David stood atop the van, untouchable, like a god in a wasteland.
The two automatic rifles in his hands danced wildly, each sweep of the muzzles snuffing out a living soul with brutal finality.
His skill had transcended the limits of re marksmanship, charging headlong toward the realm of artistry with a gun.
He didn’t follow rules when he fired; the guns were an extension of his will, moving as freely as his heart desired.
The remaining SWAT officers were utterly broken, their courage shattered like glass.
They’d faced countless life-or-death missions, but none had ever instilled such raw, soul-deep terror and helplessness as this.
"He’s a fucking demon!" One officer scread, tossing his rifle aside, his eyes hollow with despair.
Monts later, the scene was a graveyard of corpses, not a single survivor left.
David’s face remained eerily calm, devoid of the sick thrill of killing or any trace of guilt.
It was as if he hadn’t killed humans at all—just motionless, humanoid targets.
In the distance, the thrum of helicopter blades cut through the air.
Rhodes sat in the co-pilot’s seat, his dark face growing even darker.
He’d just received word from LAPD: a fifty-man elite strike team had been ambushed en route, and—unfathomably—by a single attacker.
"Rhodes, look!" The pilot swiveled the onboard cara, gasping in shock.
Rhodes snapped to attention, staring at the screen.
The convoy was stalled in the middle of the road, SWAT bodies scattered like broken dolls.
A single glance confird it: no one was alive.
The battle was over.
Rhodes’ heart lurched.
From the distress call to their arrival, less than a minute had passed.
In that fleeting window, fifty of Arica’s finest, the pinnacle of individual combat prowess, had been wiped out.
Jesus Christ! Fifty elite operatives, not a fucking herd of pigs!
Rhodes’ eyes bulged, his face a mask of disbelief.
The sheer insanity of it defied everything he knew.
The onboard screen panned slowly, revealing a face.
David seed to sense the helicopter, lifting his head to flash a cold, mocking smirk.
A chill ran down Rhodes’ spine, followed by a surge of white-hot rage.
No matter how precise your aim, you’re still flesh and blood. Let’s see you survive a helicopter’s autocannon, you bastard!
Gritting his teeth, Rhodes slamd the cannon’s fire button.
"Die, you motherfucker!"
Da-da-da!
The helicopter’s multi-barrel rotary cannon unleashed a storm of bullets toward the van.
In the face of 23mm rounds, the armored vehicle’s plating was as frail as tissue paper, instantly riddled with egg-sized holes.
The cannonfire tore into the ground, kicking up clouds of yellow dust.
When the dust cleared, David was gone from the screen.
"He’s vanished! Switch to thermal!" Rhodes barked.
Grabbing binoculars, he scanned the distance, trusting old-school thods over the chopper’s high-tech gear.
A few breaths later, David reappeared in his sights.
The man moved across the ground at inhuman speed, then dove into an armored van.
Rhodes smirked. Foolish bastard, thinking a riot van could stop an autocannon?
He prepared to fire again, but David leaped out of the van, now clutching a sniper rifle.
Chamber, aim, fire.
In a fraction of a second, a bullet scread from the barrel.
Crack!
The helicopter’s bulletproof glass shattered, the round’s remaining force drilling into the pilot’s forehead.
The impact obliterated his head like a smashed waterlon, brain matter and blood spraying across the cockpit, splattering Rhodes’ face.
Rhodes froze, his expression blank with shock.
The helicopter was hovering a hundred ters up, over a kiloter from David.
To land a headshot at that range, with that speed—it was impossible.
Now Rhodes understood why the elite team had been slaughtered so easily.
This man’s marksmanship defied human limits.
The headless corpse slumped onto the control stick.
The helicopter spun wildly, a 720-degree Thomas maneuver in the air.
"Ahh!" Two SWAT officers in the back, unbuckled, were flung out.
One grazed the spinning rotor, his body sliced into chunks in an instant.
Rhodes clenched his jaw, fighting the dizzying vertigo, and shoved the pilot’s corpse aside, wrestling the stick back under control.
But the helicopter, now a runaway beast, wouldn’t be tad so easily.
David stood at a distance, watching the chopper spiral toward the ground.
At the last second, it leveled out—but too late.
Boom!
The helicopter slamd into the earth, the impact a thunderous roar.
A massive cloud of dust erupted, swallowing the wreckage.
David grabbed his rifle and sprinted toward the crash.
The helicopter skidded to a stop, tilting to one side, its rotors smashing into a boulder, blades snapping into fragnts.
Rhodes, bloodied and racked with pain, felt like every bone in his body was shattered.
Miraculously, he was alive.
Kicking out the cracked windshield, he crawled from the cockpit, collapsing face-up on the ground.
Blue sky, white clouds, the rising sun.
In all his years, Rhodes had never noticed how beautiful the sky could be.
Exhausted, he wanted nothing more than to lie there, still and quiet.
Thud... thud...
Footsteps broke the silence.
Rhodes turned his head, seeing the demon approaching, a faint smile on his face.
"Shit!"
Survival instinct kicked in. He scrambled to his feet, yanking his pistol from its holster and firing wildly at the monster.
David didn’t flinch, drawing his own handgun and returning fire.
Rhodes froze, then grinned maniacally.
In this split-second showdown, he was ready to trade his life for the kill.
If he could take down this demon, death would be worth it.
Maybe they’d pin a posthumous dal on his corpse.
But Rhodes was dreaming.
David had no intention of trading lives.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunshots rang out in rapid succession.
A dozen bullets flew from two guns, eting in midair.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Sparks erupted as the rounds collided, deforming and fusing into warped tal clumps that veered off course.
Rhodes’ face twisted in horror, like he’d seen a ghost.
Dual-wielding pistols in a head-on shootout, and David blocked every fucking bullet.
Rhodes’ worldview shattered again.
"FUCK!"
He switched tactics, abandoning headshots. Each pull of the trigger shifted his aim—throat, chest, gut, thighs.
Let’s see you block this, you bastard!
David’s lips curled into a cold smirk.
Rhodes’ desperate plan was futile.
Every bullet he fired was t and intercepted with surgical precision by David’s shots.
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You can read advance Chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
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