” At 8:20 PM, a small convoy of brightly painted muscle cars drove grandly into Hell’s Kitchen.
When coming to Hell’s Kitchen to do business at night, even outside gangs worried about getting robbed by the local residents.
Following the information given by their boss, the convoy didn’t stop once along the way, driving straight to the front of an abandoned factory near the end of 47th Street.
They had originally planned to launch a surprise attack.
However, before they even parked, they spotted a tall Asian man sitting at the factory entrance with his legs crossed.
A double-barreled shotgun rested across his lap, and a revolver hung at his waist.
“Stop!” The leader immediately ordered the driver in the lead car to halt, ready to pull an immediate U-turn and vanish if things looked wrong.
After all, they were in Hell’s Kitchen.
They already saw two guns out in the open—who knew how many barrels were aimed at them from the dark?
“Cool!” Little Broly, carrying baby Konrad, leaned over the second-floor window frame of the factory, watching their father confront the uninvited guests with great enthusiasm.
“Even though those guys only have a combat power of 5, I gotta admit, Dad’s presence is totally cool!” Baby Konrad sucked on his thumb, his large eyes blinking innocently.
He was less than six months old, after all, and Broly’s sentence had come out naturally in Chinese.
So, even with the innate wisdom of a Primarch, little Konrad only half-understood what he heard.
“Cool?
Cruel…
execute…” Konrad picked out two words he understood from the sound, trying to decipher what Broly meant.
“…Oh, Broly!
Daddy is going to ambush the bad guys, and then cruelly execute them, right?” “It’s not an ambush—well, whatever.
Just watch the fun, Konrad.
We gotta trust Dad’s strength.” Broly mimicked Liam Price’s usual habit, rubbing his “silly little brother’s” hair.
However, because Konrad was growing so fast, Broly had to stand slightly on tiptoe now to reach the top of his little brother’s head.
The brothers’ antics naturally couldn’t escape Liam Price’s perception.
Knowing his sons were worried about him, the father could only shake his head helplessly, though a warm feeling filled his heart.
*These two little scamps.* Of course, Liam Price reserved his tenderness for his own family.
Toward outsiders—especially those with ill intent—his attitude wasn’t nearly as pleasant.
“Hey!
You lot!
Yeah, I’m talking to you dirty thieves!” Holding the shotgun in one hand, he gestured toward the cars with the barrel.
“You came all this way just to sit there frozen?
What are you doing, playing dead turtles over there?” Although they didn’t quite catch the nuance of his phrasing, the men weren’t stupid; they clearly understood the disdain on Liam Price’s face.
Besides, after waiting for a while with no movement around them, the men in the cars began to wonder if they were just scaring themselves.
“Maybe this guy didn’t get any advance warning or set up a trap.
Maybe he’s just sitting at his doorstep enjoying the cool evening air.” The leader pondered for a moment and felt his guess was likely correct.
“He lives in Hell’s Kitchen, after all.
Sitting at your own doorway with a shotgun for self-defense—isn’t that totally normal around here?” At that thought, he immediately called out to his subordinates, “Everyone get out of the cars!
Grab your iron!
Don’t let these Hell’s Kitchen trash look down on us!” With that, the muscular Black man wearing a thick gold chain pulled out a Desert Eagle from his waistband and stepped out of the car first.
Although being the first out was the most dangerous, a gang leader had to maintain street cred, or none of his guys would respect him.
Once he got out, however, he was quickly surrounded by his crew, and the group marched toward Liam Price, who was casually waving at them.
As he walked, he observed the man.
The guy didn’t look very old.
Asian ages were always a mystery, but he estimated the man was under thirty.
According to the info provided by the boss, this guy had two sons, and the family of three had only arrived in New York recently, making a living with a food truck.
Judging by his outfit—work boots, jeans, a T-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt…
He was dressed like a redneck.
He was probably just a country bumpkin who used to till the soil in some backwater middle of nowhere.
The guy was just unlucky.
Shortly after arriving in New York, he had crossed paths with someone who brought “trouble.” And that “trouble” person had stirred up massive trouble.
A super-rich mogul had hired their gang, the “Bloody Peppers,” to resolve that “trouble,” and while they were at it, sweep away everyone connected to him so the trouble wouldn’t spread.
“Hey, you guys!” Liam Price’s call snapped the leader out of his thoughts.
“Can’t you walk without huddling together?
Walking those few steps like high school girls going to the bathroom together—you’re slower than my grandma!” Even in English, the insult was crystal clear and instantly infuriated the members of the Bloody Peppers.
Losing their tempers on the spot, they raised their weapons.
However, before firing, there was one thing they needed to do—spread out.
Thugs were thugs.
They were here to execute an assassination, yet they hadn’t set up a sniper on high ground beforehand, and after getting out of the cars, they habituated into a tight cluster out of sheer instinct.
Liam Price merely aimed at them and fired a single shot from his double-barreled shotgun, causing the group to scatter in pure panic.
Over a dozen men, over a dozen guns, over a dozen amateurs engaging in “spray-and-pray” panic fire.
*Bang!
Bang!
Bang!* After a chaotic volley of gunfire, half of the crew suffered point-blank friendly fire from their own comrades.
As for whether any stray bullets had flown toward Liam Price?
A few stray rounds had indeed leaked through.
However, Liam Price caught those stray bullets effortlessly with his bare hand, flicked his wrist, and sent them flying straight back.
In a single exchange, before the gang could even cross the threshold of Liam Price’s factory, they were all lying flat on the ground.
Only one was still breathing.
It was the leader.
The Desert Eagle in his hand was locked open on an empty magazine.
The seven gaping, bowl-sized blast wounds on the backs of his crew in front of him stood as testament to his valiant blind firing.
Before he could pull out a spare magazine to reload, Liam Price blurred, appearing beside him instantly, and brought his foot stomping down hard.
“Argh—!” The leader let out a blood-curdling shriek.
The flesh and bone of his gun-toting hand had been pulverized together with the Desert Eagle, crushed into a bloody mess beneath Liam Price’s boot.
Immediately after, Liam Price raised his foot and pressed it “gently” onto the guy’s neck.
“Oh, Jesus…
mercy!
I can’t…
breathe!” Faced with impending death, the thug suddenly remembered God.