Chapter 641

"What? What the hell is going on?!"

After saying goodbye to Jessica, Moira returned to her command vehicle and began going over the plan again in her head, looking for anything that could be tightened up. She wanted the operation to go as smoothly as possible.

Then, without warning, an earsplitting alarm went off.

Moira frowned and immediately raised her arm, tapping open the data terminal mounted along her forearm. A map appeared across the screen. In one corner, a bright red marker flashed once...

Then vanished.

Her expression changed instantly.

Click.

She snapped the terminal shut and pressed a finger against her earpiece.

"Farrell, respond immediately. Where are you?"

"Pharah here. Currently on patrol."

Farrell was already in the air, clad in her powered flight armor as she cruised through the night sky. With no specific assignment, she was flying in an energy-saving mode, keeping both her speed and engine noise low enough that most people below would never notice her.

Tonight’s operation had already gone off script once. Moira had no intention of allowing a second failure.

That was why she’d called Pharah into reserve. With an aerial unit standing by, emergency support or extraction could be provided immediately if anything went wrong.

Moira exhaled softly at the familiar response.

"Luther’s signal just disappeared. Get to the last location immediately. Prepare for support... or recovery."

Every member of Blackwatch carried a tracking device during operations. Since Moira was directing the mission, all of those signals were routed through her portable command terminal.

And just moments ago, Luther’s had vanished.

That could mean only one thing.

These weren’t cheap civilian trackers that lost signal because someone entered a tunnel or stepped inside an elevator. The equipment they used was military-grade.

If the signal had disappeared completely, Luther had almost certainly run into serious trouble.

Moira’s mind immediately went to the worst possible conclusion.

He’s dead.

And if Luther really had been killed, there was one thing that absolutely could not be allowed to happen.

His body had been personally modified by the Eredar Twins. There was no chance she would permit a specimen like that to be left lying around where anyone could find it.

It had to be recovered.

Preferably delivered straight to her laboratory.

Moira had wanted to dissect him for quite some time now. His death would certainly be a loss, but perhaps there was another way to look at it.

A body like that could still contribute something.

Surely, if Luther were able to learn that even his death had allowed him to continue serving the Twins, he’d be honored.

"Understood."

The response from Pharah was brief and professional.

High above the streets, she abruptly pulled her body upright.

Jets of compressed air burst from her armor. The enormous metal wings on her back unfolded, exposing the turbines mounted along their frames.

The engines roared to life.

Bright flames erupted behind her.

Under the sudden burst of thrust, her trajectory snapped almost ninety degrees in midair.

A few sharp-eyed New Yorkers happened to look up just in time to catch a brilliant orange point streaking across the clouds.

They watched it disappear.

Then they lowered their heads and went back to whatever they’d been doing.

An unidentified flying object?

Please.

This was New York.

It was probably just Tony Stark screwing around again.

The man Moira had already mentally pronounced dead was, in fact, still alive.

Barely.

Luther was the very same patron who had been inside Luke Cage’s bar when the explosion hit.

He had taken the blast head-on.

What remained of his clothes hung from his body in scorched, shredded pieces. Much of his skin was covered in black soot, making his naturally dark complexion look as though he’d spent three days rolling around in a coal pit.

Fortunately, most of the damage was superficial.

He wasn’t burned.

Not seriously, anyway.

After all, his body had been rebuilt and reinforced with fel energy by the Eredar Twins. Getting injured by ordinary flames would have been so humiliating that Moira suspected the Twins might personally kick him into a vat of lava for some hands-on heat-resistance training.

But Luther wasn’t the one having the worst night.

That distinction belonged to Luke Cage.

The massive Black man had been getting absolutely dismantled.

Luther had caught him in a brutal combination, battering him before Luke could properly recover. But even the toughest man had a limit.

Tonight had already been bad enough.

First, Luke had been mentally manipulated.

Then the only thing of value his late wife had left behind had been destroyed in the explosion.

And now some stranger had shown up and started beating the hell out of him for no apparent reason.

Eventually, even Luke Cage ran out of patience.

He waited for an opening, planted his hands against the ground, and launched himself forward.

Unlike the straightforward brute force he usually relied on, Luke suddenly moved with surprising speed and precision. He closed the distance in an instant, getting inside Luther’s reach before throwing himself into a close-quarters exchange.

He’d already taken several blows from that monstrous mechanical arm.

Luke knew better than to underestimate it.

His skin was famously tough, and his body could absorb impacts that would pulp ordinary people. But the sheer force behind Luther’s mechanical fist still transmitted through his defenses.

Every heavy hit sent his organs shuddering.

Luke knew exactly what would happen if he kept taking those punches.

From the outside, he might look perfectly fine.

Inside, things would be much uglier.

That enormous mechanical arm was powerful, but size came with a weakness.

It needed room to move.

So long as Luke stayed close and kept the distance between them tight, Luther wouldn’t have enough space to make full use of it.

That was the theory.

In practice, Luke quickly discovered that getting close hadn’t exactly solved his problem.

Taking advantage of the opening, he drove two punches into Luther, one into the chest and another straight into the face.

Luther barely reacted.

He simply took the hits, stumbled back half a step, and came forward again.

Then came Luther’s counterattack.

Luke’s eyes widened.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?"

The man looked like he’d walked out of a luxury boardroom. Luther had spent the last few days coming into the bar regularly, always dressed like some polished executive. Then the explosion had stripped away the disguise and revealed the frightening strength underneath.

And that mechanical gauntlet attached itself to his right arm.

It was the kind of weapon that looked like it belonged in a science-fiction movie.

But apparently, all that high-tech hardware hadn’t taught Luther how to fight like a civilized human being.

He stomped on Luke’s toes.

Kicked his knee.

Went for his eyes.

Honestly, the only thing missing was spitting in his face.

It wasn’t superhero combat.

It was street-brawl fighting.

Black-market, back-alley, gang-member fighting.

Thankfully, Luke had spent enough years in Harlem dealing with gangsters that none of it shocked him anymore.

He blocked Luther’s next low strike, barely avoiding a vicious shot between the legs, and immediately answered with a right hook.

Luther caught the punch with his normal hand.

Luke’s expression changed.

He tried to yank his arm free.

Nothing.

He pulled again.

Still nothing.

Luther’s grip tightened.

Oh, hell.

The giant mechanical arm rose.

Luke looked up just in time to see it coming down.

CRACK.

Luther slammed the massive fist into Luke’s trapped arm.

Luke screamed.

He had no idea whether the bones had actually broken.

He only knew that every nerve in his body seemed to be on fire.

Luther shifted his stance, twisting just enough to create the space he needed.

Then he drove his free fist into Luke’s head.

The impact launched Luke through the air.

He hit the ground hard.

For once, the man who was practically famous for being impossible to hurt didn’t get back up.

The fight was over.