Chapter 20: Chapter 20: Fiery Justice
As third in command of the Russian Mafia, Sergei bore a heavy responsibility.
Standing at the factory gate, Sergei bellowed, "Who goes there? Are you some kind of ghost? What's your game showing up here in the dead of night?"
James looked down with disdain, observing the expressions and movements of everyone below.
The gang members, armed to the teeth, stared back with unflinching resolve. They weren't fazed by this strange apparition; if anything, they seemed excited. At Sergei's command, they'd unleash a hail of bullets upon James without a second thought.
They were thugs.
Killers.
After a pregnant pause, James spoke calmly, his voice distorted by the mask, ensuring no risk of exposure.
"I am Sentinel. I've come to lead sinful souls to the underworld. And you..."
His voice rose.
"Are you ready to join them? Sinners!"
His words stirred instant chaos among the onlookers. Disdain, madness, curses—each reaction blended into a cacophony of disbelief.
One gangster scoffed, "Who's this fool? Thinks he can strut around here like some kind of mystery man? This is New York, not some backwater. If you're so keen on the underworld, go there yourself!"
Sergei sneered. Though unsure of the armored figure's fiery display, he remained confident in his men's firepower.
With a gesture, his cohorts aimed their guns at James, ready to unleash hell.
"Fool! You picked the wrong place to play hero. This is New York, not some mystical realm. Prepare to meet your maker!"
In an instant, a barrage of bullets filled the air, a symphony of gunfire drowning out all else.
Watching from his vantage point, Hawkeye sighed, "Justice is one thing, but charging in recklessly like that? It's a death sentence."
Jimmy's voice crackled over the earphones, "Yeah, didn't expect the Rankhoffs to pack so much heat. Even without backup, I'm still not buying it."
"Shame," Barton lamented, lowering his binoculars. "He's got a sense of justice. If only he'd played it smarter. Now he's as good as dead."
"Not necessarily," Natasha interjected, and as she spoke, the gunfire ceased.
A fiery figure remained aloft in the sky, unfazed by the barrage.
Sergei grimaced, then motioned for a rocket launcher. A grenade was swiftly loaded into the chamber.
"I'll take my chances," Sergei muttered, firing the RPG at the airborne figure.
The grenade hurtled towards the fiery form, but just before impact, the figure burst into flames, hurtling downwards. It narrowly evaded the blast, landing amidst the gangsters.
The gangsters scrambled to reload, but James gave them no quarter.
Like a whirlwind of darkness, he tore through their ranks, bones shattering beneath his relentless assault.
After James's rigorous training on the Zodiac Box, his strength had soared once more. Clad in bronze armor, his fists packed a punch exceeding 500 kilograms.
With each blow, reinforced by his ink-hard gloves, he shattered concrete and bones alike.
Sergei, against the rocket launcher, could only watch in disbelief. No amount of firepower seemed enough to stop this apparition.
James hovered outside a third-story window, bloodied but unbowed.
Though the bronze armor offered some protection, the relentless barrage had taken its toll.
Inside, two men and a woman stood by the window—The Rankhoff Brothers and Natasha.
Seeing the woman, James's eyes widened.
Short red hair, fair skin, captivating eyes.
The woman's white shirt sported three buttons—three!
A sight that sent James's heart racing.
Quickly averting his gaze, James couldn't afford to linger. One more glance, and the blood would rush to his wounds.
In just that moment, he recognized her—Black Widow!
Natasha Romanov, a deadly spy hidden behind a beguiling facade.
By the way, the Widow's over 80...
Even through the glass, James felt the power exuding from her toned thighs.
Could the bronze armor withstand her grasp?
Given the men's proximity to the Widow, they had to be the Mafia's top brass.
Though reminiscent of the Rankhoff brothers from James's memory of "The Daredevil," they hadn't fled.
James sentenced them to death the moment he laid eyes on them.
Whatever crimes they'd committed in Russia paled in comparison to their murders, drug trafficking, and human trafficking in New York. They were beyond redemption.
His fist clenched, flames flickering anew, James resembled an envoy of hell risen from a pool of blood.
The Russian brothers faltered. Prison had not fazed them. Gang warfare in New York had not fazed them. But faced with James, they trembled.
With a fiery fist raised, he could end two lives in a heartbeat.
Yet, just as he prepared to strike, a surge of cosmic energy jolted him.
He darted aside instinctively, narrowly avoiding a black arrow that streaked past.
For James, such speed posed no threat. With a mere thought, he could brave Hawkeye's arrow barrage unscathed.
But Barton, having witnessed James's massacre, would never again fire a blank arrow at him, not after what he and Parker had seen.
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