Nevada, in a dark alley.
Avril slammed her head backward into Jason Bourne's face. His grip on her throat loosened for just a moment, and Avril ducked and broke free, sprinting forward.
Bourne gave chase immediately. Avril whipped her elbow back hard, but Bourne caught it with one hand and slashed out with the other. Avril barely managed to lean away. The sharp edge of a card he wielded sliced through a few strands of her hair and left a bloody line across her neck—thankfully missing any major arteries.
After being forced to retreat by Avril's gunfire earlier, Jason Bourne hadn't left. Instead, he stalked her like a ghost, relentlessly pursuing her ever since.
Avril was in dire straits. Her brother had died at Bourne's hands, her closest comrades too, and she herself had narrowly escaped death.
Jason Bourne was like a shadow, an inescapable specter surrounding her.
He was terrifyingly strong. Avril figured he was at least on par with Zheng Anshun, the toughest fighter in White Mask. Although Bourne had never spoken a word during his pursuit, Avril could clearly sense the CIA's signature style in him.
Unlike Zheng's more conventional techniques, Bourne's combat style was brutal, unorthodox, and ruthless. Speed over form, efficiency over technique—he would use anything at hand as a weapon.
Since being disarmed earlier, Bourne had been hunting her without firearms, improvising weapons from anything around—credit cards, coins, clothes, even discarded beer bottles.
Avril's gun had long since run dry, and she had thrown it away when it became useless. Without a loaded weapon, and carrying multiple injuries, she stood no chance against Bourne in a straight fight. She could only hit and run.
Up ahead, the alley lit up as a police car cruised past. Their earlier scuffle had drawn attention.
"Help! Help!"
Avril screamed at the top of her lungs, sprinting toward the mouth of the alley.
Hearing her cries, the police car reversed back. Two officers stepped out, flashlights sweeping the alley.
"Help me! Please! He's trying to kill me—he has a gun!" Avril cried, playing the part of a terrified assault victim, her face a mask of fear and panic.
The officers took cover behind the wall, drawing their guns. "Drop your weapon! Stay where you are or we will shoot!"
Avril darted past them, one officer quickly pulling her to safety. Bourne, seeing the police, halted.
He didn't want a public shootout, especially unarmed. After a quick assessment, he decisively turned and retreated.
"Stop! Drop your weapon!"
The police shouted after him, chasing him down the alley. Avril slipped away quietly while they were distracted.
Ten minutes later, Avril found herself alone on a dim street.
All she wanted now was to treat her wounds and hide. She knew she wasn't in any shape to face Bourne again—no more police were coming, and if he found her once more, she would surely die.
Their earlier fight had left her with fresh injuries, and old wounds had been torn open. Every movement sent agony through her battered body.
Clutching her bleeding side, Avril tried to walk normally down the dark street. After 7 p.m., most shops here were already closed, and she didn't know the area well enough to find help.
Under the flickering streetlights, she stayed mostly to the shadows, revealing herself only when necessary.
Nevada's nighttime streets weren't safe. Before long, two thugs smoking in an alley spotted her.
Seeing her alluring figure under the lamplight, they exchanged wicked smiles. Tonight might bring them more than just spare change—they might get a little "bonus," too.
They crept after her. Avril turned into a narrow alley ahead. The thugs eagerly followed.
But as they rounded the corner, they found her standing calmly inside, as if waiting for them.
It was strange. But seeing only one woman, they grinned wider. One of them flicked open a switchblade with a "snap," while the other leered and reached out to touch Avril's face.
"Come on, baby, don't make this—ah! Ahhhh! It hurts!"
A starved camel was still bigger than a horse.
Even weakened and wounded, Avril wasn't going to let a pair of street rats touch her. She grabbed the outstretched hand and snapped two fingers effortlessly.
The thug howled like a stuck pig. His partner, armed with the knife, finally realized something was wrong.
This woman was far too calm.
Effortlessly breaking fingers without batting an eye—this was no ordinary victim.
He hesitated. But in the end, thinking she was "just" a woman, he plucked up his courage and lunged with the knife.
To Avril, his attack was riddled with openings. She had at least a dozen ways to disarm him—and about ten ways to kill him instantly.
Even wounded, Avril dispatched him with ease.
As the thug lunged, Avril didn't even bother dodging. She smacked his wrist, twisted it, and forced the blade backward—driving it into his own throat.
"Gak! Gak!"
The sight was almost comical—like he had stabbed himself. His body convulsed as blood gurgled from his mouth, eyes rolling back in shock as he collapsed.
"Oh my God, you killed him!"
The thug with the broken fingers sobbed in terror. He tried to run, but Avril still had him by the wrist.
"Take me to the nearest pharmacy," Avril ordered coldly.
The thug was too scared to respond. It was as if he hadn't even heard her.
"Aghhh!"
She squeezed his injured hand, and the sharp pain dragged him back to reality.
"Take me to the nearest pharmacy!"
"O-okay, okay! Please, let go!"
Avril released him. The thug cradled his mangled hand, desperate to flee to a hospital—but too terrified to run. Who knew if the killer behind him would change her mind and slit his throat, too?
Thanks to his guidance, Avril soon found a pharmacy.
The store was closed, the entire street deserted. Avril checked her surroundings, then smashed the window and slipped inside.
Ignoring the alarms, she rifled through the supply cabinets, grabbing anything useful—disinfectant, gauze, antibiotics.
"I—I did what you asked, I—I won't say anything! Please, I swear—"
As he pleaded, Avril silently snapped his neck.
The thug crumpled to the ground. Avril didn't even glance at him.
She stripped off her blood-soaked clothes, gritting her teeth against the pain as she disinfected, stitched, and dressed her own wounds.
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