Buzz—
2:30 p.m.
The flight from New York touched down smoothly at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport.
Half an hour later, Hawk stepped out of the terminal, traveling light. He flagged a cab, slid into the back seat, and gave the address of a small motel in Quantico Town.
The young Black driver nodded, switched on the meter, and pulled out of the airport.
Quantico might have been home to the Marine base and the FBI Academy, but that didn't mean civilians couldn't visit. They just weren't allowed inside the restricted zones. The town itself was open.
And when Hawk put his mind to something, he acted. A thousand days of one-man training, ten thousand punches a day, had forged his will as much as his body.
That morning, he'd walked out of Oscorp, and by noon, he'd already bought a ticket on the first flight south. He hadn't even gone home for a change of clothes.
Good thing he'd studied the satellite maps all night. Otherwise, he'd be wandering blind right now.
Plan A: sneak in quietly.
Plan B: if discovered, strike hard and finish fast.
Simple. Effective.
He leaned back in the seat, watching the passing scenery. His brow twitched as he noticed the driver through the rearview mirror, but instead of speaking, Hawk pulled out his phone. He'd forgotten to restart it after the flight.
As it powered on, notification chimes filled the cab.
Hawk raised an eyebrow, thumb moving to check the screen.
That's when he felt it: cold steel pressing against him from the front seat. A pistol barrel.
"Don't move," the driver growled. "Hand over the phone."
…
Hawk sat there silently.
Who am I?
Where am I?
What am I doing?
Wasn't I on my way to rob Quantico? How the hell did I end up getting robbed first?!
His jaw tightened. So this was Washington, D.C. Security worse than New York? What a joke.
The driver's eyes met his in the mirror, voice firm. "I said, don't move. Hand it over."
Hawk tilted his head. "Do you want me not to move, or do you want me to hand you the phone?"
The man blinked, thrown off.
"You—stop with the smart mouth—"
Riiing.
The phone in Hawk's hand lit up. An incoming call.
From Gwen.
He didn't hesitate. He pressed accept and lifted it to his ear. "Hello?"
The driver's eyes went wide. Was this guy insane? He was holding a gun to him, and the kid just… answered a call?
The driver cursed and stomped on the brake. The car jolted. He twisted in his seat, lunging back toward Hawk.
"You little—!"
Thud!
"Aaagh!"
On the other end of the line, Gwen paused. "Was that… screaming? Hawk, did I just hear someone screaming?"
"…Yeah. Somebody nearby's watching a violent action movie."
"…Funny, it sounded exactly like the sound of someone's ribs breaking."
"…Uh."
Hawk glanced down at the gasping driver slumped against the console, clutching his side where Hawk's fist had landed.
"You can tell that from a scream?"
Gwen chuckled. "Of course. My dad's a police captain. Between you and me, I'm more professional than most rookies already."
"…I see that." Hawk had no words. Genius types really were something else.
Her laugh rang brighter. "Kidding. No way I could tell that."
"…Great. And here I believed you."
"Anyway, your phone was off earlier. I tried calling you a dozen times."
Hawk, still holding the driver's mouth shut with one hand, kept the phone pressed to his ear with the other. "Why, what's up?"
"Come downstairs," Gwen said simply. "Dr. Connors felt guilty after you got fired. He put together a gift for you. Since your phone was off, I came over myself. You're not home?"
She was sitting in her yellow Corolla, parked outside his new apartment building. A sealed envelope lay on the passenger seat.
Hawk froze for a second. Then he recovered quickly. "Right… I'm not home. Why don't you just hold onto it and give it to me when school starts?"
"I already got out of the car."
The sound of her door closing carried faintly through the line. "Your place is the top floor by the street, right? Your window's open. I'll just climb the fire escape and leave it inside."
Hawk blinked. "Wait—how do you know which one's mine?"
"I saw your shorts hanging on the window," Gwen replied casually. "The same pair you've worn for three years. Weren't they pants before you cut them into shorts back in tenth grade?"
"…Uh."
"Alright, I'll drop this off. I've got to head back soon anyway."
The line went dead.
…
(End of Chapter)
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