NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

I debated about even sending this story in as it deals with an extremely sensitive topic. And if it’s sensitive here, it’s a sad statement on our society and a triumph for the thought police. There are people who enjoy stories about superheroines being raped and humiliated, but who would raise bloody hell if a story used “the ‘N’ word” or other racist language.

That said, be forewarned - this tale deals with race.

For the record, I am white … but I am married to a black woman, so please can the comments about being a closet racist. This story is set in the mid-1940s AND deals with a black superheroine AND is set in the South. Add all these factors up, and there is no way to get around race. Think about it: a black superheroine in New Orleans in the 1940s couldn’t just parade around and have everyone love her. Some of the issues that plagued Black Justice then are STILL present … not nearly as much or as visibly (thank heavens) but they were certainly there at that time. Believe me, I know.

Again, just to be clear, I know firsthand about racism and the horrors it entails, and in NO WAY do I condone any of the actions or beliefs espoused herein. … Unless they deal with J. Edgar Hoover, who, it should be noted is treated with as much historical authenticity as possible. He truly was an anal-retentive racist control freak.

All of that said, I figure if you are still reading, you know what you’re getting into. You have been warned.
 
 

THE BLACK JUSTICE FILE

By Sir Lagator

PROLOGUE - Washington, D.C., the closing days of World War II …

The two men sat in the restaurant of the Dawn’s Break Suites, their noontime meals hardly touched. Although they were two of the most powerful men in Washington and World War II was clearly winding down, they were troubled.

“Something has to be done, Clyde,” said the shorter of the two. Few would call him handsome, but he was one of the most recognized and beloved Americans by John Q. Public. He was no war hero and certainly not a movie star. But J. Edgar Hoover had built his reputation - and that of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s - by taking down gangsters like John Dillinger, Ma Barker, Bonnie and Clyde, Pretty Boy Floyd and Baby Face Nelson. His role during World War II wasn’t nearly as public, but it was just as important. The FBI had stopped several sabotage attempts and kept WW II off American soil.

The man with whom Hoover was dining was not nearly as well-known, but he was equally influential. Clyde Tolson was Hoover’s right hand man. In fact, in just about every picture of Hoover, Tolson could be seen in the background. Rumors had begun circulating that Tolson was more than just Hoover’s best friend - he was also Hoover’s closet lover. But because of Hoover’s power, those whispers were rarely repeated.

Tolson put his hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples while shaking his head in agreement. He was not nearly as vocal as Hoover, but his opinion was just as valuable. Things had changed in the last few months and something, indeed, needed to be done.

The death of Franklin D. Roosevelt and the ascension of Harry S. Truman to the presidency had effectively cut Hoover out of the loop. Simply put, Hoover and Truman did not like each other. Truman (for good reason) felt Hoover had too much power. Hoover “knew where the bodies were buried,” both figuratively and literally. Hoover’s Personal/Confidential files were legendary and Truman wanted to nip Hoover’s power in the bud while he still could. Truman had already hinted publicly about what his plan would be. In an interview with “Look” magazine before Roosevelt’s death, Truman laid out his plan for the dissolution of the FBI.

Truman: “I don’t understand why we even need the FBI after the war. What I think we should do is simply combine the FBI with the Justice Department - which, technically, is already the case. Those with legal experience would become prosecutors or investigators. The other field agents would combine with the Secret Service.”

Look: “And who would assume the role of America’s police force?”

Truman: “Why, the super-powered beings, of course. Look at people like Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman. As powerful as they are, we should deputize them as government agents. They would work for us. Think about it … what criminal would want to take on someone like that? It would be a suicide mission!”

Hoover was livid when he first read it and immediately persuaded his good friend Walter Winchell to trot out the stories of how valuable J. Edgar Hoover really was, the criminals he had caught and the fear the FBI struck in the hearts of ne’er-do-wells everywhere. While this may have reassured the American public, Hoover saw the writing on the wall - with Truman in office, his days were numbered.

“So what should we do, Clyde?” Hoover asked.

Tolson frowned. His boss’ insecurity was not one of his more flattering character traits, but Tolson had learned how to handle it. “Edgar, don’t get flustered,” Tolson began. “What the President doesn’t realize is - by in large - these heroes are vulnerable.”

“Explain.”

“Take Superman - he’s the easiest. We can neutralize him in many ways. First, there was that incident in a little town of Smallville about 10 years ago when a bank collapsed killing 18 people. Witnesses say a young teen was trying to stop a robbery and accidentally hit a beam, causing the collapse. That had to be Superman. Secondly, some of our field agents have deduced that when Superman isn’t around, he is in the guise of Clark Kent. Here are a couple of photos.” Tolson slid a pair of photographs to Hoover.

“They certainly look similar,” Hoover admitted.

“Finally,” Tolson continued, “if all that fails, we have a significant supply of kryptonite, but I would suggest that only as a last resort. After all, Superman can be a tremendous asset.”

“Agreed,” Hoover said.

“Plus, Superman is a little naïve. If you, the director of the FBI, personally approached him and explained that the FBI is needed - he can’t be everywhere, after all - he would probably throw his support behind you.”

“OK, assuming he’s out of the way, what about the rest? What about Batman?”

Tolson frowned. “Batman’s not quite as easy, but there are some things we can do. First, we can do a hard push to learn who the man behind the mask is. At this time, we have a dozen suspects. What do you always tell the field agents? Follow the money. How is he able to come up with all these devices? Either he has money or he is in tight with someone who does.”

“Makes sense,” Hoover replied.

“Considering how much he goes through to protect his identity, exposing it would be a major blow. Threatening to expose it would probably silence him. After all, we don’t care if he’s still around fighting crime … we just don’t want him to support the president in this measure. And since he doesn’t have any natural superpowers - at least that we have seen - the idea of ‘you can’t be everywhere at once’ should work well on him.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Tolson smiled slightly. “Well, he does have a young male partner named Robin. We could begin circulating rumors about how proper their relationship is. After all, what kind of man runs around with a teenager in tight clothes? And what kind of President endorses that?”

Hoover smiled. He liked that idea. After all, there was more dirt on celebrities and politicians in his Personal/Confidential file than any gossip rag. And his information was true. He had the pictures and tapes to back it up.

“We don’t want to do that unless it is absolutely necessary,” Hoover finally said. “The American people need their heroes to be clean and pure.”

“Of course,” Tolson agreed. “Wonder Woman could be a bit of a problem as she is not a native of this country and she has been quite loyal to the President. However, we could make an appeal to her patriotism. That said, I wouldn’t bank on it.”

Hoover frowned. “Well, what do you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure,” Tolson said. “We don’t know a lot about her other than the fact she is an Amazon from an ancient society on a hidden island called Paradise Island. She appears to have complete loyalty to the President and is truly pure in her motives. She appears willing to fight crime 24 hours a day, seven days a week. And she is very tight with one of your old friends, Col. Steve Trevor.”

“Darn,” Hoover said, leaning back in his chair. The Director didn’t curse often and when he did, everyone knew there was a major issue. “Bill Donovan’s golden boy is no doubt whispering things in her ear about us. Is there something sexual between Wonder Woman and Trevor that we could exploit?”

“It doesn’t appear there is, although Trevor is certainly interested,” Tolson replied.

“Is she gay? Did she visit that horse Eleanor Roosevelt?”

Tolson chuckled. Hoover’s intense dislike for the former first lady was no real secret to Washington insiders. Hoover went so far as to accuse Mrs. Roosevelt of conspiring with communists, although - for obvious reasons - that accusation was never made available to the public. “No, there doesn’t appear to be anything sexual about her, other than the way she dresses and the fact she is a stunning beauty.”

“Well, we have to come up with something,” Hoover said, his voice rising slightly. He composed himself and leaned closer to his Associate Director. “I want you to set up a microphone surveillance on Trevor and his immediate staff, both at home and in the office. I want to know everything about everyone. Maybe we can turn one of them and they can give us some inside information. We have to get closer to Wonder Woman. We have to find something to discredit her. She will NOT end the FBI, you understand, Clyde?”

“Hold on, Edgar,” Tolson chuckled. “We don’t have to do anything. Think about it. We just explain to Trevor that he needs to convince Wonder Woman that too much power would reside with the president … whomever it is … if Truman’s plan were implemented. That’s why the super-beings must remain independent and the FBI remain the long arm of the law for the nation.”

Hoover was stunned. “And why would Trevor do THAT?!? He’s loyal to Donovan … blindly loyal. Why would he even consider helping us.”

“Because we have information I doubt he wants released,” Tolson answered. “Before Wonder Woman came on the scene, Trevor was something of a playboy. He had many, MANY dalliances … and not all of them were with ‘proper’ girls. Some, in fact, had questionable affiliations … possible communist ties. We threaten to expose him and his past and he’ll agree to help. I admit, it’s a shame that we have to use something this valuable here, but if we don’t play this card here, when do we play it?”

Hoover studied his friend. “Do you think he’ll go for that?”

“Without question,” Tolson answered. “With those three not supporting the president, we should be fine with most of them.”

“Most?” Hoover asked.

Tolson paused. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. “Take a look at this.”

The folder was labeled “Black Justice.” Hoover examined the contents. The first thing he saw was a black-and-white photograph taken at what appeared to be a store opening in some black part of some town. The woman in the center of the picture, an attractive, shapely, light-skinned black woman, was wearing a dark long-sleeve top, a matching skirt that ended an inch above her knees and a short cape that ended just past her waist. She wore a dark mask that covered her eyes, dark gloves and boots and a shiny belt. Her hair was straight … especially for a Negro (as Hoover called them … in his politer moments) and she appeared to be tall … as tall as the men in the picture.

“What is this?” Hoover asked.

“That’s Black Justice,” Tolson answered.

“Never heard of her.”

“I didn’t figure you had,” Tolson said, “and that’s why she could be a problem. Not many people have heard of her, but she is a legend in New Orleans’ black part of town. Not only does she protect people, but she inspires confidence and pride among the black citizenry.”

Hoover frowned. This was not good. Hoover didn’t consider himself a racist, but he believed the Negroes had their place in society … as chauffeurs, butlers, cooks, manual labor … and a few entertainers. It was tough enough to fight communist insurgence into America, but if he had to fight a two-front war - as Hitler had discovered - against Communists AND the black population, Hoover’s job would be tougher.

“The picture you’re looking at was taken at a rally where she was honored as Citizen of the Year by one of the black fraternities in New Orleans,” Tolson continued. “Part of her speech centered on equal rights for ALL citizens … male and female, black and white. She talked about a day when everyone would be equal. Quite eloquent, actually.”

“This won’t do, Clyde! This just won’t do! What else do we know about her?”

Tolson took the folder back from Hoover and flipped to another page. Reading off a piece of paper, he said, “Let’s see … Black Justice appears to be in her early 20s. She is quite strong … stronger than any man she has come against. She has taken out gangs of six men at once. She demonstrates amazing agility … dodging bullets, or at least appearing to. And some of the criminals she has caught have sworn they hit her with shots, but it didn’t make a difference. Her enemies, though, are generally unintelligent cretins … she has never opposed a super-being. And, to our knowledge, she has not ventured into the white area of New Orleans to fight crime, although the police department is surprisingly happy to deal with her. I suppose they think anyone who can keep the darkies in line only makes their job easier.”

“So nothing like the ability to fly or Superman’s heat vision?”

“No, nothing like that … although, again, her agility and quickness are astounding. The bottom line, Edgar, is this girl will not support us no matter what. In her speech, she blamed the lack of progress in civil rights for Negroes, in part, on the FBI and its criminal approach to race relations.”

“WHAT?!?”

Tolson laughed. “She’s calling you out, Edgar.” He quietly enjoyed picking at his boss, especially since it was so easy to do.

Hoover fumed. His face turned red and his jowls started shaking. Slowly, he regained his composure, then forced a smile. “You got me, Clyde. Now, tell me what we’re going to do.”

Tolson reached back into his satchel and pulled out another folder. “Here’s what I’m thinking …”

CHAPTER I

Black Justice (aka Anita Washington) was patrolling her area of the city. She often thought about moving to “the white part of town” to patrol once in a while, but she kept hearing her grandmother’s voice telling her, “Anita, you have to crawl before you walk and walk before you run. One step at a time, Anita … one step at a time.”

So she stayed in “Darktown” to make sure things were safe. Since her arrival, criminal activity had dropped dramatically … at least outdoors. The citizens knew a scream or yell could bring Black Justice and the criminals knew that, too. Now, most of the criminal activity had been moved indoors … out of sight.

Tonight was especially slow … not even a domestic abuse argument to break up. She was about to call it a night when the scales of justice appeared in the night sky. This was the signal the police had worked out to call her when needed. A small grin appeared on her face.

Within minutes, she was in the office of Sergeant Dave O’Reilly. O’Reilly admitted he was somewhat of a cliché: an Irish cop from a long line of Irish cops. The only difference was he was not prejudiced. He believed people of ALL races were capable of crime and they deserved to be punished in the same fashion. So when Black Justice arrived on the scene, he was more than willing to accept her help. Granted, it took a while for him to warm to the idea of a woman outperforming his men, but he grew to accept it and even welcome it.

O’Reilly and Black Justice worked out a comfortable relationship early in their relationship. She would tip him off to major developments that would lead to arrests. He would tip her off if he suspected something but couldn’t devote the time or manpower to it … or if it would require some kind of questionable legal activity. It had worked pretty well. The thing O’Reilly feared most was that she would be a glory-hound. When it became obvious she wasn’t, they began to get along quite well.

Sure, O’Reilly took some grief from his superiors when reports of Black Justice’s speeches reached them (usually a week to 10 days after the fact), but they didn’t cause him too much trouble for two reasons: 1) His arrest rates were the best in the department and; 2) They figured whatever it took to keep “those people” in line and away from the white part of town was OK.

Black Justice liked O’Reilly, too. If an officer got out of line, beating a suspect or lording it over the citizens, O’Reilly came down hard. He demanded criminals be arrested, but he also commanded respect from his men and there was a general peace in the neighborhood. Her job was to be there when the police weren’t.

As she stood in front of the sergeant, he admired her figure: firm, young breasts, a small waist and a nice, round ass. If he weren’t happily married … and 20 years younger … he might have considered a dalliance with her, even though the scandal could have ruined his career. She was stunning and one of the most beautiful women - black or white - he had ever seen.

“Thanks for coming, Justice,” he said. Anita didn’t like being labeled “Black Justice” because she thought it was too limiting. She preferred “Justice.” But one of the local Negro newspapers had dubbed her “Black Justice” early on and she realized it was a rallying point for the populace so she did nothing to correct it. Still, O’Reilly tried to honor her early request.

“No problem, Sarge. What’s up?”

“There’s someone in the other room who wants to meet you. He’s from the FBI in D.C. and he wanted to talk to you. I don’t know what it’s about … he wouldn’t tell me. I just agreed to set it up. But he said he would talk to you and only you.”

The FBI? Black Justice was surprised. She knew there was a branch in New Orleans and had often thought about dropping in for a visit. But she stayed away; afraid they might try to arrest her and that would cause a sticky mess. After all, her comments could easily be considered “un-American” and that was enough of a reason to fear Hoover.

“OK, sure,” she said. “I’ll just wait here.”

O’Reilly got up from his desk and opened the door. “Agent Alexander, come on in.”

The Special Agent walked in. He was typical FBI: 6-foot-1, 200 pounds, short black hair, black suit and tie … very businesslike. Black Justice stood in the corner of the room, examining the Agent as he entered.

Alexander nodded at the heroine. “Good evening, ma’am. I must confess, I don’t know if the proper protocol is for me to shake your hand or not.”

Alexander smiled and the heroine reciprocated slightly. She approached him and offered her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Special Agent Alexander.”

He shook her hand and was a little surprised at how firm her grip was. “Same here. What should I call you?”

“The newspapers call me ‘Black Justice’ but Sergeant O’Reilly calls me ‘Justice.’ ”

Alexander nodded, then turned to Sgt. O’Reilly. “Sergeant, I hate to do this, but can I ask you to leave? This is classified information.”

O’Reilly studied the FBI agent. He had seen this act before and didn’t like it … especially when it was dealing with this young woman. “Yes, sir,” he finally said. He turned to the heroine and said, “I’ll be right outside if either of you need anything.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Alexander said.

When O’Reilly had left and closed the door, Alexander smiled again and looked to the superheroine, who was still standing in the corner. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“I prefer to stand, thank you.”

“Very well.” Alexander opened his briefcase and pulled out some papers. He studied them for a moment, then began, “The reason I wanted to talk to you is that the FBI is seeking the help of all super-beings. You may have heard that the President wants to deputize all super-beings and have them become the national police force. Are you familiar with this?”

“I’ve heard something about this,” she answered vaguely.

“Good. Well, we don’t believe this is a good idea. After all, there are currently more than 10,000 FBI agents in America and less than 50 super-beings. Do the math. How likely is it for super-beings to be in all the places the FBI can be?”

Black Justice nodded slowly.

“That’s why we want to keep the situation the way it is. We believe the FBI, working in conjunction with super-beings - such as yourself - is the best way to handle the criminal element in the city.”

Black Justice silently studied the agent. Nearly 30 seconds of silence passed before she spoke.

“As I understand it, that’s not EXACTLY President Truman’s proposal, is it?”

Alexander coughed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Special Agent Alexander. According to what the president stated, the agents would remain in place. They would just move from the jurisdiction of the FBI to that of the Secret Service. Basically, the only things that would happed would be superheroes would be given more power to make arrests and other things like that, and the FBI would be put out of business.”

Alexander looked at her closely. “Black Justice, FBI Director Hoover has personally asked me to ask you to not support the president’s proposal in the interest of national security. What should I tell him is your response?”

Black Justice smirked. “Do you really want to know what I would tell J. Edgar Hoover? How about you tell him that the sooner he and his racist attitudes are out of office, the sooner life for Americans - ALL Americans - will improve dramatically.”

Alexander nodded. He put his papers back in his briefcase, closed it, then turned back to the heroine. “Black Justice, I wish I could say it was a pleasure, but I must say I disagree with your position. J. Edgar Hoover is a great patriot and a great American. I will tell him what you said, but I hope others do not support your position.”

And with that, he was gone.

Five minutes later, Alexander was sending a telegram to Hoover. Within 30 minutes of Alexander’s meeting with the black superheroine, Hoover received a telegram. It read:

“Meeting with BJ went as expected <STOP> Plan will begin tomorrow as per your orders <STOP> Full memo coming <STOP> SA Alexander”

Hoover crumpled the telegram and threw it in the wastebasket. It was no surprise that Black Justice had refused their offer, but they had to make the offer … if only for the sake of appearance. Hoover thought back to what he had told his friend at their lunch two days earlier …

“If she won’t join our team, we’ll have to make it impossible for her to join any team.”

CHAPTER II

Black Justice was back in her home by 2:30 a.m. It was a slow enough night and she had learned from experience that after 2, most of the criminals were either too drunk or too high to cause much trouble. She entered through the secret passageway she had built to get access to her apartment. Once inside, she began removing her costume. The offer from the FBI was curious, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. J. Edgar Hoover saw his power slipping away, and you don’t attain as much power as he had by sitting idly by and doing nothing. She wondered if other heroes were going along with it.

She also realized that if the Federal Bureau of Investigation was approaching her, they had to know she wouldn’t accept their offer. Anita had no illusions that she had gone unnoticed by the powerful. She had already heard rumblings that three of the bosses of some of the criminals she had arrested had put a price on her head. That worried her, but she also knew that if people were worried about her, she must be doing something right. At least, that’s what her grandmother had always told her.

Of course, it was her grandmother, Lily Black, who was to “blame” for Anita being Black Justice. Shortly after Anita had been born, she contracted a rare disease. The doctors said they couldn’t get the fever down and they didn’t think she would live. Since Anita’s family couldn’t afford to keep her in the hospital, Anita’s mother and grandmother brought her home, presumably to care for her the last few days of her life.

Anita’s mother was a junkie … she slept with men for money to buy drugs. When she left the house for the evening, Anita’s grandmother brought the baby to a voodoo priestess she had grown up with. Lily explained the situation and the voodoo woman nodded gravely.

“There is just one option,” she said. With that, she led Lily (carrying the baby) into her lab. She began making an unholy concoction based on chicken blood, various powders and the entrails of a toad. Once she had completed it, the priestess began rubbing it on the gums of the sick baby.

“This baby will die … unless she is one of the chosen. This potion will do one of two things,” the priestess told Lily. “If she is one of the chosen, the potion will release the power within her to battle the disease and she will be fine. If she is not, she will go to sleep and never wake up. She will not survive anyway, so it’s probably just as well that she dies peacefully.”

Anita’s grandmother had told her the story hundreds of times growing up … how she was afraid Anita would die … how she worried about how to explain it to Anita’s mother … how she couldn’t believe God wanted her to lose this sweet, sweet grandbaby.

But, of course, Anita didn’t die. As she later learned from the priestess, Anita’s arrival had been foretold for more than 200 years by the voodoo community. The illness and the potion released her inner strength. She had the abilities of almost four men. She could lift nearly 500 pounds. She could sprint nearly 50 miles an hour. This allowed her to dodge virtually any attack. It also made it tough for her to be hit, as gunmen couldn’t focus on a target. She had limited invulnerability. A knife could scratch her, but it took great strength to actually penetrate her skin. As for bullets, if she were hit point-blank, she could be killed. But, mostly, it would just bruise her.

Of course, there was a catch: her endurance was limited … very limited. Anita could only use her powers for 12 minutes each hour. This may sound very limiting, but Anita had found her way around it. First, she rarely had to exert herself beyond her normal abilities. Most of her superheroine job was spent patrolling, which didn’t require any power. And once she was involved in a fight, it rarely lasted longer than a couple of minutes at the most.

When she started as Black Justice, she was very concerned with the limitations of her abilities and even let a couple of minor crimes go because she was afraid her powers would run out. But as she gained experience, she realized these thugs were no match for her and she rarely had occasion to use her powers for longer than five minutes a day, much less all at once.

Still, she needed her sleep. And after a bath, Anita put on her white cotton nightgown and lay down to go to sleep. It was at times like these that Anita wondered if she had chosen the right path. Oh, sure, her destiny had been foretold in the voodoo community for centuries, but that didn’t mean she HAD to accept it. At 24 and unmarried, Anita was definitely unusual by the standards of the day and the community. Mama Lily (her grandmother) often chided Anita about still being single. But Anita couldn’t ask a man to accept her nightly patrols as Black Justice.

She thought about Charles, the one man to whom she had ever made love. It was her senior year of high school and the two of them were in love. She had given herself to him in his parent’s bedroom one night when they had snuck away from church. She told Charles she would meet him there in 10 minutes. And while he was getting ready, she spent the time lifting cars, trying to expend her strength so poor Charles would have a chance of breaking her hymen. By the time she arrived at his house, she was a little sweaty, but her strength was depleted enough to lose her virginity.

Anita found herself touching her pussy and stopped. Masturbation had become like a warm blanket to her … comforting and familiar. But she always hated herself for thinking about Charles when she did it. Charles was dead, killed in Italy in the War. It felt … disrespectful to do that.

“OK, let’s put that out of your mind, Anita,” she said to herself. Instead, she made herself focus on other future possibilities. Like what would happen now that she had rebuffed the FBI’s request. Any chance they would leave her alone? Not likely. From what she had seen, it was more likely that Hoover would try to discredit her through the press and the police department.

She sighed as she felt slumber coming on. Anita knew she had to get to sleep. Her job as a receptionist at Darrell Cotton’s law firm would start at 9 a.m., whether she was there or not. There was nothing she could do about Hoover or the FBI right now. She had to wait for them to make the first move. That was her last thought … about patience … before she nodded off.

CHAPTER III

Dick Grant’s butler informed him of the phone call waiting for him in the study. Grant closed the door before he walked to the desk. Only a few people had this number and any call must be important. Dick Grant was probably one of only two-dozen people nationwide who had the luxury of more than one phone line … at least, one of two-dozen non-politicians.

Dick Grant was anything but a politician … although they were sometimes his clients. He was one of the wealthiest men in America. He hailed from a long line of landowners. His family was one of the first off the Mayflower and, over the past few centuries, had amassed enough land that, combined, would make up half of Georgia. His family had parlayed the land into government contracts and wise business investments, making the Grant name one of the most wealthy in the land.

Yet Dick Grant’s true calling was out of the spotlight. While many men in his station in life were content to live a life on easy street, listening to business proposals and attending proper gatherings, Grant spent his days trying to better himself. He could have been a playboy … at 6-foot-2 and 210 pounds, he had the looks to attract any woman he wanted. Dick Grant had broad shoulders, blonde hair, blue eyes and a chin made for the movies. Not coincidentally, he was often seen in the company of movie stars. He had an affair with Betty Grable that nearly ended at the altar, but he jilted her at the last moment.

For a man of his financial means, it wasn’t about amassing wealth. He already had more money than he could ever possibly spend. No, Dick Grant wanted to make his mark in life. With the start of World War II, he toyed with the idea of joining the service. But Grant realized he was not one to take orders and it would be … well, unseemly … for a man of his stature to join the armed forces.

Instead, Grant busied himself with becoming the best at what he did. And what Grant enjoyed more than anything was hunting. He had been on safaris across Africa, Australia, and Asia. He had even ventured into the arctic climate of Canada pursuing polar bears. And as the years went on, he had upped the ante on his exploits. He brought more than two dozen men - trained hunters - on his first excursions into the wild. On his most recent trip, it was just he and two natives who spoke the language of the land. The rest of the safari preparation was entirely up to him. He studied the land, preparing for being there. He spent up to six weeks scouting areas and learning the environment. He learned what the animals he hunted ate and how and where they slept. Basically, he tried to become the animal.

Over the last couple of years, though, he had quietly taken a few jobs hunting humans for the government. A major prisoner escaped? Call Dick Grant. He would find them. Often, his job was simply to find the prey and contact the authorities to let them “collar” the fugitive. That’s what happened with Dillinger. Sure, Melvin Purvis got all the credit, but it was really Grant who told Purvis where to find the criminal.

On a couple of occasions, Grant was asked to “take care” of the problem. Were his actions legal? No way. But he knew his money and connections would take care of just about any problem. When he picked up the phone, he figured it was something along those lines.

“Yes?” he said. Greetings weren’t necessary. Only one person would be on Grant’s end of the phone.

“Mr. Grant … this is … well, you know. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Grant smiled slightly. He recognized J. Edgar Hoover’s voice and found it somewhat humorous that the director of the FBI wouldn’t identify himself, even though his identity was no secret. “Go on.”

Hoover coughed. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Black Justice?”

Grant searched his memory bank. “It seems like she’s some black superhero in the south, right? New Orleans, perhaps?”

“Very good. Yes, New Orleans. Anyhow, we need her taken care of.”

Grant was stunned … and it took a lot to stun him. “Taken care of?”

“No, no … not that,” Hoover quickly said. “We just want her out of commission. We want her crimefighting days to be over. Do whatever you have to to insure she is never seen in public again.”

“And if that means …”

“That’s a last resort, OK? I have some ideas that will be included in the files we send. I know you like to have some preparation time before a mission. However, we are on kind of a deadline as we may need your services for other super beings.”

Grant’s pulse quickened. He had never encountered a superhero before and had often wondered what it would take to defeat them. At night, he would often go to sleep thinking of how to beat Superman or Batman. And although he would never admit it, he had dreamed of capturing Wonder Woman and bending her to his will … making her his sexual plaything. That was part of the reason Betty Grable was unacceptable. She was no challenge. Wonder Woman … now THERE was a challenge.

As for Black Justice, he didn’t know much about her. “I’ll be looking forward to getting those files, sir. And thank you for this opportunity. I’m looking forward to it. As for a timetable, if I receive the files today or tomorrow, I can be in New Orleans by the end of the week. Give me 10 days and I think we can begin.”

“Very well, Mr. Grant. The files will be at your estate this afternoon. I don’t have to remind you that this must remain confidential …”

“Of course it is, sir,” Grant answered.

“Very good. As for your fee, it will be quadrupled. And any other expenses or materials you need will be at your disposal.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall keep you posted on my progress via the usual methods.”

“I look forward to hearing from you. Good luck.”

Grant hung up the phone, sat in his chair and smiled. He had just about begun to give up on finding a truly worthy challenge. And the idea of targeting superheroes - while enticing - was prohibited. He wasn’t a criminal and, overall, he saw the positive aspects of these beings. But if J. Edgar Hoover, America’s “top cop,” was giving him the go-ahead … well, what better authority did he need?

Grant abruptly stood and clapped his hands in excitement. He had to get back to his party, but he couldn’t help but say, under his breath, “The Predator is back on the hunt.”

CHAPTER IV

Over the next two weeks, Grant studied what was known about Black Justice. In New Orleans, he used his makeup skills to begin blending into the black community. The appearance was acceptable - carefully designed makeup and a wig. Fortunately for him, the sight of a blue-eyed black man was nothing terribly unusual in New Orleans where Creoles were commonplace. But Grant knew it would be difficult to explain his refined accent, so he posed as a mute visitor passing through. Grant went as far as to carry a pad and pencil with which to write. Rather than appear too educated, he wrote with his right hand instead of his natural left-handed style. Although he was fairly ambidextrous, it was easier to write messier (and, thus, appear less educated) with his “off-hand.”

The disguise was actually brilliant. People assumed that because he didn’t speak, he was not very smart so they felt comfortable to talk freely around him. He had never really thought about the black culture … other than how his house servants lived when he was not around. As he listened, Grant often thought that this would make an interesting, revealing sociology experiment. But he remained focused on his objective.

It didn’t Grant long to learn about Black Justice. Either people were talking about what she did or who she was. Or they were bitching about how she had ruined their plans. He always paid attention to these. Not that there was much he could learn. All he heard was how strong she was, how quick she was, and how no one had even put a dent in her. About the only thing they heard was that, at times, she got a little lazy and people were able to escape. Other than that, she was virtually unbeatable.

Grant didn’t believe that, but he did have to admit that Black Justice must be tougher than he had anticipated. From what he had gathered, she had, in fact, put a dent in the New Orleans crime scene. She was quite beloved by the law-abiding citizens and her stature had begun to grow to legendary status. Getting rid of Black Justice would be difficult as, even if she were out of commission, her spirit and legend would still survive. In fact, martyrdom might make her even more powerful. This would, indeed, be tricky.

But a plan was beginning to form …

***

It had been three weeks since the FBI had approached Black Justice with its offer. In that time, the crime business was pretty steady … nothing more, nothing less, than usual. The only odd thing was when O’Reilly informed the heroine that a journalist from The New Orleans Times-Picayune had requested an interview with her. Black Justice was so taken aback, she agreed.

The more she thought about it, though, the less she liked the idea. Black Justice was scared of how the paper would treat her. She had given several interviews to The Chronicle, the black paper in town, but never to the major newspaper - The Times-Picayune. She was afraid the paper would try to tear her down.

It didn’t happen. Instead, the story was incredibly flattering. Not only was the story kind, but an editorial ran with it, asking Black Justice to begin patrolling the entire city. All of New Orleans needed her, it said.

That gave her reason to consider … perhaps the paper was serious. The man who interviewed her, Hugh Anders, seemed to be a decent, fair man. Perhaps she should patrol all of New Orleans. When Black Justice had spoken of such things to O’Reilly, he had always discouraged it, saying he wished it were so, but that the city - as a whole - was not ready to accept a black woman given free access to every area of the city … even if she was there to help. After the story, though, O’Reilly wasn’t as sure. If he was optimistic, perhaps there was hope.

Black Justice tried to put those thoughts out of her mind as she patrolled “Darktown.” She heard a commotion from the street and ran to see what it was. As she rounded a corner, she saw a bevy of signs and shouting people. At first, she worried … what had happened to make these people so angry?

Then everything became clear.

It was a rally … for HER. At least 3,000 people were in the streets, chanting her name and waving signs. When they saw the heroine, they began screaming even louder. It was a rally of support and in front of the crowd was Reverend Paul Edwards.

“Black Justice!” he shouted, waving his hands to implore the crowd to silence. “Black Justice! Come here and stand beside me.”

Slowly, overcome with emotion, the heroine waded through the crowd to stand next to the Reverend on the podium. As she walked through, people patted her on the back and smiled. She was a source of pride to the community. She was one of them, and they loved her for it.

As Black Justice took the stage, she shook the Reverend’s hand, then waved to the crowd, causing another round of cheering. As the noise died down, the Reverend began again.

“Black Justice, we just wanted to give you a small sign of our appreciation for everything you have done. By putting yourself in dangerous situations, you have taken back our streets. We can now walk at night, not nearly as afraid as we once were, because of your efforts. Crime is down, good deeds are up. Depression is down, optimism of a better tomorrow is up! Because of you, the police can now investigate the things they couldn’t get to before. And because of you, when this terrible, terrible, World War is over, New Orleans will experience a renaissance the likes of which this area has never seen before!”

The cheering of the crowd began again and Black Justice turned her head as tears began to form. Never before had she expected such a reaction. It was so gratifying and touching, she didn’t know what to do or say. Perceptively, the Reverend allowed the cheering to continue, giving the heroine time to regain her composure. After a full minute of cheering, the Reverend motioned for her to say something. He put up his hands, again asking the crowd for silence.

The superheroine looked down at the stage. Never had she expected anything like this … so spontaneous, so heartfelt. It blew her away. When she felt she had regained enough of her senses, she looked up, tears still in her eyes and an emotional catch in her throat. But the speech was powerful and from the heart.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you. You are the reason I do this. Good people … kind, hard-working people, trying to earn an honest living. Some people want to take advantage of you, or steal from you. I just want to help you, give all of you a fair chance to make a living. And to all of you, I make a promise: I will continue to help all of you for as long as you need me. I will help you against the criminals who are here now. And I will help you against the oppressive forces that are elsewhere in this city.

“I have a dream that one day, good, decent people, such as yourselves, will be able to eat in the nicest restaurants in the city, regardless of where they are located. I dream about a day where Thomas Jefferson’s fine words in the Declaration of Independence that “All men are created equal” truly applies to ALL men. And I dream that one day ‘Darktown’ will die and a city … a GREAT city … named New Orleans will embrace ALL her people and accept that there are really no differences between the races.”

She paused before continuing. “Now, some of you may have read about an article asking me to patrol the rest of New Orleans. I have thought about it. There is good that needs to be done in ALL areas of New Orleans. But this event puts things in perspective. I will help the rest of New Orleans … but only when it needs it. This is where I belong, and until the crime rate is so low here that I get bored …” this statement elicited a good bit of laughing … “I think I’ll stay.”

The crowd roared in cheers and began chanting “Black Justice! Black Justice!” Grant, in his disguise, pumped his fist in support. And he smiled, as things were coming together.

CHAPTER V

Another week had passed and J. Edgar Hoover was beginning to get impatient. He had already green-lighted several requests from Dick Grant, but he had not seen result No. 1. Hoover’s assistant, Clyde Tolson, kept telling the boss to be patient, that Grant had never let them down before, but Hoover was feeling the heat. Berlin was about to fall and there were rumors Hitler had killed himself.

What Hoover didn’t know is that Grant’s plan was going exactly as he wanted. Black Justice was more popular than ever and her exploits were receiving attention from not just The Chronicle, but The Times-Picayune. It had been a week since the public rally and nearly 10 days since the article appeared in the paper.

Grant had spent most of the last week following the superheroine. It was tough to keep up at times, but he managed. You don’t track an African Lion without learning how to track things faster than you. He had even seen Black Justice in action on a couple of occasions. She was good, very good. Her strength and quickness had been exaggerated by the bar patrons Grant had overheard, but not as much as he had hoped. She easily took groups of four or five men at once and Grant had sworn she had been hit at least once by a gunshot, but it merely threw her off her stride for a moment. Taking her would not be easy. Still, he knew it could be done.

***

Grant’s plan began simply enough with a phone call to O’Reilly.

“Sergeant O’Reilly, this is Jason Hall of the FBI. We have learned the location of a saboteur group in mid-town Atlanta.”

“And you need our help, right? I know the drill,” O’Reilly said in a disinterested tone. He had been contacted several times by the FBI about these things and they had never panned out.

“There is a problem,” continued “Special Agent Hall.” “The problem is the saboteurs share the building with an orphanage. So, you see, we can’t exactly go in guns blazing. This is really a one-man operation.”

O’Reilly rubbed his head. “I see the problem, but how does it concern my men? I mean, you guys are better trained for such things that we are.”

“No, sir,” he answered. “Nothing like that. We were hoping you could get in touch with the superheroine Black Justice. We understand you have a way to contact her?”

O’Reilly immediately became suspicious. It wasn’t that long ago that the FBI was in his office, trying to get some help from Justice only to be turned down flat. Now, here was this guy asking for her help again.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “Maybe.”

Grant sensed O’Reilly’s discomfort and took a stab as to why. “Look, Sgt. O’Reilly. I imagine one of my ‘brother’ agents came by and wasn’t too pleasant with the lady, right?” O’Reilly grunted an affirmation. “I know, but whoever it was probably isn’t a bad guy. He’s just a fella doing his job. My job is to get some help. There is potential here for sabotage. It’s not an understatement to say national security could depend on her help. Now, will you help us?”

O’Reilly thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Where should we meet you?”

***

Black Justice and O’Reilly pulled alongside an unmarked car on Poydras at midnight. She had never been in this part of town this late at night as it was well outside her patrol area. The heroine and the Sergeant barely spoke on the way over. Both knew what was at stake, and it was more than just some saboteurs. If Black Justice failed here, she might never get another chance in the white part of town. Equality of the races might be set back a decade.

Before they got out of the car, O’Reilly grabbed her arm. “Look, Justice … there’s probably nothing to this thing. I’ve been to at least a dozen of these things with the G-men and they never pan out. It’s always some lonely guy that checked out a questionable library book on chemistry. All of a sudden, he’s building a bomb. But … just in case this is real, I want you to know that you’re ready for this. I believe in you and the FBI obviously thinks you can do it. Just stay calm and be careful, OK?”

The heroine smiled slightly and nodded. “Thanks, Sarge. You sticking around?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

The two got out of the car and approached the unmarked vehicle. At the same time, two white men emerged.

“Sergeant O’Reilly? You must be Black Justice,” one of them said. He offered his hand and everyone shook their greeting. “I’m Special Agent Paul Thompson and this is Special Agent Chris Bass.”

“I spoke with a Special Agent Hall,” O’Reilly said.

“Yes, you did. He’s occupied with another aspect of this case. He told us to thank you for your cooperation,” Thompson said. He turned to the superheroine and looked her head-to-toe quickly. “Now, Ms. Justice, are you ready to go over the plan?”

Black Justice was still a little stunned at the whole situation. These FBI agents appeared to be treating her with respect and courtesy … nothing like that Anderson fellow a few weeks earlier. She was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but until it did, she figured she would go along with it.

Thompson and Bass outlined the situation and the plan for getting into the Whipple Orphanage. Black Justice had never heard of the Whipple Orphanage, but she assumed it was some house for abandoned white children. O’Reilly didn’t know anything about it, either. He simply assumed it was a private residential home every time he drove by. But he didn’t question it, either. After all, the orphanage probably didn’t want to publicize its existence for fear of driving the neighboring property values down.

As Thompson described it, the essence of the plan called for Black Justice to simply sneak into the house and see what the situation was. If the home truly is just an orphanage, everything is fine. If it is more, she is to come out and report.

“There is a problem,” Bass added. He had been quiet most of the time, but Black Justice found that his few insights were very observant and professional. “There are at least a half-dozen cars in the lot, presumably staff workers. The layout of the house makes it tough to cover all the escape routes. There are entrances from four surrounding streets and two possible exits on two of those streets. If they try to bail out, it will be tough to stop them. Sergeant O’Reilly, can we ask you to take one of the exits?”

“Sure,” O’Reilly answered. “Just keep me posted over the radio.”

“Of course. You will take the South entrance. That’s just around the corner. You move into position and, if Black Justice is ready, we’ll get started.”

O’Reilly patted the superheroine on the shoulder, got in the car and moved into position. With O’Reilly out of the picture, Thompson approached the woman.

“Ms. Justice, there is one last thing. We didn’t want to say it in front of Sgt. O’Reilly, but it’s only fair that you know.”

“Go ahead,” she said.

The two special agents looked at each other. Thompson nodded, and Bass began, “We have heard rumors that the Nazis are desperate. They have looked into unleashing chemical warfare on American soil as a way of getting back at us for joining the war. There is no telling what is in there.” He paused. “If you want to back out, I would understand.”

Black Justice nodded grimly. She, too, had heard stories about how desperate the Nazi cause was and something like this was certainly plausible. “No, I’ll do it.”

“Are you invulnerable to gas attacks?” Thompson asked.

“Yes … well, I think I am … I’ve never been exposed to anything like that.”

Thompson and Bass looked at each other. Bass moved to his car and pulled out a briefcase. “Ma’am, we do not want to send you into a situation without taking every precaution.” He pulled out a syringe. “This is an immunization shot our scientists have been working on that has neutralized some of the effects of typical gas attacks. We can not make you take it, but it could save your life.”

The young woman thought about it. She was pretty sure she was invulnerable to everything, but there was the time factor. What if she was locked in a room with deadly gas and could not find a way to escape? The shot could save her life.

She took the syringe from Bass. “Are there any side effects?” she asked.

“None that we have been told of … other than a light case of dry mouth,” Thompson answered. “But you should be able to handle that, right?”

Black Justice examined the syringe. She had no idea what was in it - chemistry was not her best subject - but she had no reason not to trust the agents … well, aside from her basic mistrust of ALL FBI agents. Still, if it were some sort of poison, her immune system could eventually shake it off. Deadly nerve gas for a long period of time? Probably not.

“So, what do I do with this?” she said holding up the syringe.

Thompson looked at the ground, a little embarrassed. “Well, typically, it goes in one of the cheeks of the buttocks.”

“I figured as such,” Black Justice replied. “Look, I may need a couple of needles. My skin is pretty impenetrable and these things often break easily. I’m pretty sure I can do it, though.”

Bass retrieved three more needles and Black Justice went to the relative privacy of the alley. She moved her cape out of the way, lifted her skirt and pushed her trunks and panties aside. The heroine broke two needles, but on the third try, she managed to use her strength to penetrate the skin and inject the syringe contents into her blood stream.

After readjusting her costume, the superheroine returned to the agents, handed over the syringe and all the needles. “All done,” she announced.

Bass and Thompson simply stared at the heroine. “Is everything OK?” Bass asked.

“Sure, why?” Black Justice replied.

“No … dry mouth?” Thompson asked.

Black Justice looked at the two agents. “Why are you …”

Then it hit her.

Black Justice’s world started spinning and she felt like she was about to faint. Nothing like this had ever happened before and she began to worry. Thompson and Bass looked at each other, then back at the black woman as she dropped to one knee.

“What … what was in there?” she asked, her voice showing her weakness.

“What do you mean?” Thompson replied. Bass walked back to the briefcase and pulled out a bottle and a cloth. He poured some of the contents of the bottle on the cloth and approached the superheroine.

“Here, take a sniff of this … it should help,” Bass said. With that, he held the cloth to her face. She took one whiff and her eyes began rolling back in her head. She tried feebly to get away, but lacked the strength to do so. Finally, she fell to the ground face-first, her skirt riding up on her, showing off the black trunks that showcased her ass.

“Holy shit,” Thompson said. “She took the whole thing and is still alive. I thought Grant was kidding when he told us the amount to put in there. That’s enough of a tranquilizer to knock out a horse. And she was just barely knocked out.”

“Without the chloroform, she might still be up,” Bass said. They both looked down at the heroine. “Come on, we need to get her out of here if we’re going to stay on schedule.”

The two men hoisted Black Justice up and put her in the trunk. They fixed the chloroform rag around her mouth to insure she wouldn’t wake up, tied her hands and legs behind her back, then left. As they passed O’Reilly, they slowed down and pulled alongside him.

“Everything set?” the sergeant asked.

“Yeah, she’s on her way,” Thompson answered. “Keep your eyes peeled and let us know on the radio if someone leaves. We’re taking our position on North side.”

“OK, guys … thanks.”

With that, Thompson and Bass drove away, leaving O’Reilly behind to watch the private home of Darren Kincaid, a local doctor who was out of town with his family for the next three weeks.

CHAPTER VI

For the next 24 hours, Grant and the chemist he hired (a native German named Joseph Kohl) tried to figure out the secrets of the black woman in their possession. They were outside a small Louisiana town named Donaldsonville on a plantation Grant had recently purchased. While he was scouting Black Justice, some of his associates were stocking and refurbishing the home. By the time Thompson and Bass had deposited the cargo, everything was in place.

The biggest problem Grant and Kohl had was trying to concoct a truth serum they thought would work on the heroine. Kohl had been one of the top German scientists … until his Jewish background suddenly made things a little uncomfortable. He fled to America and quickly found his talents in chemistry could be quite productive to a man like Grant. After much debate, Grant and Kohl decided to start at ground zero and work back.

Meanwhile, Bass and Thompson had been assigned to guard the heroine. One would observe while the other rested. Whoever was watching her had one simple task - to make sure Black Justice stayed unconscious by applying the chloroform gag when she began to wake up. Of course, this assignment left the men with a lot of down time. Thompson muddled through his by reading a book. Bass, though, was bored. He tried to imagine the ways he would spend his money, but even that got old after a while. Finally, he looked down at the helpless heroine, sleeping peacefully, and his mind wandered …

“You know,” he thought, “I’ve never seen a superhero naked before. I mean, I wonder if she’s got some kind of super tits or something.”

Bass mulled this over for 45 minutes. He and Thompson both were really FBI agents … once. Bass had been fired from the Bureau for drug use, Thompson for killing a man he found sleeping with Thompson’s wife. Although neither man was ever prosecuted (the Bureau protected its own and Hoover would never let it be known HIS men could do such heinous things), both were dismissed. However, both men still had some contacts in the Bureau, though, and they were the ones who passed their names to Grant.

After weighing all the options, Bass finally moved forward, kneeling beside Black Justice. “She’s not bad, for a darky,” he thought. He reached out and started stroking her leg just above the knee. Black Justice’s skirt had ridden up to nearly the top of her thigh. Bass looked at her face again to make sure she was still out before lifting up the skirt to see what was underneath.

“Huh, some kinda black shorts,” he said aloud. “Anything under there?” The thick cotton shorts had elastic around the legs to hide any underwear. Bass moved the elastic on the sides away to reveal red lace panties.

 “Well, someone is prepared, isn’t she?” he laughed. He slid a finger inside the panties and touched her sex He ran his finger up and down it twice, then pulled it out and smelled it.

Bass was growing bolder as time passed and nothing happened. He looked up at her chest, which was rising and falling with each breath she took. Tentatively, he reached up and cupped her left breast. It filled his entire hand with a little more left over. He estimated her at a 34D (one of his many non-job-related talents).

He looked back at her face when it dawned on him. Superheroes wear masks. No one gets to see who they really are. His dick got hard thinking about the possibility of looking at this woman’s face for the first time … seeing who she REALLY was. He moved beside her head and put his fingers under the mask. That’s when he heard Kohl and Grant approaching. Quickly, he made sure Black Justice’s costume was in place, then returned to his chair.

As Kohl and Grant entered, they told Bass to wake up Thompson. The two former agents were to secure Black Justice to her specially-designed bindings.

Grant had determined the heroine was stronger than any man on the planet … well, any non-superbeing, at least … so traditional restraints would be ineffective. As such (and with some help from Mr. Hoover), Grant obtained some extra-strong restraints. They were similar to the type used to contain supervillains in prisons. They could withstand a ton of pressure and would not bend. In fact, they came with a specially-designed support system so the captive could not yank the bindings out of the wall. It took some architects and construction workers building night-and-day to set it all up, but now that Black Justice was his, Grant felt it was worth it. Plus, he would simply bill Hoover for the expense.

But for this, they used the operating table they had set up. The heroine (still in full costume) was laid on the table, her arms to her sides and her wrists were secured in cuffs with a long chain. The chain went under the table and connected to each other, so that any movement of one hand meant she had to move the other. Bolts were attached to the table itself so she wouldn’t be constantly shifting, but Grant figured she could rip these out if she really wanted to. The same set-up was used for her legs, but instead of stretching them straight out, each ankle was secured on the side of the table, leaving the heroine in an awkward and potentially embarrassing spread-eagle position.

The table was at a 45-degree angle so Kohl could administer his serum. Thompson and Bass left the room, moving into the balcony upstairs to man the cameras Hoover had insisted be on-site and working at all times in the process. To Hoover, this was as good as actually being in the home. But first, the heroine had to come to.

As Black Justice awoke, she moaned slightly. She hadn’t felt this bad since … well, she couldn’t remember. Her powers had kept her from getting any disease and the times she had experimented with alcohol, her powers neutralized those effects, for the most part. She got a little buzzed after drinking a whole bottle of her uncle’s gin, but other friends told her she should have passed out and been throwing up. This was a totally new experience.

“Wh … Where am I?” she mumbled, trying to get her eyes to focus. When they finally did, she saw a white-haired elderly man and a Lion-man.

“You’re in my lair,” Grant said, his voice deeper than usual. “You are the prey, and I … I am the Predator.”

Black Justice coughed a couple of times. Her mouth was so very dry. Perhaps this was the side-effect Bass had told her about when he gave her the immunization shot. And what about Thompson and Bass? She didn’t remember a thing?

“We’ve got some work to do,” the Predator continued. “Now, do you want to play this the easy way … or the hard way?”

“Can I get a glass of water?” the heroine asked. She had to buy some time. She could feel her powers had not returned and, as long as she had been unconscious, she had no idea when they would be back - probably 45 minutes at the latest. Until then, she had to wait.

The doctor calmly held a small glass of water to her lips and watched the black heroine drink it down. Grant and Kohl both figured she would be thirsty and they certainly wanted her as relaxed as possible.

“You are going to feel a little pin prick, my dear,” the doctor said, his German accent easily recognizable. “Do not worry.”

“Wait! I have to go to the bathroom!” she yelled. But it was no use. Sure enough, she felt the prick. Had her body not been fighting off the effects of the tranquilizer and the chloroform, the doctor would have been unable to put the needle in her arm. Instead, it slid right in.

It didn’t take long for the effects to become apparent. Her eyes began to glaze and a placid look came over the heroine’s beautiful face. It was a look the Dr. Kohl had seen many times.

“She’s all yours, Herr Predator,” Kohl said, trying to stifle a chuckle. Grant and Kohl both thought all the cloak-and-dagger stuff with aliases and such was humorous, but Grant was too recognizable a face to be seen in situations like this. So with the Lion’s head covering the top half of his face, he approached the woman.

“What is your name?” he began.

The heroine smiled a loopy grin. “I can’t tell you that,” she replied.

“You must and you must tell the truth! What is your name?”

Black Justice hesitated, then answered, “Anita Washington.”

“And where do you live, Anita Washington?”

“I live at 2512 Calcasieu Lane, Apartment D.”

Bass jotted the information and immediately left to verify it. They had contacts in the community who would break into her apartment. They would steal pictures to compare against the woman they had in their possession. Anything else they took was their business.

“What are your powers, Anita Washington?”

Over the next two hours, the heroine known as Black Justice divulged every secret she had. From her strengths to her weaknesses to the fact she had only slept with one man to her greatest fear. They reapplied the truth serum two more times … at 45-minute intervals … to prevent her body from fully recovering. Thompson remained, filming the entire inquisition.

When Predator’s final question had been answered, he carefully placed the chloroform rag over her face and sent Black Justice to sleep. Bass would be back soon with the verification that Black Justice really was Anita Washington, but that was a mere formality. He knew she was.

The second part of the plan was ready to begin.

INTERLUDE

Sergeant O’Reilly paced his office. For the past two days, he hadn’t heard anything from the FBI or from Justice. After Thompson and Bass had left him, he waited patiently for some signal. In his precinct, hourly check-ins on stakeouts were de rigeur. But obviously the G-men had different ideas.

After three hours, O’Reilly had circled the building. There were no cars. He returned to his office and called his FBI contact, Special Agent Matthew Starling. Starling said he knew nothing about any stakeout, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t valid. He promised to get back to O’Reilly in the morning.

When Starling contacted the sergeant, he said he was unable to say anything … that it was classified information. Off the record, Starling (whom O’Reilly viewed as a straight-shooter) told O’Reilly that whatever it was was big as he had received a “Keep Quiet” memo from Hoover’s No. 1 man, Clyde Tolson.

“Perhaps they just left you out of the loop,” Starling said, trying to be as comforting as possible. “It’s not something I’m proud of, but those tactics are taught at the academy. You’re taught to do what you can to appease the local authorities, but make sure they’re out of your way. As a FBI man, you are the more-trained professional. I imagine they just figured you would pack up and go home after a couple of hours.”

But none of Starling’s explanations told him what happened to Black Justice. Why hadn’t she contacted him? Not that she owed him anything, but he thought they were close enough that she would have at least told him to leave. Or talked to him since then.

O’Reilly shrugged. He had put out the signal for her to contact him the last two nights, but to no avail. There was no emergency … he just wanted to make sure everything went OK. He was sure it had - after all, nothing had come CLOSE to stopping her before. But … still …

CHAPTER VII

For the third time today, Hoover had read Grant’s report on Black Justice, aka Anita Washington. It was amazingly thorough, detailing everything from her personal habits to the status of her parents. Periodically, he would jot a note back to Grant, asking him to get more information on a certain area or ask for clarification in something else.

One of the first things Hoover wanted to know was if she knew the secret identities of any other super beings. Perhaps they were in some sort of secret fraternity …

But, mostly, Hoover just basked in the glow of this triumph. Hitler’s demise was beginning to be more accepted. With WW II approaching a close, Bill Donovan’s OSS group would be dissolved and Hoover again would be the director of information for the country. And with this Black Justice out of the way, Hoover saw only clear sailing ahead.

“Edgar, old boy,” he said to himself, “there’s no stopping you now.”

***

Black Justice shook her head, trying to shake out the cobwebs. She hung on a wall, her feet barely touching the floor. She couldn’t see a thing, but she didn’t need to see things to know she was in trouble. The past day had been a haze for the heroine. Memories came in bits and pieces - like photographs in her mind.

She remembered injecting herself with an immunization shot before heading into the house to investigate the saboteurs. She remembered one of the agents giving her a handkerchief … no, he pressed one to her mouth. After that … after that … nothing, at least not until a wild-haired old German man gave her another shot. And a lion started asking her questions. But that couldn’t be right, could it? She must have dreamed it.

Whatever happened to her, the situation was not good. She had no strength and felt lethargic. This was one of her greatest fears - being helpless in a situation. Anita had always tried to stay out of situations that could put her in this kind of peril. She knew her limitations and refused to push them to the limit. Evidently, something had happened and she was now powerless.

The Ebony Avenger tugged on the bindings, but couldn’t budge them. She could shift her waist from side to side, but her ankles were secured in bindings shoulder-length apart. Black Justice coughed slightly, thinking she could attract someone’s attention.

“Hello?” she said quietly. “Is anybody there?”

Predator had been watching the heroine silently for the past 20 minutes … ever since Thompson had alerted him that she was waking up. Grant and Kohl had decided to cut the tranquilizer dosage in half - just enough to wear out her powers, but not enough to leave her spent. For the next part of the plan to work, she had to be awake.

“Good day, Black Justice,” Predator began. The heroine jumped slightly hearing the voice from her “dream.” Obviously it wasn’t a dream. “Thank you for joining us.”

The black heroine knew she couldn’t show fear. However, the reality of her situation scared her and her voice shook a little when she spoke. “Whoever you are, you’re making a HUGE mistake. The New Orleans police will be here any minute. Your best hope is to release me and turn yourself in.”

Predator laughed. “The NOPD? Please. They don’t care about you. They never have. To them, you’re just another nigger bitch who got what she deserved.”

Black Justice ignored his barbs. In fact, the words told her a lot about her foe. He was white. He was a racist. And he was probably an idiot who would make a mistake somewhere along the line. The hate-filled words, if anything, gave her hope.

“Aaahhh,” she said. “The friendly language of a cracker. You know, there’s nothing quite like it.”

“So you doubt what I say?” Predator asked. Her response was a little surprising … almost smug … but he had handled people he presumed were smarter. “Tell me, then … it’s been nearly two days since you have been in our custody. If the NOPD were looking for you, wouldn’t they have found you by now?”

“They’re probably looking,” she said defiantly.

“Oh, and you think Sgt. O’Reilly is leading the way?”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she answered, a little taken aback by the mention of her police friend.

“Tell me, Black Justice … we have kept you powerless by giving you tranquilizers. They force your supernatural abilities to combat the effects of the drugs as opposed to giving you superhuman strength. How do you think we knew to do that?”

Black Justice was silent. She figured they had stumbled upon a way to keep her powerless and had just been lucky. Since she didn’t want to reveal too much, she simply stayed silent.

After a short silence, Predator continued. “We knew all about it from Sgt. O’Reilly. In fact, he was the one who set the whole thing up. He was sick and tired of you getting all the glory. The people in ‘Darktown’ had stopped listening to the police. You had become the only authority they obeyed, and he couldn’t handle that. The newspaper articles, the rallies in the streets, he feared his squad would be unable to maintain the peace with you around. When that FBI agent - Hall - contacted him asking for your help, it gave him the opportunity to get you out of the picture.”

Black Justice was silent, but Predator could see the wheels in her head turning. He had learned from her that O’Reilly was the only person she had told about the limitations of her powers. She HAD to explain it to him when a criminal got away because she didn’t want to risk being powerless. The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

“I take it those men weren’t REALLY FBI agents?” she asked.

“No. We met Hall at the rendezvous point and killed him before you arrived, then my men passed themselves off as FBI agents. You haven’t had much dealing with the FBI, have you? If a FBI agent says he will meet you somewhere, you can count on the fact he will be there. O’Reilly certainly knew that. Hell, if the FBI had actually BEEN there in force, there’s no way we would have moved. But O’Reilly assured us he would take care of everything. And he did.”

Anita couldn’t believe it. All this time, Sergeant O’Reilly had treated her well, now he was … NO! She wouldn’t believe it. This was all part of some scheme to turn her against her friend …

“Now, it’ll be another few minutes before our guests arrive,” Predator continued. “We’ve got a big day ahead. Lots of activities. I hope you understand that we’ll have to tranquilize you again. By my calculations, you should wake up just in time for the big show.”

Grant walked to the heroine and put his hand on her thigh. Black Justice jumped slightly at the touch. “Get your hands OFF me!”

Predator laughed softly. “Now, now … I just have to give you this shot. Now, you can make it easy on yourself … or we can make it … rough.” He quickly punched her in the defenseless stomach, causing all the air to exhale from her lungs.

Black Justice choked and coughed at the sudden blow, pitching forward as far as she could, but the manacles held her in place.

“Just for that, I think we’ll give you this shot in a different fashion,” Predator said. He pulled her torso away from the wall a little and lifted her skirt. He pushed her black shorts and white flowered cotton panties out of the way, revealing her ass. As the heroine futilely struggled, Grant plunged the syringe into her buttock. He held her in place, feeling her wiggle as he rubbed her butt cheek.

Finally, Black Justice slipped into unconsciousness and her body went limp. Grant held the heroine for a moment more, enjoying the feel of her helplessness. To a certain degree, he questioned whether or not what he was doing was proper. But it was just for a moment. There were things he needed to do … and if catching this one was this easy, perhaps Wonder Woman wasn’t out of the question.

CHAPTER VIII

Black Justice awoke with a jolt. Someone was holding smelling salts under her nose. She jerked her head from side to side to escape the powerful smell.

“Time to wakey-uppy,” Thompson said, a sneer in his voice.

Anita felt someone free her ankles, but she was too weak to do anything. Next, she felt someone grab her hands and unclasp them from the manacles. She pitched forward, but was held in place by Bass. Of course she didn’t know it was he since she was still wearing the blindfold.

Bass wrenched her hands behind her back and cuffed them with regular handcuffs. She was powerless and it seemed everyone knew it.

“Are you OK to walk?” Thompson asked.

Black Justice was quiet, but she moved into an upright position. Her equilibrium was slowly returning, but she knew it would take some time before she felt full-strength.

“Well, all we need to do is add this one thing,” Thompson said. Suddenly the heroine’s hair was yanked back, causing her to look up. She felt something go around her neck. It was tight, but not so tight she couldn’t breathe. However, it also prevented her from looking down.

Just as suddenly, she was released. She stumbled a bit, but was yanked back up. That’s when it dawned on her … she was wearing some sort of LEASH!

“What the hell are you boys doing?” she asked, indignant.

“Shut up, bitch,” Bass laughed. “Judgment day is here! Just stay on pace and listen to the directions and you should be fine.”

The two men walked the woman throughout the house, trying to think she was going a long way. Plus, they simply enjoyed watching the heroine stumble and bump into walls when their “directions” were a little late in coming.

Finally, she was led into what felt like a large room and on to a small platform. The men were now serious, so Black Justice figured they had reached their destination. She couldn’t see anything, but she sensed they were not alone in the room.

Thompson and Bass stood the Ebony Avenger upright with her back against a pole of sorts. There were holes drilled into the poles and small cuffs through the holes. First, they cuffed her ankles to the pole. Next were her hands. Finally, her leash was attached to the pole. All of these prevented the heroine from moving, other than shimmying her torso, and even then she couldn’t move too much as her head was fixed in place.

“Open your mouth, Black Justice,” Bass said … almost spitting her name.

She stayed still, until Bass reached up and started squeezing her cheeks. Finally, her mouth opened and a large rag was stuffed inside, preventing her from speaking. She snorted her protest through her nose and tried to scream, but the only noise was a muffled sound.

When everything was done and the costumed crusader was in place, the blindfold was removed. She couldn’t believe what she saw.

It was evening … at least, it appeared to be. She had lost all track of time, being in and out of consciousness as much as she had been the last few days. Black Justice was in a large, ornate room … a room too big it couldn’t be in someone’s house. Yet it had to be a private home as the furnishings were simply too ornate to be anything else. Directly across the room from her was a large mirror. In it, she could see her own situation. Oh, she had her full costume on … even her cape and mask … but she was also totally helpless and powerless.

But that’s not what worried her the most. Also in the room were six white men in suits, sitting in chairs, smoking cigars and drinking. All of them were staring at her intently. But these weren’t ordinary men. She recognized three of them from pictures in O’Reilly’s office. They were dangerous leaders of New Orleans gangs. The three she recognized were the ones who had put a price on her head. The other three … she had no idea, but if they were keeping the same company, they couldn’t be good.

Thompson and Bass moved behind two movie cameras pointed at her. The heroine heard someone moving behind her, but since she couldn’t turn around, she couldn’t see who it was. She recognized the voice, though. It was the Lion Man, the one who called himself “Predator,” in what she thought was a dream. It was also the voice who had explained the direness of her situation.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Predator began. As he passed in front of Black Justice’s line of sight, she saw he was wearing a lion’s head over his face. It muffled his voice some, but it also kept his identity secret.

“Hmmmm … it looks like I’m not the ONLY one with a few secrets,” Black Justice thought. “When I can get out of this, I need to find out who this guy really is.”

“I don’t think we need any introductions. Each of you knows the others and, if you don’t, you don’t need to,” Predator continued.

“I thought I would be the only one here,” said one of the men. “Do you know who I am?!?”

Black Justice sure did. Sam Giancarlo was the (alleged) top gangster in all of New Orleans. He was a short, burly man in his 50s. He had gray hair slicked back. His face had obviously seen some battles, and not all of them were victories. But the heroine knew Giancarlo was not a man to be trifled with. His steel-grey eyes were what everyone talked about … at least the ones who survived being on the receiving end of it.

The other two people she recognized had carefully stayed on Giancarlo’s good side … at least what there was of it. Phil Garrity managed the activities on the West Bank under the auspices of being a bank president. Ty Hedea was the main man who lorded over the activities in “Darktown.” She had even seen him a couple of times coming out of The Blue Note … the hangout for organized crime in her part of town. Both Garrity and Hedea made sure to steer clear of Giancarlo and always bent to his will in any dispute.

Predator smiled beneath his mask. He knew Giancarlo would complain about other people being involved in the process. But they all had to be here for the plan to truly be effective.

“Sir, I think we all know you, but as I told you before the subject came into the room, names are prohibited,” Predator calmly replied. “As you know, blacks are not very intelligent, but there have been times when they were able to mimic things. This does include names.”

Giancarlo was still upset, but he couldn’t help chuckling as he looked at the heroine’s face fume at the insult. He sat down and crossed his arms.

“Now, back to the matter at hand,” Predator continued. “As you may know, this is the woman who calls herself ‘Black Justice.’ She has supposedly disrupted the dealings of some of you in Darktown. How? I have no idea. Darkies like her rarely have the ability to plan out anything complex. Still, I will grant you that she has amazing strength and endurance. No doubt, whoever wins her services will be pleased. When you’re able to put her in line, I have no doubt she will be the best house servant any of you has ever had.”

Anita couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Not only were the words critical of her race, but she had never heard such blatant hatred. She suspected some white people thought such things, but she had never heard it out loud. And what made this man think she would ever, EVER be someone’s house servant?

“As stated in the invitation, the bidding will be done in $1,000 increments,” Predator said. “And it will start at $5,000. However, I must implore you to follow the guidelines we discussed beforehand. Failure to do so could be disastrous and possibly fatal. Now, do I have a bid?”

“Bid?” Black Justice thought. “Good Lord, I’m being auctioned off like some sort of … slave!”

Tears formed in her eyes at the shame. Her grandmother had been a slave when she was young and often told her of the tales of abuse from the master’s hand. It was one of the reasons Anita fought so hard for equality for all races. And it was one of the things that still terrified her at night - the fear that the white man might, one day, try to rise up and reclaim their “property.” It would be a race war to end all wars … a repeat of the Civil War, except there would be nothing civil about it.

Garrity opened the bidding at $5,000. He was a relatively handsome man in his 30s with dark hair and darker eyes. His suit was custom-made and fit him perfectly. He didn’t have the reputation of Giancarlo, but he was equally ruthless.

One of the mystery men raised the bid to $6,000. The “mystery” bidders weren’t serious bidders. In fact, they were “ringers” Predator had brought in to drive up the price. They were to keep their mouth shut and bid until the proper price was reached. The real purpose of the men, though, was to further embarrass Black Justice.

The bidding continued with all men raising the price over the next hour. Midway through, Bass injected a concoction into Black Justice’s bloodstream. At first, she felt a rush … she thought that perhaps he had erred and given her a placebo. But the superstrength never came. In fact, after the first 10 minutes, she started feeling miserable and started shivering. Bass approached her again and leaned close to her ear.

“We couldn’t keep knocking you out, you stupid bitch,” he said, the hatred obvious in his voice, “so we decided to give you a little taste of heroin.” He paused, then added with a laugh, “Gee, I sure hope you don’t get addicted. Of course, if you do, you’ll just be another nigger junkie.”

Black Justice hung her head and rode out the trip. If she could somehow make it through the hour without Predator and his men injecting her with something … if she could somehow regain her strength and her powers … she would show these men. She would make them pay.

The heroine snapped out of her drug-induced haze when she heard one word, spoken by Predator, very loudly.

“SOLD! … for $42,000!”

Anita looked up. To her chagrin, everyone was shaking Giancarlo’s hand. The worst was yet to come.

CHAPTER IX

Black Justice was in a large bedroom, tied to a chair. She had no idea what was to come, but then again, she couldn’t think straight. All she knew was she had been “sold” to Sam Giancarlo, the Kingpen of New Orleans crime.

Bass re-injected her with another dose of heroin to keep her sedate. The initial rush of her second dose was more powerful than before because her powers were not there to absorb it. Twenty minutes later, though, she was feeling normal … not super-normal, but the effects of the heroin had worn off. Evidently her powers had absorbed it.

Unfortunately, she had little time to savor the good feeling. Giancarlo entered the room.

“So, bitch, you’re the one who has been causing me trouble?” he asked.

Black Justice simply stared at him, unable to speak because of the gag in her mouth. She simply looked at him.

Giancarlo approached her chair, then smacked her in the face hard with an open palm. Anita was stunned. That HURT! Pain was not something she had experienced often. In fact, the last time she felt pain was in fifth grade when she had played for a long time then fell and scraped her knee.

Giancarlo, though, enjoyed the look on the heroine’s face. He also enjoyed the thought he could hurt her. The thug grabbed her hair and held her head in place. He looked deep into her eyes through the mask, reached up and removed the gag. Black Justice worked her jaw around, trying to get the stale taste out of her mouth.

“Say ‘Thank you, Sir’,” Giancarlo said.

Anita simply looked at him, and remained silent. This merely got another smack in the face.

“You WILL respect me and you WILL obey,” Giancarlo said. “I expect all my nigger servants to do what I say.”

Black Justice looked up, a defiant look in her eyes. “Go to hell.”

Giancarlo smiled a shit-eating grin. “You think you’re tough? You think your nigger ass can take me? Come on, then … let’s go! I’ll enjoy whipping your sorry ass.”

He began untying the heroine. Had she been at full strength, even a cocky man like Giancarlo wouldn’t have dared do such a thing. But Predator and his men assured him that she was powerless … for about the next 40 minutes.

Black Justice, though, couldn’t believe her fortune. She had been tied up for the past two days. Now, she was being freed. All she had to do was take down a 50-year-old man and she could escape. Granted, she didn’t have her powers, but she had plenty of fighting experience.

The heroine got up and slowly walked around, trying to get the feeling back in her legs. Giancarlo took off his coat and loosened his tie. He looked at the heroine.

“OK, bitch … let’s see how tough you are,” he said. “You get to make the first move.”

Black Justice studied the man, then launched a punch for his jaw. Giancarlo, though, easily moved aside and punched her in the kidneys.

“Aaarrrrggghhh,” Black Justice yelled, dropping to a knee.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Giancarlo laughed. “I thought you were supposed to be tough?”

Black Justice was furious. She was being mocked … by this out-of-shape middle-aged man. She threw a punch that connected with his gut. Giancarlo took a step back, but was hardly fazed. In fact, he started laughing.

“That was NOTHING!” he laughed. “This … this is how it’s done.” He grabbed the heroine’s hair and pulled her down while bringing his knee up. It caught her squarely in the chin, dropping the heroine to her butt. Black Justice’s eyes rolled back in her head as she struggled to stay conscious.

Giancarlo stepped back and grabbed some smelling salts Bass had left in the room … just in case she passed out. He held them under her nose and the heroine came around. She shook her head, trying to get the cobwebs out and figure out what happened.

Suddenly, it dawned on Anita - she had been holding back. All her life, in her fights, she had always held back … afraid that she might kill someone if she let loose. Now, without her strength, she was barely tapping Giancarlo. But was it too late?

It was.

When the crime boss saw the recognition come back to Black Justice’s eyes, he moved back into action. He grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back, yanking her up off the floor.

“AAAAAHHHH,” she screamed in pain.

“Hurts? Huh! I thought you were supposed to be invulnerable,” he said. “You’re just nothing. NOTHING! You’re a phony! You think I could do this to a real superhero like Batman or Wonder Woman? Of course, it’s probably because you’re black. Niggers are always inferior.”

She pitched forward, her head on the bed, her arm behind her back. With the opposite hand, Giancarlo reached under Black Justice’s skirt and patted her ass. “Now, are you going to behave and do what I say? Or do I have to keep roughing you up?”

The heroine was crying from the pain, but she kept quiet. In an attempt to break free, she threw an elbow at Giancarlo. But the crime boss simply moved out of the way and kicked Anita’s feet out from under her, causing her to nearly break her arm. As she regained her balance, he punched her twice in the kidney and released her arm. Black Justice fell to the ground, writing in pain.

Giancarlo sat in a chair and pulled out a cigar, waiting for the heroine to regain her composure. When her breathing returned to normal, he lit the cigar and took a drag.

“You’ve got a choice,” he began. “You do what I say, it’s easy. If you don’t … well, I don’t mind roughing you up some more. Whichever way, you WILL make up for the money you’ve cost me in Darktown.”

Black Justice remained curled in a ball on the floor, listening to what he said. Then a plan formed … if she went along with him … at least for now … he might not be as attentive as Predator and his men had been. Perhaps he might forget the doses that sapped her strength and she could exact her revenge. Slowly, she looked up, tears in her eyes.

“O … OK … Just no … no more beatings,” she said. The heroine paused, hung her head and said, “Sir.”

Giancarlo smiled. He knew she wasn’t sold yet … that she was buying time … but it didn’t matter. He’d have some fun.

“OK, then suck my dick to prove you’re in line,” he said.

“NO!” she yelled.

With quickness that belied his size, Giancarlo backhanded the heroine back to the ground. One of his large rings caught her on the cheek, cutting her. Anita put her hand to her face and felt the wetness. She pulled it away, shocked by the sight of her blood.

“Now, bitch! You will suck my dick, or I will beat you so bad your mother won’t recognize you.”

He unzipped his pants and pulled out his shriveled penis. He then pulled out a knife and pointed at his dick. “Suck it and suck it good, or I will cut your pretty little nigger face. Understand?”

Black Justice nodded. Slowly, she crawled on her knees in front of him. She looked up at him, then back at his penis. She had never tasted a man before, although she had heard about it from friends. This was certainly not how she wanted to learn, though.

Slowly, she grabbed his penis in her gloved hands and raised it to her lips. She closed her eyes, then began moving up and down, trying to repeat what her friends had told her. “Suck on it like it’s a popsicle,” they said. “You just go up and down and … nature will take its course.” They had laughed about it at the time, but this was miserable.

Giancarlo, though, was ecstatic. He never really liked black women, but this one was hot. She was a lousy cocksucker, but that could be taught in time. He just hoped he would have the chance. Predator had said this was a one-night thing and Giancarlo had to play by the rules. Not a problem. From what his men had told him, this bitch was strong and tough … when she had her powers. Without them … she was just another piece of ass.

After three or four minutes, Giancarlo could feel himself on the edge of cumming. He wasn’t ready, though. He pushed the heroine back.

“Stand up, bitch,” he said.

Black Justice moved back, then stood … a little perplexed about what was to come. She figured she needed about 20 more minutes before her powers would start returning.

“Now, show me what you’ve got under that costume,” the crime boss said. He then waved the knife, “Do it, or I’ll cut ya. And, believe me, I know how to cut someone so that they won’t die, but they’ll wish they had.”

Black Justice believed it. She couldn’t believe she was doing it, but she reached up and took off her cape. Next, she sat on a chair and pulled off her short leather boots and gloves, then unfastened her golden belt.

The next article to remove was her skirt. She was a little embarrassed doing this, but the shorts underneath prevented anyone from really seeing anything. And maybe it would titillate Giancarlo enough that he wouldn’t need to see anything else.

Instead, the crime boss simply sat in the chair, his raging hard-on pointing up, waiting. “Go on,” he said.

Black Justice sighed. She turned around, untucked her top and pulled it over her head. She wore no bra as the shirt had been designed to support her 34D breasts (Bass had, indeed, been a good judge of breast size). She covered her breasts with modesty and turned back around to face Giancarlo.

“Take your fucking hands down and pull down your pants, bitch,” he said. As the heroine dropped her hands, he said, “Shit, girl … nice tits.”

Anita did have nice breasts. The area around her chocolate nipples was the size of a nickel and her nipples poked out slightly. But she was more worried about what was coming next.

Black Justice pulled down her black shorts. This revealed her white cotton panties with tiny blue flowers printed on them. Seeing this, Giancarlo started laughing.

“Shit, bitch … is this what ALL superheroes wear under their costumes? Flower panties! … Only a nigger would be so stupid to wear granny panties to a fight,” he laughed.

Anita, though, fumed. This was more humiliating that anything she had imagined.

When Giancarlo had calmed down, he finally stood up. “I’m sorry … I’m sorry … I shouldn’t be laughing at you.” He took a couple of steps forward, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down and stepping out, leaving him nude from the waist down. Black Justice, now in just her panties and mask, stepped back until her butt was against the bed.

“I shouldn’t be laughing,” he repeated as he put his hands on her waist. “I should be doing this.”

Giancarlo spun the heroine around so her back was to him, then - in one fluid motion - he roughly pulled her panties down and pushed her against the bed, leaving her feet on the ground. He kicked her legs apart and pinned her upper torso to the bed with his arm.

Black Justice was scared … more scared than she had ever been in her life. She felt his cock pressing against her butt and she felt his hot breath on her neck. She had only been with one man … now her second sexual experience had been with one of the vilest men in all of New Orleans. But if she could somehow last another 15 minutes, maybe …

Meanwhile, Giancarlo leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “You know, I’ve never had nigger pussy before. And I really don’t want to now. But you have cost me so much money, I can’t think of anything I can do to get that back … other than this.”

Roughly, he began pressing his cock against her anus. So naïve was the heroine, she whimpered, “Y-you’re aiming for the wrong spot. A little further down.”

Giancarlo actually stopped when he heard this and laughed. He laughed so hard, he actually released his hold on Black Justice, allowing her to look back. He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back facedown on the bed.

“You stupid, nigger bitch,” he chuckled. “I know where your cunt is. I figure … you’ve fucked me in the ass …” Suddenly, he plunged his pecked two inches into her anus, bringing a howl from the heroine’s mouth that sounded like she had been shot.

“… so I’ll fuck you in the ass.”

For the next 10 minutes, all Thompson and Bass could hear was the howls from the bedroom. Each was filming the rape of the heroine from hidden cameras and, although neither would admit it, both were getting turned on by the pain the gangster was inflicting on the heroine.

After a while, though, Black Justice simply closed her eyes and whimpered in pain, shame and humiliation. Giancarlo knew what he was doing. He had taken many women and broken their spirits this way. But to really break this bitch, Predator had given him a tip, which he was reminded of before entering the room.

Just as Giancarlo was about to cum, he yanked the heroine’s hair, pulling her face off the bed. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she tried to stay in control of her sanity.

“Take a look in the mirror, bitch,” he said. Giancarlo roughly turned her head towards the large mirror to their left. In it, she saw a perfect reflection of the gangster pumping her ass and her beaten face. Suddenly, she felt the crime boss stiffen and his semen entering her anus. As he came, he ripped the mask off her face, exposing her full face for the first time.

“NOOOOOOO!!!!” she yelled. But she was helpless to do anything about it. She had been raped, abused, humiliated and beaten. She was defeated.

After 30 seconds, Giancarlo had caught his breath. He pulled off the woman and walked to the desk in the room. “Not bad … not bad indeed,” he said. The gangster opened the desk and pulled out a syringe. “Tell me, are all niggers as good in bed as you, or is this part of your ‘superpowers?’ ”

Anita simply lay motionless, the disgrace of the afternoon sinking in. And, frankly, she was too sore to really move.

“What, no witty comeback? No defiant answer?” Giancarlo asked as he walked back towards her. “Come on, bitch … it wasn’t THAT bad, was it?”

Black Justice hardly cared when she felt the needle enter her buttcheek. She knew she was beaten and she knew they wouldn’t overlook something like that. She simply remained silent and cried. And, for the first time in her life, she wished she didn’t have these powers. None of this would have happened. And perhaps she could truly enjoy the heroin that was entering her bloodstream.

As Anita Washington rode the rush of the drug and passed out, Bass, who was on the other side of the mirror, smiled. He had captured it all on film.

CHAPTER X

Hours later, Black Justice had been given a shower, a robe and some food. She was back on the table in the lab, sleeping with Thompson standing guard. They could probably leave her alone, but Grant had learned long ago it was better to be too cautious than not cautious enough.

Grant watched the film and he had to admit Giancarlo was good. The crime boss had followed instructions very well and even thrown in some surprises of his own. The anal rape, Grant found, was a nice touch. Hoover would like it.

The pieces were in place. The only thing Grant really worried about was the psyche of the heroine. If she died or went insane before they were done, the complete plan would suffer. They could still make some of it work, but not all of it. And, to be honest, that wasn’t really their goal.

The heroin injections continued … each dose gaining in strength. They timed their doses so it wouldn’t interfere with her powers. She would get the rush, but suffer little from the withdrawals. It worked well as the heroine quickly came to view the drug as a respite from her captivity.

After a few days, Grant knew it was time for the final pieces of the puzzle. Some of Black Justice’s fire had come back. She had regained some of her arrogance and he even watched as she looked around, searching for an escape route. All caged animals did this in their own way, he reasoned. But she also showed signs of bending to his will. If he was late for a heroin dose, she called out … asking for it.

Finally, it was time for one of her evening hourly doses. Only this time, no one came to give Black Justice her fix. Instead, Bass unshackled her and ordered her to put her costume back on. Immediately, the heroine did so. Conflicting thoughts raced through Anita’s mind. The first was that, with her costume back, she truly WAS Black Justice and there was hope. The second was that these crackers had something horrible planned for her.

She and the two primary captors (Thompson and Bass) had come to an agreement. She could walk with only the cuffs on if she didn’t try anything. Of course, Grant OK’d it, but she had had very few dealings with Predator.

This time, Thompson and Bass led her directly to the ballroom again, only this time the set-up was different. In the middle of the room was a large bed … the same bed Giancarlo had used a few days earlier. Anita’s eyes got big, but she moved forward. Several movie cameras were also in the room, as well as stage lights. It was as if some major motion picture were being shot in the room.

Instead of leading her to the bed, Bass led her to a chair. Settling down, Bass removed the handcuffs and assumed his position behind one of the cameras. Predator stepped forward.

“Black Justice, has everything been OK since the auction?” he asked.

Anita nodded. She was unsure what was going on … or when her dose would come.

“There are a couple of things we need you to do, then we will let you go, OK?” The Ebony Avenger’s spirits rose when she heard this. “First, we need you to read something for the camera. Then, we have a scene to film.”

Black Justice looked at the man with the lion’s head. She studied him, then asked, “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Because I have no reason to lie,” he said. “Our use for you is soon done. Do these things, and we will return you to the city.”

The heroine weighed everything. Over the past week, she had been treated better. Her heroin sedatives were nowhere near as bad as she thought they would be when Bass had first injected her. “In fact, they had become quite pleasant,” she thought. “God, I’m ready for one now, in fact. Wait a minute! Am I some kind of junkie? No … I can quit any time I want to. And my powers absorb the bad stuff. I never feel withdrawals or get the shakes. It’s all good, right?”

“OK, let’s get it over with,” she finally said, a look of determination coming over her face. “Give me the shot and we’ll get started.”

Grant smiled. Just as he had suspected … she had begun associating the heroin with pleasure. And her powers had cancelled out the downside. The next part would, admittedly, be tricky … and dangerous … but if he and Kohl had calculated it correctly, they could turn Black Justice into a heroin junkie for the rest of her life.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You do the reading first, then we’ll get the shot, OK?”

The heroine grumbled, but finally consented. “After all, how long will it take to read something?” she thought.

Predator handed her the paper. On it was a neatly-typed script … a monologue that basically praised the white man and lambasted the black man.

“I’m not reading this piece of filth!” she said. “No way am I betraying my people!”

Grant figured she would do something like this. That’s why they had chosen heroin … it would weaken her resolve. “Black Justice, I can appreciate that you would be uncomfortable reading this, but let me assure you of two things. One, this is solely for the benefit of one man. I am not at liberty to reveal his identity, but let me assure you, this is solely for his benefit. Secondly, they’re just words. What harm can words really do? If it gets out, so what? You just deny it and move on. Surely your actions speak louder than any words. And don’t you want to go home?”

In the heroine’s muddled mind, Predator was making some sense. After thinking, she finally reached a decision. “You’re right. This is complete garbage, but if it’s just for one man and it’ll put me home quicker, I’ll do it. Then I’ll get my shot. But let me say, I don’t believe a word of this crap.”

“Fine, understood,” Predator said. Thompson and Bass turned on the lights, putting Black Justice in the spotlight. The week in captivity made her look a little worse for the wear, but still stunning. Grant had allowed her to shower and groom herself the past few days, handcuffing one hand to a shower rail. This kept the heroine from looking too disheveled. Predator pointed at her to begin.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Black Justice. You may have heard of me. I am a crimefighter in the city of New Orleans. Our town is a beautiful, wonderful town with different styles of architecture and culture throughout the city. It’s a wonderful place. The best part is, people like me - the darkies - know our role. We are one of the few cities in the south that remain truly Southern. All areas of the city are safe for white folk. And the best part about New Orleans is that white men never have to worry about running into black folk … provided they stay out of Darktown. That’s where all the blackies like me live, and that’s where we all should stay, too. We know our role and we’re quite proud of what we have accomplished. Perhaps one day - far, far in the future - niggers can be as good as white people. But, until then, come to New Orleans, where the true spirit of the South lives on.”

Grant stood out of her line of sight. He couldn’t believe it. He had figured this was simply icing on the cake, but the fact he got the great spokesperson of the black community - Black Justice - to denounce and humiliate her own race … why, this would set the black cause back 30 years. Maybe more. Hoover would probably wet his fat ass laughing when he saw this. It would certainly be the hit of those private parties in his basement.

When the lights went off, Black Justice said, “OK, now for my shot.”

“Hold on there, Black Justice,” Grant said, trying to refrain from laughing. Thompson and Bass began changing the film in the cameras, preparing for the next shot. “There’s one more thing. You see, these shots we’ve been giving you aren’t free. We have to make a little movie to help pay for it. Now, the people we deal with are very wealthy men. They want a film for their private collections and they’re willing to pay us $5,000 for it. You know what it is?”

“What?”

“It’s a film about a superheroine who is ravaged by three men. See, you would play the heroine and three men I have lined up would take advantage of you.”

“No way!” she said. “There is no WAY I would go along with that. Are you out of your mind?”

Grant chuckled. This was where he was rolling the dice. Her powers would be back any minute now and, when they returned, he would be unable to stop her. Oh, Bass had some chloroform lined up just in case, but he doubted they would be able to gas her in time. It was truly a fine line he was walking.

“Tell you what, Black Justice,” he said. “What if I gave you your shot … payment in advance … would you do it then?”

The heroine was about to dismiss it out of hand, then froze. Grant could see the inner struggle between her basically good nature and the drugs. If he had her figured out, the drugs would win. After all, wasn’t it a scientific fact that blacks were more susceptible to drug addiction? By his calculations, she had had her powers for two minutes now. But the fact that she was even thinking about the drugs showed she was vulnerable.

 “OK,” she finally said. “Give me the shot and I’ll do it.”

“Yes!” Grant thought. Calmly, he walked to the satchel he had brought with him and pulled out two tablets. These were concoctions Kohl had devised … massive amounts of heroin condensed into pill form. According to their calculations, it was enough to send the fully-charged Black Justice on a trip she would never forget.

“Here,” he said, handing them to the Ebony Avenger. “As I said, we can’t afford the real stuff, but if you take this, it’ll get you through.”

Black Justice studied the pills carefully, shrugged her shoulders and popped them in her mouth. She took a swallow of water to wash them down

Before long, the heroine began to show the effects of the massive dose.

 “It … it’s better than EVER!!” she exclaimed. “Better than anything I could have IMAGINED!!” Thompson began filming again as Bass led her towards the bed.

Grant approached Anita as she lay on the bed. “OK, Black Justice, remember, we need to film this scene. These men are going to ravage you, so just imagine you’ve been captured and you’re being ravaged.”

The heroine mumbled what Grant took to be an affirmative response. He walked to the door, leaving the costumed heroine literally rolling in ecstasy. He opened it and ushered in three nude black men. He handed each of them a black hood they were to put on to hide their face.

“Now, fellas, she’s all yours. Two things - no permanent marks and all masks - yours included - stay on. If a mask comes off, I kill you, understand?”

The three men - Dwayne, Darrel and Tyrell - all agreed. All three were men Black Justice had arrested at one time or another. They had been picked for having above-average in intelligence (hence, they were more likely to follow directions) and reputations for not keeping a secret.

It didn’t take long for them to get in the spirit of the event. In fact, Predator had choreographed who was to do what. And it showed up well on film.

First, Darrel ripped off her cape and used it to tie her hands. Dwayne pulled off her boots and Tyrell began removing her skirt. Once the cape was off and her hands were tied, Darrel used a knife to cut off her top, exposing her breasts. He then held the knife to her mask, threatening to cut it off. It looked good on film, but Black Justice was too tripped out to really notice and Darrel KNEW he wasn’t about to cut it off.

Tyrell and Dwayne double-teamed pulling her black shorts off, leaving her panties in place. They turned her around to face the camera and all three men put their cocks in her face. Darrel, with the knife, ordered her, “Start sucking, bitch!”

Black Justice was slowly coming down. Her powers had negated some of the effects of the heroin - otherwise, it would have killed her - but now she was clearing back into focus. She noticed her predicament and worried that her powers were gone, so she picked Dwayne’s 7-inch hard cock and started sucking.

As Dwayne enjoyed the pleasure, Darrel moved down between her thighs and snipped the panties off, exposing her black-haired pussy. He moved between her legs and started licking.

This surprised Anita. No one had ever done that before and she was startled to discover how nice it felt. Despite herself, she was getting aroused.

Tyrell moved behind the heroine and began massaging her breasts, making her nipples stand on end. He then leaned forward started sucking on them.

Bass was beside himself. Over the past week, he had begun lusting after the heroine. Still, Grant had ordered “hands off.” Now, seeing these black studs work her over, was too much. She was sucking a cock, getting eaten out and having her nipples serviced, and all he had was a raging hard-on.

Grant was surprised by Black Justice’s performance. During their Q&A, she had said her greatest fear was to become like her mother … a whore who turned tricks for money to buy drugs. Now, here was the great Black Avenger, making a smut film to make money to feed her heroin habit. Oh, she may not call it that … but after today she probably would.

Darrel stood up and replaced his tongue with his cock, slowly sliding in and out. “Shit, bitch, you’re tight! Ain’t you never had a man?!?”

Black Justice pulled her head away from Dwayne and muttered, “One.” Then she went back to the task at hand, bobbing her head up and down on Dwayne’s dick.

Tyrell wanted in on the action. Breaking the rules, he untied her hands and moved back in front of her. He brought one of her hands to his groin and started her stroking him. Black Justice moved the other hand to cup Dwayne’s balls. It was too good to be true for everyone involved.

Except Black Justice.

With a sudden burst, she moved her head off Dwayne’s cock, wrapped her legs around Darrel and squeezed the private areas of Dwayne and Tyrell. All three men began howling in pain. She threw them aside in a casual fashion, and they ran for the door.

“Play time is over!” she yelled. She covered the ground between the bed and Bass in less than a second. He had no chance as she punched him … perhaps too hard … in the mouth. Blood started gushing from where his teeth used to be as he hit the ground, unconscious.

Thompson alertly grabbed the chloroform. He poured some on the rag, but Black Justice was too quick. “Let’s see how YOU like this, jerk!” She easily wrestled the rag from him and shoved it in his face. Before long, he was out.

All that left was Predator. But he was nowhere to be found. The heroine gathered what was left of her costume and put it back together. Once she was covered enough to be seen in public without being arrested, she tied up Thompson and Bass. Then she destroyed the film of her gangbang. However, her “monologue” was nowhere to be found.

Thompson finally began to come around. “Wh … what happened?”

“You and your friends got a taste of what’s coming for the next 25 years,” Black Justice said.

“B-but how?!?”

“Fool, I didn’t really take those pills,” she said. “You think I can’t FEEL when I’ve got my powers? Shoot, I just palmed the pills and dropped them under the pillows on the bed when I was rolling around. You guys never suspected a thing.”

The heroine turned serious. “Now, you pinhead, where is that film? I want it all!”

Thompson looked around, then slowly started laughing. Black Justice felt like punching him, but held back. Finally, he said, “Predator must have taken it. He’s long gone by now.”

Black Justice cursed herself. She should have gone after him first … he was the most dangerous one … but she took the nearest ones instead. It’s a mistake she wouldn’t make again. As it was, she was lucky to escape.

CHAPTER XI

After locating a phone in the house, Black Justice called O’Reilly. It was a gamble … perhaps he had been the one who set her up … but she took it anyway. Her police friend was overjoyed to hear from her and, upon learning of her location, dispatched two cars (in addition to his own) to pick her up.

On the way back, he told Black Justice about what happened, how the FBI agents at the orphanage had ditched him and how he had just worried, but had no idea how to help. She told him little of her ordeal, just that it was too terrible to talk about. O’Reilly had seen enough to know the possibilities and gently asked if she wanted to see a doctor. The superheroine thanked him, but refused.

Over the next week, Black Justice spent little time on patrol. She made a few appearances, just to let people know she was back in the neighborhood, but nothing major. Basically, she needed time to heal, mentally more than physically.

***

Tuesday, nearly two weeks after her escape, she received a letter. It was from the FBI in Washington, D.C.

“Dear Ms. Washington:

I can not tell you how disappointed I was to hear from Special Agent Anderson that you plan to support the President’s position to eliminate the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Over the past 20 years, we have worked hard to protect this great nation from external, as well as internal, disruptive forces.

At first, I thought your decision to back President Truman was one of loyalty. Then Special Agent Anderson told me it was because of your ties to the Negro community. However, I have received a film that would seem to contradict Agent Anderson’s report. If this is you on the film, perhaps he simply misunderstood your intentions.

Regardless, I believe in offering everyone a second opportunity. I hope you reconsider your position and recognize the value of the FBI. If not, I wish you the best in all your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

J.E. Hoover
Executive Director
Federal Bureau of Investigation”

Although the threats were veiled, Anita saw through it very quickly. Predator worked for Hoover. First, the mailing to her secret identity. Second, the mention of the film. Anita fell onto the sofa … too stunned to act. She called in sick that day. She thought she might be sick the rest of her life.

***

Later that evening, Black Justice went on patrol for what she thought would be the last time. She visited O’Reilly and made sure everything was OK. They tied up a few loose ends on a couple of cases and generally commented on how nice and slow it was in “Darktown.”

“Look, Sarge, there’s something I’ve been thinking about,” she began.

He remained silent. He had noticed a change over the past weeks and knew what his friend was going through was a private hell. It pained him that there was nothing he could do to help.

“I … I think I’m going to take some time off,” she said. “I haven’t been doing too well of late and … well, I’m having problems. Frankly, I don’t know when or if I’ll be back.”

O’Reilly studied her, concern etched on his face. Finally, he spoke. “Justice, I wish there was something I could say that would help take some of the hurt away. Eileen and I have talked about it every night … how, but for the grace of God, it could have been me. But there isn’t. All I can tell you is this. I understand. I don’t know what happened to you in Donaldsonville and I don’t want to know. But if it’s as bad as I think it was, no one would blame you.”

“Thanks,” she began. “I really appreci-“

O’Reilly held up his hand, interrupting her. “Let me say one last thing. If you do decide to hang it up, I just want you to know that you are the best damned law enforcement officer I’ve ever come across. And it has been a pleasure working with you.”

Black Justice smiled as an awkward silence hung between them. Neither knew whether to hug the other or shake hands. So instead, they did nothing. A ringing phone broke the silence.

“I … better take this,” O’Reilly said.

“And I better go. Look, you be careful, OK?”

“You, too.” The sergeant turned his chair to pick up the phone. After three sentences, he turned back around, but the heroine was gone.

***

The last person Black Justice would visit was Reverend Edwards. She wanted to make sure everyone in the community knew how much she appreciated their support and that she would be there in spirit, if not in body. She thanked him again for the rally … how it meant a lot to know the community was behind her and how it was something she would always treasure.

“Well, of course we’re behind you,” he said. “You’re a reflection of this community and all that’s good about it. But what’s this about quitting? Surely you don’t think your job is done?!?”

Black Justice shook her head, then began crying. The minister wasn’t sure what to do. Here was the most powerful person he knew, weeping uncontrollably. Feebly, he offered her his handkerchief. She took it, then said, “Reverend … there’s something I have to tell you.”

Over the next 90 minutes, Reverend Edwards listened to the horrifying tale the heroine told. Every last detail that she could recall, and some she thought were real, but couldn’t swear to. Black Justice told him everything, except the denouncement of her own community. She couldn’t bear to tell him that … at least, not yet. And she didn’t dare tell him of the involvement of the FBI. There was no need to bring him into the equation. It wouldn’t serve any good, as he was already anti-Hoover. And her decision to go along with Hoover - if that’s what she decided - was no concern of his.

When she was done, the minister simply put his arms around the heroine and hugged her. “Sister, you have born more than your fair share with this one,” he said. “It would be easy for me to say, ‘There, there … everything will be all right.’ But this might not be true. There’s a man out there who knows you … everything about you. And there’s no telling what he will do. All I will tell you is this: The Lord tells us he will not give us anything for which we are not ready. Do you know what that means? It means, you can handle this. You WILL handle this. Because, sister Justice, you have AMAZING strength.

“Now, as far as you giving it all up, I don’t know. That is your cross to bear and no one can make those decisions for you. But I believe … no, I KNOW … God gave you these talents for a purpose. And what you and I think that purpose may be, well, it may not be God’s purpose. What I do know is that you are doing an awful lot of good here in this community. People are better because of you, and I can’t imagine God doesn’t want that. So you just hang in there, Sister. And know that, no matter what, you can come to me. I’ll help you.”

Black Justice hugged the minister one more time and thanked him again for listening. As she left, the heroine realized something - she felt good. For the first time in nearly three weeks, she actually felt good.
 
EPILOGUE

J. Edgar Hoover and Clyde Tolson were dining, as usual, in the Dawn’s Break Suites for lunch. Hoover had been beside himself all day, but he had refused to share his joy with his partner until lunch.

“OK, Edgar, I’ll bite,” Tolson began. “What is it?”

Hoover reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a letter. “This was sent to me by Anderson in New Orleans.” He opened it, glanced over it one more time, then handed it to Tolson, who began reading it.

“Mr. Hoover,

I received your letter and understand completely. The FBI has long been an institution I respect and will continue to do so. Obviously, Special Agent Anderson misunderstood what Black Justice meant. But as Black Justice is now dead, it no longer matters what she actually meant.

I apologize for any troubles I may have caused and assure you that is behind me. The only thing I want is a quiet, peaceful existence. I wish only good things for the FBI, as I’m sure it will be around a long time now.

Sincerely,

Anita Washington

P.S.: I would appreciate it if you would return the film you mentioned to me. My word is my bond and I promise you will have no more trouble from me. However, that film would devastate many people besides myself. No good can come from it, so please send it to me or destroy it. Thank you.”

Tolson put the letter down and shook his head.

“Are you going to send her the film?”

Hoover chuckled. “Sure I will. I’ll send her the one with Sam Giancarlo.”

“NO!” Tolson exclaimed in mock disbelief. “You wouldn’t!”

“Of course I would,” Hoover laughed. “And I’d tell her if I ever hear from her again, this film goes to every church in that rotten city.” He paused and took a sip of water. “The film she’s talking about - the ‘confession’ - it stays with me. After all, that’s what power is all about, right? Power is about having a big club, but knowing that the THREAT of the big club is often more powerful than the club itself.”

“And Grant?”

“Taken care of in the usual way,” Hoover answered. “His bill was a little steeper this time, but he knocked off 15 percent for running past the deadline. Still, he asked an odd thing - he asked if I would object if he went after Wonder Woman. I told him I would neither support, nor criticize his endeavors … as long as there was no linkage to the FBI.”

“Is that a good idea, Edgar?” Tolson asked.

“I don’t think he was really serious,” Hoover replied. “I think it was just heat-of-the-battle stuff. I left explicit instructions that he is to call me before he acts. After all, we wouldn’t want to have her doing something for us only to have him take her out of action for a period of time, would we?”

Tolson and Hoover both chuckled as lunch was served. Hoover took a bite of his sandwich, wiped his mouth, then put Anita’s letter back in his pocket. “Yes, Clyde … things are certainly looking up.”