After confirming they'd lost their pursuers, Noah guided the motorcycle into a shadowy alley and cut the engine. The sudden silence felt overwhelming after the chaos of their escape.
"Jesus," he breathed, his hands trembling as adrenaline began to ebb from his system.
The transition out of bullet time hit him like a freight train made of exhaustion and organ failure. His heart rate, which had been operating at levels that would have killed a normal person, began its descent back to merely superhuman. The world's temporal flow returned to standard speed, and his body temperature started dropping from "human furnace" to merely "running a serious fever."
Then the crash came.
Every organ in Noah's body had been operating beyond sustainable limits for several minutes straight. His cardiovascular system had been pumping blood at pressures that should have resulted in catastrophic stroke. His nervous system had been processing information at rates that would have fried normal neural pathways.
Even with his Ultimate Stuntman immortality working overtime to prevent permanent damage, the physiological crash was inevitable.
Noah's vision blurred, his legs buckled, and he pitched forward off the motorcycle onto the cold asphalt.
Frank, despite his wounded arm, was off the bike and checking Noah's vitals within seconds. His military medical training kicked in automatically—pulse check, breathing assessment, signs of shock or trauma.
Kid's unconscious but stable, Frank determined. Whatever that enhanced state was, it took everything out of him.
Frank hauled Noah's limp form over his shoulder with his good arm and began moving toward one of his safe houses. They needed somewhere secure to recover, and Noah clearly wasn't going to be functional for a while.
Two hours later, in a nondescript warehouse that Frank had converted into a tactical operations center, Noah woke up to the sound of someone handling very large weapons.
He opened his eyes to find himself on a military cot in what could only be described as a professional-grade armory. Weapon racks lined the walls, ammunition boxes were stacked with military precision, and the air smelled of gun oil and methodical preparation for violence.
This is not a safe house, Noah realized. This is a fortress designed by someone who plans for war.
Frank emerged from behind a rack of assault rifles, his wounded arm now properly bandaged and his tactical vest replaced with a simple black t-shirt that did nothing to diminish his imposing presence.
"Feeling better?" Frank asked, though it sounded more like a tactical assessment than genuine concern.
"Like I got hit by a truck full of lightning," Noah replied, sitting up and immediately noticing the mounted Gatling gun in the corner. "Is that a minigun?"
"M134," Frank confirmed. "And don't touch it."
Noah stood and began examining Frank's arsenal with the appreciation of someone whose supernatural marksmanship abilities allowed him to understand the craftsmanship involved. Every weapon had been modified, customized, and optimized for maximum lethality.
"This Browning's been completely rebuilt," Noah observed, handling Frank's sidearm with professional interest. "Custom barrel, modified trigger group, enhanced recoil compensation. You did this work yourself?"
Frank nodded, slightly impressed that Noah could identify the modifications. "Twenty years of making weapons more efficient at their job."
"I think I could do this too," Noah said, his enhanced understanding of firearms mechanics suddenly providing insights into metallurgy, ballistics, and weapons engineering. "The Ultimate Marksman thing comes with some interesting side knowledge."
"Put the gun down and listen," Frank commanded. "We've got problems."
Noah reluctantly set aside the modified pistol and gave Frank his attention.
"The Russians have put out contracts on both of us," Frank explained. "Big money—enough to bring every bounty hunter, mercenary, and ambitious criminal in New York out of the woodwork."
"Because I disrupted their drug deal?" Noah asked.
"Because you killed Vladimir's younger brother."
Noah blinked. "I did what now?"
"Anatoly Ranskahov. Vladimir's little brother and second-in-command of the Russian mob. He was running that warehouse operation personally."
Oh, Noah thought. That explains the disproportionate response.
"But wait, there's more," Frank continued with the grim satisfaction of someone delivering bad news in bulk. "The other party in that transaction? They were working for Wilson Fisk."
Noah felt his stomach drop. "Fisk. As in Kingpin Fisk?"
"The same. So now you've got bounties from both the Russian mob and New York's most powerful crime lord." Frank's expression could have been carved from granite. "Congratulations, kid. In one night, you've made enemies of two of the most dangerous organizations on the East Coast."
Noah stared at Frank, processing the magnitude of what he'd accidentally accomplished. He'd taken a simple contract to disrupt a criminal operation and somehow managed to declare war on half of New York's organized crime infrastructure.
"The contract didn't mention any of this," Noah said weakly.
"Welcome to the mercenary business," Frank replied. "Intelligence is always incomplete, clients don't tell you everything, and consequences have a way of escalating beyond your original mission parameters."
Noah slumped back onto the cot, suddenly understanding why Wade had seemed so enthusiastic about revenge missions. At least when you were hunting specific people for personal reasons, you knew exactly who was going to try to kill you in return.
"How bad is this?" Noah asked.
"Kingpin's offering five million, the Russians are at ten million," Frank replied, checking his weapon inventory with military efficiency. "Fifteen million total if they manage to take us both alive."
Noah set down the rifle and stared at Frank. "Fifteen million? For one night's work that paid me a hundred thousand?"
"That's 'every professional killer in North America will be coming for you' money," Frank corrected. "You've officially graduated from street-level problems to major-league death threats."
Noah looked around the armory, suddenly understanding why Frank seemed so well-prepared for sustained warfare.
"Frank," he said slowly, "do you think this place has enough weapons to handle that kind of attention?"
Frank followed his gaze across the arsenal, calculating firepower versus probable opposition.
"Kid," he said finally, "we're about to find out."
_________________________________________________________________________
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