The tires of three black, tinted SUVs hummed over the wet asphalt, their headlights cutting through the darkness that had settled over the city as the convoy moved slowly through rainy, nighttime New York.
Despite the late hour and the wretched weather, occasional passersby hurrying about their business could still be spotted on the streets of the massive metropolis. However, at the sight of the small motorcade of luxury vehicles, the midnight wanderers' expressions shifted sharply, and they scrambled to get as far away from the convoy's path as possible.
A heavy, palpable aura of oppressive fear shrouded the city of millions... an aura that did not seem to unsettle the blonde businesswoman seated in the back of the lead vehicle.
"I wonder what the big shots in Washington were thinking when they gave their attack dogs this much power? Their crusade against mutants has gone so far that people are afraid to leave their homes after dark, seeing Kimura's hunters lurking in every shadow." Turning away from the buildings blurring past the window, the woman in the snow-white suit faced the tall, close-cropped man in a classic black-and-white business suit sitting beside her.
"How prepared are our people for... a possible escalation of the situation?"
"That depends on what you mean by that phrase, Miss Frost," the head of Frost Industries security replied with polite detachment, pulling a pistol from his inner jacket pocket to check the magazine. "I must remind you again: my men are elite bodyguards, not a full-scale army. If the Syndicate mercenaries' reputation is even half as accurate as they say, those bastards will slaughter us all in a fight, and likely quite fast. Possibly including you, as their experience in neutralizing 'unconventional' individuals is quite substantial."
As one of the telepath's most trusted confidants, the stoic, grim enforcer was privy to many of the CEO's dirty secrets—including her mutant abilities.
However, in line with his professional duties, the man also kept a close eye on potential threats to the corporation. Being well-versed in the power dynamics of the New York underworld, he had absolutely no desire to cross the path of the highly skilled, utterly ruthless, and completely unhinged thugs of that criminal organization.
Even with the backing of the White Queen.
"If the mercenaries' reputation is even half-accurate, it won't come to a fight... But tell everyone to be ready regardless. One of the mutants killed their leader, and it's unknown who is running the Syndicate now. It's possible we are driving straight into a trap."
"I hope it's worth it." Glancing out the window, the head of security tucked his pistol back into his jacket and activated his earpiece. "Everyone, stay sharp. We are approaching the rendezvous point..."
Upon reaching the industrial zone of New York, the SUV convoy drove into a spacious, dimly lit warehouse that looked unremarkable from the outside, blending perfectly with the numerous other manufacturing sites in the sector.
Scanning the darkened room with her telepathic powers and finding no mental signatures of living humans, the mutant thought they had arrived early. However, it soon became clear that Frost and her people were expected.
As soon as the last car entered, a pair of soldiers in light body armor emerged from the shadows, armed with rifles. They walked past Emma's exiting guards and slid a heavy, creaking bolt across the warehouse doors. Suspecting an ambush, the Frost Industries security team began reaching for their weapons, but in the next instant, overhead lights flickered on. The glare revealed dozens of barrels aimed at the vehicles, and the bodyguards' fighting spirit vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"About thirty thugs with heavy weaponry, and all of them have telepathy-blocking implants... I think I'm starting to guess what the mercenaries demanded from Kimura's masters as payment for X-23." With a soft huff, the blonde stepped out of the car after her subordinates and surveyed the surrounding Syndicate mercenaries with a slight smile.
The mere fact that the mercenaries had protection against telepathy didn't truly frighten the blonde businesswoman.
Thanks to Stryker, mind-shielding technology was fairly widespread among the top leadership of the United States of America. Consequently, such implants were often found in the politicians Frost dealt with regularly as a corporate head.
Furthermore, such protection was not a major obstacle for a telepath of the White Queen's caliber. If she wished, she could crack the mind of an implant-wearer in less than a minute... provided the victim stood still and no one interfered.
What concerned the mutant more were several heavy machine-gun turrets with a caliber more suited for anti-tank cannons.
Soulless mechanisms didn't care about telepathy of any level. If things turned sour, the woman could only shift into her Diamond Form, in which she could not influence minds and would be an easy target for a squad of well-trained soldiers. Though damaging the incredibly durable mineral was a tall order, "restraining" the diamond lady wasn't too difficult, and the high-tech shackles hanging from the belts of a few mercenaries hinted that the Syndicate fighters had at least considered the possibility.
"Do you intend to break the deal or are you just flexing your muscles? Who can I speak with regarding our business?"
In response, one of the Syndicate fighters pulled a cell phone from his tactical vest, pressed the call button, and handed it to the mistress, who, after a brief hesitation, put the device to her ear.
"Hello?"
"I hope I don't need to explain that the moment you poke around in my men's heads, the contents of yours will become interior decor," a gruff male voice said. It was calm, but entirely devoid of friendliness.
"I can live perfectly well without the dirty secrets of hired killers," the mutant snorted mockingly, casting a wary glance at the nearest turret. "I wouldn't learn anything new anyway, and this way I'll sleep better. Since we're done with the polite pleasantries, let's get down to business... Where is it?"
"Money first," her interlocutor commanded in a tone that brooked no argument before cutting the connection. Emma had no choice but to comply, giving an approving nod to her bodyguards.
Seeing the signal from their boss, the nervous Frost Industries guards pulled several bulging bags from the trunks of the SUVs and placed them before the mercenary who had stepped forward. He remained silent, hands resting on his slung rifle, watching their every move.
"One hundred and twenty-five million dollars in cash, hundred-dollar bills, as agreed. Are you going to check it?"
"Absolutely."
Upon receiving orders from their leader, the Syndicate fighters first scanned the bags for bugs. Then, they brought out a massive table and set up a dozen counting machines, running stacks of greenish bills through them. The silent thugs ensured their actions were captured by body cams so that if any mental manipulation occurred, the observer—a comrade watching through the tech and thus immune to telepathy—could spot the deception.
"Are you kidding me?! There are one hundred and twenty-five million here, five hundred notes per stack! How long are you going to count?!"
"As long as it takes," the mercenary commander replied dryly, while his subordinates continued the verification.
For a while, the only sounds beneath the vaulted ceiling were the rustle of currency and the steady hum of the machines. The armored thugs efficiently processed the mountain of dollars, securing the stacks with black rubber bands and packing them into their own bags.
Frost didn't know how long it took to check what was literally a ton of money, but soon the count was over, and the Syndicate thugs began carrying the payment through a door at the far end of the warehouse.
"The loot is ours." Activating his helmet's earpiece, the leader briefly reported success to his boss and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, handing it to the blonde telepath. "The account for the transfer of the remaining balance. You have ten minutes."
"For this kind of money, you could have given me more time..." the corporate head grumbled quietly, pulling out her own mobile and dialing her accountant, who was patiently waiting for the call despite the hour. "Anita? Yes, it's me. Transfer the full amount from our shadow accounts to the number I'm about to dictate. Yes, from Mr. Lehnsherr's accounts too. Yes, all one hundred and seventy-five million, and do it as quickly as possible!"
Thanks to her prior preparation and extensive connections in the financial sector, the money matter was settled in minutes. The woman looked pointedly at the Syndicate commander.
"You have your money. Perhaps now you'll fulfill your part of the bargain?"
Instead of answering, the commander signaled the men at the gates. They threw back the creaking bolt and let an unremarkable gray van drive into the warehouse.
"He's here."
After four heavy-set men in thick armor dragged a long metal crate from the vehicle, the commander punched a few keys on a side panel. The container hissed open, revealing the body of a dead cyborg with a metallic half-face and a bright red sphere embedded in its chest. At the sight of it, the businesswoman's eyes gleamed with greed.
However, her suspicions remained.
"If Laura blew up your boss, why is he..." Frost gestured toward the corpse, snapping her fingers as she searched for the word. "...in one piece? Shouldn't there be finely minced meat in there?"
"We gathered the corpse piece by piece and patched him up a bit to give him a 'merchantable' appearance," the leader of the ruthless thugs shrugged phlegmatically. "Are you taking him?"
"One second..." Pulling a device from her pocket—given to her by Beast, which according to the blue-furred scientist would immediately detect a fake—Emma scanned the body of The Walrus. Satisfied it was the "original," she nodded. "Everything is in order. I'm taking the body."
"Well then..." The mercenary slapped the side of the van. "Consider this a gift from the house."
"Good work. Have Pers's squad return to base with the money; the rest of you disperse to the agreed points. And God help you if even a cent goes missing—I'll give you to Baton as a teaching aid. Out."
Hearing the beep of his wrist computer, Brock Rumlow, also known as Crossbones, looked away from his glass of expensive whiskey. Glancing at the screen, a wide grin spread across his face.
"The fish took the bait... Time to set the hook." Pulling a burner phone from his gear, the acting head of the Syndicate dialed the only number saved on it.
"Ofa, the money arrived, so listen carefully. As we suspected, the old-timers decided not to use the remaining X-Men and sent only Frost to the meeting. The rest are just ordinary bodyguards with small-caliber guns at best. I've sent you the tracker data for the van. Move out."
"How many times do I have to tell you—don't you dare call me Ofa!" As per usual, Viper was not in the best of moods, but the former Hydra assassin wasn't bothered.
"Yeah, yeah. Signal me if our friend returns to the world of the living. And remember, if you fail—the Syndicate has nothing to do with this. Out."
Disconnecting, the unprincipled mercenary looked with a satisfied face at his laptop screen, which displayed his account balances—recently bolstered by very pleasing sums.
After that psycho Wolverine clone decided to play suicide bomber with The Walrus and sent the Syndicate leader straight to the afterlife following the martyr's manual, Brock had been forced to take his friend's place. He had spent his time dragging his comrade's brainchild out of the deep hole the mercenary group had fallen into after its leader's death.
The United States government and their close collaborators in S.H.I.E.L.D., Kingpin (who had received help from Hydra), the combined forces of the X-Men and the Brotherhood of Mutants... thanks to The Walrus, many "powers that be" had a serious grudge against the Syndicate. The mercenaries couldn't fight on several fronts at once against superior forces, despite their professionalism—there were simply too few of them.
So, deals had to be made. The former pupil of Taskmaster managed to resolve the situation in his favor using... corpses. Specifically, the remains of The Walrus and Black Widow, as well as Laura, who had survived the explosion but was very close to death.
By handing X-23 over to the scientists of the revived Weapon X program, Brock received several telepathy-blocking implants in gratitude (the technology for which was immediately copied and reproduced by Cable) and secured a sort of neutrality from the Washington bigwigs overseeing Kimura's management.
Meanwhile, the department of the one-eyed CIA man received Romanoff's remains and a pointed finger at the carriers of the X-Gene. Rumlow simply and artlessly handed them over to the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. with the words: "A suicide bomber sent by Magneto whacked your agent and our boss. Let's be friends against them? We already gave your colleagues a gift in the form of a well-packaged killer..."
After such a maneuver, a teeth-gritting Fury, facing intense pressure due to the tension of the situation, was forced into a temporary truce, despite a rampaging Rogers who blamed everything on the Syndicate and was itching to avenge his fallen friend.
As for the disgraced carriers of the X-Gene, things were much simpler. Their leaders desperately wanted the body of the deceased Walrus, in whose genes—according to Cable—lay the key to creating Omega-level mutants. Eventually, Crossbones agreed to the deal. Despite all the efforts of the Hand's sorcerer, who had literally reassembled the one-eyed cyborg's body piece by piece, the Syndicate leader simply refused to return to the world of the living. Even though the body was in perfect condition after the Asian fanatic's sorcery, something was preventing the mercenary's soul from re-entering it.
But when the restless Ophelia Sarkissian, known in certain circles as Viper, dug up some obscure demonologist and offered to buy his amorous comrade's body to bring him back to life, a cunning plan quickly matured in Rumlow's head.
Taking advantage of the fact that the mutants were effectively under siege and couldn't move around the city in large groups, the former Hydra killer sold his friend's corpse to them for three hundred million dollars... and then, for a small fee of twenty million American presidents, leaked the route of the poorly protected convoy of the blonde telepath to the ready-and-waiting Sarkissian.
Simply put—pursuing strictly personal goals, he made a handsome profit from everyone.
"Now the main thing is that once Mishanya returns from the other side, he doesn't decide to remodel my face with his metal stump." Filling his empty glass from a nearby bottle, Brock exhaled quietly and downed the amber liquid. "Money for the Syndicate is all well and good, but I doubt he'll be happy about a reunion with his ex-girlfriend after coming back from the dead..."