Baron Strucker inhaled deeply, suppressing the rage that burned in his chest. His voice was cold and sharp when he finally spoke.
"Have the reinforcements regroup at the central defense line. Stop relying on the bunkers for cover — form a layered tank defense formation instead. And make sure everyone stays alert for enemy infiltration."
He knew that last part was meaningless. At this point, there wasn't a single soldier under his command who wasn't terrified of being ambushed. But awareness meant nothing when the so-called "black-Reaper" could strike faster than a man could blink. No amount of vigilance could save them.
A Hydra officer, his voice tense but hopeful, tried to reassure his commander. "Don't worry, Baron. Every inch of the central sector is within the range of our long-range artillery. Once S.H.I.E.L.D.'s forces charge, we'll launch a full-scale bombardment and drive them back. Even if that black-Reaper destroys a few bunkers or tanks, it won't matter. There's no way they can advance any farther."
By now, the black-Reaper had become an unofficial codename among Hydra troops — a nickname for Marcus, the man haunting their battlefield. It wasn't hard to see why. Among the colorful agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. with their bright gear and distinctive styles, Marcus's plain black hair and dark eyes stood out in stark contrast. Combined with his inhuman stealth and brutal efficiency, the name spread like wildfire.
As the officer proudly explained the supposed strength of their artillery network, a voice crackled through the comms — the desperate shout of a frontline captain.
"Hydra Sixth Squadron requesting artillery support! Enemy coordinates C4: Z6! They're massing for a full assault! We need immediate bombardment!"
The Hydra officer grinned. "Good. Fire control, confirm target. Prepare for strike — ready… and fire! In two seconds, that area will be nothing but ash."
Baron Strucker leaned closer to the tactical display, his brow furrowing. Something about the coordinates seemed off. A half-second later, realization hit him like ice water.
"Wait—those coordinates are our—!"
BOOM!
The explosion that followed cut him off mid-sentence. The blast was so close that it shook the command room itself, the static screech of interference filling the comms channel. No one could mistake it — the shells had landed inside their own lines.
When the signal finally cleared, the comms erupted with furious shouting.
"Are you insane?! You just bombed your own men!" The voice belonged to another Hydra field commander, livid beyond control. "Who the hell gave that order? There wasn't a single enemy there! You idiots just wiped out an entire squad of our own! Damn it — the enemy's charging through the breach you created!"
Miles away, Marcus crushed the Hydra communicator in his hand, letting the broken pieces fall beside the lifeless body of the real squad captain.
He smirked faintly.
He had used his metallic morphing ability to alter his vocal cords — a trick he'd perfected ever since imitating Tony Stark's voice during their first encounter. Now, he could mimic anyone's tone or speech pattern flawlessly.
This "friendly fire incident" was, of course, his doing.
And it would have lasting consequences. From now on, Hydra's artillery units would hesitate before responding to any support request — wasting precious seconds to verify targets.
On a battlefield where seconds decided life and death, Marcus had just tilted the scales.
"Captain," Marcus spoke through S.H.I.E.L.D.'s comms, his tone composed as ever, "push through the central line. Once you reach the cliffs beneath the fortress, you'll be in their artillery blind spot."
"How do you know that?" Captain America asked, panting between bursts of gunfire.
"I've found more than one of their tactical maps," Marcus replied simply.
He cut the channel. There was no time for further explanation.
Delaying the artillery alone wouldn't be enough — he needed to throw Hydra into total disarray. Fortunately, with the Winter Soldier's knowledge of Hydra's command hierarchy, Marcus knew exactly where to strike next.
Defeating every soldier here would be impossible, even for him. But shattering their morale? That, he could do.
A Hydra patrol crossed his path — a dozen men sweeping the area for signs of the "black-Reaper."
Marcus ghosted behind them. In the blink of an eye, he reached the rearmost soldier, plucked every grenade pin from his vest, and kicked him into the center of the group.
BOOM!
The explosion sent bodies flying in all directions. Not one of them even glimpsed their killer's face.
Marcus pressed on, snow crunching softly beneath his boots as he approached the Hydra command outpost — the one buried deep in the central sector.
It was a heavily fortified bunker, ringed by machine-gun nests and guarded by elite sentries. Above, jetpack troopers patrolled the airspace, their visors glowing as they scanned every inch of terrain. The area was so tightly sealed that not even a bird could have slipped through undetected.
Even disguising himself as a Hydra soldier wouldn't work here — the biometric checkpoints would expose him instantly.
But Marcus was far from ordinary.
His right arm began to shimmer, flesh shifting into gleaming silver metal. The limb twisted and elongated, reshaping itself into a massive drill, which spun to life with a high-pitched whir.
He plunged it into the frozen earth. The soil here was soft — much easier to dig through than the hardened streets he once tore apart in his battle with Spider-Man. Within moments, he disappeared underground, tunneling his way toward the command bunker.
When he reached the foundation, he stopped, listening. His heightened senses picked up footsteps, voices, the hum of machinery. Finding a quiet corner, he emerged silently from below.
Inside, the defenses were far more relaxed. The soldiers here believed themselves safe — unaware that their greatest threat was already beneath their feet.
That assumption would prove fatal.
Marcus moved through the hallways like a shadow, eliminating guards one by one. There were no gunshots, no alarms — only the soft thud of bodies hitting the floor. By the time anyone noticed the silence, it was already too late.
Minutes later, the entire bunker was a tomb.
Marcus stepped into the central operations room — the heart of Hydra's defense network. On the main screen, the commanding officer was barking orders, calmly directing troop movements and relaying coordinates to the front lines. Around him, a dozen staff members worked frantically, their eyes glued to tactical readouts.
None of them realized that Death itself was already standing in the room.
The black-Reaper had arrived.
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