Seeing that the two women posed no threat, the gunmen redirected their weapons elsewhere.
"My dear sister! Sticking with you is just bad luck!"
"These guys clearly had a plan and moved fast—they were obviously targeting you! My dear bestselling author!"
Bella and Natasha showed no signs of panic. Crouched on the ground, they bickered with each other. The scene resembled the day they'd encountered that old bank robber in Phoenix, except back then they hadn't been sisters yet.
Truth be told, these robbers were far more professional than that Arizona geezer.
Four young men in their prime, with a clear objective and military training.
Even the bank staff cooperated seamlessly. Then again, with 370 bank robberies happening in 365 days, people who resisted didn't tend to survive...
The bank employees had already finished the preliminary cash counting. The bills were stacked neatly, just waiting for the armored truck.
Now all that prep work was just making the robbers' job easier. They grabbed large duffel bags and stuffed the cash from the tables inside.
One bag filled up, they grabbed another. Six large duffel bags, packed to the brim with dollars.
The lead robber stayed ice-cold throughout. The entire operation was planned down to the second. Seeing they'd hit their estimated time limit, he prepared to withdraw without a word.
"There's still money over there! And jewelry!" The gunman watching Bella and the other hostages seemed particularly hot-tempered. When the leader tried to pull him away, he shoved back roughly.
Because of the hothead's greed, the entire robbery was delayed by nearly twenty seconds.
"Idiot! We need to leave now or it'll be too late!" The leader was furious.
The hothead just sneered dismissively. "Watch this."
He strode over to Bella. The woman was just too striking—merely making eye contact stirred up indescribable emotions within him. Ignoring the warning signals his subconscious sent him, the hothead reached for Bella's wrist.
"Come with us, sweetheart! We'll let you go once we're clear!" he said roughly.
*I've been ignoring you, and you still have the nerve to mess with me?*
Bella locked eyes with the hothead, lowering her voice: "Get. Lost."
It wasn't a Mind Blast. It wasn't mind control. Just less than ten percent of her psionic pressure—but it hit the hothead like a lightning bolt. In a daze, he seemed to see a massive mountain with an impossibly tall figure standing at its peak. Below, countless worshippers knelt in reverence. Just as confusion set in, the giant turned to look at him.
That single glance felt like an awl stabbing straight through his heart. He could swear his heart had shattered.
Multiple afterimages filled his vision. His body swayed like he was drunk.
*What the hell?* The lead robber had no idea what just happened and no time to figure it out. He immediately used his gun to keep everyone in line, preventing the crowd from getting any ideas. Then he and another robber hauled the hothead up and bolted for the exit.
They fled the venue in disarray. Police cars were already completing their encirclement.
Using his knowledge of the terrain, the leader calmly maneuvered around the patrol cars, finally switching vehicles in a small alley to shake off the cops.
They returned to their hideout. No time to count their haul—they frantically removed the hothead's disguise. Then they froze in horror.
The hothead's entire body had turned bright red. His limbs trembled uncontrollably. Fresh blood leaked from his mouth and nose. His eyes rolled back, showing only the whites. He looked ready to collapse any second.
"What the hell happened to Clint?"
"Could he be poisoned? Why are the rest of us fine?"
The other two partners were completely baffled.
The leader kept trying to stay calm, but he couldn't figure out what had gone wrong.
"Get Clint to a hospital!" That was the only solution he could think of.
The three showed real loyalty—they didn't just dump Clint and run. Despite having just committed a major crime, they still drove him to the nearest hospital.
The doctors had never seen symptoms like this. They could only treat what they saw.
Bleeding? Transfusion. Trembling? Sedatives. Biting his tongue? Use a bite block. They ran every test imaginable. One entire bag of the stolen money went toward medical bills. After consultations between several departments, the diagnosis was some kind of sudden-onset blood disease.
What specific blood disease? No idea! When would he recover? No idea! What medications to use? No idea!
With good luck, he might survive. With bad luck, you'd better start planning his funeral.
Clint's luck held out. By evening, he slowly regained consciousness.
His companions had long since left. He understood—they'd just committed a major crime. Staying home and lying low versus hanging around a hospital? Did they think the cops were stupid?
That they'd risked so much to get him to the hospital already showed incredible loyalty. Clint had no complaints.
He only regretted the timing of his illness.
Hm? Suddenly, he noticed someone else sitting in the hospital room.
A bald man with an eyepatch and black leather coat sat watching him.
"Who are you?" Clint figured the guy was a cop. The moment he'd woken up, he'd mentally prepared himself for prison.
Prison was fine. Twenty years, thirty years—whatever. But getting him to rat out his partners? Never.
"Nick Fury." The bald man said casually.
Clint studied him carefully, deciding the vibe was wrong for a cop. "FBI? I want my lawyer. You won't get me to—"
Nick Fury held up one hand, cutting him off. "Mr. Clint Barton, you're very lucky. I've seen others with your symptoms. Even with professional medical teams, most of them didn't make it. You're truly fortunate."
"You know about this condition? Are you military? Running secret experiments? Did you pick me as a subject? Secretly inject me with some gene serum?" Clint's imagination ran wild instantly.
Nick Fury's lips curled with mockery. "Government conspiracy theories? Demonizing the military? How childish."
"What the hell is wrong with me?" Clint pressed.
"Just like the doctors said—a sudden-onset blood condition."
"Specifically?"
Nick Fury stayed silent for over ten seconds before speaking slowly.
"It's not a disease. It's a genetic trait from prehistoric humans. Many sources call them the Precursors.
These gene fragments activate under special circumstances. Most people experience it in life-or-death situations, or witnessing a comrade die in battle. But getting so hyped up during a robbery that your genes self-activate? That's a first for me."