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  Arrowhawk instinctively lifts his left hand and instantly raises an energy force field that deflects it.

  The remaining drones fire five more missiles into the throng of people gathered at the section of the Mall between Jefferson and Madison Drives. Conrad hears the bystanders’ screams as they are wounded by the shrapnel from the concussive force of the missile blasts. She taps the keys of the remote control panel embedded in her left glove, which activates their ship, the Avian.

  Just a few yards from their location, the Avian hums to life, its engines roar as it flies in above the podium. Three rappelling rope lines descend from its hull to the team standing below. Fighting Bull, Morrison, and Arrowhawk secure themselves to the lines using the attached harnesses.

  The Avian utilizes a rappelling system that’s a variation on the surface-to-air recovery system used by the CIA and Special Forces in the late twentieth century. It facilitated the rapid extraction of operatives in tight spots. And in this case, it comes in handy for situations such as the one the team is encountering. With the exception of Blankenchip and Conrad, the team members are flown to their assigned crisis points. The dignitaries on stage are immediately evacuated from the stage as the team goes into action.

  Arrowhawk detaches his harness and takes a post atop a high-

  mounted scaffold overlooking the Reflecting Pool. The structure was originally intended to mount large speakers, but serves as a good vantage point from which to see the crowd below. A surge of bioelectric energy crackles through his hands and out of his fingertips, creating a tight network of interweaving energy beams that surround the entire expanse of the Mall greens and forms an almost impenetrable shield around the civilians down below. He grimaces and stumbles momentarily under the strain of performing such a feat.

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  Arrowhawk has never pushed his powers this far before—an energy blast here or a small force field there are about as far as he’s gone with his powers. And although he knows the necessity of it, there’s a small part of him that resents Conrad for asking so much of him.

  Oblivious to Arrowhawk’s plight, Fighting Bull helps clear civilians from small pocket fires that have started as a result of the previous explosions. During the chaos, an elderly couple tries to escape the flames, but is quickly overtaken by them. Seeing this, Fighting Bull grabs one of the blankets out of the back of a nearby ambulance and quickly smothers the flames engulfing the couple. With the exception of some superficial burns, the couple is unharmed and grateful for her assistance.

  Just a few feet away from her, Morrison helps injured civilians fleeing the aftermath of the explosions. He lifts an overturned tour bus off the ground and uprights it. As the bus is placed back on its wheels, a small boy falls out of one of the bus’s side windows and into the middle of a fleeing crowd. Just before the inattentive crowd tramples him, Fighting Bull grabs him up and places him on the top of one of the nearby police cruisers.

  While the trio is taking care of civilians, Conrad and Blankenchip focus on the cause of the attack. Taking cover behind an overturned news van in front of the Lincoln Memorial, Conrad aims her Colt Commando assault rifle at the tail wing of the drone heading towards her. With the buttstock of the rifle pressed firmly against the inside of her shoulder, she fires multiple rounds at the drone. The bullets tear through its right wing and hull, setting the plane ablaze. A burning mass of debris tumbles to the ground in the path of a crowd of bystanders by the Reflecting Pool. Thankfully, most of it is deflected by Arrowhawk’s protective force field.

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  Conrad gets up from her crouched position to see a red beam trained on the center of her chest.

  “Oh sh—!” Before she can complete the expletive, the second

  drone fires a laser-guided GBU-12 Paveway II missile. She darts for cover behind the Korean War Veterans Memorial just as the missile is launched. She turns her head to see it land barely thirty feet away from her, and the ensuing blast hurls her through the concrete statues of the Memorial. She lands awkwardly on the left side of her neck and hears an audible snap. With her ears ringing and her shoulder stinging, Conrad pulls herself up off the ground. She flexes her neck from side to side and another audible snap is heard. She picks up her rifle. As the drone closes in on her, she points her weapon in the drone’s direction and lets off a salvo of bullets. With near flawless aim she hits the drone’s right wing and engine, causing it to spiral to the ground in a flaming heap.

  On the opposite end of the Lincoln Memorial, Blankenchip uses his helmet’s built-in targeting computer to home in on the last two drones.

  His armor is a unique exoskeleton composed of nanofibers derived from Duritium. It also has a full complement of offensive weaponry and an onboard computer that relays real-time field data to his helmet’s heads-up display. It was intended to be the next generation of the US military’s Future Force Warrior combat armor. The integrated laser-guided sights on his weapon mark out his targets. He fires incendiary rounds at the drones from his modified M16/M203 assault rifle. The first one is hit in its rear tail and sputters off course and into the force field. Blankenchip’s second incendiary round hits the last drone squarely in its nosecone, causing it to explode on impact.

  As the turmoil begins to subside, Arrowhawk is hit from behind

  with a focused sound wave blast from an antipersonnel acoustic rifle.

  The blast knocks him off the scaffolding. The drop is a good fifteen feet.

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  He descends to the ground below, violently flailing his arms as he falls.

  Seeing this, Morrison makes a run for him. As Morrison leaps to grab Arrowhawk, he transforms his density in mid-air into solid gold—a wise decision considering that just a few feet below lies twisted metal and concrete debris. The pair land with a crash, but with little else in the way of bodily harm. The man wielding the acoustic rifle aims his weapon down on the two men. Before he pulls the trigger, Arrowhawk shoots a thin plasma beam at him that knocks him unconscious.

  “Thanks for the save, Terrell. Can I call you Terrell?”

  “Don’t mention it, and yes, you can,” Morrison replies, transforming his molecular density back to its normal state.

  Gunfire erupts from the tops of the buildings on the east end

  of the National Mall. Gunmen brandishing semi-automatic guns

  indiscriminately fire into the crowd below. Conrad hears the gunfire over her earpiece and immediately sends for the Avian. Rappelling lines descend upon her and Blankenchip, and the Avian flies them over to the site of action. As they fly in she notices that the gunmen are stationed at posts on the roofs of the Museum of Natural History, the Gallery of Art, and the Smithsonian. She radios the rest of the team.

  “Arrowhawk and Fighting Bull, take care of the hostiles on our north flank. Morrison and Blankenchip, cover the east flank. I’ll use the Avian to take care of our south flank.”

  Immediately, Fighting Bull grabs Arrowhawk’s arm.

  “What are you doing?” he protests.

  “Shut up. I’m trying something.” As she touches him, Arrowhawk

  receives a mild static shock.

  “Ow! That hurt.”

  “Oh, man up, John!” Fighting Bull retorts.

  She immediately morphs, her face melting away as Arrowhawk’s

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  replaces it. With the transformation, she also adopts his ability. Wasting no time, she emits an electrical burst from her hands that is so powerful it jolts her back about ten feet. One of the gunmen takes advantage of this and fires his H&K rifle at her as she tumbles backward. But before the bullet can reach its target, a solid energy force field—courtesy of the real Arrowhawk—deflects it. He looks in her direction.

  “Not easy, is it?” he says snidely.

  Fighting Bull ignores the comment and emits a broadband electrical burst from her hands. The dir
ected blast electrocutes the four gunmen on the roof of the Museum of Natural History.

  Morrison grabs a damaged projector monitor and lobs it at two of the snipers atop the Gallery of Art building. The projectile hits both men in their midsections, knocking them unconscious. Four more gunmen continue shooting at him, but the bullets deflect off of his molecularly-altered metallic body.

  Blankenchip returns fire on these men with Special Purpose Low

  Lethality Anti-Terrorist (SPLLAT) shells. The shells incapacitate the gunmen, clipping them in their legs and arms. A stray gunman, located behind damaged scaffolding, continues firing on the two men. Morrison looks at Blankenchip and gives him a smile. Blankenchip nods his head in acknowledgement.

  “Allow me,” Morrison says. He peels off the front left tire of a damaged police cruiser and flings it at the sniper. The tire slams into the sniper’s forehead the force of the impact nearly takes his head off but he still lives.

  The last gunmen fire on Conrad from atop the stage scaffolding just in front of the Smithsonian’s facade. She takes cover behind some debris and remotely activates the Avian’s weapons system. The aircraft hovers in behind the gunmen. As they turn to fire their weapons on it, the Avian 61

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  fires multiple beanbag rounds on the two gunmen, knocking them off their perches. Both fall into the rubble below. Another pair of gunmen takes cover behind the Smithsonian’s front pillars as they continue firing on Conrad, their bullets whizzing just past her head. The snipers move in. As they inch within twenty feet of her, she suddenly emerges from behind her cover and unleashes a salvo of bullets on her attackers.

  The bullets hit their targets. One of the men is hit in his left shoulder and thigh, the other in his right hand. The second one still manages to reach for the tactical knife in his thigh pocket. He lunges at her with the weapon. She swivels around, dodging the strike, and connects with a karate chop to the back of her attacker’s neck. She finishes him off with a knee to the abdomen and a right uppercut.

  Conrad radios the rest of her team to check on their status.

  “Sit rep.”

  Blankenchip answers first. “East flank is secure.”

  Arrowhawk replies next. “All’s clear on the north flank, Cap.”

  “Good work, everyone,” Conrad replies.

  She pauses briefly to catch her breath. Behind police barricades, a large crowd of evacuees on the sidelines applauds them. The team takes it all in, now realizing that this is the just the beginning of their time in the limelight.

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  Chapter Eleven

  Life in Marvelous Times

  July 5th

  WJLA TV Studios

  Washington, DC

  “We are just getting new information regarding the attack on the National Mall,” Anchor David Kellen says.

  “That’s right, Dave,” Co-Anchor Donna Michaels says, “There are reports from the FBI that the attacks were orchestrated by members of the militia, the National Freedom Alliance. The FBI states that the Predator drones were commandeered from a Ground Control Site in Colorado Springs. It’s believed that these drones were obtained on the black market.”

  “Also it’s believed that some of the gunmen involved were disgruntled former Special Forces operatives who aligned themselves with the Alliance’s agenda,” Kellen says.

  “The FAA and the FBI have launched a coordinated investigation

  looking into how Predator Drones could be deployed on US soil without the knowledge of multiple military and security agencies. We’ll keep you informed on the latest updates into the investigation,” Michaels concludes.

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  * * *

  Santa Monica Place

  3rd Street Promenade

  Santa Monica, California

  Alysande Mendoza sits on an uncomfortable plastic bench just outside the fitting room as Arrowhawk takes his time shopping for a new pair of jeans. Mendoza shifts her body to keep her butt from going numb while Arrowhawk makes up his mind between a lightly faded pair of boot-cut jeans or a dark blue pair of carpenter pants. He walks out of the fitting room.

  “What do you think?”

  “Honestly, John, I don’t care,” Mendoza replies. “This is what, the fourth pair of jeans you’ve tried on? Seriously, you’re worse than a girl.

  We’ve got places to be.”

  “Oh come on, Aly, work with me here. You of all people know that when you’re in the public eye you have to look fly.” Arrowhawk pauses.

  “And yes, I did intend for that last part to rhyme.”

  “‘Fly?’ What are you, from 1975 or something?” Mendoza grudgingly snickers at his intentionally corny joke.

  “Look, just hurry it up, OK.”

  “Funny, if I recall correctly you were saying quite the opposite last night,” Arrowhawk counters with a roguish smile.

  Trying to keep from blushing, Mendoza attempts to alter the topic.

  “Like I said, we’ve got appointments to keep.” She pulls out her touch-screen Blackberry and begins rattling off the day’s agenda. “I’ve got you booked for an autograph signing at the Staples Center at 2, and an 64

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  interview with Vanity Fair at 4:30. And it’s already 1:30!”

  Without even turning away from the full-length mirror in front of him, Arrowhawk says, “What’s up with all these engagements anyway? I thought we were supposed to be civil servants, not commercial heroes.”

  “Well, it’s what the public demands and it’s what we’ll give them.”

  As Arrowhawk continues admiring the way his backside looks in the jeans, a trio of twenty-something women by the Misses section stare at him from afar. He is totally oblivious to the giggling and whispering going on just a few feet away from him, although Mendoza’s keen ears pick up the chatter. She turns to look at these young women standing by the mannequins adorned with the fall season line. One of them, a five-foot-five brunette, walks towards Arrowhawk. All the while, Mendoza’s eyes are trained on her like a watchful mother eagle.

  “Excuse me, are you Agent Arrowhawk from Vigil?” the young

  woman asks, a bit of hesitation in her voice.

  He turns. “Please, call me that only when I’m on the job… or when I’m handcuffing you. Otherwise, you can call me John.”

  It takes just a second before she begins screaming at the top of her lungs like a crazed fan. Her friends now run up to Arrowhawk as well.

  “Oh my God, you are him,” a second woman in the group exclaims.

  “You were awesome during the DC attack!”

  Arrowhawk nods in acknowledgement, trying to come off as aloof, but he’s surprised and appreciative of the compliment. He thinks, If she saw the part where I got blasted off my behind, she wouldn’t think I was so awesome.

  A third woman in the group, an attractive well-endowed redhead, presses up against Arrowhawk and pulls a Sharpie pen from her purse.

  “Can I have your autograph?”

  He takes the pen. “Sure, where do you want me to sign?”

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  Without any hesitation (or even modicum of modesty) the woman

  unbuttons the top three buttons of her tight-fitting blouse, exposing her cleavage to just above the bra line. She points to a spot in the upper inner quadrant of her left breast and smiles provocatively. “Right here.”

  Arrowhawk smiles and obliges. He makes certain to take his time as he completes the arduous task of signing his name on her silicone-enhanced flesh. Mendoza is in no way amused. She gets up from her seat.

  “That’s all, girls. Agent Arrowhawk has a long day ahead of him,” she says, literally dragging him away from the trio of adoring women.

  “Sir, you haven’t paid for those jeans yet!” a store associate blurts out.

  “Bill it to my office,” Mendoza says, handing her card over to the associate.

  “Jealous?” Arrowh
awk asks, as he’s forcefully extracted from store.

  Mendoza turns to look at the women still gazing and waving at him.

  “Of those skanks? Hardly.”

  * * *

  Buffalo Jump Auditorium

  Blackfeet Council of Business Leaders’ annual ceremony

  Great Fal s, Montana

  The Young Leaders of Tomorrow ceremony is an annual event intended to recognize outstanding achievement within the Blackfeet nation. The banquet hall is packed with community leaders and well-wishers. This ceremony is particularly special because of the chosen award winner.

  Council president Jim Bradford opens the ceremony.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to welcome you to this event. Every 66

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  year we honor one our young people who is making a difference in the Blackfoot community.”

  Bradford pauses for a moment as he looks at his note cards before continuing.

  “This year we honor Cynthia Fighting Bull for her extraordinary accomplishments and service to the Blackfoot community. Ms.

  Fighting Bull not only works tirelessly as a member of Vigil, but she has volunteered countless hours with our alcohol awareness and

  intervention programs. She is truly a shining star within the Blackfeet nation. Won’t you all join me as we recognize this year’s Young Leader of Tomorrow, Cynthia Fighting Bull.”

  Applause engulfs the auditorium. The audience members rise to their feet as Fighting Bull walks to the dais to accept her award. Bradford presents her with a wooden plaque, an engraved gold plate at its center.

  The two pause momentarily for photographs. Afterwards Bradford

  takes his seat.

  Fighting Bull pulls the dais’s malleable microphone stand close to her mouth.

  “I am truly honored by this award,” she says. “It may sound a bit clichéd but this truly means more to me than most of you will ever know.”

  She takes a moment to look at the plaque once more, and her eyes tear up.

  “Although I was born in Montana, my father got a job with NASA

  when I was six and we moved to a Cleveland suburb called Euclid. I was the only Native person at my school. It was funny, people would ask me what I was… was I Mexican? Spanish? Maybe biracial? I would try to avoid the topic altogether. I later came to realize that there was no reason to hide or avoid who I really am. And it was when I came to 67