The deafening blasts of C4 and RPG rockets echoed far into the silent, pitch-black night, loud enough for the west side crowd to hear.
"Holy shit! Was that an explosion?"
"Sounds like it!"
"Is Jason pulling a fucking diversion?"
…
As the gawking crowd stood there, dumbfounded, plainclothes soldiers blended into the masses and alleys got the call to move out to the other three districts' banks.
Military orders were ironclad—no delays.
The soldiers sprinted to their disguised vehicles parked along the streets, floored the gas, and sped toward their targets.
With the soldiers gone, the crowd noticeably thinned.
Even the slowest onlookers caught on: the people standing next to them had been undercover troops.
First the explosions, then the soldiers peeling out—Jason's diversion to hit other banks seemed confirmed.
As the crowd buzzed with speculation, the anchorwoman jumped in to control the narrative.
"We've just received breaking news: three groups of robbers have attacked banks in L.A.'s east, north, and south districts. Police suspect they're under Jason's command."
"Looks like Jason's no idiot. He knows Stark Bank is a death trap, so he chickened out. In my book, this challenge is over. Stark wins!"
…
Three hundred Iron Warriors were holed up in Stark Bank, waiting for Jason to show up.
Suddenly, their armor's comms crackled to life with the security chief's voice.
"Change of plans. Jason's hitting other spots in L.A. Mr. Stark's ordering support. Teams One, Two, Three, and Four, head to the underground garage and link up with the military. Teams Five and Six, hold the vault and keep your eyes peeled for Jason sneaking in."
Jason smirked coldly. Looks like Christine and the crew were pulling it off.
The chief had split the three hundred Iron Warriors into six teams: One and Two guarded the main entrance, Three and Four covered the garage entrance, and Five and Six lurked near the vault. Jason, by sheer luck, was in Team Six.
On command, four teams—two hundred Iron Warriors total—clomped in their heavy armor to the garage's open area.
Minutes later, dozens of armored vehicles rolled in, loading up the two hundred Iron Warriors to race toward the three hit banks.
The underground vault area was left with just Teams Five and Six—a hundred men.
Learning Jason was robbing other banks, the remaining Iron Warriors figured Stark Bank was in the clear. They let their guard down.
Stuck in their armor for hours, hot and bored, some started chatting, while others played a dumb game of guess-who by voice.
Jason, meanwhile, silently counted the minutes since the armored vehicles left. After a good chunk of time, he decided it was go-time.
He stood, leaving the shadowed corner and heading toward the vault.
The clank of his armor drew attention.
"Hey, dude, where are you going?"
"What, need the bathroom?"
"Good luck. This armor needs help to get off. Just piss your pants for now."
The men cracked up, laughing their asses off.
Jason ignored them, keeping his pace toward the vault.
A moment later, someone sensed something was off.
"Hey! Stop! That's the vault—you can't go in there!"
Instead of slowing, Jason broke into a full sprint.
The Iron Warriors froze, jaws dropping.
As former SEALs, their stamina, strength, and skills pushed human limits.
But even for them, three hundred pounds of gear was a bitch. They could barely shuffle, and a short jog left them gasping.
Yet this guy was sprinting like an Olympian, the three-hundred-pound load like fucking nothing.
"Stop, or I'll shoot!"
"Hold your fire—he's one of us!"
"Maybe he just wants a peek at the billion in cash."
As the warriors argued, Jason whipped around, squeezing the trigger of his heavy machine gun.
Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat!
Orange casings spewed from the barrel, clinking rhythmically on the floor.
Jason's level-8 marksmanship wasn't good enough for perfect aim while running.
But most of the armor-piercing rounds still slammed into the weakest spot of the Iron Armors—the neck.
"Argh!"
In seconds, five or six guards took hits to the neck, collapsing as blood pooled across the floor.
"Shit! He's with Jason!"
"Light him up!"
"Don't let him near the vault!"
…
Seeing their comrades gunned down, the Iron Warriors snapped out of it, roaring with rage and unloading on Jason.
Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat!
Hundreds of heavy machine guns fired, bullets pouring like a monsoon.
Jason spun and bolted, letting the storm of armor-piercing rounds slam into his armor.
The warriors' aim was nowhere near Jason's, and their helmet displays, with their slight lag, threw them off even more.
Most of their shots missed, only a few pinging Jason's back.
But aside from the chest and head plates, the back armor was the toughest part of the suit. The warriors couldn't focus fire on one spot.
So, despite the hail of bullets looking like a swarm of pissed-off bees, they did jack shit to Jason.
Gotta hand it to Stark Industries—their gear was smooth as hell.
With the vault in sight, Jason's heart pounded with excitement.
'One billion in cash, here I come!'
…
The vault's cameras, linked to the giant screens outside the bank and streaming online, caught everything.
The crowd below, thinking the night's show was a bust and ready to head home, froze when a black-armored Iron Warrior burst onto the screen.
What the fuck was that?
Some Hollywood blockbuster shit?
Onlookers stopped dead, eyes glued to the massive screen on the building's side.
The Iron Warrior paused mid-run, flipped the bird at the camera, and then opened fire with his machine gun, blasting the camera to bits.
The feed cut out, screens and TVs turning to static with a harsh buzz.
After a stunned moment, the crowd realized what was up and erupted in excitement.
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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
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