Finally, the van pulled up to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city, its engine coughing to a stop with a wheeze of smoke. The acrid smell of burning oil mixed with the damp, musty odor of urban decay that clung to this forgotten corner of the industrial district. John quickly parked the motorcycle a safe distance away, the engine ticking as it cooled in the oppressive silence. He crept through the overgrown weeds, their brittle stems catching at his clothes with dry whispers, hiding himself in the tall grass that swayed with each breath of wind.
The warehouse loomed before him like a concrete tomb, its broken windows staring blindly into the night. Rust stains bled down its weathered walls like dried blood, and somewhere in the distance, a loose piece of metal clanged rhythmically against the building's frame.
He watched as the thugs dragged Gwen out of the van, her unconscious form limp as a rag doll between them. Her blonde hair caught the faint streetlight, a golden stream against the darkness. John's chest tightened as he saw how roughly they handled her, one man gripping her arm so tightly his knuckles went white. The warehouse door groaned on rusted hinges as they disappeared inside, the sound echoing like a death knell.
John gasped for breath, his lungs burning as he tried to steady himself. Each inhale tasted of exhaust fumes and the metallic tang that still lingered in his mouth from the transformation. The prolonged change had taken a heavy toll on his stamina—his muscles trembled with fatigue, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead despite the night's chill. Once his breathing was under control, each breath coming easier than the last, he moved stealthily to the side of the warehouse. The concrete was rough beneath his palms as he pressed his ear against the thin wooden wall, splinters threatening to pierce his skin. He closed his eyes, hoping his enhanced hearing could give him an idea of the situation inside.
The wood conducted sound like a primitive telephone, carrying voices thick with Brooklyn accents and cigarette smoke.
"Man, this has been a long night," one voice complained, punctuated by the scrape of a chair against concrete.
"Yeah, but look at the prize," another one leered, and John could practically hear the predatory grin in his voice. "This chick is really pretty."
John's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Through the wall, he could hear the creak of floorboards as someone moved closer to where Gwen must be lying.
"Easy, Skinny," a third voice warned, gruff and authoritative. "That's the New York Police Captain's daughter!"
"So what?" Skinny shot back, his voice rising with bravado. "She's tied up, ain't she?"
The sound of rope being tested—pulled taut with a sickening snap—made John's stomach lurch.
"Just shut up and call Boss Kree," the apparent leader said, his voice carrying the weight of command. "We hit the jackpot this time."
"That damn Stacy," another thug grumbled, and John heard the strike of a match, smelled the acrid sulfur through the cracks in the wall. "The higher-ups say he's a hard-ass who won't play ball. Now that we've got his daughter, he'll have to learn to be more cooperative."
The sound of a phone dialing echoed through the warehouse, each electronic beep sharp in the confined space.
"Is Boss Kree there? This is Gray Wolf." The voice was closer now, probably near a window. John could hear the man's breathing, heavy and excited.
A gruff voice answered on the other end, tinny through the phone's speaker. "Which Gray Wolf?"
"From the Wolves crew. We've been running your deliveries," the man said, his chest puffing with pride that John could hear in his posture.
"What is it?" The voice on the phone was impatient, clipped.
"Boss Kree, you're not gonna believe it," Gray Wolf said, his voice dripping with sycophantic glee. John could practically see him grinning, showing off like a dog presenting a dead bird. "We spotted George Stacy's daughter on the street, no guards or anything. So we snatched her! He's been messing with our business, but now that we have his little girl, he'll have to fall in line, right? We did good, huh, Boss?"
There was a tense silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity. Even through the wall, John could feel the weight of it, like the moment before thunder rolls.
"You grabbed who?" The voice had gone deadly quiet.
"Gwen Stacy! The Police Captain's daughter! We drugged her and everything. It was a clean job, Boss Kree."
On the other end of the line, miles away in a smoky back room, Kree's face went pale as ash. These idiots! he thought, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. The phone felt slippery in his suddenly sweaty palm. You don't just casually kidnap the Police Captain's daughter! Not without an order from Kingpin himself! When Stacy finds out, he'll tear the city's underworld apart looking for her, brick by bloody brick. And when the Kingpin learns that my crew caused this mess, he'll have me thrown in the East River with concrete shoes!
The room spun around him as panic clawed at his chest. No, I have to fix this, Kree thought frantically, his free hand clutching the edge of his desk until his knuckles went white. I need to pin this on someone else. The Maggia can't take this heat.
"Where are you?" Kree demanded, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. "And are you sure no one followed you?"
"We're at an old warehouse in Harlem, a remote spot. But the cops are probably looking for us, so we should move fast." Gray Wolf's voice carried the confidence of a man who had no idea he'd just signed his own death warrant.
Kree gritted his teeth, the sound audible even through the phone. "Okay, new plan. Take Captain Stacy's daughter and drive down the main road toward the Five Points district. I'll send some men to meet you there. You'll be well rewarded." I'll send you to your graves, he thought, already mentally composing the orders for his cleanup crew. But if I can make this look like the Irish mob's handiwork, I might be able to salvage this.
"Okay, Boss!" Gray Wolf's enthusiasm was nauseating.
"Now move it!" The line went dead with a harsh click. What a bunch of morons.
Back in the warehouse, the goon named Skinny was getting restless. John could hear him pacing, his footsteps growing closer to where Gwen must be lying. The floorboards creaked ominously under his weight.
"This chick is too beautiful to just leave here," Skinny muttered, his voice thick with ugly desire. "I can't help myself... I'm gonna have some fun first."
The sound of a zipper being pulled down cut through the air like a knife.
Not good, John thought, his heart sinking like a stone dropped in dark water. Ice-cold fear flooded his veins, mixing with a rage so pure it made his vision tunnel. He had wanted to wait for a better opportunity, to plan this out properly, but he couldn't stand by and let that happen to Gwen. Not for one more second.
He quickly assessed the situation, his mind racing through possibilities like a computer calculating trajectories. There are seven or eight of them, all likely armed. Through the wall, he could hear the telltale clink of metal on metal—guns being checked, safeties being clicked off. Gwen is with that Skinny guy, while the leader, Gray Wolf, is on the other side. The warehouse was maybe forty feet across, giving him precious little room to maneuver. He's the biggest threat. I don't know if this form is even bulletproof, but it definitely can't take a lot of hits. I have to take them by surprise.
His mind raced, adrenaline sharpening his thoughts to a razor's edge. The only option is to hit them hard and fast. I'll use the Rider Kick on Gray Wolf's group. The plan crystallized in his mind with deadly clarity. He steeled his resolve, feeling the weight of what he was about to do settle on his shoulders like a lead blanket. I'm sorry, but it's your lives or ours. I can't let you hurt Gwen.
John stood up, his muscles coiled like springs, and pressed the button on top of his driver. The device hummed to life against his waist, vibrating with barely contained energy.
"ENERGY-DRIVEN—RIDER KICK!"
The transformation hit him like lightning in reverse—instead of striking down, power surged up from the earth itself. He felt a massive surge of energy flood into his legs, every muscle fiber singing with inhuman strength. The sensation was intoxicating and terrifying, like liquid fire coursing through his veins. A glowing red, circular rune materialized on the sole of his right foot, pulsing with each heartbeat, casting crimson shadows that danced across the warehouse's exterior wall.
Inside the warehouse, the electronic voice had cut through their conversation like a sword.
"What's that sound?" Gray Wolf asked, his head snapping up from his phone. The other thugs also heard the strange, charging hum—a sound like a jet engine spooling up, but deeper, more primal. They glanced around nervously, hands instinctively moving toward their weapons.
At that moment, John leaped high into the air. Propelled by an unseen force that defied every law of physics he'd ever known, he shot forward like a red comet, his kick shattering the warehouse wall in an explosion of splintered wood and concrete dust. The sound was tremendous—like a building collapsing and thunder breaking simultaneously. He flew straight towards Gray Wolf, who had just enough time to look up with eyes wide as dinner plates before the impact.
John struck him head-on, and Gray Wolf was obliterated in a flash of red energy so bright it seared afterimages into the darkness. For one impossible moment, the man's form was outlined in brilliant crimson light, and then he simply ceased to exist, atomized in a burst of power that left only the smell of ozone and burned air.
John's momentum carried him to the ground, where the impact left an identical red rune seared into the concrete floor. The symbol glowed like a brand fresh from the forge, radiating heat that made the air shimmer. He quickly jumped away, his enhanced reflexes carrying him clear as the rune began to glow violently, pulsing faster and faster like a countdown to doomsday.
A second later, it detonated with the force of several grenades. The explosion was a symphony of destruction—the deep boom of the blast, the sharp crack of concrete shattering, the wet sounds that John tried not to think about. Instantly, the detonation engulfed the two men who had been standing near Gray Wolf, their screams cut short in the hellish red light.
The remaining four thugs dove for cover behind overturned tables and rusted machinery, their ears ringing from the blast. Dust and debris rained down like grey snow, and the air tasted of cordite and something else—something that made their stomachs churn. When the smoke cleared, all they could see were two huge, glowing red compound eyes burning through the haze like the gaze of some ancient demon. The blurred shadow of an armored figure stood in the dust, perfectly still, perfectly silent, perfectly terrifying.
"Monster!" one of them shrieked, his voice cracking with primal fear. "Fire!"
They all drew their weapons with shaking hands and opened fire, muzzle flashes strobing through the smoke like deadly fireflies. This was the most dangerous moment. John knew he had to dodge as many bullets as possible and take them all down before the last of his energy gave out, all while keeping Gwen out of the line of fire. The mathematics of death played out in his head—angles of fire, ricochet patterns, the precious seconds he had before his power faded.
Two of them were near Gwen, crouched behind an overturned desk where she lay bound and unconscious. He couldn't risk going that way—a stray bullet could end everything. That left the other side, where two thugs were frantically emptying their clips in his direction.
John burst out of the dust cloud like an avenging angel, charging the other two thugs. A hail of bullets flew past him, some so close he could feel their wind, hear their supersonic whistle. The sound was like deadly rain, a metallic percussion that filled the warehouse with echoes. Despite his desperate attempts to dodge—weaving, ducking, using every enhanced reflex he possessed—several slammed into his body with tremendous force.
The chest armor held, the bullets striking with sounds like hammers on anvils, but his left arm and thigh were pierced. The impact was like being branded with white-hot iron, and he felt the warm wetness of blood immediately begin to flow down his limb. The bullets had torn through muscle and sinew, sending searing pain through his body like lightning strikes.
It hurts! The pain was beyond anything he'd ever experienced, a fire that consumed every nerve ending. He gritted his teeth behind his helmet and pushed through the agony, each step a monumental effort of will. His left arm hung useless at his side, but his right was still strong. He reached the two men just as their clips ran empty.
He sent one flying with a single punch that connected with a sickening crack. The man's body folded around John's fist like paper before he sailed through the air to crash against the warehouse wall with a wet thud. The other turned to run, his eyes wide with terror, but tripped over his own feet in his panic. John's kick caught him in the ribs, lifting him off the ground and sending him into unconsciousness with the sound of breaking bones.
The two thugs near Gwen had never seen anything like it—a monster that walked through bullets like rain, that turned their friends into shadows and dust. They scrambled on all fours like animals, escaping through the hole Kuuga had made in the wall, leaving streaks of sweat and worse things in their wake. As for their hostage on the floor, they had completely forgotten about her in their mad dash for survival.
No, I can't hold on much longer, John thought, his body screaming in protest with every movement. Blood loss was making him dizzy, and he could feel his power ebbing like water through a broken dam. His vision was starting to tunnel, darkness creeping in at the edges. If they see me power down, it's all over.
But he couldn't let those two escape to tell their tale. They would bring reinforcements, and Gwen would still be in danger.
He gritted his teeth and reached for the button on his belt one last time, his fingers slippery with his own blood.
"ENERGY-DRIVEN—RIDER KICK!"
The words came out as more of a growl than a command. He staggered, forcing his battered body to leap into the air one final time. Every muscle protested, every nerve screamed, but somehow he found the strength. He aimed his kick at the two fleeing men, who had almost reached the street.
He landed directly between them with an impact that cracked the asphalt, and the glowing red rune once again appeared on the ground beneath his feet. This time, however, John had no strength left to jump away. His legs simply wouldn't obey him anymore.
The resulting explosion sent the last two thugs—and John—flying through the air like broken dolls. The blast was less focused this time, which saved him from the worst of it, but he still crashed hard against the warehouse wall. The impact drove the breath from his lungs and sent fresh waves of agony through his wounded body.
He knelt on the cracked concrete, supporting himself with his hands, gasping for air as his vision blurred and swam. Each breath was a struggle, tasting of blood and concrete dust.
Can't... hold on...
The prolonged transformation combined with his injuries was too much. He could feel his power fading like the last embers of a dying fire. The armor that had made him invincible was becoming gossamer, ready to dissolve at any moment.
John stumbled over to Gwen's side on unsteady legs. She was still unconscious but breathing steadily, her chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. Up close, he could see a small bruise on her temple where they'd struck her, and rope burns around her wrists. His heart ached seeing her hurt, but relief flooded through him—she was alive and relatively unharmed.
He wanted nothing more than to collapse beside her and rest, to let the darkness take him, but then he remembered the phone call. Kree would be sending more men, probably already on their way. They had maybe twenty minutes before this place would be crawling with killers.
Forcing himself to endure the crushing fatigue that pressed down on him like a physical weight, John hoisted Gwen onto his back. She was lighter than he'd expected, but in his weakened state, she might as well have been made of lead. He staggered toward the thugs' van, each step an epic journey.
Damn it, no keys! The ignition was empty, and he didn't have the strength or knowledge to hotwire it. He had no choice but to head for the motorcycle, parked what now seemed like miles away in the darkness.
He was halfway there when his armor dissolved in a flash of light, vanishing like morning mist. The transformation released, John immediately fell to his knees as the world went black for a moment. Without the armor's support, the full weight of his injuries hit him like a sledgehammer. An uncontrollable wave of drowsiness washed over him, his body's desperate need for rest overwhelming every other instinct, but he fought to stay awake with everything he had left.
After a few seconds that felt like hours, he managed to gather a sliver of strength from some deep reserve he didn't know he possessed. He got Gwen onto his back again, her unconscious form a precious burden that he would carry to the ends of the earth if necessary. Her hair fell across his shoulder like silk, and he could smell her shampoo—something light and floral that reminded him of spring mornings.
The walk to his motorcycle was a nightmare journey through a landscape of pain. Each step sent shockwaves through his wounded leg, and his arm throbbed with each heartbeat. The night air was cold against his sweat-soaked skin, raising goosebumps along his arms and making him shiver uncontrollably.
Fortunately, he had covered most of the distance while transformed; otherwise, he never would have made it. His legs were shaking by the time he reached the bike, threatening to give out completely. He managed to get onto the motorcycle, his movements clumsy and painful, then took off his jacket with fumbling fingers. The leather was torn from the fight and stained with his blood, but it would serve.
He used the jacket to securely tie Gwen to his back, making sure she was safe and wouldn't fall even if he lost consciousness. Her head rested against his shoulder, and he could feel her warm breath against his neck—a reminder that she was alive, that this nightmare might actually have a happy ending.
With a final groan of effort that seemed to come from his very soul, he started the engine. The motorcycle roared to life, its familiar rumble like a lullaby after the violence of the warehouse. He drove off into the night, leaving behind the smoking ruins of the warehouse and the scattered remains of men who had chosen the wrong victim.
Behind them, sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer with each passing second. But John didn't look back. He had Gwen, she was safe, and that was all that mattered. The rest—the explanations, the consequences, the questions that would inevitably come—could wait until morning.
For now, there was only the road ahead, the woman on his back, and the promise of dawn breaking over a city that had one less nightmare lurking in its shadows.