The sonic boom he created over the capital made the whole city shake.
Anyone out on the streets—locals walking in parks, tourists standing outside the various memorials and museums of D.C.—all looked up to see him come rocketing out of the morning sky like a streaking red laser.
It was a sight every American had seen before on television—in Crimea, Ukraine, Hungary—but never, never, inside the borders of their own country.
A flying man dressed in red and wearing his signature hood over a grilled ceramic facemask.
He flew like a bullet over the Potomac before pausing to circle high above D.C.
The experts on TV figured he must have come most of the way under the surface of the Atlantic—probably on board a Russian nuclear submarine, during the past few days as America had been mourning the death of Cobalt—because he wasn’t picked up by Air Force radars until he was a few miles out of D.C. and it was too late.
Then he stopped circling, flew sharply downward and, flying at incredible speed, sliced off the top of the Washington Monument.
That was when all the onlookers began screaming and running for their lives.
THE FURY OF RUSSIA