American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

Argo's right arm had returned to its normal shape. He moved his shoulder, gray blood still seeping from the not-yet-fully-healed wound. He glanced towards the barn, then rushed towards Diana's location.

But Lynn stood in his way.

He didn't know where he got the courage—or rather, the stupidity—to act as a human shield in front of a mutant. But his body reacted before his brain. He raised his Glock and fired, almost touching Argo's face.

At such close range, it's almost impossible to dodge a bullet. Argo didn't have time to fully deform his body; he could only tilt his head slightly. The bullet missed his face but grazed his left ear, tearing a large chunk of skin and cartilage.

Argo let out a real scream. It didn't sound like a human voice—it sounded more like metal rubbing together, sharp and piercing, echoing for a long time above the empty farm.

He took a few steps back, his left hand covering his bleeding ear. For the first time, something akin to fear appeared in his silver eyes—not fear of death, but fear of pain.

“You—” His voice became hoarse and distorted.

Lynn didn't give him a chance to finish speaking. He gestured to Diana, and the two fired simultaneously from different directions.

Gunfire erupted in the twilight. Bullets crisscrossed each other from two angles, and Argo couldn't dodge in both directions simultaneously. Several bullets struck his abdomen, shoulder, and arm, each tearing a dark gray wound into his skin.

Argo collapsed to his knees. His body trembled violently, irregular ripples spreading across his skin, as if his shapeshifting abilities were spiraling out of control. Blood was still flowing profusely from his left ear, dark gray liquid trickling down his neck and into the collar of his trench coat.

“That’s enough,” he said in a hoarse, almost unrecognizable voice.

He suddenly braced himself with his hands, his entire body springing up—not standing up, but like an injured spider, he launched himself backward in an ergonomically flawed manner. His speed was still astonishing, but much slower than before, revealing that his bodily functions had been severely damaged.

He landed next to the Dodge Challenger, opened the car door with one hand, and braced his other arm, which had been transformed into spikes, against the roof.

Lynn raised his gun and aimed.

“Stop chasing, Inspector.” Argo tilted his head, looking at him, his silver eyes gleaming darkly in the twilight. His face was stained with blood and dirt, bearing the irregular marks left by his shapeshifting abilities going out of control. “I underestimated you today. But not next time. And—you should think carefully about how your whereabouts were leaked. A cell phone? You really think it's that simple?”

He climbed into the car. The engine roared, the Dodge Challenger spun around, kicked up a cloud of dust, and sped off toward the dirt road.

The taillights turned into two red dots in the twilight, getting smaller and smaller until they were finally swallowed by the darkness.

The farm fell silent again. Only the rustling of the wind through the wheat fields and the heavy breathing of the two men could be heard.

Lynn lowered the gun, his arm trembling uncontrollably. A long gash ran down the front of his bulletproof vest; without it, his sternum would be shattered. His left shoulder, injured during the roll, was throbbing with a dull pain, but thankfully, it wasn't broken.

Diana emerged from behind the barn. She had a shallow scratch on her forehead—probably from a stray pebble—but otherwise was unharmed. She walked over to Lynn, and the two looked at each other without speaking.

After about ten seconds, Diana spoke first.

Frank calls this a simple pick-up and drop-off mission.

Lynn looked at her, then let out a short, almost weary laugh.

Are you alright?

"nothing and you?"

"My shoulder hurts a little, but I'm fine otherwise."

Kevin leaned out of the car, his face as pale as a sheet. "It's over? He's gone?"

"We're gone. We're safe for now."

Kevin got out of the car, his legs a little weak, and he held onto the car door for a while before he could steady himself. He looked at the dark gray bloodstains on the ground, his lips trembling.

"What is that? It's not a person at all."

“He’s a mutant,” Diana said calmly, “but he bleeds, he gets hurt, and he runs away. He’s not invincible.”

Lynn crouched down, dipped his finger in the dark gray blood on the ground, and examined it closely. The liquid was more viscous than normal blood and quickly began to oxidize in the air, turning into a near-black color.

“His regenerative abilities have been significantly depleted,” Lynn stood up. “It will take him at least several hours to recover to combat readiness. We must maintain as much distance as possible before he recovers.”

“There’s one more thing,” Diana’s expression turned serious, “What he said before he left. How our whereabouts were leaked.”

Lynn nodded. He'd been thinking about that too. Kevin's phone was indeed a vulnerability, but Argo's comment, "You really think it's that simple?" implied there were other leaks.

“Let’s go first,” he said. “We can think about it on the way.”

Diana inspected the vehicle—several bullet holes were in the hood, but all were superficial damage and did not affect any critical components. The tires were intact, and the fuel tank was half full.

The three got back into the car. Diana started the engine, and the Ford Taurus turned around and drove out of the abandoned farm, back onto Highway 76.

They drove for nearly three more hours in the dark.

The Nebraska night has a suffocating emptiness. Endless cornfields line both sides of the highway, the dry stalks rustling in the night wind like countless hands groping for something in the darkness. Occasionally, a truck coming from the opposite direction roars past, its headlights flashing across the windshield for a fleeting moment, illuminating the faces of the three people inside before they are swallowed back into the darkness.

Lynn's shoulder was getting increasingly painful. The impact of the roll and the impact against the fence post was more severe than he had initially thought; every time he turned the steering wheel or raised his arm, a sharp, stabbing pain shot from his shoulder joint to his collarbone. He pressed his right hand against his left shoulder, his fingers touching a swollen, hardened area.

“Your shoulder doesn’t feel right.” Diana glanced at him from the passenger seat.

"Just a blood clot."

"A bruise won't make you frown every thirty seconds."

"I don't--"

“You have it. I’ve counted at least forty-seven times since I got in the car.” Diana opened the glove compartment and pulled out a tube of pain-relieving ointment and a roll of elastic bandage. “Let me see it next time I park. If it’s a ligament strain, it’ll get worse if left untreated.”

Lynn didn't argue anymore. He knew she was right.

Kevin finally stretched out of his huddled position in the back seat, but his eyes remained unfocused. Ever since his phone was thrown away, he had been trapped in a silent cycle of self-reproach, his lips pressed tightly together, not uttering a single word.

“Kevin.” Lynn looked at him in the rearview mirror.

"Um."

"Stop thinking about your phone."

"If it weren't for me—" "If it weren't for you stealing this data from Mr. Chen's server, we wouldn't have had a chance to take down the Brotherhood. The phone incident was a mistake, but it's not your whole story. Do you understand?"

Kevin was silent for a few seconds, then nodded.

"Are you hungry? There's one sandwich left from Rachel."

"You eat, I'm not hungry."

Lynn didn't insist. He pulled the last sandwich from the plastic bag—turkey with lettuce and mustard—and took a bite. The bread was a little dry, but the moment the savory aroma of the turkey filled his mouth, his stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything proper for almost ten hours.

The car clock shows 11:47 PM.

“There’s about a quarter of the gas left,” Diana said. “I can only go another eighty miles before I need to refuel.”

Is there a gas station up ahead?

"The map shows a small town called Brokenbo about forty miles ahead. It has a population of less than a thousand, but there should be a gas station there."

“It’s too small,” Lynn said. “In places like this, there are usually only one or two houses open at midnight, and everyone knows everyone else. Three out-of-towners showing up in town to get gas in the middle of the night would be very conspicuous.”

“But we had no other choice. The next gas station was 120 miles away, and we didn’t have enough gas to get there.”

Lynn bit her lower lip. "Okay. Once we're in town, we'll be quick and out, fill up the tank, and leave immediately."

"clear."

Forty minutes later, the outline of Brokenbor came into view.

Strictly speaking, the word "outline" is too kind. It was just a small cluster of buildings scattered along the roadside—the white spire of a church was barely discernible in the moonlight, several bungalows and prefabricated houses were crammed together around an intersection, the shutter of a grocery store was tightly closed, and the Coca-Cola vending machine in front of it was lit by a dim yellow light, the brightest light source within a radius of several hundred meters.

The town's main street was only about three hundred meters long. One end led back the way they had come, while the other disappeared into a dark expanse of farmland. Several crooked elm trees lined both sides of the street, their bare branches stretching out like skeletal fingers in the night wind.

The gas station was located in the middle of the main street, just across from the grocery store. It had two gas pumps, a small cash register, and a "Chevrolet" sign on the roof, but half of the light on the sign was broken, leaving only the words "Chevrolet" still glowing, making it look absurd and desolate.

The lights were on in the cash register. Through the glass window, you could see a figure sitting behind the counter.

Diana parked the car next to the gas pump and turned off the engine.

"I'm going to get gas. You guys wait in the car," she said, turning to open the door.

"Wait a minute." Lynn reached out and pressed her arm.

Diana stopped and looked at him.

Lynn's gaze swept over the surroundings of the gas station. The cash register, the gas pump, the parking area, the grocery store next door, and the low-rise building across the street that looked like a hardware store. Everything seemed normal—a gas station in a small Nebraska town late at night, quiet, desolate, and utterly boring.

But something made the back of his neck go numb.

"What's wrong?" Diana asked in a low voice.

Lynn didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept around several times, trying to catch the detail that made him uneasy.

Then he saw it.

A car was parked in the alleyway to the side of the hardware store. The car was almost completely hidden in the shadow of the building, and Lynn would not have noticed it at all if the moonlight hadn't happened to shine on the reflective strips on the rear bumper.

It was a police car painted in black and white.

“There’s a police car over there,” he said in a very low voice.

Diana followed his gaze. "I saw it. Probably a local patrol officer. In a small town like this, there's usually only one or two policemen; it's perfectly normal for them to patrol until midnight and then stop to sleep in some corner."

“Maybe,” Lynn said, but his hand did not leave the grip of the Glock.

"I'm going to get gas. It'll only take three minutes if I'm quick."

"I'll go with you. Good luck, I'll be watching from the sidelines."

The two got out of the car together. The night wind blew across the plains, carrying the smell of dry earth and the stench of manure wafting from a distant livestock shed. The temperature was around forty degrees Fahrenheit, so cold that their breath turned into a puff of white mist.

Diana pulled out the gas nozzle, inserted it into the fuel tank opening, and pulled down the latch. Gasoline began to gush into the tank, and the numbers on the gas pump jumped up and down.

Lynn stood beside the car, his hands in his jacket pockets, his right hand gripping a gun, his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings.

The person in the cashier booth stood up from behind the counter, pushed open the door, and came out.

He was a man in his fifties, short and stout, wearing an oil-stained gray flannel shirt and baggy work pants, with a John Deere tractor baseball cap on his head. His face was deeply lined with age and sun, his small eyes were half-closed, and a stubbed cigarette dangled from his mouth.

"Good evening." He waved to them, his voice rough and hoarse like sandpaper rubbing against a wooden board.

“Good evening,” Diana replied.

The man leaned against the doorframe of the cash register and yawned. "You guys drive long distances? It's rare to see out-of-towners passing through Brokenbor at this hour."

“Yes, we’re traveling at night,” Diana said.

"Where to?"

"East."

The man nodded, without asking for specific directions. His gaze swept over the Ford Taurus, lingering on the bullet holes on the hood.

Lynn noticed his gaze.

"From stones," Lynn said casually, "splashed up from that stretch of gravel road ahead."

The man glanced at the bullet holes again, his lips twitched, but he said nothing. He took the extinguished cigarette from his mouth, rubbed it between his fingers, and then stuffed it into his shirt's breast pocket.

“You guys are out of luck,” he said. “There was an accident this afternoon at the entrance to Highway 80. A semi-trailer truck overturned, and the whole road is closed. It won’t be open again until noon tomorrow.” (End of Chapter)