Lucas Kane didn't drive the stolen taxi directly into Quantico.
About ten miles from town, he steered the vehicle off the road and sent it rolling into a river.
After that, he continued on foot along the roadside.
His plan was simple—enter quietly and leave no obvious trail behind.
Fortunately, luck was on his side.
After walking for about a kilometer, a woman driving a small SUV pulled over beside him. She was a military spouse who lived in Quantico town and had just finished picking up supplies.
When Lucas mentioned he was heading toward town, she offered him a ride.
Lucas accepted.
The trip into town passed without incident.
No awkward invitations, no suspicious questions.
She simply dropped him off near a clothing store and continued on her way.
From there, Lucas walked the rest of the distance until he reached a roadside motel.
Despite the name, you didn't actually need a car to stay at a motel.
You just needed money.
Lucas paid for a room and received a key.
A few minutes later he climbed the stairs to the second floor and stopped outside his door.
Before entering, he glanced toward the distance.
From the motel's balcony, the Quantico base entrance was clearly visible.
Soldiers guarded the checkpoint.
Every vehicle and pedestrian approaching the gate had to stop for inspection.
Lucas watched for a few seconds.
Then he looked away.
Too late today.
Tomorrow.
Scout during the day.
Strike at night.
Then disappear.
By the time anyone connected him to the dead taxi driver, it would already be far too late.
After all, the victim had been just another anonymous criminal.
Cases like that rarely triggered large investigations.
And even if the authorities somehow traced the incident back to him—
By then, Lucas intended to have something far more important.
A Saint Cloth.
At that point, it wouldn't matter who came looking for him.
Lucas allowed himself a faint smile.
Besides, the odds of them tracing him were low.
The airport camera that might have recorded him entering the taxi had already been destroyed.
Lucas had noticed it the moment he arrived—the lens had been smashed.
That was another reason he hadn't bothered hiding the driver's body.
Even if investigators recovered fingerprints, it wouldn't help much.
Federal law enforcement databases weren't perfectly integrated.
Fingerprints recorded in one state often didn't automatically connect to another state's systems.
And Lucas himself had no criminal record.
His prints weren't in any database.
Half an hour later, inside the motel room, Lucas completed his daily training.
Ten thousand punches.
Even in a cramped room, he moved through the routine smoothly, striking the air again and again until the final repetition was complete.
Afterward he stepped into the shower.
A few minutes later he returned to the room, drying his hair.
His phone lay on the bed.
Just as he picked it up, it began ringing.
Before he could see the caller ID—
The screen went black.
The ringing stopped.
Lucas frowned.
"Huh."
"Dead battery?"
He shrugged.
The phone wasn't particularly important to him.
Just like before, he didn't really need one.
There was no one in this world waiting for his calls.
And no one who truly depended on him.
Lucas set the phone aside.
He pulled back the blanket and climbed into bed.
"Sleep," he murmured quietly.
"Tomorrow's the real job."
Less than three minutes later, he was asleep.
Soft breathing filled the quiet motel room.
Back in New York—
Gwen stared at her phone in confusion.
She had just tried calling Lucas again.
The automated message now said the phone was powered off.
She lowered the device and rested it against her chin while sitting at her computer.
After a moment, she opened a website and entered a verification code from a text message.
A map appeared on the screen.
A glowing dot marked the location of the phone connected to her account.
Except—
The dot wasn't in New York.
It wasn't even in the same state.
"Washington, D.C.?"
Gwen blinked.
"Why is Lucas's phone in D.C.?"
Her first thought was simple.
Someone had stolen it.
New York had plenty of pickpockets.
Too many.
Gwen still remembered the first phone she ever bought—stolen within three days.
She sighed.
"Guess I'll just get him another one when school starts."
As she closed the tracking page, the browser revealed another tab still open on her computer.
An archived digital newspaper.
The article had been published shortly after the Battle of New York.
The image showed a street in Jackson Heights that had been completely flattened during the alien invasion.
Gwen scrolled slowly through the report.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside her room.
She looked up.
Then suddenly stood.
"Dad!"
She ran to the door and opened it.
Outside stood George Stacy, just returning home.
He blinked in surprise at his daughter's sudden enthusiasm.
Then he smiled.
"I'm afraid I don't have any new Spider-Man gossip for you tonight."
Recently, a masked vigilante had started appearing around New York.
A guy in a red-and-blue suit swinging across buildings and stopping petty crimes.
The NYPD wasn't thrilled.
Their opinion was simple—if vigilantes handled law enforcement, what were the police for?
But the media loved it.
And the public was fascinated.
Even Gwen had been curious.
Especially with a police captain as a father.
But she shook her head quickly.
"I'm not here about Spider-Man."
George raised an eyebrow.
"Really? Yesterday you were asking—"
"That was Mary's idea," Gwen interrupted quickly. "Not mine."
George chuckled.
"Alright. So what's up?"
Gwen clasped her hands behind her back and looked up at him.
"Dad… can I ask you for a favor?"