Chapter 6 The Hunting Plan
1611 Words
“Tell me your plan.”
Old Doc’s voice sounded like the grinding of rusty gears. His one good organic eye pierced through the clinic’s gloom like a searchlight, pinning me where I stood.
My plan.
Those two words were like a ten-thousand-volt current, searing through nerves already pushed to the brink by “code injection.” My exhaustion was instantly incinerated by a surge of cold, manic energy.
I was no longer the prey.
I was the hunter.
I took a deep breath, the pungent mix of disinfectant and machine oil forcing my chaotic thoughts to settle. I didn't look at the menacing large-caliber handgun on his desk, but walked straight to the concrete floor in the center of the clinic and crouched down.
I dipped a finger into a patch of grease on the floor and drew a rough, straight line.
“Seventh Avenue.” My voice was so steady it sounded foreign even to me.
Then, I drew two parallel lines crossing over the main road.
“The overpass.”
I could feel Old Doc’s gaze—a mixture of scrutiny and a hint of suppressed surprise. He remained silent, like a silent steel statue, waiting for every word that followed.
“My intel shows,” I didn't mention the source—that was my hole card, a weapon bought with my life—“that at four tomorrow afternoon, ‘Bonebreaker’ Brute will be at Warehouse Three under the overpass to receive a shipment of military-grade cybernetic kits. This is his transport route.”
My finger traced a twisted path across the filthy floor, winding through several alleys before merging into Seventh Avenue.
“His route is covered by the eyes of ‘Athena’ like a spiderweb. Any frontal assault would bring security forces down on us within three seconds.” I looked up, my gaze like two bullets aimed straight at Old Doc. “So, I don’t plan to ambush him. I’m going to stage an ‘accident’ for him.”
“The New Atlantis weather forecast calls for heavy acid rain tomorrow afternoon,” I continued, feeling a cold program within me take over everything. “Acid rain interferes with low-end optics and makes the roads as slick as oil. That is my first ally.”
My finger jabbed hard at a complex interchange on the map. “Here is center stage. Brute’s convoy will come down this ramp. Right here, I’ll use my ability to cause a fully loaded freight truck to ‘accidentally’ lose control and plow into the guardrail. I don’t need to kill anyone; I just need to create a spectacular enough chaos to completely choke off Seventh Avenue.”I paused, studying every wrinkle on Old Doc’s face. He was like the harshest of examiners, chewing on my every word.
“Brute is a volatile maniac, and he’s in a rush to move that shipment. A traffic jam will ignite his fuse. Based on behavioral analysis, there’s a better than ninety percent chance he’ll ditch the main road and take a shortcut.” My finger jabbed toward a narrow, shadow-drenched alley beneath the overpass. “This is my slaughterhouse.”
I finished.
Dead silence.
The only sound in the clinic was the rhythmic *ticking* of acid rain against the shipping containers outside, like a stopwatch counting down the seconds of Brute’s life.
Old Doc remained silent for a full minute, his piercing eyes scanning back and forth between the crude map I’d drawn and my face.
“The plan is precise,” he finally said, his voice as raspy as sandpaper. “You’ve factored in the weather, the terrain, even his personality. But you’ve overlooked the most lethal variable.”
He jabbed the tip of his metal cane hard against the line representing Brute. “You overlooked the man himself. He didn't earn the name ‘Bonebreaker’ just because of a bad temper. Over eighty percent of his body is military-grade cybernetics—specifically that ‘Berserk’ series exoskeleton. It lets him shrug off tactical rockets. You think a simple traffic accident is going to make him walk meekly into your trap? He’ll be the first one out of the vehicle, using his bare fists to pound that blocking truck into scrap metal!”
Cold dread instantly gripped my heart. That damn detail hadn't been in the files I’d intercepted.
“And,” Old Doc’s voice hammered down, each word a heavy blow, “even if he *does* enter that alley, how do you plan to kill him? With that little trick of yours, bending bullets? Ordinary rounds wouldn't even leave a scratch on him! He’ll rip you in half like he’s opening a beer can!”
Cold sweat instantly soaked my back. I thought I had everything under control, but I’d underestimated how terrifying my prey really was. My confidence, once a swelling balloon, shriveled instantly against the sharp edge of reality.
Old Doc looked at my ashen face and let out a disdainful grunt. He turned back to the table and picked up the strangely shaped bullet.
“Your plan is sound,” he said, cradling the bullet in his palm. “It’s just missing a can opener to pry open the can.”
He held the bullet out to me.I took it. It felt cold and heavy in my hand. Its tip wasn't metal, but a deep blue crystal, its surface etched with circuitry patterns nearly invisible to the naked eye.
“EMP Armor-Piercing round.” Old Doc’s voice held a hint of cold pride, as if introducing his most prized masterpiece of murder. “The moment it hits the target, it releases a high-intensity EMP, frying all electronic components within a thirty-centimeter radius. The core is a depleted uranium alloy, capable of penetrating ten centimeters of composite armor.”
My breath caught. This wasn't a goddamn bullet; it was a work of art. A work of art built for the s*******r of augmented monsters.
“But,” Old Doc’s voice became incredibly grim, like a block of ice, “it has a fatal flaw. The EMP field is extremely unstable; once triggered, it immediately throws off the core’s trajectory. So, its effective range is no more than five meters. And, I only have this one.”
Only one.
One shot.
“Brute is heavily armored all over, with only one exception.” Old Doc pointed a finger at his own right eye. “His optical sensor, that crimson cybernetic eye. It’s the neural interface directly linked to his ‘Berserk’ system, and the weakest point in his entire cybernetic defense. You must hit him there. If you’re off by a millimeter, you’re the one who dies.”
I clenched the bullet tight, its coldness seemingly freezing the very marrow of my bones. A meticulous assassination had instantly turned into a gamble with near-zero odds of success.
Despair flooded in like a tide, nearly drowning me. But strangely, the fear in my eyes burned away under the extreme pressure, turning to ash. I looked at the crude map on the floor, at the bullet in my hand that would decide my fate, and a sense of resolute madness erupted from the depths of my soul.
There was no turning back.
I tucked the large-caliber pistol and the single bullet into the back of my waistband, then crouched down again. Without a word, I grabbed a handful of screws, gears, and scrap chips from the nearby junk pile.
They were my chess pieces.
On the floor, I ran through the hunt over and over again.
The angle of the truck’s skid. The prime spot for the gridlock. Every detour Brute might choose. Every usable piece of cover in the alley, every corner where I could hide.I gamed out every move he might make and how I’d counter it. My brain became an overclocked processor, cramming in every variable—weather, terrain, weapons, enemy weaknesses, my own abilities—and crunching the data with manic intensity.
Time ticked away.
I lost count of how many simulations I ran, until every scrap part in the clinic had been scattered across every corner of the map. In my mind, the entire hunt was as clear as if it had already taken place.
I stood up.
Fear and doubt were gone from my eyes. Only a cold, hunter’s focus remained.
Countdown: 24 hours.
I walked to the door, pulled up the hood of my "Ghost Coat," and merged into the shadows.
"I'm going," I said to Old Doc, without looking back.
"Nova," he suddenly called out.
I stopped in my tracks. It was the first time he had used my name.
I turned around and saw him pointing at the fluorescent circuit board symbol I had drawn on the map, located between the comms relay and the alley entrance. His expression was more solemn than I had ever seen it.
"This mark," he said slowly, "you know what it stands for?"
I shook my head.
"The 'Webweavers'." Old Doc’s voice was hushed, as if spitting out a filthy secret. "A hacker collective from the Sinks—a bunch of lunatics even crazier than I am, and Athena's sworn enemies. You’d better pray your plan doesn't have anything to do with them."
My heart seized up. A new, unknown variable had been thrown into my already overloaded equation.
But I was out of time.
I gave Old Doc a long look, etching the warning into my mind.
"Thanks," I said.
Then, I turned and pushed open the door, stepping without hesitation into the dark, gathering storm outside.
Alone, I walked toward my battlefield.
- Writer
