Mike changed into his tactical gear and adjusted his baseball cap and face mask in front of the mirror.
He stuffed some cash, spare magazines, and several pairs of disposable gloves into his jacket pockets.
His newly modified Glock, now permanently fitted with a suppressor, was too long to tuck into his waistband or pocket, so he opted for a waist bag, which also held other essentials for the mission.
He drove toward Manhattan.
The evening rush hour had just ended, and traffic was relatively smooth.
Forty minutes later, he entered the Hell’s Kitchen area.
The nights here were even more chaotic than certain blocks in Brooklyn.
The streets were older, the lights dimmer, and pedestrians were scarce, save for the occasional vehicle speeding past.
The air was a thick cocktail of garbage, urine, and cheap marijuana.
In a place like this, one could look up and see the world’s most prosperous cluster of skyscrapers, a sight especially prominent at night.
Mike parked his car in a public lot two blocks away from West 41st Street and proceeded on foot.
He moved along the shadows of the street, lightening his steps and scanning his surroundings.
After walking about three hundred meters, he spotted the “City Used Cars” warehouse.
It was a large, single-story brick building with its rolling shutter doors tightly closed.
A small side door sat under a surveillance camera aimed at the entrance.
The words “City Used Cars” were spray-painted in faded letters on the side of the building, accompanied by a crude drawing of a car.
Three vehicles were parked in front of the warehouse: an old Toyota Camry, a Ford pickup, and a black Chevrolet Suburban.
the Suburban’s windows were heavily tinted, and it indeed bore a “City Used Cars” adhesive sticker on the side, though the edges were starting to peel.
Mike touched the hood of the Suburban lightly; it was still warm.
He retreated into the shadows of an abandoned building across the street and carefully circled the warehouse.
At the back of the building was a barred window.
The inside of the glass was covered with frosted film, making it impossible to see in.
Below the window sat a pile of old tires and oil drums.
Mike waited for a few minutes and could faintly hear voices coming from inside.
Losing his patience, he found a good angle and raised his hand.
Three shots took out the camera and the doorbell.
He then pulled the trigger repeatedly, peppering the rolling shutter and emptying the magazine.
Panic-stricken shouts erupted from within.
Mike sprinted toward the side of the warehouse while reloading, quickly circling from the back of the abandoned building.
He climbed onto the oil drums, gripped the edge of the windowsill, and pulled himself up.
Pulling out a thin piece of steel wire, he inserted it into the window gap and gently flicked the latch.
*Click.*
The window creaked open an inch.
The frosted film blocked his view, but he could hear everything inside.
“What’s going on out there?”
“I don’t know!
Get the others, now!”
“Can we use the back door?”
“The back door is locked tight!
It hasn’t been opened in ages!”
They were panicking.
Mike pushed the window open gently and flipped inside, landing almost silently on the concrete floor.
This area seemed to be the warehouse’s maintenance section, cluttered with tool racks, parts bins, and several half-disassembled engines.
Ahead was a half-open door leading to a brightly lit area where voices were coming from.
Mike drew his Glock 19, flicked off the safety, and tightened the suppressor.
He pressed his back against the wall near the door and listened.
There were at least two people, their voices coming from different directions.
One sounded more composed—likely the squad leader.
Someone had just finished a phone call. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Taking a deep breath, Mike lunged through the door with his gun raised.
Behind the door was an open space that might have once been a showroom.
Now, it held two tables and several chairs.
Three men stood there.
On the middle table sat two open black briefcases filled with bundles of cash and white powder packed in transparent plastic bags.
The three men were aiming their guns at the front entrance and heard the movement behind them almost simultaneously.
Mike didn’t give them a chance to react.
*Thwip—thwip—thwip—thwip—*
Four shots, all hits.
The suppressor muffled the gunshots into dull metallic thuds that echoed through the hollow warehouse.
The three men collapsed.
One of them tried to raise his gun, but Mike gifted him another bullet.
Keeping his weapon raised, Mike quickly checked each of the downed men and fired two more finishing shots.
Only after confirming they were no longer breathing did he approach the table.
In one briefcase, bundles of twenty and fifty-dollar bills were piled high; he estimated it at over fifty thousand dollars.
The other briefcase held about two kilograms of white powder.
It was high purity, showing fine crystals under the light.
He nudged the cash with the barrel of his gun and discovered a bundle of hundred-dollar bills secured with a bank strap.
The strap was printed with “Chase Manhattan Bank.” Ten stacks, a hundred bills each, totaling…
a hundred thousand dollars!
Mike’s eyes narrowed.
He’d hit the jackpot!
Thank God for the Crimson Angel.
No, thank the mission system for only taking contraband and not the dirty money.
Mike stuffed all the cash into one briefcase and snapped it shut.
The contraband was immediately surrendered to the system!
Next, he scanned the room and found an old-fashioned safe in the corner, about waist-high with a mechanical lock.
He tried to open it, but the door wouldn’t budge.
He didn’t have time to pick the lock.
He raised his Glock and aimed at the lock cylinder.
*Thwip—thwip—*
The casing around the lock shattered, but one of the bullets ricocheted, whistling past his scalp and hitting the wall behind him.
Mike’s legs nearly gave out from the shock.
*Fuck!*
If a transmigrator got killed by his own ricochet, the readers would laugh themselves to death!
He quickly swapped weapons, pulling out his Desert Eagle and attaching a suppressor.
He fired three rounds into the lock cylinder: *Boom, boom, boom.*
The three heavy rounds punched through the lock mechanism, deforming the metal.
He stepped forward and gave the door a hard yank; the safe door groaned open.
Inside were two stacks of hundreds and fifties, along with several documents and a notebook.
Mike grabbed them, shoved them into the briefcase, and picked up a few spent casings from the floor.
Thinking quickly, he stripped the jacket off one of the corpses and wrapped it around the briefcase to disguise its silhouette.
Just then, the sound of screeching brakes came from outside.
Their backup had arrived!
Mike retreated to the maintenance area and flipped back out through the window.
He performed a rolling landing to break his fall and sprinted toward the other side of the street.
Behind him, shouting and the sound of the front door being breached erupted from the warehouse.
He didn’t look back.
He cut through two alleys and circled back to the parking lot.
At 9:10 PM, he drove away from Hell’s Kitchen with the heavy briefcase on the passenger seat.
The loose small bundles totaled sixty-seven thousand dollars.
Combined with the hundred-thousand-dollar bundle of hundreds, it came to a total of 167,000 dollars.
The two kilograms of drugs had been surrendered, though the system provided no notification.
It seemed the contraband wasn’t enough yet for the system to register mission progress.
He didn’t have time to read the documents and the notebook in detail, but a quick flip revealed they were ledgers and contact lists.
Mike sorted the cash and put it, along with the papers and the notebook, into the basement.
Then, he returned to the living room, opened his laptop, and logged onto the youth forum.
Under the “Shadow Watcher” post, there was a new reply: [OP, better be careful.
Crimson Angel isn’t simple.
They probably have people watching these forums.
Delete the post.]
Mike thought for a few seconds and registered a new account, typing in a random string of letters and numbers for the name.
He replied to the post:
[Something happened to Crimson Angel’s people on West 41st Street.
The Buffalo Gang found some help.
Crimson Angel is in big trouble this time.]
After posting, he logged out and cleared his browsing history.
If the Crimson Angel people were truly monitoring the forum, this message would help them “confirm” that a rival gang had raided their warehouse.
Before closing the laptop, a prompt appeared on his remote firewall.
*Huh?*
“Someone is actually tracking me?!”
Mike investigated and found the trace originating from the forum he had just visited.
Based on the registration ID left on the forum, it was the user named Shadow Watcher.
Mike chuckled.
He simply abandoned the two remote proxies he was using, wiped his tracks, and shut down the computer.
He headed back into the basement, switched on the workbench light, and disassembled the Glock.
He meticulously cleaned the parts, removing all gunpowder residue.
He also took apart the suppressor for cleaning and maintenance.
Once finished, he reassembled and checked the weapon.
Next, he pulled out the Stark Model 107 pistol and placed it on the workbench.
The design of this gun was very peculiar.
Upon disassembly, he noticed that the threading inside the barrel wasn’t a standard specification; it seemed to require a suppressor with a proprietary interface.
Mike cleaned the Stark pistol as well, oiled it, and put it back together.
It was getting late.
He reluctantly put the gun down, intending to manually modify a suppressor for it tomorrow night.
Finally, he opened the file folder and began leafing through the documents and the notebook he had acquired tonight.
The ledger entries showed that over the past six months, the “City Used Cars” warehouse had processed over two million dollars.
Most of the funds flowed to offshore accounts.
Most of the names of individuals were unfamiliar, but he still recognized a City Council assistant and a mid-level official from the NYPD Narcotics Bureau.
Another name caught his eye:
“Elektra Natchios.”
Next to it was a notation: “The Hand Liaison.”
The Hand?
That ninja organization!
Kingpin, Crimson Angel, The Hand, corrupt officials…
these forces were woven into a single web.
Mike leaned back in his chair and suddenly smirked.
“None of my business!”
He packed up the documents and the notebook and prepared for sleep.