The trackers pinged again, faint pulses on Ricochet's device, leading him and Delilah across the river district. Each signal narrowed the hunt, pulling them closer to their quarry. The trail finally ended at a secondary lot, smaller than the main yard but no less dangerous.
From their vantage point atop a low warehouse, the place looked like a junkyard of stolen freight. Containers stacked crooked, forklifts rusting in place, and floodlights that flickered unreliably. A crew of armed men milled around the perimeter.
And at the center of it all was Roughhouse.
The brute stood like a fortress, a man whose frame was too broad, too heavy, to be explained by anything human. His arms were folded, his gaze sweeping across the lot like a wolf keeping tally of his pack.
Beside him, Bloodscream gave a short, whispered order. Then, with two men at his back, the pale predator melted into the shadows, leaving Roughhouse in command.
Delilah's lips pulled into a grin that promised violence. "Perfect. Let's see if the big man laughs when his jaw's broken."
Ricochet held up a hand. "Or we could—"
But she was already moving, vaulting the fence in one smooth bound.
Ricochet groaned under his breath. "Of course." He followed.
Delilah landed hard among the first guards. A rifle swung toward her, and she snapped it in half over her knee before the trigger could be pulled. Her elbow cracked the wielder across the face; the man collapsed, unconscious. Another tried to grab her shoulder, but she spun, driving her knee up into his chin with a wet crack.
Ricochet slipped in behind her, agile as smoke. His silver discs snapped through the air, ricocheting off a truck mirror to slam into a guard's wrist, knocking the pistol loose. A second disc bounced between two men, striking both in the temple and dropping them like puppets with cut strings.
Then Roughhouse moved.
The ground seemed to quake beneath each step as he advanced, his grin broad and hungry. Delilah met him without hesitation, swinging a heavy right hook that landed flush across his jaw.
Roughhouse's head turned, but his feet barely shifted. He chuckled. "Strong. I like strong women."
Delilah bared her teeth. "Sorry, you're not my type. Get ready, because I'm just getting started."
She hammered him with a flurry—cross, elbow, knee—each strike with force to shatter concrete. Roughhouse absorbed them, staggering slightly under the relentless barrage. For a moment, Delilah had him reeling.
Ricochet circled the brawl, cutting down stray gunmen before they could overwhelm her. His discs struck with pinpoint precision: one clipped Roughhouse behind the knee, another cracked against his shoulder. Each impact gave Delilah an opening, and she exploited every one of them.
The giant bellowed as her fist drove into his ribs, forcing him back into a stack of pallets that crashed down around him. For the first time, Roughhouse looked less amused and more irritated.
Delilah smirked. "Not laughing now, are you?"
But the brute only growled and surged forward again.
Roughhouse swung with the force of a wrecking ball. Delilah ducked under the first strike and countered with a hook to his temple. He retaliated with a backhand that caught her across the shoulder, sending her skidding back across the asphalt.
She rolled to her feet, wiped the blood from her lip, and grinned. "That all you got?"
Roughhouse laughed and charged. Delilah met him head-on. Their fists collided in a thunderous crack that echoed through the lot.
Ricochet darted between them and the circling guards, his discs flashing. He slid under a wild swing, planting a tracker on Roughhouse's boot as he passed. Then he vaulted off a truck hood, landing beside Delilah long enough to whisper, "Keep his balance broken. I'll make him stumble."
Delilah nodded, feinting left before slamming her knee into Roughhouse's weakened leg. He staggered, and Ricochet's disc clipped his ankle from the other side. The brute roared in frustration, swinging wide, but both fighters slipped past the blow.
For a fleeting moment, it looked like they might actually take him. Roughhouse's laughter faltered, his movements slower, more deliberate. Delilah pressed harder, striking faster, her fists blurring.
Then the night shifted.
The air grew cold, unnaturally so.
From the shadows, Bloodscream returned. His pale face twisted into a smile as his long fingers flexed like claws. Sixteen armed men spread out behind him, rifles raised, surrounding the yard in a tightening circle.
"Well," Bloodscream hissed, his voice low and cruel. "Two little pests think themselves predators."
Delilah's chest heaved with adrenaline, but she didn't back down. Roughhouse straightened, bruises already fading as if they were never there.
Ricochet's mask concealed his grimace, but inside, Peter Parker's instincts screamed at him. Sixteen rifles. One superhuman brute. One vampire-like monster. It was no longer a fight—it was suicide.
"Time to go," Ricochet said quietly.
Delilah shot him a glare. "We almost had him."
"Almost doesn't matter when the cavalry shows up." He flicked another disc, knocking a rifle aside as a henchman tried to line up a shot. "Move!"
Bullets erupted. Ricochet shoved Delilah low, the rounds sparking off the pavement above them. He yanked her to her feet and sprinted for the fence, Roughhouse's roar shaking the air as Bloodscream's men opened fire.
They vaulted the fence, hitting the street running. Gunfire crackled behind them, a storm of bullets chasing through the night.
Roughhouse's heavy strides thundered after them, each step closing the distance. Bloodscream glided forward like smoke, impossibly fast, his eyes glowing faint red in the dark.
"Sixteen men, two freaks," Delilah growled between breaths. "We could take them."
"Not without dying for the privilege," Ricochet shot back, weaving them through narrow alleys. His discs deflected stray shots, each flick precise even on the run.
Delilah's fury was palpable, but she kept pace, her body built for stamina as much as power. Her fists clenched tight, itching to turn back, but Ricochet's grip on her arm dragged her forward.
"You want to win the war," Ricochet said, vaulting a chain-link gate, "you pick the right battlefield."
"And what's the right battlefield?" she spat.
"The docks. Steel. Cranes. Shadows. We can make the ground fight for us."
The waterfront glow loomed ahead, cranes silhouetted against the river lights. Behind them, Roughhouse bellowed like an oncoming avalanche, and Bloodscream's cold laughter slithered through the air.
Delilah's lips twisted into a dangerous grin despite herself. "Fine. But when we get there, he's mine."
Ricochet didn't argue. He just tightened his grip on the tracker still pinging in his pocket and kept running.