Noah released his grip on the handlebars entirely, raising his pistol with both hands as the motorcycle continued its trajectory toward the armed blockade through pure momentum and supernatural balance.
BANG! BANG!
Two shots rang out in perfect synchronization, the reports blending into what sounded like a single thunderclap.
Through his bullet time perception, Noah watched the projectiles leave his weapon with crystalline clarity. The bullets spun through the air, their trajectories bending in graceful arcs that defied every law of ballistics ever written.
The first bullet curved around a car's bumper like it was following a pre-programmed flight path, entering one gangster's throat and exiting through the back of his neck with enough momentum to continue its deadly journey.
The second projectile followed an even more impossible route, weaving between two vehicles before finding its target's heart, then ricocheting with surgical precision into a second opponent's chest.
Four bodies hit the ground simultaneously.
The surviving Russians stared at their fallen comrades with expressions of profound confusion mixed with existential terror.
"Where did those shots come from?" one of them stammered. "We're behind cover!"
"Two bullets," another whispered. "Only two shots, but four dead..."
Noah didn't give them time to process the impossibility of what they'd witnessed. His pistol began firing with metronomic precision, each shot accompanied by the distinctive curve of bullets that seemed to treat physics as more of a suggestion than a law.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The curved projectiles found their targets with mathematical inevitability, bypassing cover, ricocheting off surfaces, and generally behaving like guided missiles with a particularly vindictive artificial intelligence.
"OPEN FIRE!" screamed the remaining Russians, their voices cracking with panic.
The intersection erupted in automatic weapons fire, muzzle flashes strobing like a deadly light show as a dozen rifles poured lead at the approaching motorcycle.
But Noah was operating in bullet time, his enhanced perception turning the incoming storm of projectiles into a three-dimensional puzzle he could solve with supernatural precision.
The motorcycle weaved between bullets with margin measured in millimeters, Noah's enhanced reflexes threading them through gaps in the gunfire that shouldn't have existed. When evasion wasn't possible, his return shots intercepted incoming rounds with the casual efficiency of a defensive system designed by someone with a physics PhD and anger management issues.
PING! PING! PING!
The sound of bullet-on-bullet collisions created a percussion accompaniment to the symphony of violence, each interception drawing gasps of disbelief from the increasingly desperate Russians.
Frank watched from the rear seat with the fascinated horror of someone witnessing the fundamental laws of reality being systematically violated by a teenager with a handgun.
Curved bullets, Frank's military training struggled to process. Bullets that turn corners. Bullets that ricochet with perfect accuracy. This isn't marksmanship—this is supernatural geometry applied to homicide.
Noah's magazine ran dry, but his reload was so smooth it seemed like the weapon had simply paused to catch its breath. The empty magazine fell away as a fresh one locked into place, all while maintaining perfect accuracy with his ongoing suppressive fire.
Zero recoil, Frank noted as Noah continued his impossible demonstration. His body's absorbing the entire kinetic impact. That's not human physiology.
The remaining gangsters had moved beyond terror into something approaching religious crisis. Their automatic rifles continued firing, but their shots were wild, desperate attempts to hit a target that seemed to exist in a different universe where ballistics worked according to more generous rules.
"Monster!" one of them screamed. "This is impossible! Bullets don't work like that!"
Noah glanced at his ammunition count—three rounds remaining—then at the distance to the intersection. Twenty meters and closing fast.
He raised his pistol casually and fired a single shot at a seemingly random target: a large advertising billboard mounted on the side of a building.
BANG!
The bullet struck the billboard's support cable with surgical precision, sending the massive sign crashing down onto a row of trash cans, creating an improvised ramp that angled perfectly toward the intersection.
He calculated that ricochet angle while driving at highway speed, Frank realized. Accounted for the billboard's weight, the cable tension, the impact point needed to create exactly the right trajectory. This kid's brain is operating like a ballistic computer.
The motorcycle hit the makeshift ramp at full speed, launching them into the air in a graceful arc that carried them directly over the heads of the remaining Russians.
Time seemed suspended as they flew through the night air, Noah rotating in his seat to face their stunned enemies below.
BANG! BANG!
His final two shots traced elegant curves through the air, each bullet following an impossible parabolic path that somehow accounted for gravity, wind resistance, and the motorcycle's trajectory to find their targets with lethal precision.
By the time the motorcycle touched down on the far side of the intersection, twelve bodies lay motionless on the asphalt.
The entire engagement had lasted less than thirty seconds.
The motorcycle's engine growled as they accelerated away from the carnage, leaving behind an intersection that looked like it had hosted a very brief but decisive war.
Minutes later, the backup team arrived to find a scene that would haunt their nightmares for years to come. Twelve experienced soldiers, armed with military-grade weapons and positioned in ideal defensive terrain, had been eliminated by two men on a motorcycle.
The survivors stood in stunned silence, their faces pale as they tried to process the tactical impossibility of what they were seeing.
"How?" one of them whispered.
Nobody had an answer that didn't involve fundamentally reconsidering their understanding of what human beings were capable of.
Frank, still clinging to the rear seat as they roared through Brooklyn's streets, finally found his voice.
"Kid," he said, "we really need to talk."
_________________________________________________________________________
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