“Collateral damage,” Sitwell ordered flatly over his shoulder, giving a dismissive wave.
“Put a bullet in him and bag the women.”
The lead operative raised his rifle, the red laser snapping right back to the center of Marcus’s chest.
A week ago, that red dot would have sent Marcus into a blind panic.
Now?
His heart rate didn’t even spike.
The second the bald man stepped into the light, Marcus knew exactly how to break this standoff.
The operative’s knuckle paled against the black curve of the trigger.
Marcus held his ground, his muscles completely relaxed.
Lowering his hands a inch, he pinned his stare to the back of Sitwell’s crisp collar.
He drew in a slow, measured breath of cold air, knowing exactly which two words would freeze this entire strike team in their tracks.
“Hail Hydra.”
The effect was instantaneous.
The operative’s finger froze on the trigger.
The other three men shifted their stances, exchanging uncertain glances through their dark visors.
But it was Sitwell’s reaction that mattered.
The bald agent stopped dead in his tracks.
His shoulders stiffened.
Slowly, he turned back around, the smug, bureaucratic arrogance completely wiped from his face, replaced by pure confusion.
“What… what did you just say?” Sitwell demanded.
He took a cautious step toward Marcus, squinting through the rain, trying to figure out if he somehow recognized this kid from a briefing.
“Who are you?”
Thanks to the System’s Tier 2 Peak Human Conditioning and the years of hardwired CQC experience currently humming in his nervous system, time seemed to dilate.
Marcus dropped his hands, slipping an inch outside the operative’s laser sight, and launched himself forward.
He crossed the gap before Sitwell even had time to blink.
Marcus’s left hand shot out, slapping the lead operative’s rifle barrel toward the sky just in case the man panicked.
With his right, he seized Sitwell by the lapels of his expensive suit, violently spun the man around, and locked a crushing chokehold around his unarmored throat.
In the exact same fluid motion, Marcus’s free hand swept down, snatching the operative’s sidearm straight out of its thigh holster, and jammed the cold steel barrel directly under Sitwell’s chin.
The entire sequence took less than a second and a half.
“Hold your fire! HOLD FIRE!” Sitwell shrieked, his voice cracking in absolute panic as Marcus’s forearm cut into his windpipe.
The four operatives froze, their rifles up but useless, unwilling to shoot their commanding officer.
Inside the flipped SUV, Emma’s jaw practically hit the collapsed roof.
The ice queen stared in sheer disbelief at the kid.
Beside her, Rogue pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, her eyes wide.
Marcus shifted his weight, keeping Sitwell firmly between himself and the laser sights.
He leaned in close to the agent’s ear, making sure his voice carried over the rain.
“You know, Jasper,” Marcus mocked, his tone conversational and incredibly relaxed for a guy surrounded by assault rifles.
“For a guy playing 3D chess with S.H.I.E.L.D. and a secret Nazi death cult, you make some really amateur mistakes.”
Sitwell gagged, his hands clawing uselessly at the steel-grip arm wrapped around his neck.
“Rule number one of being a double agent,” Marcus continued, pressing the barrel of the gun harder into Sitwell’s jaw until the man whimpered.
“Don’t walk up to the front line without body armor. And rule number two—definitely don’t turn your back on a guy you haven’t searched.”
Marcus looked past the struggling bald man to the four heavily armed operatives, who were currently frozen in a tactical nightmare.
“Now,” Marcus said, his voice dropping the playful tone.
Only the steady rain answered.
Not a single rifle lowered.
Instead, the four red dots slid off Marcus’s exposed shoulder and settled dead center on Sitwell’s chest.
Sitwell stiffened.
A strangled sound caught in his throat as he understood what he was looking at.
The lead operative planted his boots and shifted his weight.
His knuckle went white on the trigger.
They were taking the shot.
Marcus used Sitwell’s weight as a pivot, twisting hard and swinging the bald agent into the line of fire,
While bringing his own gun arm around Sitwell’s shoulder.
He aimed past the ceramic plates, past the visor, straight for the pulsing blue module clamped to the man’s rig.
Crack—crack.
Two deafening cracks from the stolen 9mm tore through the hiss of the rain.
The first round sparked harmlessly off the lead operative’s thigh armor.
The second punched dead-center into the bulky device on his tactical rig.
Hard plastic shattered in a sharp explosion of white sparks.
The dampener’s blue light sputtered, hissed violently against the downpour, and died.
Inside the crumpled SUV, Emma flinched at the gunfire, her eyes snapping open.
Through the shattered window, she saw the smoking ruin of the tech on the operative’s belt.
The psychic static that had been crushing her skull vanished in an instant.
But she also saw the other three heavily armored men adjusting their aim, a split-second away from squeezing their triggers.