So… I stopped for a long time. I'm extremely lazy since what I'm doing is a full on rework, I'm gonna use ai and do proofreading and editing after, so the tone and style is gonna change. Hopefully I will do more chapters and be less lazy.
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Was James brave? He was certainly brave enough, but he knew very well that as long as Cross was outside, he would not be in too much danger.
Because if he died, none of the people inside would live. And he had Cortana to help him, so it was easy to control his ability and the AI assist that she provides in always seeing his target and perfect control of his body.
Just that alone makes him the ultimate human level Assassin.
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The next morning, James was up before the sun. Cold water splashed to his face, a quick rinse, then straight to business. Gear check is routine by now. His two pistols holstered under each arm, clean and unmarked. The custom-carved Imanishi 17 went into the back waistband, easy to draw, easy to hide.
Short blade strapped to his left forearm. Long dagger sheathed along his right calf. Ordnance jeans—flexible enough to move in, thick enough to dull a lucky blade. Leather jacket with built-in lining held a single grenade, dangling in just the right spot. He twisted his torso a few times. No snags. No sound.
Cross entered the room holding a black control key the size of a chunky lighter.
"The firecrackers are loaded. Fuse is wired to the cab. This key triggers the latch at the back of the truck. I'll be supporting you from a high-rise, two clicks out."
Two thousand meters. Not something most snipers would even attempt. But Cross wasn't most snipers. And James knew better than to doubt him.
Just then, Cortana's voice pinged in his head like a background notification. "SHIELD surveillance confirms: Gibson and son left their safehouse, fully packed. Could be moving or staging."
"Keep track of them," James replied quietly. "Let's see what kind of heat they're really packing."
He climbed into the driver's seat of the modified garbage truck and set course for Textile Mill No. 17, the Fraternity. The place where everything would either start or end.
Halfway there, James found himself trying to recall the events of the movie. It was foggy—deliberately so. Remembering too much could kill him. This world didn't follow the script anymore. Everything had changed.
"Carlos, you in position?" James asked, pulling up across the bridge from the target location.
"Setting up now," came the calm reply over comms.
James waited. He could hear Cross unpacking equipment on the other end—tripod legs clicking, gear shifting. The man didn't use a modern scope rifle. No, Cross brought six old-school bolt-action snipers with him, each mounted on individual stands. Precision weapons. No rapid fire. One bullet, one purpose.
"Don't rush," Cross said. "Single-shot rifles. Six shots total. Reloading takes time."
"Got it. I'll handle the chaos and stay sharp. Just keep one gun primed in case someone finds your perch."
Cross gave a simple "Understood" before hanging up.
James drove across the bridge and parked the truck with its nose facing away from the main gate. Ensuring that there is no direct line of fire while he bust the gates down and release the rats while under fire.
A small observation window cracked open from inside the factory gates. Someone was watching. By the time they realized what was happening, James had already hit reverse.
BOOM!
The gate slammed open. The truck surged through, metal grinding on concrete. James slid to a stop with the cab tucked between two old battlements, using the thick structure as cover.
From above, Sloan peered down, lips barely moving. "Kill him."
Tires screeched. The outer perimeter guards mobilized, fanning around the compound.
Tap-tap-tap-tap—automatic fire erupted. Bullets slammed into the truck's metal shell. James ducked low and flicked the fuse control.
Fzzz-pop-pop-pop!
The fake "firecrackers" inside the truck ignited in sharp bursts. In reality, they were panic triggers—wired to unleash a tide of rats. Lab-bred, GPS tagged, and strapped with mini charges. They squealed in terror, bolting in every direction as the doors popped open.
From Sloan's position, it looked bizarre—dozens of rats fleeing the truck like it carried the Black Plague. He narrowed his eyes.
Beneath the driver's seat, James pulled open a hidden floor hatch—something he and Cross had rigged earlier. He dropped down and waited, pistol drawn, finger steady on the grenade strap at his chest.
Gunfire paused. Then chaos.
Pop-pop! Boom!
The rats exploded in waves. Microblasts echoed throughout the factory. Glass shattered. Men screamed. It wasn't lethal unless you're unlucky to be hit by shrapnel or be thrown down from a ledge, but it was painful—legs torn up, hearing loss, panic spreading like wildfire.
Carlos took his first shot.
One outer guard dropped. No time to reload. He rotated to rifle two. Another shot. Another man down.
Back in the truck, James counted the explosions—no, not him. Cortana did. She tracked detonations through his eardrums, plotting entry paths and open flanks.
"Clear to move," she informs through a text box.
With no hesitation. James burst from the hatch, pistols raised. His vision sharpened. Breathing slowed. His heartbeat, however, thundered in his ears.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Eight shots—eight bodies fell. He pivoted and rolled, flinging a bullet mid-motion toward a guard crouched behind a pillar.
Inside the weaving workshop, shadows moved behind broken glass. James zeroed in, firing both pistols through the open front window. These weren't civilians. Every face was a trained killer.
Empty mags clicked dry. He dropped to his knees, using momentum to slide beneath the window, already reloading as he moved.
The assault had begun.