Chapter Sixty-Nine: Assassination
Section One: Night Lines Misaligned
Rustmouth Fifth Stretch south, two-twenty-nine AM.
An old electric cart marked "FSA City Equipment Inspection" halted on the old city's maintenance tracks. Seven men disembarked, silent, movements synchronized.
They wore mock workwear, gear deliberately staggered, knuckles white—gripped too tight.
The cart's rear door stayed open, its comms screen flashing a brief order:
[Main Control Stretch Fifth Warehouse · Before 03:00 AM · Jason Carter Solo Patrol → Support Access Temporarily Disabled]
The order didn't stem from ARGUS's main domain, but a fringe node.
Not fake, but not fully traceable "mainline signal."
The lead scanned the screen, licking his lips: "Street's his? We buy that?"
Another sneered: "Doesn't matter if we do. If he wants us to, let's see if he walks this stretch alone."
A third tugged his sleeve, revealing an old Red Gang hall tattoo: "He survives this night, he earns his rules."
Words down, the seven split three ways:
Two circled east street's lamp control well, crawling through exhaust ducts to the warehouse rear, setting signal jammers. Three donned combat gear—close-quarters weapons, limb armor—slipping north alley to the warehouse passage, posing as old gear auditors. Two stayed out, hiding at a sniper perch and relay tower console, ready to cut Jason's ARGUS feedback during chaos, creating a "system silence blind window."
This was the Red Gang's last Seven-Break Team.
One goal: "Don't kill Jason, but shatter the myth he holds the street alone."
They bet he had no backup tonight.
—
Same time, Jason stood outside the warehouse door, clutching an unfiled paper list, a non-standard inspection rod in his other hand.
Earpiece, ARGUS reported: "Fifth Stretch boundary night patrol offline; Fuxi module syncing, current tactical support delay: 7.4 seconds."
Jason stayed silent.
He waited a beat, folded the list into his coat's inner layer, slotted the rod into his boot.
The warehouse door, unlocked, creaked briefly as he pushed—aged hinges.
Lights off. He didn't turn them on.
Stepping into darkness, Jason activated his HUD, low-bright data streaming across his vision.
The overlay held: system sync slow, tactical paths unavailable, ARGUS in "low-attention state."
Warehouse silent.
Wind grazed from an impossible direction.
Jason's steps didn't falter, but his palm grazed the controller's cover. He didn't open it, thumb poised on the unlock.
No immediate "ambush" judgment formed—his first thought: "This warehouse has two more blind spots than daylight."
Past the first aisle, he stopped.
A steel plate on a rack was shifted, no system log of tampering.
Jason half-turned, lifting his coat's inner flap, pulling a woven cable, looping it lightly on his index.
"Fuxi," he called low.
[Syncing…]
No wait for reply, he aimed the cable at a blind corner's empty rack slot, hooking the edge, easing a finger-wide gap—
Light refracted a thin red line.
Infrared monitoring net.
Not Jason's system—a sniper's relay rig.
Jason's eyes didn't shift, voice lower: "They came."
He didn't retreat.
Leaning by the rack, he drew a short signal pen, igniting a manual response node at the wall's top.
System syncing, no backup coming.
He knew tonight's move wasn't ARGUS's, nor his mainline.
It was someone shattering "Jason owns the street" in this unlit warehouse.
Section Two: Killers Emerge
Warehouse so quiet, metal dared not creak.
Jason stared at the infrared line three seconds, then dimmed the pen, fingers tracing a needle in his sleeve.
Not his first time targeted.
Tonight was different.
These weren't killers. Not for coin, not simple vengeance. A structural sabotage—someone wanted "Jason wounded" to restart Rustmouth's doubt in power.
Not to kill him.
To stop him walking the street alone.
He didn't retreat, stepping closer to the rack's void blind spot.
Fuxi's HUD flickered:
[Sync Completion: 78%]
[Tactical Module: Path Prediction Partially Unavailable]
Jason, soft: "Don't need full—give me next."
No reply.
He moved.
His right hand snapped up, flinging the signal pen to the warehouse's left upper corner.
Thud—a faint clang, metal resonating.
Three surged.
From the left platform, right vent, main aisle rack, shadows lunged.
No shouts, no cries, movements professional—pure assassins, no theatrics.
First leapt from above, electrified short blade aimed at Jason's left shoulder.
Jason didn't turn, sidestepping, right elbow slamming the rack's side strut.
Clang!—an iron sheet fell, tripping the man's footing, stance skewed.
Jason seized the instant, charging, shoulder to gut, titanium needle piercing ribs, discharge key pressed.
First grunted, convulsing, down in half a second.
Second sprang left, folding axe blade, targeting not vitals—Jason's right arm joint.
Jason couldn't dodge, axe haft grazing his forearm, grip lost.
He kneed up, foe ready, blocking.
Brief clash, Jason fell back two steps.
Fuxi flashed:
[Suggest Rack A3 → Withdraw Behind Pillar]
Jason ignored, eyeing the second's move—
Wrist pattern off.
Old Red Gang "Hunt Hall" technique.
Jason, cold: "Thought these guys were long dead."
No reply, but the man's eyes wavered. Not idle words—Jason stirred disruption. He feinted a step, foe misjudging a charge, raising defense.
Jason's left arm whipped up, drawing a signal spike from his shoulder, current grazing face.
Sparks burst.
Second didn't fall, stalled.
Jason tore a rack's tarp, draping it over the third's slashing blade.
Knife cut cloth, Jason twisted, unbalancing the third.
He didn't strike.
Fuxi flashed:
[Sync Complete]
Jason, low: "Lock rear door."
ARGUS prompted:
[Lockdown Path Complete · Support System Restored]
A distant beam flashed.
Sniper line.
Jason reacted, signal spike too slow, spinning low, bullet grazing left shoulder, searing.
He grunted, crashing behind a rack, knee down, hand on wound, eyes unpanicked.
Fuxi jumped:
[Sniper Position Locked × Counter Support Open]
Jason panted, no call for aid, watching blood drip.
He said: "Now, open fire."
Frame froze: blood wet, hand steady, Jason wounded but unbowed, gaze cold as if untouched.
Section Three: Jian Ci Breaks the Stalemate
Warehouse roof still smoked.
Three seconds post-shot, a black shadow dropped from the main beam, landing silent, toes grazing a broken pipe.
Jason heard, didn't turn.
He knew who.
Jian Ci, black-clad, no system uniform, no code. Swift, dual blades—long and short—steps heavy, as if crossing a long street or leaping a grave.
"Took you long enough," Jason said low.
Jian Ci didn't reply.
His gaze swept, left sniper shifting for a new line.
Short blade flashed, thrown—not to hit, forcing a duck, sight blocked.
Jason rose, shoulder blood-red, unstoppable, exhaling.
Jian Ci spoke: "Order's off. You don't solo these dumps."
Jason: "They believed I would."
Jian Ci snorted: "They couldn't see you're not playing."
Jason didn't answer, sidestepping, grabbing a discarded folding sniper rig, grip unsteady but firm.
Not for the far shot.
To hold the line, let Jian Ci charge.
"Two seconds enough?" Jason asked.
Jian Ci's eyes flicked: "One-point-five."
Jason fired—not at the sniper, but three meters off, a fire-control angle, betting precision would force a misread.
Sniper withdrew.
Jian Ci surged, wall-hugging, sliding like paper through a seam.
A third assailant pivoted, Jian Ci's short blade slashing ribs, blood arcing, down.
Another turned, long blade blocking wrist, elbow to jaw, teeth cracking.
Three breaths, two done.
Jason slumped by a crate, untying his coat, pressing the wound.
Jian Ci didn't approach, standing mid-aisle, eyeing distant observers outside.
They saw Jason bloodied, wounded, yet commanding; saw Jian Ci break two alone.
They didn't advance, retreating, signals zeroing.
Jian Ci, grim: "No stomach to die, and they want to break your stage?"
Jason, voice hoarse: "Not break—show I bleed."
Jian Ci nodded, picking up a discarded fire pistol, checking the clip.
"Good gun," he said. "Pity the user didn't deserve it."
Jason looked up: "How'd you get here?"
Jian Ci, curt: "Doubted the order, system lagged. Followed."
Jason stared two seconds, no more questions.
He stood, bloodied hand smearing dust on the rack—cleaned that morning.
Gazing at the fog, he said: "Don't like it, act. Beats waiting for trouble to call."
Jian Ci said nothing, wiping blood from his blade, steady.
Jason walked to the rear, leaving: "Sniper ran? I'm not rushed—system's got him."
Jian Ci watched his back, killing intent unquenched.
Fuxi flashed as Jason exited:
[Combat Trace Capture Available × Activate Tracking?]
Jason, no glance, no turn: "Keep it. Useful later."
Section Four: Chen Lei Holds the Field
Jian Ci sheathed his blade, five steps out, a faint sound outside.
Not enemy steps.
Someone dropped from height, boots hitting the warehouse's loose AC vent, thud, landing at the door.
Jason didn't turn, tilting his head: "Why're you here?"
No reply, just steps, steady, measuring ground.
Chen Lei.
Plain gray jacket, combat gloves, short stick at his waist, undrawn. No expression, he glanced at the downed, brow still.
Jason: "Weren't you clearing east lines?"
"Done," Chen Lei said, simple.
"Done, so here?"
Chen Lei eyed Jian Ci, Jason's shoulder wound, tone flat: "System's order didn't match my gut. Checked if the system glitched—or someone did."
Jian Ci raised a brow: "You doubted him?"
"No," Chen Lei stepped to Jason, pulling a hemostatic spray. "Doubted anyone betting he's alone."
Jason looked, not taking the spray.
"You don't need it?" Chen Lei asked.
Jason: "I stand, I don't need hands."
Chen Lei didn't push, pocketing it, stepping toward the door, then looking up.
"Two outside earlier, not fighting—scouts. When I came, they bolted west alley."
Jian Ci: "Chased?"
Chen Lei: "No rush. They didn't know I saw."
Jason wiped blood on his coat's hem.
"You'll clean up yourself?"
"Yeah."
"Next time, no one might show this lucky."
Jason didn't reply, bending for the metal cable.
Chen Lei watched him tie, sudden: "Don't lean on system eyes. It fails sometimes—people spot faster."
Jason, tying, looked up, faint: "Your code-in?"
Chen Lei: "Not yours."
"Not assigned, but you're always here helping."
Chen Lei didn't deny, stepping out, pausing: "Left a wire loop at west alley, links your main terminal—trouble, tap, it rings three seconds."
Jason: "Call that what?"
Chen Lei: "Outer line. Case you forget backup, keeps you breathing."
Jian Ci, aside, tsked, grinning: "Sappy."
Chen Lei walked.
Night heavy outside, blood wet on the ground.
Jason stood, shoulder lighter.
He eyed the cable, silent, coiling it, pocketing.
Not over. He knew.
Tonight's men came to kill, to test.
They lost.
But tests weren't done. Next, ask:
Who sent that order, and who watched them die, never showing?
Jason gazed at the night, low: "Some debts, unsettled, keep me up."
Section Five: Alice Takes the Stage
Rustmouth's night unlit, but the air outside Fifth Warehouse shifted.
Blocks away, a sharp metal clank—not combat, like a snapped wire's signal plate hitting tin.
Jason's eyes flicked, peering.
Jian Ci drew his short blade, half-stepping to the door.
"Not Chen Lei," he said. "He doesn't land loud."
Jason said nothing, loosening his shoulder's bandage, right hand hanging, palm bloodied.
A zzzt of current sounded, as if someone stepped on a broken cable.
A figure emerged, steps crisp, steady.
Black windbreaker, low hood, wielding a rewired short gun, barrel faintly glowing.
"Anyone still kicking?" she said, voice raspy, half-awake.
No reply.
She raised the gun, firing once at a slumped assassin feigning death, clean, no hesitation.
He stayed down.
Jason watched: "Not late."
"I know," Alice replied, doffing her hood, holstering the gun. "Five minutes later, you're done."
Jian Ci squinted: "Whose side?"
"Mind your own," she snapped. "I wired four points, three hours, no system ping—I knew something's off."
Jason, soft: "Where?"
"Signal relay tower base, Sixth Stretch public lines," she paused. "Few can tamper there. I saw the data—someone messed with your signal."
Jason didn't smile, nodded.
Alice stepped up, eyeing his bloodied shoulder, tearing her pack, pulling a med wrap.
"Not binding? Playing tough?"
Jason didn't take it.
She tossed it: "Drop the cold act. You die, my lines are for nothing."
Jason grabbed the wrap, binding slowly, silent.
Jian Ci leaned on a rack, smirking: "Care that much? Got a crush?"
Alice shot him a look: "One more word, I test your kidney's pulse."
Jian Ci grinned, silent.
Jason bound the wound, stood, asking: "Didn't you say you're out of this mess?"
"I was," Alice said. "But I saw you enter, system off for a stretch."
"Not lag—you set a blind spot."
Jason didn't deny.
Alice continued: "You bet they'd strike, bet no one'd help."
Jason met her eyes: "You came."
"So you're not dead," she pointed at his wound. "Don't die next time—I'm not your nanny."
Chen Lei returned, seeing three, silent, hauling two escaped ambushers.
"These didn't run far," he said. "Came for your name, mouths tough."
Jason glanced: "Let them go."
Jian Ci frowned: "Release?"
"Stray dogs bark loudest," Jason said. "Hear them out, you'll know who tossed the bone."
Alice watched, sudden laugh.
"You," she said, "are damn ruthless. I like that."
Jason glanced, no smile: "You staying?"
She paused three seconds, slow: "I'll stay, but I'm no one's. Just watching what you do next."
Jason nodded: "Unbound's fine, I won't mind."
"But you acted—that's your call, not mine."
Alice, faint: "I don't want you dead. You're young, full of tricks—fun. Dead's no fun."
Jason turned, walking, low: "From tonight, this street remembers—they didn't fail to kill me. They couldn't."