Chapter 19: Within Seven Steps, Fast and Accurate
After the leader gave his order, the team members began their search with sharp focus. They moved in pairs, a standard tactic to ensure no one was left alone and vulnerable to being taken down or replaced. Even the man who had given the order was partnered with another agent. Their discipline and careful movements showed how professional their training organization was.
From the shadows, Bruce Wayne watched them closely. Their gear had no markings, but to Bruce, their origin was obvious. Who else would operate a hidden strike team right under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s nose but H.Y.D.R.A.? He just wasn't sure about the exact relationship between H.Y.D.R.A. and S.H.I.E.L.D. in this world. It was likely the same old story—H.Y.D.R.A. growing inside S.H.I.E.L.D. like a cancer. The thought was almost boring in its predictability.
At the same time, Bruce calculated how long it would take to deal with them. H.Y.D.R.A. agents were capable, but they were not a major threat to him.
Two agents were moving toward his position, sweeping their area from left to right. They were tense. Anyone who could take out the two guards at Kingpin's door so quickly was not some common thief. They had already labeled the intruder as a person with enhanced abilities or technology. And their first thought was not 'superhero'.
Most superheroes did not break into private homes to dig through files. So, in their minds, this was a super villain.
The problem was, none of the known super villains on their watchlist were active right now. Everyone knew New York City was currently Wilson Fisk's stage. With Spider-Man dead, few were willing to challenge the Kingpin's grip.
There had been rumors of a Spider-Man in Hell's Kitchen recently, but no one in H.Y.D.R.A. intelligence believed it was the real one. The reports described a middle-aged, somewhat out-of-shape fighter. Everyone knew the real Spider-Man was a young, agile hero. How could someone with his metabolism and active life get fat in middle age?
So, it had to be an impersonator—probably a skilled one with good tech, but an impersonator all the same. This world had plenty of freelance inventors who could make convincing gear.
The sudden appearance of a new, unknown entity who could breach Kingpin's personal safehouse was a serious event. They needed to see who this was. They needed to see if he was someone they could recruit or, failing that, eliminate. They might even offer him better equipment if he joined their cause.
What they never imagined was that the man in the bunker was not a super villain from their world at all. He was from another world, and there, people called him a superhero. Though Bruce himself did not use that word.
The two agents finally stepped into Bruce's range. The Bat moved.
He appeared in front of the first agent like a ghost. The man only saw a demonic mask fill his vision before a crushing impact hit the side of his head. He dropped to the concrete floor, unconscious before he even started to fall.
His partner spun around, gun coming up, finger tightening on the trigger. But Bruce was already gone. The agent saw only his fallen teammate. His training had prepared him for ambushes, but this silence, this invisibility, sent a spike of raw fear through him. His eyes darted wildly, trying to find a target.
Bruce was already beside him. A powerful leg sweep knocked the agent's feet out from under him. As the man flew upward, Bruce drove his knee forward to meet the falling body.
Crack!
The sound of breaking bone was sickeningly clear, even over the noise of the other agents rushing toward the scene. The agent's spine gave way. He screamed once, a short, sharp cry of agony, and then went silent.
This made the approaching men stop. They looked at each other, checking faces, making sure they were all still their own team. Then they began to advance again, but more slowly now.
Bruce had done all of this in just a few seconds. Against these men, his skill was an absolute advantage.
"Form trios!" the leader's voice cut through the tension. "Control the perimeter! Do not let him isolate you!"
The agents moved quickly, grouping into three-man teams, covering each other's blind spots.
"A bit more difficult," Bruce murmured to himself. But his eyes, visible in the slits of the cowl, showed no worry. They were calm and focused.
He turned his hands over. From his belt, he produced two weapons that fit over his knuckles. They were shaped like spreading bat wings. He pressed a small button on each one. The bat symbols glowed a hot, dangerous red.
Bruce stepped out of the shadows. He was done hiding.
The moment his foot hit the ground, he was moving. He shot forward, driving his elbow—a classic Ding Xin Zhou from Bajiquan—into the chest of the nearest agent in a three-man group. The man was lifted off his feet and thrown backward into his comrades.
The commotion made every head turn. But their reaction speed was no match for his.
Bruce closed the distance to the next agent. A red-glowing uppercut snapped the man's head back. When his fist connected with the agent's jaw, the smell of burning flesh and synthetic gear filled the air.
These were experienced men. They knew that smell. It was the smell of a searing brand, of a hot blade on skin. It was the smell of a weapon designed to cause terrible pain.
They raised their guns. The calculation was simple. Even at this close range, where bullets might hit their own men, stopping this demon in the dark was the mission. Some losses were acceptable.
After all, they believed in the old rule: Within seven steps, the gun is fast and accurate.
Their fingers found the triggers.
(End of Chapter)
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