PFC Chapter 4558 The Day of Brightest Day (7)
Chapter 4558 The Day of Brightest Day (7)
Chapter 4558 The Day of Brightest Light (Seventeen)
Hegada is not a city suitable for high-speed driving. Any experienced driver would agree. In fact, across the vast African continent, only a few major cities in South Africa can handle such a spectacle, while others are too poorly managed for fast driving.
However, road conditions affect more than one party. The one chasing is slow, and the one running away is also slow. This leads to a very comical situation where the winner of a car chase is not determined by driving skills, but by who can withstand the bumps better.
The locals have a significant advantage. They often refer to those from developed countries who have enjoyed well-maintained roads as "pretentious wimps." Even those from Siberia are no exception. After all, there aren't many birds or rats on the roads there, while here they're everywhere. Driving into and running them over doubles the bumpiness of the journey.
But their opponent was Deathstroke. This guy could take a missile in the face without flinching, and even if the car was tripped by the Himalayas, he could quickly take a horse stance to stabilize himself, completely unaffected by the bumps.
In this rather unexciting, even somewhat comical, African-style car chase, there was only one victim: Schiller, whose inner ear balance system was damaged.
Schiller had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen when Deathstroke lured the police to the scene and jumped into the car himself. However, the effects of his severely impaired balance were far greater than he had imagined. He had never thought he would get carsick, let alone so badly.
With a "click," the car door was ripped off and thrown out of the vehicle, causing two police cars behind to skid. Ventilation helped improve the situation; Schiller felt less nauseous, but his dizziness persisted.
“Stop! Deathstroke!” Schiller roared at him. What he didn't finish was that if he couldn't physically close the distance with Cairo, he would likely choose to mentally close the distance with the mastermind. To be precise, let the damn culprit do it!
A sharp turn interrupted him, causing his head to hit the back of the seat in front of him. When he regained consciousness, Schiller was clearly in deep shock.
About a second ago, he was in his office at the Grand Egyptian Museum, working as a technician checking the temperature control device of the closed-circuit system for malfunction, while calculating how long until the death knell would reach Cairo.
Then, something happened that could be called an "inner struggle" in academic terms, but in form it was basically a kidnapping. He then switched places with the agent—hopefully the agent would fix the temperature control device in the museum.
Because it all happened so suddenly, Schiller didn't have time to look at his memories. So his first priority was to figure out what was going on. He was sitting in a speeding car, driven by the world's most powerful mercenary, but being chased by local police from a small Egyptian town, and then the car doors were gone.
To be honest, this situation was a bit strange. What was even stranger was the terrifying, uncontrollable dizziness. Schiller had never experienced this feeling before; it was probably what people commonly call motion sickness.
This cannot be simply described as pain; it is more like a hazy, half-awake state, as if the brain and body are separated. And since he could not hear any sound, Schiller determined that this was sensory integration dysfunction caused by damage to the balance system in his ear.
The feeling was novel. Schiller wanted to investigate, but another sharp turn caused his body, which had just stabilized, to sway again. With his balance system failing him, he was completely thrown into that dizzying vortex—the world began to become clear in a different way.
“What the hell?” Schiller said. “If you can’t accept your current state, you should see a doctor, not just kidnap an agent and expect him to find you a psychologist—wait a minute, he actually can.”
Deathstroke didn't quite understand. But as he turned back, a sharp, dagger-like object pierced his carotid artery from the other side. The attack was swift and ruthless. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it was part of the partition under the seat. The force of the penetration was so great that it almost pierced his entire neck.
At the same time, Schiller's voice came from behind: "I think you should... stop the car..."
The hand thrust harder, stabbing all the way in before pulling it out with a sudden jerk. Blood stained half the windshield. Just as it was about to plunge in again, Deathstroke reached out and grabbed the hand.
"What are you going to do!" He clutched the wound on his neck. "Are you going to kill me?!"
Suddenly, the driver's seat jolted violently. Deathstroke even had the illusion that he, weighing two hundred pounds, and the driving system, weighing at least two hundred pounds, had been pulled out of the car, as if a thorn had been removed.
He instinctively gripped the steering wheel. Deathstroke's strength was considerable, and he crushed the steering wheel in his hand. He fell backward uncontrollably, but his body's extremely precise reflexes and strength system allowed him to hook his foot onto the remaining steering wheel, then draw his greatsword from behind and stab it through the roof of the car. This stabilized his movement, but still prevented him from seeing what was happening behind him.
A pair of hands gripped his neck like a ghost. To prevent himself from being truly choked, Deathstroke had to release his sword and tumble towards the passenger seat. But the car wasn't spacious, and he was too big, making the escape difficult.
Deathstroke was prepared to take a hit from that hand cannon, because Schiller had plenty of time to draw his gun. And although he complained about the gun, he never hesitated to fire.
Strangely, Schiller didn't use a gun. He simply pushed the passenger seat forward again, nearly breaking Deathstroke's ribs. Deathstroke thought, "We have to abandon this car. It's unwise to fight a killer whale in a Jaguar."
Deathstroke cleaved open the passenger door with a single strike, leaping out and rolling several times on the ground before regaining his footing. He felt an unsettling dampness seeping into the lining of his armor—his own blood. He had just been stabbed in the artery. Had the wound not healed immediately after the weapon was removed, and hadn't his blood-producing ability not been dozens of times greater than a normal person's, he might not be able to stand up now.
"Are you fucking crazy?!" Deathstroke couldn't help but curse, not because he was heartbroken over the blood, but because he keenly sensed that Schiller was acting strangely.
While he had lost control somewhat before, you could tell he was trying hard to restrain himself. Even when he couldn't hear, he hadn't completely given up on communication. But now it was different. Schiller seemed lost in his own world, and Deathstroke had no idea what he was doing.
Schiller jumped out of the car, of course, but after standing up, he froze, seemingly assessing something. Deathstroke tried to move forward, but his neck throbbed with pain. His battle instincts, honed over many years, saved him once more, as Schiller suddenly ran off in one direction.
Deathstroke's ominous premonition grew stronger. He quickly followed, and judging from his mental recollection of the map, he deduced that Schiller was heading towards a seaside resort hotel. It was a completely enclosed, high-end resort.
"Damn it." Deathstroke's almost fully developed brain recalled Schiller's words. He muttered to himself, "He...will see? See what? What did he see???"
Deathstroke had no more time to think. He chased after Schiller, hoping to intercept him halfway, but it was actually difficult because the chase had caused a terrible traffic jam. Now, four-wheeled vehicles couldn't outrun two-wheeled vehicles, and two-wheeled vehicles couldn't outrun two-legged vehicles. Deathstroke wasn't slow, but Schiller was clearly faster.
Deathstroke took shortcuts through the chaotic traffic and crowds. He was already close to Schiller, but he had to get ahead of him to stop him. Unfortunately, the city was too small; the resort hotel was already in sight just as Deathstroke was about to catch up.
The hotel had security. But the problem was, Schiller seemed perfectly normal. He was wearing a shirt and tie, showed no signs of violence, and easily dealt with the security guards. But the determined stride he took as he entered the hotel made Deathstroke realize that his objective was very clear.
This struck Deathstroke as odd. Was he even conscious? Judging from his previous behavior, if he wasn't, he wouldn't be able to converse so normally with the security guard. But if he was, wasn't the priority getting to Cairo?
Moreover, he was completely deaf, so how could he deal with the security guards' questioning? Deathstroke wondered if the two security guards were acting strangely, but when he arrived, their speed in calling for backup surpassed that of most security personnel, proving that they had extremely high professional competence.
Deathstroke exchanged a few blows with them and discovered that one of them was likely a CIA spy, while the other was probably from one of the countries across the Red Sea. This made Deathstroke realize that this hotel was no ordinary place. Since Hegada wasn't a particularly famous resort area, the number of important figures visiting it was limited; having such personnel would be best suited for the Mediterranean.
Was there an important person inside the hotel? Deathstroke immediately realized this. But if that were the case, why would the security guards let an unknown person like Schiller in?
Deathstroke didn't waste much time with them. After shaking off the siege, he disappeared into the crowd, but after circling around, he returned to the hotel. He stood at a distance and looked up: one on the east balcony, two in the front yard, one next to the parking sign, two on the rooftop…
This is a very typical defensive strategy of appearing relaxed on the outside but being tightly guarded on the inside. It seems that everyone in the hotel is going about their normal activities, no different from usual, but in reality, key positions with good visibility have been replaced by professionals who are watching every little thing that happens.
The tolling bell circled around to the other side and found several more people keeping watch. The people who arranged everything were professional; the security was evenly distributed, making it impossible to tell which side the person being protected might be on. But they weren't entirely professional either. After making a commotion at the door, someone immediately ran inside to report, and then others rushed out of the building. They spoke something over walkie-talkies.
The sentries quickly sprang into action. They began frequently scanning their surroundings, but they couldn't overcome human weaknesses, occasionally glancing unconsciously in one direction. Based on the movements of the sentries on different floors, Deathstroke could roughly determine that the target was on the east side of the tenth floor.
He bypassed the guard's watch and climbed into the second floor from the side. He didn't intend to climb the stairs, but went straight to the elevator. Sure enough, the elevator couldn't be used without a pass. But someone upstairs called for the elevator, so he went up and, the moment the doors opened, took the person who called the elevator hostage.
He didn't appear to be security personnel, just hotel staff. Deathstroke, not wanting to waste words, snatched his pass and took the elevator to the tenth floor. There, a riot had already broken out.