Chapter 44: Team Deadpool vs. The Hand
Hell's Kitchen.
Wade, Pietro, and John Wick — with Deadpool Dog leading the way — arrived at the front of the Hand's secret headquarters.
Deadpool Dog sniffed the air, then turned his head to look up at the others. The message was clear: They're inside.
John Wick — battle-hardened, methodical, the kind of operator who planned every angle before moving — was about to lay out a tactical approach when Wade's behavior caught him completely off guard.
Wade drew both katanas from his back. The blades caught the streetlights and gleamed.
"My beautiful, beautiful money — Daddy Deadpool is home!" he bellowed, and charged straight through the front door without breaking stride.
Pietro, clearly used to this, simply put on his goggles and blurred after him.
John Wick stood frozen on the sidewalk for a beat, taking in what he'd just witnessed. Are everyone on the boss's crew this insane? Aren't we supposed to be doing a stealth approach?
Inside the entrance, two Hand sentries spotted Wade barreling toward them. One immediately reached for his radio.
"Intruders—!"
Wade didn't give him the chance to finish. He moved like a thunderbolt — one elegant arc of his blade and the sentry was sliced clean in half. The second guard never even reached the alarm. Pietro had already flickered into existence beside him and dropped him with a single punch.
Pietro turned to look back at John. "Stop dragging your feet. These guys are trash. Just plow through."
Wade was already pulling out his phone to take selfies with the bodies. "Yeah yeah, hurry up — don't make me lose money over this."
The two of them moved deeper into the building. Deadpool Dog bounded ahead to scout the path.
John Wick pressed a hand to his forehead and looked up at the ceiling. They... really don't need me here, do they.
He sighed and followed them in.
Inside the building, the security team had heard the radio chatter and spotted the intruders on the surveillance feeds. The alarm system kicked in.
The wail of sirens transformed the Hand's headquarters from quiet stillness into a beehive of motion. Hallways that had been silent moments before erupted with movement.
Hand assassins poured out from every direction, faces cold and resolved. They'd been ready for this.
Wade's group had barely made it past the entrance when six Hand assassins in uniform — handguns drawn — cut them off in the corridor. The men's faces showed no expression. They moved like cold machines.
The six raised their pistols and opened fire.
Wade looked completely unbothered by the wall of incoming bullets.
He held his katanas up theatrically. "Everybody hold still! Watch Daddy Deadpool perform."
He moved.
His silhouette blurred — speed beyond what most eyes could track. One blade flashed forward and clipped a bullet out of the air, the motion smooth and practiced, like he'd been born for it. Then he brought both katanas together and started spinning them, faster and faster, until his hands were swallowed by a blossom of whirling steel.
The brilliant arcs of light filled the corridor.
The six Hand assassins watched Wade's blade-work and were entirely unimpressed. They simply kept firing, magazine after magazine, at the dancing red blur in front of them.
When their pistols finally clicked dry, all six of them lowered their weapons and stared in genuine shock — because Wade was still standing, completely fine.
Then they drew their swords and charged him.
Wade, meanwhile, was striking a victory pose for the benefit of the slack-jawed John Wick.
"Look how cool I am, John. Try not to fall in love."
John Wick stared at the dozens of fresh bullet holes peppering Wade's body and very seriously considered slapping himself in the face. He had genuinely, momentarily, believed Wade had blocked every single bullet with his swords.
"John — you don't actually think he was deflecting bullets, do you?" Pietro's voice was flat with secondhand embarrassment. "He's just abusing his healing factor for the bit."
Before the Hand swordsmen could close the distance, Pietro had had enough of Wade's theatrics. He triggered his speed and crossed the corridor in a single instant, materializing in front of all six men at once.
What happened next happened too fast for any human eye to register.
The six Hand assassins were suddenly airborne — flung like ragdolls toward the ceiling, the walls, every hard surface in the corridor.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK!
When the bodies hit the floor, none of them were breathing.
Pietro's eyes were cold. He didn't look surprised by his own work.
At that moment, on the top floor of the building, Murakami sat on a leather couch in his private quarters, lost in thought.
The alarm's piercing wail tore through the building. His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
A knock at the door. Nobu — his apprentice, dressed in traditional ninja garb with a short blade slung across his back — entered and bowed.
"It's Ethan Cross's people, Master. They've forced their way into the building. The first floor is already... cleared."
Murakami didn't react. The first floor falling didn't concern him.
He rose from the couch. "We arrived too late. But our guests are at the door now. Nobu — come. Let us go welcome them."
"Yes, Master."
Nobu fell in behind Murakami, and the two of them stepped out into a long, dim corridor. Only a few weak lights illuminated the far end. The only sound was their footsteps echoing off the empty walls.
Wade's group had taken the stairs up to the third floor. Wade was complaining the entire way.
"Why are we taking the stairs? Why? The Magnificent Lord Deadpool hates stairs!"
John Wick's mouth twitched.
The elevators were a death trap. One grenade or one well-placed bomb and there'd be nowhere to run. Not everyone in the group was blessed with regenerative powers like Wade's. For his own survival, John had spent a solid two minutes negotiating with Wade to convince him to take the stairs.
The moment they emerged onto the third floor, several heavily armed tactical operators with submachine guns opened fire from prepared positions.
BRRRAP. BRRRAP. BRRRAP.
Bullets came at them like the ammo was free, hosing the corridor.
The tactical squad's faces twisted into snarling grins as the rounds closed in on the three intruders and the dog. They were already imagining the spray of blood.
Wade was just about to step forward when Pietro cut him off.
"I've got this."
A blur of motion. The bullets that had been flying toward them suddenly reversed direction in mid-air and screamed back the way they'd come.
The tactical operators had exactly enough time to register what was happening — and not enough to do anything about it. Their own bullets cut them down before the snarling grins had even fully faded from their faces.
The whole exchange happened too fast for any of them to make a sound. They just dropped, in perfect silence, onto the corridor floor
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