James Wesley stood in the penthouse office of Fisk Tower, the glittering nightscape of Manhattan sprawling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses, he held a file in his hand as he reported on recent developments.
Behind the desk, Wilson Fisk—known to most as Kingpin—sat with his back to the room.
His massive frame nearly filled the custom-made leather chair; even while seated, his silhouette projected a heavy, suffocating pressure.
“The Bloody Angels…” Wesley’s voice was steady.
“Their warehouse on West 41st Street was hit last night.
They lost about 160,000 in cash and two kilograms of new product.”
Kingpin didn’t turn around.
“Who did it?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
“Nine-millimeter shells were found at the scene, but the methodology doesn’t look like a standard gang hit.
All three men were killed at close range with no signs of a struggle.
The safe was forced open; the lock cylinder was destroyed by a high-caliber weapon.” Wesley paused.
“The Bloody Angels think the Buffalo Gang brought in outside help.
They found a post on a forum claiming the Buffaloes have a new heavy hitter.”
“The Buffalo Gang…” Kingpin finally turned his chair around slowly.
“That idiot Jack Barton?
Has he done anything unusual lately?”
“He’s been privately contacting a city councilor’s assistant, trying to launder a few of his operations.
Also…” Wesley adjusted his glasses.
“We tracked two of his men to the vicinity of a military base in Maryland last month.
There’s no hard evidence, but the Bloody Angels suspect he’s established a link with the military.”
A barely perceptible curve tugged at the corner of Kingpin’s mouth.
“Everyone knows by now,” he said slowly.
“The biggest cartels in South America all have the shadow of the CIA behind them.
If Jack really has hitched his wagon to the military…”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but Wesley understood.
Certain big players in the military who wanted to make black money needed a distribution network.
It was entirely possible they were secretly contacting these local gangs.
Kingpin’s massive hand gripped the carved cane leaning against his desk.
He suddenly jammed the base of the cane into the floor with a dull, heavy thud.
“Sever ties with the Bloody Angels for now,” Kingpin commanded coldly.
“But leave them some operating capital and send them a shipment of guns.
Tell Emilio that if he can secure a foothold in Brooklyn, I’ll consider letting him into the Lower Manhattan distribution network.”
Wesley nodded slightly.
“It wouldn’t hurt to let them test the Buffalo Gang’s strength.”
“The Bloody Angels are a pack of brutes,” Kingpin said, his gaze shifting back to the night view.
“But they’ll serve their purpose.”
***
The next morning, at Brooklyn’s 78th Precinct.
Mike had just finished his shift handover and was sitting in the patrol car organizing his gear.
Frank leaned against the passenger seat, taking small sips of black tea from a thermos.
“Today’s day shift should be easy,” Frank said.
“I heard the tail end of last night was dead quiet.
Davis even fell asleep in the car.”
Mike smiled but didn’t respond.
It wasn’t just others who thought it was quiet; Mike found it strange himself.
He had just taken out three mobsters, and even if it wasn’t their precinct’s jurisdiction, there hadn’t been a single whisper of it.
Last night, he had revisited the contents of the ledger he’d taken from the “City Used Cars” warehouse.
The black-covered notebook recorded the transaction details of over a dozen supply points from the past six months.
Two addresses had caught his eye.
One was on Greene Street, the other on Seventh Avenue.
Both locations were within the 78th Precinct’s patrol area and had only been added to the list in the last two months.
Supplying newly established temporary strongholds indicated that the Bloody Angels were indeed expanding.
Mike holstered his Glock 19 and adjusted its position.
“Let’s go,” Frank said.
Mike started the engine and asked casually, “Should the scheduling be back to normal by tomorrow?”
“Who knows.” Frank shrugged.
“It’ll get better once the rookies come up.
We had one retirement and one sick leave this month; Sergeant Huggins is feeling the squeeze too.”
The patrol car pulled out of the precinct parking lot and merged into the morning traffic.
Mike’s gaze swept across both sides of the street.
Greene Street was only six blocks from the precinct—a typical old Brooklyn street lined with three- and four-story vintage apartment buildings with various small shops on the ground floor.
The address in the ledger was 112 Greene Street, a convenience store called “Quick & Easy.” However, it was obvious the real location wasn’t the storefront.
Mike remembered the shop had a small warehouse in the backyard; the owner had mentioned it was for storing junk.
“How about we swing by Greene Street?” Mike suggested.
“That convenience store was robbed a while back.
Let’s see how they’re doing.”
Frank glanced at him.
“You’re quite the diligent one.”
“The patrol route passes by anyway.”
Ten minutes later, the patrol car stopped across from 112 Greene Street.
The convenience store was open for business.
Through the glass window, they could see the owner stocking shelves.
“Looks fine,” Frank said.
Mike’s gaze, however, was fixed on the narrow alleyway at the side of the shop.
At the end of the alley was a rusted iron gate leading to the backyard.
“I’m going to grab a bottle of water.” Mike unbuckled his seatbelt.
“Make it quick.”
Mike got out of the car and walked into the store.
The owner, a Latino man in his fifties, smiled when he saw Mike’s uniform.
“Officer, thank you for last time.” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
“Just doing my job.” Mike grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler.
As he paid, he asked casually, “Is the backyard still secure?
I remember suggesting you beef up security.”
The owner nodded.
“I spoke with the landlord.
We put a new lock on it, should be no problem.
Though…” He lowered his voice.
“Lately, there’ve been people hanging around the back alley at night.
I suspect someone’s selling illegal stuff.”
“Do you need us to take a look?”
“No, no,” the owner waved his hands quickly.
“I was just venting.”
“I understand.
Don’t worry, they won’t know your name.” Mike took his water and walked out.
Instead of heading straight back to the car, he circled to the side of the building.
He unscrewed the cap, took a sip, and pretended to observe the area casually.
The iron gate was closed, but a black Honda Civic was parked right at the mouth of the alley.
The windows were heavily tinted, making it impossible to see inside.
The engine was idling, white exhaust fumes puffing from the tailpipe.
Mike walked over nonchalantly.
As he approached the Honda, his Dynamic Vision caught a thin wisp of blue smoke drifting from a crack in the window.
He caught a whiff of it.
People described the smell of marijuana as sweet and cloying, but he had always found it to be a nauseating stench—perhaps an instinctual revulsion rooted in his Huaxia soul’s deep-seated hatred for such substances.
There was someone in the car.
He continued walking, pretending to pass by, and heard a faint humming and the sound of fingers tapping on a steering wheel.
The person inside was relaxed—a careless idiot with no sense of alertness.
Mike reached the end of the alley and peeked through the gap in the iron gate into the backyard.
The so-called “warehouse” was actually just a simple corrugated metal shed.
A few cardboard boxes were piled by the door.
From one of the boxes, used transparent plastic bags were spilling out.
Mike’s pupils contracted slightly.
Even though the boxes and bags were empty, he recognized that packaging.
It was identical to what he had seen in the “City Used Cars” warehouse the night before!
Not daring to linger, Mike turned and walked back.
As he passed the Honda again, he caught a more complex scent—a sharp, chemical acidity.
Back in the patrol car, Mike shut the door.
“What took you so long?” Frank asked.
Mike tightened the cap on his water bottle and lowered his voice.
“The owner said there’s drug activity in the backyard.
There’s a guy in that Honda smoking pot, and I smelled something even stronger.”
Frank’s expression sharpened instantly.
“Contraband?”
“Not sure, but the smell is heavy,” Mike said.
“The car is idling.
It looks like he’s a lookout.”
He didn’t mention the boxes or the bags in the backyard, as he couldn’t explain how he knew they were suspicious.
Frank grew serious, looking first at the convenience store and then at the Honda.
“If it’s a temporary stash house, moving now might spook them,” Frank said.
“But if it really is…”
He hesitated for a few seconds, then grabbed the radio.
“7-Adam-5 to Dispatch.”
“Dispatch, go ahead.”
“Requesting Code 95 at the backyard of 112 Greene Street.
Possible narcotics transaction point.
Requesting backup or assistance from Narcotics detectives.”
“Copy that.
Dispatching nearby units.”
Ten minutes later, an unmarked black SUV pulled onto Greene Street and parked a short distance away.
Two men in plainclothes—one white, one Latino, both wearing dark jackets—stepped out.
Narcotics.
They walked up to the patrol car, and Mike rolled down the window.
“Detective Miller, Narcotics,” the white man said, flashing his badge.
“This is Detective Rodriguez.
What have you got?”
Mike quickly described the situation.
After listening, Detective Miller glanced discreetly at the Honda.
“The guy in the car hasn’t moved?”
“He’s been humming along to music.
Probably high out of his mind.”
Miller and Rodriguez shared a look and couldn’t help but chuckle.
The cops were less than a hundred yards away and the guy hadn’t noticed; he was definitely toasted.
The two detectives approached the Honda from both sides.
Miller tapped on the driver’s side window.
The window rolled down an inch.
“Yeah?
What is it?” A young Black male poked his head out, his eyes glazed and unfocused.
“NYPD.
Step out of the vehicle.”
The man froze.
In that split second, Rodriguez had already yanked open the passenger door and reached in to pull the keys from the ignition.
Now!”
The man sluggishly opened the door.
Detective Miller pressed him against the car to frisk him, pulling a small plastic bag from his pocket containing several red tablets.
“What are these?”
“I…
I don’t know…”
At that moment, the iron gate in the backyard suddenly swung open.
A white male in coveralls poked his head out, saw the scene, and immediately ducked back in.
“Halt!
NYPD!”
The man turned and bolted.
Miller and Rodriguez took off after him.
Mike jumped out of the car and followed.
Frank pulled out his handcuffs and leisurely cuffed the kid from the Honda.
The man in coveralls ducked into the shed and tried to slam the door, but Miller caught up and kicked it open.
The sight inside the shed made Miller pause for a heartbeat.
On a table by the door were piles of small, transparent plastic bags, each filled with white crystals.
On a table in the center of the shed sat an electronic scale, a heat sealer, and a stack of empty bags.
A temporary packaging station.
The man in coveralls raised his hands.
“I don’t know anything!
I just watch the warehouse!”
Miller cuffed him, then keyed his radio.
“Dispatch, this is Miller, Narcotics.
We’ve discovered a narcotics packaging station at the rear of 112 Greene Street.
Estimated quantity…
two kilograms.
Requesting CSU and transport backup.”
Miller glanced at Mike.
“Good work.
But next time you find something like this, call us first.
If the guards here had been professionals, you might have gotten hurt.”
Mike nodded.
“Understood.”
***
That afternoon, in a Bloody Angels safehouse in Brooklyn.
Emilio Sanchez stared at his phone screen, his face livid.
He was the local lead for the Bloody Angels, a forty-year-old man with a scar running from the corner of his left eye down to his chin.
“The Greene Street spot got busted,” he told the other three men in the room.
“NYPD hit it out of nowhere.
We’ve taken another loss.”
A bald man cursed loudly.
“That’s the second one!
The West 41st warehouse gets raided, and now Greene Street gets popped?
Where is the Buffalo Gang getting such good intel?”
“It might not be the Buffaloes,” Emilio said coldly.
“I saw photos from the 41st Street scene.
That wasn’t a gang hit.
Three men killed with single shots to the head, then finished off.
The safe was blasted open with a high-caliber weapon.
Jack Barton doesn’t have anyone like that on his payroll.”
“Word is they hired outside help.
Don’t know if it’s true.”
Emilio didn’t elaborate.
He walked to the window, watching the sky gradually darken.
Mr.
Wesley had contacted him that afternoon, saying Kingpin would be cutting public ties temporarily but would provide funding and weapons support.
The message was clear: Kingpin didn’t want to be directly involved in this conflict, but he was willing to provide the resources for the Bloody Angels to handle it themselves.
It was a test, and an opportunity.
If the Bloody Angels could crush the Buffalo Gang in Brooklyn, they could take over their territory and distribution network.
But if they failed…
Emilio turned around.
“Gather every shooter we have.
Tonight, we’re going to give the Buffalo Gang a lesson they won’t forget.”
Whether these two incidents were related to the Buffaloes or not, he had to act!
“Everyone?” the bald man asked.
“We have about a dozen solid hitters right now.
The rest are just street punks.”
“A dozen is enough,” Emilio said.
“Split into four groups.
Strike four of the Buffalo Gang’s spots in Brooklyn simultaneously.
I want Jack Barton to wake up tomorrow morning to find half his territory gone.”
“What if the NYPD gets involved?”
“Avoid the main streets.
Hit fast and get out.” Emilio pulled two stacks of cash from a drawer and tossed them on the table.
“Funds from Mr.
Wesley.
Go to the black market and buy some automatic weapons.
Split the rest among yourselves.
We move at 11:00 PM tonight.”