Peter and Ned happily watched the police scanner, listening in on all the reports and pointing out each place where the reports were coming in. Their Saturday's had gone from Legos and Disney movie marathons to patrolling New York's most shady neighborhoods and discussing the best way to set fractures wrists, sew bullet holes, and pack stab wounds.

"-Johnson and 3rd, we have a 10-57, possible 53. All available units in area to report."

Ned and Peter scoured their minds for a moment. They were still learning what the crime codes were. They had most of the common ones down - 13's were requests for weather and road reports, and 91's were stray animals and other wildlife - but some of the more obscure, less common ones were harder to remember.

"10-57 is a gun shot, right?" Peter asked, Googling it on Ned's desktop computer.

Ned nodded. "And I think a 53 is a person down. It's either that or a dead body."

"Jesus Christ."

Peter pulled out his backpack and dug around for his suit. It was just a red sweat shirt, some red and blue jogging pants, and a pair of skiing goggles to cover part of his face. He pulled off his shirt and started changing while Ned pulled out the ear piece and headset he'd rigged up for them to stay in contact and passed it over to Peter, who quickly turned it on, put it in, and pulled on his leggings.

"Ready?" Ned asked.

"Almost always," Peter replied, then he dove out the window and swung away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Johnson and 3rd was practically a war zone when Peter got there. Police cars were parked across the streets, cutting off traffic, and their red and blue lights flashed off street signs and windows. Peter crouched behind a rooftop generator, then crept over the wall, down to the fire escape, and flipped over to the opposite building. He tried to stay as quiet and out of sight as possible. The police weren't big fans just yet.

Teams of officers dressed in riot gear and bullet-proof vests were marching around the outside of one particular building. Peter had seen enough police raids to know it was probably where the first shots were fired from. He made his way to the building's roof, climbed down the side, and slipped through the first open window he could find.

It was an office. An office in row with many other offices in a dark hall. From the looks of things, it was an abandoned part of the building - no furniture, no people, no coffee left over from the morning budget meeting.

Peter headed down the stairs, carefully listening for any-

There. A few floors down, there was a noise like a computer's fan whirling, but louder. So much louder. Peter headed that way, ducking under windows to stay out of sight from the police outside and skirting the shadowy parts of the halls.

The door squealed a little as Peter pushed it open, but it was masked by the noise of the machinery in the room. It was a factory belt, like ones you might see in an assembly line. From the looks of things, half-finished explosives were moving down the line from one man to another, each one adding a fuse or a dollop of putty.

Peter's eyes scanned the room, settling on what appeared to be the man in charge, and the body at his feet.

"Get this cleaned up."

Another man scurried forward from where he was standing behind the man in charge and began to drag the body away.

"Make sure those are being packed right. I want everything to move smoothly."

"Sir, there's police outside."

The man in charge turned to look at the person who had just reported the police outside, revealing a tattoo down the side of his face. "Oh, really? I couldn't tell from the sirens and flashing lights."

The man who had spoken up about the police shrunk back.

"Speed it up, boys. Yakov says the police are here."

There were a few scattered laughs around the room. The man with the tattoo turned back to Yakov, the man who had mentioned the police, and grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer. "Are you itching for a bullet, too?"

Yakov's eyes flickered over to the body being dragged across the room.

"No, sir."

"I didn't think so. Just do your fucking job and don't get all moral on me. I'll report you to the executives you you can't handle it."

The man with the tattoo released Yakov. "I just want to get out of this fucking city."

A few of the men hummed in agreement as they packed away explosives. There was a noise, like metal being snapped and glass breaking, and everyone froze for a moment.

"Shit. How many do we have?"

"Nearly a hundred, sir."

The man nodded. "That'll be enough to take it down. Take those upstairs, load them up."

Everyone began to move around, some lifting boxes of explosives and running to the elevators and stairs, others quickly picking up their materials.

"I want those split into groups when we get back to the base, okay? We need at least 20 at the base, then another 10 on each floor until we run out. Star Tower is practically a fortress, there's so much goddamn metal in the supports."

Peter's blood ran cold and his mind began to race. Thoughts swirled, then blurred together into a static of anxiety. These men were going to... His father...

Peter didn't remember moving, but he did. There were 4 men down by the time the rest realized what was going on, and Peter was moving fast on the leader of the gang.

There was a crescendo of gun fire as the man tried to land a hit on Peter, but the teen was flying through the air, dodging each and every bullet as he let his senses take over and followed their lead. He got close enough to land a punch, sending the man sprawling into the wall as blood splattered across his face. Peter was almost instantly surrounded by men, each one packing a gun.

Knowing defeat was inevitable if he stuck around, Peter shot a couple webs and scurried across the ceiling, dodging stray gun fire, and disappeared through the stair well.

One of the men went to help the man with the tattoo up. "I want that kid found," the man said through gritted teeth as he reset his nose. "I want that kid captured. I want that kid killed."