The gunship overhead thundered.
Searchlights turned Calvary Cemetery bright as day.
Two sonic-cannon APCs on the ground and the gunship-mounted Metal Storm in the sky formed a killing triangle around Hawk.
Under the beam, the federal soldiers' weapons gleamed coldly.
Hawk, standing in the cone of light, took it all in—and smiled.
He smiled like he meant it.
Then—
After an ear-splitting squawk from the gunship's speakers, Thaddeus Ross's voice rolled over the cemetery.
"Hawk, you are surrounded."
The instant he got Hawk's dossier, Ross couldn't wait—he mobilized and sent forces straight to New York to seize him. Now, seated in Quantico's command center, eyes on the big screen that showed Hawk pinned under the searchlight, he spoke in a heavy tone: "You are under arrest on suspicion of endangering national security and breaking into a military installation."
He felt vindicated.
He'd considered sending in a special ops team, but once Hawk's location was fixed, he chose to roll in with overwhelming force.
This wasn't Midtown Manhattan; it wasn't even a city block. It was a cemetery.
He'd torn up Manhattan and gotten off scot-free—what's a graveyard to him?
Ross meant to bag Hawk.
So…
No speeches.
From Quantico, he piped his voice straight to the sky above Calvary.
"You have ten seconds to surrender!"
"Stand by!"
A rising whir answered him as the gunship's Metal Storm spun up—an industrial beehive that could turn a man into lace in a second.
On the ground, both APC-mounted sonic cannons began to charge, their operators working the panels.
Around Hawk, magazines slammed home; a few troopers shouldered rocket tubes and drew a bead.
Hawk followed the sound of Ross's voice, tipped his chin up, ignored the blinding light, and fixed his gaze on the camera pod slung under the helicopter.
It was like his eyes slipped through the lens and locked with Ross's back at Quantico.
The corner of Hawk's mouth lifted. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried, clean as a bell, through the feed into the command center.
"Thaddeus Ross."
"I just remembered."
"I almost forgot about you—thanks for reminding me."
Ross blinked—then realized why.
Because Hawk, standing there in the searchlight… was gone.
"Wha—"
Boom!
Screams followed.
When the beam found him again, an APC with a sonic cannon was already cartwheeling through the air.
The gunner's cry cut off as the vehicle crashed down and crushed him flat.
The second APC went up almost as soon as Ross had processed the first.
"Open fire!" Ross snapped, his pupils contracting.
The gunship lurched sideways, the door gunner clamping both hands on the Metal Storm's grips.
It roared.
A black sheet of rounds poured at Hawk like a monsoon.
Dirt geysered; headstones burst; shards flew.
As for the soldiers the stream chewed through on the way—
Collateral.
"Fire!"
"Fire!"
A panicked infantryman, watching Hawk flick a wrist and swat a comrade through the air like a fly, squeezed the trigger on his rocket.
The streak arrowed in.
Hawk turned.
The warhead met him face-on and blossomed hard; a white flare blew out, washing two unlucky troopers in fire.
None of that mattered.
"Got him?"
The rocketeer's face lit—and even Ross, watching remotely, felt a stab of triumph.
But…
As if.
Before the grin could die on the soldier's lips, Hawk stepped through the flames, bare torso charred at the edges where his shirt had burned away.
The trooper felt an explosion in his chest and reflexively looked down.
Oh.
A fist-sized hole.
"Sh—!"
"Shoot! Shoot!"
From the gunship, the door gunner, staring down at the crystal-clear carnage, yelped—and hosed Hawk again.
Hawk looked up.
The storm drummed his skull, face, and exposed torso.
Sparks spit.
Skin unmarked.
Come on.
Those rounds couldn't get through Hulk—what chance did they have against Hawk after he'd absorbed Gamma?
Hawk drew a breath, glanced at the gunship, and the ground crazed under his foot as he launched like a shell.
The pilot's blood ran cold—he yanked the stick to break away.
Too late.
Hawk tore through the fuselage. The gunship blew into a rising fireball and then slammed back to earth, skidding through rows of graves until the soil ground it to a stop.
Ross stared at the snow of static across his wall of screens.
On-site, the troopers were just as stunned—staring at something no human should be.
Then a streak of light hit the ground and arrowed toward them, and survival instinct snapped them loose. They broke and ran, shrieking, wishing for two more legs.
Some rushed the cemetery gates. One soldier, hearing fewer screams behind him and seeing the exit almost within reach, felt hope bubbling up.
It froze on his face—his body with it.
He looked down at the bloody hand in his field of view—and the little lump still thudding in its grip.
That's my heart, he thought.
And then he didn't think anything at all. He folded and hit the ground.
By the time the original Spider-Man got there, he clung to a wall, staring, unable to believe his eyes.
Ground ploughed like by a tractor.
Headstones shattered into gravel.
Bodies everywhere—limbs, torsos, the wreckage of a fight.
The mangled, burning helicopter, snapped in two like a toy.
And—
One overturned APC. Its jammed hatch kicked outward, and a soldier, head a mask of blood, clawed his way free—halfway.
He stiffened, sensing something. He raised his eyes.
Hawk stood bare to the waist in front of him, face like stone.
The soldier's mouth opened.
"I only—"
Crack.
His head burst like a melon.
Peter's heart lurched. By the time he snapped back, Hawk was gone.
Where did—
Peter spun, scanning, then leapt, webbed a swing, and arced across the air.
He landed lightly. Not far off, Hawk stood with one hand on the photo inset in a gravestone.
Hawk's fingers traced Anya's face; the fire inside him had been stoked ablaze.
Peter edged closer.
"Haw—"
"Peter."
Hawk withdrew his hand and turned, cutting him off. "If someone tried to smash Uncle Ben's headstone, what would you do?"
Uncle Ben.
Peter didn't hesitate. "I'd kill him."
This wasn't the tech-heavy or "amazing" iteration—this was the original Peter Parker, the one who hunted down the robber who killed his uncle and ended him without ever thinking about courtrooms.
That was one reason Hawk liked the first Peter—reserved like him. Clear about debts and payback like him.
Hawk nodded as if he'd expected nothing else, then pointed at the stone. "My sister. Anya. So—are you here to stop me from taking revenge?"
Peter's eye twitched. He looked into Hawk's face—blank, but with an inferno burning behind the eyes—and said nothing. He just stepped aside.
Hawk smiled slightly.
"Thanks."
"Do you need—"
Peter started to offer help, but Hawk vanished between words.
The wail of approaching sirens jolted Peter back.
"Crap."
"This is bad."
He shivered once, realizing the scale of what had just gone down.
…
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