"Theoretically, it is feasible."
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and felt the swelling sensation of the glands inside his body, ready to fire.
Suddenly, his arm gave a violent flick, a movement that was extremely contrary to human joint structure, and at the same time, his fingers precisely pressed the nerves in his palm.
Pssh!
A crystalline white spider silk gushed out from his wrist.
This time, it did not travel in a straight line.
With Peter's terrifying wrist strength and perfect control over every muscle in his body, the spider silk seemed to have a life of its own in the air.
It was like a long white whip, drawing a strange arc under the influence of aerodynamics, bypassing a central load-bearing column, and precisely sticking to an empty cola bottle ten meters away.
"Ha, success!"
Peter flicked his wrist excitedly, and the solidified spider silk instantly went taut, pulling the cola bottle back, which he caught steadily in his hand.
"Although the accuracy isn't quite up to Alice's absurd C-shaped shots, this move is a god-tier skill for dealing with enemies behind cover. I should give this move a name, Web Swing, or Newton's Tears?"
"Web Swing is more appropriate."
Alice's voice came from below.
She was sitting in front of several monitors, the screens flashing with encrypted information intercepted from The Fraternity's internal network.
"Stop playing, Peter, the fish has taken the bait."
Alice stood up and draped a black trench coat over herself, covering the tactical gear underneath.
"Sloan just issued a kill order, Wesley has already set off, and Cross will be waiting for him there."
Peter immediately jumped down from the ceiling, his expression becoming serious: "Are we starting?"
"That's right."
Alice checked the micro-earpiece in her hand, handed one to Peter, and then skillfully pulled the bolt and checked the magazine.
"Remember your mission, safety catch."
Alice stared into Peter's eyes, her tone solemn: "Although Cross is a top-tier assassin and Wesley is a cheater, anything can happen on the battlefield. What if Wesley misses that shot, or Cross doesn't fall as planned, or what if Sloan sends someone else to mess things up?"
"I'll be responsible for controlling the situation," Peter replied, "And saving people, not killing."
"Right, no killing. But when necessary, you can beat them to the point of being crippled; anyway, The Fraternity has those magical medicinal baths, as long as they have one breath left, they can be saved."
Alice adjusted her collar, a cold arc curling at the corner of her mouth.
"Peter, this is a shock therapy for Wesley."
"Sounds really dark." Peter shrugged, put on his mask, his voice becoming low, "But I like the ending where the bad guys end up in big trouble."
"Then let's go."
Alice pushed open the factory door, and the night outside was as thick as ink.
"Go witness the final act of this father-son showdown."
...
The abandoned light rail train under the Brooklyn Bridge.
This was a blind spot in the city's transportation network and also a trace point deliberately exposed by Cross.
The night after the rainstorm, the air was humid and cold.
A rusted train that had long since stopped running lay quietly on the tracks, like a dead giant steel snake.
Alice sat on the top of a water tower not far away, holding a can of iced cola, her legs dangling in the air.
From this position, she could overlook the entire scene.
"The actors are in place, lighting, props, and special effects are ready."
She gently pulled the tab, the bubbles sizzling.
"Action."
Almost the instant her voice fell, the glass windows of the abandoned train exploded with a boom.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three bullets shot into the carriage in a triangular formation, each carrying a strange arc, bypassing the pillars and seats inside the carriage, heading straight for the shadows at the end.
Cross's figure was as fast as a black flash of lightning.
He rolled sideways, his M1911 spitting tongues of fire.
The bullet precisely struck the side of the bullet Wesley had fired.
Clang!
A burst of sparks exploded in mid-air.
The bullets collided and ricocheted off each other.
"Good marksmanship," Alice exclaimed from afar, "To avoid hurting that foolish son, old man Cross is risking his life with that micro-manipulation; that's much harder than killing."
Wesley did not stop because his bullet had been intercepted.
He smashed through the train window, pouncing into the carriage like an enraged Beast.
Broken glass left a bloody scratch on his face, but he felt nothing.
At this moment, adrenaline was roaring wildly in his veins, his heart thundering in his chest like an overloaded engine.
The World before his eyes, raindrops suspended in the air like crystalline crystals. The muzzle flash bloomed slowly, like a gorgeous flower.
The World had slowed down, but he had sped up.
"Die!"
Wesley roared, his modified assassin pistol pouring out ultimate firepower crazily.
He pushed Curving Bullets to the absolute limit.
Bullets drew lethal arcs in the narrow, cramped carriage, like the scythe of the God of Death, weaving an airtight net that sealed off all of Cross's evasion space.
This was the weapon Sloan wanted.
Perfect, lethal, devoid of emotion.
Cross scrambled between the seats.
Only he knew that behind this seemingly dangerous evasion lay his extreme suppression of his own strength.
He had to appear overwhelmed, had to appear suppressed by Wesley's astonishing talent.
"This kid really wants my life."
Cross dodged a bullet that grazed his scalp, cutting off a few strands of hair.
There was no fear in his heart; instead, a sense of bitter pride surged up.
This was his son.
Although he had been corrupted by that old bastard Sloan, this skill, this reaction speed, this potential exploding between life and death, truly carried the blood of Cross.
He was simply a natural-born King of Killers.
The two charged at each other at high speed within the narrow carriage.
Fists and feet clashed, gunfire roared.
Wesley kicked the gun out of Cross's hand, his dagger thrusting straight at Cross's heart.
Cross dodged sideways, grabbed Wesley's wrist with a backhand, and followed with a takedown.
Their faces were extremely close.
Close enough to see the reflection in each other's pupils.
Wesley looked at the stubble-faced middle-aged man before him, his eyes filled only with the hatred of brainwashing: "Is this your last word? Traitor."
Cross looked at his son, inches away, looked at that face resembling his late wife, and revealed a sorrowful smile.
He whispered in his heart: No, this is my atonement.
He released his grip on Wesley's wrist, intentionally revealing a momentary opening.
A fatal opening.
Wesley did not hesitate at all, or rather, it was a physical instinct.
He stepped back and picked up the gun from the ground.
At this moment, Cross had retreated to the end of the carriage.
Behind him was the shattered windshield, and below was the bottomless, turbulent river water.
He had nowhere left to retreat.
"It's over."
Wesley raised his gun, the muzzle locking onto Cross's chest.
Cross looked at the dark muzzle, his eyes as calm as water.
He did not beg for mercy, nor did he resist.
He simply closed his eyes slowly, as if accepting his fate, or perhaps repenting.
Wesley flicked his wrist sharply.
Bang!
A bullet whistled out.
It carved a textbook-like C-shaped arc in the air, bypassing a handrail in the middle, and precisely drilled into Cross's left chest.
Pfft.
Cross's body jolted violently.
Blood instantly stained his chest.
His entire body flew backward like a kite with a broken string, crashing heavily through the remaining glass behind him and falling to the edge of the carriage.
Everything went quiet.
Wesley stood where he was, maintaining his shooting stance.
His chest heaved violently, white mist spraying from his mouth and nose.
The exhaustion after the adrenaline faded hit him instantly, accompanied by an inexplicable emptiness.
He won.
He had killed that legendary, invincible traitor.
He had avenged his father.
But why did his heart hurt so much?
Why did the man's eyes look so sad before he closed them just now?
"Well done, Wesley."
The familiar sound of high heels came from behind.
------------------------
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