197 tons.
Hong Fei stood in the warehouse, his eyebrow arching as he surveyed the space. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. According to the bank's meticulous records, this vault should have held 226 tons of gold. Every ounce accounted for, every entry and exit logged.
The precise figure flashed in his mind—226.67529152 tons. Shift the decimal point six places, and you had the weight in grams. He grimaced, realizing his earlier haste. He should have kept that bank president alive for questioning. A discrepancy of 29 tons wasn't just a rounding error.
This wasn't just gold; it was a reserve. Its loss couldn't be measured in mere dollars or currency conversions. The thrill of it fascinated him, the sheer audacity of the theft.
Arthur's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Sir, Amanda Waller reached out to Dr. June through Colonel Flag. The Witch just transformed and left."
"Where to?"
"Louisiana."
Arthur paused, then added, "Her subordinate suggested sending Task Force X to New York."
"To deal with us?"
"Yes. Should I alert Mr. Constantine to stop her?"
Hong Fei considered for a moment before shaking his head.
"No. Let her come."
"Understood."
The Witch's teleportation was... impressive. She could zip from Washington D.C. to Tehran and back in an instant, hauling classified documents as easily as carrying groceries. It wasn't a superpower—it was magic. And if she could transport objects, people were no problem. Hong Fei's evacuation plan hinged on her abilities.
"Contact her," he ordered. "Tell her to hurry over once she's done."
"Understood."
Outside the bank, the police had pulled back sixty meters. Every rooftop, every terrace of the surrounding buildings bristled with officers. The sky, the sewers—every possible entry and exit point was sealed. They were playing a game of catch-the-turtle-in-a-jar, and they weren't taking any chances.
The police commissioner had arrived, taking command on-site. Precinct heads brought their best officers, their elite teams. This was no ordinary case. The stakes were too high for even the slightest misstep.
Sergeant Neil, Queens' top detective, stood among them. Charles and the others trailed behind him.
"Officer Neil," Charles said, glancing around, "why didn't you call Cora? She'll be here any minute."
Neil's gaze remained fixed on the bank. His expression was grave.
"She's too impulsive. This case... it's not simple. There's too much at stake. She doesn't belong here."
As if summoned, Cora's voice pierced the air from beyond the cordon. She shoved her way to the front, shouting and waving wildly.
"Neil! Charles! Don't pretend you can't hear me!"
Neil didn't flinch.
"Don't look back. Act like she's not there."
Charles and the others reluctantly turned their backs, playing along.
"Damn it! You bastards definitely heard me! Neil! Charles! Are you even men?!"
Neil ignored her, following the precinct chief toward the command vehicle. The FBI had taken over half the scene, their presence unmistakable. Meanwhile, the mayor and other officials began arriving, their faces tight with concern. This wasn't just a bank robbery—not anymore.
Deadshot observed the chaos from his sniper's perch atop the building. He clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head. This had blown up far beyond what anyone anticipated. By now, even the power players in Washington D.C. were likely watching.
Inside the command vehicle, the tension was palpable. After a heated discussion, the order came: the NYPD's elite SWAT team would move in to assess the situation.
The SWAT team hesitated, aware how it looked for them to be hiding a hundred meters away with so many eyes watching. As they cautiously advanced, Deadshot's mission objective updated in his vision: Kill all police officers who approach within 50 meters. Arthur thoughtfully superimposed a red circle over Deadshot's field of view, marking the kill zone.
The moment the SWAT officers crossed the red line, a single gunshot cracked through the air. One officer crumpled to the ground, and the formation immediately tightened. Shields snapped into place, forming a protective barrier as the team scanned for the sniper's position. Deadshot, a world-class assassin, had already relocated after his first shot.
Before they could pinpoint his previous location, he fired again. This time, the bullet struck a curved shield. But Deadshot's calculations were precise—the round seemed to have a tracking mechanism, ricocheting in a series of convoluted angles before drilling into the eye socket of an officer behind the shield.
Another body hit the ground, and panic rippled through the shielded team. Deadshot shifted positions once more and fired again. Every shot found its mark. In the command vehicle, high-ranking officers clenched their fists, their faces dark with rage. Despite their training and resilience, the SWAT team struggled to maintain composure.
They huddled closer, shields overlapping tightly, leaving no gaps for Deadshot to exploit. But he only chuckled coldly in response. Switching magazines, he activated rapid-fire mode, unleashing armor-piercing rounds that hammered the same spot on the shield. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, threatening to shatter it entirely.
The SWAT team couldn't hold their ground. With no other choice, they retreated hastily. Once they were outside the 50-meter radius, Deadshot ceased fire. But the cost was steep—another officer lost. In just one probing exchange, the SWAT team had suffered three casualties without achieving anything.
The onlookers were stunned, and even the so-called big shots in the command vehicle couldn't hide their grim expressions. Amanda Waller watched it all unfold, her face darker than ever. She already knew who they were dealing with. Deadshot. Floyd Lawton. Only that damn criminal had the terrifying marksmanship and lethal precision to pull this off.
After a moment's hesitation, Amanda barked an order: "Send those three up."
Her subordinate froze.
"Ma'am, those three…" He couldn't finish the thought aloud: They're probably walking to their deaths. It was harsh, but accurate.
Javelin, TDK, Weasel—each more absurd than the last. Javelin's weapon might be sharp, but the other two? One was a joke, and the other could only scare children. Amanda shot him a glare and continued, "Have TDK go first. Javelin will locate the sniper. Weasel climbs the wall."
It sounded like a tactical plan, but her subordinate doubted it would make a difference.
"Have Bloodsport draw out the sniper," Amanda added. "Ratcatcher… she can send rats into the bank. As for the others, Bloodsport can handle the arrangements. We need to rescue the hostages immediately and bring the escaped convict back to me—or execute him on the spot."
The subordinate looked up abruptly.
---
Underground gold vault. Hong Fei lounged on a stack of gold bars, legs swinging idly as he tossed a heavy ingot into the air. Suddenly, he caught it mid-air and stared straight ahead into the void. A wisp of grey mist materialized, followed by a dense surge of black energy that rapidly coalesced into a human form.
The Witch still looked like she'd stepped out of a horror flick, but Hong Fei found himself oddly appreciating her makeup. It had a strange allure. He dropped back to the ground, turned, and spread his arms toward the mountain of gold—nearly two hundred tons of it.
"Come on, don't be shy," he said, the pale golden glow stark against her shadowy form.
Her black-and-red eyes locked onto the vault brimming with gold ingots, a flicker of exaggerated surprise crossing her gaze. When she didn't respond, Hong Fei glanced back, noticing her expression. He frowned.
"What, never seen this much gold before?"
The Witch snapped out of her trance, her eerie voice low. "Have you?"
"Heh, it's nothing. I've seen mountains of gold," Hong Fei boasted. He knew Xu Wenwu had hollowed out an entire mountain and filled it with gold—literally a mountain of gold. After Xu Wenwu's defeat and Hong Fei's subsequent allegiance, Xu hadn't kept this hidden. He'd even invited Hong Fei to see it, hinting that if Hong Fei ever needed it, he wouldn't hesitate to share.
Back then, Hong Fei hadn't been short on cash, and a gold mountain hadn't seemed like a big deal to him. He'd kept refusing. What kind of boss covets his subordinate's treasure? Master Hong had a reputation to uphold, after all.
It wasn't until now, standing before this glittering vault, that Hong Fei truly grasped the sheer terror of a mountain of gold. And in that moment, he also realized something else: Xu Wenwu might have been ruthless, but he'd been a damn good comrade. The Witch, however, wasn't buying it. She glanced back at the gold.
"It's too much."
"Can't move it?" Hong Fei asked.
She shot him a sidelong look.
"Of course I can, but there are humans watching me closely. Dr. June is hiding in the restroom; I can't be away for too long."
Hong Fei nodded.
"This one warehouse won't be a problem, right?"
The Witch nodded.
"How many minutes do you have?" he pressed.
"June said five."
"Too short. Let's go bigger—fifteen minutes. I'll have Arthur monitor that side. When they call, the phone she left in the restroom will handle it."
"Arthur?" she asked.
"Another mysterious powerhouse," Hong Fei said solemnly.
The Witch gave him a long look, then reached toward the gold. Black mist surged around her, but her strength was severely depleted, and the amount she could take at once was limited. She'd need to make multiple trips. In an instant, she vanished with a heap of gold, reappearing the next second. After watching one round trip, Hong Fei lost interest.
His real goal was to get a skill card or fusion card from her, but that wasn't happening anytime soon. Even if she agreed to cooperate, she wouldn't let him beat her up, and a half-hearted sparring session wouldn't drop a skill card.
"You stay busy. I'm leaving. If this warehouse is cleared and I'm not back yet, just move to the one next door."
The Witch's head lowered, her gaze turning sinister behind her hair.
"Don't look. Careful of addiction."
Hong Fei waved her off and walked away without another word. The Witch stared after him, silent.
Stepping into the corridor, he found the three tools sweating as they cracked open vault after vault. Killer Croc was recording each one, occasionally sucking in a sharp breath. As Hong Fei passed, he patted Croc's shoulder. Croc looked like he wanted to say something, but the rules kept him silent. Words weren't needed here.
Returning to the first floor, Hong Fei passed a door in the lobby when a shout rang out from the main entrance.
"Sir! Wait!"
Hong Fei halted mid-stride, turning to face a figure both familiar and strange. It was Little George, the frail, freckle-faced NYPD logistics guy. Honestly, though it had only been a few days, Hong Fei had nearly forgotten him. Back at the precinct, he'd probably have flashed this timid man—who dreamed of being a cop but likely never would—a reassuring smile. But this wasn't the precinct. This was a robbery in progress.
"What're you calling me for?"
The iron-clad figure turned. Little George flinched under the unseen gaze, his shoulders trembling. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back, his brow furrowed, his teeth clenched.
"Sir," he stammered, his voice shaking, "there's a patient here. She's got a history of heart disease, and she's fainted. If she doesn't get help soon…"
Hong Fei's eyes shifted past him. On the floor lay a middle-aged couple, the father cradling a pale young woman in his arms. What a coincidence. Hong Fei didn't buy it. He took a step forward. Little George's eyes lit up with hope as he rushed on, "Sir, I swear it's true. She's in real danger. I don't want to leave; I just want you to give her a chance. She's young. She's already got her Harvard admission letter. She's—"
Hong Fei reached through the Grenade Net and pinched Little George's cheek, silently apologizing in his mind. Their eyes locked. Little George trembled harder, but the desperation in his gaze didn't waver. Behind him, the middle-aged couple began to plead as well.
The hostages nearby shifted uneasily, their eyes darting, mouths opening and closing as if they wanted to speak but didn't dare.
"Sir," Arthur's voice cut in, "she does have a history of heart disease, and her vitals are dropping fast."
Hong Fei raised an eyebrow. How to let her go? The Grenade Net blocked the door. Dismantling it wasn't an option—not quickly, anyway. The windows were thick bulletproof glass, impossible to squeeze through even if opened. Outside, the police watched like hawks. Peaceful negotiations for a life? Unlikely. Especially after he'd just tossed the bank president off the building. Trust was in short supply.
And the police? They'd never pass up a chance to storm the bank and take him down. Compared to the security of the Federal Reserve, a girl's life meant nothing.
---
Outside the bank, Javelin and TDK—dressed in their bizarre outfits—along with the monstrous Weasel, were escorted through the chaotic crowd by Amanda Waller's subordinates. Their arrival made the police uneasy, especially Weasel.
If that thing dared to look any more menacing, the SWAT officers, already seething, would've blown its head off on the spot. It was just that ugly. Inside the command vehicle, the Director stayed put, terrified the sniper inside the bank might pick him off. Though today's events guaranteed his resignation, a bad life beat a good death. After receiving orders from his superiors, he cracked open the door of the command vehicle.
Standing inside, facing Javelin and the others, he suppressed his irritation at the sight of the trio.
"It's in your hands," he growled through clenched teeth. "Don't let me down."
Javelin and TDK immediately puffed out their chests: "Yes, sir!"
Weasel smacked its lips, its gaze disturbingly "wise," its saliva thick and dripping. The Director felt like his heart might give out too.