Hawk didn't drive the stolen cab into Quantico. He ditched it in a river ten kilometers out, then hiked down the highway until luck threw him a ride.
A military wife, heading home with supplies, saw him and offered a lift. Hawk accepted without hesitation.
She dropped him off at a clothing store in town, no awkward offers of lodging, no nosy questions. Hawk simply walked the rest of the way and checked into a cheap roadside motel.
He glanced out the window.
The Quantico base was right there—guard towers, soldiers at the gate, checkpoints for every vehicle. Impossible to stroll in during the day.
So he would wait.
Tomorrow: scout in daylight.
Tomorrow night: strike hard and fast.
If anyone tied him to that dead cab driver… it wouldn't matter. Just another corpse. Just another unsolved case.
By the time investigators traced it back to him—if they ever did—he'd already have his Cloth forged.
And once he put that on…
Invincible.
…
That night, Hawk trained. One thousand punches, ten thousand punches—sweat dripping, muscles tightening, his Cosmo burning. Then a cold shower, steam rising, and at last, rest.
When he stepped out, his phone buzzed. He reached for it—just as it blinked off. Battery dead.
"Figures."
He shrugged and tossed it aside. Hawk never cared for phones. No one to call. No one who would call him.
So he rolled under the covers, and in minutes, he was asleep.
…
Meanwhile, in New York—
Gwen frowned at her own phone. For the third time, the call went straight to voicemail. She tapped her screen, entering a verification code.
A map opened.
A blinking dot pulsed—far from Queens.
Washington, D.C.
Her eyes widened.
Hawk's phone? In D.C.?
Did someone steal it?
She hadn't meant to track him—honestly. But when she gave him her old phone, she'd forgotten to log out of her account. Tonight, she got an automated alert: "Device active outside registered location."
Her first thought was theft.
After all, New York thieves were everywhere. She'd lost her first phone in less than three days.
But still…
She shut down the tracker window and leaned back, chewing her lip.
Forget it. If Hawk really lost it, she'd just give him another when school started.
She reopened the tab she'd been reading—a newspaper article, post–Battle of New York. Photos of leveled streets, wrecked buildings, whole blocks flattened.
Her father's world. Her world.
And then she heard boots in the hall.
She shot up, hurried to the door, and swung it open.
"Dad!"
George Stacy stopped short, startled by his daughter's glowing eyes and breathless voice. Then he smiled.
"No, Gwen, I don't have any new Spider-Man gossip tonight."
Lately, the NYPD was furious about the masked vigilante swinging across Manhattan. The media was thrilled. The internet was buzzing with theories.
But Gwen shook her head.
"I'm not interested in Spider-Man."
George raised a brow. "Really? Yesterday you—"
"That was Mary's idea, not mine!" she interrupted quickly, then softened, glancing at him with a pleading look.
"Dad… can I ask you for a favor?"
…
(End of Chapter)
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