mtl008 Chapter 4551 The Day of Brightest Day ( )
Chapter 4551 The Day of Brightest Day ( )
Chapter 4551 The Sun of Dawn (Part 10)
Scalding flames grazed the edge of the black and yellow armor, bullets shattered the terrorists charging from behind, the deafening roar causing the waves beneath the ship to tremble. The tall figure turned around in disbelief, saw the shattered corpses, then turned back to look at the revolver: "Where the hell did that tank cannon come from?!"
This weapons expert was now somewhat nostalgic for the requirements of the humanitarian conventions—it was clearly stated that anti-aircraft guns were not allowed to be laid flat!
The remaining terrorists who had charged after their shattered target slammed on the brakes upon seeing this. Their professional mercenary instincts caused their drawn swords to spin like meat grinder blades, cleaving the others into pieces.
The deck was a blood-red mess. The remaining terrorists put up a last-ditch effort, trying to fire their guns, but after discovering that their bullets were completely blocked by their greatswords and armor, they mumbled something and jumped into the sea.
The tall figure didn't continue the chase. Instead, he put the greatsword back behind him and turned to look at Schiller, who was leaning against the side of the cabin. He straightened his slightly wrinkled gloves, crossed his arms, and looked at Schiller, saying, "The FBI can't be so poor they can't even afford earplugs, can they?"
Schiller ignored him, preoccupied with wiping the blood from his ear. He certainly recognized the tall, strong mercenary, but his presence here was certainly not good news.
Deathstroke. The world's strongest mercenary, a weapons master proficient in almost every weapon. He possesses the highest mountain and longest river in the Teen Titans' enemy pool. He goes to Gotham only to do three things: eat, sleep, and beat up Robin.
Of course, messing with the birds in the bat family is just a side job for him; he's a legitimate assassin and mercenary. In that sense, it's not surprising that he appears in Africa and the Middle East.
In reality, Deathstroke takes the high-end route, primarily accepting assassination jobs; he wouldn't become a common soldier and cannon fodder. While the situation near the Red Sea is chaotic, there aren't many decent jobs available. His presence here is truly suspicious.
Deathstroke seemed to realize that Schiller couldn't hear him. He bent down, pulled a syringe from his belt, tossed it to Schiller, and said, "Anti-inflammatory. Tell me, what are you doing here?"
Schiller took the syringe, examined it, and said sincerely, "It's a great help." Then he added in his mind, "Especially for Egypt."
After the injection, the medication wasn't working immediately. The two of them sat down on seats at the back of the deck. Schiller could feel his body temperature dropping. As he examined the gun he'd gotten from the robbers, he said, "Believe it or not, I wasn't after you. I thought they were looking for me, but it seems I took the fall for you."
“That’s not necessarily true,” Deathstroke said. “On my way here, I came across a checkpoint. They were targeting white people, and they were even arresting people who didn’t look armed. This is clearly the trouble you caused.”
Schiller narrowed his eyes. This wasn't right. The hijackers should already think he was dead, after all, they watched the plane sink. If they were really looking for him, it meant that it wasn't just one group that wanted him dead.
What are you doing here?
What are you doing here?
The two asked almost simultaneously. Deathstroke, having somehow acquired a can of soda, lifted the lower half of his mask, took a sip, and said, “A conflict broke out between two armed groups. One of them intercepted one of my employer’s ships and transferred its contents overland to a place it shouldn’t have been. I have to retrieve or destroy the contents to avoid implicating the wrong people.”
The death knell's words were meaningless. Such things happen countless times every day in this place. However, Schiller was a master in this regard. He said, "A shipment of important goods ended up here through illegal and violent means. I have to make sure the goods and people return, or at least meet their maker on time."
This kind of thing is all too common. In this entire region, whether or not cargo ships can actually transport goods depends entirely on luck. For most of the year, they're dodging missiles, and for the other half, they're outwitting pirates. Anything bizarre can happen.
“Great,” said Deathstroke. “We can go our separate ways now. You better be sure you’re not after me, as you say. Otherwise, even that tank cannon in your hand won’t save you—by the way, where did you get that thing?”
"That's a long story. Do you know Zeus?"
Before Deathstroke could answer, the ship lurched violently, nearly tilting to the side. Schiller instinctively grabbed the armrest of his seat, but Deathstroke, being too heavy, snapped the armrest he was holding and slammed heavily against the opposite railing.
The boat then capsized again, causing both men to slam heavily against the cabin wall. This impact was particularly devastating for Schiller's dominant hand; a sharp pain shot through his shoulder blade, likely indicating a fracture.
Then the ship began to slowly tilt in another direction, indicating it had been sunk. The people on board started screaming and running for their lives. Schiller crept to the front of the deck and glanced at the ship that had rammed them. It was probably some small local armed group, but in any case, it was a regular army. They were all wearing hooded camouflage and carrying standard weapons; some were even firing at the deck.
Then they got what they deserved. The death knell fell from the sky, routing their enemies. Blood once again stained the sea red, but Schiller had a bad feeling.
“Come back!!” he shouted at the ship.
Boom! A burst of intense flames shot into the sky, and the already small ship was blown into a small mushroom cloud. Schiller didn't see the death knell, but only a two-handed sword that was blasted more than ten meters high and slowly fell to the sea.
After the gunfire and explosions ceased, Schiller rushed to the other side of the deck, gripping the railing and looking down. The seawater was completely stained crimson, and it seemed there were no survivors. But an explosion of that magnitude couldn't have killed Deathstroke; he was probably just stunned.
Or it could simply be an unavoidable, brief moment of mental blankness caused by the violent impact. This is the downside of wearing a balaclava instead of a full-face helmet for show—the shock absorption is too poor. Getting hit in the face by an explosion will cause you to stiffen up.
Sure enough, a black and yellow figure rose from the sea. His armor was barely damaged, but he was clearly a little dazed from the shock. Schiller immediately threw the nearby water pipe down. Soon, Deathstroke, regaining his senses, shook his head and swam over, grabbing the pipe and climbing ashore.
Schiller sized him up. This professional equipment was truly impressive. He'd taken a missile to the face, a mushroom cloud had formed, and only his clothes were slightly dirty. But what puzzled him was why Deathstroke had jumped up there. This tactical mastermind couldn't possibly be unaware that the other side might be planning a suicide attack.
Before he could ask, Deathstroke said, "I know the ship will explode, but I still have to get it. Otherwise, do you expect this thing to get us to our destination?"
They both looked down at the ship. By then, the ship was sinking badly, and most people had already jumped overboard. The two of them didn't jump, not because there was anything to cherish about this ship, but because no one could guarantee that the next ship wouldn't suffer the same fate.
The two men stood at the bow of the sinking ship, speechless. Deathstroke looked at Schiller first and said, "It seems you've had quite a journey."
“I’m afraid you’re not bad either,” Schiller said, looking at him.
"Nothing much, just being chased all the way from Norway to here by law enforcement agencies from 16 countries," Deathstroke said nonchalantly.
Schiller opened his mouth, but said nothing more. He thought hijacking a wide-body airliner was already a major undertaking, but he hadn't expected there to be such a mastermind involved. Deathstroke truly lived up to his title as the world's number one mercenary.
Schiller didn't want to get entangled with such a person, because he didn't need fame to get orders. Or rather, his current fame was already too great, which was why that woman who manufactured handheld tank cannons had approached him. Although he didn't know who was chasing Deathstroke across half the globe, he was definitely in deep trouble. Working with him would likely drag him into an even bigger vortex.
But it's obvious that without cooperating with him, the journey to Egypt would be even more difficult. It just goes to show how incredibly complex the Middle East is.
Actually, Schiller had been here before. Although his agency wasn't responsible for foreign law enforcement, his authority was broader than stipulated. He had also participated in some operations in the surrounding area.
However, when he carried out his mission, the country he "represented" still held considerable control over the area. Although various small armed groups were emerging, few dared to provoke them, let alone launch such a large-scale and frenzied pursuit.
Clearly, the bald eagle of this universe is rather unrefined, seemingly completely ignoring this mess. As a result, it's hundreds of times more chaotic than Schiller had imagined. Numerous factions, large and small, have sprung up, committing murder and robbery without restraint—a veritable free-for-all of demons.
Now, Schiller understood Diana a little better. He had initially thought that flying to Egypt to retrieve artifacts couldn't be that difficult for a demigod. Now it seemed that an agent could slap her once, a mercenary twice, and a demigod was even more formidable. She came empty-handed; she'd surely leave carrying tons of missiles.
However, this situation is actually a good thing for mercenaries like Deathstroke. After all, those chasing him might not dare to get involved in this mess. He's plunged headfirst into the mud, and they probably won't dare jump in after him. Even if there were law enforcement officers lying in ambush on the ship, after seeing the explosion, they should have all disguised themselves as passengers and slunk off the ship. This isn't a place where they can run wild.
“Let’s cooperate.” Schiller rolled up his sleeves, rested his hand on the railing at the bow of the ship, and gazed at the azure sea and clear sky. This was the greatest advantage of this place—always sunny, unbelievably clear. The intense ultraviolet rays forced him to frown, his brows pressed tightly against his eyes.
“I never cooperate with law enforcement.”
"Excuse me, I have hearing loss and can't hear you very well. Could you repeat that?" Schiller turned the revolver. The faint hum of the subtle mechanical mechanism could be heard through the railing.
“You have a good gun.” Deathstroke looked at the revolver in his hand and said, “But it looks like you can’t handle it very well.”
“Perhaps the truth is the opposite of what you think.” Schiller put away his gun and looked at the cargo ship slowly approaching in the distance. “If you hadn’t given me that anti-inflammatory drug, we would have a new ship right now.”