The next second, Maguire walked to the window and looked at his hand. "Gotta admit, handing out slaps feels pretty great. No wonder certain clowns never get tired of it." Then he shot up into the sky.
An hour later, a woman in a business suit entered Jameson's office—and found his corpse still kneeling on the floor. Jameson disliked noise; his office used special soundproof glass, so no one outside had heard his screams.
Night fell. Maguire stepped into a small pizza shop. It wasn't big, but the old-fashioned décor gave it a distinct charm. Back in the day, Peter used to come here for coffee. The hand-brewed stuff really was rich. Today, Maguire didn't feel like a noisy bar, so he came here instead.
As he savored the coffee, his phone rang. A sly smile touched his lips and he answered.
At S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, Egghead—Nick Fury—watched Black Widow, Natasha. Minutes earlier, word of Daily Bugle owner Jameson's murder had reached them. Given Jameson's profile and the strangeness of the case—very likely a superhuman—S.H.I.E.L.D. took it. That same morning, the Bugle had run a smear on Maguire, so they suspected he might have done it. Fury told Natasha to call and confirm.
When the call connected, Natasha hurried before he could say anything reckless. "It's Natasha. Maguire, does the death of the Bugle's owner, Jameson, have anything to do with you?"
Maguire's tone was blasé. "If it does, it means I killed him. Do I need to explain myself to you?"
Fury's brow knotted; he gestured for Natasha to cut the line. Worried he'd drop a quote for the ages, she hung up at once.
"Director, should we initiate an arrest op?" Natasha asked.
"Arrest who? Are you kidding me?" Fury sighed. "You know how to handle this. And give Maguire a warning—don't let this happen again."
Seeing Fury forced to swallow that, Natasha couldn't help a flicker of amusement. He didn't get humbled often.
Back in the pizza shop, Maguire stared at his ended call, a spark of irritation in his eyes. "Well, aren't you bold—hanging up on me. Fine. We'll see how I handle you next time."
Just then, a loving couple walked in. The woman had long brown hair and a tall frame—nothing else remarkable at a glance. They ordered at the counter and sat—by chance—right behind Maguire.
The owner was an elderly, white-haired man named Stan Lee. The name had a certain ring to it; looked like the old guy might dabble in other "business" someday. He gave the couple a tense, unnatural look.
The back door swung open. A young man dressed like a delivery boy came in.
"Another coffee," Maguire said. The pizza was nothing special, but the coffee hit the spot. Rare mood today; he'd have a second cup.
The youth jogged to the bar to make it. Stan Lee frowned, clearly torn.
A moment later the youth carried the cup over to Maguire, head down, weighed by thoughts. The brunette woman in the couple suddenly noticed him and shot to her feet.
At the sound of her voice, Maguire looked up. The young man, "Bruce," lifted his head toward her. Shock flashed across his face, followed by a surge of barely contained emotion—and then, deep, stinging despair. His hand slackened and the cup fell.
Crack—the mug shattered.
Bruce turned away, trying to leave in a hurry—when a big hand clamped around his wrist.
"You spilled my coffee. Aren't you going to buy me another?" Maguire said.
Bruce yanked hard, but the grip was like an iron vise.
The woman reached him, voice trembling. "Bruce, it's me—Betty. Why are you running?"
Bruce glanced at Maguire. The next moment, Maguire said, "No can do. Sit with me and have a cup. I feel like we'll get along."
Bruce looked back at him, puzzled.
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