"This is Viran to all Titans. I...was mistaken. I thought I saw something but I was mistaken. I thought I saw something on Prime that had me concerned but I was wrong."
Grant raised his brow beneath his mask as he heard the conversation, stepping into his black 1970 Dodge Challenger with its orange stripes, starting the engine. He activated the Titans communications along with the police band scanner. The car originally had a top speed of 185 miles per hour, but that had been modified to a cool 225. Additionally, the body and windows were missile-proof, with an armory stored in a hidden compartment in the trunk. Finally, the tires were of the sort usually seen on a presidential motorcade: a blowout was next to impossible.
As he sat back, Grant placed both hands on the wheel, and began to drive towards the worst part of town. Though he was back in Second City, he was still a mercenary, and this was his last job before his plan went truly underway. The client was a wealthy man, wealthy enough to afford Grant, anyway. What he wanted was simple. The apartment building he had recently purchased was situated-although the client had not known at the time of the property's purchase-within the territory of a particularly nasty gang of thugs.
The client wanted the entire gang assassinated.
And since Mason's "ghost" had begun helping him, his powers had begun to return. Of course, at the moment he only had his enhanced reflexes, but even now, he could feel his strength resurgent. He wasn't as strong as Viran, but what he had was more than enough, for him at least. He could crush bones with his bare hands, even rip a car door apart or crush a gun barrel if need be, but that was the extent of his enhanced strength. The maximum he could lift was maybe 1000 pounds with effort.
As he crossed an intersection, a familiar car passed him but he shrugged it off and pulled up beside the gang's reputed headquarters. His suspicion about the authenticity of the headquarters was confirmed as he spotted two patrols emblazoned with the gang colors. Each patrol team consisted of two men, both armed with AK-47s. For someone of Grant's reputation, this was like leading cattle to the slaughterhouse.
Grant stepped out and immediately shot one thug in the head while the next noticed his partner fall. He whistled and his buddies rallied against Grant, three to one. They moved in close, hoping that with their superior firepower and numbers, they could subdue this threat.
Their mistake.
Grant grabbed the wrist of the one closest and crushed it. He fell to the ground writhing In pain until his life ended beneath Grant's boot. The next two fell under a single stroke of Grant's blade.
Grant walked away from the burning wreckage of what used to be a gang hideout, flames billowing behind him. Across the street sat the same car he had passed on the way here. Its owner was watching him via binoculars. She looked away once, and the next thing she knew, she was ripped through her window, her seatbelt destroyed, by the throat. She was slammed against the wall, and Grant looked at her with his one eye.
Even as he lifted her, she did nothing. Her face softened when she realized he was missing an eye, lifting her hand to caress the blank portion of his mask. She spoke in Russian, and he recognized whom she was. "<Grant...it's me. K-" "<Ekaterina Dobrova. What are you doing here?>"