The wind was still blowing, and the clanging of the tin roof hadn't stopped, but Ye Mo couldn't care less about any of that. He leaned against a pile of broken bricks in the southeast corner, his palm pressed against the temple of his glasses, the metal burning as if it had just been pulled from a fire. Blood still clung to the corner of his nose; that last wave of signal acquisition had almost ripped his brain apart, but he knew he couldn't rest—in another minute and a half, his "own man" hiding at post L-7 would be sending another signal.
This time we must be even more precise.
He closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into the twentieth level of the " Gene Spiral Tower." Spatial Perception and fragment scanning restarted; the data flow was as chaotic as the wires in a ramen noodle bucket, but he had Anchor in his mind: a 0.3-second delay, old-style frequency hopping confusion, and a fixed handshake mechanism. Just like recognizing a person by their gait, he was now focused on this "small, quick steps."
The lingering nerve pain from the Regenerative Phasing still throbbed in his fingertips, so he used the pain as a magnifying glass, increasing the precision of his perception. A system notification sounded in his mind, "Target frequency band locked, heat source interference eliminated, vibration residual waves eliminated, electromagnetic noise eliminated."
There were no visual images, only a sense of direction. A thin line emerged from the east wing of the third basement level of the logistics dispatch center, passed through the emergency channel node, turned a corner and entered the ventilation shaft on the west side of the stronghold, and finally crawled close to the ground to the Hydra agent's tactical terminal.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, "That bastard knows how to take a roundabout route, afraid of being traced."
He dug his fingernail into the ground, drawing a horizontal line on the mortar to represent the main signal path. He then added three diagonal lines to mark the enemy's three routes of advance—the gap in the east wall, the ventilation shaft opening, and the hole in the electrical distribution box on the south side. The positions, angles, and distances all matched perfectly, even down to the degree to which their knees bent when they crouched down.
Captain America crouched behind the cover in the central corridor, his shield wedged in a crack in the brickwork, his eyes scanning the area.
Ye Mo didn't open his eyes, and tapped the ground four times with his right hand, one time with a long tap—the pattern was confirmed, and the coordinates were determined.
Captain America immediately understood, moved next to him, and lowered his voice. "Speak."
" S.H.I.E.L.D.., third basement level, east wing, behind the L-7 control panel," Ye Mo, his voice slow as a cassette tape stuck in time. "Every ninety seconds, with a 0.3-second delay, using the old protocol as cover. The route they're taking now is based on our predictions from the last round of actions."
Captain America frowned. "You mean, they're waiting for us to switch positions?"
"It's not about waiting, it's about calculating." Ye Mo wiped his mouth, dabbed a little blood on his fingertip, and drew a triangle on the ground. "They knew we were going to move, so they positioned themselves in advance. As soon as we moved, they immediately followed. In this live-streamed battlefield, we're the actors, and they're the directors."
Emma Frost coughed softly from behind the control panel on the second floor, her voice hoarse beyond belief. Her mental energy shrank to the size of a pinhead, hovering close to the ground, not daring to sweep randomly. The hunting dog equipment was still circling outside, specifically targeting any overflowing mental fluctuations.
"Can you pass on a message?" Captain America asked.
"No wireless, no shouting," Ye Mo shook his head, "But you can draw."
He continued carving on the ground: a circle to represent their own stronghold, four dots to mark the positions of the four people, and an arrow pointing to the planned route of action. He then drew an X at position L-7, and wrote "80" next to it—estimated that there was still an eighty-second window of opportunity.
Captain America stared for three seconds, then raised his hand and made a "cut-and-reassemble" gesture. He then turned to Bucky, who was lying at the entrance of the west ventilation shaft, his robotic arm in low-power mode, even the joint friction noise was minimized.
"Slide in from this side, don't touch the sensors," Captain America gestured. "When the signal is transmitted for the fourth time, smash the repeater box. It doesn't need to be completely destroyed, just cut off for two seconds."
Bucky nodded, tapping his fingers twice on the ground, meaning: Understood. Retreat to your original position after the interference is successful.
Captain America then looked at Emma Frost: "You retreat to the corner on the second floor and maintain a minimum level of alert. If you detect any loosening of the mental suppression, immediately send out the warning wave, three short bursts."
Emma Frost raised her hand and gave an "OK" sign, her fingertips trembling slightly. She was nearing her limit, but she had to hold on.
Finally, Captain America looked at Ye Mo: "And you? What are you saving your energy for?"
"Just a second before they make their move." Ye Mo opened his eyes, his pupils slightly unfocused. "I'm going to use my Spatial Perception to lock down their charge route and mark blind spots for Bucky and you. This move is mentally taxing and can only be used once, so the timing has to be precise."
Captain America stared at him for two seconds, then suddenly said, "Your nose is bleeding again."
"It's nothing." Ye Mo wiped his face. "I have a lot of blood."
No one laughed.
The air was too thick; I couldn't smile.
Ye Mo closed his eyes again, his senses expanding once more. This time, instead of scanning randomly, he focused intently on the L-7 frequency band like a searchlight. He could sense the signal brewing, data packets being packaged in the background, just waiting for the countdown to reach zero.
Eighty seconds.
He extended his last ounce of attention, like a hair dangling over a cliff edge. The system notification in his mind rang again. "Signal synchronization rate 91%, path reconstruction complete, 3D flow map generating."
A three-dimensional route appeared before my eyes: starting from the third underground level, it branched into three lines, pointing to three entry points in the east, west, and south respectively. Each line was fluctuating slightly, as if updating in real time.
"They're adjusting the parameters," Ye Mo murmured, "Preparing to increase the stakes."
Captain America heard this and subtly raised the edge of his shield to signal everyone to pay attention.
Emma Frost retreated to the northwest corner of the second floor, leaning against the broken steel beam, her fingers digging into her palms. She dared not close her eyes, afraid of missing any abnormality. Sweat streamed down her forehead, gathering into a drop on her chin before falling onto the control panel.
Bucky slowly slid into the ventilation shaft, his body pressed against the pipe wall, even his breathing slowed to a crawl. His mechanical eyes switched to infrared mode, his vision filled with a dark red glow. Three meters ahead, a fist-sized box was embedded in the wall, emitting a faint green light—a relay device.
He stopped and waited for orders.
The countdown in Ye Mo's perception reached fifteen seconds.
fourteen.
Thirteen.
His throat was dry, and his temples throbbed. The dull pain of Regeneration spread up his ribs, like someone slowly sawing his bones. But he couldn't let go.
twelve.
eleven.
Captain America raised his left hand and drew a circle on the shield, signifying: Ready.
Ye Mo tapped the ground three times with his right hand – a signal that he was about to capture the target.
ten.
Nine.
Emma Frost held her breath, her Mental Network strained to the limit. She could feel the hound equipment still scanning, but the frequency had slowed down, as if it too was tired.
eight.
seven.
Bucky's fingers pressed against the repeater box casing, ready to unleash their power at any moment.
six.
five.
Ye Mo's consciousness plunged into the signal stream, like a diver diving into the deep sea. He grabbed the main thread and traced it back, passing through the transition layer, frequency hopper, and camouflage module, finally pinpointing the source—an old operating terminal with a blue-lit screen and a hand pressing the Enter key on the keyboard.
"Found it." His voice trembled. "L-7, third row on the east wing, the one against the wall. The operator is wearing S.H.I.E.L.D.. uniform, headphones, and his right pinky is sticking up... Damn, he even drank coffee."
Captain America's eyes sharpened.
Ye Mo continued, "Send the signal immediately. The shockwave will spread in three seconds. Bucky, make your move now. Just a two-second delay is enough!"
Before he could finish speaking, Bucky's fingers suddenly tightened.
Click!
The sound of the plastic shell cracking was particularly crisp inside the pipe.
Almost simultaneously, the green line in Ye Mo's perception jolted and then stopped.
"Break it!" he growled. "Now! Everyone, get into position as planned!"
Captain America immediately stood up, shield held across his chest, his gaze sweeping across the smoke ahead. He knew that the next few seconds were his only chance.
Emma Frost retreated to the very back, suppressing her mental energy to its lowest possible level, like a light about to go out. She dared not move, even slowing down her blinking.
Bucky quickly evacuated the ventilation shaft and returned to his designated hiding place. The robotic arm's cooling fan hummed, and he manually turned it off.
Ye Mo crouched in the corner, his palms still pressed against the temples of his glasses. The metal was still hot, but he could no longer feel the temperature. Of his entire body, only his ears were still working, listening for the signal that might suddenly come back to life.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
No.
"Not recovered yet." He took a breath. "We have eighty seconds."
Captain America nodded and raised his hand to make four hand gestures:
Directly restrain him – leave it to him.
Interference on the west side – Bucky is in charge.
Mental alert – Emma Frost on standby.
Spatial prediction -- Ye Mo retains.
The four dispersed silently.
Captain America lay prone behind cover in the main passage, his shield at a fixed angle.
Bucky slipped into the shadows on the west side, and the robotic arm entered combat readiness mode.
Emma Frost huddled behind the control panel on the second floor, her fingers resting on her temples, ready to send out an alert at any moment.
Ye Mo crouched in the ruins in the southeast corner, his eyes closed, his senses spreading outwards like a spider web.
The wind is still blowing.
The roof is still rattling.
But all the breathing in the stronghold fell silent.
They were like four nails, firmly nailed to their respective positions.
Do not move.
Silence.
They will strike immediately once the next signal is displayed.
Ye Mo's fingernails dug into the ground, leaving four shallow marks.
He could feel the data stream reloading.
It will be soon.
Very fast.
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
But in my heart, I've already repeated that sentence eighteen times.
"It's our turn to be directors."