Chapter 29: S.H.I.E.L.D. Pays Up
Right in the middle of the negotiation, a battered police cruiser rolled up — because the NYPD's timing was nothing if not consistent.
The officer who stepped out was Captain George Stacy. Of course it was.
"What now, Ethan? Can you go one week without a pile of bodies outside your restaurant?" He surveyed the field of prone agents.
Ethan covered the phone. "Not my fault this time. A bunch of people calling themselves S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to take Pietro and Wanda. I'm on the phone with their boss right now. Give me a minute."
Stacy sighed and waited.
On the other end of the line, Fury broke the silence. "Mr. Cross. Here's what I can offer. S.H.I.E.L.D. maintains an extensive collection of artifacts — items of mystical and extraterrestrial origin. I'm authorized to loan you one piece. Plus five million in cash. Does that work?"
Fury's calculus was sharp. S.H.I.E.L.D. had warehouses full of artifacts they hadn't even catalogued, let alone understood. Loaning one was painless — and he hadn't specified a return date. As for the five million, he'd file a report claiming the operation had cost hundreds of millions, and the World Security Council would rubber-stamp enough funding to cover it ten times over.
"Twenty million. Two artifacts — and I pick them myself. I'll be visiting your facility in person." Ethan's voice left no room for haggling. "And I have two additional conditions. Non-negotiable. If you refuse, I hand your agents over to the local police. I'm sure the precinct would love to process a hundred federal trespassing charges."
Fury heard the finality in Ethan's tone. This was the last offer.
The money and artifacts were manageable. But "conditions" — that word made his skin crawl. It felt like boarding a ship with no idea where it was headed.
"Let's hear them. I'll decide if they're doable."
Ethan looked at Captain Stacy. Then at the rusted, dented police cruiser behind him — a vehicle that looked like it had been decommissioned in the nineties.
"First condition. Hell's Kitchen's police precinct is operating with equipment from the last century. Their cruisers are falling apart, their weapons are outdated, and their budget is a joke. S.H.I.E.L.D. cycles through gear constantly — I want your decommissioned equipment, vehicles, and weapons redirected here. Nothing cutting-edge. Just whatever you were going to scrap anyway."
Captain Stacy had just finished getting a briefing from Caine and the others. He hadn't expected this.
He knew better than anyone how badly the precinct was struggling. City Hall had essentially forgotten Hell's Kitchen existed. The annual budget barely covered salaries — no raises, no bonuses, no equipment upgrades. His officers carried the oldest weapons in the NYPD, drove cars held together by rust and prayer, and went up against the worst criminals in the city.
Lowest pay. Worst gear. Hardest job.
If it weren't for the officers who genuinely believed in what they were doing, nobody would work the Hell's Kitchen beat. And most of those officers resented the neighborhood and its people for it.
Now the person they resented most was the one fighting for them.
Stacy glanced around. Every officer within earshot was looking at Ethan with something they'd never shown before: respect.
Fury, on the other end, was momentarily thrown. He'd braced for an outrageous personal demand. Instead, he got... municipal aid.
"Done. We decommission enough gear every year to outfit a small army. I didn't expect this from you, Mr. Cross. It seems our intelligence profile needs revising."
Maybe this one isn't purely self-interested after all, Fury thought. Might be worth adding to the Avengers Initiative reserve list.
With the first condition accepted, Ethan signaled Caine. The gravity lifted. Agents groaned and staggered to their feet up and down the block, rubbing sore joints and bruised egos. Coulson and Natasha rejoined the formation.
"Last condition," Ethan said. "The most important one." His voice carried across the entire street — every agent heard him clearly.
"Go ahead," Fury said. "As long as it's reasonable."
Ethan looked at Coulson. Then at Natasha. Then at every agent on the block.
"Stay away from my neighborhood. Preferably forever. Can you manage that?"
Silence on the line. Fury had just started to think better of Ethan, and the man had knocked him right back down.
"I can't guarantee that," Fury said flatly. "What I can guarantee is that today won't happen again. As long as you stay clean, we won't come looking for trouble."
"Good enough. Send the money. I'll be in touch about visiting your collection." Ethan hung up and turned to Natasha.
"I hope we never meet again. Every time I see you, something goes wrong." He gave her a nod that was more dismissal than farewell. "Safe travels, Agent Romanoff."
He walked back into the Lucky Dragon without looking back.
· · ·
The S.H.I.E.L.D. team retreated. The moment the last agent cleared the block, Hell's Kitchen erupted.
Cheers. Whoops. Fists in the air. Residents poured out of buildings, hollering like their team had just won the championship.
These were people who'd spent their entire lives being looked down on by every government official, every city bureaucrat, every cop from a better precinct. Nobody had ever fought for them. Nobody in power had ever treated them as worth defending.
And today, one of their own had stared down a federal agency and made them pay.
Captain Stacy watched the celebration, something stirring behind his eyes. "It's been a long time since I've seen Hell's Kitchen like this."
Wade overheard him on his way out. For once, he dropped the act.
"It's because they're seeing something they never had before. Hope."
The moment lasted exactly one second.
"PARTY TIME!" Wade bellowed at the crowd. "DRINKS ON ETHAN! LET'S GO!"
Stacy looked toward the restaurant door, expression complicated. Is Hell's Kitchen finally getting its savior?
The residents could feel it — something shifting, slowly but unmistakably. Since Ethan Cross had come into his own, they'd started to feel like they might actually get to live as ordinary people. Safe. Seen. Human.
The feeling was unfamiliar. But they wanted more of it.
The cheering carried across the neighborhood.
· · ·
Several blocks away, a man in a red-and-black suit perched on a rooftop, head tilted toward the distant sound.
"That direction... that's his territory." Matt Murdock — Daredevil — listened to the joy rolling through Hell's Kitchen's streets. "It's been a long time since I've heard anything that beautiful coming from this place. What did he do this time?"
He'd never met Ethan Cross. But he'd heard plenty. The godson of Wilson Fisk — the man Daredevil despised most in the world.
And yet.
The Continental rising on the next block. The community school taking shape. The safe streets. The protected residents. These were things Daredevil had never been able to achieve with his fists alone.
He'd always believed his way — vigilante justice, one criminal at a time — was the only path to saving Hell's Kitchen. Ethan was showing him a different one.
· · ·
Fisk Tower
Wilson Fisk listened to the debrief from his people, a cigar smoldering between his fingers.
"The boy handled that well," he said, something warm in his voice. "Now isn't the time to go to war with the government — but you can't let them think you're soft, either."
He turned to his secretary. "Set up a meeting with the city council. I hear one of the candidates for mayor is short on campaign funds. The Fisk Foundation would be happy to invest in the city's future."
Then he turned to the floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond the glass, Hell's Kitchen spread out below — dark, battered, but somehow, tonight, a little less bleak than usual.
"It's coming alive," Fisk murmured. "Let's see how far you can take it."
☆☆☆
-> SUPPORT ME WITH POWER STONE
-> FOR EVERY 50 Power stone= 1 BOUNS CHAPTER