72 Scavengers

Carl always felt she had some strange affinity with riding in vehicles and encountering RPGs—so much so that she suspected she was destined to get blown up every time she delivered something.

If she really had that kind of constitution, Carl decided she would never take another delivery job from now on.

Whether an RPG was actually a threat was another matter. The main thing was, who had nothing better to do than get blown up every day? It was fine if it was not her own vehicle, but if it were, the daily repair costs might rival the mission reward.

The shrill warning of "RPG!" arrived almost at the same time as the blazing flare from the rocket's tail.

For a well-trained Hellhound soldier, that brief flight time was enough to take evasive action—he jerked the steering wheel, pulled his body back as hard as he could, and tried to use the engine compartment and bulletproof structure to protect himself as much as possible. It was not perfect, but there was no time to ask for more.

In an emergency, whether one survived could only be left to luck.

Compared to the Hellhound, who felt that time had passed in an instant, it seemed to stretch dozens of times longer for Carl.

The instant the shoulder launcher in the attacker's hands emitted its first wisp of smoke, Carl's dynamic vision and neural reflexes had already allowed her brain to identify the threat, predict the trajectory, and calculate the optimal evasive route.

As she watched the fire streak toward them, she even had time to reminisce about the past, finish lamenting it, and see how the teammate beside her was evading.

After confirming his evasive maneuver, Carl frowned slightly.

You'll die like that.

Carl reached out her hand and, in