Marvel Saiyans - Chapter 17
Near the department store by the safe house, which, due to its height, serves as a vantage point for the entire street, Wade lounges on a deck chair, idly flipping through a Playboy magazine. Alejandro, equipped with binoculars, observes the street’s activity. Trained by the CIA, he quickly spots the cameras and listening devices hidden in the safe house.
Isabel Reyes has been moved to another secure location. However, Alejandro is unsure whether the cameras were installed by the Mata Group, the Reyes Group, or the CIA, so he chooses a secret location known only to himself.
Broly, acting as bait, stays behind to determine who the watcher is, feeling the constant threat of an unseen enemy poised to strike.
“A convoy appeared, very suspicious. Get up! It’s in the deep zone of Sector C, three black SUVs, approaching from afar.”
Alejandro’s alertness spikes.
Wade tosses aside the magazine and picks up an M40A3 sniper rifle, setting it up on the parapet of the department store’s roof.
Despite his reluctance to admit it, Alejandro acknowledges that Wade’s sniping skills surpass his, so he serves as the spotter while Wade takes the sniper role.
Peering through the scope, Wade observes the approaching convoy.
“Ah, the Cadillacs, clearly no good guys.”
“Stay sharp.”
Alejandro consults the range card, giving Wade details about distance, bullet type, wind speed and direction, temperature, atmospheric pressure, and the target type—all factors essential for precision sniping.
The range card, a method used since World War II, comprises a standard chart with a graphical area, a target information area, and a supplementary information area. The graphical area, a 180° semicircle marked at equidistant intervals, is divided into sectors and detailed with topographic features and landmarks, numbered for identification.
“Notice the woman in the passenger seat of the second SUV?” Alejandro says gravely.
“Wow, that physique. I bet she could snap my neck with one arm,” Wade jokes, his hands steady as he lines up the shot in his scope with Dust Angel: “Shall I take the shot?”
Alejandro, filled with self-reproach, says:
“Wait, I recognize this person. Bullets might not work on her. Those targeting us are from a mutant factory. Damn, the mutant we captured must have had a tracking device on him. I was careless!”
He knows of a Francis who runs the mutant factory, a man shrouded in mystery, so much so that even the CIA database lacks information on him. This man runs the factory and oversees an underground fighting ring for mutants in Mexico, wielding considerable influence there.
Matt once tried to use CIA resources to dig into Francis’s background, but higher-ups quickly halted his efforts.
“Let’s wait. Since this woman has shown up, Francis might be here too. The convoy likely has several mutants. Acting hastily will only alert them and heighten their vigilance,” Alejandro calmly assesses, aware that their main force is Broly.
“Our primary task is to observe and provide Broly with battlefield intelligence.”
Three Cadillacs stop at the safe house’s entrance, and fully armed soldiers exit the vehicles.
Francis glances at a PDA showing live surveillance feeds; their target is still unsuspecting, practicing his punches.
“The target hasn’t noticed anything unusual yet. Put on gas masks, and the third team surrounds the building. Everyone else, go in.”
They have extensive experience in capturing mutants. Some mutants are so physically robust that tranquilizer darts can’t penetrate their tough skin, so they use smoke grenades filled with a powerful anesthetic specifically designed for mutants. A single grenade can sedate over two thousand people—enough to knock out an elephant in just three seconds.
After giving the order, teams one, two, and four blow the doors off the safe house and rush inside.
“Broly! Be careful! They’re using gas! Strike first, move the fight to the streets, the wind will disperse the gas.”
Upon seeing the soldiers donning gas masks, Alejandro quickly picks up the radio to warn Broly.
“Target the guy with the PDA. That’s Francis!” he checks the wind gauge and reports the data: “Distance 352 meters, wind from the right at three-quarters, correct two points to the left. Wait for Broly’s move before shooting!”
Wade aligns Francis in his scope and regulates his breathing.
“Leave it to me, and I’ll blow his head off.”
As the soldiers advance cautiously and swiftly inside the safe house, the lead man pulls the pin on a smoke grenade, sending it rolling down the corridor amidst green smoke.
The corridor is dark, curtains drawn, obscuring the interior. The air is eerily quiet, filled only with their heartbeats, the clutter of footsteps, and the rolling of the smoke grenade.
Where is their target?
Then, they hear the howling of the wind.
“Wolf Fang Fist!”
A rapid flurry of punches drives the air, emitting a sound akin to a pack of wolves howling. The soldiers haven’t even seen their enemy before fists and claws, torn apart, strike them.
One soldier’s pupils dilate as dense, diamond-shaped scales rapidly form under his skin, tearing through his combat uniform—his proud superpower.
In the next moment, a palm thrusts through his chest, destroying internal organs, and withdraws instantly.
Those struck by the fists don’t even get a chance to scream before they are killed. In the dim corridor, only the sounds of bodies being torn apart by fists can be heard. The anesthetic they relied on as a killer weapon is blown far away by the punch winds, unable to get anywhere near Broly.
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