The Marvel Knights Group presents: Slyde #2

“You know, I never thought I'd say this, but... I think you're lookin' pretty damn cool."

The man in the figure-hugging silver bodysuit turned and stared at his companion, who was smiling cheerfully. "What are you talking about?" he snapped. "You didn't think I looked cool before? You never said anything."

Sawyer Quinn shrugged. "Hey, I was being polite. Green accessories just weren't you."

Jalome Beacher scowled and proceeded to pull on his mask. Like the rest of his suit it was plain silver, and gleamed like polished metal even though the material from which it was fashioned was actually more akin to Lycra than anything else. The sheen came from what that material was coated with: a uniquely engineered substance that was a mixture of oil, mercury and other chemicals, treated with a special process that involved heat and electricity and the manipulation of molecules. Jalome would have been happy to elaborate on the specifics – after all, he had spent close to ten years in various laboratories developing the chemical, and then a further five years designing and refining this suit - but the science was always lost on Sawyer, who had been Jalome's best friend since they were kids wrestling over nickels and dimes in the streets of Brooklyn.

All Sawyer knew was that this suit made Jalome into something more than a simple geek and a guy who, despite a highly creative intelligence, had always suffered from bad luck and a propensity for getting into trouble. It made him into... Slyde.

Jalome fitted a pair of golden goggles over his mask, covering the eye-slits that had been the only apertures on the otherwise featureless faceplate. He fractionally adjusted the lenses to bring them into focus, the movements of his fingers precise due to the thin, almost imperceptible rubber ridges that lined his gloves. Those same ridges could be found on the soles of his silver boots. Devoid of these seemingly innocuous touches the suit would have been useless, because the nature of the chemical that covered Jalome's body rendered the material utterly frictionless. Anyone – or anything – that came into contact with him would simply slide off, unable to obtain even the most basic purchase. Hence his name. Without the ridges on his boots and gloves, Jalome wouldn’t even have been able to stand up, let alone move, grasp things, or remove the suit once he was done. He’d learned this the hard way, with his first flawed design. It had been three days before someone – Sawyer, of course – had found him on the floor of his basement, slithering and sliding in helpless circles.

"What are you grinning at?" Slyde said, as he self-consciously laced his new golden satchel about his waist.

"Sorry," said Sawyer, making no attempt to hide his smirk. "I was just rememberin' that time I came round to your house and you were spinnin' round on your ass tryin' to get up, but you couldn't grab hold of anythin' cuz your hands just kept slippin'. Looked like a goddamn Ninja Turtle tryin' to breakdance..."

"Yeah, yeah." Slyde muttered. "For someone dressed as a bellhop, you're awfully full of yourself."

"Meiow," said Sawyer, whose massive frame was indeed crammed into the distinctive uniform of a hotel employee – the reason for which would soon become clear.

Carefully maintaining his balance, Slyde checked that the protective pads on his elbows and knees – again gold - were tightened. Balance was something he had learned to achieve in the three or four years since he had taken on his dual identity, so much so that it had now become second nature. That, and his unique style of movement – kicking off, then sliding, not unlike an ice-skater, using his boot ridges to control speed and direction. This was who he was. This was what made him special. This was what was going to keep him alive in the next hour – with any luck.

Sawyer glanced at his watch. Nine forty-two.

"You ready?" he asked quietly, suddenly serious. "Not too late to pull out, slick."

Slyde looked across at him. He gleamed in the stark light of their suite. This room was part of the Moonlight Sonata hotel, owned by Amadeus Rocco, a small and repulsive man who, despite appearances, was very dangerous indeed - a man whom Slyde and Sawyer were also planning to make very unhappy.

"You sure the gold accessories look better than green?" Slyde asked, checking himself in a mirror.

"Absolutely."

"Then I'm ready."

"So," said Jimmy Antonelli, "There's a guy - "

"A guy?" said Sal DiVaio.

"A guy."

"What's his name?"

"Doesn't matter, okay?" said Antonelli. "Just a guy. Anyway, this guy, he goes into a pet store, says to the broad behind the counter - "

"Does she look like Adrian?"

"Does she what?"

"Adrian," said Sal. "From the Rocky films. Yo, Adrian. She worked in a pet store."

"Geez. Yeah, Sal. She looked like Adrian, from the Rocky films."

"I liked her."

"Zip it, Sal," said Mickey Gialotta. "I wanna hear this."

"So there's a guy," said Antonelli, "Goes into a pet store, asks for a special pet. Broad sells him a centipede in a box, tells him this centipede can drink any man under the table. So the guy buys the centipede, takes him home."

"You can buy centipedes in pet stores?"

"Geez, Sal. I'm gonna shoot you in the foot in a second, okay? You want I should shoot you in the foot?"

"I'm just sayin', is all."

"Shut up, okay?"

"Okay, okay. Guy goes into a pet store, yadda yadda."

"We've moved on from that. Guy's at home now, with his centipede." Antonelli sighed. "Okay. So, guy's got some friends around, he wants to show off his pet. Gets out the box, taps on the box with his finger. Says - 'Hey youse. Hey, you wanna go to O'Malley's for a beer?' - But the centipede don't say nothin'."

"This a talkin' centipede, then?" said Luca Palazzo.

"Yeah," said Mickey. "This a talkin' centipede as well as a drinkin' centipede, Jimmy?"

"Shut up," said Antonelli. "It's not important."

"It's important if he wants to talk with other centipedes."

"Lissen to the joke, okay? Yeah. He's a talkin' frickin' centipede, okay?"

"Okay."

"So, guy waits a second, taps on the box again. Says - 'Hey youse. I says, you wanna go to O'Malley's for a beer? I'm payin', yo.' - But the centipede, he still don't say nothin'. So this guy, he's gettin' angry, all his buddies are laughin'. So he taps on the box an' yells - 'Hey youse! Centipede! I said, you wanna go to O'Malley's for a beer?' - An' the centipede, he shouts back – 'Hey, yo. I heard you the first time. I'm just puttin' on my frickin' shoes!'"

Palazzo barked, and Mickey grinned. Sal stared at Antonelli.

He said, "The centipede wore shoes?"

"Oh, for..." Antonelli drew his gun. "C'mere, Sal. No, I mean it. Come - "

"What's with the noise?" Amadeus Rocco yapped, suddenly appearing at Antonelli's shoulder and slapping him about the back of the head. The four suits, who were crowded round a table drinking beer and playing cards, all turned, mumbling apologies. With them sitting on stools they were, for once, on eye level with their boss.

"Put your goddamn gun away," Rocco snapped, pointing an Antonelli. "What, I pay you for bein' trigger-happy, you clowns? I got complaints from guests after what happened in the lounge, I got Delilah weepin' in the bathroom, an' tonight of all nights. Why're you doin' this to me? Eh? Eh? Is this karma? Was I a bad guy in another life?"

"But, Mister Rocco," said Sal. "You're the one who slapped Delilah, so... uh..."

Sal faltered. The other three suits buried their faces in their hands. Rocco was staring at Sal through mean little eyes, his lower lip quivering. He waved a hand at Antonelli.

"What are you doin' puttin' that gun away?" he yelled. "Gimme the gun. Gimme the gun! Gonna shoot this little - "

Palazzo's watch bleeped, and each of the four suits sighed in relief.

"Nine-fifty," said Antonelli. "We'd best be gettin' downstairs, Mister Rocco…”

The meeting was taking place in a large room just off the Moonlight Sonata's west wing. Furnished with an expensively stocked bar and flanked by east-west walls covered with mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling, this inner sanctum was usually reserved for private card games. There was currently a baize table set up for such an occasion, in the middle of the floor beneath a crystal chandelier, but there was going to be no Blackjack or Texas Hold 'Em taking place tonight.

The woman with the black hair was the first to arrive, entering through a door in the south wall. She was sleek in a cherry red satin dress with matching gloves and heels, complemented by a silver fox stole. She wore her hair clipped above the ears by twin red roses, but loose at the back. Her eyes were silver-blue but darkened with heavy mascara, and her lips were the same lascivious red as her dress. She was accompanied by four large men in suits who spaced themselves evenly about one side of the room whilst she took her seat at the table. One of the men was carrying a slim, silver briefcase.

Amadeus Rocco and his entourage – including a glamorous redhead in a blue dress - entered through the north door of the room a minute later. Rocco shuffled as he walked and was constantly dabbing at his hairless crown with a handkerchief. He carried a black case in his other hand, attached to his wrist by a chain. He waved dismissively at his suits, and they took their places around the edge of the room, in direct line with their opposite numbers. The multiple reflections in the mirrored walls made the room look crowded, and more than a little surreal.

Rocco took his seat at the table, a good foot and a half shorter than the woman facing him. The redhead, Delilah Monroe, went and stood in a corner, her body language unmistakably nervous.

"Alicia," Rocco said, grinning. "Always a pleasure, y’know?"

The woman with the black hair, Alicia Manfredi, glanced across at Delilah, and her dark eyes narrowed. She saw the small, red cut on the singer's cheek, even though she was trying to hide it behind her hair. She'd heard about what had happened in the lounge earlier that evening, and she knew how that mark had been inflicted. She looked back at Rocco, meeting his gaze, but not reciprocating his smile. She despised the little man, and she distrusted him, and it couldn't have been more obvious.

She said, "My father sends his regards. Do you have The Rainbow?"

Her voice was thin and delicate. Like the edge of a knife. Rocco raised an eyebrow.

"It's here," he said, bringing his case up onto his lap and flicking at a latch. "But the money gets transferred first."

He opened the case, just briefly. Inside nestled a ceremonial golden facemask, some fifteen inches across, encrusted with seven jewels of different colours – The Rainbow of Zanzibar. Impossible to fake – the real thing. Alicia Manfredi knew her priceless artefacts. She eyed the mask hungrily... and then Rocco snapped the case shut once more, still smiling.

Alicia was still and silent for a moment, then beckoned with a gloved hand for the man with the silver case to come forward. The guard deposited the case on the table in front of the woman, then retreated to his original position. Not once did Alicia or Rocco remove their eyes from one another.

Alicia flipped open the lid of her case to reveal a sleek laptop computer, which she then turned in Rocco's direction so that he could bear witness. On the screen there were encrypted details of two bank accounts, one located in the Cayman Islands and the other in Switzerland. One of the accounts had a fund transfer, in dollars, ready to be activated. Alicia tapped in a key code with long, gloved fingers. When she was done, the computer bleeped – and the transfer began.

Rocco watched, still sweating, still dabbing with his handkerchief. Alicia remained icily cool. After twenty seconds, the screen flashed and the computer bleeped once more. Rocco smiled.

"Fifty million dollars," Alicia murmured. "As agreed. Now – The Rainbow."

Rocco winked. "As I says - always a pleasure doin’ business." He unlocked the chain about his wrist. He handed Alicia the case. She took it from him...

...just as there was a knock upon the door – the north door.

Alicia Manfredi scowled. "What's this?" she snapped, clutching the case with The Rainbow to her bosom. "You said we wouldn't be disturbed!"

"Urgent message for Mister Rocco!" came a deep voice from behind the door.

Rocco sighed. "Someone get that!" he barked, waving his hands towards the door. "An' tell them to get the hell outta here! Can't be so important it can't wait..."

One of Alicia's guards moved forward carefully, his hand resting on the butt of his own revolver, holstered at rib-height beneath his jacket. He unlocked the door and opened it.

"Evening, sir!" said a large black man in an ill-fitting bellhop uniform. "Message for Mister Rocco?"

The bellhop was smiling, but he was still the ugliest man the guard had ever seen in his life. And - Jiminy Christ, where the hell were his thumbs?

"Tell that goon he's fired!" Rocco yapped. "Dammit, I gave explicit instructions - "

Alicia snatched at the laptop that was still in front of her. She'd been in this game for long enough to know when something wasn't right, and she didn't like the set of Rocco's eyes. Even though the transaction had already taken place, there was still time to reverse the funds transfer, if she could just type in the emergency code...

Rocco's four suits moved forward instinctively, Antonelli at the head of the pack. Behind them, Delilah looked on anxiously. Alicia's guards drew their guns. Rocco reached out and grabbed Alicia's wrist just before she could begin to enter the code. And the bellhop – Sawyer Quinn – smiled as the room collapsed into confusion. The door had only been open for five or six seconds, but that was all the time that was needed. He stepped to one side...

...and Slyde, who had kicked off into a skate from the other end of the long corridor beyond the door and who was now rocketing forward at incredible speed, shot past his friend and into the room, a blur of gleaming silver motion.

So far, their plan had worked to perfection.

A shame that it was all about to go wrong from thereon in...

TO BE CONCLUDED...