"So, Constantine, will you hand over the San Venganza Contract?" Blackheart asked, head twisted unnaturally, his tone eerie but far from polite.
His lifeless eyes locked onto Constantine.
"Save it, Blackheart. Your mind games don't work on me," Constantine replied, stepping in front of Steve to face the demon, one hand still in his trench coat pocket.
He'd never feared demons.
Not even Mephisto fazed him, so why would Blackheart?
"Then shall I extract your soul and interrogate it?" Blackheart retorted, his body flickering like a spliced film reel. His pale hand pressed lightly against Constantine's chest.
A rotting force spread, turning Constantine's face deathly pale, worse than when his lung cancer lingered.
Then Constantine pulled his hand from his pocket.
The shroud wrapped his fist. With a flick of his lighter, holy flames erupted like ignited gasoline.
The inscribed brass knuckles, wreathed in sacred fire, smashed into Blackheart's face.
Constantine ducked behind Steve.
The moment Blackheart was struck, the vampire soldiers resumed firing, bullets riddling him like a tattered sack.
"You're close to earning a talk, but not yet," Constantine said, raising his shroud-wrapped hand. Holy flames radiated outward.
Smoke rose from the vampires' bodies.
Blackheart, facing the flames directly, blistered and shrieked.
"We need to move. These flames won't last," Constantine said, spitting out his cigarette and yanking John Wick by the collar.
Wick was his chosen ally. If a sacrifice was needed, his soul would be the last chip played.
A killer's death wouldn't draw vengeful organizations, right?
"Demon!"
Hellboy arrived, his massive frame blocking the narrow corridor.
His polished, disc-like horns scraped the ceiling, his oversized revolver menacing.
The gun aimed at the wind demon, cowering in the holy light.
A shot rang out, obliterating the wind demon.
Its airy form couldn't escape its demonic nature.
Hellboy's bullets were custom—blessed, sanctified, whatever worked against monsters.
"Whoa, I thought he was just a legend like you," Constantine said, releasing Wick and charging Blackheart, shouting to Steve.
His flame-wreathed fist slammed into Blackheart's face, cratering it like the moon's surface.
The knuckles' fiery arc dazzled.
"Hellboy, take this guy! He's the big fish!" Constantine yelled.
The shroud burned to ash.
Inspired by Constantine, Hawkeye and the others attacked Blackheart.
Whatever his motives, Constantine seemed to stand with humanity.
Despite his bravado, he ducked behind Steve again after the blow.
Steve, recently awakened, hadn't grasped these legends.
But Coulson and Melinda knew the red giant.
Like Captain America's tales in newspapers, Hellboy's legend circulated among the masses.
"What's with this mission? Vampire soldiers, demons, now Hellboy? What's next, a flaming skull?" Melinda snapped, firing at Blackheart.
This mission was far tougher than expected.
"Look over there…" Coulson said, pointing his gun at the entrance.
Behind Hellboy, flames illuminated the scene.
Sweat glistened on his receding hairline.
"Lady, you might be psychic," Constantine said, halting his retreat to light another cigarette.
"Mephisto's knight. We're truly screwed," he muttered.
He'd outwitted Carter Slade, but facing the Ghost Rider unprepared? He had no tricks.
The Rider didn't negotiate, and Constantine's soul was prime fuel for hellfire.
Hawkeye's knuckles whitened around his knife.
These freaks always appeared in clusters, leaving no room to doubt Constantine.
His skepticism felt like slaps to his face.
"You! Are! Guilty!"
The skull, lacking vocal cords, somehow spoke, its words crushing the group with soul-deep fear.
The Ghost Rider's view of sin differed from human morality.
To him, every soul was guilty—only the degree varied.
His purpose: burn all sin, even himself.
A chain, wreathed in eerie flames, fell from the Rider, slithering like a living snake.
Hellboy's revolver fired, staggering the Rider.
"What the hell is that?" Hellboy growled, sensing the threat and striking first.
(Chapter End)
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