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Hawk didn't drive the stolen taxi all the way into Quantico Town.
About ten miles out, he veered off the road, sent the taxi plunging into a reservoir, and started walking.
But his luck was holding.
After about a mile, a car pulled over. The driver was a military wife who lived in the town, on her way back from a supply run.
When she heard where he was headed, she cheerfully offered him a ride.
Hawk didn't refuse.
Once they got to town, there was no awkward drama. She didn't find it strange that he was alone or invite him to stay at her place.
She just dropped him off in front of a clothing store, and from there, it was a short walk to the town's motel.
Hawk paid for the room, got his key, and went up to the second floor.
Before he went inside, he paused and looked out over the town. He could see it from here, not too far in the distance: the main gate of the Quantico Military Base.
The entrance was heavily guarded by soldiers.
Every vehicle, every pedestrian, had to stop and be searched.
Hawk only looked for a moment before turning away.
It was too late today.
Tomorrow.
Recon during the day. Strike at night.
And then—
Get the hell out. By the time the driver's body was discovered and the investigation eventually led back to him, it would be weeks, if not months.
In some countries, a murder might be a big deal, a case to be solved overnight.
But here, there were a lot of nobodies.
Hawk figured that by the time the authorities even had a name, he'd already be wearing his Saint Armor.
And at that point...
I am inevitable.
Besides, Hawk didn't think they'd ever track him down.
Here's a joke: the security camera at the airport taxi stand was broken.
Hawk had seen it when he got in the cab. The one and only camera that might have recorded him had been decapitated.
That was another reason he hadn't bothered to hide the body.
He didn't care, and he had a very realistic understanding of federal law enforcement's efficiency.
The different agencies didn't talk to each other.
To put it simply, if you committed a crime in New York and left fingerprints, and then committed another crime in California and left fingerprints, the authorities in California would have no way of matching them.
The state databases weren't connected.
And more importantly...
Hawk had been a model citizen in this life. He had no criminal record. His fingerprints weren't in any database, not even New York's.
So even if they found the body and his prints all over it, they'd have no one to match them to.
...
Half an hour later.
After completing his ten-thousand-punch routine in the motel room, Hawk took a shower.
When he got out, he saw his phone, which he'd left on the bed, ringing. He had just picked it up, before he could even see who was calling, when the screen went black and the ringing stopped.
"Huh?"
"Dead battery?" Hawk shrugged. He didn't give it another thought. He didn't bother looking for a charger.
Just like before, he had no one to talk to. And no one who wanted to talk to him.
He tossed the dead phone aside, pulled back the covers, and got into bed.
Time to sleep. Big day tomorrow.
Within three minutes, he was fast asleep, a soft snore filling the quiet room.
...
New York City.
In her bedroom, Gwen frowned as her call to Hawk went straight to a "this number is no longer in service" message. She put her phone down, tapped it against her chin, and then turned to her laptop. She opened a website, glanced at a two-factor authentication code on her phone, and typed it in.
A moment later, a map appeared on her screen.
There was a single, pulsing dot on it.
But the dot wasn't in New York City.
It was—
Washington, D.C.?
Why is Hawk's phone in D.C.?
Did it get stolen?
Gwen thought to herself.
She swore she hadn't meant to track him.
When she'd gotten home, she had received an automated text from her phone provider, a security alert stating that a device linked to her account had logged in from an unusual location.
That's when she remembered.
When she'd given Hawk her old phone, she had wiped all the data, but apparently never logged out of her account.
Now, seeing that the phone's last known location before it died was in Washington, D.C, her first thought was that it had been stolen.
After all, New York City had a lot of thieves.
Gwen thought back to the first phone she'd ever bought, the one that had been stolen less than three days after she got it. A wave of resentment washed over her.
Whatever. I'll just give him another one when school starts.
She shook her head, closed the tracking website, and then pulled up a different page: a digital copy of a newspaper.
It was an article published right after the Battle of New York.
It had a picture.
A picture of a block in Jackson Heights, Queens, that had been completely leveled.
Gwen scrolled through the article, reading the details.
Just then, she heard footsteps in the hallway.
She looked up.
The next second, her eyes lit up. An idea struck her. She closed the webpage, jumped up from her chair, and ran to her bedroom door, pulling it open.
"Dad!"
"..."
George Stacy, who made it a point to check on his daughter every night when he got home, was startled by the sudden appearance of Gwen, her eyes shining with excitement.
A slow smile spread across his face. "Sorry, kiddo. No new intel on Spider-Man for you tonight."
Recently, a masked vigilante in a ridiculous red and blue suit had been swinging around the city, playing hero.
The NYPD was not amused.
Their official stance: if vigilantes were so effective, what was the point of having police?
But everyone else was fascinated.
The media loved it. They had a new headline.
The internet was buzzing, with forums and message boards dedicated to figuring out who the man behind the mask was.
Gwen was curious too.
Especially since her father was a police captain.
Gwen shook her head. "I'm not interested in Spider-Man, Dad."
George chuckled. "Then yesterday you..."
"That was Mary Jane. She was the one who was curious, not me." Gwen cut him off, then got to the point. She looked up at him, her eyes wide.
"Dad, can I ask you for a favor?"
"..."
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