After leaving Calvary Cemetery last night, Hawk flared his Cosmo to the limit and tore across the country at full tilt.
His destination couldn't have been clearer.
New Mexico—General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross's hometown—the Ross estate and the Ross family cemetery behind it.
Debts must be paid.
If Thaddeus Ross dared to dance on his sister's grave, then Hawk would grant him his wish—by blowing up every grave in Ross's family plot.
Preparation makes or breaks a job.
Hawk had already done the legwork online; he always plans thoroughly. A family estate and cemetery? That sort of thing is public record.
So with his Cosmo burning white-hot, he sprinted straight to New Mexico, leveled the Ross family cemetery, then pivoted and gunned straight for Quantico.
It took him less than three hours to blitz from the East all the way to New Mexico in the West, and now, another three to rocket back from the West to Quantico in the East.
Smashing the Ross family cemetery didn't cool Hawk's fury.
If anything, it made it burn hotter.
First, because Ross had tried to make a spectacle in front of his sister's grave. In Hawk's mind, that alone had already earned the man a death sentence—one even Jesus couldn't commute.
Second, Hawk intended to finish this in one go—kill a chicken to scare the monkeys, and end future trouble before it starts.
He can be kind when it's right to be kind, but he refuses to let anyone mistake his kindness for weakness and keep pushing their luck.
He doesn't have Roswell time to play games with nobodies.
He's busy.
Vibranium.
Finding an entrance to Hell.
And…
The Reality Stone.
While keeping his sister Anya company on Christmas, Hawk had already been wondering whether he'd even bother going back to school after the break.
He's got his New York University Law School acceptance in hand, and he's already completed the credits to graduate Midtown High.
On paper, he doesn't have to go back—just show up on graduation day.
He was seriously thinking about heading straight to Africa when the new term starts. Where's the time to waste on unrelated clowns?
Hence:
One heavy punch now to avoid a hundred later.
If he had to fight, he'd make it hurt so badly they'd never look his way again.
Most important of all—
Anya had given him a Christmas gift: Abomination's location.
Right under Quantico, in the base's underground holding cells.
Hawk had been debating whether to deal with Abomination first after the New Year or go hunt down Vibranium.
Now he didn't need to choose. Quantico had made the choice for him—and even handed him the perfect justification.
So—
From New York to New Mexico, then from New Mexico to Quantico, Hawk blistered the air. As he crossed into Maryland, he eased up just enough to fine-tune his state. Then he poured his Cosmo on again.
Five seconds ago—
Hawk, carrying a six-hour burn of anger, launched from the ridge behind the Quantico base. Hanging high over the installation, he drew breath, let his roar roll across the entire base, and hurled the strongest punch he had thrown to date.
"Thaddeus Ross!"
"Come out and die!"
Boom!
His right fist slammed out.
In that instant, time vanished, space stalled. A fist-shadow flew from his knuckles; as it knifed toward a five-story block inside the base, time fractured, and even space itself crazed like glass.
One second later—
The instant that shadow kissed the face of the five-story building, the whole structure cracked like brittle crystal.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Only when the building detonated did the sound catch up, a thunderclap that shook the entire Quantico Marine Corps Base to the core.
Months after the last incident—right beside the FBI Academy and a short hop from CIA Langley—the base's enemy-attack klaxons screamed to life again.
The block was collapsing.
The ground was shaking.
The five-story building splintered at visible speed; even the surrounding earth looked as if something invisible had slammed down from the sky. The ground sank.
Seen from above, centered on the collapsing building, a vast crater shaped like a fist had stamped itself into the base.
A whine rose.
Fighter jets knifed off the runway, banking toward the arcing figure dropping into the heart of the base.
"Target acquired. Request permission to fire!"
"Permission granted!"
"Copy!"
A pilot rolled his jet, loosed a missile from the pylon, and sent it howling at the free-falling target.
Hawk, still in the drop, glanced at the incoming and lifted his right hand.
Clang.
"What—"
The pilot's eyes bulged as Hawk palmed the missile and clamped it in his fist.
Their gazes met through the canopy.
Hawk smiled, wicked and bright. The moment his feet touched dirt, his hand clenched the captive missile.
Boom!
The warhead bloomed. Fire swallowed him and clawed into the sky.
The pilot's face lit with relief. "Did we—"
Thunk.
A streak burst from the inferno on the ground and reached his nosecone in a blink. Perched on the jet's prow, face to face with the pilot, Hawk flashed that same crooked smile.
The pilot's right hand dove for the ejection handle.
Hawk's fist was faster.
Crack!
The cockpit glass burst—and so did the pilot's skull. The jet went limp, leaf-tumbling as it fell toward the base fuel depot.
Whump!
The blast dwarfed the last. A column of fire roared upward; sparks fountained. The ground bucked. That fire dragon vomited out of the ruptured tanks and swallowed a dozen soldiers who were sprinting for safety with the look of men who'd just watched their mother die.
As the fuel depot's inferno boiled, Hawk—already gone from the stalling jet—landed cleanly on the tarmac.
A rumble rolled in.
He glanced up—drab yellow tanks clattered forward out of the motor pool.
A barrel recoiled; the whole tank shuddered, then the shell leapt from the muzzle and exploded at Hawk's feet, smoke and flame washing over him.
As everyone knows:
If there's smoke, there's probably no damage.
While the crew scrambled to reload, Hawk stepped through the haze, bare torso gleaming, and in a blink stood before the tank.
His left hand crushed the gun tube like chalk; his right fist punched into the glacis. It didn't knock the tank flying—the armor took his arm like tofu. In one breath, the arm was buried to the shoulder, his open hand locking onto a gaping, stupefied driver.
A heartbeat later—
Hawk yanked back. Wet, tearing, butcher-shop sounds ripped through the compartment. A head, carved by a thousand blades, squeezed out through a hole the size of a fist.
For him, tank armor was tofu.
For everyone else, it wasn't.
Inside the tank, the remaining crew stared, brains white-noise blank, replaying the image of a man being dragged through a fist-sized hole. Their minds snapped.
Truly snapped.
A hiss split the air.
An air-to-ground missile took the moment and slammed into the tank's hull.
The tank jumped in place, wrapped in flame.
Hawk's chin tipped up.
Another fighter streaked past. Smarter this time; it fired and immediately peeled away, afterburners howling.
Rumbling again—
From the tank barn, more drab-yellow armor rolled out, fanning into firing positions.
Every barrel tracked one man.
Overhead, three fresh fighters screamed onto the scene and, without hesitation, fired first.
Three more missiles fell.
Then the earthbound thunder: the tanks' guns hammered, shells snapping downrange in quick succession.
Hawk snorted.
Another hiss.
Triple thunder.
Fire. Craters. Scorched earth.
And—
Boom!
One tank crumpled with a deafening report and hurled backward into a barracks block.
The barracks went up, too.
Then a second, a third, a fourth—
Hawk ghosted through the armored line, a blur among beasts of steel.
You thought he'd keep face-tanking shells?
Dream on.
Moments ago he'd taken hits on purpose—just to show them how hard he was, to make the point: your weapons don't work on me.
Now that the point was made, it was time to show force.
No—time to flaunt it.
Swagger and show of force—loudly, unmistakably.
Through this one battle he would carve a simple truth into their bones:
He is not the Hulk.
Killing you is like slaughtering pigs and dogs.
So—
Hawk went to full power.
Swagger and show of force!!!
(End of Chapter)
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