[Hydra's influence is confirmed within NYPD infrastructure. Recommend: strategic withdrawal. Philip's secondary team will arrive in four hours.]
James didn't need the reminder.
It was time to escalate to another level.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division... Level Four Agent?"
His mouth dried up. A billionaire with S.H.I.E.L.D credentials? That wasn't normal.
He looked at James, desperate for an explanation.
James pointed casually at the badge. "They can wipe my firearms records. But they can't erase my registration. This ID's logged into the central database—way above the NYPD's clearance. So this? This isn't your problem anymore. I'd start prepping for that lawyer letter."
He took the ID back, pocketed it, and stood off.
The sheriff sat frozen, staring at a mess that had grown far beyond him.
He scrambled to call his contact. "Hey—he's a Level Four S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent. Did you even know that? Our precinct can't touch him!"
The voice on the other side was calm. "I know. Don't panic. Your benefits won't change."
"You don't get it! He's walking out! What are you planning?"
"You don't need to know. The less you know, the safer you are."
The line went dead.
James walked out of the precinct.
"You three, head back to the office. Philip will handle the rest. Prepare the lawsuit, and keep it tight."
The lawyers nodded and dispersed.
James checked the time. Just past seven.
[Hydra's operation is escalating. Surveillance sweep on your route recommended.]
"Yeah, no doubt," James muttered.
He got into the R8 and drove, cautious but steady. Nothing happened en route. It was too quiet.
But when he reached the apartment parking entrance, the first red flag appeared.
The security guard wasn't someone he was familiar with.
A new face. The wrong body language. Sat in the booth flipping a financial newspaper, but didn't glance up when James arrived. Just a lazy side-eye before going back to reading.
James didn't bother playing polite. He swiped his card, drove in slowly, and shifted his gear. Both pistols came out, resting on his thighs.
"Cortana, load me three spare mags."
[Manipulating Space Storage, Clips ready. Deploying to suit pockets.]
He felt the subtle vibration as the extra magazines clicked into his inner jacket.
His pulse started to quicken.
When it came to people, James had a memory like a file archive. He'd met every guard here. But this one didn't belong.
A Coincidence?
Not tonight.
As the car rolled to his parking space, he scanned the surroundings. Very subtly. With every sound, every breath, all magnified.
His hearing—enhanced by both training and Cortana's enhancement—picked up the irregularities.
[Heartbeat count: sixteen. Fifteen in ambush positions. One at the gate.]
Lying in wait. Poor Concealment against him.
James counted each one, dissecting their positions. Their breathing was controlled—but their hearts betrayed them.
He dialed Carlos.
"You home?"
"Yeah. Mindy and Hannah are here. What's going on?"
"Nothing serious. Just some rats that need clearing out. I'm more worried they'll try to bother you."
"You need me there?"
"Nah. Stay home. Watch the house. These guys need a reminder of the difference between amateurs and the professionals."
Carlos didn't argue. He knew James had this handled.
James ended the call, slid out of the car, with pistols drawn.
The unfamiliar security guard remained in his booth, pretending not to see.
James walked toward the elevator.
[Enemy formation predicts an ambush killzone centered on the elevator door.]
So cliche.
James took one step at a time, deliberate and slow. The twin pistols in his hands made his casual walk utterly out of place in the polished underground lot.
With a sudden twitch of his wrists, both pistols aimed their mark
Bang. Bang.
Two shots. Sharp and abrupt.
The two ambushers fall to the ground.
He wasn't even in their line of sight yet, but the shots were enough to send a ripple of panic through the ambushers.
They got up—too soon.
The first to rise didn't even get to aim. James's bullet sliced through the narrow gap in their cover, headshot was clean. Their ambush had a flaw and James found it.
He pivoted left, sprinting toward a parked sedan. One step on the hood, another on the windshield—launching himself airborne.
In that moment, the entire ambush layout was exposed beneath him. They hadn't expected an aerial jump.
Two more shots.
Two more bodies dropped.
He landed low behind a vehicle just as gunfire erupted behind him.
Assault rifles. Submachine guns. Pistols.
Rounds shredded tires, shattered glass, peppered steel. The sedan he landed and hid behind on crouched lower as the tires gave out, metal groaning under the assault.
But James didn't panic.
He listened.
The rhythm of their magazines dictated the fight.
Ten seconds of fire.
Then—click, click—reload was heard.
He rose in a flash, twin pistols booming in a controlled rhythm.
Each shot found flesh. Each fall drove the ambushers to desperation.
[Ten hostiles neutralized. Six remaining. Two are repositioned behind support pillars.]
James dropped back into cover, sliding along the concrete, reloading with fluid ease. He didn't stop moving. Low crouch, fast shuffle, always staying mobile.
The enemy regrouped.
But their mistake had already been made.