They are the world's greatest super heroes, žghting endlessly against corruption and injustice. Each of them alone is a formidable opponent of evil, but banded together their powers are unmatched. Ever ready,
they stand united as the --
JUSTICE LEAGUE of AMERICA
A mysterious super-terrorist has devised a master plan to bring the world to its knees, using the planet's own weather as a weapon against Superman and his teammates in the JLA.But the conflict raises troubling questions for the Man of Steel about authority, justice, powerŠand the price of liberty in a world where the enemies of freedom stand on the brinkof victory.
He could see the bullet coming.
The big man in the windbreaker and ball cap had been leaning against a concrete security barrier in the heart of Metropolis's Federal Plaza, pretending to read the morning edition of the Daily Planet. But in the shadow of his cap, his eyes kept tracking from building to building, looking for trouble.
There wasn't much in the way of foot traffic in the grand plaza this morning. Twenty feet to the big man's left, a young woman in a business suit stood waiting at a bus stop. Fifty feet to his right, a tight crowd of men in dark suits moved down the marble steps of the Hamilton Courthouse to a line of black sedans idling at the curb. Across the street, a man with a pushcart was staking out a spot to peddle hot dogs to a lunch crowd yet to come.
And seven stories above, the barrel of a high-powered rifle suddenly jutted out from the cornice of an adjacent rooftop.
The rifle caught the big man's eye a split second before the shot was fired. And then, everyone and everything seemed to freeze in place around him.
Everything, except for the bullet. It flew on, spinning toward the center of that tight crowd of dark-suited men. The big man knew that the bullet was headed for a short, heavyset figure at the center of that crowd, a human target in a cheap overcoat who looked every bit as rumpled as the old fedora jammed tightly down on his head.
The big man sprang into action, leaping up in front of the crowd, his arms flung wide. The bullet ripped through the nylon of his windbreaker, the slug slamming into his broad chest, deforming slightly before ricocheting off at an oblique angle. His left arm shot out and he caught the slug in his bare hand. The big man stood suspended in midair, calling back over his shoulder to the crowd of dark suits: "Everyone okay?"
One of the suits shouted an affirmative. They had shoved the heavyset man down into a crouch at the sound of the shot, shielding him with their own bodies. Now, guns drawn, they were hustling him to cover behind another concrete barrier.
Up on the rooftop, the hitman was momentarily startled by the dark blur that had suddenly filled the telescopic sight of his rifle. He looked up, saw the huddle on the plaza below, and started to line up a second shot.
But now, all he could see through the crosshairs of the scope was a ripped-open windbreaker, framing a bold, red-and-yellow pentagon emblazoned with a stylized letter "S."
For a moment, the gunman froze. Then he turned and bolted away across the rooftop. He had carefully planned his escape route, but now his only hope was to move fast. The hitman prayed that the big man hadn't gotten a good look at his face.
At the far edge of the building he dropped his rifle and vaulted over a cornice, dropping six feet to another rooftop. As he pulled a small handgun from his waistband, the hitman spotted a stairwell housing fifteen feet away and headed for it at a dead run. He rounded the corner of the housing and ran smack into a tall form that had not been there a second before. The gunman fell back against the housing, slid down onto the rooftop, and sat staring wide-eyed at the figure he'd run into.
The big man was clad mainly in dark blue. Red trunks were secured at his waist by a yellow belt. The red of his trunks was matched by his boots and by the long cape that unfurled in the wind behind him. And there, once again, was the red-and-yellow pentagon, centered in the middle of the broadest chest the gunman had ever seen.
"S-Superman." The hitman still clutched the automatic in his hand. Though he recognized the man who towered over him, he reflexively leveled the handgun and squeezed the trigger.
This time, Superman didn't bother to catch the bullets that bounced off his chest.
Three slugs impacted harmlessly in the wall of the stairwell housing. A fourth bounced almost straight back, striking just inches from the hitman's shoulder, and he stopped firing.
"New in town?" The Man of Steel reached down with one hand, grabbed the man by the front of his jacket, and effortlessly hauled him to his feet.
The cognitive part of the hitman's brain registered that Superman's voice was a deep baritone, good enough for TV or the stage. But his only physical reaction was instant and reflexive. He jammed the gun against Superman's gut.
"Better think twice before you pull that trigger." The Man of Steel looked him straight in the eye. "Unless you're dead set on saving the state the cost of a trial."
The gunman stared into Superman's face. He could see no fear there, only a look of what seemed to be disappointment.
"Yeah." He relaxed his trigger finger. "Guess you're right."
The next instant, the automatic was gone from his hand. He brought his empty palm up to eye level, staring at it stupidly for a moment before he noticed the gun in Superman's free hand.
"Time for us to take a little trip." Superman tightened his grip on his captive's jacket and leaped straight up into the air.
The hitman's breath caught in his throat as the Man of Steel carried him up and over the buildings. For a moment they seemed to hang motionless in midair -- all of Metropolis spread out below them -- and then they plunged down toward the plaza below, faster than an express elevator. Just as the hitman was about to scream, Superman slowed their descent and they touched down on the pavement as easily as if they'd hopped one step down off a ladder.
Instantly, they were surrounded. A dozen uniformed policemen had joined the dark-suited plainclothesmen, as had the woman in the business suit and the hot dog vendor. All had automatic pistols aimed at the hitman.
"He's all yours, gentlemen...and lady." Superman nodded to the undercover policewoman and let go of the hitman, who was grabbed and handcuffed by one of the plainclothesmen. The Man of Steel turned to an approaching figure. "He left his rifle on the roof of the Langley Building. I can retrieve it, if you'd like."
"You've done more'n enough for us, Superman. Forensics is already on their way up there."
The hitman looked up in surprise at the sound of the gruff voice. It was coming from his intended victim. As he stared in disbelief, the "little man" straightened up from a slouch, seeming to grow in the process. The human target now stood nearly four inches taller, his weight more evenly distributed over a broad, barrel-chested frame.
The heavyset man shucked out of the old overcoat and doffed the rumpled hat, revealing the balding head of Police Inspector Daniel Turpin. "Weren't expectin' to see my mug under here, were ya?" Turpin gave the gunman a wicked grin. "Buddy, you are under arrest!"
The hitman moved his mouth as if to protest, but no sound came out.
The inspector set a pair of wire-rimmed half-glasses across his broad nose and produced a tiny card from his pocket. He took his time, seeming to enjoy the discomfort he caused the gunman.
Superman had seen the inspector do this particular routine before, deliberately stretching things out to get under the perpetrator's skin. Later, he knew, an interrogator at the station house would "empathize" with the perp over Turpin's terrible behavior. "Yeah," they'd say, "he's always giving us grief, too." The routine worked almost every time.
"Awright, listen up now." Turpin cleared his throat. "'You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say -- '"
As if on cue, the hitman found his voice. "You mounted this whole operation just to trap me?!"
Turpin glared up at him over his glasses. "I'm not finished, Quick-Draw. I said, 'You have the right to remain silent.' And until I finish readin' you your other rights, you're damn well gonna be silent! Got that?"
The hitman started to protest, seemed to think better of it, and closed his mouth.
The inspector nodded brusquely. "I'll take that as a 'Yes.' Now, as I was sayin', 'Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to an attorney before answering any questions. You have the right to have your attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you without cost, before or during questioning, if you desire. Do you understand these rights?' "
"Yeah, yeah, I understand already." The man shifted impatiently in the cuffs. "I don't believe this. What is it with you people?" He stared at Superman. "Why were you even here? I'm not a gang boss or...or some super-villain out to take over the world. I'm just an ordinary hitman! A working man! I'm like Joe Sixpack to you!"
Superman exchanged a look with Turpin, and the inspector folded his glasses in disgust. "'Joe Sixpack,' he says. 'A working man,' he says. Like he services your car instead of plantin' you six feet under."
Superman turned to the hitman. "Sorry to spoil your day, but I don't limit myself to stopping criminal masterminds."
"Yeah." Turpin tucked his glasses back into a pocket. "Think of this as his contribution to crime prevention."
"And you -- !" The hitman whirled to stare at the inspector. "You must be old enough to be my grandfather! What the hell are you doing, still playing cops and robbers?"
"Yer skatin' on thin ice, mister. Real thin." Turpin looked the hitman up and down. His nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. "O'Shaunessy!"
A uniformed cop snapped to attention. "Inspector?"
"Get 'im outta here." Turpin shook the old fedora. "An' will somebody get me my hat? My real hat!"
"Is this what you're looking for?"
Turpin turned to find Superman holding out a derby. "Yeah! Now that's a hat! I'll trade ya." He gleefully swapped headgear with the Man of Steel, polishing the derby with the back of his sleeve before setting it into place over his thinning hair. Turpin then pulled a cigar from his vest pocket and clenched it between his teeth.
A look of concern tempered Superman's smile. "You know, those things will kill you, Inspector."
"Aw, now don't you start in on me! My daughter Maisie's on my case all the time. I'm down to just one a month. An' I chew 'em more than smoke 'em anymore." The old detective...
| 出版社 | Simon & Schuster Ltd |
|---|---|
| 作者 | Roger Stern |