A brief spark ignited in Cecilia Vera’s eyes, as if her primal instincts had been lit by his words.
A faint look of anticipation appeared on her resolute face.
“My Lord, we are ready for battle at a moment’s notice.”
Ross nodded and turned toward the office at the side of the hall.
It was the temporary command room he had asked Griffin to clean up in advance.
“Familiarize yourselves with the environment first.
Griffin and his men are already outside; he will arrange your quarters shortly.
From this day forward, this is our base.”
He reached the doorway, paused, and looked back at Cecilia.
“By the way, Cecilia, Griffin Voss is currently the person in charge here.
You can coordinate with him on our current intelligence.”
“Understood, My Lord.”
Cecilia’s fingers tapped lightly against the grip of the bolt pistol at her waist, confirming it was still there.
It was a veteran’s subconscious habit, and a quirk unique to the Battle Sisters.
After returning to his private quarters, Ross was finally able to drop his grand demeanor.
He took off his coat, hung it over the back of his chair, and slumped into the swivel seat.
Propping his feet up on the desk and leaning back, his mind began to race.
The forces currently at his disposal were already luxurious for Hell’s Kitchen.
Twenty Cadian Astra Militarum veterans and three Battle Sisters of the Order of the Ebony Chalice.
If this force were deployed onto a Warhammer 40K battlefield, they wouldn’t even be enough to fill the gaps between a Chaos warband’s teeth.
But on Marvel’s Earth, especially in a low-intensity, light-firearm arena like Hell’s Kitchen, it was like driving a dump truck over a bicycle.
But Ross knew that while his paper strength looked impressive, the vulnerabilities were equally glaring.
Their numbers were simply too small.
Twenty-three people sounded like a decent amount, but spread across dozens of blocks and over a hundred strongholds in Hell’s Kitchen, they wouldn’t even make a splash.
They could execute a raid with no problem, but to occupy, control, and maintain order, they couldn’t even hold down a single street.
Even worse, they were all combat personnel.
There was no logistics, no technical support, and no field medics.
Out of Griffin’s twenty men, only two knew how to perform basic field triage on gunshot wounds and fractures, but that was just raw experience picked up on the battlefield; they had rarely even touched a proper medical kit.
Maintenance of their Imperial-issue gear was also a major headache.
The power packs for the lasguns could last a while longer, but there was the mechanical wear and tear of the firearms, the energy field generators of the power swords, and the Battle Sisters’ power armor.
If these things broke down, where was he supposed to get replacements?
He couldn’t exactly take a screwdriver and disassemble them himself.
He wasn’t a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus; if he took them apart, there was a high probability he wouldn’t be able to put them back together.
Furthermore, he didn’t dare let his men use energy weapons on a large scale.
This was his biggest headache.
Though the discharge of a lasgun wasn’t deafeningly loud, its searing beams and energy signatures were more conspicuous than fireworks in a night sky.
Hell’s Kitchen might be chaotic, but it was a chaos of gang wars and street crimes, not an alien invasion.
If anyone caught a video of energy weapons trading fire and uploaded it to YouTube, SHIELD agents would be at his doorstep in five minutes.
He wasn’t ready to deal with an organization like SHIELD yet, which was practically a hundred percent heretical.
Nicholas Fury, that one-eyed bastard, had more schemes than a honeycomb had holes.
Getting noticed by him would be like stepping on hot gum—nearly impossible to shake off.
Moreover, Hydra spies were riddled throughout SHIELD.
If Hydra noticed him first, those snake-worshiping fanatics would be far more troublesome to deal with than SHIELD.
Thus, for the current stage, fighting gangs had to rely on melee weapons and local firearms native to the Marvel universe.
Melee weapons?
The Astra Militarum had absolutely no problem with that.
Entrenching tools, combat knives, and bayonets—they handled these weapons better than their own fingers.
As for local firearms?
Though Griffin and his men had never handled Earth firearms, give them a couple of pieces to get used to the trigger pull and ballistics, and they’d master them in minutes.
Thinking of this, Ross couldn’t help but recall the plot holes in the Marvel movies he had watched before his transmigration, and his mouth twitched.
With technology so advanced, those superheroes still fought with bloody hand-to-hand combat.
Iron Man, with a suit that could fly, shoot, and fire missiles, ended up brawling with Killian on a dock, relying on his tin-can fists in the end.
Killian was basically a walking human bomb; wasn’t kiting him from a distance a hundred times smarter than engaging in melee?
And Captain America, a Super Soldier serum recipient and legendary WWII hero, whose best method for fighting Ultron’s robots was…
a chokehold.
Putting a chokehold on a robot.
Then there was Black Widow, an ordinary human agent charging into alien hordes with nothing but two shock batons.
Forget it, he was getting off track.
Ross massaged his temples, tossing those random thoughts out of his mind, and focused back on the task at hand.
Rather than waiting for the enemy to make the first move, it was better to pick a soft target to crush.
Thanks to the intelligence provided by Matt Murdock over the past few days, he had mapped out most of the power distribution in Hell’s Kitchen.
At the top of the pyramid was the Kingpin, Wilson Fisk.
The underground emperor of Hell’s Kitchen, his intelligence network spanned all of New York, and his industries ranged from real estate to drug smuggling, and weapons trafficking to human trafficking, dominating both the legal and illegal worlds.
An empire like his was no longer just a gang; it was a multinational criminal syndicate with its own private militia and intelligence network.
Trying to take him down now was premature; it would only break Ross’s teeth.
Ranking just below the Kingpin was the Japanese group, The Hand.
A clan of ninjas who had lived for hundreds or even thousands of years, worshipping a dark entity called “The Beast.” They were capable of resurrection, utilized bizarre swordplay, and appeared and disappearing like ghosts.
These people were far more dangerous than the Kingpin because they didn’t play by the rules and possessed supernatural powers.
Though Ross did not fear the supernatural, he didn’t even know where the core of The Hand was hidden.
Stirring them up blindly would be like kicking a hornet’s nest.
Then there was the Yakuza, who had several strongholds in Hell’s Kitchen, primarily running loan-sharking and gambling operations.
Compared to the Kingpin and The Hand, they were relatively traditional and their combat strength wasn’t outstanding, but their headquarters were in Japan, and Ross did not yet have the capacity for transcontinental strikes.
The Triads, a Chinese gang, mainly controlled gambling dens and illegal card rooms across a few blocks.
The Mexican drug cartels were true desperadoes.
They were at the top of the drug supply chain in Hell’s Kitchen, working with the Kingpin while also competing against him.
Their strongholds were scattered across several hidden warehouses, armed to the teeth, but their organization was loose, and the bosses frequently fought among themselves.
They fought hard, but they weren’t smart.
At the very bottom was the Hellhounds Motorcycle Club.
A bunch of bikers riding Harleys and wearing leather jackets, surviving on robbery, protection rackets, and occasional drug peddling.
They had numbers, but their gear was poor, their organization was a mess, and their combat capability was trash.
Simply put, they were just an organized group of street thugs, even worse than the Three-Face Gang.
Ross took his feet off the desk and spun his chair toward the window.
Which one to choose?
He couldn’t touch the Kingpin or The Hand for now; doing so would only put him in the hot seat.
The Triads could be set aside to be observed later.
The Yakuza and the Mexican drug cartels were medium-difficulty targets.
Taking them down would likely yield significant psychic energy, but it could trigger a chain reaction.
Neither the Yamaguchi-gumi behind the Yakuza nor the cartels behind the Mexican traffickers were pushovers.
As for the Hellhounds Motorcycle Club…
Ross tapped his fingers on the armrest, a slight smile appearing on his face.
It was always best to pick the softest target first.
These bikers had no backing, no brains, and no combat capability.
They were essentially a walking bag of experience points.
Wiping them out wouldn’t trigger a massive retaliation, and their territory was located on the westernmost streets of Hell’s Kitchen, right next to his new warehouse base.
They were so close that Griffin and his men could hear the roar of their Harley engines rolling down the river highway every night.
Taking them out would also net him a batch of motorcycles and weapons, filling up his empty armory.
More importantly, he needed a public victory to establish his authority.
The operation to eradicate the Three-Face Gang had been carried out in secret; the other gangs in Hell’s Kitchen didn’t even know or care that the Three-Face Gang no longer existed.
Ross stood up from his chair, walked to the window, and pushed it open.
The night breeze rushed in, carrying the dampness of the river and the faint, distant rumble of motorcycle engines.
He closed his eyes, and the psychic wellspring in his chest warmed slightly, as if responding to his urge to fight.
“You’re next.
The Hellhounds!”