But what he didn't know was that the moment he left, the blue figure on the bed suddenly opened its eyes in the darkness.
Golden beast eyes, without focus, only a cold void.
The dilapidated Dodge on the street corner was part of a three-hundred-dollar package deal he'd acquired, which included a wad of cash.
The intelligence broker, Ghost, had said, "The 'fireworks' deal you're looking for is at Pier Nine. Whether you can catch a fish depends on your luck."
That's enough.
The old car's lights flickered on after half an hour of trying, then plunged into the capillaries of New York's late-night streets.
Brooklyn Pier Nine.
The salty smell of the sea, mixed with the stench of rust and dead fish, assailed his nostrils.
Huge cranes stood like grounded steel monsters in the night.
Lynt abandoned his car in the distance, put on a greasy work uniform, and smeared some ash on his face.
In a second, he transformed from a pretty boy into a common dock worker, a poor soul risking his life for a few bucks.
A drop of water dissolving into a sewer.
His enhanced five senses, sharpened by his battle with Mystique, quickly scanned the surroundings.
He could hear the faint whine of a screw in the sea breeze a hundred meters away.
After a moment of searching… he found it.
Lynt's eyes narrowed, like a sniper scope locking onto a target.
On top of the tall stack of containers, in the deepest shadow.
A dark figure blended with the darkness itself.
If not for his enhanced mental perception detecting the faint, almost nonexistent heartbeat, he would never have known someone was there.
Natasha Romanoff.
The Black Widow.
Her pitch-black, tight-fitting combat suit clearly outlined her deadly physique.
Truly captivating.
A gust of wind made her red hair flicker like a flame.
She was holding binoculars, monitoring the center of the pier.
Lynt didn't move.
Like an old hunter, he watched not only the prey but also what the prey was focused on.
His gaze quickly swept across the entire pier, engraving the terrain, cover, and escape routes into his mind.
Soon, he found a perfect prop for his stage.
Not far away, a huge cargo container stood precariously, leaning due to ground subsidence. One of its securing buckles had rusted through, making it look unstable.
A perfect variable.
He wasn't here for a romantic encounter; he was here for an interview.
And an interview required a show of loyalty.
Hero saving the beauty?
Clichéd.
But effective.
Especially when the hero looks as weak as a chicken and is utterly bewildered, the dramatic effect is maximized.
Half an hour later.
Two black vans drove in silently.
A group of burly Russians disembarked, all in suits, with bulging temples – clearly not good people.
On the other side, a few figures in dark green combat suits emerged from the shadows.
Their movements were synchronized, their eyes hollow, like robots.
Lynt's pupils suddenly contracted.
Hydra!
Damn, I came to the right place!
Business is booming!
Sure enough, when the two groups were inspecting the goods, something went wrong in their conversation.
The Russian boss jumped back and roared something in Russian.
The next second.
Gunfire erupted!
The muzzle flashes of automatic rifles tore through the night, sparks flying as bullets hit the containers!
Natasha moved.
She sprang from the shadows like a panther, landing silently.
The two Glocks in her hands were like the scythes of death.
With every twitch of her gun, a Hydra soldier's head burst open, and they tumbled down like felled trees.
But there were too many Hydra agents.
They quickly spotted the female assassin emerging from the flank, and half of their firepower instantly poured towards her!
A fan-shaped encirclement, a crossfire net.
Textbook tactical suppression!
Natasha's figure weaved and dodged between the containers, but her maneuvering space was shrinking.
She was pinned down.
Lynt grinned.
It was his time to perform.
His heart began to pound like a drum—it was excitement!
He stared intently at the battlefield.
A Hydra soldier, crouching, moved to Natasha's blind spot!
Just as she rolled to evade a barrage, before she could regain her footing!
The soldier raised his hand and fired a shot!
Whoosh—!
A bullet tore through the air, heading straight for Natasha's back!
At that position, at that moment, even a god couldn't dodge it!
Now!
Lynt's eyes blazed! He didn't charge out, but instead spun around and slammed into the large, crooked cargo container he had chosen earlier!
He poured all his strength, twisted into a single rope, into his right shoulder!
Damn it!
Bang—!
His shoulder hit the steel with a dull thud!
Creak… squeak… snap!
The rusted buckle let out its most agonizing shriek, breaking on impact!
Balance, shattered!
The multi-ton steel behemoth, losing its only support, began to tilt!
In slow motion, with an aura that seemed to crush the sky, it crashed down with a roar!
Boom!!!
The entire pier trembled with the impact!
The ground beneath Natasha's feet felt like it had been struck by a hammer!
The bullet?
Clang!
A crisp sound.
The bullet, aimed at her back, struck the thick steel plate, like a pebble thrown by a child, only chipping off a bit of paint.
Dust filled the air.
The gunfire across the entire battlefield paused for half a second because of this.
A deathly silence.
Natasha spun around, and through the dust, she saw a man in a dirty work uniform.
His face was pale, and he was scrambling to get up from the ground, his eyes filled with terror and bewilderment, as if asking, "What the hell is this place, what happened?"
His acting was flawless.
Damn it, the Oscars owe me a little golden man!
However, he chose the wrong person to perform for—Natasha Romanoff.
Astonishment lingered in her green eyes for only half a second.
It was immediately replaced by a cold, sharp, surgical gaze of scrutiny.
She didn't even look at the startled Hydra agents.
Because her internal threat assessment system instantly flagged this unexpected event as the highest level of threat!
A dock worker?
Appearing right beside her in a hail of bullets?
Using an impossible method, in a fraction of a second, to collapse a multi-ton cargo container, perfectly blocking a fatal bullet?
In Natasha's world, there were no coincidences.
Such an event, with a probability infinitely close to zero, had only one explanation—it was planned.
She didn't even need to think; her body instinctively reacted with the utmost professionalism.
The dark muzzle of the gun, without a single tremor, rested steadily against Lynt's forehead.
Her voice, husky and sensual, whispered next to his ear, yet it was colder than the metal of the gun.
"Don't move."
She paused, then uttered three words, each carrying the weight of death.
"Who are you?"
The gun barrel.
Cold metal, pressed firmly against Lynt's forehead.
A mixture of gunpowder and death, stinging his brain.
Lynt's entire body broke out in goosebumps.
Exhilarating.