The weight room at Argus Corps headquarters falls silent as I rack the barbell, three hundred and fifty pounds settling with a satisfying clang. One hundred reps. Same as every morning. It's nice having a headquarters that's not a bar - no offense to the old place. Do I need it? No. But it feels good.

  I stand, rolling my shoulders, feeling the pleasant burn of exertion. Not exhaustion, not quite fatigue either, but the reminder that I've accomplished something. Maintained the discipline. Kept the routine.

  The facility is state-of-the-art, courtesy of taxpayer dollars and Richardson's connections. Clean. Orderly. Everything in its place. The way it should be.

  My phone vibrates on the bench beside me. McNulty. Third time this week.

  I consider ignoring it again, but some lingering sense of obligation makes me answer. Once a Pal, always a Pal. Even if our paths have diverged.

  "This is Patriot."

  "We need to talk." McNulty's voice sounds strained, lacking its usual gruff certainty. "In person. Not over the phone."

  I check my watch. Oh-seven-hundred. Two hours before the morning briefing with Richardson.

  "Patty's? Twenty minutes."

  "The back room," he confirms before hanging up.

  I towel off and change quickly, opting for civilian clothes - khakis and a navy polo - rather than the uniform. Whatever McNulty wants, it's clearly off the record. Personal, maybe. Though we haven't been personal in a long couple of months.

  Twenty-three minutes later, I'm sliding into the back room of Patty's Bar. McNulty's already there, nursing what looks like black coffee in a chipped mug. He stands when I enter, his massive frame casting a shadow over the small table.

  "Johnson," he says, using my last name. A bad sign.

  "McNulty." I nod toward the chair opposite him. "Mind if I sit?"

  He grunts, settling back into his own seat. Up close, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw. Whatever's on his mind, it's serious.

  "You look tired," I observe, keeping my tone neutral.

  "Been busy." He doesn't elaborate. "South Philly doesn't police itself."

  "I thought that's exactly what you and the Pals were doing," I say, the joke falling flat between us.

  McNulty doesn't smile. "You remember why we started the Pals? The real reason?"

  "To protect the neighborhood," I recite automatically. "To keep our streets safe when the cops wouldn't."

  "Exactly." He leans forward, coffee forgotten. "Not to enforce some grand ideology. Not to chase headlines or political points. To protect our people."

  I feel a flicker of irritation. "If you called me here for another lecture about Argus Corps--"

  "I had a visitor the other day," he interrupts, his voice dropping lower. "Bloodhound."

  The name hits like a sucker punch. That damn kid again. Always showing up where she doesn't belong, stirring up trouble. I keep my face carefully blank, although I'm sure it doesn't take an idiot to see the murder in my eyes. Not that I'd kill a kid.

  "And you're telling me this why?"

  "Because she had some interesting things to say about your new boss."

  I feel my jaw tighten. "Richardson is a city councilwoman with a sterling record of public service, and a retired superhero. If Small's spreading rumors--"

  "She says Richardson is Kingdom."

  The words hang in the air between us, absurd in their simplicity. I almost laugh, but something in McNulty's expression stops me. Come on, Sean. Tell me that this is a very belated April Fool's joke.

  "That's ridiculous," I say flatly.

  "That's what I thought too." McNulty takes a slow sip of his coffee. "Until I started looking into it."

  "Looking into what, exactly? The paranoid accusations of a teenager with a grudge?" I try not to lay it on too thick. It wouldn't be the first delusion of hers I let send me down a stupid path. Deserved the slap I got from Rebecca on that one.

  McNulty sets down his mug with deliberate care. "The lawyer that handled the Argus Corps incorporation paperwork. Tremont and Fairfax."

  "So?"

  "Same firm that's representing Aaron McKinley. Pro bono."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "A law firm has multiple clients," I say dismissively. "That proves nothing."

  "High-powered New York firm doing pro bono work for a two-bit Philly arsonist? The one that, let's be frank, was going after Small directly? You heard his outburst at the stand. It wasn't exactly hidden info." McNulty raises an eyebrow. "Seems strange, don't you think?"

  I resist the urge to shift in my seat. "There could be a hundred explanations for that."

  "Sure," McNulty agrees easily. "But it gets stranger. You know Richardson used to cape as Stormrise, yeah?"

  "I know her background. It's all in her file," I say, trying not to roll my eyes. Old news, Sean.

  "And did her file mention she was at the Small house when Mr. Tyrannosaur attacked it? According to the kid, Richardson personally dropped off our friendly neighborhood dinosaur."

  I feel a cold weight settling in my stomach. "Small would say anything to discredit us. You know that."

  "I do," McNulty nods. "Which is why I pulled the weather reports for that day. Clear sky the entire week. But those twelve home phone videos of the dinosaur in Mayfair sure do seem to be in the middle of a torrential downpour. Unless you're suggesting someone was above the full fight with a sprinkler just for fun."

  My mind is already calculating angles, trajectories, probabilities. It's what I do. What I've always done. But I don't like where the numbers are leading.

  "Coincidence," I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.

  "Maybe." McNulty's dark eyes fix on mine. "But there's more. Richard Duvall."

  "Her opponent in the special election? The one who died of an aneurysm?"

  "The one who was perfectly healthy until his last meeting, on his books, with Richardson herself, when he suddenly dropped dead in his living room." McNulty leans forward. "Nothing suspicious there. Never checked back in with his secretary. But, strangely, it never got followed up on. Totally clean."

  I can feel my pulse quickening, a soldier's instinct recognizing the approach of enemy fire. IEDs in my periphery. Something's about to blow, and I'm not sure what.. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

  "I'm not suggesting anything," McNulty says calmly. "I'm just connecting dots. The same dots Bloodhound connected."

  "And you believe her?" I can't keep the incredulity from my voice. "After everything she's done? The chaos she's caused?"

  "I believe in evidence," McNulty counters. "And right now, the evidence is concerning."

  I lean back, crossing my arms. "So what? You expect me to turn on Richardson based on circumstantial connections and the word of a teenage vigilante?"

  "No." McNulty's voice softens slightly. "I expect you to be careful. To keep your eyes open. To remember who you are and what you stand for."

  "I know exactly who I am," I snap.

  "Do you?" His gaze is steady, challenging. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've forgotten some important things. Like the difference between enforcing the law and becoming the law."

  The barb finds its mark. "This is about the registration bill."

  "Partly," McNulty acknowledges. "Look, I'm not saying all these kids running around in costumes is a good idea. Most of them are playing at being heroes with no real understanding of the consequences."

  "Exactly my point."

  "But," he continues, "there's a difference between wanting to keep kids safe and systematically eliminating a whole category of heroes. This bill doesn't just restrict minors - it creates a framework for controlling everyone."

  "Some people need to be controlled," I argue. "The power these individuals wield--"

  "Like the power you wield?" McNulty cuts in. "Like the power I wield? Where's the line, Johnson? Who gets to draw it?"

  I stare at him, trying to come up with an answer fast enough to be snappy. Witty. "We do," I say. Yeah. That sounds convincing. We do.

  "I'm not asking you to trust Bloodhound," McNulty says finally. "I'm asking you to question Richardson. To look deeper. For South Philly, if nothing else."

  "South Philly has Argus Corps now," I remind him. "Official sanction. Real authority."

  "South Philly had the Pals before there was an Argus Corps," McNulty counters. "And it'll have the Pals long after, if I have anything to say about it." He pauses, then adds quietly, "We used to understand that authority comes from the community, not from some government stamp of approval."

  "Times change." The words come out harsher than I intended. "The world is more complicated now."

  "Is it?" McNulty shakes his head slowly. "Or have you just forgotten what we were fighting for in the first place?"

  I stand abruptly, unable to sit still under the weight of his judgment. "I appreciate your concern, but I think this meeting is over."

  McNulty remains seated, looking up at me with an expression I can't quite read. "Just be careful, Richard. And maybe take a closer look at that anti-vigilante legislation. Ask yourself who really benefits. Maya may have already locked down Philly, but we don't have to help her lock down the rest of the state. Or, God forbid, the country."

  "I know exactly who benefits," I snap. "The citizens who don't have to worry about amateur heroes causing more harm than good. The parents who don't have to bury their children because they thought a LUMA meant they were invincible."

  "And the Kingdom of Keys?" McNulty asks quietly. "How do they benefit when the only heroes left are the ones wearing government badges? Or do you think this'll stop with just kids? Remember what you told me when we first met?"

  The question lands like a grenade, and I have no adequate defense. I turn to leave, but McNulty's voice stops me at the door.

  "One more thing. Small seems convinced Richardson is going to retaliate against her for digging. Maybe through her family."

  The implied request is clear: keep an eye out. Protect the kid, even if I think she's wrong.

  Yeah, right.

  "I'll look into it," I say curtly, not turning around. "All of it."

  I don't wait for his response before stepping out, letting the door swing shut behind me. The main bar is starting to fill with the breakfast crowd, men and women grabbing coffee and egg sandwiches before their shifts.

  Normal people. Citizens. The ones I'm sworn to protect.

  I check my watch. Still time before the meeting with Richardson. Time to think. To consider.

  Could Richardson really be Kingdom? The possibility seems absurd on its face. She's a public figure, a respected politician. The logistics alone would be staggering.

  But.

  The lawyer connection is odd. The weather report from the Small house incident is... suggestive. Duvall's convenient death and his secretary's sudden silence raise questions.

  None of it proves anything. But all of it together? It's enough to warrant a closer look.

  I pull out my phone, hesitate, then send a message to Turbo Jett: "Need background check on Tremont & Fairfax. Urgent but discreet." Jett knows people at the FBI, owes me a favor. If there's dirt to be found, he'll find it.

  As I step out onto the street, my phone buzzes with a response. Not Jett, but Richardson: "Meeting moved up. My office. 30 minutes. Time freed up."

  I stare at the screen, McNulty's warnings echoing in my mind. Is this the retaliation he predicted? Or just coincidence?

  Either way, I need to know the truth. About Richardson. About Small. About all of it.

  Because if there's one thing Richard Johnson Jr. has never tolerated, it's being played for a fool.