Crack the Whip

It was a very quiet and low-scale funeral for someone who used to be such a prominent citizen. Gwen Stacy could only count her family and a few of the deceased's former business relations, the most prominent of which was chemical magnate Norman Osborn. None of her friends had wanted to come, repelled as they were by the deceased's fairly open support of mutant registration. A few members of the press had initially come, wanting to cover the memorial services of the man publicly associated with the gang war that had recently torn through New York City, but Norman Osborn's intimidating presence had been enough to drive them away.

Otherwise, George Stacy was not mourned or missed by many, and indeed his daughter Gwen realized that she probably wouldn't have come either if she hadn't been related to him. Murdered by the supervillain Jack O'Lantern after his involvement in the gang war was made public, George s life had gone steadily downhill ever since he had been outed as an anti-mutant activist by the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. Once it became known that he had bankrolled human hate groups like the Friends of Humanity and Humanity's Last Stand, many of George's clients had deserted him, since they didn't care to be associated with a known anti-mutant activist, even if they'd shared his views. Desperate to maintain his wealth and upscale lifestyle, George had begun selling his skills to the New York mobs, before apparently triggering a gang war that had ultimately led to his disgrace and murder.

Now, all George Stacy had to show for his years of work and effort was public disgrace and humiliation, driven home by the less than ten mourners who had bothered to show up for his funeral.

She felt ashamed of herself for thinking so, but at the back of her mind a small part of Gwen felt there was a certain poetic justice in that.

SPIDER-WOMAN #28

"CRACK THE WHIP"

Gwen and her family gathered back at the Stacys' townhouse to get some dinner, as well as to catch up after a while. It was a family-only affair, as Osborn and the other businessmen who'd come to pay their respects hadn't really known any of the Stacys and didn't want to intrude. None of Gwen's friends had come either, respecting the family's desire to be left alone.

Despite everything that had happened, the dinner's mood was lightened by the one participant who was neither a woman nor named Stacy. Despite his advanced age, Stanley Lieber still had a merry twinkle in his eye and a warm, affable smile. His horn-rimmed glasses, thick moustache, salt-and-pepper hair and penchant for dark-toned plaid shirts never seemed to change, but that was what his daughter Helen Lieber-Stacy and his granddaughter Gwen loved about him. He'd even formed close relationships with Nancy and Jill Stacy, who'd come to see him as a beloved old uncle.

It was while Gwen was sitting on the upstairs terrace after supper, looking out over the city streets, that Grandpa Lieber came out to join her.

"How's it going, sweetie?" he asked Gwen gently as he sat down in one of the chairs, grunting slightly as he rubbed his aching back. "You've been pretty quiet all day. Are you going to be alright?"

Gwen looked back at him for a few moments, and then shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't really know," she finally said. "Angry at my father, for the way he treated Mom? Sad, because he died? Even then...it's just…"

"I know how you feel," Grandpa Lieber replied sympathetically, patting Gwen's shoulder. "You feel bad for what happened to him, but you're still angry at what he did to Helen, right?:

Gwen's eyes flickered, as a guilty look crossed her face.

Grandpa Lieber figured it out immediately.

"…And a part of you still feels like he got what he deserved, don't you?" Grandpa Lieber persisted.

Gwen looked down in shame.

"…Even though you feel ashamed of yourself for thinking that way," Grandpa Lieber finished.

"It's funny," Gwen smiled sadly. "I used to hate him, I used to want to see him get what he deserved for everything he did, but now I just feel so...I mean, you pretty much summed it up," she finished.

"Hey, that's normal," Grandpa Lieber assured her. "Lots of people have mixed emotions about just about everything."

"Yeah, but it's more than that…" Gwen trailed off.

"How do you mean?" Grandpa Lieber asked.

"…Where does it all end?" Gwen asked, a faraway look in her eyes. "People are still getting killed by these sick gang wars. Criminals and supervillains might get defeated and hauled off to prison, but most of them just end up getting out again. This gang war might have stopped, but as soon as one of those crime lords thinks he can get a leg up, he's just going to start it all over again. More people die, more lives are ruined, and the criminals just go back to jail until the next time they get out."

Grandpa Lieber hesitated on that one.

"You still have people dying because they can't afford to get proper food or health care," Gwen continued. "Oil spills still pollute the oceans, mutants and gays still run the risk of getting killed just for being who they are, and people still abuse their loved ones. I know I shouldn't…I really do…but sometimes I can't help but wonder what the point of it all is, with the way the world is."

"In that case," Grandpa Lieber wondered, "what's the point of even doing anything at all? Why bother, if it won't really change anything in the long run?"

"Well, I never said-" Gwen tried to reply.

"See, that's the thing," her grandfather smiled. "No one can solve all the world's problems. There are more issues than anyone can resolve in a lifetime. But that doesn't prevent us from trying to make the world at least a little better, right?"

Gwen looked at him curiously.

"Everything everyone can do as an individual can either make things better, or make them worse," Grandpa Lieber reminded her. "Anyone who stands up for mutant rights, or who tries to donate money or time to charity, or who tries to protect someone else from a criminal or a bully, helps out in their own ways. Each of those actions might not mean a whole lot by themselves, but when they all add up they make the world a lot better off than it could otherwise be."

"And people often don't fully realize the good they do, do they?" Gwen smiled.

"Who says wisdom only has to come with age?" Grandpa Lieber chuckled. "No, that's something I've always believed in. Racists, murderers, supervillains and the like are always going to exist, but that doesn't mean the rest of us can't do some good in the meantime."

Gwen's smile grew wider.

"Thanks, Grandpa," she said gratefully.

"Anytime, honey," Grandpa Lieber reassured her.

The Libertine was one of the highest-class restaurants in New York City, frequented by celebrities, public officials, and prominent businesspeople. Along with all these other distinguished clients, the Libertine's dirty secret was the fact that it was considered neutral ground for all the New York crime syndicates. Crime lords occasionally met here to discuss matters of mutual interest over dinner, in one of the back rooms that were closed to the general public but could be reserved for private parties and meetings. The night of July 19, 2007 was one of those nights, as the leaders of three of the city's five crime syndicates were meeting to discuss the new status quo that was being established after the gang war that had destroyed the fourth syndicate and left the fifth extremely vulnerable to the New York Police Department's Organized Crime Unit.

At one end of the table was the cold-blooded Philippe Bazin, a French expatriate who had carved out his place on the New York crime scene with a combination of intellectual brilliance and cold tactical brutality. His narrow, penetrating eyes and carefully groomed moustache and beard gave him a faintly diabolical look, while his crisp dark suits and reserved attitude reminded those around him of his hidden depths and infinite reserves of patience.

If Bazin was quiet and collected, the flamboyant Crimewave enjoyed being the life of the party. Known for adopting a codename in the tradition of many supervillains and mutants, even though he was neither, Crimewave's long dark ponytail, slung back jacket and winning smile were those of a young, modern hipster with a flair for the dramatic. His up-to-the-minute fashion choices were the very best in upscale young professional clothing.

The Kingpin was never seen, and indeed many people claimed that there was no Kingpin. Instead, the theory went, the Kingpin's syndicate was actually run by the Enforcers, the lieutenants who oversaw the syndicate's day-to-day operations and spoke for the Kingpin in public. The Ox oversaw enforcement and the violent operations such as extortion, arson and robbery, Fancy Dan looked after internal affairs and administration, and Montana oversaw the 'quiet' operations such as racketeering, prostitution and drug running. Each of the men looked their parts-the Ox being a powerfully muscled disgusting slob, Fancy Dan being a snazzy fashion plate, and Montana dressed in Western-style rural wear, although they took care to remain fairly nondescript otherwise.

Silvermane would have represented the Maggia, except that his syndicate had taken the very worst of the damage during the gang war and was ultimately destroyed by it. Silvermane himself had been murdered by Jack O'Lantern, and both his body and the corpses of his lieutenants had later been found by the police.

The fifth syndicate belonged to the one would-be crime lord who had not been invited to this meeting. The Green Goblin had come almost out of nowhere four years ago, one of the costumed supervillains routinely employed by the crime lords as assassins and enforcers. Unlike most of his colleagues, however, the Goblin actively aspired to control the New York crime scene himself, and had started a fifth syndicate of his own. His efforts had not paid off as well as he'd hoped, with his rivals taking every opportunity they could to undermine him. To make matters worse, many of the schemes the Goblin had hatched to improve his standing had been thwarted by the superhero known as Spider-Man. Those defeats, combined with the effects of the gang war, had left the Goblin's organization extremely vulnerable to the NYPD's Organized Crime Unit, which was already tightening the screws on the Goblin.

The crimelords and their representatives mostly sat in silence as dinner was served, only deigning to talk business after the table had been cleared and the restaurant's employees had been dismissed with strict instructions that the diners were not to be disturbed.

They sat around the table in silence for a few minutes, staring at each other intently as they each waited for the other to make the first move.

Characteristically, it was Crimewave who broke the ice.

"So, what's going to be the deal with the Maggia's drug labs?" he asked, leaning forward and clasping his hands together eagerly on the table in front of him.

"Most of them were destroyed by that psychotic Jack O'Lantern," Montana reminded him, "as was all the equipment and the ingredients. It's all just about a total write-off."

"Of course, you would say that," Crimewave pointed out wryly, "considering that most of those labs were undercutting the Kingpin's drug trade in four of the five boroughs. How do we know you aren't just bullshitting us and getting ready to expand into those areas, anyway?"

"Because," the Ox replied bluntly, "if we were, 8-Ball and the Nasty Boys would be all over your ass."

"And here I thought the war was over," Crimewave said flippantly. "You're not seriously considering starting it up again, are you?"

The Enforcers looked at one another, as if seemingly receiving instructions from some outside source.

"I thought we were here for a more constructive purpose," Fancy Dan replied, "but if you insist on trying to provoke the Kingpin-"

"I too was under the impression we were here for a more constructive purpose," Phillipe Bazin finally spoke up, his steely, rasping voice echoing loudly in the room despite his quiet tone. "Perhaps, if you are through attempting to uselessly intimidate one another, we can begin?"

"Fine," Crimewave began. "What did you have in mind?"

"I have no doubt that you all realize how duped we were by George Stacy," Bazin began. "We were played for fools by his double-dealing manipulations, which were what caused this war to begin with. No doubt you would have been eager to exact an appropriate revenge on Stacy, to show the dangers of crossing you? I certainly would have," he continued.

"Yeah, we would have, but that Jack O'Lantern guy got to him before any of our own hired costumes did," the Ox pointed out. "So what are you proposing?"

"This gang war cost us all considerably in lost revenue and manpower," Bazin replied coldly. "I see no reason why we should simply let the matter slide simply because an independent supervillain got lucky. If nothing else, it would offer some measure of satisfaction to show his family that we don't forget, much less forgive."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that, Bazin," Crimewave pointed out with a smirk. "I didn't think petty revenge would be your game."

"It is not," Bazin replied, "but when it accomplishes a greater purpose-namely, to send a message to those who would dare to trifle with us-I don't have a problem with it."

"And get a lot of negative PR from that?" Crimewave pointed out uncertainly. "Seems like you're using a cruise missile to kill a fly. How do we know that the public won't turn against us because of this?"

"Because George Stacy was not exactly a respected member of the community," Bazin replied smoothly. "Any plights the Stacy family endures would not generate nearly as much public sympathy as they would under normal circumstances."

"Besides," the Ox spoke up, after receiving his instructions from the Kingpin, "the only people who would 'get' the message are the ones who know what to look for. Otherwise, the Stacys will merely seem the victims of another supervillain attack. George Stacy is perceived as a wealthy man-surely a supervillain could think he'd pass on a lot of money to his family…"

"Yeah, but we can't push this too far," Crimewave argued. "Otherwise, we'll get way more heat on us than we can deal with, especially when we haven't sorted everything out from the war. How about we send one guy after the Stacys, and let it go from there?"

"Fair enough," Bazin agreed, as the Enforcers nodded their consent. "The Constrictor is well-known for his tact and discretion."

The smiles that greeted Bazin showed him he had his rivals' agreement.

"Now then," he continued, "on to other business. The drug shipments and distribution are as good a place as any to start…"

Two days later…

Gwen rubbed her aching feet with some relief, glad to be getting some rest after another long day at work. While her mother's therapy bills were still eating up a fair amount of her paycheck, Gwen could at least take some comfort in the fact that the therapy seemed to be working wonders. As it was, she still had to do some juggling to come up with her share of the rent and the grocery bills she split with Kitty.

She grimaced as she looked over her tuition costs for the next term, noting the six percent hike that was coming. Gwen couldn't help but wonder if she'd be able to get all the classes she wanted with her current salary-aside from her work on The Wiz, would she probably have to go back to get some more modeling work with Roderick Kingsley?

The thought made Gwen feel sick to her stomach.

"It's not easy being a working girl, is it?" Kitty Pryde quipped as she came in from the kitchen and saw Gwen typing away at the computer. "I take it you heard about the tuition hike?"

"Yeah," Gwen smiled ruefully. "I suppose I could ask my boss for a raise, but somehow I don't think going from the coffee shop to the unemployment line would be a good career move. What BS reason did they give for the hike?"

"Increased insurance and repair costs, and government funding cuts," Kitty shrugged, as she sat down at the table and started to work on her salad. "Then again, this is New York City, after all…"

"Yeah," Gwen said glumly. "That's what sucks about being an actress-unless you're famous, you won't exactly be living on easy street. It's not much better for you, I take it?" she asked.

Kitty shook her head, before another question came to mind.

"Well, what about-" she started, before realizing what she was about to ask.

"What about what?" Gwen asked in confusion.

"Never mind," Kitty replied hastily, mentally kicking herself for her thoughtlessness.

"You're wondering how much money my father had left when he died, aren't you?" Gwen asked, a smile playing around her lips.

"I'm sorry, I never should have…" Kitty fumbled in embarrassment.

"Don't worry about it," Gwen assured her. "My father disinherited Mom and I years ago, back when he kicked us out of the house. Not to mention that when the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants outed him as an anti-mutant activist, his reputation and his business both pretty much went down the tubes. He was almost broke by the time he died, and it turns out that he was a pretty big tax cheat, too. So now, even though we never would have inherited anything to begin with, Mom and I are going to be responsible for a large part of the back taxes he owes."

"Ouch," Kitty winced sympathetically. "I wish I could help, but-"

"Hey, it's alright," Gwen assured her. "Really, it is. Harry's father was right-times are tough all over. Hell, we're probably lucky to have jobs as it is…"

"Too true," Kitty nodded. "So, what are you doing tonight?"

"I don't know," Gwen shrugged. "I could probably just go over my lines from The Wiz again. I want to make sure I've got everything right the first time. How about you?"

"I've got a date with Kong," Kitty grinned. "Oh, Gwen, he's a perfect gentleman-he even holds the door open for me and everything."

"I didn't think you'd really want that kind of special treatment," Gwen pointed out.

"Well, it depends on what kind of treatment," Kitty explained. "I mean, I don't want him paying for both of us, but his doing things like holding the door and pulling my chair make me feel special," she chuckled.

"Men," Gwen replied in a mock-philosophical tone. "We expect them to treat us like equals, but we also expect them to spoil us rotten and get mad at them when they don't. It's fun, isn't it?"

They both giggled at this.

After a few hours of rehearsing her lines, Gwen realized that she'd probably memorized them as well as she could before she started working with Randy and the rest of the cast next week. Finding herself with some free time, Gwen decided that she should probably do some patrolling as Spider-Woman, particularly given that for all she knew Jack O'Lantern and Moonstone were still on the loose.

Spider-Woman still owed Moonstone for what she'd done to Mrs. McFarlane, and after everything he'd put her through, she intended to be the one to take Jack O'Lantern down.

Her blood boiled every time she thought of that sick, depraved-

Gwen took a deep breath to steady herself as she changed into her newly sewn costume.

It had seemed like an absurd waste of energy for him to have to kill three defenseless women, although he obviously never turned down good-paying work. He just found it somewhat ironic that high-profile assassins could be sent on missions that seemed far beneath their talents, except that the propaganda value was typically well worth the investment.

As he double-checked his equipment, he chuckled at the memory of the conversation he'd had with another hired killer, who'd bitched to him about the way things were…

"I can't believe they fucking turned me down," Samuel Silke said in disgust to his buddy as they hung out in the bar. "I mean, what's going on these days? Used to be that if you needed someone dead, you just got up and shoot him. Pop, blammo! One bullet was all it took."

"He ends up face-down in his cornflakes, the whole neighborhood knows what went down. They all know it was a hit, everyone knows who did it, and why. Business taken care of, message received. But now you've got to put on a fucking Halloween outfit if you expect anybody to take you seriously and give you any work. I mean, what the fuck? Why aren't we doing things the old-fashioned way? Like we were taught?"

"Because your standard hired gun is a VCR," Frank Payne replied smoothly as he sipped at a martini. "The hit men dressed in black suits, white shirts, black ties and shades are like TV antennas. Non-powered gunmen are cartridge-based video games. Just going up and shooting somebody is just like using a typewriter."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Silke asked.

"Hit men are out of date," Frank explained. "They're a thing of the past. Back in the day, people used VCRs, they played video game cartridges, they got their TV signals from antennas, and they used typewriters to write letters. They were all useful for their time, but eventually they were displaced by superior, more efficient technology. Now, no one uses them, except maybe for some isolated specialized job, or maybe if you're feeling nostalgic."

It took Silke a few minutes to get the gist of what Frank was telling him.

"Jesus, Frank, you can't seriously be buying into this costume shit!" he demanded, pulling his shades down for emphasis. "Are you seriously saying that the supervillains are taking our place?"

"Come on, Sam," Frank replied, raising an eyebrow. "You know I don't kid around."

"But…how the fuck could you…" Silke gasped, barely able to get what Frank was telling him.

"Easily," Frank replied. "See, one of the big problems these days is all the different kinds of security they've come up with. You want to snipe a guy, it's a hell of a lot harder than it was when Oswald blew away Kennedy. Try to break into a guy's place to poison him or get his family, you've got more security than you can shake a stick at. Trying to sneak around the defenses they've come up with nowadays is more trouble than it's worth."

Silke stared back at Frank in disbelief.

"It's a lot faster and a lot easier to just blast through the defenses," Frank explained. "No subterfuge, no bullshit, pop, blammo!" he explained, repeating Silke's phrase. "With their powers and their skills, supervillains can do a hell of a lot more than any hired gun, no matter how good he is."

"…This is fucked up," Silke muttered in disbelief.

"And think of the propaganda, too," Frank explained. "You've got so many of these lunatics running around and killing people while they're robbing banks, how's anyone supposed to tell a deliberate hit from some random robbery? If you to make a propaganda announcement, you can let everybody know who did it. You want to keep it secret, you can! Who says you can't have your cake and eat it too?"

"You…" Silke mumbled.

"Not to mention the superheroes," Frank concluded. "Every time a hired gun goes up against a superhero, he's going to get his ass kicked, no matter how good he is. You know it, I know it. Supervillains have a way better chance of succeeding than any hired gun ever will. That's why I'm becoming one myself."

"You…what…?" Silke said in disbelief.

"That's right," Frank said proudly. "I'm just waiting for the Tinkerer to put the finishing touches on my coils, and I'll be ready to go."

"Damn…" Silke shook his head. "So what are you going to call yourself? The Thrill-Killer?" he asked sarcastically.

"Please," Frank sniffed disdainfully. "At least give me a little credit. No, I'm going to model myself after a Constrictor."

Silke just stared at him.

"For all their lethality, people have an annoying tendency to survive gunshot wounds when you least expect them to," Frank pointed out. "Strangling someone, as you know, can be applied for as long as you need it to until you know the job is done. Or, if you're in a hurry you can just break their necks or simply tear their heads off."

"And you're still willing to go around dressed like some nut on Halloween?" Silke asked skeptically.

"Yes, if it gets me work," Frank nodded. "Besides, I actually think my outfit's rather stylish. Dark blue and dull gold actually go together much better than you'd think…"

Nodding in satisfaction at the memory, the Constrictor slipped his coiled gauntlets onto his wrists before verifying the information he'd been given on his targets.

It was time to go to work.

Spider-Woman found the night to be surprisingly quiet. The only criminals she'd come across were a few two-bit punks trying to break into a liquor store, and she hadn't even worked up a sweat in dealing with them. From everything she could tell, most of the city's criminal element was taking a breather tonight, presumably to retrench after all the death and violence of the gang war.

She was almost ready to call it a night and return home early when her spider-senses began buzzing. Her spider-senses were not like Peter Parker's, which alerted him to danger or potential threats. Rather, Spider-Woman's senses reacted with the pheromones she had 'marked' many people with when something of interest was occurring with them. She could use her pheromones and her senses to track people by deliberately homing in on them, but they could also activate if something was happening to them that she was interested in.

Turning to head in the direction indicated by her spider-senses, Spider-Woman felt a chill run down her spine as she realized her senses were leading her back to the Stacys' townhouse.

Horror turned to rage as she realized that, if they were in any danger, chances are it had to do with her father's apparent involvement in starting the gang war.

Almost without realizing it, she quickened her pace.

"You're really ready?" Nancy asked Helen as they sat at the kitchen table, looking through the want ads in the Daily Bugle.

"Yeah," Helen nodded. "Gwen and I are responsible for George's back taxes. You and she have already done enough for me, so it's time I started paying my way."

"What were you planning on?" Nancy asked.

"Good question," Helen frowned as she circled one ad, then another. "I suppose I could-" She was interrupted by the loud crash that tore their front door off its hinges. Shocked by what they heard, Nancy and Helen rushed to investigate, before gasping in horror at what they saw standing in the doorway.

He wore a costume of dark midnight blue, with a gold serpentine pattern that began in the middle of his mask and continued down the front of his body. Similar patterns began at his shoulders and continued down his arms until they stopped at his gauntlets. A forest of vibranium steel cables, writhing and slithering with a snakelike motion all their own, sprouted from each hand. To make matters worse, the cables sparked with electrical energy, hissing and flashing with an inner life.

Nancy was too choked with horror to say anything at first, but Helen merely scowled at him.

"Who are you?" she demanded acidly.

"You can call me the Constrictor," the tall man said in a matter-of-fact tone. "And I'm here to kill you both."

"…What?" Helen gasped.

"It's nothing personal, I assure you," the Constrictor explained, as his vibranium coil whips slithered towards his victims. "It's just that-"

All of a sudden, it was the Constrictor's turn to be interrupted, as he was seemly yanked off his feet and pulled out of the house with a startled cry. As Helen and Nancy ran to the door, they briefly gawked at what was happening on their front lawn.

"Get Jill, Nancy," Helen said determinedly. "I'm going to call the police, and then we're going out the back way."

"But-" Nancy protested.

"GO!" Helen ordered, turning Nancy around and shoving her towards the stairs, before running back into the kitchen to use the telephone.

The Constrictor had been caught off guard by the webline that had stuck on his back pulled him out of the doorway. Unable to react before he was thrown into the air, he managed to avoid being slammed into the ground by extending his cables until they stuck in the ground and stopped his fall. Sliding back to ground level, he looked around for whoever had ambushed him and raised his eyebrows to see the spectacular Spider-Woman glaring at him with a barely concealed fury.

"I hadn't expected to see you again, young lady," he remarked, as he lashed out with his coils. "I must say, I'm rather disappointed that you didn't take my advice to heart."

Faster than he would have reacted, Spider-Woman sprayed her webbing in a wide pattern, snagging all of the Constrictor's coils. Yanking on the webbing with all her might, Spider-Woman suddenly pulled the Constrictor forward, slamming her head into his face as they collided. As the Constrictor staggered back in a daze, Spider-Woman caught him square in the chest with a double sting blast that sent him flying backwards to crash heavily on the sidewalk and roll into the street.

As the Constrictor staggered to his feet, blood streaming from his broken nose, he saw Spider-Woman staring back at him in cold silence.

"Talk is cheap," was all she said.

"How true!" the Constrictor sneered, as he released his coils in a wide arc around Spider-Woman, charging them with electrical energy. The coils struck from every angle, forcing Spider-Woman to leap into the air to avoid them. Some of the coils rose up and formed a spiked, clawed hand that tore into her from behind, tearing long lines across her back and zapping her with electrical energy. Screaming in pain, Spider-Woman fell into the rest of the Constrictor's coils, which had shaped themselves into a nest of razor wire that tore into her painfully from every angle. The coils wrapped around her, even as the rest of the Constrictor's whips moved in for the kill.

"An admirable effort, my dear!" the Constrictor complimented her, smiling in spite of his bleeding nose. "And yet, not enough to deal with a professional!"

Spider-Woman was faster than he expected, however, twisting around so the coils she was wrapped in deflected the scourge-like whips that were coming down towards her head. Both sets of coils bounced harmlessly off one another, and the shocked Constrictor briefly let up on his attack, giving Spider-Woman the split second she needed to wriggle free of the coils.

She was covered in lash marks and electrical burns, but if Spider-Woman felt any pain she didn't show it. Instead, she charged in fearlessly at the Constrictor, who brought back his coils and formed them into a defensive wall, ready to strike back. Spider-Woman suddenly came to a halt, standing there as the Constrictor kept up his wall.

It was only after the Constrictor began to rearrange his coils for another attack, leaving himself vulnerable, that Spider-Woman struck with a sting blast. He managed to get a coil away to block it, but in that single moment Spider-Woman leapt over, under and around his slithering whips with breathtaking speed. The Constrictor backed off hastily, raising his arms to bring his coils back at Spider-Woman, but the arachnid heroine proved faster.

Two sting blasts, one from each of Spider-Woman's hands, caught the Constrictor's gauntlets. The gauntlets hissed and sparked as they broke apart and the Constrictor howled in pain. Clutching his hands in agony, one of the Constrictor's gauntlets fell to pieces and the other one fizzled and sparked as Spider-Woman charged in.

Her flying jump kick caught him square in the chest, knocking the Constrictor on his back, and he couldn't stand up to the flurry of punches that Spider-Woman drove into him after she dragged him to his feet. Groaning in pain, he raised his burned hands in surrender as the police cars pulled up in the distance.

"Well done," he complimented her as the policemen approached. "You've come a very long way since our last encounter. I never feel shame at being defeated by a worthy opponent, whether it be Captain America, Spider-Man or yourself. While I may be an assassin, I'd also like to think I'm enough of a warrior to appreciate the skills of my opponents."

Her fury subsiding, Spider-Woman couldn't help but smile slightly, almost amused by the Constrictor's cold-blooded formality.

Turning around and looking back at the Stacy townhouse, Spider-Woman saw that the police officers were looking after her family.

Nodding in satisfaction, she took off into the night.

As painful as her cuts and burns were, they were nothing Gwen couldn't handle. A soak in the bathtub proved to be just what the doctor ordered, after which she rubbed some ointment into the worst of her injuries and settling into bed.

For the first time since her father's death, Gwen felt at peace with herself. She might not have been able to stop Jack O'Lantern from murdering her father, but she'd manage to save the rest of her family from the Constrictor. For tonight at least, they could sleep soundly, knowing that they were safe.

Gwen knew full well that this might not be the end, that her father's sins might continue to come back to haunt her friends and family. Or they might be victimized by Jack O'Lantern, or another one of the many enemies she'd made since making the fateful decision to put on her Spider-Woman costume.

Either way, Gwen knew there wasn't much she could do to prevent it. What she could do, what she had been able to do time and again, was be there for her loved ones, or anyone else she could help.

That thought remained with her as she fell asleep.

(Next Issue: Gwen begins rehearsals for The Wiz, even as her relationships with the men in her life become increasingly complicated. But a horrible new threat lurks in the background, as Jack O'Lantern begins to put his true master plan into action! All this and more in Spider-Woman #29: Behind the Mask, Part One: The Gathering Storm!)