John stepped into the bar—not that it deserved the name. A tiny room with two tables. An old bartender, standing behind a counter with only three bottles of liquor. And, of course, a pool table, scarred with holes from bad shots. Two deserters lazily knocked balls around.
The bartender shot John a quick glance, clearly surprised to see an outsider, but he quickly looked away.
The deserters stared longer. John studied them too. Ex-soldiers were easy to spot—strong builds, short haircuts, one idiot even wore his dog tags…
[And military police still haven't arrested them? Luck really favors idiots.]
"Hey, guys!" John grinned, walking up to the pool table. "How about a game?"
"Did we invite you?" one deserter scowled. "You think you can just join in?"
"You looking for trouble?" the other, drunker one, slurred. "Wanna fight?"
"Yeah, I do."
[That was easy. Almost too easy.]
They stepped out of the bar and into a deserted alley. The moment they were out of sight, John activated the Cross of Zarathos.
"Fucking mutant!" the deserter screamed at the sight of a man spontaneously combusting and took off running.
[Damn transformation process! Not only does it put me through hellish pain, but it also costs me precious seconds!]
As soon as his flesh burned away, the Rider drew his gun and shot the fleeing man. The flame-coated bullet tore through his heart from two hundred yards away. Nothing remained but ash.
A useful ability from Zarathos—flaming projectiles followed sinners as if guided by an invisible thread. Saved time on aiming.
"Appreciate you waiting for me," the Rider said, lifting the drunk by his shoulders. The guy had tripped over his own feet and collapsed. "Now you'll answer my questions."
Penance Stare.
In ten minutes, he knew everything.
Two months ago, the Hulk went on another rampage, obliterating an entire military base. Enraged, General Ross ordered the delivery of heavy weaponry to arm his forces for a hunt against the green giant. Machine guns, assault rifles, rocket launchers—five vehicles loaded with enough firepower to capture a metropolis.
The soldiers did some quick math and realized the cargo was worth five million dollars—more than they'd earn in twenty years of loyal service. That's when they made their choice. They became deserters, killed anyone who refused to go along with them, and drove the vehicles to Branding.
One of them claimed he had direct ties to the Kingpin of New York. He left to negotiate a deal for the weapons. Two months passed, and there was no word from him. No one believed he was coming back.
The rest of the deserters had no criminal contacts. They sent scouts to nearby cities to find buyers among gangsters. In a month, they had only sold a tenth of the stock—and for far less than they wanted.
Total losers.
Business was going so badly that they hadn't even noticed the missing crate.
The Rider sent his informant to hell with a slap.
[These idiots need to be wiped out just so they don't reproduce.]
///
Before attacking the camp, John returned for dinner. After all, he had paid for it and wasn't about to let it go to waste.
Besides, it was better to strike while the deserters were asleep.
"Right on time, Mr. Smith!" Kim greeted him at the door, wearing an apron. "Dinner's almost ready! Come chat with Dad!"
John stepped into the kitchen and saw an older man sitting at the table, wearing a sheriff's uniform. The pistol in his holster gleamed under the light.
[This just keeps getting more interesting…]
"So this is the tenant my daughter won't stop talking about!" The sheriff stood up and laughed.
"Daaad!" Kim huffed as she stirred something on the stove.
"Have a seat," the sheriff said, pulling two beers from the fridge. "Name's Steve Southwell. And you're Mr.…"
"Smith," John reminded him, taking the beer and sitting down.
"Very common last name," Steve muttered, squinting slightly. "Mind if I see your ID?"
"Left it at home," John took a sip. "Am I under suspicion?"
"Let's put it simply," the sheriff sighed. "Strangers rarely visit Branding, especially not ones as… interesting as you. My daughter saw your gun."
[Oops. Slip-up.]
"Military-issue Beretta, if I'm not mistaken," Steve glanced at his jacket, trying to spot the weapon underneath. "You asked my daughter about the deserters and where they're hiding. I've been told you visited the bar, left with two of them, and after a single gunshot, neither was ever seen again."
[Goddamn small towns! I made a little noise fifteen minutes ago, and now even the dogs know.]
"Mr. Smith, I know what you're after. I just want you to know—you have an ally in Branding," the sheriff ran a hand over his metal badge. "Someone who can help you in this war against your enemies."
"Interesting," John set his beer on the table. "Mr. Southwell, who do you think I am?"
"Let's cut the jokes. War criminals showed up in town with five truckloads of heavy weaponry. That kind of thing doesn't go unnoticed. My only question is—who do you work for?" Steve studied his face carefully. "FBI? CIA? Maybe Texas Rangers?"
"You're better off not knowing," John said with the straightest face possible.
"I figured as much," Steve nodded importantly.
It was hard to keep from laughing.
[Special Agent Jonathan Blaze. Heh.]
"What are you planning to do, Mr. Smith? After you deal with the deserters?" The sheriff rested his hand on his gun. "I'm ready to assist in the operation!"
"Mr. Southwell, why the sudden enthusiasm?" John took a sip of beer. "You ignored the criminals in town for two months."
"I sent requests to every agency, but no one responded. Frankly, I'm surprised they actually read my reports and sent you. I even wrote to the Avengers, but they demanded proof. Where the hell am I supposed to get proof? The deserters constantly guard their camp and shoot anything that looks like a sheriff," Steve frowned. "I'm the only law in Branding. Or do you expect me to take on thirty armed soldiers by myself? What am I, Captain America?"
"I hear you," John turned to Kim. "When's dinner ready?"
"Just a second!" she said, plating the meat.
"Mr. Smith, what exactly are you going to do?" the sheriff asked, narrowing his eyes.
"First, I'm going to enjoy your daughter's culinary masterpiece," John smiled at Kim. "Then I'll make a phone call. By morning, the deserters will be gone."
"A special operation, huh," Steve nodded knowingly. "Special forces, helicopters…"
[I don't even have to try. He's making up the story all on his own.]
"I can help too," the sheriff placed his hand on his gun.
"No need," John shook his head. "Professionals will handle it. You'd only get in the way."
Steve looked a bit disappointed but didn't argue.
///
After a fantastic dinner and some light flirting with Kim, the Ghost Rider set off to raid the camp. The whole thing took five minutes.
Armed with intel from his informant, he easily snuck behind the sentries and burned them down before they could react. Then he grabbed a rocket launcher from one of them and fired into the sleeping camp.
Happy ending.
He destroyed all the vehicles carrying weapons. The explosions were loud enough to be heard in El Paso.
As payment for saving the world, he took a duffel bag full of cash from the weapons sales—about a hundred thousand dollars.
John was back home before midnight.
///
That night, John slept like a baby. No nightmares. Just a pleasant warmth in his bones.
He turned on the shower and simply enjoyed the hot water streaming down his body.
Unfortunately, solitude didn't last long.
"Did you hear those explosions last night?" Kim chirped through the door. "I even saw flashes on the hill from my window! Must've been a whole army! Probably even tanks…"
"Of course," John said, trying not to laugh. "And helicopters. No special operation is complete without helicopters."
"Were you part of it?"
"Was I part of it? I led the damn thing!"
"Mmm, I feel so dirty…"
"Just give me a minute," John said, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. "I'm almost done."
"You don't get it, silly," Kim said as she opened the shower door, completely naked. "Move over a little…"
///
After breakfast, John exchanged a knowing look with the sheriff. Kissed Kim goodbye.
He left an envelope full of cash in her room—a good girl like her shouldn't rot away in some backwater town.
John got into his car and headed for New York.
[I've got enough money for the near future. A satisfied Zarathos won't fry my brain for a few days. Time to pay Doctor Strange a visit.]