Buzz...
The static from the walkie-talkie cut out.
General Lane stared at the radio in his hand, jaw clenched. He yanked off his hat and dragged a trembling hand across his sweat-slicked scalp.
"What rocket? What rocket?!" he snarled, voice raw with disbelief. "Does he actually think I launched that missile?!"
Veins throbbed at his temples. With a guttural curse, he hurled the walkie-talkie against the nearest Humvee. It clattered to the dirt.
"Damn it—I already suspected him of sending hit squads to massacre my men! Kidnapping my daughter?! Now he's trying to pin a missile strike on me?!" He tilted his head back, eyes squeezed shut, as if the sky itself might offer answers. "He's already been hit by an air-to-ground strike once—why won't he just die?!"
Beside him, his adjutant cleared his throat softly. "General… theoretically, the people who took your daughter are a third party. Our intel on Downton confirms he lacks the resources to field a team capable of deploying precision air-to-ground munitions—let alone wipe out an entire special forces unit in seconds."
"I know, I know!" Lane snapped, cutting him off with a wave. He exhaled sharply, pacing a tight circle. "I know it wasn't him. And I know the strike was meant for me. At this point, you don't need to spell it out."
He stopped, eyes narrowing. "Downton's just a pawn. No organization would burn that kind of firepower on him—not before his intel's been verified or disseminated. But me? I'm a general. This reeks of internal sabotage."
His gaze sharpened, mind racing. "It's got to be one of my political enemies. Maybe the CIA. Or someone deeper."
He turned abruptly, voice dropping to a growl. "Think about it—disrupt my Downton op, trigger a security failure that tanks my standing, and snatch my daughter? That's not random. That's coordinated. And if they're hitting me and LexCorp's supply chain…"
Lane's eyes lit with grim realization. "They're after the experimental gear I took delivery of last week. LexCorp's prototype systems. That's got to be it."
He slammed his right fist into his open palm. Crack.
"But they don't know the truth," he muttered, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. "That equipment's useless without LexCorp's proprietary decryption layer. Their anti-analysis protocols lock it down tighter than Fort Knox. Even if they steal it, they can't use it."
He straightened, resolve hardening. "Fine. Let them come. They'll contact me soon—demand my daughter in exchange for the hardware. And when they do…"
His voice hardened like steel.
"…I'll be ready."
He snatched a fresh walkie-talkie from his adjutant and barked into the channel. "All units in Smallville—kill Downton. Full force. The moment he's down, he'll trigger his teleport failsafe. Don't let him slip away. He's no longer a priority—just a liability."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Oh, damn it?"
Downton's mocking voice crackled through the speaker, dripping with disdain.
On the other end, Downton stood over a pile of unconscious soldiers, rifle resting casually on his shoulder as he spoke into a captured comms unit. "Are you fucking underestimating me, General?"
Lane's face went pale—then flushed green with rage.
"Switch to Channel Six! Now!" he roared.
With a grimace, he tossed the compromised walkie-talkie aside and grabbed the encrypted earpiece from his adjutant.
Meanwhile, after confirming the walkie-talkie had fallen silent, Downton leveled his rifle at the two soldiers sprawled at his feet.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
He didn't hesitate. The soldiers slumped, lifeless. Kneeling beside them, Downton stripped their tactical vests, strapped one on over his own gear, and shoved seven spare magazines into the pouches—three in front, four in back.
Gripping his rifle in one hand, he kicked his Harley upright.
Boom!
The engine roared to life. A feral grin split Downton's face.
He didn't know the general's exact location—but Louise, the reporter, was still at the café. He knew her too well. That reckless woman would never bolt from their agreed meeting spot, not even if Smallwell turned into a warzone. She'd stay put, notebook in hand, chasing the headline that could define her career… or end it.
If she weren't so stubbornly bold, her future as "Superman's wife"—a title the tabloids loved—wouldn't involve weekly kidnapping rumors and midnight rescue ops.
Gunning the throttle, Downton tore toward the coffee shop.
But the dead soldier had already radioed his position.
One block in, three figures emerged from the smoke-choked street ahead—blocking his path. Not regular infantry. These were Navy SEALs, part of General Lane's elite detachment.
From fifty meters out, they confirmed his identity. Two dove behind a shattered car and opened fire. The third shouldered an RPG.
Bullets chewed the asphalt around Downton's bike. He returned fire one-handed, emptying a magazine in controlled bursts.
None of his shots found flesh—but theirs did.
Bang!
A round slammed into his chest. The impact hurled him backward off the Harley. He hit the pavement hard, rolled twice, and came up on one knee, teeth gritted.
"Damn it… how the hell did he get a clean shot on the heart?" he muttered, pressing a hand to his sternum. "Had to be luck."
With a sharp jerk, he ripped open his shirt. Blood welled from a deep bruise over his left pectoral—but no exit wound, no torn muscle. The Kevlar weave of his stolen vest had stopped the round cold. Still, the blunt trauma had likely cracked a rib or two.
A pained groan escaped him—then, unexpectedly, a laugh.
"My body's adapting faster than I thought," he said, flexing his fingers. "Getting close to that threshold…"
Without another word, Downton surged forward, rifle raised.
The SEAL with the RPG narrowed his eyes. No hesitation. He fired.
Whoosh—BOOM!
A fireball engulfed the street. Debris rained down. Silence followed.
Over comms, the three soldiers reported: "Target neutralized."
But as the smoke thinned, they exchanged uneasy glances.
"You see how fast he moved?" one asked.
"Yeah," another breathed. "Like a damn cheetah."
The RPG operator wiped soot from his brow. "I hit him square in the chest. Left side. Looked like it should've caved in…"
"And yet," the third
muttered, scanning the flames, "he didn't even scream."
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