As Blonsky charged toward the rooftop edge, White Ghost, always on alert, noticed the two grenades rolling his way. Without hesitation, he flung a throwing knife at Blonsky while simultaneously grabbing two more and hurling them at the grenades. Then he pulled a corpse over to shield himself and dropped flat.
Boom! Boom!
The two explosions rocked the rooftop. While the corpse absorbed most of the shrapnel, White Ghost—though uninjured—was left covered in blood-red dots and debris, looking quite worse for wear.
"Damn it," he muttered, not bothering to clean himself off. He glanced back at the rooftop, eyes narrowing at the Kun-class fighter.
The previously cloaked aircraft had taken some damage from the blast; patches of exposed metal were now visible.
Before he could react further, the aircraft automatically lifted off, and Sunday's voice came through his earpiece:
"To avoid triggering an international incident, I've recalled the fighter to London before its stealth systems fail completely.
However, the backup Kun-class fighter has already launched from the London base. Estimated arrival time in Johannesburg: 40 minutes."
"Forty minutes?"
Doing some quick math on African police response times, White Ghost chuckled, "Just don't make me wait another two hours."
Sheathing his katanas, he added, "And don't forget to bring me a change of clothes."
Still seething from being hit with two grenades, White Ghost picked up a pair of grenades from the corpses nearby—ready to return the favor to Blonsky.
Meanwhile, Blonsky lay crumpled on the ground like a sack of broken bones.
His rooftop dive wasn't suicide—he'd already noticed, while still in the chopper, that a smaller three-story building stood next to the five-story safe house.
Unfortunately, the throwing knife from White Ghost had hit him in the back right before he jumped, disrupting his momentum.
As a result, he slammed into the opposite wall of the three-story building and then crashed hard to the ground, not even knowing how many bones had broken.
Still, the bastard had some luck left. Just as White Ghost was preparing to lob grenades after him, the rooftop emitted a cracking sound.
"Shit," White Ghost muttered, noticing fractures spreading beneath his feet. Without wasting a second, he dropped the grenades and sprinted toward the edge.
Cursing the shoddy construction, he darted for the building's outer wall with practiced reflexes.
He made it just in time. As the weakened rooftop gave way with a crash, White Ghost stomped down, smashing the floor further while rolling off the edge. As he fell, he grabbed the ledge, leaving himself hanging from the wall.
Though his heart pounded, he still managed to glance down at Blonsky, who groaned and stirred on the pavement below.
As their eyes met—Blonsky glaring up with hate and disbelief—White Ghost smirked. Still dangling, he pulled his pistol and opened fire.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
White Ghost had to give it to him: Blonsky had guts.
Before the shots rang out, Blonsky, in excruciating pain, curled into a ball, exposing the bulletproof vest on his back and tucking his head into his chest.
Of the rounds fired, only one struck his buttocks; the rest pinged off the vest.
White Ghost was just about to fire again when he heard nearby shouts—someone calling out that there were wounded, others warning of gunfire.
With just a few words, combined with drone footage, White Ghost realized this was the perfect opportunity to strike.
He flipped himself up onto the ledge and fired at the operatives in his line of sight.
As for Blonsky? In White Ghost's eyes, he wasn't worth a single mission.
"Sunday, finish that guy off," he ordered.
Then he sprayed the corridor below with gunfire, instantly taking out three CIA agents.
"Contact! We're under attack!"
Ratatat! Ratatat!
Gunfire erupted in return. But in the close quarters of the building, hitting White Ghost was easier said than done.
He dodged a dozen rounds, then launched two throwing knives—whoosh, whoosh—straight into the skulls of two shooters.
Drawing his blades, he followed the spiders' guidance and silently crept up behind the final operative, plunging his weapon deep into the man's heart.
Only Tobin and Colin were left alive.
Feigning innocence, White Ghost said, "Oops, I forgot one of them was our guy."
Sunday didn't waste time. Colin's profile was immediately projected onto White Ghost's smart glasses.
"Still alive? Good. That saves me the guilt."
Despite his words, White Ghost had already made up his mind to rough Colin up a bit when they met.
Unfortunately, the interrogation room's thick metal door wasn't going to budge anytime soon.
While White Ghost pondered his next move, Blonsky—bleeding, battered, and riddled with fractures—was crawling inch by inch toward the nearby three-story building, driven by pure survival instinct.
Observing everything through drone feed, William recognized Blonsky's face. After a moment's reflection, he realized this guy was very likely the future Abomination.
Initially, William was going to have a drone kill him.
But then he stopped.
He wasn't American—why should he clean up their mess?
Letting the Abomination live, or even giving him a little help, could lead to more destruction in a future battle with the Hulk.
From his storage space, William took out a self-healing talisman and opened a portal, tossing it onto the balcony of the nearby three-story building.
"Sunday, have a drone deliver this to Blonsky."
"Understood, Sir."
But as soon as Sunday answered, it froze for two seconds—realizing the drone didn't have mechanical claws to grab the talisman.
Fortunately, two seconds later, Sunday had a workaround: a Black Hornet drone skimmed the balcony and shoved the talisman off the ledge.
Clack! It landed just a meter away from Blonsky.
The jade charm shattered, releasing floating healing magic that drifted toward him.
Panicking and confused, Blonsky stared as the warm light enveloped him, soothing his pain and healing his wounds.
"What… what is this…"
As the agonizing pain subsided and he began crawling faster, Blonsky finally made it inside the small building and collapsed.
Catching his breath, he stared at the broken charm on the ground.
Having narrowly escaped death, he was flooded with gratitude for the mysterious figure who had saved him.
But that gratitude quickly twisted.
With his twisted psyche, Blonsky was quickly consumed by hatred—his mind flooded with images of White Ghost humiliating him.
And in that moment, Emil Blonsky had never craved power so desperately.
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
For every 50 Power Stones, one extra chapter will be released on Saturday.