Americana gazed on the withering body of the Ex-Patriot as his sunken chest slowly rose and fell, in rhythm with the hissing of the pumps.

She had fought him often, seemingly almost every month or so, ever since he first stole the Ghostwing fighter jet. Each time he had been placed in a prison that was promised to be tougher to break out from; each time he had easily surmounted whatever barriers they had erected to his freedom.

It didn't look like he would be leaving this room, alive.

He had tried to blow up the Lincoln Memorial - while there was a peace march there, for heaven's sake. He had tried to down a jetliner that had, among others, the All-District High School Band aboard - just to make a point.

And just last month, he had upped his power level dramatically in an attempt to kill her. Had Windjammer not been visiting, there was a good chance he might have done just that.

This was not a good man.

It was almost ironic, then, that during their last battle he had somehow 'shorted out' the nannites that gave him his power, that constantly rebuilt him into the perfect fighting machine.

Now, he had discovered that his body had become dependent on those microscopic robots, so dependent that when they were deactivated many of his body's systems simply stopped working.

It was a fitting end for him.

Why, then, did sadness fill Americana's heart?

"Has he said the name?"

The doctor shook his head. "Hasn't said much of anything, ma'am. Don't even know if he can still find strength to form words. Did mumble a little about music or something... "

Americana slowly walked over to the bedside.

When she was younger, and her grandfather was passing away, they wouldn't let her see him; they said it would be better if she remembered him as he had been, happy and loving and full of life.

But her uncle had seen the extent to which he had deteriorated away. Upon leaving her grandfather's room he was heard to say "When I go, I'm going to step in front of a bus."

Her parents thought the comment tacky at best, but Astrea thought she knew what he had meant.

Seeing the Ex-Patriot, she finally understood.

"C -cock-y," the Ex-Patriot breathed.

"He say something?" Norman Roswell looked up from a sedoku puzzle he was working on.

"Sounded like 'cocky'," Americana sighed. "Wow. Just can't resist mocking me, eh?"

"N-n... "

Americana looked down at him. "Believe me, I'm not enjoying - "

"Sh-shameless!" he rasped.

"Wh-what?" Americana took a step back.

'Shameless'? That didn't sound like the Ex-P at all.

"I'm sorry. It's the medicine... "

The heroine thought for a moment as she ran a finger behind her ear.

"Maybe... maybe not, doc."

"What? You can't possibly - "

Americana held up two fingers. "Just... just let me think a minute, okay?"

The doctor nodded. "I'm going to get some coffee. Want anything?"

Americana shook her head.

She looked down at the Ex-Patriot, who was striving mightily to keep his eyes open.

"Okay. I've been called 'cocky' before - maybe with good reason," she smiled slightly.

"But 'shameless'? That's a new one - and not the kind of word that would flow off his tongue, see?

"And with how hard it is for him to say anything - I have to think it means something more."

She glanced down at the Ex-Patriot. "Cocky, shameless? Is that right?"

The Ex-Patriot blinked. He forced his lips to form the word "K-kings."

"Kings? Cocky kings?"

His chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

Americana took a step back and ran a finger behind her ear again.

"Cocky. Shameless. Kings?"

"Told you - he's all but gone," Norman Roswell spoke from the shadows. "He could be talkin' basketball, for all you know."

The superheroine stared at the emaciated man in the bed.

Finally, she sighed.

"Sorry," she said as she she walked over to Roswell. "Just had to try and - "

She stopped walking.

"'Kings'.

"The Book of Kings!"

She ran over to the bedridden villain.

"Book. Of. Kings! Right?"

He strained to form the word. "Y... y... "

"Kings, Kings... "

"What the heck are you - ?"

"Remembering my Bible," Americana said. "See, in the first and second book of Kings, there was a woman, the Phoenician wife of Ahab, who pressed the cult of Baal on the Israelites. By interfering with the exclusive worship of Yahweh and defying the prophets Elijah and Elisha, she provoked the strife that enfeebled Israel for decades. She was finally killed in accordance with Elijah's prophecy."

Roswell just... stared.

He shrugged. "Okay. So?"

"I think... our friend here must use memory games, to remind him of certain things. Like, I'd think of a Rockwell painting and link it to you. Every time I'd 'see' that painting, I'd have your name."

"I don't follow."

"Don't you see, Roswell?" she said excitedly. "He can't remember the name itself - that was wiped away - but he can remember the clues he used to remember it!"

"So.... 'cocky' is a clue?"

"There's a word, kind of obscure now, that describes a shameless, cocky woman who's, let's say, morally unrestrained.

"The same word is the name of that woman in Kings.

"Jezebel."

"'Jezebel', huh? Is that the name or the kind of woman we're looking for?"

"Not... quite either," Americana smiled. "The doctor mentioned he said something about music. He wasn't muttering at random.

"Tell me, when you think of New Orleans, what music do you think of?"

"Jazz."

"Exactly. We're looking for a woman whose code-name...

"Is Jazzabel."

"I still can't get over it," Roswell shook his head and took a drink from his coffee.

"What, that I figured out his clues?" Americana said pleasantly. "So I'm a lateral thinker."

He turned the car onto the Potomac Expressway. "You're something, all right. So... what are we going to do with that information?"

Americana paused a moment as she chewed her hot dog.

"No offense, Roswell, but if you think you're just going to send in the FBI and arrest her, you've got another think coming.

"She jacked up the Ex-Patriot. She probably created - or more likely, heavily modified - Razorback. Maybe responsible for Jack O'Diamonds, the Bloodhawk, the Skeleton Krewe... "

She stared hard at him. "You don't take on that kind of power without an army."

Roswell stared straight ahead as he drove.

"Maybe. Ten Most Wanted list be damned, the agency wants her bad.

"I mean, Razorback alone - kidnapping the President?! Ex-Patriot - came this close to blowing up the Lincoln Memorial? And the rest - do you realize the damages they've done run into the millions?

"You think we don't realize all the 'supervillains' she's created? We don't all sit around twiddling our thumbs, waiting for you to come take care of things."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't," Roswell sighed. "I just want you to understand - life's not just a series of fights between you and the freak of the week. There are dozens, maybe hundreds of people whose lives change when you put on your little aerobics outfit - cops, paramedics, insurance agents, military... sanitation workers. Add in the various agencies and departments and companies that tell them what to do...

"What I'm trying to say is, the Bureau wants her.

"And yes, we do have an army."

The heroine paused, a sinking feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with the hot dog.

"Roswell," she said quietly, "what you are trying to say, after I oh-so-brilliantly figured out the name, is that the FBI will handle it from here."

Roswell drove on.

"Yes."

"On our last visit the Ex-Patriot called her a witch. You heard him."

"Yes, I heard him."

They drove on in silence.

"Razorback, the Ex-Patriot, even Jack O'Diamonds - they've all taken down cops and agents like they were nothing - and she's the one who gave them their power."

She turned to him and said earnestly, "Look, this... this isn't about looking good for the cameras, okay? Getting credit for the capture. That doesn't matter to me. What does matter is that you cowboys are going to go up against the power behind every significant foe I've fought."

"I don't much appreciate the term 'cowboys', just so you know."

"Sorry," she said testily. "What else do you call Custer's men?"

Roswell drove on for a moment, then he sighed deeply.

"You feel that strongly about it, do you?"

"Sorry, but... yes."

"You really think we'd get slaughtered."

"...yeah. Yeah, I do."

Roswell slowed slightly.

"So... what do you suggest?"

Americana remained silent for a moment.

"We're the only ones who know, right? Jazzabel's name?"

"Yes... so far."

"All right. Do you think you could give me some time - next weekend, maybe the next two? We aren't in any big hurry to nail her, are we?"

"No-o-o... what are you thinking?"

Americana smiled grimly.

"I want to assemble my own army."