The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution by Michael Ivan Lowell

four, verbalized what all of them were
thinking.
    “Oh shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!
Why's he gotta be here?”
    All four trained their weapons on
him. Shuffled from foot to foot. Nerves on edge. This was a guy who took on
whole armies. Or so they said.
    Watson just stared at him. He
wasn't moving; he wasn't talking. He was just fucking standing there! 
    “It's okay,” Watson assured them.
“There’s four-a us and only one-a him.”
    “Watch him!” Davey yelled.
    “Don't let him grab a weapon!”
Stinny warned. “He's got all them fancy gadgets. Fucking blow him away if he
goes for one.”
    Kent shook his head. “Yeah, you shoot first. I heard bullets just bounce off him.”
    “Put your hands up, where we can
see 'em,” Watson commanded, returning to officer mode. This freak is still
just a civilian , Watson thought, and he had no intention of being scared
out of his wits.
    Revolution slowly, carefully
raised his arms. The officers nervously tightened the grip on their weapons,
keeping aim firmly planted on his midsection. The hero's red armored hands
settled at face level...
    ...into an obvious martial arts
pose. He said nothing, freezing perfectly still. Technically, he had followed
their orders, but Watson couldn't help but feeling like he was being flipped
off.
    And then nothing. He just stood
there.
    The teens were scooting out from
behind the distracted cops, but Watson noticed them.
    “Naw. I don't think so. Just stay
right where you are.”
    Watson turned back toward the
Revolution. He had not moved a muscle. It wasn't even clear to Watson that he
was breathing. His eyes were shrouded in shadow. The grill-like covering over
his mouth reminded Watson of the paintball mask he sometimes wore at the game
park. He probably breathed through it, but you couldn't have known it by
looking at him now.
    This was stupid. Something needed
to give. Watson didn’t like it at all.
    “Okay, he's unarmed. Take him in,”
Watson barked at Stinny.
    “You take him in. I ain't doing
it! 
    “I said take him in. Now do it.”
    Revolution cleared his throat to
get their attention again, and it was all he could do to not shake his head at their
antics. All four reengaged him. But no one moved forward. They just stood there
looking like they needed to pee, shifting weight from one foot to the other.
Nervously waving their guns at him.
    Suddenly, Revolution snapped his
hands to another pose, toying with them. All four of them jumped and took a
step backwards. He looked like he was imitating Jet Li or Bruce Lee or
somebody, and it was really starting to piss Watson off.
    “That's it!” Watson howled, fed
up. “See, he's got nothin'. Now take him in!” Watson motioned toward Stinny and
Davey, and this time his ever-loyal brother took the bait. Stinny followed,
taking a step toward the “Dark Patriot.” Only one step.
    This time Revolution's hands
flicked again, but unlike before, a sound like rushing wind now echoed through
the alley. Watson had been looking right at him, and though the sound disturbed
him and his instincts screamed it meant trouble, he was sure nothing had left
the armored hands of his adversary. It was just another pose.
    Stinny and Davey stepped right
into the spinning paths of two black shurikens. The serrated edges sliced into
the two men's throats. Stinny's struck him first. A glancing blow, but the
razor-sharp edges still sliced through skin, veins, and tendons. Blood spurted
from the wound. The officer grasped his neck and fell to the ground. His hand
clamped tight. Blood pulsed over his fingers. It was a serious wound, but not
fatal.
    Davey was not so lucky. His
millisecond reaction to Stinny's predicament caused him to flinch, to move ever
so slightly to his left. And when he did that he slid his jugular vein right in
front of the carefully aimed blades of the second throwing star. The razors
sliced it with ease, and Davey fell hard, already choking on his own blood.
Unless he got help quickly, he