If they had taken a plane and arrived in Denver in two hours, Hobbs would've thought nothing of it.
But driving from Los Angeles to Denver in just two hours? That was pure myth.
Hobbs couldn't bring himself to believe Elena's words. To him, it sounded more like she was trying to avoid bringing Hattie to the Los Angeles headquarters, making up some ridiculous excuse in the process.
"Elena, listen," Hobbs said sternly, voice rough with authority. "I know you want to protect Hattie. But this is bigger than you think. You two need to head to headquarters first."
Elena nearly laughed. If she hadn't been in that car herself—if she hadn't seen Leon push the impossible into reality—she'd never have believed it either.
"Sir," she replied, holding back a grin, "we're planning to be in New York within five hours."
"…What?" Hobbs froze. His head spun.
"I suggest you head to the airport right now," Elena continued, teasing a little, "because we'll be in New York before eleven o'clock."
Hobbs stared at his watch. It was 8 PM. That gave them just three hours.
"Are you seriously telling me you're driving there?" Hobbs' mouth went dry.
"Yes," Elena said casually. "Oh, and we had a little run-in with Eteon's forces along the way. You'd better bring heavy firepower."
The image of ten thousand mines going off at once flashed through her mind, sending a chill down her spine.
"Wait for me!!" Hobbs barked, hanging up in a rush. His head was pounding. His worldview was cracking apart.
Driving two hours to Denver? What kind of madman pulled that off? Leon wasn't a man—he was a phenomenon.
Elena had barely hung up when Hattie's phone started ringing.
She glanced at the screen—her brother, Deckard Shaw.
"Brother?" Hattie's voice was weak.
"What's wrong? Is the virus acting up?" Deckard's tone was sharp with worry. He already knew about the bio-weapon inside her. Of course he did—if the world's top mercenary didn't know his sister's situation, what good was his reputation?
Hattie managed a faint smile. "No… I'm fine. Just… the car's moving so fast it feels like my soul can't keep up."
Even at a time like this, she joked. That was her way of telling him it wasn't as bad as it seemed.
"Car?" Deckard frowned. "FBI told me you were still in L.A."
"That was two hours ago," Hattie said flatly.
"…And?"
"And now we're past Denver."
Deckard's jaw almost hit the floor. Even he, with all his experience, couldn't find words. Driving from L.A. to Denver in two hours? No scriptwriter would dare put that on paper.
"…Is it that silver car guy who picked you up?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"No. Black car."
"Leon, isn't it?" Deckard already knew his name.
Hattie looked sideways at Leon, catching his sharp profile under the dashboard lights—handsome, unflinching, radiating raw masculinity.
"Yes. But listen, brother, don't do anything rash."
"Relax. He saved you. I won't touch him."
"That's not what I mean. I'm worried he'll hurt you."
Deckard nearly spat blood. Was this still his little sister? Defending a stranger, and worse, insulting him in the process?
Leon chuckled at the exchange. "Don't worry, Hattie. Your brother's got a good sister. But let me make something clear—if he wants trouble in New York, I'll make sure he spends two weeks in a hospital bed."
His voice carried, and Deckard heard every word.
"Bloody hell!" Deckard snapped back. "Maybe you can outrun me in a car, but in a fight? You've got no chance."
Leon's eyes narrowed. He wasn't about to back down. Sure, Westerners like Deckard had genetic and dietary advantages. Their muscle mass came easier. But that didn't make them unbeatable. Leon had something more—unyielding grit and a taste for danger.
"Say that again when we meet," Leon growled. "And when I shove your hand in your mouth and twist it till it breaks, we'll see who laughs last."
The tension crackled over the line. Hattie pressed her temples. Great. Two men with short fuses, and they hadn't even met face-to-face yet.
"Enough! Both of you!" she snapped, cutting through the testosterone standoff. "Leon will get me to New York by eleven. You can come in the morning, brother."
"…Fine. I'm on my way," Deckard said after a pause.
The moment the call ended, he was already booking a flight online. Then he bolted downstairs, heading straight for his garage.
His weapon of choice? The McLaren 720S.
The sleek British beast was designed for aerodynamic perfection. Its body lines flowed like liquid metal, its headlights merging seamlessly with the intakes. Underneath, the 4.0L twin-turbocharged V8 roared to life with 710 horsepower, 811Nm of torque. Zero to a hundred in 2.8 seconds. Top speed, 341 km/h.
But compared to Leon's Diomas Nilo, the McLaren was just another toy. Deckard knew it. The McLaren wouldn't get him to New York in time—not without wings. So he drove it only to the airport, where his real ride would be the first flight out. The McLaren would follow later, shipped by air freight.
Slamming the door shut, Deckard muttered, "Leon… interesting. Very interesting."
He dropped the clutch, the McLaren screaming down the street, breaking a hundred in less than two seconds. A testament to his own driving skill—he was no rookie. If Leon was a legend, Deckard was no less a rival.
Back in Leon's car, Hattie hadn't lied. Two helicopters suddenly appeared ahead of them, searchlights locking onto the Diomas Nilo.
But these weren't police choppers.
They belonged to Eteon.
And this time, they weren't holding back.
It was the Apache AH-64, the attack helicopter infamous for battlefield dominance. Armed to the teeth, designed to annihilate tanks—and now, swooping down on one car.
The stakes had just gone nuclear.
~~----------------------
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