The ceremony begins with speeches. A lot of speeches. From the dynamic new young mayor, to a senator from the oldDemocratic Party, to a woman whose entire family died in a detention center in 2032, her voice steady and her eyes dry in a way that’s more devastating than tears, her trauma having hollowed her out. I take notes because that’s what journalists do, compartmentalizing any of my emotions that threaten to bubble up, and my attention keeps drifting to the edges of the crowd, the security perimeter, the secret service types with earpieces and bulges under their jackets.
And then, he arrives.
I hear the crowd before I see him, a ripple of excitement that fills the air before I see phones lifting, heads turning. He descends from the sky like something out of a myth. Vanguard. In his full superhero suit of black, high-tech fabric, the arrow V symbols on his chest and shoulder catching a ray of sunlight, he lands on the stage with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size.
And the crowd loses its collective mind.
He’s even bigger than I remember. Broader. Arms and legs as thick as trees. The beard is trimmed today, showing off that ridiculous jaw, and his dark hair is swept back in a way that looks purposeful, though it was probably just the wind. He looks like a propaganda poster come to life, exactly what America wants to believe it can be.
He looks—and I hate myself for thinking this—really fucking good.
I watch him shake hands with the mayor, exchange words with the senator, crouch down to speak to a little girl who’s clutching a Vanguard action figure like her life depends on it. Every movement is practiced, polished, but there’s something underneath I’m picking up on. That same tiredness I saw at the gala, maybe. That weight behind his eyes.
Or maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I want there to be something more because the alternative—that he really isthis perfect, this uncomplicated—is too bloody boring to contemplate.
The cloth comes off the Remembrance Wall, revealing hundreds of names carved into black granite. The crowd goes quiet. Someone is crying. Vanguard stands at attention, head bowed, and for a moment, he looks almost like just a guy. A really hot guy in a black jumpsuit that sculpts every one of his muscles, but a guy, nonetheless.
Then, the screaming starts.
It takes me a second to process the sound of metal groaning and people shouting as a section of the temporary bleachers on the far side of the crowd starts tilting at an angle bleachers should definitely not tilt. Something’s given way underneath. Twenty, maybe thirty people scramble to hold on as the structure starts to collapse.
Vanguard moves.
I’ve seen footage of him in action—everyone has—but footage doesn’t capture it, the way the air seems to bend around him as he launches himself across the crowd, the sheer impossible speed and physics of it all. One second, he’s on the stage; the next, he’s under the bleachers, shoulders braced against the buckling metal, holding the whole thing up with nothing but his own strength while people scramble to safety.
The muscles in his neck are corded. His jaw is clenched. And his eyes?—
Those clear blue eyes are calm. Completely, utterly calm. Like this is nothing. Like holding up a collapsing structure with his hands is just another day on the job.
Which, for him, I suppose it is.
Security swarms in, emergency services materialize from somewhere, and within minutes, everyone is safe and Vanguard is standing in the wreckage, looking like he barely broke a sweat. The crowd is cheering. People are crying—happy tears now, tearsof relief. The cameras are eating it up, clamoring for the best shots and soundbites.
And I’m standing in the press section with my heart pounding and my mouth dry, thinking thoughts that have no business being in the head of a professional intelligence operative on a mission.
Thoughts about the way his suit stretched across his shoulders when he braced against the metal. About the control in his movements, the restrained power. About what it might feel like to have all that strength focused on you, holding you, pinning you?—
Stop it!
I blink, force myself to look away, pretend to take notes on something. This is a job. He’s a target. I’m here to assess him, profile him, figure out whether he’s a threat or an asset or something else entirely. I am not here to whore out on America’s favorite superhero just because he has nice arms and a jawline that could cut glass.
Get it together, you slag.
I look back up, compose my face into professional neutrality, and find Vanguard scanning the crowd, smiling, waving, accepting the adulation like it’s his due.
And then, his gaze passes over the press section, and for just a moment—half a second, maybe less—his eyes meet mine.
Does he recognize me? From the gala, from across that reflecting pool, from the conversation where I called him a weapon to his face? There’s no flicker of acknowledgment, no sign he remembers. His gaze moves on, smooth and practiced, and I’m just another journalist in a sea of journalists.
But my heart is still pounding—and not entirely from the rescue.
I slip out of the press section as the ceremony winds down, losing myself in the dispersing crowd. Tomorrow, I walkinto Global Dynamix. Tomorrow, I sit across from him in a conference room and pretend to be someone I’m not.
Tomorrow, I’ll get my first real idea of whether this man really is a hero.
Or a weapon.
CHAPTER 7
