The tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a letter opener.

  "I am sorry, Waldo," the Mayor declared solemnly. "You must perish here, so that Rockville might have a future."

  The Goons had him surrounded, weapons raised, their sticky fingers twitching on the triggers.

  Waldo, ever composed, adjusted his bowler hat with the same care one might reserve for folding a fine silk handkerchief. He released a slow, weary sigh.

  "I daresay, Mayor," Waldo replied, his voice smooth as polished marble, "I suspected as much. Your silver-tongued promises were naught but empty air from the very beginning. You have betrayed the good folk of Rockville by crawling into bed with common criminals.

  He took a step forward, utterly unfazed by the dozen barrels pointed at his chest.

  "And I fear… none of you shall live to boast of it."

  The Goons erupted in raucous laughter, slapping each other on the back like they’d already won.

  The Mayor, however, looked far less confident, wiping the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.

  One of the Goons stepped forward, spitting on the floor with a crooked grin.

  "Oi, listen to 'im, lads! Right proper, this one thinks he is!"

  He leaned in, his sneer widening.

  "But tell us, little detective… what’s a fancy gent like you gonna do, eh? Yer boxed in, you are. One wrong step, and we’ll be puttin' more holes in ya than a block o' Swiss cheese, old man."

  Waldo adjusted his sleeves with deliberate care, his gaze cold and calculating as he regarded the encircling thugs.

  Then, with the faintest lift of his lips, he spoke. Softly, yet with the weight of absolute certainty.

  "I fear you are mistaken, gentlemen… for it is you who find yourselves trapped here… with me."

  Without another word, Waldo raised a gloved hand.

  A blinding light burst forth, brilliant and sharp as the noonday sun on polished brass.

  In the chaos that followed, Waldo moved like a wraith, precise, silent, dreadfully efficient.

  One by one, the Goons fell, never quite knowing by whose hand they had met their end.

  And when the light at last vanished, only Waldo remained standing, his hat untouched, his coat unwrinkled, as though not a single drop of effort had been spent.

  Turning to the Mayor, who now stood pale and trembling, Waldo gave a small, almost courteous incline of his head.

  "I fear the hour has come, Mr. Mayor," Waldo declared, voice low and deliberate. "You have betrayed the trust of the good people of Rockville… and I am here to see that you pay the proper price, as any traitor must."

  The Mayor straightened his jacket, his face strangely calm despite the chaos that lay around him.

  "Waldo… you must understand," he said quietly. "I did what was necessary for Rockville. If you remain… nothing will prosper."

  He took a slow breath and reached into his coat, revealing a small metal device with a single red button.

  "I am sorry, Waldo," he whispered, almost like a man delivering a eulogy. "But today… today marks the end for us both."

  With that, he pressed the button.

  BOOM.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Explosions erupted throughout City Hall, one after another, shaking the very walls.

  But Waldo... Waldo was nothing if not prepared.

  He spun on his heel and dashed toward the nearest window, coat tails fluttering like the wings of some terrible bird of judgment.

  The Mayor lunged to stop him, but Waldo, ever the sharper man, sidestepped with ease and sent him sprawling with a single push.

  As the old fool struggled to rise, Waldo paused at the shattered window and tipped his hat one final time.

  "Do try to shed a few pounds in hell, Mr. Mayor," he said dryly. "And fear not… the rest of your criminal friends shall not be long in joining you."

  And with that, Waldo leapt into the night, leaving the burning ruins of City Hall behind.

  The final wave of destruction struck just as Waldo made his escape.

  City Hall collapsed behind him in a thunderous cascade of stone, timber, and flame.

  Waldo landed heavily upon the street below. Slowly, he adjusted his posture, dusted his sleeves, and turned to observe the blazing ruin.

  He removed his hat, holding it briefly to his chest in silent reflection.

  "Such a grievous end to so noble a place," he murmured softly.

  For several moments, he stood there, bathed in the glow of the fire, until he replaced his hat with quiet resolve.

  "I shall see you restored, dear Rockville… or die in the undertaking."

  With steady hands, he withdrew a brass wireless from his inner coat pocket. He tuned it carefully, adjusting the dial until the static gave way to a harsh, gravelly voice.

  "Ha! Waldo. I have not heard your voice in long time, comrade," the man rumbled, thick with a Russian accent. "What madness brings you crawling back, eh? You finally admit you need me?"

  Waldo let out a long, weary sigh. Just hearing that voice again seemed to sap the very life from him.

  "Vladislav… old friend," Waldo said, his tone like that of a man preparing to sip cold tea. "I fear I must call in that favor you owe me… you do recall Thailand, I trust?"

  A burst of shrill, almost unhinged laughter erupted through the receiver, forcing Waldo to pull the wireless away from his ear with a pained wince.

  "Of course, comrade! I have waited years for this moment!" Vladislav bellowed. "Finally, you call! Finally, we make big noise again! HAHAHA!"

  Waldo pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering softly under his breath,

  "Good heavens… you are as exhausting as ever."

  Composing himself, he returned the wireless to his ear.

  "I require the old team, Vladislav. Every last one of them," Waldo declared firmly. "It is time to reclaim Rockville… and rid her of the Slime Mafia once and for all."

  For a brief moment, only the hiss of static answered him.

  Then Vladislav spoke again, his voice lower, more serious. "Da… I can gather them, comrade. But… you should know. Perkins… is dead. Finland. He did not make it back."

  Waldo’s breath caught, his eyes narrowing in quiet grief.

  "Perkins…"

  Jason Perkins.

  Brother-in-arms.

  A man with whom Waldo had shared more battles than he could count.

  It had been years since they had spoken… but this was not how he had imagined hearing his name again.

  He released a slow breath, tipping his hat in silent remembrance.

  "A bitter loss… but such is the nature of our work," Waldo replied softly. "Do see to it that his family receives my deepest condolences."

  Vladislav’s voice returned, quieter now. Almost… respectful.

  "Of course, comrade. His family is safe. They are under Black Cross protection. No harm will ever come to them. I swear it."

  The frequency crackled again, faint static breaking the pause, until Vladislav continued, his energy suddenly rising.

  "Smith. Paulson. Rodriguez. Takemura."

  He chuckled darkly.

  "All alive. All ready. The old Black Cross Phantom Team shall rise again!"

  Waldo heard him inhale sharply on the other end, as if the sheer excitement was too much to contain.

  "And us, comrade!" Vladislav roared. "Vladislav Lebedev… and Waldo Rockstone! Hah! By all that is holy, I wish to load my rifle right now and put holes in every filthy criminal we find! Tell me… tell me, comrade… may we blow things up? Please say yes!"

  Waldo let out the longest sigh known to man.

  "Yes, Vladislav," he replied, utterly drained. "You may blow up… whatever you like… once we uncover the Slime Mafia’s lair."

  "YES! HAH! HAHAHA! That’s how it’s done!" Vladislav bellowed, the static nearly splitting Waldo’s eardrum.

  "We meet outside Rockville in two days. I shall send you signal soon, precise location. No rats sneaking in, da? Until then… try not to get yourself killed, comrade!"

  Waldo pressed his gloved fingers to his temple, exhaling slowly.

  "Understood. I shall await the signal. Waldo… out."

  The radio hissed to silence.

  Waldo stood alone in the smoky ruins, gazing into the burning remains of Rockville’s heart.

  A change was coming. A change that ought to have come long ago…

  The Black Cross Phantom Team.

  The men who had raised nations… and toppled them.

  Who had steered the tides of wars.

  Who had slain emperors, kings, and tyrants without leaving a trace.

  Once, they had ruled the world from the shadows.

  And now… they would rise again.

  All to save Rockville.

  Waldo slipped a silver case from his coat, drew a single cigar, and lit it with the tip of his cane.

  He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl through the night air.

  "Let us hope," he muttered, "the cure is not worse than the disease."

  Just then, the distant growl of engines reached his ears.

  Vehicles were approaching. Reinforcements, no doubt.

  Time to vanish.

  Waldo turned on his heel and melted into the alleyways of the city.

  And as he disappeared into the night, one thought weighed heavier than all the rest:

  I could only pray that all would end well…

  But nothing ever did in Rockville.

  My most esteemed readers,

  For I dare say, dear reader, the Black Cross Phantom Team, legends in their own right, shall soon make their long-awaited return. And what a dreadful reunion it shall be.

  Your faithful servant,

  Detective Waldo Rockstone