Hawk didn't dwell on the sewer incident.
Back home, he hooked his laptop back onto his phone's hotspot and kept digging through forums and black-market listings.
The Battle of New York had been three months ago, and now, photos and clips of civilians showing off salvaged Chitauri tech were starting to surface online.
Some posts even listed prices.
The very site he was scrolling through now had shocked him at first—he thought it was a normal trading forum, until he stumbled onto a live auction for a kidnapped European girl.
He only spared it a glance.
First: like he told Spider-Man, he wasn't "good." He wouldn't rush in to save strangers just because they were suffering.
Back when he needed saving, no one came for him.
So… he had learned. No more hero complexes. Everyone carries their own fate.
Still, he wasn't "evil" either. He simply closed the window and moved on. Out of sight, out of mind.
He studied listings for Chitauri rifles.
The common soldier models were going for around $150,000–$200,000 each.
He had four of those.
And the one from the squad leader? No exact listing—but Hawk pegged its floor at at least $400,000.
By his math:
4× $160,000 ≈ $640,000
Plus the squad leader's at ~$400,000
About $1 million in total.
He smiled. Round numbers felt nice.
Without overthinking, Hawk drafted a post:
"Selling four nearly new Chitauri soldier energy weapons, plus one squad leader model. All five, bundled for $1,000,000. Contact if interested."
Click. Sent.
He expected a long wait. Instead, before he even finished pouring a glass of water—
Ding!
A private message popped up.
"Can I see photos?"
"…Sure. Give me a sec."
Dragging the wrapped bundle from under his bed, Hawk uncovered the gleaming alien weapons. He snapped a picture, sent it off, and returned to his seat.
The reply was almost instant.
"Received. Looks very nice."
"Thanks. Interested?"
"Of course."
Hawk raised a brow. That easy?
Then again—this was alien tech. A rarity. Every sale was one less on the market. Demand was guaranteed.
The next message came.
"$1,000,000 is fine. But it has to be in person."
Hawk leaned back. His first thought: sting. The FBI or CIA loved fishing on black-market boards. Was he chatting with some fed grinning at his desk, already drafting the bust report?
He considered.
Then chuckled.
So what? He'd already stormed Quantico. Was he supposed to fear the FBI?
If it was a trap—fine. Let them try.
He typed back:
"Fine. You pick the spot or me?"
"You. I see your IP is in New York. I'm here too. Anywhere in the city works."
Hawk smirked. So they'd traced his IP. Easy work, he wasn't exactly hiding. But if it were the feds, the door would already be kicked in with someone shouting, "FBI! OPEN THE DOOR!"
He glanced at his door.
Silence. No knock. No raid.
Weirdly disappointing.
Shrugging, he wrote:
"Galvin's in Glendale. Tomorrow morning."
"Works. Cash or check?"
Hawk actually laughed aloud.
"Cash, of course. Checks mean taxes."
Especially that brutal windfall tax. Anything over $609,300, and the IRS took 37%.
Meaning, if he accepted a $1 million check, Uncle Sam would skim off $370,000—for nothing.
Highway robbery. Legalized theft.
The buyer messaged back:
"You're not worried the IRS will notice when you file next year?"
"They can try."
This was his by right. Won through sweat and blood. He'd pay no tax on it.
If the IRS tried to strong-arm him—he'd blow up their damn building before he handed over a dime.
The buyer hesitated, then answered:
"Understood. I'll have my people prep the cash. $1 million ready. One last thing: how will I find you at the meet?"
"You won't." Hawk's fingers danced across the keys. "I'll find you."
"…Good. Then it's settled."
"Settled."
…
(End of Chapter)
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