A lone shaman with military connections must gather a force of unconventional heroes to derail terrorist attacks. Although they may not realize their own powers, each of his warriors are skilled in an unconventional form of warfare. With a great deal of luck their leader may convince them the key to victory rests not in the hands of their allies, but in their allies' paws and claws...

Military snipers, shape shifters, bikers and strippers make a formidable team.

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Fred Johnson had the big camera and a harness full of spare batteries that were the tools of his trade. He stood alongside Karen Escadrile on a Potomac Park bike path and looked bored. “Are you sure this is where we’re supposed to set up?” He was thinking of the game he was missing while covering some rumor at a homeless tent city.

“Yeah. Who knows... Maybe she got wind of some protesters showing up in the next hour or so.”

Minus her shopping cart, Mrs. Walters stepped out from behind one of the overpass columns. “Don’ you worry ‘bout it none, ya hear? I promised ya sumpin’ ya might be able to use and I can feel it comin’ closer every minute. You jes sit tight there, with yer fancy camera an’ all, an you’ll see... yepper... you’ll see...” She turned and looked back out at the passing traffic, still muttering to herself.

The two news professionals sat down on a low concrete wall, with the camera and microphone gear next to them and decided to give her an hour.

They hadn’t been sitting more than five minutes, when Mrs. Walters suddenly stood up and stared at a fence. A raven was sitting and cawing loudly at them. She turned to the reporters. “Get yer stuff. Come on now! Up with yer... Now ya seen my secret, damnit! Ya might as well act on it.”

“What secret, Mrs. Walters? What are you talking about?”

“That black bird there!” She was pointing. “He’s the one, I tell ya. Watch him!”

“That’s a raven. There are a lot of them around and they are sometimes kinda noisy. So what?”

“That’s my secret. Every time that particular bird shows up, something weird happens. And he’s been acting really shitty every day, ‘bout this time, fer the last three days. If you follow him, he’ll show you something worth taking a picture of and yer gonna owe me that steak.”

“Mrs. Walters... If you are trying to make a fool out of me...”

“Don’t b’lieve me then, damn you. Wise-ass reporter know-it-all... I’m tellin’ ya, ya better git yer asses in gear and follow that damn bird.”

The young woman hesitated only a moment. “Oh well, I’m probably going to be a laughing stock, but what the hell. Come on; follow me!” She headed down the trail, through the pedestrian tunnel that stank of urine and worse, and followed the raven.

They were both surprised when the bird didn’t just fly away but paused and egged them on… leading them down to the waterfront park and to the island path, just upstream from the bridge. It flew to the top of a tree and sat waiting.

The reporter and the cameraman slowly turned a full circle, looking for anything unusual.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that old lady… that Mrs. Walters ... is really very reliable and you don’t know why she has us on this wild goose chase… or should I say wild raven chase? After all, we could be sitting back in the studio, watching the best video feeds from the concert.”

“She has given me more than a dozen good tips in the past and never asked for more than fast food in return. If she’s willing to bet me such high stakes today, I’m going to have to pay attention.” The reporter looked around and then pointed towards the bridge. “As long as we’re here, let’s get some stock shots of the island, bridge and average traffic. We can always use it later.”

“You’re the boss.” He flipped the camera on his shoulder and started to pan slowly, starting at the Pentagon and back towards the bridge.

“Hey! Will you look at that idiot with all those tires overloading the truck? Didn’t you do a story on how unsafe that was a while—”

The driver suddenly slammed on the truck’s brakes and skidded to a sideways stop, blocking both lanes and causing at least three fender benders.

“Wow! And I got that on tape.” The cameraman swatted the woman on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “This is your chance for a great follow up story. You’re on!”

She made sure her microphone was live, stepped in front of the camera and started to speak.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve just witnessed a multi-vehicle accident on the Fourteenth Street Bridge. As you can see, at least four vehicles have been damaged and we’re not sure of injuries, at this point. You can be sure we’re going to keep you informed.” She paused and looked over her shoulder and Fred went to a wide shot to include more of the accident scene. She continued. “As you can see, overloading commercial vehicles is a growing problem…”

In the viewfinder, he could see over her shoulder, the driver of the truck had jumped out, put on a helmet and was climbing on the back of a motorcycle. He stepped to one side and zoomed in on the escaping bike. She saw him step away.

“What are you doing? Come back to me and get the truck in the frame behind me, okay?”

He zoomed back to a wide shot that included the reporter, the truck and several cars with smoking radiators.

“Yes, folks. Overloading commercial vehicles is a major traffic haz—”

There was a bright flash of light and a deafening explosion as the bed of the truck erupted. Burning tires were scattered in all directions and at least two people were thrown off the bridge by the force of the explosion. The truck and the two cars directly behind it were burning fiercely as flaming shreds of rubber and other debris slammed into the other lanes of traffic.

Tires squealed and there were sickening sounds of crumpling sheet metal as more cars smashed into the burning pile of rubble.

The crackling of the flames was further accented by agonized cries for help as people were trapped in the first few cars. A screaming woman, her clothes and hair on fire, dove over the side of the bridge to the chill waters below.

Ever the professional, Fred zoomed back to get the whole scope of the destruction and then zoomed in on as many of the individual scenes as he could find.

The reporter stood there ashen-faced and watched the smoldering body of the woman, unmoving, floating face down and drifting with the incoming tide, towards the tidal basin. She dropped the microphone, lurched to the other side of the path and was violently ill.

When she looked up, she saw the raven squawk once and then fly incredibly fast, towards the east.

“How did he know?” she wondered.