“It’s thin.”

“Sir, it’s all we’ve got,” Dane said, selling this, practically twitching he was so anxious to get out of there. “And it’s good. Let me take a team and get down there while Webber’s running the list. We still have time to catch this before it’s over. We can get Stingray, get Yoshikazu, maybe even finally get something on Ares we can use to bring him down.”

“We can’t just break down doors of a man’s businesses on hunch.”

“It’s Tinker’s hunch, Commander, and I’ll take that over an intel report any day. We’re not breaking in. We’re…just surveilling. Following Forte’s lead. If we find probable cause, then we jump. But if we stay here, we’re too late by the time we know. This is our best chance to get Stingray. Before Seahawk does. Let me take a team, sir.”

Castillo looked down at his desk again in thought.

“Take two teams. Pull Christie’s men off the Y.I.C. stakeout and have them meet us en route. We’ll post at Pier 56 and work our way out.”

“We, sir?”

Castillo pulled his shoulder holster rig off its rack as he headed for his cabinet to retrieve his standard issue body armor. “I’m going with you. Tell Webber to double time that search and send the info directly to my QuestPad.”

“Yes, sir,” Dane said enthusiastically, breaking into a wide grin. He ran across the busy office to retrieve his own armor. Thin? Maybe. But it was something. At least he was doing something. At least he could do that much for Seahawk.

Wherever he was.

The Space Needle was barely more than a silhouette towering above the darkening Seattle. The aircraft warning beacon atop its spire, six hundred feet above the drenched city below, illuminated with a dull crimson repetition. 24 lightning rods surrounded the spire, and most were seeing service this evening.

The spire’s base capped a downward sloping roof above the landmark’s observation deck. With its angle, the roof—the first surface in the neighborhood to catch the torrential rain—created an artificial 360-degree waterfall as sheets of downpour flowed down it on all sides and spilled over the edges.

Halfway up this roof, facing west over the Sound and what city lights remained below, a lone figure crouched in primal pose, oblivious to the river flowing over his ankles and down to its final plunge. Like the Needle, he was only a dark outline, only seen in detail when another bolt of lighting found one of the rods behind and above him.

One larger than normal did so, and for passing moment, the familiar black and green armor of Seahawk appeared. And then, it was again lost to darkness.

Jared Banks was rocking slowly back and forth on his haunches, staring off at nothing. His thoughts were so fragmented and rapid and fleeting that they could barely be called thoughts. His mind processed only base emotions that stabbed at him unexpectedly like a fencing foil. There was no counter for them. They struck home again and again, punctuations to the underlying alpha emotion. Its color was a dark, blinding red.

His hands would shake with occasional tremors, but not from cold. A small part of his mind—that which was the old him, the him that had gotten up and had coffee and started the day like any other this morning—would periodically try to speak to him with its muted voice. Again and again, he shut it out. It had nothing to say that he wanted to hear, nothing that he could understand. All the world was red. That was the only truth.

He’d lost all concept and sense of time, and yet was impatient. Waiting was all he had now, all he could do, and he knew he hated that fact with every fiber of his being. Not only did it keep him from the only goal he could imagine left in his life, but it confined him to withstand the images and feelings that would flash through his cortex. When they came, he’d be forced to try and make sense of them, and that was too much for him to handle right now. If he did, he was certain that he’d fall apart, melt into pieces and be washed away, spilling over the edge with the rain flow. He couldn’t afford to think right now. Not until he did what had to be done. Once that happened, it didn’t really matter much what came next.

Radio calls had been trying to feed into his armor for some time. He’d set his suit’s systems to block them out before they reached his ears. He didn’t want to hear any familiar voices, or any words of comfort or reason that might accompany them. There was only one call that was allowed through, one from a certain cellular phone. The one he was waiting on.

That phone number appeared on his heads-up display.

With an imperceptible twitch of his right index finger, he used his glove control to pull a menu down on the screen over his left eye. With a click, he accepted the call, silently.

No voice came through at first. The other party seemed to be waiting for any kind of acknowledgment. None was coming.

“It’s me,” a man’s voice said into his ear speakers. “I’ve got it. My guy came though.”

More silence. Neither spoke.

“Where?” Jared finally asked. His voice was small, dark and frightening.

Silence.

“You sure this is what you want?” the voice asked.

Silence. Another bolt of lightning found a rod. What looked like a pizza box flew past, captured by the storm wind, and vanished into the night.

“1914 West Garfield. Pier 91.”

The heads-up immediately began pulling up a city map and plotting a course on Jared’s command.

“Just…watch yourself, okay?” the voice said, quietly. “Don’t let—”

Jared disconnected the call. The voice was distracting him.

Course plotted.

Seahawk stood up, rising to his full height against the squall. He started breathing heavily. He clenched his fists strongly to stop the tremors. The wait was over. Everything that was not rage and murder dissolved, leaving a singular, certain path.

He ran across and down the flooding rooftop, reached the edge, leapt into the air, and fell.

Body straight and arms stiff and diagonal to his sides, he plunged, head-first. Ten feet. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred.

He threw his arms behind him suddenly, joining his wrists at the small of his back. The magnetic bands locked in. He threw his arms out again, and with them, the steel mesh wings of his armor fed out with the sound of a drawn katana.

He fired his armor’s jets with a loud roar and a bright burst of red. His fall became a sloping arc as he pulled up from it. As he leveled, now locked on his target destination as his map dictated, the jets fired again, at their maximum power, and Seahawk rocketed across the Seattle sky.

11:06 P.M.

Lucy paced the hallway, periodically looking at both her watch and the clock on the wall. Dane and Castillo had checked in and shared the dishearteningly long list with her. She’d split the list between them, Max and Rainier, and Nightsable. Samantha was their best shot, the fastest means to cover maximum territory. But time was against them, if it hadn’t already beat them.

Cliff walked slowly down the hall toward her, holding half a cold cup of coffee in a cardboard cup, standard vending machine fare for long hospital waits. Lucy acknowledged him with a look.

“Still in surgery,” he said in a low voice, and leaned against a rolling gurney beside her. “Stephanie’s…well, the same.”

Lucy nodded silently and leaned next to him, and checked her watch again without even thinking about it.

Cliff considered his coffee and dropped it in a trash can beside him. He closed his eyes and inhaled, raising his chin. He didn’t look good. Something was wrong.

“You all right?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away, keeping the same pose. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Lowering his chin, he slowly rubbed the top of his balding head.

“Cliff?”

Cliff reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. Still not facing Lucy, he handed it over to her. She took it, looking confused, and read the short scribbling he’d etched there.

1914 West Garfield. Pier 91.

She didn’t understand for a moment, then her eyes grew wide. She jerked her head around and looked at him.

“Just go get him,” he said without looking back at her. He stood up, turned his back to her, and slowly walked away.

She watched him for a moment, her jaw starting to work. A varied array of emotions welled up in her, rage being the immediate forerunner, a sort of sad understanding lying beneath. He and Jared were partners. Part of her understood that, part of her never would.

But however she felt about it, and about him, would have to wait.

She turned around and ran, shoving a stairway access door open and bounding up the steps. She keyed her radio as she climbed, and yanked her trench coat off and threw it, revealing her costume and her store of gadgets strapped all over her.

“Sam! I need immediate pickup! Now! Meet me at the roof!

“Bobby, Davis! Stay where you are! We’re coming to get you!

“Dane! We’ve got it! We’ve got it!”

The warehouse off Pier 91 was in one of the lucky neighborhoods that still had power. Its overhead lights, several of them broken by kids and transients, didn’t provide much visibility, and stacks of crates and pallets looked ominous in deep shadow.

Stingray—thief, villain, and whatever else the press and authorities wanted to call him—had noticed the armed men on the roof outside, cloaked in dark rain slickers, as he’d trudged through the ankle-deep water out front. He’d paid them no mind. Their guns were useless against his armor. The suit, aquamarine and gun metal gray, had wide metallic shoulders and a half globe helmet that covered the upper half of his head, with eyeholes that let his deep green eyes show through. The plexishield would drop if he commanded it, connecting to the suit’s neck opening and sealing him in completely, as it did when he went underwater. But for now, it was raised, showing his damp brown goatee and blank frown. He carried a large duffel over one shoulder, giving him the odd look of a futuristic Old Spice Man home from a long voyage.

Now, standing inside the door on the cold cement floor, he showed no sign of fear or hesitation. Whatever Yoshikazu had thrown together for protection was nothing that concerned him. It wasn’t as though the man was going to pull something. This was for show, for ego, only. He wanted this deal. And as hollow as it felt, Stingray wanted it too. Needed it. It had the feel of an addiction. The price he’d paid for it left no room for any other consideration. If the Justice Squadron was waiting for him inside this place, he’d still be walking though the door without pause. This was all he had left.

Sara was gone. His life had been filled with soulless, useless women that he used up and cast aside, or that left him after they got too close. None had seen what he was inside and wanted any part of him for long. He grew to accept that, and hated them all from the start, taking what he would while he could, knowing that brief pleasure was all they were good for.

But Sara had understood him. She’d seen what the others couldn’t. Their spirits were the same. He’d found what he never knew was possible with her. He’d found peace in her embrace, acceptance in her touch. He’d found happiness.

And now Sara was gone.

She’d told him that going after the merchandise a second time was reckless. But he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let Seahawk get the better of him again. Not this time. Not this deal, his big break he’d been dreaming of since the day he stole the suit. She was against it, but he couldn’t let it go. So she’d gone with him. And his deal had gotten the only woman he’d ever love killed.

No. Seahawk had gotten her killed. He had to remember that. The alternative, that he himself was responsible, was unacceptable. He’d had never let anything happen to her. It was all Seahawk. The man called Jared Banks. A cop. Of course he was a cop. Why had that not come as a surprise? Well, the cop knew what pain and loss were now, didn’t he? Knew what it was like to lose what you loved the most? He’d remember that for the rest of his days, never be able to escape it, and he’d always know that it was Stingray that made it happen. That in the end, Stingray had won.

But it still didn’t feel like that. He still felt hollow and numb, like a zombie locked in space-age armor. A part of him knew that the deal, his retirement, all meant nothing now, that he’d never enjoy it or do anything but resent it. He tried not to listen to that part. He went though the motions. He was going to finish this.

He walked around a stack of crates and saw Yoshikazu, that worthless old rich slope, standing in his fine coat in the center of the massive room. A pair of locals flanked him, both brandishing automatic rifles, making a big show. Yeah, real impressive, tough guys.

Ah, but there was a twist. There was someone else sitting on a stack of crates ten feet above the old man. A mask. He vaguely recognized the costume, and, as Stingray walked confidently toward them, he remembered the guy’s name was Dirtnap. Mercenary villain. Real fast and strong, had claws that could tear a normal man to pieces. Not being a normal man, Stingray was less than impressed.

“I see you brought friends,” Stingray said, and his voice echoed and carried above the din of the storm. He glanced left and right, and saw more guards posted on walkways above and trying to hide behind crates. He couldn’t help but be cruelly amused. If he didn’t have places to be, he might have decided to take them all out just for fun, just to show what he thought of this laughable show of strength.

“Just to be safe,” Yoshikazu said loudly to be heard across the still fair distance. Even from here Stingray could see the man sweating. “This has all gone very wrong. I can take no chances.”

“Yeah, it got all kinds of screwed, didn’t it?” He kept his pace even and watched the guards next to Yoshikazu try to act tough and pose with their guns. Morons. “And you got yourself a mask, too?”

Dirtnap sat on his perch and grinned. His hands were on either side of his knees, and he tapped the crate below him with this claws. He looked almost bored.

“Again,” Yoshikazu said, “it’s just for safety. So we can complete our business without any further incidents.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stingray said. He noted the briefcase between the old man’s feet. “That my money?”

“The cash, yes. The transfer amount will be wired to your offshore account when our business is concluded, as agreed.” He looked at the duffel Stingray carried. “You’ve taken the items out of their crate?”

“Kind of awkward carrying a crate around, isn’t it? Don’t worry, they’re fine.”

The guards, for all their show of attitude, were starting to look nervous as Stingray got closer. He liked that. But just to keep things smooth, he got close, but just close enough to keep things from getting complicated. He wanted to get this over with. He wanted his money. He wanted to go start his new life, get out of this town and this country, try to forget about Sara, and finally, for once in his life, come out the winner.

He stood there, facing off with Yoshikazu and his men. They all stared at each other for a moment.

Stingray shrugged. “Your show, old man. How do you want to do this?”

Yoshikazu glanced around for a moment with uncertainty. Yeah. It was pretty obvious he usually had other people do this kind of stuff for him. No trusted henchmen or errand boys to delegate to anymore. He was on the lam. Stingray kind of liked the idea of one of the untouchable Wall Street types knowing what it felt like to have to look over your shoulder all the time.

“I…would like to inspect the merchandise,” he said, nodding once, as in approval of his own idea.

Stingray shrugged, pulled the long bag off his shoulder, and laid it down on the cold floor between him and the other men. He stood back up. “Inspect away. Just hurry up. I want to make this quick. I’m sure you do, too.”

“I think we can all find agreement on that,” a new, and raspy, voice said.

Yoshikazu twirled around. The guards next to him did likewise, bringing their weapons up.

A man of perhaps his mid-to-late thirties strolled lazily out from behind a row of containers, smoking a green-hued cigarette of European origin. He wore a fine and stylish dark gray suit, also likely European, a pair of thin red sunglasses, and had his long black hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Who the hell is this?” Stingray asked, looking the confident stranger over.

“Friend of a friend,” Mr. Dusk rasped, and smiled. He turned his glance to Yoshikazu. “I represent your benefactor in this matter, Mr. Yoshikazu. Your host for these negotiations.”

Yoshikazu’s hired guards had their guns leveled at the man, but this seemed below the man’s notice or concern.

“Wait,” Yoshikazu told the men. “It’s all right.”

They warily lowered their guns about half way. The other guards above did likewise. Dirtnap hadn’t bothered moving yet.

“Why has he sent you?” the old man asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Why did who send him? What is this shit?” Stingray demanded.

Dusk took a drag off his cigarette, building in a pause as he walked closer. “Not wrong, exactly,” he told Yoshikazu. “There have just been a few changes in the arrangement. We’ve decided it’s in our best interests to become bidders as well.”

“What?!” Yoshikazu said, his confusion blossoming into outrage.

Mr. Dusk smiled. “The sole bidders, actually.”

With that, more figures came out from behind the crates. Two of them flew. They were all costumed, and all looked smug and set for violence.

“What is this?” Yoshikazu backed up a couple of steps, looking around frantically. His guards raised their guns again, though most looked like they were about to take off running.

“Relax,” Dusk said loudly with his gravel voice, addressing the henchmen around the room and on the walkways. “Whatever his offered wage was, we’ll triple it. Consider that against the alternative.”

Stingray tensed and tried to read the situation. A double-cross, that was sure. But how did that affect him? He eyed the bag at his feet, and considered grabbing it and just blasting through the ceiling, leaving whatever was going on to run itself out. But where else would he find a buyer? He needed to end this night rich. His exit was already planned, and he was going where no one could find him. His fresh start. He couldn’t lose that.

Yoshikazu looked at the colorfully garbed men and women backing Dusk up, and then up at Dirtnap.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Yoshikazu demanded, weakly.

“Me?” the streetwise mercenary asked, then grinned. He lifted off the crate’s edge and dropped easily to the floor, where he straightened his shoulders, faced Yoshikazu, and stepped casually backward toward Dusk and company. “You forget who ‘loaned’ me to you? I don’t work for you, slick. I was just here to baby-sit.”

Yoshikazu turned white. His twin guards, smarter than they looked, were already backing away from him.

Smiling, Dusk took a last drag, dropped his diminishing cigarette, and ground it out on the cement with his fine leather shoe.

“It’s just business, Mr. Yoshikazu. And he does appreciate you bringing this opportunity to his attention. As a show of gratitude, when he finishes buying up your plummeting Y.I.C. stock and takes over your company within the week? He’ll keep most of your senior management on board. And the Y.I.C. name. Consider it a gesture of respect.”

He unbuttoned his jacket and pulled a futuristic handgun from a hidden holster.

The crimson beam blasted right between Yoshikazu’s wide eyes, and exited the back of his head after boiling his brain. The holes both smoked as he seemed suspended there for a moment. Then his body collapsed to the floor with a sickening, final thud.

“Holy shit,” Stingray muttered, transfixed on the sight.

Dusk sniffed and replaced his gun. He buttoned his jacket again and adjusted his tie. Stepping over the smoking body, he took the dead man’s place behind the money briefcase.

“Sole bidders,” he said to Stingray. “You understand. Competition drives a market economy, true, but sometimes it can just be a pain in the ass.”

Stingray watched the man closely, and glanced around at the other masks, the guards, the rest of the room.

“So,” Dusk said, raising his voice to a more cordial tone. “Word has it you have a bag of goods for sale.”

Dusk and Stingray both looked down at the bag, then back at each other.

“Yeah,” Stingray said. “Went through a lot to get them, too.”

“So I hear. My condolences on your loss. It’s a dangerous business, the acquisitions end, yes?”

Stingray didn’t answer.

Dusk took his own opinion as self-evident and went on. “Would this be all of them?” he asked, eyeing the bag again.

“Yeah,” Stingray said. “Of course.” It seemed his deal was still in progress. Things had gone screwy, but as long as someone was going to be paying him, he didn’t care who. Not like he liked Yoshikazu anyway.

“See, a more prudent move,” Dusk pointed out helpfully, “would have been to stash half somewhere else. That would have been your leverage if our friend here—” He motioned to Yoshikazu’s corpse. “—Had tried something. But, you probably didn’t feel too threatened by the likes of him, did you?”

“No,” Stingray said.

Dusk nodded. “You can tell a lot about a man from the financial moves he makes, did you know that? He had ambition and desire, but lacked fortitude. The merchandise here would have been wasted on his kind.”

“So,” Stingray asked carefully. “What’s the deal here? You’ve got a better offer?”

“Oh, I believe so. I’ve been authorized to offer you…well, this briefcase, of course, but that doesn’t really cost us anything.” He pushed Yoshikazu’s case forward with his foot.

“Who’s us?” Stingray wanted to know. Who do you work for?”

Dusk ignored the question. “As well as a twenty-percent increase on Yoshikazu’s back end settlement. A little incentive to dissuade you from considering any other offers.”

Other offers. Stingray really was in the big time now. He was making deals and people were treating him with the respect he deserved. It was all happening. Finally, after so long.

He nodded and kept his look cool. “That sounds like a reasonable offer. I respect how you people do business. Because of that, I think we can make a deal.”

“Excellent,” Dusk smiled. “Then it’s settled. Oh, well…except for the one clause.”

“Clause?”

“Yes, one minor addendum qualifying the deal. My employer insisted. The deal as just discussed, the money, the increase, et cetera, still stands. However—”

He took a step backward to stand among his costumed companions.

“Ratification of the deal and completion of payment only comes if you can stop these ladies and gentlemen from killing you.”

Stingray’s heart sank. And his anger boiled. It wasn’t fair. Not when he’d been this close.

“You see,” Dusk went on, stepping behind the masks and pacing slowly around them, back into eyeshot, “you’re not an unknown property in these parts, Mr. Stingray. You’ve been stealing and pirating for some time. And some of the goods you’ve taken have belonged to my employer. You’ve cost him. But now, you bring this opportunity. So, instead of just killing you outright, he offers you a chance to fight for your life and complete the deal. Do that, all will be even, and you’ll get the money. Don’t—well, that alternative sort of speaks for itself doesn’t it?”

“You son of a bitch,” Stingray snarled. He looked at his five waiting attackers. Dirtnap. Blue Dragon. Outlaw. Kinetica. Caldron. He knew all of the names, some of the reps.

“I’m afraid the deal’s not open to negotiation. Let’s see how it turns out, shall we?”

Caldron’s eyes lit up with the red heat of a searing furnace. Blue Dragon began to burn with her own flame, but hers were azure and mystical. Stingray got into fighting stance. If this is how it was going to be, let it. If he had to kill them all to get his money, then bring them on. And if he was going down, he was going down slugging.

A huge crash erupted from the roof, and all eyes turned to see debris raining down to bounce off the floor. Seahawk come down with it, braking himself with his boot jets to touch down lightly.

Dusk saw this, and immediately ducked behind a large cargo crate, pressing his back to it. Forte. He could not be seen.

Seahawk stood there and locked his eyes on Stingray, his chest rising and falling with heavy breath as rain slid down his armor.

The guards on the walkways trained their weapons on him, as did the remaining ones in the building. They weren’t really sure what else to do, what their orders were—or really even who was giving their orders. But it seemed like the thing to do to get paid. Kinetica took a step back and looked around, waiting for the other shoe—the other members of Forte, that is—to drop. The others were surprised, but held their ground.

Stingray faced Seahawk across the warehouse. Every ounce of hate he had—and Stingray had plenty to spare—gripped him at once.

“Well,” he said, smiling without pleasure or humor. “Look who’s here.”

Seahawk started walking toward him. Briskly.

“Hold on there, hero,” Dirtnap said. “Looks to me like you’re a little outnumbered here. You might want to rethink your strategy a touch.”

Seahawk kept walking, like the villain hadn’t even spoken.

The other villains got ready. Outlaw drew his guns. Caldron’s hands burned with black fire.

“You can’t take us all,” Dirtnap said again, his tone getting a little more urgent as he saw Seahawk wasn’t stopping. He took up a defensive posture. “You’re digging your own grave.”

“What’s the matter?” Stingray shrugged at him with a sadistic grin. “Has something got you—”

Seahawk leapt and fired his jets. He blasted right into Stingray, slamming into him and taking him off his feet. The other villains jumped out of the way as the pair of them flew by, and they both crashed into the stack of crates Dirtnap had been perched on. The minute they dropped to the floor, Seahawk was on top of Stingray, raining murderous punches onto him, one after the other.

“Interesting,” Dirtnap said now that they’d all turned and to face the scene of the pummeling. His caution had turned to amusement. “I get the feeling we’re missing something here, folks.”

A circle of light opened in the center of the warehouse. A bit of the storm came through it—a gust of ferocious wind and the horizontal rain that traveled with it. Behind that came Tinker, Rainier, Max and Nightsable.

“We’ve got company!” Outlaw yelled, and the bearded marksman started a sidelong run for cover, opening up with his deadly energy pistols as he did. The other villains turned back at his warning and the piercing racket of his blasts, and they spotted the other heroes too.

“Fan out!” Tinker called, ducking energy blasts and making for cover herself. She took in the surroundings as quick as she could with rapid glances, spotting the shooters up high, the villains low.

Rainier took one of the blasts in the shoulder, but it did little more than shove his torso slightly to the left. Max immediately went low and started running toward the villains at his top speed. Nightsable was too busy looking around the room, looking for Seahawk.

Beyond the villains, still beating on Stingray, there he was.

Bullets started to rain down on them from the walkway above. Rainier yelled and drew Nightsable out of her immobile stare.

“Take the shooters up top! Go!”

She hesitated, torn between the logical choice and her desire to rush to Seahawk. Then she disappeared, and reappeared on the walkway high above, behind one of the gunmen. She grabbed his rifle and spun him around by it. She broke it in half before him, then punched the criminal into unconsciousness.

Max was solo for the moment, but trusted that his teammates, whom he’d come to depend on these past couple of years like limbs on his own body, would have his back. He assessed Caldron, the biggest target, as the biggest threat, so he dove into him and knocked him off his feet and to the floor. Before the rest could properly react, Rainier, coming down off a mighty leap, landed hard and loud in the middle of them, scattering them. Dirtnap was still close enough to strike, and he drew back with his claws. Rainier backhanded him and sent him sailing.

Dusk peered carefully around from his crate, pulling his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose, and saw that Rainier was parked next to the duffel. The boss wanted what was in there and wanted them very badly. But the bigger picture always had to be considered. Dusk could not afford to be seen by Forte. That was mandate number one. Nick Ares knew that Forte was looking for any way to prove illegal activity on his part, and he knew they suspected Dusk worked for him.

Sometimes, in business, you had to make the hard choices and cut your losses. Ares wouldn’t be happy, but Ares would understand. This deal was a wash.

Stepping further back into the shadows, he conjured symbols into the air with one hand. A shimmering portal opened behind him. Without turning, he backed into it, pressing his sunglasses back into place as he did.

The day was coming when Forte was going to become too strong of a liability. That day, he sensed, was coming very soon. And when it did, there would be downsizing. Downsizing with extreme prejudice. He looked forward to being there for that.

The portal closed after he stepped through, sending his hiding place back into shadow.

Tinker jumped on top of a crate stack. She saw Max struggling with Caldron, Rainier taking a blast of blue flame from Blue Dragon…

And Seahawk trying to beat Stingray to death.

They weren’t too late.

A bullet splintered part of the crate below her foot, and she dropped instinctively. Cursing the distraction, she spotted the sniper gunning for her across the way. She whipped a metallic bolo off her belt and spun it madly. She flung it toward him as he got another shot off her way. His shot missed. Her bolo whizzed through the air and wrapped around his ankle, anchoring it to metal pole on the walkway frame. The electric charge in the bolo released, and the thug seized and shook. He fell away, unconscious, and dangled upside down by the bolo that still secured his leg.

Turning back, she saw that Rainier was pinned by Blue Dragon’s flame barrage. Tinker pulled a gun off her back, a stunted one that looked like a grenade launcher. She snatched a canister from her belt and jammed it in the back of the weapon, aimed the weapon, and fired. Her perfectly placed shot went off about a foot from Blue Dragon’s face, and pressurized flour exploded outward. The villainess’s face and shoulders were covered with the stuff. Blinded and coughing, she stumbled back, and the heat was off Rainier.

Automatic fire ate up the crate around her, and she leapt and rolled out of harm’s way. She so hated dealing with supers and normal yokels at once.

A large pair of doors at warehouse entrance burst open and broke to pieces as an UNCLE van drove right through them. Dane Casey’s car squealed in right behind it and braked to an abrupt halt. Dane and Castillo both opened their doors and dropped behind them for cover, drawing weapons on the higher gunmen. Armed agents poured out of the van.

“Federal agents!” Dane yelled. “Drop your weapons!”

They didn’t, but at least now things were a little more even.

Stingray had been caught so off-guard by the speed and violence of Seahawk’s attack that reaction had been impossible, recovery out of his reach. The relentless beating brought stars to his eyes and made the room swirl and swoon. Everything had suddenly gone wrong at once, after all his planning and waiting. And now Seahawk was trying to be the final victor.

Brought to the surface of his fading consciousness by this hateful thought, Stingray flung his arm upward and wrapped his armored, powered fist around his assailant’s throat. He clenched with the suit’s considerable strength, forcing Seahawk to grasp at Stingray’s wrist and struggle with him. Stingray took the opportunity to pull Seahawk toward him while thrusting forward with his own armored head. His helmet slammed into Seahawk’s head, and he did it a second time just to be sure. Seahawk was dazed, even if briefly, and that was enough. Stingray positioned his arms under Seahawk’s torso, spun with his whole body from the floor, and flipped Seahawk through the air and into another crate.

Stingray staggered to his feet, wiping his wrist across mouth and seeing it come back up covered in blood. As he tried to clear his head, he finally took notice of the scene around him. It had all gone to Hell. Forte was here, fighting the villains that had been paid to kill him. UNCLE was here, and he saw agents running back and forth, taking up positions and firing on Yoshikazu’s disloyal soldiers.

And he saw Rainier holding his ground against an attack from Caldron, standing right next to his duffel.

Even as he tried to lie to himself about his chances of turning things around, he knew it was over. The place was swarming with good guys. If he stayed and tried to fight for what was rightfully his, he’d go down, and would go to jail. Forever. He knew Seahawk or one of his buddies would be on him any moment, and just standing there thinking about this was increasing the chances of that happening.

It was over. He’d lost. The deal was undone. All it had cost him had amounted to nothing.

He wanted to scream, but didn’t have the time. He wanted to kill Seahawk, but survival and self-interest had always been his strengths, and they had to dictate his path now. There was still plenty of vengeance to be had, horrible, bloody and torturous. It would be had, but not tonight.

Hating himself, hating the world, hating Seahawk and Forte most of all, he fired his armor’s jets, blasted off from the warehouse floor, and smashed through the roof into the storm.

Nightsable appeared in the thick of the ongoing battle. Dirtnap was coming up behind Max, who was tied up with the white-faced and angry Blue Dragon. She’d seen this, and teleported in at just the right spot to sling her arm under Dirtnap’s shoulder and use her own considerable strength, and his own momentum, to flip him and slam him on the ground. It was a move her father—the Dr. Jackal of her world, now several years in the grave—had taught her as a child. She tried to finish him with a punch, but he expertly rolled out of the way in time and was back on his feet, battle-poised and ready to spar with her.

Rainier was locked into trading blows with Caldron, and Kinetica was unconscious on the ground. Samantha hadn’t seen who’d taken her out. It might have been Lucy, for all she knew, but Lucy was nowhere to be seen.

She spotted a flash of movement behind the charging Dirtnap, but evading and countering him and his claws kept her from making out what it was. Then, a few dodges and punches later, she saw Stingray crash through the roof. He was getting away. Someone needed to stop him. He couldn’t be allowed to escape after what he’d done.

And then, a few moments later, she saw Seahawk stumble to his feet and look up to the roof. For a moment she saw his teeth clenched in rage, the look of unbridled hate on his face, and it sent a chill from the top of her spine straight on down.

Seahawk set off his jets and shot off through the roof after Stingray.

“Seahawk!” she screamed after him, barely able to catch herself before yelling out his real name. He couldn’t have heard her. He was gone into the night. She wanted to teleport after him, but Dirtnap was relentless. She could have just done so anyway and escaped from Dirtnap, but that would leave him to team up against one of her teammates, and she couldn’t do that. She was trapped there until she took him out.

With much less caution, she charged the murderous man, intent on putting him down. Dirtnap, not obliging, dodged her lunge and tore a wide strip out of her cape as she passed.

Tinker, too late, spotted Stingray taking off, and Seahawk following. Cursing, she looked around and assessed. Her teammates were in one-on-ones. UNCLE was engaged with the last of the gunmen. Someone had to go after Jared.

Of course, it had to be left to the person who couldn’t fly, leap or teleport.

She bolted toward to front of the warehouse, leaping from crate to crate, jumping down to lower ones until she reached the floor. She darted past Dane, still braced behind his car door, and ran out the wide opening the gate-crashing UNCLE men had created.

“I’m going after Seahawk!” she shouted to him without looking back. She thought she heard him say something back to her, but it was impossible to hear over the gunshots and energy blasts, and she didn’t have time for whatever it was anyway.

She ran out into the rain, past a forklift, and down the dock, watching the sky. She wasn’t quite sure what she intended to do, but sometimes just being in the right place was half the solution.

She stopped at the end of a monstrous auto cargo hauler, the rain beating down on her and flattening her hair, drenching her to the bone. She looked around frantically, squinting her eyes, trying to pick up any kind of trail.

The rain was coming down so hard and was making so much racket that she didn’t hear the gunning car engine until it was almost on her.

She twirled around and saw two things. The first was a ’68 Mustang speeding toward her with its headlights off. The second was Outlaw, standing between her and the car, both of his guns trained right on her. His head was turned back, though, as he had heard the car as well.

The driver’s door of the Mustang flew open as the car passed him. It hit him and sent him flying, and his guns spun up in the air where he’d been standing before clacking to the dock. He tumbled along for a few feet before he ended in an uncomfortable-looking lump, out cold and probably in need of a couple of casts.

The Mustang braked and slid in the drench, and slid sideways to a halt near Tinker. Misery got out and looked over to make sure Outlaw was out.

“Got to watch that six, Tinker,” she said, pulling out one of her .45’s.

“Thanks,” Tinker said, able to breath again. “So I see you got the location.”

“Yep.”

“And when were you planning on calling me with it?”

“Didn’t see the need. I heard on the UNCLE band that you were all on your way here already.”

“And how is it you’re able to hear the UNCLE band?”

Misery smiled and didn’t answer, simply checking the clip in her gun and sliding it back in.

Tinker let it go. “Stingray ran. Jared’s after him. I have to find them.”

“And you’re going to do what when and if you do?”

“I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

“Want some company?”

“No,” Lucy said, feeling silly about trying to protect someone who’d just saved her life and taken out a super-villain, but doing so anyway. “Get in there and hook up with Dane. If the fight’s over, tell the others where I’m headed. I don’t want to distract them with a radio call right now.”

“Done,” Misery said, slamming her car door. “Go do what you have to.”

Nodding, Tinker took off running again, intent on doing just that.

Stingray flew low against the wind, choosing distance over altitude for now. He needed to get as much real estate between him and the warehouse as he could before he figured out where he was going and what his next move was.

The elbow slamming into the back of his neck dizzied him and threw his equilibrium completely off. He tumbled, trying to orient himself through his daze and the spinning landscape, but could not. He slammed hard onto the deck of a gargantuan cargo vessel berthed at the commercial dock.

He rolled and ended up on his back. He tried to right himself and shake off the effect of impact, and the blow, and saw the braking jets of Seahawk. Seahawk cut the jets at the last moment and fell right at Stingray.

Stingray rolled to avoid the double-boot hammer. Seahawk loudly slammed down on the deck with his full weight and momentum. Stingray threw a leg in a hard kick, catching Seahawk in the side and forcing him stumble a few steps to avoid falling. That was enough time for Stingray to leap to his feet.

Seahawk turned, and the two faced each other at a distance, the driving rain animating the deck between them.

“All right,” Stingray growled loudly, his body heat sending up steamy vapors in the chill rain. “You want this? Huh? Then let’s do it. You and me. To the finish this time. No more games.”

Seahawk answered with a charge.

Jared threw a flurry of martial strikes, made crushing with his suit’s strength enhancement. Stingray blocked with equal speed and strength, countering each one, sending loud clanks of metal on metal into the air. They’d done this dance before. Each knew the other was his equal in hand-to-hand prowess. This was one of the reasons why Seahawk had never caught Stingray in all the times they’d clashed, and why Seahawk was still around to keep after him the next time. For three years, Seahawk had foiled Stingray’s plans. For three years, Stingray kept coming back. But tonight, they both knew, it was ending, one way or the other.

Stingray rolled with a blow and tumbled back twice, coming up on his feet. Jared charged again and leapt with a flying kick. Stingray dodged left with a grunt. Seahawk landed behind him. Stingray spun with a straight-arm blow to take Seahawk’s head off. But Seahawk bent his knees and dropped straight to his back, catching himself with outstretched fingertips as the swing passed. He threw a hard kick up and caught Stingray in the stomach, doubling him over. With another deft move of his legs, he swept Stingray’s out from under him, dropping him back to the deck.

Seahawk sprang up and came down immediately with a punch he put his full weight and armor strength behind. Stingray rolled and dodged it, and Seahawk ended up putting a deep dent in the deck plating. He followed with more punches, and Stingray kept rolling. He finally tried a downward stomp-kick, which missed as well. As it did, Stingray spun on his back, bringing his boots up to Seahawk’s midsection. He fired both sets of jets at full power.

Seahawk flew back across the deck and slammed into a twenty-foot high steel cargo container near its apex. Denting it loudly, he fell, stunned, for the twenty feet back to the deck, and landed hard.

Stingray flip-rolled to his feet, deftly keeping his footing despite the rain. “You like that, bitch?” he yelled at Seahawk, who was struggling to rise. “Huh?! You having a good day? First your whore wife and your kid get blown up, then you get your ass kicked by the guy who did it. Need some Calgon to take you away?”

Baring his teeth, Seahawk got a leg under him and fought to his feet.

“That’s called payback, you son of a bitch! You brought it on them! You killed my Sara! You took her away from me, and she was the best thing that ever happened to me! Now you know what it feels like! Now you can live with the pain!”

Seahawk thrust his right arm out toward Stingray, and his grapple line fired. It wrapped itself around the surprised Stingray’s throat. Stingray grabbed at it and made a choking sound. Seahawk clutched the line with both hands and yanked as hard as he could.

Stingray came stumbling toward him, trying to keep on his feet. He stumbled right into Seahawk’s waiting punch. His head snapped hard to the left, and he staggered off in the other direction. Seahawk yanked the leash again, harshly pulling him back, and punched him again with bone-crushing fury.

Another punch. Another. Stingray faltered back and forth, fighting to breathe, fighting to flee. He was managing neither.

Finally he grabbed the line and fired his jets, soaring straight up like a Titan missile, dragging the attached Seahawk with him. The ship was moored beneath a full-length cargo transport rail, a column of girders running the length of the vessel. He flew past it and went vertical. Seahawk had no time to react before he was dragged into the steel conveyer with a deafening clang. Stunned, he dangled from the line in his arm as Stingray landed atop the girders and wrestled the line from around his neck.

Finally freeing himself from it, he gasped in huge breaths, and kept holding the end of the line. He looked over the edge and saw Seahawk still dangling there, far above the deck. Gripping the line hard, he dove off the other side and fired his jets again, this time flying straight down. Seahawk was yanked up again like a marlin, dragged back toward the girders at rocket speed.

The pain of his arm being wrenched brought Jared out of his daze. He looked up and saw the web of steel rushing at him. He managed to key the command in time and his grapple line detached. Loosed, it whipped away from him and snaked over the rail. He fired his jets just in time to avoid the collision. He flew past the girders, righted himself, and dropped down on top of the rigging. He crouched and balanced himself with one hand, taking a moment to clear his head as his arm, shoulder and head throbbed. He peered down through the crossed bars and saw Stingray fly vertically below and back across the dock.

Catching his breath, refueled by his bloodlust, he flew off the edge and gave chase.

He fixed on Stingray's jet trail in the dark and soared low, keeping pace and altitude. The trail dropped and disappeared past a large crane with a dangling wrecking ball, standing beside a construction site. He flew past the crane and dropped into the half-finished warehouse skeleton, into its darkness.

He landed and stepped carefully past bags of cement, tools and stacks of wooden planks. He switched his visual sensors to infrared and scanned the area. All he could see was emptiness, the only movement the flapping of plastic sheets clinging by staples to naked frames of wood. His steps were light and careful, quiet and calculated.

The length of pipe hit him in the back of the head, and he floundered forward a pair of steps while the sound of impact echoed in his ears.

Stingray snarled, standing over him, and held the pipe like a bat. He swung again and hit Seahawk’s shoulder, spinning him into a faltering backpedal. Stingray watched his handiwork for two seconds before swinging again with all his might, and made head contact again. Seahawk’s head flew back, and he tumbled over a pyramid of similar pipes, falling over them and setting them to tumbling down on one another with a terrible clatter.

“You lost!” Stingray screamed. “I beat you! I took your family away, and then I beat you! You’re nothing! You’re nothing!!”

Lightning flashed overhead, and Stingray raised the pipe like an ax and swung down with all his might.

Seahawk pulled a pipe up with both hands and caught the blow. Sparks flew in the darkness. Stingray swung again. Seahawk threw the pipe up and blocked again as he tried to crawl backward and create some distance. Stingray would not relent.

Seahawk caught the next one by swinging his pipe, and knocked Stingray’s weapon to the side. In the moment it took Stingray to correct his stance, Seahawk thrust his pipe forward and into Stingray’s chest. Stingray was knocked back, giving Seahawk just enough time to spring to his feet. Stingray charged, wielding his pipe like a broadsword.

They dueled in the dark place, hammering each other’s pipes, feeling the bones in their arms vibrate with each impact, each looking for an opening, a moment of weakness or miscalculation in the other. Sparks flew and piercing clangs sounded with each hit.

Their pipes met in a dual swing and locked between them, both men giving no quarter. Their burning eyes met. Then Seahawk turned and forced Stingray’s down. It was his opening. Taking a page from Stingray’s book, Seahawk head butted his opponent violently. The thief stumbled, and Seahawk swung down hard, beating the pipe from his hands.

Stingray backed away, but Seahawk came right after him, swinging. Stingray caught the blow on his armored arms, being backed toward a plastered wall. He dodged a swing that Seahawk made with a primal scream. The pipe went through the plaster and stuck there for a moment. It was enough. Stingray kicked high into Seahawk’s chest and sent him flying back. The pipe clattered to the floor.

Stingray threw himself at the object of his rage, and the punching and blocking started anew. Each armored man landed blows and drew blood. Their martial dance took them throughout sparse structure. Frames would crash down as one would be knocked through it. Neither of them showed signs of tiring. They were driven on pure, dark will to destroy.

One of Seahawk’s round kicks flung Stingray back twenty feet into a trailer. Stingray wrested himself from the aluminum wall, and saw Seahawk running at him. Cornered, he fired his jets and took to the air. Seahawk blasted off and gave chase.

Stingray flew through the window of a darkened warehouse next door. Seahawk soared in, ignoring the chance of an ambush for fear of losing his prey. Inside, he found nothing. He searched frantically, and quickly found another window broken out. Stingray had fled. He flew out the same window and took to the air, looking every which way. He found no trace.

He flew slowly, rain spattering against his eye coverings. He couldn’t have lost him. Not when he was this close. He looked left, right, up and down.

From either sound or instinct, he wasn’t sure, Seahawk sensed something behind him and spun around. The wrecking ball from the crane was soaring at him, with Stingray pushing it from behind with his jets at maximum. He managed to dodge as it flew by and came within inches of him. The quick move threw off his hover, and he readjusted to correct. It was enough time for Stingray to be on him.

Stingray grabbed him from behind and wrapped an arm violently around his neck. Seahawk grabbed the arm and tried to pull it free, but he was caught fast. Stingray had him pinned, and was trying to crush and choke the life out of him. His vision turned spotty and strobed.

“I could have had it all!” Stingray screamed in his ear as he tightened his grip. “The money, the girl, everything I ever wanted! It was mine, and you ruined everything! Everything!”

Seahawk’s mouth grasped for air. None was allowed in. His strength failed him as consciousness started escaping him like sand through an hourglass. Images ran through his head. Stephanie, laughing over breakfast on a cloudy morning. Gabriel taking his first steps. The life that he could have had. The life that he lost, not to some madman, but long before, with no one to blame but himself. He’d made so many mistakes. So many things he could never take back.

Those thoughts melted as he saw movement through what was left of his vision. A dark object coming at him. A large object, soaring through the rain.

The wrecking ball was coming back around, and was heading right for them.

He fought for strength, for clear thought, for options. He released his hold on Stingray’s arm, which only prodded him to tighten his grip further and choke more life out of Jared. Jared clenched his eyes shut with effort, and felt for his right fist with his open left hand. He closed the left over the right, and bent his right arm at the elbow.

With the last of his strength, he thrust his elbow back into Stingray’s side. Stingray’s death grip loosened, just for a moment. Using that moment, Seahawk slipped from his grasp and let himself fall.

He’d barely fallen out of range when four and a half tons hit Stingray at high velocity.

Stingray flew, over the warehouse, back to the construction site. He crashed through the incomplete upper floor, taking down wooden beams and steel girders in his wake. Much of the destruction collapsed in and fell with him as his plummeted into darkness.

Seahawk hit the warehouse roof, and what little air he’d recaptured left him on impact. He lay there, writhing slowly. When he could breathe again, he placed a hand on the roof, but was unable to attempt rising for several minutes.

When he finally worked his way uneasily to his feet, he trudged to the roof’s edge and looked down on the construction site. It was quiet, and dark. He used his jets carefully and slowly lowered himself to ground level.

He stepped into the wreckage of the bottom floor, holding support beams to balance himself. After a short search, he found Stingray.

He was half-buried in debris, with a girder lying across him. His helmet was gone, and his face was swollen and bloodied. Parts of his chest plate were torn open, like a tin can whose contents exploded under pressure. His ruined armor sparked and crackled with dying energy. His lips moved, but said nothing.

Seahawk looked down on him, and for a passing moment, he felt pity. The pity quickly melted into images of Gabriel, torn and broken by this evil man’s madness. The passing impression of a wounded animal transformed into his true visage…that of a homicidal monster.

Seahawk saw a long wooden beam lying nearby. He stretched for it, though the act pained him, and picked it up. He grasped it and broke it in half, leaving a shorter piece in his hands with a sharp, splintered and jagged end.

He stood over his fallen prey, thought of his son, and raised the stake high over an exposed area left by the broken Stingray armor…a suit that had caused so many so much pain, but now never would again. An exposed area right over Stingray’s heart.

“Jared!”

It was Lucy’s voice.

Tinker stood several feet away, having just stepped inside. Barely having the strength for the motion, he turned his head toward her.

“Jared,” she said to him urgently. “Don’t do this. It’s over. You beat him, okay? You won.”

He breathed slowly and deeply, and glared right through her.

“Get out of here,” he told her.

“I’m not leaving,” she said. “We’re taking him to the hospital, and then he’s going to jail for what he did.”

He stared at the spot he’d chosen, the bloody stretch of chest above Stingray’s rib cage. Rain was falling through the remains of the second story and already washing the blood away.

“Walk away, Lucy,” he said quietly.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Get the hell out of here!” he screamed at her without looking.

“No. I’m not leaving.”

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Watch if you want.”

“Don’t make me do this, Jared.”

He glanced back at her. She had one arm at her side, and the other held out with one of her guns leveled at him.

He snarled a tired, dark grin. “Going to shoot some superglue at me? Or some ants?”

“There’s enough voltage in this blast to short circuit your armor and put you out for a week. You think I don’t know your suit’s weaknesses? I don’t want to do it, Jared. Don’t make me. I want it to be your choice. The right choice.”

“Go to hell,” he said. “You and the hero code. He deserves it.”

“Not like this he doesn’t. It’s not what we do.”

“It’s not your son,” he growled. “It’s not your wife.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. But it’s not your decision to make.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Put it down, Jared.”

He turned his gaze back down to Stingray. To the flesh over his sick, black heart. He could imagine what it would feel like, plunging the board through. How much strength it would take to break the ribs. The hard jolt in his arm he’d feel when the wood hit the cement below after going through.

Jared deserved to have that feeling. The man below him deserved to die. It was justice.

And it was his choice.

He tightened his grip on the board.

And raised it.

Samantha blinked into existence right in front of him.

“Jared, don’t.”

Her face was the last thing he needed to see. Her eyes, so understanding and accepting and forgiving. The one person in years that he’d let inside him.

“Get away from me, Samantha.”

“No.”

“Sam…”

“Jared…” She was calm and rational, but her eyes were red with brimming tears. “I know what you’re feeling. You’re angry and you hate him and you hate yourself right now. But it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t make it happen.”

“No. He did.”

“And he gets to win if you do this. He beats you. He ruins your life. Don’t let him win, Jared. Don’t let him take away what you are.”

“You don’t know what I am.”

“Yes I do.”

“You don’t…know me!” he shot back at her. “And you can’t understand this. This is none of your business.”

“Yes it is,” she said, visibly hurt but undaunted. “Because I care about you. We all care about you, Jared. We all hurt over what happened. You don’t have to go through it alone. Let us help you. Just don’t do this.” A tear escaped her eye and trailed down her freckled cheek.

His hands were starting to shake.

“Come on, Jared,” another voice said softly. He turned his head, and saw Max standing there. Rainier was beside him. “Come on, man. You don’t want to do that. We’re the good guys, right?”

Something else he didn’t need. That kid’s face, so innocent and trusting, so naïve and full of hope. He had no right being in Jared’s dark world right now. That kid that looked up to him and counted on him and believed in him.

“This isn’t going to help Gabriel,” Rainier said. “You know that. Use your head, not your rage. Remember what you told me about all that counseling you had? Everything you learned? This isn’t you. This isn’t Gabriel’s father.”

His hands shook harder, and he clenched the board almost to the point of splintering it to try to make them stop.

Lucy lowered her gun slowly, but didn’t put it away. “We’re your friends, Jared. We’re here for you. You have to trust us. We’ll help you get through this if you let us. You’re not alone.”

His jaw, now, was quaking, too.

“Please, Jared,” Samantha whispered. “Put it down. Let it go. It’s all over.”

The board dropped from his hand and clattered on the cement floor.

Jared dropped to the ground, his arms on his knees. He put his hands over his face.

Lucy took her finger off the trigger of her gun and put it away, letting out a held breath. She got on her radio. “Dane? We need an ambulance over here right away.”

Samantha stepped over Stingray and went to Jared. She crouched down and put a hand on his shoulder, preparing to hug him.

He jerked his hand up frantically between them, the other one still over his eyes. “Don’t,” he said, sharply and desperately, his voice thick with emotion. “Please.” He couldn’t handle kindness right now. He couldn’t handle acceptance. He didn’t deserve it.

She pulled away from him, stung, and stood back up, swallowing.

“I’m sorry,” he said to all of them, still covering his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Lucy stepped over and crouched near him. “You don’t need to be sorry to us. We’re your partners. That means through good and bad. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“Yeah, man,” Max said. “It’s cool.”

“Jared?” Lucy said.

There was a pause, and he uncovered his red eyes and looked at her.

“Gabriel’s out of surgery.”

This woke him right out of his darkness. “He’s…is he…?”

“He’s in recovery. I got the call a few minutes ago. It’s still going to be a rough ride, but he’s through the worst of it.”

Jared closed his eyes tightly, covered his face again, and wept.

“Go see your son,” Lucy told him. “Go and make things right.”

He sniffed and looked up at her. She was looking at him poignantly. He understood what she meant.

“Go,” she said, and smiled. “You know where to find us when you’re ready. We’re not going anywhere.”

Jared got to his feet. He looked around at his teammates.

“Thank you,” he said. “All of you.”

He turned his gaze to Samantha, and gave her a weak, emotional smile. It was something like an apology. She simply smiled back, put on a brave face, and nodded.

“That’s what friends are for,” Rainier said, smiling. “Dionne Warwick said that. She should know. She’s psychic, right?”

Jared gave him a quiet, tired laugh.

“Get out of here,” Lucy said, nodding up at the sky.

Seahawk stepped back, lit up his jets, and took of into the storm.

Lucy took a quiet couple of steps over toward Samantha, who was watching him fly away. She put a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“You okay?”

Samantha nodded, and looked like she tried to smile. It didn’t quite work. A stream of tears betrayed her. Lucy offered her a hug, and she took it, crying harder.

“Tomorrow’s another day, kiddo,” Lucy soothed. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

Epilogue

Stephanie stood outside the glass that looked in on her son’s bed in the I.C.U. She watched her little boy, with the respirator down his throat and all the wires and tubes attached to him. Machines she couldn’t understand beeped away, recording his signs of life. Once again, just when she thought she didn’t have any more tears, they started leaking from the corner of her eyes. He looked so weak and vulnerable. And he still had so much ahead of him. He shouldn’t have to shoulder such challenges, to have to find the strength he’d need at such a young age. It wasn’t fair.

She heard the door creak open behind her, and she glanced around, expecting to find Cliff, or another one of the I.C.U. nurses coming in to check Gabriel’s vitals.

Seahawk stood inside the small room with her.

She was shocked at this unexpected sight, and gasped aloud. She was confused, and tried to find some words, the first of which would probably be questions.

“Stephanie…” he said.

It took a couple of seconds to register that something wasn’t right. She realized that it was his voice. And she knew the voice, but it took her mind a few moments to connect it to the incongruence standing before her.

She stared at him. She saw past the armored suit, past the mask, and looked at his mouth, his lips and chin. Like his voice, she knew them well.

Her mouth fell open, and she looked dubious. It stayed open as she worked it through her head. Her eyes narrowed in thought, then grew wide in understanding. She continued to stare at him, still unable to get any words out.

She looked from him to Gabriel, then back again. Her confusion and shock became a growing anger. She shook her head at him, initially in denial, then disbelief, then rage.

“You son of bitch,” she whispered, putting a hand over her mouth.

Seahawk stepped forward, and he took a look in at his son. The sight broke his heart, but he knew that wasn’t the issue he had to deal with right at this moment.

“Stephanie, I—”

“You son of a bitch!” she yelled at him, angry tears falling. The accusations were all over her face. He quietly nodded and accepted them, his eyes going red and misty.

She rushed at him and started hitting him—flailing, emotional blows that didn’t have much targeting. He let her for a few moments. Then he gently tried to stop her by taking her hands. She pulled away and kept hitting him. He finally got a hold of her arms. He pulled her to his chest and put his arms around her. She fought him at first, still trying to swing at him. Finally she lost her strength, and she simply cried against his chest as he held her.

“You son of a bitch,” she sobbed in a whisper.

1:25 A.M.

Outside, the storm finally broke.

END.

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