Adam had only been pretending to sleep. The sudden explosion snapped him fully awake as flames erupted from the lead military truck. The fuel tank had ignited, raining fire like a meteor shower across the narrow road.
"Get out! Now!" Deathshot was practically yelling in Adam's ear. "They took out the front truck to block our path forward—next, they'll hit the rear. If that gets destroyed too, we're boxed in. No escape."
Adam's mind kicked into high gear. He looked around, just as Deadshot warned, they were on a narrow forest road. Dense trees flanked both sides like walls. If the front and rear vehicles were taken out, the rest would be sitting ducks, trapped in place. The trees were too close for even the trucks to maneuver through.
"Everyone out! Move!" Adam shouted, his voice sharp with urgency. Glancing behind, he saw Jason and Ivy frozen in fear. Neither had seen real combat before, and it showed. They looked more like kids in the wrong place than the future legends they'd become.
But before he could reach them, a low, mechanical thunk sounded from above—followed by a terrifying whistle.
Deadshot's face went pale. He quickly shouted, "Down! Mortar incoming!"
Adam's instincts screamed. He rushed forward and grabbed Jason and Ivy, dragging them from the vehicle. The terrain seemed to warp around him, each step slow and heavy. Then—
BOOM.
The shell hit. A massive shockwave tore through the convoy. Adam felt blistering heat race over his skin, and the ground quaked like the world was breaking apart.
Just before he was knocked flat, someone shoved him from behind—hard. He hit the dirt with a grunt, narrowly avoiding the full force of the blast. The air above his head burned as another mortar landed.
When he looked up, it was Bronze Tiger kneeling beside him, eyes sharp and body poised like a coiled spring. Only someone like him could move fast enough to shield others in time.
Adam nodded a quick thanks and turned his attention to his teammates. Ivy was trembling, her face flushed and eyes wide, but she didn't cry. Her hands were clenched, and her lips pressed into a tight line. She looked fragile, but she wasn't. She was holding it in. Compared to the screaming "vase" types Adam had seen in war dramas, Ivy's quiet resilience was far more admirable. A delicate flower, maybe, but one that would grow thorns.
Jason, however, was his usual mouthy self.
"Hey! Do you mind getting off me? I'm about to be squashed into a pancake here! I'm seven! These bones are still under warranty!"
Adam let out a laugh despite himself, then stood and hauled the kid to his feet. "Go! Stick close to Norton—he's our best chance at surviving this!"
And it was true. Deadshot was a former soldier, a hardened mercenary who'd survived more firefights than most had seen movies. Jason might one day become the lethal Red Hood, but today he was just a kid in over his head.
Behind them, another truck exploded in a fireball. Mortar shells tore apart the rear vehicles. Just as Deadshot had predicted, they were trapped—boxed in by fire, metal, and death.
The soldiers, stunned at first, had finally snapped into action. Officers shouted commands as they scrambled to form defensive lines. Makeshift barricades were built from overturned trucks and crates, but it was a losing battle.
"This is suicide," Deadshot growled. "They've got mortars. We're sitting ducks out here. Bunkers made from cars are fucking useless. We might as well lie in coffins."
Another blast obliterated a freshly constructed barricade, flinging debris like shrapnel. Deadshot's gaze darted across the treeline. Normally, he'd be searching for a forward observer—someone hidden nearby guiding the mortar fire. If they could find and kill that scout, they might buy some breathing room. But not today. Today he had civilians to protect, and the forest was too thick to see anything.
Meanwhile, Adam stumbled toward one of the burning trucks. He could hear someone inside pounding on the bulletproof glass, the sound faint through the insulating layers. The soldier inside was trapped. He was clawing and begging for his life.
Adam slammed his fists against the window, desperate, but it didn't so much as crack. The military-grade glass was meant to stop bullets—and now, tragically, it was also stopping rescue.
Through the smoke, he saw the man's face melt behind the glass, his skin bubbling like wax. A palm left a scorched, black imprint on the window before sliding down, leaving a trail of ash. There was no sound—just the sickening silence of fire devouring flesh, and the acrid stench of burning meat seeping into Adam's nose.
He turned away, vomit rising in his throat.
Think. Think!
Who had the resources to launch this kind of ambush? Was it one of the other buyers? No—none of them had the power or coordination for something this surgical. Unless they'd formed an alliance, which seemed unlikely now that the goods had been divided.
Could it be Black Mask? His man, Number One, had recently gone off alone. Maybe this was a double-cross. But Black Mask wasn't stupid—attacking military convoys? That would start a war. And besides, Adam knew what kind of weapons Number One had. Mortars weren't part of his usual arsenal.
So who the hell was it?
His thoughts were cut short by the rising panic of the soldiers around him.
"Mother of God!" someone screamed. "They're charging!"
From the treeline, dark figures emerged—dozens of them. Heavily armed, muscular, and fast. They wore no uniforms, only gear and grim purpose. Guns raised, they stormed the fractured convoy in perfect formation.
They were here to kill everyone.