stand. Besides, if Jaynie was back — if she was truly back — he had to know why.

He couldn’t just sit here and let them run roughshod across the City, not while he himself languished uselessly in some fucking cell.

He’d have to be careful, he knew. But now, at least, he also knew what he needed to do.