Chapter Sixty-One: Capturing a Soviet Agent

In the inner corridors of the battleship, Fury, dressed in a lieutenant’s formal officer uniform, hurriedly jogged toward Kyle’s office. The female military doctor, suspected to be a foreign agent, had already been in the office for some time, and Fury was eager to see how the situation would be handled.

As soon as he arrived outside the closed iron door of the office, Fury could faintly hear snippets of conversation between Kyle and the young military doctor inside.

“Are you coming over or not?”

“I’m not coming.”

“Then I’ll come to you.”

“Don’t come any closer!”

The brief and pointless exchange ended, immediately followed by the sounds of an intense fight erupting from within.

Fury, just about to knock, was startled when something slammed against the door with a loud bang from the other side, leaving a visible dent even in the reinforced iron.

“Kyle, are you alright?” Fury decisively abandoned the idea of opening the door, wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and shouted loudly.

Kyle’s calm and steady voice quickly came from inside. “I’m fine. Just stay outside and don’t let any other soldiers in.”

“OK,” Fury answered with a nod, not the slightest bit concerned for Kyle’s safety.

There was no need to worry—if anyone needed concern, it was whoever was facing Kyle inside.

And indeed, that was the case.

Inside the battleship’s office, wood chips and paper scraps were strewn across the floor, clear evidence of the ferocious struggle that had just taken place.

Kyle, wearing only his Venom combat suit and no other gear, stood tall and straight at the center of the office, his gaze cold as he looked at Zatana, who was half-sitting, half-lying against the iron door.

Zatana was unrecognizable from her previous self; the childish softness had vanished from her face, now set in an indifferent mask, her beautiful eyes glinting with a sharp, cold light. Her white medic’s dress was tattered, clinging to her petite frame like a beggar’s rags, dirt and sweat smeared across her skin, a picture of utter defeat.

It was a one-sided rout.

“So, is this the best the Soviet Union can do with its top agents? I haven’t even used my full strength, and you’re already about to collapse?” Kyle’s voice was icy and mocking.

Zatana gritted her teeth, enduring the pain of her injuries as she struggled to her feet, bracing herself against the iron door.

“Not bad,” Kyle said with a devilish smile. He had just unleashed eighty percent of his strength in a series of blows that landed squarely on her. Any normal person would have been beaten to death, yet Zatana still retained some ability to fight. The resilience and endurance of a super-agent were not just empty boasts.

“I’ll let you take the initiative,” Kyle said, spreading his hands.

Without hesitation, Zatana realized that escape was impossible on hostile ground; her only option was to fight to the death. Lowering her body, she charged forward, and as she closed to within two meters, she spun her right hand, producing a broken piece of wooden board she’d hidden until then. With a sharp whistle, she thrust the jagged end straight at Kyle’s eye.

Kyle seemed to have anticipated her move. His left hand shot out with blinding speed, catching her wrist mid-air and squeezing tightly, the bones in her slender wrist crackling under the pressure.

“Let me go!” Zatana shouted in pain, lashing out with her left leg in a desperate kick at Kyle’s groin.

In an instant, her left ankle was caught by Kyle’s other hand, his grip secure and unyielding.

He countered her every move with ease. With such a gulf in skill and physical prowess, Zatana was nothing more than a kitten baring its fangs at a leopard.

Even Captain America, Steve Rogers, had been utterly outmatched in close combat with Kyle—Zatana’s strength was not even half of Steve’s. If Steve was like a little brother to Kyle, then Zatana was a little sister, without the slightest chance of victory.

“Boring,” Kyle said coolly, gazing at the helpless Zatana trapped in his grip, shaking his head in mild disappointment.

He hoisted her petite body, bent his left knee, and drove it forcefully into her soft abdomen.

It was a full-powered knee strike.

Zatana’s eyes rolled back as she lost all ability to fight, collapsing in a twitching heap on the floor as Kyle released her.

The brief battle had ended as quickly as it began.

“Fury, you can come in now,” Kyle called, brushing dust from his hands.

The iron door was swiftly opened by Fury, who had been standing guard outside. He stepped into the office and was stunned by the chaotic scene, the wreckage, and the battered, curled-up form of Zatana on the floor.

“The Soviets are really restless, sending agents to secretly steal my blood,” Kyle said, his face expressionless.

“What do we do with her? Lock her up, or hand her over to headquarters for processing?” Fury asked.

“For now, keep this under wraps. We’ll decide after the battle is over. If we make trouble with the Soviets now, it will do our army no good.” Kyle picked up his general’s coat and draped it over his shoulders, casting a glance at Zatana. “Lock her in a single cell on the battleship. Have a female medic treat her injuries and give her a fresh military uniform. I have some questions for her later.”

“Later?” Fury looked skeptically at the still-twitching Zatana. “She won’t recover for several days like this, will she?”

Kyle shrugged. “I didn’t pull my punches, but with her constitution, she’ll come around in half an hour.”

Fury shook his head and commented seriously, “Anyone who’s assigned to target you ends up a disaster… nothing but cannon fodder.”

“This isn’t settled yet. When the chance comes, we need to take that Red Room organization down,” Kyle said coolly. “If you try your experiments on me, then death is already written in my little black book.”

One hour later.

Zatana gradually awoke in an isolated cell. As soon as consciousness returned, the pain from her injuries flared. She calmly surveyed her surroundings and found herself tied to a wooden chair, her hands and feet bound tightly with rope. Her tattered white dress had been replaced with a small-sized American green combat uniform.

The ropes that bound her might have been an obstacle for any ordinary person, but for Zatana, they were a trivial trick—she could escape them easily thanks to her flexibility.

But aside from the ropes, she felt something else—a cold, metallic ring clasped tightly around her neck.

“I advise you not to struggle in vain. The device on your neck is a shock collar that I had Howard make as a precaution. Try to remove it or trigger it by remote, and it will do its job. At maximum voltage, it could make a bull lose control of its bowels.”

Kyle’s calm, detached voice came from the doorway as he entered the holding cell.

The shock collar had been intended for the Winter Soldier, but it had found its first use here.

Success: one Soviet agent captured.