Chapter 4551: Day of White (17)

Hurghada is not a city suitable for car chases. Any veteran should think so. In fact, on the vast African continent, basically only a few major cities in South Africa can withstand such a big scene, while others cannot drive fast because of poor road management.

But road conditions don't just affect one side. The car chase is slow, and the escape is also slow. Then it will fall into a very ridiculous situation, that is, the victory of the car chase is not determined by driving skills, but by who is more resistant to bumps.

The locals have a great advantage. They usually call those who come from developed countries and have enjoyed roads with extremely good maintenance "squeamish softies." Even those from Siberia are no exception. After all, there are not many birds and mice on the roads there, while here they are everywhere. When driving and hitting and pressing over them, the degree of bumping on the road will double.

But the opponent they met was Deathstroke. This guy takes missiles to the face without changing his expression; even if the car is tripped by the Himalayas, he can quickly plant a horse stance to stabilize his body, not affected by the bumps at all.

And in this car chase with African characteristics that is not wonderful, and can even be said to be a bit ridiculous, there is only one victim, and that is Schiller, whose inner ear balance system is damaged.

When Deathstroke lured the police and jumped into the car himself, Schiller had roughly anticipated what he was going to do. However, the impact brought by the severely damaged balance system was greater than he imagined. He never thought he would get carsick, and would get so sick.

With a "click," the car door was directly removed, and then thrown out of the car, also successfully making the two police cars behind skid. Ventilation helps to improve the current situation, Schiller is no longer so nauseous, but the dizziness has not weakened.

"Stop! Deathstroke!" Schiller roared at him. The words he didn't finish were, if he couldn't physically shorten the distance to Cairo, he might choose to shorten the distance to the mastermind mentally. To be precise, let the fucking culprit do this!

A sharp turn interrupted his words, and also made his head knock on the backrest of the front seat. When he woke up again, Schiller was clearly shocked.

About a second ago, he was still in the office of the Great Egyptian Museum, checking the malfunction of the temperature control device of the closed-circuit system as a technician, while calculating how long it would take for Deathstroke to reach Cairo.

Then, some things happened that could be called "self-struggle" in academia, but basically manifested as kidnapping in form, and then he and the agent swapped positions—hopefully the agent will fix the temperature control device in the museum.

Because it came too suddenly, Schiller didn't have time to look at the memories. So he first had to figure out what the situation was. He was sitting in a speeding car, the driver was the world's strongest mercenary, but the car chase was just local police in a small Egyptian city, and then this car didn't even have a door.

To be honest, this situation is a bit weird. What's even weirder is that terrible uncontrollable dizziness. Schiller hadn't experienced this feeling either; this is probably what ordinary people call carsickness.

This cannot be simply described as pain, more like a hazy state between dreaming and waking, as if the brain and body were separated. And because it was obvious that he couldn't hear any sound, Schiller was sure that this should be sensory integration disorder caused by damage to the balance system in the ear.

This feeling is novel. Schiller wanted to study it, but another sharp turn made his body, which had just stabilized, sway again. Because the balance stabilization system didn't work, he was completely thrown into that vortex of dizziness—the world began to become clear in another way.

"What the hell?" Schiller said, "If you feel you can't accept your current state, you should see a doctor, instead of kidnapping an agent, and then expecting him to find you a psychologist—wait a minute, he really can."

Deathstroke didn't quite understand. But when he turned back, something like a sharp dagger pierced into his carotid artery from the other side. It was fast and ruthless. His peripheral vision caught that it was part of the baffle under the seat. The force when it penetrated was so great that it almost pierced his entire neck.

At the same time, Schiller's voice came from behind: "I think you should... stop..."

That hand was even more forceful. After piercing to the end, it was pulled out violently. Blood stained half of the windshield. Then, just as it was about to pierce in again, Deathstroke reached out and grabbed that hand.

"What are you doing!" he covered the wound on his neck, "Are you trying to kill me?!"

Suddenly, the entire driver's seat shook violently. Deathstroke even had an illusion—he, weighing two hundred pounds, and at least two hundred pounds of the driving system were pulled out of the car together, just like pulling out a thorn.

He subconsciously grabbed the steering wheel violently. Deathstroke's strength was not low, and the steering wheel was crushed by him. He fell backward uncontrollably, but his extremely precise reaction and strength system allowed him to hook the remaining steering wheel with his feet, and then pull out his greatsword from behind, piercing the roof of the car, which stabilized his movements, but still couldn't let him see what happened behind.

A pair of hands locked his neck like a ghost. To prevent himself from really being choked, Deathstroke had to let go of his sword and turn to dodge toward the passenger seat. But this car was not spacious, and his build was too big, so the process of breaking free was a bit difficult.

Deathstroke had already prepared to take a shot from that hand cannon, because Schiller had plenty of time to draw his gun. And although he said he disliked that gun, he never went soft when firing.

But strangely, Schiller didn't use the gun. He just pushed the passenger seat forward again, almost breaking Deathstroke's ribs. Must abandon this car, Deathstroke thought; it is unwise to fight with a killer whale in a Jaguar.

Deathstroke hacked open the passenger door with his sword and jumped out, stabilizing his figure after rolling on the ground several times. He felt a very uncomfortable dampness soaking through the lining of his armor; it was his own blood. He had just been pierced through the artery. If the wound hadn't healed after the weapon was pulled out, and his hematopoietic function wasn't dozens of times that of an ordinary person, he might not be able to stand up now.

"Are you fucking crazy?!" Deathstroke couldn't help but curse, not that he felt sorry for this bit of blood, but he keenly noticed that Schiller had become a bit wrong.

Before, although he was a bit out of control, he could feel that he was trying his best to restrain himself. Even if he couldn't hear, he hadn't completely given up communication. But now it was different; Schiller seemed to be immersed in his own world, and Deathstroke didn't understand at all what he was doing there.

Schiller of course also jumped out of the car, but after standing up, he froze in place, seemingly judging something. Deathstroke wanted to move forward, but his neck was aching faintly. The fighting instinct of many years saved him again, because Schiller suddenly ran away in one direction.

Deathstroke's bad premonition in his heart became stronger and stronger. He followed quickly and judged from the impression of the map in his brain that the direction Schiller was heading should be a resort hotel by the sea. That was a fully enclosed high-end resort.

Broken. Deathstroke's almost fully developed brain recalled what Schiller had said earlier. He muttered to himself: "He will... see? See what? What did he see???"

Deathstroke didn't have more time to think either. He chased after Schiller, thinking about whether he could intercept him halfway, but in reality, it was very difficult, because the car chase had caused a very terrifying traffic jam. Now it's four wheels can't run faster than two wheels, and two wheels can't run faster than two legs. Deathstroke didn't run slowly, but Schiller was clearly faster than him.

Deathstroke took a shortcut through the chaotic traffic and crowd. He was already very close to Schiller, but he had to run in front of him to stop him. Unfortunately, this city was too small, and when Deathstroke was about to catch up, the resort hotel was already in sight.

Such hotels have security. But the problem was that Schiller looked very normal. He was wearing a shirt and tie, didn't show any violent traits, and settled the security guards in a few words. But the firm steps when walking into the hotel made Deathstroke understand that his goal was very clear.

This made Deathstroke feel a bit strange. Was he sober or not? Judging from his previous performance, if he hadn't sobered up, he couldn't have talked to the security guards so normally. But if he was sober, wasn't his primary task now to head to Cairo?

What's more, he couldn't hear at all, so how did he deal with the security guards' questioning? Deathstroke wanted to know if these two security guards were abnormal, but when he appeared, the speed at which they called for support surpassed the vast majority of security personnel, which proved that they had extremely high professional quality.

Deathstroke exchanged two moves with them and found that one of them should be a CIA spy, and the other might be from one of the countries across the Red Sea. This made Deathstroke realize that this hotel was not simple. Because Hurghada was not a very famous resort area, the big shots who came here were very limited; if they had this kind of manpower, putting them in the Mediterranean would be the best.

Are there big shots in the hotel? Deathstroke immediately realized this. But if so, how could the security guards let an unidentified person like Schiller in?

Deathstroke didn't waste too much time with them, and disappeared into the crowd after getting rid of the siege, but returned to the hotel after circling around. He stood in the distance and looked up: one on the east balcony, two in the front yard, one next to the parking sign, two on the roof...

This is a very typical "loose outside, tight inside" defense strategy. It seems that everyone in the hotel is acting normally, no different from weekdays, but in fact, key positions with good vision have been replaced by professionals, watching every movement here.

Deathstroke circled to the other side again and found several people watching. The person who arranged all this was very professional; the security force was distributed relatively evenly, so it was impossible to see which side the room of the person being protected might be on. But they were not professional enough; after he made some noise at the door, someone immediately ran in to report, and then someone rushed out of the building. They said something with walkie-talkies.

The sentries soon had actions. They began to check the surroundings frequently, but they also failed to overcome human weaknesses, occasionally subconsciously glancing in one direction. Through the actions of the sentries on different floors, Deathstroke could roughly determine that the target person was on the east side of the tenth floor.

He bypassed the eyes of the sentries and climbed into the second floor from one side. He didn't intend to climb the stairs, but went directly to the elevator; sure enough, the elevator couldn't be used without a pass. But someone upstairs called the elevator, so he could go up, and the moment the door opened, he held the person who called the elevator hostage.

It didn't look like security personnel, just staff in the hotel. Deathstroke couldn't be bothered to talk nonsense with him, snatched his pass, and took the elevator to the tenth floor again. And there was already a riot here. ===== CHAPTER 4552 =====