The gunfire roared again.
An overwhelming wave of bullets screamed toward Nathan, fired from all angles by the mercenaries surrounding him. It was like an iron storm with only one purpose — to shred him apart.
Reacting instantly, Nathan summoned a clone, a perfect replica of himself, which lunged forward to act as a human shield.
"Psst! Psst! Psst!"
The bullets ripped into the clone's body. Holes appeared as if a red-hot poker had punched through, and blood splattered like red mist. The clone coughed violently, blood pouring from his mouth like a broken faucet. Yet, he stood tall, protecting the real Nathan with unwavering resolve.
Nathan, crouched behind him, whispered softly, "It's okay. You won't die. It'll just hurt a little."
The clone didn't respond. He couldn't. His eyes stared ahead, locking on to the masked enemies with a complex emotion he had never experienced before.
Rage. Frustration. Helplessness.
He had no voice to express the pain — emotional or physical. But his heaving chest and clenched fists told enough.
Then, through the smoke of gunfire, Donald, one of Essex's field commanders, charged at them, his massive fist cocked back.
"Captain America! Don't get involved with Essex! You're bringing this on yourself!" Donald roared. "Walk away now or you'll regret it!"
But before his punch could connect—
Clang!
A vibranium shield flew through the air and smashed into Donald, launching the man off his feet like a ragdoll. His body slammed into a steel container with a resounding thud.
The shield ricocheted effortlessly and returned to Nathan, who caught it without looking. The crowd of mercenaries stared in shock.
That throw — the precision, the rebound, the timing — it was terrifying.
Nathan didn't stop.
He sprinted toward his motorcycle, his shield now securely fastened to his back. The roar of approaching vehicles grew louder behind him.
From within the ranks of the mercenaries, Dr. Les, a senior Essex researcher, screamed: "Bring out the heavy weapons! We must stop him!"
A few of the hired guns hesitated.
"But X-24 is in his hands… if we hit him... the company will—"
"X-24 has self-healing capabilities!" Les snarled, veins bulging in his neck. "It won't die! It will recover. But if Nathan escapes, all our experimental data, our progress — it's all lost!"
Donald, battered and bruised, spat blood and howled: "Fire the rocket launcher! Do as Les says!"
At once, a mercenary lifted a rocket launcher from the back of a truck, locked onto Nathan's sprinting figure, and took aim.
But Nathan was faster.
He slid to a stop, twisted his torso, and drew his pistol in one fluid motion. With one precise squeeze of the trigger—
Bang!
The bullet flew true and hit the rocketeer square in the forehead. His head jerked back — dead on the spot.
But in his dying convulsion, the man's finger slipped—
Whoosh!
The rocket fired, veering wildly.
"Shit!" Nathan's eyes widened.
He shoved the wounded clone in front of him.
BOOM!
The explosion erupted just meters away. The shockwave tore through the ground like a sledgehammer. Nathan and the clone were flung through the air, tossed like dolls by the concussive force.
They crashed into the dirt near Nathan's bike, bloodied and broken.
Nathan groaned, every muscle screaming in protest.
"Ugh… kinda refreshing," he muttered through gritted teeth, forcing a crooked smile.
The clone, now a bloody heap beside him, was in far worse shape. The back of his body was charred, his skin shredded like fabric.
Nathan glanced at him, "Thank goodness you're here."
The clone stared at Nathan with murder in his eyes. His breathing was ragged, blood pouring from his mouth, pooling beneath him.
Nathan tried to comfort him.
"Don't worry, you'll heal up in no time."
The clone's lips twitched. If looks could kill, Nathan would've died on the spot. A guttural growl escaped the clone's throat — raw, furious.
Nathan, unfazed, grabbed him by the arm and hauled him onto the motorcycle.
"We're not dying here," he said firmly, revving the engine.
VROOOM!
The bike roared to life. Dust flew as the wheels kicked up gravel, leaving a long trail in their wake.
Les screamed, veins bulging: "Stop them! Don't let them get away!"
"YES, SIR!"
The remaining mercenaries jumped into vehicles, starting the chase.
Just then—
Two small black devices flew off the back of Nathan's motorcycle, landing precisely in the path of the approaching convoy.
"Wait... are those—?"
"GRENADES!" someone shouted. "TAKE COVER!"
Everyone ducked, bracing for the blast—
But instead of exploding, the grenades buzzed.
BZZZ! BZZZ!
A pulse of invisible energy shot outward like a silent scream.
Inside the vehicles, every electronic device instantly died.
The engines coughed and stalled.
Monitors went black. Radios cut out. Even digital watches stopped ticking.
Les blinked in disbelief.
"This… isn't normal…" he muttered, horror dawning in his voice. "It's an electromagnetic pulse!"
He rushed to one of the vehicles, trying desperately to restart it.
No response. Dead.
"This isn't just a grenade—this is Stark-grade tech!" Les screamed. "It's an EMP in mini form! Who the hell has access to this? Only Tony Stark—only Tony could've made something this compact and effective!"
"Captain America... it's really you, isn't it?!"
Les's rage boiled over. "You think hiding behind that new identity will protect you? I know who you are! You'll pay for this!"
Another mercenary chimed in: "We still have Caliban. If we call for backup, we can use him to track X-24."
He grabbed his phone—
Black screen.
"You idiot!" Les barked. "EMP! It fries electronics. That includes your phone!"
Donald, desperate, sprinted to the house, hoping to use the internal comms system.
Nothing worked.
Everything was dark.
He returned outside and punched a concrete wall, cracking it in fury.
"Damn it! The pulse radius must be fifty meters, maybe more. Everything's fried."
The whole team stood helpless, staring at the disappearing trail of dust left by Nathan's bike.
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