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punch.”
    Shooter turned back to face her leader, her eyes intense. “And so what if I do get on my knees once in a while?”
    Hawkeye laughed as he watched Shooter wipe away a trickle of warm blood from her lips. “Geez, don’t be so sensitive.”
    “I guess it’s too macho to call upon God,” Shooter said.”
    “Wait a second, you two,” Tank said. “Let’s keep the gloves on.”
    Machine gun fire erupted from both sides of the street. A dozen Asian commandos emerged from doors and alleyways. Each carried an assault rifle. Their rapid-fire rounds peppered the street with bullets.
    “We can make nice later!” barked Gator, grabbing his SAW. “Let’s handle the shit in the street first!”
    Gator opened up his M249 again, cutting down commandos as if he were shooting tin cans on a fencepost. The enemy bodies glowed briefly before the holographic displays vaporized into a shower of bright particles, like New Year’s Eve sparklers.
    A bomb exploded in the next block. The ground shook, knocking all members of Titan Six to the asphalt. A yellow-orange fireball blossomed in the sky like a deadly sunflower. A shockwave of intense heat rolled over Titan Six three seconds later.
    “Everybody up! ordered Hawkeye. “Pair off as before and reload!”
    More commandos flooded the street, guns spitting lead into abandoned cars or tearing chunks from the bricks of nearby buildings. Hawkeye threw a concussion grenade into the next block as he and Shooter knelt in the nearest alley to their left.
    A siren unexpectedly went off.
    “Attention,” said an automated voice. “Training simulation suspended. Repeat: training simulation suspended. Michael Hawke, please report to Mrs. Caine in the Gallery.”
    Shooter, her rifle lowered, stood and began walking to the exit of Shotgun Alley. She turned and glared at Hawkeye. “You need to learn some manners, Michael.”
    East 76 th Street
    Manhattan, New York
     
    Father Reynard and his acolytes had not been the only ones searching for information on the Archangel Michael. Beta Team had been looking for the bones of Michael for many years, although the agenda of their superiors was not quite the same as that of Reynard. Such a find would be the most important in all of Christendom, and they’d even worked with the brilliant Charles Whittington in their search.
    But they had been followed by five of Reynard’s acolytes. Having yielded no information, they’d been blindfolded and turned over to laymen working in a warehouse in Manhattan. They had been beaten, and when they still remained silent, they’d been handcuffed. Hoods were placed over their heads.
    They were now seated, although they had no idea where they were. The three men of Beta Team assumed they were being brought to yet another location for interrogation. A loud engine roared to life, and their bodies rocked gently from side to side. Were they in the back of an eighteen-wheeler?
    A loud horn blasted, and all three realized at once that they weren’t on the highway. The unmistakable odor of dank water was in the air.
    “Get up!” ordered an angry male voice that sounded as if its vocal cords had been scraped raw by years of smoking the fabled red and white cowboy killers.
    Large calloused hands hauled the three agents from their sitting positions and led them up a short metal stairway. A damp chilly wind blew over their bodies as their captors removed the hoods and blindfolds.
    They were on the deck of a tugboat. To the rear were the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the bejeweled skyline of New York City. Ahead was total darkness. The tug was plowing roughly through choppy, black waters into Upper Bay, directly below Manhattan. The air on deck smelled of oil and smoke from the tug’s noisy engine room. The sounds of bustling New York Harbor faded with each passing second.
    The three men looked at each other in alarm, faces white with panic. Their mission had been a sacred one. They were now to become martyrs,