Splat!
Blood jumped from the stump of the neck in a thick jet, like a showerhead nobody could shut off.
Ivan had already put a skin of telekinesis over himself. The spray hit the barrier and went nowhere.
"Cute hobby." He had the same kind of X-ray sight Homelander did.
One pass through the house, and he had Igor, the oligarch, on his knees with a woman, working a dildo into her.
She was on all fours on the rumpled sheets, ass up, lace thong yanked to the side. Her thighs were shiny and wet down to the knees, juices running in thin lines every time he shoved the thing deeper.
The rest of the room was the same. Four more working girls in the same state. Two of them had the kind of tits that only come from a surgeon.
They wore almost nothing. Tiny mesh tops that did not cover the underside, strings for bottoms, one of them still had a heel dangling off one foot. Another girl sat on the edge of the bed with her legs open, fingers working herself while she watched, thighs already slick.
"Homelander's Stars and Stripes. That's from my private shelf. Enjoy it, you little bitch." Igor still had no idea death was already in the hallway.
He kept working the dildo in his hand and talked to the other women like a salesman. "Cabinet's got Translucent's Crystal Screamer, Queen Maeve's Justice Strike, The Deep's Halibut Pestle. Black Noir's Silent Screamer. A-Train's Express. I even have Starlight. I call that one the Star That Lights Up the Night.
Pick whatever you want. The collection's full. Hehe~ Pretty much every superhero on the market."
The heavy iron door opened under two hands. Ivan stood there in black casual clothes, smiling at the mess inside.
Igor was a talent, he had to give him that. First man he had ever met who named his dildos.
The girls froze mid-moan.
One of the ones with the oversized plastic tits tried to pull her mesh top down and only made them bounce. Another had her hand still between her legs, fingers glistening.
"Who are you? Killer or government?" Igor stopped what he was doing, shook out the robe, and stood there almost bare, watching Ivan with something careful in his face.
About six-one, gone to fat, a black-and-yellow patterned robe, bald as an egg. He looked exactly like the Russian oligarch in Ivan's head.
"I'm the man here for your life." The room stank. Sweat, sex, perfume, all of it piled on top of itself. Ivan's mouth pulled.
Igor did not rush. He took the whiskey off the side table, sat on the leather sofa, crossed one leg over the other, and looked Ivan in the eye. "You didn't answer me. Government, I put my hands up and walk out with you. Killer, name a number. What's it cost to put you on my side."
"Wow, what an act of maintaining calm. Too bad, your right hand is not being honest."
The words were still in the air when the security in the room took the cue and brought the rifles up together. They dumped fire at Ivan.
Igor rolled off the sofa at the same time, face hard, heaved the thing over, and dragged a general-purpose machine gun out of the hollow. Black receiver. No magazine. A green ammo can and a belt instead.
"Motherfucker! You come into my house? I'll ruin you!" Igor's face twisted and he mashed the trigger.
The muzzle spat red. The kick sent the fat on him jumping in ripples.
The working girls hit the floor, arms over their heads, screaming.
Igor's eyelids started ticking. "What the fuck."
The rounds never pierced the flesh. They hung around Ivan in a cloud, stuck in the air like they had been dropped in mud, like moving an extra centimeter would cost them something.
"Supe! He's an American supe!" one of the guards shouted.
One of the floating bullets kicked backward and buried itself in a man's forehead. Thud!
"Nikolai's dead!" The look on the rest of them broke. Run was suddenly a serious idea.
Thud!Thud!Thud!
Three dull sounds. Three more bodies on the floor, heads opened.
"You…"
Igor sat there like somebody had unplugged him. The calm was gone.
Ivan plucked a round out of the air in front of his face and pinched. The jacket flattened into a dead little sheet of copper.
Igor came back to himself with sweat running. Talk was finished, and he knew it. He bit down and tried to bury the thing in front of him under a volume of fire.
The gun kept going.
The barrel was hot enough by then to cook an egg. Spent casings kept hopping off the floor with that cheap little clink.
Igor's chest was already a mess where the stock had been punching him. He still would not take his finger off the trigger.
"This is a waste of time."
Ivan turned his back on the incoming fire and walked toward the door.
Something bright and stupid crossed Igor's face. There it was. Even a supe had to give ground if you put enough metal in the air. He thought.
"Enough."
Ivan's hands were behind him. The fingers tipped up.
Every round hanging in the room spun. They went the other way all at once. Igor's eyes emptied in the same second the first one hit him. The rest of the belt walked through his body and shook him like a sack of grain until he went down hard and stayed there.
Ivan was gone before any of the women moved. They crept toward the spot on the floor like it might get up.
What was left did not have a face. A smear of meat with bullets set in it.
"Damn.. That fast, aye?" Butcher said it from the truck, actually surprised.
Ivan had walked into the villa and walked back out in three minutes. Maybe less.
The second he started toward them, Hughie and the others pulled their heads in like kids caught at a window.
"Done?" Butcher asked.
Ivan opened the door, sat, and nodded. "Tell them they can collect the body."
...
An hour later Butcher pulled up at the bolt-hole Nina had pointed them at.
"So fellas, we'll rest here. She'll send the pin in a bit." The building in front of them was old and looked it. He took the rusted iron gate in both hands and gave it a shake. It rattled like crazy.
"Fuck." The rot came up into his nose and he did not pretend to like it. "Soviet leftover. Look at this poster. Thing's gone yellow."
He found the switch after groping for it. The room jumped from pitch black to merely grim.
Hughie kicked a pile of junk away from his foot. "It seems like nobody's lived here in two or three years. Look at the webs everywhere."
Frenchie did not so much as wrinkle his nose. "Meh. A roof is a roof. I slept in a dumpster for a week once."
On a job, getting close to a target, he had sat in worse. This place at least had floor space, and you did not have to eat the smell.
"Ah, you poor bastard," Butcher said. "I don't even want to picture that week."
He was already on the phone to Nina, needling with one side of his mouth while the line rang.
___
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Read 12 Advance Chapters—P@t- Captain69