CHAPTER 6: NIGERIA AMBUSH 3
Continuation on chapter 6
He walks toward me slowly, lifting a sharpened beam like a divine executioner.
"This ends now," he says.
He raises it over my head.
I grit my teeth, ready for the end.
CRACK!
The beam never reaches me.
Jabez stumbles back—not from a blast, but a clang that echoes like thunder in my ears. His sharpened metal is knocked clean from his hands. A circular blur ricochets off his helmet and crashes into the wall with a vibrating hum before snapping back into the grip of—
Captain Jack
He steps through the broken entryway, dust swirling behind him like ghosts of battle past. His armor is a masterpiece of tactical evolution—midnight blue sculpted into precision, wrapping his frame with a balance of power and grace. Every line of the suit has intention: from the textured plating across his chest and abdomen to the layered panels that flex with his movement but lock against impact. The high-density material fits like a second skin, armored yet agile, built for the demands of war and the agility of a ghost.
The shoulders and arms are reinforced with dark alloy plates, seamlessly fused to give him both defense and dynamic range. Patterns of sharp black and indigo mesh across the suit like an exoskeletal blueprint—functional, but with the unmistakable presence of someone born to lead through chaos. From hip to thigh, tactical straps and weapon holsters are mounted with precision—no weight wasted, no motion unchecked.
His boots cut a bold silhouette—reinforced with red armored overlays that climb halfway to his knees, flared with stylized ridges that seem sculpted from battlefield flame. Crimson lines dance with sharp confidence down the boots, echoing the gauntlets that guard his forearms—sleek, layered, and braced for both speed and strength.
In his right hand, he carries a sword—sleek and lethal, forged from Quiver, its gleaming edge hinting at both elegance and finality. His left grips his shield: no longer the traditional red-white-and-blue disc, but a bold redesign of heritage and purpose. The surface is a layered pattern of matte black, midnight blue, and sharp red edges. A large, black-blue star anchors the center, pulsing faintly with tech-enhanced energy—both a symbol and a warning.
His eyes are hidden behind upgraded black tactical glasses—sleek, aerodynamic, and data-linked, feeding him live information while giving him a sharp, calculated presence. They flicker slightly with HUD-light, revealing a mind already ten steps ahead of the fight.
The hum of the shield. The weight of the blade. The look behind those dark lenses.
This isn't just Captain Jack.
This is what legends evolve into.
"You picked the wrong city," Cap growls.
No speeches. No hesitation.
They clash.
Jabez hurls knives of shrapnel mid-air, his hands a blur of magnetism. Cap charges through it all—shield first. Sparks flash as metal collides with metal. Jabez swings a beam like a scythe—Cap ducks under, rises, and drives his shield hard into Jabez's chin, sending the titan skidding across overturned tables. His sword follows—a clean arc, slicing Jabez's cape and leaving a glowing gash across his chestplate.
Jabez screams—frustrated, wounded, angry.
But he's not finished.
He pulls iron pipes from the walls, forming twin spinning staffs around him like orbiting weapons. He twirls and flings them toward Cap—
Cap rolls, blocks, parries.
It's like watching a brawl between titans and tacticians. Brutal. Calculated. Personal.
Agrona, blade raised to finish Desmond again, jerks violently as an arrow pierces her left shoulder—and explodes, throwing her like a ragdoll through the side of the restaurant. Her sword tumbles away.
He walks through the smoke in full transformation—no longer the shadow in a trench coat, but a weapon forged in silence and precision.
Menace.
His new armor is a tactical masterpiece—a seamless fusion of matte black and deep crimson, molded to his muscled frame like second skin. Lightweight but reinforced, the suit blends ballistic mesh and flexible plating, allowing him to move like a ghost while still withstanding impact. A black bat emblem stretches boldly across his chest, etched into the red like a scar of warning. Every line and joint is built for function, without sacrificing intimidation.
His hood is sharp and angular, casting shadow over his black tactical mask that covers the lower half of his face, revealing only his fierce, unblinking eyes. His gaze does the talking—calculated, unreadable, always locked on the next target.
Strapped across his back is a carbon-fiber compound bow, modern and deadly, its limbs serrated at the edges and colored in a low-gloss black with crimson accents. Beside it sits his quiver, sleek and diagonal, magnetized for silent access. Inside: an arsenal of custom arrows—explosive tips, EMP rounds, piercing heads—each finished in black with blood-red rings for distinction.
His gloves are reinforced, and his gauntlets hide twin collapsible batons—shock-enhanced for disabling foes up close. His belt and thigh holsters carry extra arrowheads, gadgets, and throwing knives. Even his boots are designed for stealth and impact, lined with vibration-dampening soles and reinforced toes.
Swiftly, he moves.
He closes the distance in a blink—no warning, no hesitation.
Agrona swings her newly-forged death blade straight at his head—
Menace ducks.
His knees bend deep into a sweep—one leg arcs out fast like a spinning blade, crashing into her ankles.
Agrona's feet leave the ground.
She hits the floor hard—but before her shoulder lands, Menace flips over her, twisting mid-air with monk-like precision. He lands behind her—
Thwack!
The end of his crossbow smashes into the middle of her back.
Agrona screams, arches forward, and in that moment her arm lashes out—another weapon sprouts from her palm, a jagged dagger with black flames licking its edges. She whips it toward his throat—
Menace rotates his body, slipping sideways, lets the blade whistle past his cheek. He seizes her wrist with one hand, turns her arm inward, and with his other elbow—
Crack!
—slams it directly into her jaw. Her head snaps sideways.
She staggers back, dazed, her lips parting in shock. She's been worshipped. Feared. Untouchable.
But now?
She's bleeding.
Menace doesn't give her time to breathe.
He lunges—low stance, feet silent, movements sharper than any blade. Wing Chun blocks deflect her next wild swing. He pivots, strikes with his knee into her ribs—bam!—follows with a spinning backfist that hits her temple.
She reels. But she's not done.
With a grunt, she conjures two long black spears and crosses them in an "X" before her chest, charging him like a bull.
Menace leaps.
A clean vertical jump—just enough to dodge the skewers.
While in mid-air, he twists and stomps downward onto her arm. Her elbow bends the wrong way. She shrieks, and one of the spears vanishes mid-swing.
She swipes with the other—
He catches the shaft.
Snap!
He breaks the spear in two with his knee and throws the splinters away. Before she can summon another, he's already hit her with a barrage of brutal chain strikes:
Palm to the nose.
Elbow to her sternum.
Knee to the thigh.
Spinning low kick that sweeps her again.
She hits the ground—again—and this time it hurts.
Desperate, she rolls backward, lands on one knee, and calls the shadows.
But Menace pulls an arrow from his quiver—silver and humming.
He throws.
It sinks straight into her open mouth—
BOOM!
The flash arrow detonates with a bright, concussive burst. Agrona screams in agony as her face is blackened—eyelashes scorched, jaw fractured, blood trickling down her chin.
She snarls, wounded but still dangerous. She conjures an Ulfberht sword—its ancient steel etched with ghostly runes, the blade singing faintly as it slices through the air.
She doesn't just throw it.
She spins into it, using her whole body—hips turning, shoulder whipping forward—channeling fury and precision into the toss. The Ulfberht spins flat and fast, a horizontal blur of cold iron and death, slicing the air like a buzzsaw.
It comes for him.
Menace doesn't blink.
In the heartbeat before impact, he steps into the throw—palms slapping against the flat of the spinning sword, absorbing its speed with perfect timing. His arms twist with the momentum, flipping the blade vertical—
And with a sudden snap of his body, he hurls it back.
The sword screams through the air.
THUD!
The Ulfberht slams into her right shoulder, burying itself deep through flesh and bone, the force driving her backward.
She crashes into the cracked wall—hard—pinned like a ragdoll by the very weapon she'd hurled.
She shudders. Eyes wide. Shadowy blood leaks down the steel like ink.
She curses through gritted teeth, one hand twitching toward the hilt—
But Menace is already walking away.
His breath is calm. His crossbow holstered. Shoulders relaxed. Steps steady.
He doesn't look back.
Back to Cap.
Jabez has turned the floor into a minefield—metal plates rip from the ground, turning the restaurant into a storm of shrapnel.
Captain Jack is down—shield cracked at the edge, sword shattered in half.
Jabez steps forward, arms raised, twisting metal around Cap's arms and legs.
"You're nothing without the shield," he spits.
That's when she appears.
Black Cardinal.
A blur of black leather and twin swords. She leaps from a balcony overhead, landing behind Jabez with the silent grace of death. Her blades flash—one cuts Jabez across the back, the other across his knee. He turns, surprised—and she spins, low and fast, slicing the magnetic field off his leg with a vibrating screech.
Cap breaks free.
Together, they don't fight with power. They fight with precision.
Cap draws a combat knife, slashes across Jabez's throat-armor. Cardinal lands three hits to his shoulder joints. Jabez grabs her throat—Cap smashes the cracked edge of his shield into Jabez's face.
Blood sprays.
They press the attack without mercy.
Cap drives his knee into Jabez's midsection—folding him over with a guttural grunt. Before he can recover, Cardinal vaults over his hunched back in a fluid arc, her blade trailing a precise slash down his spine.
Cap seizes Jabez by the collar, muscles flexed with fury, and hurls him into a nearby support beam with a thunderous crash. The impact rattles the structure. With a roar, he flings Jabez's battered body to the floor like dead weight.
Jabez wheezes, choking on blood and breath. Faint pulses of metal shimmer across his armor—his last defense trying to respond. Shaking, broken, he still claws at the ground, refusing to stay down.
Cardinal steps over Jabez's battered body, driving her boot into his chest with enough pressure to pin him to the ground, her eyes daring him to rise.
Captain Jack raises his fist—coiled with precision and fury—then brings it crashing down like a hammer. The impact snaps through the air. Jabez jolts once… then lies still.
It's over.
I collapse to my knees, armor flickering.
Smoke, dust, silence.
Agrona is down. Jabez is out. Desmond is barely conscious, but alive.
And I just… breathe.
I look at the three of them—Captain Jack, Black Cardinal, The Menace.
This war just turned.
And we're not alone anymore.
Menace walks toward me, his shadow stretching over my bruised chest. His face is calm, but his eyes—sharp, focused—search mine.
"You able to stand?" he asks, voice low but steady.
He extends his right hand. I hesitate for a second—every muscle in my body aches—but I reach up. His grip is firm, and he pulls me to my feet like I weigh nothing. A grunt slips out of me as pain stabs through my side.
"Thanks, Cap," I mutter, catching my breath just as Captain Jack steps in beside us, his shield strapped tight against his back, face serious.
Behind them, I spot Black Cardinal crouched beside Desmond, helping him up slowly. Desmond's limping, jaw tight, blood crusting the side of his neck.
They both make their way toward us.
"Let's get you guys on the jet," Jack says, wasting no time.
We move. My steps are uneven, dragging a little, but Menace stays close. We board the Quinjet—its sleek interior a sharp contrast to the chaos we just crawled out of. Jessica slides into the pilot seat beside Menace, both of them flipping switches like second nature. I collapse into one of the back chairs next to Desmond and Captain Jack. The seat belt clicks over my chest with a heavy thud.
The engines hum to life. A deep rumble follows. Outside the glass, the wreckage of the restaurant shrinks as we lift off, soaring over the destroyed streets of Nigeria. Smoke coils upward, like the memory of what we survived is still chasing us.
Jessica glances at us from the cockpit, her hands steady on the controls. "Any clue why those freaks came for you two specifically?"
"We don't," Desmond says, wiping sweat and ash from his brow.
"I do." My voice is hoarse, but I speak clearly. "That female one… she said she's the goddess of death. She wanted the Time Cube."
Desmond's head whips toward me. "Why? What does she want with it?"
I meet his gaze. "I don't know."
A beat of silence falls. The engines hum louder than before. The gravity of what we've gotten ourselves into sits heavy in the cabin.
Desmond leans forward. "Where are we heading, Menace?"
"Home," Menace says from the front, eyes locked on the sky ahead. He doesn't turn around.
That word home… it doesn't ease anything in me.
My thoughts drift. Faces flash in my mind—Chioma… Susan. Were they caught in the chaos? Are they scared? Did they hide? Are they safe?
I don't know.
No one does.
And what if those aliens go after them next? What if they torture them—just to get to me… or the Time Cube?
I left them. I left the country. It feels like I abandoned them.
A knot tightens in my chest. I press my palm against it like that'll help.
I just hope—God, I pray—they're okay. That nothing worse happens to them.
To Susan. To Chioma.
I can't lose them too.