Coulson's heart skipped.
"People in place"? Impossible.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had riddled his father's network with holes. How could a green kid, just inheriting the throne, quietly plant assets in the Middle East under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s nose?
Felix's next line dropped his stomach into ice.
"They'll make sure our little… 'nuclear warhead transaction' goes perfectly."
He put weight on those three words.
Boom.
Coulson's mind blanked. His professional smile froze; a chill ran up his spine.
He knows.
He knows what we're thinking.
He knows we believe he's flying to the Middle East to trade a nuke.
For one naked instant, Coulson felt stripped to the bone—every thought and move laid bare to the boy's eyes.
Beside him, May and Natasha felt the same pressure—an invisible vise.
Under full S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance, he had quietly set up assets in the Middle East?
That wasn't something your average "mob prince" could pull off.
Their dossier on Felix—the harmless, pliable puppet—shattered.
This young man had been hiding very, very deep.
Not a puppet—
—but a beast in the abyss, just opening its eyes.
"Let's go."
Felix said nothing else and climbed the stairs.
The three followed on autopilot, thoughts in chaos.
Inside the wide, luxe cabin, the air turned leaden.
They sat across from Felix, backs straight, even their breathing careful.
Engines roared; the jet lifted, arrowing toward the distant Middle East.
The wheels kissed down on a private strip somewhere in the region.
It was noon in New York; here, the clock read 8 p.m. Night pressed low. The air was dry and faintly warm.
The stairway dropped. Felix descended first.
Coulson, Natasha, and May followed, eyes sweeping the perimeter by reflex.
The airfield was bare—just their jet and ground crew. No one else.
"Sir, where to next?"
Coulson drew up beside Felix, wearing the perfect amount of puzzled concern, angling for the plan.
Felix kept his gaze forward. "We wait."
The word had barely left his mouth when low engines rumbled out of the dark.
Headlights split the night—six black military HMMWVs in a line, their presence hard-edged and cold, rolling straight toward them.
Screech—
The convoy braked cleanly by the jet.
Doors snapped open. A dozen fully kitted soldiers dismounted and fanned out, establishing a perimeter with crisp, practiced economy.
Natasha and May tensed, hands drifting to their waists—one heartbeat from ready to fight.
From the lead Humvee stepped a broad-shouldered, hard-faced man with a close crop.
He strode to Felix and snapped a textbook salute.
"Commander. Mobile Task Force 'Red Hand,' squad leader, callsign 6547, reporting. The base is prepped. We can move at your order."
Coulson's pupils tightened.
Just standing there, the man radiated lethal weathering—the kind you only bring back from mountains of corpses.
A top-of-the-top special operator.
Felix nodded and headed for the lead Humvee.
"To the base."
He pulled the door and got in.
May and Natasha exchanged a glance and moved to follow—shadowing was the job, and separation wasn't an option.
An arm barred their path—6547's.
"Ladies. Take the next vehicle."
Calm tone, absolutely immovable.
Natasha's eyes cooled. "Our assignment is to protect the Young Master."
"Here, we are protection," 6547 replied, unblinking.
The air tightened. Then Felix's voice drifted from inside the cab.
"Follow his arrangements."
Five simple words—yet they fell like a hammer on the S.H.I.E.L.D. trio.
Color shifted on Natasha's and May's faces.
They hated surrendering direct eyes on Felix—but the force he'd revealed made even them hesitate.
The board had flipped.
They were no longer hunters holding the strings—
—they were the ones on the chopping block.
At last, Natasha drew a breath, tugged the still-bristling May toward the second Humvee.
Coulson followed without a word.
The convoy rolled, swallowing itself in the desert night.
In the lead vehicle, Felix watched the wasteland stream past and asked:
"How's the target?"
Hands on the wheel, eyes forward, 6547 reported in a steady baritone.
"Coordinates for SCP-307 confirmed. We've used ultra-low-temperature nitrogen sprayers to restrict its current growth front."
"The Worker-Ant engineering bots required for containment, plus the custom low-temp containment casks, have all arrived at base."
"We're ready to commence the operation the moment you arrive."
Felix dipped his chin. "Give me the profile."
"Yes, sir."
"SCP-307—codename Carnivorous Ivy. Looks like a common climbing plant but exhibits high aggression."
"It actively extends tendrils to ensnare and paralyze any warm-blooded animal entering its engagement zone."
"Once resistance ceases, its roots secrete a potent digestive fluid, dissolving viscera, muscle, and blood in short order. What remains is a frame and a husk."
"Direct human intervention equals suicide. Any biomass it absorbs accelerates its growth and spread."
"Containment must be executed via remote-operated robotics."
Felix listened, expression even—nothing off from what he already knew.
"Weaknesses?"
"High resistance to known herbicides—even direct flame," 6547 said, voice flat.
"But we've confirmed two. One: it does not proactively attack cold-blooded organisms. Two: it exhibits extreme aversion to ultra-low temperatures."
"Additionally, it has strong regenerative capability. Destroying the surface vines doesn't end it—if the underground rhizomes persist, it reconstitutes in short time."
(End of Chapter)
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