The Line He Would Not Cross
Rick Flag Sr. did not hesitate.
The moment the first man's wrist shattered in his grip, the world was already slowing—stretching like molten glass around him. The Sandevistan was alive now, fully awake, humming along his spine like a second heartbeat.
He wrenched the shotgun free from the screaming man's grasp.
Boom.
The first shot took the second gang member square in the chest, throwing him backward into a headstone.
Boom.
The third caught it in the shoulder and neck, the force spinning him off his feet before he hit the ground hard and unmoving.
Boom.
The fourth never even saw the barrel turn toward him.
The shotgun clicked dry.
Rick didn't slow down.
He stepped forward and brought the empty weapon up in a brutal arc, smashing the stock directly into the fifth man's throat. Bone collapsed. The shotgun shattered apart as the man crumpled, clutching his neck, gasping for air that would never come.
Rick let the broken weapon fall.
The sixth rushed him, screaming.
Rick drove his fist forward—short, precise, devastating. Cartilage shattered under his knuckles. The man dropped instantly, unconscious before his body hit the ground.
The seventh pulled a knife.
Rick caught the wrist, twisted, and tore the blade free in one smooth motion. He didn't even look at the man when he drove the knife into his side, then across his thigh, disabling him completely before spinning and burying the blade into the eighth man's chest.
Seven men were down.
The world snapped back into motion.
Rick Flag Sr. stood still, chest rising and
falling, blood spattered across his sleeves. For the first time since the fight began, he took a breath.
Only one remained.
The metahuman.
Flames danced across the man's hands, flickering wildly as he stared at the carnage around him. His gang—trained, armed, violent—had been erased in seconds.
Five seconds.
His eyes locked onto Rick.
"What the hell are you?" he whispered.
Rick didn't answer.
The Sandevistan surged again.
Time fractured.
Rick crossed the distance before the metahuman could throw a single fireball. The first punch knocked the air from his lungs. The second shattered ribs. The third sent him crashing into a stone monument, fire sputtering out as pain overwhelmed focus.
The metahuman tried to fight back—desperate bursts of flame, wild swings—but Rick was already behind him, then in front of him, then nowhere he could track.
Every blow was controlled. Purposeful. Measured.
This wasn't rage.
This was execution.
The fight ended with Rick driving the man face-first into the dirt, his knee pinning the metahuman's spine while one final punch rendered him unconscious.
Silence returned to the cemetery.
Rick stood, scanning the scene. He checked each body with practiced efficiency—some dead, some alive, none getting back up.
Only then did he turn toward the woman.
She stood frozen near the gate, shaking, eyes wide with shock. It took her several seconds to realize the danger was gone.
"Who… who are you?" she asked, her voice
trembling.
Rick wiped his hands on his jacket and took a step back, giving her space.
"My name is Rick Flag," he said calmly. "Rick Flag Sr."
Her breath caught.
"I used to be a general in the United States Armed Forces. A.R.G.U.S., too. I'm retired now." His voice softened slightly. "I was here to pay my respects to my son."
The woman's shoulders sagged in relief, fear giving way to exhaustion.
"I'm… I'm the daughter of the Secretary of Defense," she said quietly. "I came to visit myfiancé's grave."
Rick nodded once. That explained the bodyguards. That explained Intergang.
"Call your father," Rick said. "Tell him exactly what happened. Tell him to send reinforcements."
She hesitated. "What about you?"
"I'll stay," Rick replied. "No one's touching you until they arrive."
She nodded and pulled out her phone, hands still shaking as she made the call.
Unseen by either of them, several blocks away, a surveillance van sat in stunned silence.
Every member of Amanda Waller's team had watched the entire event unfold—every impossible movement, every shattered body, every moment where Rick Flag Sr. had moved faster than humanly possible.
No one spoke.
Finally, someone whispered, barely audible.
"What the hell did they put inside him?"
No one had an answer.
But they all knew one thing for certain now:
Rick Flag Sr. was no longer just a retired soldier.
He was something else entirely.
And the world had just noticed
Terms of Protection
Luna's hands were still shaking when she ended the call.
Rick Flag Sr. noticed immediately. Years in the field had trained him to read the smallest changes—breathing patterns, posture, the way fear lingered even after danger passed.
"My father's coming," Luna said, her voice steadier than before but still thin around the edges. "He said ten minutes. He's bringing backup. A lot of it."
Rick nodded once. "Good. Stay close to me until then."
He guided her away from the shattered gravestones near the entrance and toward a small maintenance structure deeper inside the cemetery grounds—solid concrete, limited lines of sight, defensible. As they moved, Rick's eyes never stopped scanning.
That was when he noticed it.
One body short.
He counted again.
Eight.
There had been nine.
Rick exhaled slowly through his nose.
Damn it.
During the chaos—during the Sandevistan surge, during the fight with the fire-wielding metahuman—one of them had slipped away. He'd been so focused on neutralizing the biggest threat that he'd let a lesser one disappear.
It wasn't ideal. But the priority hadn't changed.
The girl was alive.
That mattered more than anything else.
They reached the structure, and Rick positioned Luna inside, placing her behind a thick concrete wall while he stood near the entrance, half in shadow, half in light. To anyone watching, he probably looked calm.
Inside, his mind was already running through contingencies.
If the missing man came back.
If Intergang sent reinforcements.
If A.R.G.U.S. decided to intervene.
He didn't like unknowns.
Ten minutes later, the air changed.
The low, rhythmic thump of rotor blades rolled across the cemetery, followed by the unmistakable sound of engines—many of them. Headlights cut through the dusk as a convoy of armored vehicles surged toward the entrance, soldiers pouring out with disciplined precision.
At the center of it all was a black military helicopter descending into the open field beyond the graves.
Rick recognized the posture before he recognized the face.
The Secretary of Defense moved like a man holding himself together through sheer will—anger coiled tight beneath terror. When he saw Luna, that restraint shattered.
"Luna!"
He crossed the distance in seconds, pulling his daughter into his arms, hands gripping her shoulders, his voice breaking just enough to betray how close he'd come to losing her.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded. "Did they touch you? Do you need a medic?"
"I'm okay," she said quickly. "I swear. He stopped them."
She turned and gestured toward Rick.
The Secretary followed her gaze—and froze.
Rick Flag Sr. stood exactly as he always had: straight-backed, steady, solid. Not a man in a wheelchair. Not a man recovering in a hospital bed. A soldier.
The last report the Secretary had read said Rick Flag Sr. would never walk again.
The last conversation he'd had with the President confirmed it.
"Flag?" the Secretary said slowly. "Is that really you?"
Rick nodded. "Yes, sir."
For a moment, the Secretary didn't speak. He simply stared, trying to reconcile the impossible sight in front of him with everything he'd been told.
Then the soldier in him reasserted control.
"I want a full report," he said. "Right now."
Rick gave it—clean, concise, and honest. The attempted kidnapping. The Intergang affiliation. The metahuman attacker. The two dead Secret Service agents. The escape of the eighth man.
He didn't mention the Sandevistan. He didn't need to.
The Secretary listened without interrupting, his expression darkening with every word.
When Rick finished, the man looked past him at the chaos left behind—the bodies, the scorch marks, the broken stone.
"My daughter came here to mourn her fiancé," the Secretary said quietly. "And Intergang nearly took her."
His jaw tightened.
"That will not happen again."
He turned back to Rick.
"I want you to protect her."
The words landed heavy.
Rick didn't answer immediately.
"I mean it," the Secretary continued. "Until this threat is eliminated. Until whoever ordered this is dealt with. I don't trust the Secret Service anymore—not after today."
Rick met his eyes.
"Sir, with respect," he said evenly, "I'm retired."
The Secretary frowned. "You don't look retired."
Rick's voice hardened—not angry, but resolute.
"The last time I followed superior orders without question, I lost the ability to walk. I resigned from A.R.G.U.S. because I no longer trust its leadership to value lives over outcomes."
That sent a ripple through the soldiers nearby.
Rick Flag Sr. had just said something no one expected to hear.
"I won't rejoin A.R.G.U.S.," Rick continued. "And I won't take orders from them."
Silence stretched.
Then Rick added, "However—if you want me to protect your daughter, I will."
The Secretary looked up sharply.
"On my terms," Rick said. "As a private contractor. My only responsibility is Luna's safety. No black ops. No politics. No hidden agendas. I get paid, I answer only to you, and if I believe she's in danger, I act—without permission."
The implication was clear.
Rick Flag Sr. would not be controlled.
For several seconds, the Secretary of Defense said nothing.
Then he nodded.
"Agreed."
A murmur spread through the assembled soldiers.
"I know who you are, Rick Flag," the Secretary said. "And I know this is not the same man I knew before. But my daughter is alive because of you."
He extended his hand.
Rick took it.
"From today forward," Rick said, turning to Luna, "I'm your bodyguard. As long as I'm breathing, nothing gets to you."
Luna looked at him, really looked at him—this scarred, steady man who had walked out of a graveyard like death itself had blinked first.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Rick nodded once.
"Let's get you home."