CHAPTER 28: [28] THE RED-HAIRED MENACE STRIKES BACK

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The night sky above Hotaru Town was black and starless, as if the heavens themselves had turned their backs on Hardy’s domain. Pierre crouched beneath a service grate three blocks from the town square.

This is insane, he thought, adjusting the small glass vial of aqua fortis secured in his jacket pocket. I’m about to crawl through sewers to vandalize a statue because some fictional tyrant hurt a little girl’s feelings.

But Mika’s face floated through his mind—the way she’d flinched when Alyssa entered the restaurant, the tremor in her voice when she mentioned her father’s imprisonment. That wasn’t fiction. That was real terror, carved into a ten-year-old’s features by months of systematic cruelty.

He could hear the Naval base half a mile away, searchlights sweeping the perimeter in lazy arcs. Pierre could see uniformed figures moving between buildings, their voices carrying on the wind as they coordinated another sweep for the "Red-Haired Menace."

They have no idea what’s coming.

Pierre lifted the grate and dropped into the maintenance tunnel below. The blueprints had been accurate—a network of service corridors connected every major building in the government district. Hardy’s engineers had designed them for repairs and utility access, never imagining they’d become highways for saboteurs.

The tunnel stretched ahead in both directions, lit by emergency bulbs that cast everything in sickly yellow light. Pipes ran along the ceiling, dripping condensation that echoed in the confined space. The air smelled of rust and stagnant water, with an underlying chemical tang that made Pierre’s nose wrinkle.

He moved quickly, boots splashing through shallow puddles that reflected the overhead lighting.

A distant rumble echoed through the tunnels—machinery starting up somewhere in the Naval complex. Raven’s show would begin any moment.

He reached another junction and consulted the mental map he’d memorized from the blueprints. Left led to the administrative district. Right curved toward the harbor. Straight ahead terminated beneath the town square, directly under Hardy’s monument.

Pierre chose straight ahead.

The tunnel narrowed as he progressed, forcing him to duck under low-hanging pipes. Water damage had warped some of the support beams, and more than once he had to squeeze through gaps barely wide enough for his enhanced frame. Whoever had built this system clearly hadn’t expected regular human traffic.

BOOM.

The first explosion echoed through the tunnels, rattling pipes and sending dust cascading from the ceiling. Pierre grinned despite himself. Raven’s smoke devices were right on schedule.

His radio—lifted from the unfortunate Diana during their encounter—crackled to life.

"Base Command, this is Perimeter Seven. We’ve got multiple detonations near the western supply depot. Repeat, multiple detonations. Looks like coordinated sabotage."

"Copy that, Perimeter Seven. All units converge on the western wall. Threat level escalated to Code Red."

Raven’s voice came through next, disguised but recognizable to Pierre’s ears. She’d somehow acquired a radio frequency and was feeding false intelligence to the base’s communication network.

"Command, this is Patrol Team Delta. We’ve got visual on at least three infiltrators moving through the supply yards. They’re armed and dangerous. Request immediate backup."

"Roger, Delta. Dispatching all available units to your position."

The tunnel began to slope upward. According to the blueprints, he was approaching the substructure beneath the monument itself. Pierre spotted a maintenance ladder leading to a ceiling access panel.

He climbed, his grip slipping on rungs slick with a cold, greasy condensation. At the top, he pressed his ear against the access panel and listened. Silence above—no footsteps, no voices, just the distant chaos from the Naval base.

Pierre eased the panel open and emerged into a cramped space beneath the town square’s foundation. Emergency lighting cast strange shadows across concrete supports and steel reinforcement beams. And there, directly ahead, rose the massive foundation of Hardy’s monument.

Holy shit.

Up close, the statue’s base was a titan’s throne, tons of bronze held aloft by a brutish network of steel and concrete.

Through Pierre’s enhanced vision, the truth bled through. He saw a web of micro-fractures spiderwebbing through the concrete, hidden stress points glowing a faint, angry red. He saw the discolored bloom of corrosion weeping from joints that should have been sealed. Hardy hadn’t built a monument; he’d built a gilded facade, all for show.

Raven had explained the process during their planning session. A few drops on each critical joint, let the acid work overnight, and by morning the metal would be compromised beyond repair. The statue would collapse under its own weight during Hardy’s ceremony, humiliating the tyrant in front of the entire town.

Pierre approached the first stress point—a critical junction where three support beams met. The metal was already showing signs of wear, tiny rust spots that would help the acid penetrate deeper. He uncorked the vial and carefully applied three drops to the joint.

The aqua fortis hissed as it contacted the metal, sending up thin wisps of acrid smoke. Pierre watched as the liquid began eating through the steel, creating hairline fractures that spread outward from the point of contact.

One down, five to go.

He moved to the next junction, repeating the process. Each application felt like inserting a time bomb into the statue’s structural integrity. By dawn, they would be ghosts of their former strength. The slightest shudder—a gust of wind, a passing cart—and the whole thing would buckle.

The thought of Hardy’s face when his precious statue toppled brought a grin to Pierre’s lips. All that arrogance, all that cruelty, reduced to rubble in front of his subjects. It wouldn’t solve everything, but it would be a start.

THUD.

Pierre froze. Heavy footsteps echoed through the square above, accompanied by the jingle of equipment and the low murmur of voices. A patrol.

Shit. They’re supposed to be chasing Raven’s ghosts.

He pressed himself against the concrete foundation, heart hammering as the footsteps passed directly overhead. The voices were clearer now—two men discussing the explosions at the base.

"...think it’s really saboteurs?"

"Has to be. Command doesn’t call Code Red for training exercises." The second voice was older, more experienced. "Probably pirates. They’ve been getting bolder lately."

"What about the red-haired guy? Think he’s connected?"

"One troublemaker doesn’t coordinate a multi-point assault. This is bigger than some punk who grabbed the Captain’s daughter’s ass."

I DID WHAT?!?

The footsteps continued across the square, growing fainter. Pierre waited until he couldn’t hear them anymore before resuming his work. Four more stress points to go.

The third and fourth applications went smoothly, but as Pierre approached the fifth junction, his hearing picked up something that made his blood run cold.

More footsteps. Multiple sets this time, and they were heading straight for the square.

Pierre ducked behind a concrete support beam as voices drifted down through the access grates above.

"Spread out and check every shadow. If there are saboteurs in the area, this square would be a prime target."

"Yes, sir. What about the monument?"

"Triple the perimeter. Nobody gets within fifty feet of the Captain’s statue."

Fuck.

Pierre had two more stress points to treat, but the square was filling with guards. He could hear them taking positions, their equipment clanking as they settled in for what sounded like an extended watch.

He checked his pocket watch. 2:15 AM. Raven’s distraction was working, but not perfectly. Some patrols had stayed behind to guard critical assets.

Think. What would Raven do?

She’d told him during their planning session that the key to any operation was adaptability. When circumstances changed, you changed with them. Fighting the situation was how amateurs got caught.

Pierre studied the remaining stress points. Two joints on the monument’s eastern side, both critical to the statue’s structural integrity. If he could weaken those, the other damaged joints might be enough to bring the whole thing down.

But reaching them would require crossing open ground while guards patrolled overhead.

Or...

Pierre’s gaze followed the network of support beams and concrete foundations. The square’s substructure was more extensive than the blueprints had indicated. If he could reach the eastern access tunnel, he might be able to approach those stress points from a different angle.

He began moving through the shadows beneath the square, using the concrete supports as cover. Every step had to be silent, every movement calculated. Above him, boots scraped against cobblestones as the guards maintained their patrol patterns.

The eastern tunnel was smaller than the main access route, barely wide enough for Pierre’s shoulders. But it led exactly where he needed to go—directly beneath the monument’s most vulnerable support structure.

Pierre emerged into a cramped maintenance alcove and found himself face-to-face with the statue’s primary load-bearing assembly. Massive steel beams converged here, carrying the full weight of Hardy’s bronze ego. If these joints failed, nothing else would matter.

He uncorked the aqua fortis again and applied generous amounts to both remaining stress points. The acid hissed and bubbled, eating through metal with hungry efficiency. Within minutes, hairline cracks appeared throughout the joint assembly.

Tomorrow, Hardy’s legacy would crumble before the applause even began.