With Extreme Prejudice, chapter 6

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Meanwhile, Spider-Man tracks down Dan Hanrahan to get some answers, and finally discovers who the serial killer is. It does not end well for Miles.


What had been a simple murder investigation (simple murder? lol) had rapidly sprawled into something much bigger, much more deadly. And surprisingly mundane, in the sense that there was nothing supernatural, no super powers or divine intervention, just plain old capitalism. Covertly promote crime, reduce property values, buy it all up cheaply, and gentrify the hell out of it. It was brilliant, if bloody.

If Miles and Matt could prove that Dan Hanrahan was behind all this violence and bloodshed in New York, then they could stop it before it went out of control. More out of control. But for that, they needed actual evidence, more than just what Matt was delivering to Mahoney now. So Miles was going to do a little investigating of his own, starting at Hanrahan's opulent penthouse on the Upper East Side.

Hanrahan would certainly have a security system that would necessitate extreme caution on Miles's part . . . except that the patio doors were wide open and, when Miles landed, the inside appeared empty. Camo mode on in case there were cameras, he tentatively stepped inside. Though not quite as grandiose as Warren's home, it still elicited a sigh of envy, awe, and disgust from the young mutant. He would never in his wildest dreams have a place like this, and it was such a waste of money, but damn did he want it. His rumination was cut short when he saw the fallen lamp and the furniture in disarray. A glass tumbler had fallen onto the carpet, staining it with a dark brown liquid.

Miles entered a nearby room, the only other place with the lights on. A home office, it appeared. Two walls were lined with bookcases full of huge leather-bound books, and the other two several framed photos and magazine covers, most of them of Hanrahan with his million-dollar smile. A huge wooden desk, probably worth a fortune, sat at the opposite end of the room. Papers were scattered all over and around it. Miles approached it, wary for some hidden danger to spring out, but his spider-sense was conspicuously silent. If Hanrahan had been attacked, the attacker was gone now.

What caught his eye first was a shiny object embedded in the desk. Another ninja star, identical to the one he had found a few weeks ago, the tips of this one freshly stained in blood. It pinned a sheet of paper to the desk. A spreadsheet with rows of numbers, which Miles couldn't comprehend. But the address printed on the top corner was one he knew. Just a couple blocks away from his own home. The new high-rise that Hanrahan was constructing. This was a message. Someone knew Miles would be there and they left out this sheet specifically so he could find them.

Well, Miles was never one to disappoint. It took him a good while to swing down to the Brooklyn Bridge and catch a ride on top of a truck across the East River. His heart pounded through the whole trip. He had to get there soon. Who knows what this psycho had done to Hanrahan? And investigation aside, Miles couldn't let him die. His whole mission in life was to save the lives of others. He would never be able to live with himself if something happened that he could have stopped.

The construction site appeared empty when he arrived. It was dark save for the street lights and one flickering light on the sixth floor. Miles sighed. They were waiting for him. Here goes nothing. He climbed up a nearby crane and leaped into the unfinished high-rise.

"Dan Hanrahan," he called, glancing around for the inevitable traps, "Dat you?"

A muffled grunt from around a corner was his response, followed by a quick thud and an even louder groan. Dan Hanrahan had fallen on the ground as he'd tried to escape his attacker. A once-crisp white shirt was wet with the blood that streaked one side of his face. His arms were bound behind him, both by the tie that had been ripped off his neck and with a set of zip-ties underneath it. His eyes looked toward Miles, pleading.

"Oh, Jesus." Miles had expected bait, but live bait. Not the half-conscious bloody pulp here before him. Miles went to him but only made it halfway before his spider-sense finally kicked in, ordering him to hide behind one of the beams to avoid getting impaled with a shuriken. Eight points. He risked looking out from behind his shield, and finally, he saw the serial killer who had kept the city on edge for the last month. Though he wore a full-body black suit and mask, Miles knew that swagger anywhere. "Uncle Aaron . . ."

Aaron Davis Morales, dressed in the full body armor of The Prowler, took a tentative step forward. He knew better than to take his mask off, and he knew his expressions weren't visible, but a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. It had, after all, been a while since he'd seen his nephew. "Well, look who it is? I'll admit," he shrugged, "I thought it might be the other guy."

Green electricity crackled from Miles's fingertips, and he had to force himself to stay put instead of just going straight for his uncle, all while his spider-sense pleaded with him to run away and save himself.

"You murdered them," he said, voice shaking. "Six people. You killed them. How could you?"

The Prowler's gloves began to glow, a kind of warning as he shook his head. "That's a big leap to take, don't you think? Don't I get the benefit of the doubt?"

Miles snorted. "Not anymore. I found one of your ninja stars at a victim's home, anyway." He picked up the fallen weapon, silently cursing himself for not recognizing it sooner. "And at Hanrahan's. I knew these looked familiar. How could you? Theft is at least forgivable. But not this."

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." He was suddenly very intense, and behind his mask, his face hardened. "You kill a child, you get what's coming for you. Especially when you know the system's on your damn side."

"Since when do you go around avenging every murder in this city? And I know it's been a long time since I went to Sunday school, but I also seem to remember this thing about not killing people," Miles retorted. "Also also, 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.' And Tío, tú eres el mejor sinner. I'm taking you in. Please give me a break for once and just come in quietly."

"Miles, when you watch a kid growing up, when you see their life from start to finish, when you see their parents hold them, and then some monster murders them, you tell me what's right and wrong." He shook his head. "The way you see the world is... there's so much you want to believe is good and just and fair and right. None of it is. You'll see."

This was not the final confrontation Miles wanted to have. Anyone else, even super-powered, would have been preferable to another go against his uncle. But Aaron — Prowler — had crossed a line. "You're right, it's not fair," Miles said, his voice cracking. "If the world was then I wouldn't be stuck with someone like you for family!" Miles blurred out of sight as he charged Prowler head-on. He landed several venom strike–charged blows before Prowler countered with a series of his own attacks, forcing a camouflaged Miles to hastily switch to the defensive.

"Three, two, one . . ." Miles counted, deflecting a blow to the face that would have knocked out a lesser man.

"Try again, mijo." The Prowler tapped a button on his gloves – insulated, just like his suit, which was protecting him from the intended effects of the venom blast. His next jab and cross, aimed toward Miles's chest, came with an electric charge.

Miles bit this lip to keep himself from shouting at the pain of the shock surging through his body. His own powers offered no defense against such a strike. Unable to keep his concentration, and realizing that Prowler's suit enabled him to see past camo, Miles dropped back into sight and fired several small, tight balls of webbing, like anti-riot bean bags.

Even through the suit, the projectiles hurt, and Prowler staggered back. "Just like the police," he said with very clear disdain, tapping a button on his gloves as he tried to straighten. "Another blunt instrument of misguided justice." His aim was off, but two flechettes shot out of the gloves and in Miles's general direction.

The darts let out a loud ring when they impacted the beam Miles had been standing in front of just a second before he'd somersaulted out of the way. "If I were the five-oh, I'd've shot you without giving you a chance first," he retorted, sliding back into melee range. No sense, wasting energy on venom blasts, so he relied on his super strength instead. He had quickly learned to pull his punches for fear of accidental decapitation, but his uncle received no such consideration now. "You're just making things worse for us! You think mutants are gonna get their fair treatment now, after a judge and witness and jury are dead?"

"You think they get it now? Kid, come on." Prowler was doing best to dodge his nephew's attacks; his agility was surprising, given their relative age difference. "Wake the fuck up. You think mutants are any different than Trayvon or Michael Brown or Freddie Gray? Police see you, they're looking for an excuse to shoot you dead. Police see a kid with wings or scales? Same thing. There's no justice for people like us. You think there's justice out there for people like them?" The tirade through him off, and Miles managed to connect with his stomach. The blow surprised him; even with the suit and the increased resilience, it took some of the wind out of him.

"It's not right!" Miles followed the successful blow with another. Even though his venom blast was useless, bioelectricity still surged through his body, and his fists sparked with green lightning. "There are ways to fight for justice without killing. All you're doing by being judge, jury, and executioner is being a tyrant. You're mocking the justice you're pretending to care about."

He blocked a couple of punches, and dodging a kick got Miles behind Prowler, and he hopped up on his uncle like he was a little kid again and getting a piggyback ride, except he wrapped his legs around Prowler to pin his arms to his sides. "You have no right to take a life!" he repeated.

"Neither do the goddamn judges and the police. But I'm playing by their rules." A tiny, tiny part of Prowler was impressed with his nephew's skills. A larger part of him knew he needed to get the kid off his back. And so he used his leg strength to propel himself backward, falling to the ground in a kind of powerslam he'd cribbed from pro wrestling, figuring it'd be unexpected enough that he might break free.

It knocked the breath out of Miles, but he held on tightly. No smoke bombs or supersonic attacks to cover an escape this time. He reached for Prowler's mask, trying to pull it off and strike with a incapacitating venom blast. It didn't budge, though. What, had he glued it to his face or something?

"You don't care about these victims," he taunted, still trying. "You're just using this as an excuse to be a monster and give up any responsibility."

Prowler nearly growled as he drove an elbow into Miles's face. "You don't know shit about those kids or their parents, little boy," he grunted as he threw his head back into his nephew's chest to knock the wind out of him. "Don't even pretend to know how I feel." He then worked to wrest free of the would-be hero's grasp.

Miles' grip slackened, allowing Prowler to pull free. Miles rolled to the side to avoid his uncle's counterstrike, and countered the counter with a kick to the face as he flipped back to his feet. "You're afraid," he accused, breathing heavily. "Fear is the path of the Dark Side. Mira, I get it. You're angry. I'm angry. We'd have to be insane not to be. But that anger should be fuel to build something, not to destroy. You see all those people out on the streets in the freezing cold every day, just wanting their voices to be heard? And they're making people listen! No matter how much they're denied or attacked or told to shut the hell up, they keep going. And they're making things better. But you know what they're not doing? Fucking killing people."

The Prowler, now on his feet, responded with a condescending sneer. "You're more naive than I thought if you think that's true, mijo." He hit the term of affection particularly hard, knowing the reminder that they were family would drive Miles even more crazy. "Time to grow up." In rapid succession, he ripped a flashbang from his belt, tossing it toward Miles's feet. Then he threw a bola at the kid's legs and bolted toward the battered Hanrahan, who was still lying on the floor, breathing at an uneven rhythm.

Miles dove out of the way of the flashbang, but despite his spider-sense blaring a warning, the bola wrapped around his feet, and the weight carried with the momentum of his own movement to send him to the ground. He banged his head against a beam in the process and everything went white for a moment.

He struggled to get back to his feet, to dispel the stars in his vision and the ringing in his ears. As the world stopped rocking and returned to normal, he remembered Prowler's original target. "Tío, please, don't," he pleaded, working shaking hands to free him from the leg trap.

"I gotta thank you, kid." The Prowler kicked Hanrahan in the stomach, then squatted down. "Soon as I heard you were poking your nose around, I started following you." He began to roll Hanrahan toward his arms. "Figured we'd get somewhere faster than I could on my own. Or you'd take me somewhere, anyway." The executive began groaning and wriggled in his arms, so Prowler punched him in the face. He went slack, and Prowler deadlifted him over his shoulders.

"Thing is," he grunted as he moved to the edge of the building, "that's how I found this gentrifying, war-profiting jackass. Can you imagine? Flooding the streets with guns, selling to anyone who'd buy, full well-knowing they'd start killing each other. You know, to all those people you say aren't fucking killing people." Now used to the weight, he picked up speed. "Thanks for leading me to him."

By the time Miles managed to untwist the ropes and step free of the bola, his uncle was nearly at the ledge. Though his world was still swimming, Miles ran as fast as his aching feet could take him to catch up. But his uncle had too much of a head start, and the blow to the head hampered Miles, so he could only watch as Prowler threw Dan Hanrahan off the edge like he was just taking out the trash.

"No no no!" Miles didn't bother to take on Prowler again. There was still a chance to save a life. Miles dove off the building and shot a web-line to catch Hanrahan. He could do this, he could save a man from death by 6-story-plummet, he could prove that his uncle was wrong. It would be simple physics, and Miles knew that subject well. Rope to Hanrahan in one hand, he shot another to the building to stop his own fall, several feet above the ground.

"I did it! Spider powers, I love you." Miles gradually spun more web so he could gently rappel down. Hanrahan, his neck bent at an unusual angle, landed with a feather-soft touch but did not move. "Ay, he really beat the crap out of you," Miles said apologetically as he knelt down next to the man and took his wrist to check his pulse, a skill courtesy of Generation X. He felt nothing. "Hey, Mr. Hanrahan . . ." No pulse at his neck, either. Nor was he breathing. "Oh no. No no no no no no no . . ."

"Like I said." The Prowler shouted as he looked down at Miles from the side of the half-constructed apartment. His voice sounded a touch more wistful than expected given his apparent triumph. "You kill a child, you get what's coming for you, one way or another. That's a law of the universe." A beat. "Sorry, kid." And with that, he dropped a smoke pellet and made his escape.

Even if Miles wanted, he had no energy to pursue. Dan Hanrahan was a monster, but this should not have been his end. And worse than that, Miles could not figure out whose fault it was. Was it Prowler's for having beaten him so badly and then thrown him off the building? Or did Miles' attempt to save him actually seal his fate? Suddenly stop that momentum he had, and the force could cause fatal whiplash.

It was simple physics, and Miles knew that subject well.