"Shut up!" Rodriguez shouted at the bawling waitress, whose nametag read "Staci". The girl had been the biggest weeper since the whole takeover of Planet Hollywood had begun, some thirty minutes before. She'd finally started to quiet, but the small brunette had just lost her composure and started blubbering again.
       Rodriguez, dressed in the emerald fatigues and ski mask that were the trademark of the foot soldiers of Greenwar, didn't care that she was just a frightened girl who'd never expected to be surrounded by armed terrorists when she applied for the most sought-after part-time job in Phoenix. All he knew was that she was a pampered aristocrat that helped patronize the ongoing rape of Mother Earth. He would have no reservations about killing her if he was so ordered. At this point, he thought, he might even enjoy it.
       "I said shut up," he snarled, crouching down on the floor next to where she and the other restaurant employees were lined up and sitting down under the watchful guns of his compatriots. He brought his face within intimate distance of her moist cheeks. The Uzi that he'd been brandishing since bursting into the popular tourist haven was slung behind him, dangling on its strap. Now, instead, he pulled his automatic from its holster and cocked it loudly next to the girl's head. She shrieked and clenched her eyes tightly shut, shaking all over.
       "Shut up," he said, one last time, "or pay the penalty. Do you understand me?"
       "Enough," came a voice from back near the Planet's northern wall. Major Bellis stepped forward, having just issued orders to some of his other men. He wore the same fatigues, but no mask. Instead, he wore an emerald beret adorned with an insignia that told his rank--he was a decorated Major in the Army of the Earth. He was bearded, educated, and walked and spoke with a clear presence of authority.
       Rodriguez let his eyes stare straight through the girl for a couple more seconds before he stood up. He holstered his sidearm and brought his Uzi back around, re-starting his slow perimeter walk around the hostages. Staci put her hand over her mouth to try to hold back the crying, and her co-worker, Anna, put a comforting arm around her friend, then gave Rodriguez an icy, brave glare.
       The normally over-crowded restaurant was emptied but for the dozen or so terrorists and twenty hostages. Tables were pushed aside and turned over, maximizing the strategic layout for the armed band's purposes. The walls were covered with movie memorabilia from every era of Hollywood--Steven Spielberg's high school yearbook, a Marilyn Monroe dress, Indiana Jones' fedora, a shirt worn by the Duke himself. But today no wide-eyed fans peered at the glove worn by Freddy Krueger. No one had their photo taken next to the life-sized Arnold Schwarzenegger mannequin, decked up in leather and rocket launchers and Gargoyle shades, slowly rotating on his pedestal behind encasing glass. The place had been closed to only a select few--those involved in the secretive photo shoot and those employees who had been lucky enough to be allowed to witness it. Lucky, indeed.
       "Hear his words," Bellis said loudly, addressing the room. "And make no mistake. We are in control here. The police outside cannot help you. This day belongs to Greenwar. You will do exactly as we say or you will face the avenging spirit of Mother Earth that is within us."
       "Just so's you'll know, if my arms weren't tied behind me, I'd be making a pretty obscene stroking gesture right now."
       Bellis paused and his lips pressed tightly together. He slowly turned to face the bound man behind him. Terrance Cross, aging action film legend, simply grinned. He was tied to a chair next to the wall where the restaurant's huge array of cardboard celebrity stand-ups was displayed (including one of Cross himself from the first "Mac Knight" film). Above him, a cardboard likeness of the Hollywood hills rested, and the two-dimensional rendering of the Hollywood sign was right above his head. Cross simply smiled a fearless, antagonistic smile. It was a smile Americans had shelled out countless millions to see for the past twenty years.
       Cross was a man pushing fifty with the body of a man kissing thirty-five good night. His short-cropped hair had gone gray, which only seemed to heighten his appeal with his female fans. His jaw, one noted critic had once said, seemed chiseled from the very stone from which Excalibur was drawn. It was a jaw, and a face, and a voice that every American with a pulse knew. He had killed more men--on screen--in his career than a fistful of Norrises or a busload of Segals. The N.R.A. loved him. Most critics, while acknowledging his phenomenal lasting appeal, hated him. Love him or hate him, no one could deny knowing the name Terrance Cross.
       "Ah, Mr. Cross," Bellis said, walking toward his prized prisoner with hands folded behind his back, Patton-style. "Defiant even in the face of death. Just like one of your movie characters."
       "My movies have better villains," Cross said, then chuckled. "You wouldn't find any of my bad guys wearing a faggotty hat like that, I can tell you."
       Bellis reddened noticeably. "This beret is a sign of respect and honor in the Army of the Earth, but I wouldn't expect a planet-raping Neanderthal like yourself to understand words like 'respect' and 'honor'. It says something about the man who wears it."
       "Yeah," Cross nodded. "It says he likes young boys and gladiator movies, that's what it says..."
       Bellis was growing closer to purple. "Mock if you will, barbarian, but today Earth's cry for vengeance for your murderous deeds will finally be silenced. Your wanton destruction of miles of rain forest--"
       "It's called a jungle, you beatnik freak. And it'll grow back. That's what plants do. It's pretty much all they do. Get a grip."
       Finally pushed past his limit, Bellis ripped a large commando knife from its sheath at his boot. He bolted at Cross and in one swift lunge had the blade pressed against the international star's tanned throat. Several of the hostages gasped. Staci screamed.
       The two men's noses were nearly touching, and Bellis's eyes burned with the redness of murder. Cross's eyes didn't even blink.
       "I should spill your blood right here and now," Bellis hissed, his white-knuckled grip on the knife's handle tightening. "The mountains themselves would praise my name for ridding this planet of your dark soul."
       "No!" a voice screamed from nearby. It was the voice of Chester Fein, Cross's publicist. He was a smallish man with horn-rimmed glasses and a very expensive suit. He tried to leap from the chair he was in, but a Greenwarrior much larger than himself held him back. His hair transplants were matted with sweat. "Please, in the name of all that's holy! The man's an American hero! He's an empire! Kill me instead! I'm not a commodity!"
       Cross ignored Chester's outburst, his molten steel stare never moving from Bellis's eyes. "Know what, fairy prince?" he said in a low growl. "I don't think you got the huevos, boy."
       "Major!"
       The shout came from the restaurant's entrance, where one of Bellis's men was keeping watch on the situation outside. Bellis turned his eyes in that direction.
       "What is it?" he asked, reluctantly.
       "Something's going on out there, sir. Listen."
       Bellis listened, as did everyone else. The sound of honking horns was flooding in from the street outside. The strength and number seemed to keep growing in a blaring crescendo. He turned his eyes back to Cross, paused for a lengthy final stare, then removed his blade from Cross's jugular and crossed the restaurant, heading for the front door.
       Cross grinned and muttered under his breath. "Didn't think so."
       Bellis joined his underling at the window, carefully separating the curtains that covered the glass doors, and peered out.
       "I don't understand what's causing the commotion, sir," the young zealot said.
       Bellis surveyed the area. "That's what's causing it, idiot. Look. The media have arrived."
       He could see the eye-catching figure of Melanie Dodd, microphone in hand, standing next to Camelback Road, with Chuck Atkins' steady camera focused in on her. He could also see several policemen in some sort of heated discussion with a man in a tie near the Channel 5 news van. It seemed the police didn't want the media on the scene. Typical. Suppression of the truth had always been the first weapon of tyranny.
       "Good," Bellis said. "I'm surprised it took them this long." He turned to a corner near one of the original Ghostbusters uniforms, where Planet Hollywood Phoenix's manager, Phil Trenton (an old friend of Bruce Willis from his bartending days), along with the freelance photographer, were being held. "You," he said, pointing at Trenton. He then pointed at the various video screens placed around the restaurant, screens that normally showed classic movie clips and Planet Hollywood promotional pieces for the diners. "I need these tuned to receive regular broadcast. Local stations. How soon can it be done?"
       Trenton swallowed, looking at the guns of his two guards pointed at him. "Uh...a few minutes. I'd...need to make some adjustments. The control panel's in my office..."
       Bellis snapped his fingers and pointed at the guard to Trenton's left. The soldier took the manager roughly by the upper arm and led him back into a door marked "Employees only" and up the stairs that led to the executive offices.
       "Stay alert, my brothers," Bellis said, addressing his squad. "All is going according to design. Our hour in nearly at hand."
       Then, as if on cue, a phone rang. It was a cellular phone carried by Bellis's lieutenant. All of the Greenwarriors turned at once, making Cross realize whoever was at the other end was both expected...and very important.
       The lieutenant answered, and his tone immediately became obedient and reverent. "Yes, my Lady," he said, quickly bringing the phone to his superior. "It's her, sir," he said, an unhidden awe in his voice.
       Bellis took the phone, nodding, aware that all eyes were on him. He spoke, walking away from them, toward the bar, past the starship controls used in the original "Alien" film. No one could hear his words as he addressed their supreme commander. They could see his mannerisms. He, too, was reverent, but not flustered like his second-in-command. Bellis, unlike the other man, had spoken with her before, on more than one occasion.
       Bellis finished the call without disconnecting. He walked back, holding the phone and its still-open line in his hand. "It begins!" he called out. "Our Lady has spoken. Mother Earth shall have her justice!"
       The Greenwarriors all began to cheer, raising their weapons and voices in a fanatical celebration that only terrified the hostages more.
       Bellis walked up to Rodriguez, who promptly snapped to attention.
       "Rodriguez," he said, putting an arm around the soldier's shoulder and leading him to the door. "I have an assignment for you."
       He parted the curtains and allowed Rodriguez to see out.
       "You see the newswoman and cameraman out there?"
       "Yes, sir."
       "Good. I need you to get them for me. I need them in here. I want you take a hostage, go out there, and let those police know that if they try to keep us from bringing the press in here, there will be dire consequences. If need be, I authorize you to prove it to them. Understood?"
       "Yes, sir," Rodriguez answered boldly, sizing up the tactical situation outside.
       "Then go. I leave the choice of hostage entirely up to you."
       Rodriguez turned his head and looked down at the huddling waitresses and waiters. His gaze fell right on Staci. Her terrified eyes grew wide. Rodriguez, very deliberately, smiled.

       Rich Lawson was carefully arguing with a police sergeant, trying hard to sound like he'd actually lived in this town for more than two weeks. He had woken up this morning, had his coffee, and left for the station, psyching himself up for his first day at work, trying to prepare himself for anything. He had forgotten in his preparations to include SWAT teams, terrorists, and flying super-heroes.
       But he was doing his best to convince the police that he and those under him--specifically reporter Melanie Dodd, whom he was trying very hard not to be attracted to, and Chuck Atkins, award-winning videographer--belonged on the scene. Or at least he was trying to argue them in circles long enough to give Melanie time to do her job.
       Melanie finished her on-screen dialogue with Roger Hart back at the station, who was importantly hunched over the Channel 5 news desk. Without missing a beat, Chuck swung his camera from her and started taking live shots of the scene to feed back to the control room.
       "Nice work, Kimosabe," he said to her without looking back.
       "Thanks, Tonto," she said, exhaling, trying to slow down and let her mind catch up with all that was going on.
       "How's Lawson doing?"
       Melanie glanced over to the news van and smiled. "Holding them at bay, looks like. I think he's going to fit in here just fine."
       "Yeah, he's all right," Chuck mumbled without too much enthusiasm. He was notoriously resistant to authority of any kind and had a reputation for being hard on his producers.
The front door of Planet Hollywood flew open, and every ear in the asphalt circus heard the lightning stab of the girl's screams. She was the first out the door, shoved violently forward--but held fast--by the armed and masked Rodriguez. His Uzi hung at his side (so everyone could clearly make it out), and his .45 was drawn again. This time the muzzle was pressed firmly against Staci's right temple.
       Police jumped, dropped, drew, or all of the above. The SWAT troopers were the first to have their guns up and targeting him--in seemingly less than a heartbeat, to their credit--but the other ranks and types of enforcement crowding the area had weapons primed right after. None of them had expected an all-out frontal assault from these fanatics, but now they all thought that's exactly what they were getting.
       Bonilla had drawn his trusted .38, but picked up on the situation immediately and grabbed instead for a nearby bullhorn with the frantic, clumsy speed of a man charging for a fire extinguisher after just realizing his cigar had set the curtains ablaze.
       "Hold your fire!" he shouted into the horn, and his digitized voice broadcast left and right as he spun back and forth, trying to get the word to as many as possible. "Hold your fire, hold you fi-ire!!"
       "Listen to me!" Rodriguez screamed over the girl's shoulder. "If you do not do exactly as I say, this girl dies now! Do you hear me?!"
       "Hold your fire!" Bonilla yelled once more, just so there was no mistake, trying to keep control of his men and concentrate on the terrorist at once. "Yes," he said, addressing Rodriguez, both urgent and calm. "Yes, I hear you."
       "The news people will come inside! The two of them, no one else! No negotiations! If they do not come, or if you try to keep them out, the girl dies! If we are all not back inside in sixty seconds, Cross dies! Send them now!"
       "Aw, crap," Bonilla muttered (but not into the horn this time). Things had just gotten about a dozen times uglier, and he had no more than a few seconds ahead of him to do some of his renowned fast thinking. Something told him this was a race he was not going to win.
       Chuck had zoomed in on the terrorist and his hostage almost before the police had raised their weapons. Now, as he carefully focused the mammoth lens, he was completely absorbed in doing exactly what he did best. As such, Rodriguez's words took a couple of extra moments to sink in. He pulled his face back from the camera, blinking, and then looked up at Melanie.
       "Wait...what did he say?"
       "Oh my God," Melanie said softly, steeling herself for whatever was going to come next.
       "Now!" Rodriguez screamed, pressing the gun so hard to the girl's head that her opposite ear was brought down near to her shoulder.
       "No way," Rich Lawson's voice was suddenly saying as he found himself walking on slightly trembling--but yet still moving--legs, closing the short distance between himself and Melanie. "No. Uhn uh."
       "I don't think we have a choice here," Melanie told him, breathing heavily. "We have to go in there or that girl is going to be killed."
       "I'm not going to have the station's top reporter and cameraman killed off on my first day as their producer. Do you have any idea what that would look like on my resume?" There was no humor in the joke. There was nothing funny about this at all. Lawson felt like he was about to have a heart attack.
       "What," Bonilla said through the horn, trying anything he could to buy some time, "you just expect me to hand you two more hostages? We need something in return. Give us the kids, at least. Show us some good faith--"
       "No negotiations!" Rodriguez reminded, quickly and brutally pistol-whipping Staci's head before putting the muzzle back on her. The dull thud of metal on skull was pierced by a half-whimper from the girl. The other half was lost as she was stunned into near unconsciousness.
       Bonilla shot straight to his feet, rage darkening his face and tightening his grip on his revolver. That had angered him, worsening his anger at himself, knowing that this was a fight he was going to lose. Edward Bonilla, in no uncertain terms, did not like to lose.
       "I can't let you do this, Melanie," Lawson tried to reason.
       "They're not going to kill us," she told him quickly. "Don't you see? They just want the media coverage. That's all we're there for."
       "If you're gonna make this call, Lone Ranger," Chuck said anxiously, watching the gunman, "you'd better make it fast. What’s the plan?"
       "Now!" Rodriguez screamed for what was certainly the last time.
       "All right, move, Chuck," she said. "Go." She smiled weakly at her new producer and tried to look reassuring. "See you in post-production, Lawson."
       She and Chuck started sprinting toward the front of the restaurant, Chuck's camera held by its handle at his side, his other hand raised in his best I come in peace, please don't shoot my award-winning ass gesture.
       Bonilla cursed and kicked the door of the patrol car he stood next to as the pair disappeared inside with Rodriguez. The doors shut behind them.
       "It's Rich," Lawson said softly.

       Once Melanie and Chuck were inside the restaurant, things moved quickly. Bellis importantly introduced himself and gave them the basic rantings that summed up the beliefs and aspirations of Greenwar. Melanie had expected him to ask Chuck to turn on the camera, and her to interview him. Instead, she watched as several of his followers cleared tables and chairs away from the still-bound and unimpressed Cross. Chuck was instructed to set up his camera and light the area properly.
       Chuck worked quickly (as he always figured he might with guns pointed at him), not speaking to Cross, thinking that might only make things worse for both of them. He pretty much figured he knew what was going on: He was setting up the broadcast site. From here, this Bellis guy was going to stand dramatically next to Cross and rattle off his manifesto to the home viewers. Or maybe, in a different twist, he was going to just have Cross reading off a list of demands. Whatever it was--Chuck hated to admit--it was going to make for some pretty good TV. Sick, but true.
       "Why aren't those televisions working?" Bellis shouted toward the back offices, interrupting his talk with Melanie.
       A Greenwarrior came down the stairs and answered. "He's having trouble with some of the connections. He says he'll have them working any moment."
       "Tell him he has five minutes or he becomes this restaurant's first martyr."
       I will not gulp, Melanie told herself, fully aware of the sweat droplets rolling down the back of her neck. I will not gulp.
       "So, Mister Bellis--" she said, trying to remain the professional journalist.
       "Major," he snapped at her.
       "I'm sorry," she corrected, carefully. "Major Bellis." She smiled just enough. Too little would have been ineffective. Too much, too obvious. He softened, just a little, and the situation relaxed. Melanie's whole life had been about journalism. In an interesting turn of events, she had also grown up to be a very beautiful woman; she was not above exploiting the latter to augment the former. A good journalist used whatever tools they had to get what they needed. Even if those tools were hypnotic green eyes and regularly flossed pearly-whites.        "You've told me a great deal about your movement and its beliefs. You haven't made clear for me what my cameraman and I are doing here. Are we to do an interview, or...?"
       "Nothing so droll and ordinary," Bellis smiled, a hint of sadism behind his eyes. "No, Miss…Dodd?"
       She nodded.
       "No, today, you will be witness to a great moment in the history of this planet and its defenders. Today, politics and laws and apathy will not stand in the way of justice. Today, the world will know that no one can hide from their crimes so long as Greenwar stands."
       He walked, with the stature of an emerald Napoleon, into the now-cleared circle before Cross and the cardboard Hollywood. "There will be no interview. You will be broadcasting, live, the trial of Terrance Cross. He will be tried for crimes against Mother Earth."
       Bellis stopped right in front of Cross, smiled down at him, and turned back to Melanie. "And if he's found guilty, this nation will be witnessing its first televised execution."
       Melanie did gulp this time. If she'd had time to speak to the police, she might have found out this information beforehand. He hadn't brought her in here to get a speaking platform. He'd brought her in to hand her the news story of her lifetime. She felt nausea stirring within her.
       At Bellis's words, Chuck's hand stopped dead from wiping his trusty camera's lens. He hadn't expected this either. Hadn't expected it at all. Oh, man, was all he could think. They're going to kill Mac Knight.

       They're going to kill Mac Knight, Windjammer realized suddenly, listening in on Bellis's words. They're actually going to kill the guy!
       Shane was crammed into an electrical access crawlway above the restaurant's northern dining area, which put him pretty close to right over this Bellis guy and Terrance Cross. He had hopped on his board (which now rested beside him in the dusty, claustrophobic tunnel) and circled around the place, hoping to be sneaky about things. He hadn't counted on the whole street full of cars honking at him (hadn't they ever seen a guy on a snowboard flying over Camelback Road before?). He'd swooped up onto the roof and found the access door Captain Bonilla had told him about, and had taken his time sneaking through, assuming the crowds hadn’t given him away and the bad guys would now be expecting him. Didn't look like they had, and that was good. He still had the upper hand.
       He surveyed as much of the room as he could through cracks in the ceiling panels, trying to figure out how many of the bad guys there were and where they were at. He had a pretty good lay of the place. Man, the whole scene was just too surreal to him. Terrance Cross, tied to a chair, surrounded by terrorists like he was in one of his own movies. Only this time, whether he liked it or not (in point of fact, he so did not), Shane Doleman was the star.
       Was he afraid? Kind of. They did have guns. He knew that the light mesh armor built into the costume would probably save him if one of them got in a good shot (assuming they didn't shoot him in the head). Or so the boys at Rising Technologies told him. He hadn't ever actually gotten around to trying it. But he figured it would work. Heck, he hadn't even had the armor on when he'd gone off to save Porter from those other terrorists. They'd had plenty of guns, and he'd turned out just fine. No, getting shot really didn't scare him.
       But there were people down there. Terrance Cross, of course. But waitresses, too. And some whiny guy in a suit. And Melanie Dodd (the Channel 5 babe! The hits just kept on coming!). And those people weren't able to just fly away when the shooting started. They could all get killed. And Bonilla was trusting him to keep that from happening. That scared him.
       So whatever he was going to do, he was going to have to plan it carefully. He'd have to really think for a change. Okay, so thinking wasn't really his strong point. But Porter had given him a lot of really good ideas and direction, and it was that instruction that he was going to have to count on now. That they were going to have to count on.

       Chuck had forgotten about good TV. Chuck had forgotten about the awards he'd won, and about the one he'd certainly pick up for once again being in the wrong place at the right time. All he could think about now was finding some way--any way--to get out of this mess. He'd done a lot of things in his life that he wasn't proud of (most of them involving married women), but there was no way he was going to let some wacko fanatic use him and his camera in the murder of another human being.
       But nothing was coming to mind. His time had now run out, and it was looking like there was no way out of it without getting himself whacked in the process.
       The area around Cross was lit as best as Chuck could do with the limited equipment at his disposal, and Bellis now stood next to the bound movie star. A small grouping of Greenwarriors flanked the pair on either side, brandishing their weapons cinematically to make the best show for the camera possible. Chuck's camera was on them. The camera's focus was fine, but his own kept blurring is he fought to keep the sweat from his eyes.
       Melanie was on the phone nearby. She'd been allowed (ordered, actually) to call the station and get linked into the control room. Bellis's lieutenant stood right next to her, menacingly, keeping an ear on her every word. She'd been told to say only what was needed to get the broadcast started. Her words had gotten through to the 12:00 News's executive producer, who frantically got on the mobile line to the news van, which in turn got Rich Lawson scrambling to make the right switchings and connections in the van.
       "For the last time!" Bellis hollered angrily. "Where are the television--"
       Snow-covered video screens throughout the restaurant suddenly blinked to simultaneous colored life. The face of Roger Hart was replicated on all of them, and his voice came from every direction.
       "Finally," Bellis said, exasperated. "That manager may have to die for my aggravation alone." Several of the troops around him laughed approvingly.
       Melanie carefully took the phone away from her ear, watching the lieutenant but speaking to Bellis. This was news she did not want to deliver. "The station says they're receiving."
       "Excellent," Bellis smiled, satisfied and cracking his knuckles in anticipation. "Miss Dodd, you may tell your station to tune us in."
       He reached to his belt, pulling his cell phone from it and bringing it to his face. The line was still open.
       "My Lady?" he said into it, pausing to make sure she was still on the other end. "All is well. Our time has come.
       "The trial is about to begin."

       All around Phoenix, viewers were glued to their televisions. Word had spread, by mouth and by telephone, and everyone was now a part of the unfolding drama.
       In an unkempt apartment in Tempe, near the A.S.U. campus, Jerry Lowell sat in front of his couch, holding a now-empty box of Crunch 'n Munch, waiting anxiously to see if his roommate Shane was going to get to talk to Melanie Dodd once he saved the day.
       In a real estate office in Scottsdale, Lana Doleman stood behind the chattering office girls that had crowded around the portable TV on Susan's desk. To them, this was a day of excitement and thrills. To her, it was a fight to hold back the tears and keep her heart from stopping. They had no way of knowing that the one in the middle of this mess was her only son.
       In a spacious living room in a house on Camelback Mountain, Porter and Janis Scott refused to leave their couch. The youngest of their five daughters, Christina, huddled close to them, unable to understand the tension and worry she could feel in the air. Holding her husband's hand, Janis listened to the voice of Roger Hart. Porter squeezed her delicate hand with his own, his eyes focused on reading the news anchor's lips, waiting for any word on what was happening to the young man that had become a part of their family.
       In the Channel 5 newsroom, Roger Hart did his best to mix the sparse information on the TelePrompTer with the running ad-lib he was forced to do. The news rarely came announced. It happened, and he and his ilk did their best to play catch-up. Today he couldn't help but feel a bit smug at the fact that his national and international counterparts were having to play catch-up with him.
       He looked into the camera and spoke into the microphone clipped to his tailored suit.
       "...Preparing to take you live to the scene of the Greenwar takeover, where Channel 5 news reporter Melanie Dodd is actually inside Planet Hollywood with the terrorists and the hostages, and, most remarkably, with Hollywood legend Terrance Cross. The group's leader, a man known only as Major Bellis, has demanded that he be granted a live feed from inside the restaurant. Channel 5 has agreed, only to save the lives of hostages and insure the safety of both them and the police already on the scene."
       Mickey, the show's floor manager, received information from the control room over his headset. He nodded quickly, and, from his position next to camera two, signaled Roger and gave a triple flash of all ten of his fingers. In thirty seconds, the live feed would be established. Roger would have to fill for just a little while longer.
       "For those of you just joining us, the international terrorist group Greenwar has seized Phoenix's own Planet Hollywood. They are holding at least a dozen hostages, including actor/producer Terrance Cross, whose reason for being in Phoenix today is still unknown.
       "But what makes this story even more extraordinary is this piece of footage shot outside Planet Hollywood just minutes ago by Channel 5 cameraman Chuck Atkins."
       The Channel 5 noon team had been together for a good two years, a long time for one production group to go unchanged in a business as transitory as local television. They worked as a seamless unit, almost able to read each other's minds by now. As such, Rex Everett, the noon show's director, had called for the video clip before Roger had even finished his sentence. The clip began to play for perhaps the fifteenth time since this whole fiasco had begun.
       "It seems that the situation is so desperate, Phoenix police have called in Arizona's own living legend. The miracle of nature known as Windjammer is apparently on the scene."

       "What?!" Bellis--who had been focusing on the camera lens as Melanie counted down from thirty, following the executive producer's verbal instruction--exclaimed. He looked at the screens on the walls all around him, and every one showed Windjammer flying toward the camera, then suddenly veering off and whooshing over a long line of cars on Camelback Road.
       "Oh, crap," Chuck said, backing his head away from the eyepiece.

       "Oh, crap," Captain Bonilla said, running his fingers through his dark hair and watching the news footage on a monitor through the open door of the news van.

       "Crap on rye, hold the mayo," Windjammer muttered, scrambling for his board and maneuvering room in the cramped space, panic on him all at once. So much for having a few more minutes to figure things out.

       Mickey counted down on the last of the fingers on his right hand. Three...two...one...
Planet Hollywood was live.

       Bellis drew his revolver. "Secure the hostages!" he screamed across the room. "Lucas!" he shouted at his lieutenant. "Give the signal! Give the signal!"
       The Greenwarriors around Cross looked around, not quite sure what was going on. A man called Wurthing, who had been a recruit in the Army of the Earth for three years, was the first to notice the sudden feel of a stiff breeze against his sleeve. It was he, too, that heard the peculiar creaking sound from above them. Wurthing had always been a perceptive man.
       He looked up and saw another of Planet Hollywood's prized artifacts. It was from the film "Demolition Man"--the life-sized model used in the movie of Sylvester Stallone's nude body frozen in a huge block of ice. It was anchored to the ceiling by sturdy cables that suspended it over the dining area that Bellis had had converted into Cross's courtroom.
       At least, it used to be anchored to the ceiling.
       The glass-encased model dropped like a hammer. Wurthing barely had time to scream before the whole thing came crashing down on him and two of his fellow soldiers. Stallone's naked butt was the last thing that filled his field of vision before everything went black.
       Bellis jumped several feet as broken glass flew everywhere and three of his men by Cross's left side were taken out. The chaos began. Chuck yanked his camera off its tripod and did a diving slide on his back, trying to keep shooting everything he could before one of these guys shot and killed him--a scenario he was now seeing as inevitable.
       A ceiling panel blew straight down, and Windjammer, on his board, dropped down into the air. His element of surprise was now almost gone, and whatever he was going to do, he had only seconds to pull it off before he and everyone else in the room not wearing a Greenwar uniform was dead.
       "Kill him!" Bellis was shouting, raising his gun. "Kill him! Kill them all!!!"
       Windjammer spun on his board in mid-air, his arms and hands shooting out in a conjuring gesture as he called to his winds. A fierce wind appeared from nowhere and hit Terrance Cross and his confining chair. The chair suddenly shot across the dining floor, ramming the pair of terrorists on Cross's right and sending them flying. Cross himself, still bound, hit the far wall, bounced off it like a hockey puck into another wall, and finally whisked through the swinging kitchen doors. The loud crashing of pots and pans signaled his finally coming to stop, most certainly rattled, but out of harm's way.
       Bellis started shooting. His sidearm roared like a cannon as he squeezed off shots at Windjammer. Shane dropped low on his board and enacted some quick haphazard aerial maneuvers in an attempt to dodge the volley, but his concentration had to be on the task at hand, not on saving himself. The Greenwarriors near the door had their guns on the bulk of the hostages and had backed off, preparing to execute them all. Waitresses and busboys were screaming and pleading, none of them probably a day older than Shane himself.
       And Rodriguez's weapon was fixed right on Staci.
       Windjammer commanded the winds and concentrated hard, straining to focus on so much at once. Suddenly, the glass cashier's window that led to the restaurant's souvenir shop blew outward. The air filled with a rainbow of streaking color as dozens upon dozens of Planet Hollywood tee shirts flew out in a torrent, bombarding the terrorists. Each of the gunmen was quickly coated and tangled in fabric, wrestling to pull shirts from faces and guns, slipping on them and falling clumsily to the floor.
       He pulled a mid-air combination of 360s, spinning and rising madly to avoid gunshots, next throwing his attention at the pair of men guarding Fein and the photographer. The two soldiers had moved away from the men and were raising their Uzis to mow Windjammer down. Moving away, he thought, internally grinning. Big mistake.
       The strain showed on his face as he pushed his powers (and having to do all this while practically upside down wasn't making things any easier). In an instant, the two gunmen found themselves held fast by a small, controlled tornado. It held them within it, spinning and throwing them brutally around, and their guns flew off in two opposite directions, clattering off the floor. Tablecloths and Planet Hollywood paper place mats (covered with high school yearbook photos of familiar celebrities) were yanked in, joining the roaring twister. Chester clung to the photographer, screaming in terror, too hysterical about the sight in front of him to realize that his life had just been saved...or that he'd just wet his pants.
       Melanie was still trying to decide what to do when Bellis's lieutenant pulled his gun on her. He was still yelling something into a small hand-held radio, but obviously wasn't going to wait until he was finished to kill her. The roar of the gun filled her ears, and she found her last thoughts to be wondering which of her fellow reporters would be doing the story on her murder.
       In the milliseconds that followed, she realized that the roar she'd heard wasn't the gun after all. It was the roar of hurricane-force winds. She and the lieutenant were blown over the bar. He was thrown through a wall of glasses and liquors, slamming full-tilt into the mammoth mirror behind. He and endless shards of glass and liquids of many colors ran down the wall to the floor behind the bar. Melanie came to an abrupt--but kind--halt just before her own impact. She felt her hair flinging all around her as the oncoming wind was gone and another came up from below her. Gently, she was lowered to the floor. The whole time her stunned eyes were on the floating figure of the handsome young man across the room from her, watching his hands work in the air and his brow crease in concentration. As her feet touched down, she was barely able to get her legs to work to support her. An indescribable calm came over her and she simply stared at him. Then he smiled at her, a sheepish, boyish, kind smile. It was the most beautiful thing she felt she'd ever seen.
       And then Bellis shot him.
       The bullet hit Windjammer dead center in his chest and blew him off his board. His back hit a small round table below and several feet behind where he'd been, and he smashed through it, crushing it. He lay on his back, finding it hard to breathe, feeling the throbbing pain above his sternum. Two things went through his mind.
       Ouch was the first.
       I guess it does work was the second.
       Bellis was in a full run toward him, still firing, screaming in primal battle-lust. Bullets were kicking up pieces of floor right next to Shane’s head. Shane's arms came up instinctively to cover his face. Now in a kneeling crouch, getting all of it, was Chuck Atkins.
       "For Mother Earth!" Bellis screamed. "For Mother Earth!!!"
       He leapt onto a table and used it for a springboard, bounding off it and soaring at Windjammer, his gun in front of him and his finger pulling the trigger for the final blow.
       Bellis flew back across the length of the restaurant, hammered with a wind that had the impact of a freight train. He smashed through the mock-up Hollywood sign and slammed into the wall. His body slid limply to the floor. As it came to rest in a semi-sitting position, a cardboard stand-up of Darth Vader fell over and covered his face.
       Shane exhaled. That had been too close. His chest hurt. His butt hurt. He didn't want to move a muscle.
       Then bullets started flying again. And muscles moved.
       Two soldiers who had been in the manager's office had come down the stairs and were now shooting at Shane. Shane jumped to his feet, and as fast as his mind could think it, a wind swept his board off the floor and sent is sailing toward him. He could see the guards he'd assaulted with the over-priced tee shirts starting to get up. A couple of them were getting ready to try shooting waitresses again. Yeah, no pressure here or anything.
       With bullets flying everywhere, he leapt up on a nearby railing, bouncing off it and landing on his board just as it shot by. He crouched low, working gestures again. Automatic weapon fire tore through framed movie memorabilia on the wall just above his head. A gun used in Schwarzenegger's "Commando" was destroyed. A pair of jeans worn by James Dean was shredded. The insurance check that would eventually be issued to this place was staggering to think about.
       Calling up nearly all his remaining strength, Shane didn't just call to the winds...he begged them. Sweat ran from his face to the wake behind him, and veins in his neck and face bulged. Nothing less than a hurricane ignited at the entrance to the restaurant. A devastating wall of nature took out everything in its path, blowing all of the hostage guards through the front wall glass. Tables and signs and the fake Arnold Schwarzenegger (and his Gargoyles) went with them, sending the whole assembly out into the hot, dry afternoon.
       And with the opening suddenly there--unexplainable acts of nature or no--hostages started to run out.
       Shane felt like he was going to pass out, but kept racing toward his assassins. All he could think of was how much he didn't want to get shot again, and how the armor may have been able to take one bullet, but might not be able to handle a whole bunch at once.
       Chuck's lens had caught the big blowout, and he now swiveled back to Windjammer. He'd just seen this kid, first-hand, do things science and common sense said should never be able to happen. He'd seen him do it to save the lives of every innocent person in the room--Chuck included. And now his heart tightened and sank as he realized he was about to film this heroic kid's death.

       Rodriguez struggled to rise to his feet, trying to pull a bright yellow tee shirt off his head. He had lost his Uzi in…in whatever had just happened, but knew he still had his trusty sidearm. He had one hand on it as he angrily yanked the fabric from his face. He found that he was out in the parking lot, a fair distance from the restaurant. His comrades were all around him, either unconscious or facedown with the guns of screaming policemen to their heads. Policemen, in fact, were everywhere, both standing there and running past him toward the restaurant. One in particular, one Captain Edward Bonilla, was standing right in front of him, wearing a big, evil grin.
       "Wait..." Rodriguez said.
       Bonilla whacked Rodriguez in the side of the head with his .38, very, very hard. Rodriguez fell in an unconscious heap to the sizzling asphalt.
       "No negotiations," Bonilla told him, taking off toward the restaurant entrance with the others.

       Windjammer tilted his position at the last minute, knowing his luck had ended. He got totally sideways, clinging to his board, as a hail of bullets rained down on the bottom of it. He could feel them striking mercilessly and bouncing off in a dozen directions. Rising Technologies had made sure the board was built to last, too.
       He and his board slammed into the masked head of the first gunman. The soldier's head became the bologna in a concussion sandwich, leaving an indentation roughly the size of his cranium in the wall. Windjammer landed unsteadily on one leg, holding his board in his right hand, hopping up and down, trying to get his balance and footing. In the middle of his corrections his saw the last gunman bringing his Uzi around. Shane thought of a dozen things to do with the winds, but couldn't manage the strength to pull any of them off. Out of time for deliberations, he simply gripped his board with both hands and spanked the guy over the head with it as hard as he could. Crude, but effective. The terrorist crumbled to the stairs, and wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.
       Windjammer managed to get his footing back and keep from falling on his face. He stood there, looking around, huffing and puffing. The Planet was completely trashed. This place wasn't going to be open for business for a long time coming. But he'd done it…he was actually fairly sure that he'd done it. He'd saved the day.
       "I am the walrus," he breathed with still-disbelieving self-appreciation.
       "Everybody back off!"
       Oh, man....
       He turned around. Bonilla and a bunch of cops had just come through the door (okay, so there was no actual door anymore), and now all their guns were up and tensely pointing at the bar. At the bar, Shane saw Melanie Dodd. The photographer—the one hired by Cross’s own people for the photo shoot—was standing behind her, and he'd picked up a discarded gun and now had it to her head. He also had Bellis's cell phone to his ear.
       The photographer?
       Bonilla had the man clearly in his aim. His question as to how Greenwar had known Cross was going to be in town had just been answered--the freakin' photographer was one of them. They'd probably been planning this for weeks.
       "Nobody try anything, or the she dies!" he screamed zealously.
       "Oh, for crying out loud," Shane moaned, shaking his head. You know, for once he thought he'd done everything right. How was he supposed to know one of the hostages was going to be nuts, too?
       The sweaty photographer spoke into the phone. Melanie was very quiet, not about to move. It looked like Lawson had been right. She'd ended up a hostage after all. Nearby, Chuck was filming, but his face was away from the eyepiece and he was looking at Melanie. Not her, was all he could think. Come on, God, please, not her.
       "My Lady?" the photographer spoke. The excitement in his voice was both eerie and frightening. "It is you. This is such an honor, I can't express... Yes. Yes, my Lady. No, I'm in control. Are you watching? Yes? I await your orders, my Lady. I am your servant."
       Bonilla stepped carefully in, gun steady and unwavering. "All right, let's just calm down back there," he called. "Let's not do anything stupid. I don't want anyone else hurt."
       He turned head and voice to Windjammer and lowered his tone. "Are you in one piece?"
       "The photographer?" Shane marveled again, disgusted. "Yeah, I'm cool."
       "Give me the story," Bonilla said to him, quietly. "Can you take this guy?"
       Windjammer breathed, trying to get his strength back, considering and calculating. "Yeah," he finally said. "Yeah, I can take him. I know I can."
       "Kid, you better know..."
       "I can take him," Shane reiterated. He knew exactly how, too. It would be tricky, and it would be close, but he could do it.
       Something hit Shane in the back and he felt himself flying forward. He hit the floor and rolled a few times, tumbling into what was left of the reservations stand. He was too stunned to move for a minute. He had no idea what had hit him, but it was like nothing that he'd ever felt before. Groaning a little, still feeling groggy, he rolled over and looked back to where he'd been.
       On the stairs that led back to the managers office stood what was probably one of the hottest blondes he'd ever seen. She was about 5'5, and had both a face and a body that belonged in the kinds of magazines that he, himself, had always felt too guilty to peruse. The body was hard to miss, seeing as how she was wearing some kind of skimpy, skin-tight white--
       Costume?
       It was. It was a stylized super-hero-looking costume, kind of like the one he wore. Hers, of course, looked a lot better. And there was something else. At first he thought he was still just stunned and seeing things, but then he could make it out clearly. Her hands were glowing. They were glowing with a bright, white light. This chick had powers!
       Hey, wait a minute... This chick had just shot him.
       "Still with us, cowboy?" she smiled, a good degree of taunt in her voice.
       "Huh?" he said. Hey, great start to a conversation. He'd have to remember that one if he and Jerry went clubbing this weekend. He looked around. Half the police guns were still on the bar. Half were on the girl. Some of the cops were looking at her glowing hands and backing right out the door. Bonilla just looked shocked.
       "So," she said to him, ignoring the police all together, "you're the one they call 'Windbreaker', right?"
       "Windjammer," he corrected, still trying to get all his senses back.
       "Whatever. Well, listen, cowboy, this is the story. They call me Delight."
       Yeah, I imagine they do, he found himself thinking.
       "And these Greenwar people thought there was a chance you might show up. So they hired me to be around in case you did. You see, I've got a few little tricks of my own. Enough to take out every trembling cop in this room, and enough to wipe to the floor with your cute butt to boot."
       He was totally ashamed to admit it, but his first thought had just been, Hey, she thinks I have a cute butt. All right.
       "Don't suppose you're going to cooperate and just give up, are you?" She asked the question, but her tone said she already knew the answer.
       "No," he said, carefully getting to his feet. "No, I don't suppose I am."
       "Didn't figure," she said, sighing. Then she smiled. "Well, then. Looks like things are about to get very…very…loud."
       This pretty much clinched it. Bonilla was definitely going to ask for a raise.

TO BE CONTINUED