Chapter 142: Chapter 142

“Alright, let’s see your fucking show!”

Jason grabbed a chair and sat to the side.

After over a decade under Kingpin’s crew, he’d never seen a slow-burn execution up close like this.

Their usual way of dealing with enemies was a quick, brutal bullet to the head—effective but barely painful, sometimes not even fucking felt.

Sure enough, professionals had their specialties, and this shit needed a pro.

Billy waved two goons in. They hoisted Clint onto the execution table and tied him down tight with ropes to keep him from thrashing.

Billy carried a black bag to Clint’s side, smacking his face hard and sneering, “You fucking bastard, you screwed me over good. If the boss wasn’t so damn generous, giving me a shot to make up for it, you’d have dragged me down with you.”

Clint glared at him, eyes bloodshot with rage.

He wanted to fight, but before they brought him in, Jason had dislocated his jaw and limbs. Now he could only writhe like a fucking maggot.

“Heh!” Billy sneered, opening the black bag. Inside was a pile of chemical vials and syringes no normal person could make sense of.

Billy drew a syringe full of some chemical shit, not bothering to sterilize, and jammed it into Clint’s vein.

As the liquid slowly pumped into Clint’s bloodstream, Billy tossed the syringe aside and leaned close to his ear. “Just gave you some good shit. Keeps you wired as fuck and makes every nerve scream.”

With that, Billy had Clint’s clothes ripped off. He grabbed a razor-sharp scalpel and waved it near Clint’s legs.

“The boss said, since you’re such a piece of shit, your execution’s gotta last over 24 hours.”

“But I’m in redemption mode, so I’m upping it to 72 fucking hours.”

“If I pull this off, it’ll be a new goddamn record. So, Clint, for the next three days and nights, let’s get real cozy.”

…

Ten minutes after Jason dragged Clint off, three S.H.I.E.L.D. helicopters roared over the building.

The pilot swept the spotlight across the area but found no fucking trace of Clint.

After getting no response from Clint’s comms, two choppers started searching the nearby streets.

The third flew to the closest S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse—a small bar.

A squad of heavily armed agents rappelled down, finding the bar’s glass door smashed and a few bullet casings on the ground.

A fight had gone down here.

The agents, on high alert, kept their assault formation and pushed open the bar’s door.

Inside, a single dim yellow bulb hung from the ceiling.

Under its light, a bizarre, ultra-modern ice sculpture stood before them.

As they got closer, they froze, stunned.

The sculpture was none other than the female liaison from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s New York branch, the one assigned to link up with Clint.

One ballsy agent touched her skin, but it felt like solid fucking ice.

No body heat. No give.

The female agent was dead as fuck, but her terrified eyes seemed to scream some critical intel.

The scene was so goddamn horrifying, every agent felt a chill crawl up their spine.

A case involving superpowers was beyond the branch’s jurisdiction. The squad leader immediately reported to the higher-ups.

Minutes later, word reached Washington HQ.

…

At S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Triskelion HQ, in the director’s office.

Coulson hung up his comms, his face dark. “Fuck, Clint’s gone!”

“What?!”

Nick Fury, whose face never cracked, looked fucking shocked.

Coulson bowed his head, pain twisting his voice. “According to the branch, there was a brutal fight at the scene. The Joker Organization likely snatched Clint, and…”

“And they’ve got another fucking superpowered freak. This one’s got ice powers. One of our agents was frozen into a goddamn ice sculpture at the scene!”

Fury felt his scalp tingle. When the hell did superpowered freaks become so common, popping up every few days?

Or had the Joker Organization cracked the code to mass-produce them?

If so, their existence was a direct threat to humanity’s survival.

“Fuck!” Fury scratched his bald head, pissed as hell.

The Joker Organization’s growth was scaring the shit out of him.

They were like a virus in the body—if you didn’t wipe them out in one go, they’d multiply at a terrifying rate until no cure could stop them.

The office fell silent, pessimism spreading like a plague.

After what felt like forever, Fury snapped out of it first. “Top priority is finding Clint. Get Natasha back here, now.”

“Got it.” Coulson nodded and left the director’s office.

…

Houston, Aerospace City, in an abandoned factory on the south outskirts.

The night wind blew, swaying a dim yellow bulb hanging from the factory roof.

Beneath it sat a solid wooden chair.

A woman in a black tank top and black pants, with short reddish-brown hair, was tied tight with ropes.

In front of her stood a group of burly thugs and a man over seventy.

*Bang!*

One thug stepped up and smashed a fist into the woman’s face.

She groaned in pain, blood trickling from her lips.

The old man eyed the stunning woman, shaking his head in disappointment. “Your performance tonight didn’t live up to the hype. Outdated intel, sloppy moves… So the infamous ’Black Widow’ is just a pretty fucking vase.”

The woman was Natasha Romanoff, S.H.I.E.L.D. Level 7 agent, the Black Widow.

She licked the blood from her lips, giving the old man a sultry look. “You really think I’m pretty?”

The old man smirked, his eyes cold and unaffected.

At his age, seduction was useless.

But his goons, young and full of testosterone, perked up at her devilish whisper, leering at her perfect body with dumb grins.

*Ring ring!*

A thug’s phone went off.

He answered, listened for a moment, then looked at the old man. “It’s for her.”

The old man grabbed the phone. “Listen, I—”

The voice on the line cut him off. “I know you’re in that abandoned factory in south Houston. We’ve got F-22s ten klicks out. Hand the phone to the woman, or I’ll blow that whole fucking place to hell!”

The old man froze, dumbfounded.

How the fuck did his secret hideout get exposed?

Confused but compelled, he handed the phone to the Black Widow.

She tilted her head to hold it. Coulson’s voice came through. “Get back to HQ, now!”

“Are you shitting me? I’m in the middle of an interrogation. This old fuck spilled everything!”

The old man blinked, suddenly realizing he’d smugly let slip the gang’s intel and their mastermind.

“It’s worse here…” Coulson hesitated, then said, “Natasha, the Joker Organization nabbed Barton!”

The Black Widow’s face shifted, her expression going cold and deadly.

She’d been the Red Room’s ace operative in the Soviet Union, sent to the U.S. to steal government secrets and tech.

When S.H.I.E.L.D. uncovered her, they sent Hawkeye to take her out. Instead, Clint talked her into defecting from the Red Room to join S.H.I.E.L.D.

Over the years, Natasha and Clint had built a tight bond. Hearing he’d been taken, her face turned icy.

“Give me a few minutes.”

Coulson nodded, staying on the line.

Soon, the comms erupted with the sounds of a brutal fight. Coulson glanced at his watch, unfazed.

He knew these lowlife goons were no match for the Black Widow.

Thirty seconds later, the fighting stopped.

The old man and his thugs were sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain.

Natasha grabbed the phone. “Where’s Barton now?”

Coulson replied, “We don’t know. Get back here, and we’ll go over it.”

…

Dawn broke, sunlight flooding the city, signaling a new day.

America’s free citizens munched on hearty breakfasts while flipping on the news.

“Last night, a malfunction in an Army missile system caused two Tomahawk cruise missiles to misfire, landing in a Hudson Valley ranch in New York, killing the rancher couple. Several involved officers have been suspended pending investigation.”

The American public was floored.

A month and a half ago, two Hellfire missiles misfired. Now two fucking Tomahawks? What’s next, nuclear warheads in a few months?

People uninterested in politics or the military flooded online, raging at the military and government’s stupidity, especially New Yorkers.

Misfire? Fine. But why the fuck did they keep misfiring into New York? Why not the White House?

Citizens who knew the military’s capabilities smelled bullshit.

Modern missiles were insanely reliable—misfires were rare as hell, let alone two in a month.

This had to be some secret government or military op.

Thanks to the government’s cover-up, the news didn’t spark much outrage.

A few hours later, it was buried under tabloid gossip.

Regular folks went to work or school, oblivious to what had really happened last night.

Meanwhile, at Mount Sinai Hospital on Fifth Avenue, New York’s premier maternity hospital, two mysterious visitors arrived.

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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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