Since he had decided to make the Hellhounds Motorcycle Club his first target, the intelligence gathering had to be flawless.
In Hell’s Kitchen, when it came to understanding the local gangs, no one beat the blind lawyer who wore sunglasses by day and red spandex by night.
Ross Vance leaned back in the swivel chair in his base office, picked up his phone, and sent a message to Matt Murdock.
“I need the most detailed intel on the Hellhounds Motorcycle Club.
Triple your usual price.”
He tossed the phone onto the desk and crossed his legs, waiting for a reply.
A minute later, the phone buzzed.
Only two letters appeared on the screen: OK.
Ross grinned at the screen.
The next afternoon, Ross was watching Cecilia and the others train in the base’s open courtyard when Griffin walked over and spoke in a low voice.
“My Lord, Mr.
Murdock has arrived.”
“Show him in.
I’ll meet him in the parlor.”
Ross brushed the melon seed hulls off his hands and turned to walk toward the newly renovated reception room.
This room had originally been the warehouse’s dispatch office.
Griffin and his men had spent two days transforming it into a decent-looking parlor.
The walls were freshly painted white, a rug salvaged from a thrift market covered the floor, and a walnut-colored long table stood in the center with a pot of fake flowers on top.
It wasn’t luxurious, but at least it didn’t look like a gangster’s hideout anymore.
Griffin led Matt Murdock inside.
Murdock was wearing a dark gray suit today, his tie meticulously knotted, holding a black briefcase.
He looked no different from any respectable lawyer in New York.
“Griffin, get Mr.
Murdock a cup of coffee.”
“An iced Americano, thank you.”
Murdock sat down across from Ross, placing his briefcase on the table.
It was impossible to tell what look was hidden behind those sunglasses.
Ross smiled at him.
“You’re very efficient, Mr.
Murdock.
I sent the message yesterday afternoon, and you’re already here today.
I thought it would take you two or three days.”
“I am very serious about rooting out the criminal forces in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“I already had most of this intel.
I only spent last night confirming if there had been any recent changes.
After all, you paid triple.
I have to make sure you get your money’s worth.”
Ross chuckled.
This lawyer claimed he wasn’t in it for the money, but he was sharper at math than anyone when it came to settling accounts.
“Excellent.
I hope our future collaborations will be just as pleasant.”
He reached out, took a bulging manila envelope from Griffin, and slid it over to Murdock.
“Wiping out the Hellhounds Motorcycle Club is just the beginning of our cooperation.
Here’s the retainer.
Feel free to count it.”
Fifty thousand dollars.
At Murdock’s usual rates for handling cases for the poor, this single job was enough to support him for half a year.
Murdock didn’t open the envelope.
He simply tapped his knuckles twice on the table.
“No need to count.
Thank you for your contribution to charity.”
With that, he slipped the envelope into his briefcase with a clean, swift motion.
Ross tilted his head, studying the blind lawyer across from him with great interest.
“By the way, are you always this cold?”
“This is me at my warmest.”
Murdock met Ross’s gaze unerringly with his sightless eyes.
“Alright, alright, thanks a bunch,” Ross said, raising his hands in defeat.
Chatting with this guy was more exhausting than defending a thesis to a faculty board.
The tension in the air eased slightly.
Murdock took a sip of his coffee, set the cup down, and pulled a folder from his briefcase.
“Let’s get down to business.
The issue with your identity is almost sorted out.
That was relatively simple; I’ve already put you in touch with a reliable immigration lawyer.
However, registering the company will still take a few days, which is roughly in line with the timeline I promised you last time.”
He paused, tapping his finger on the folder.
“The weapons R&D side of your business isn’t something that can be handled through standard procedures.
New York State is very strict about weapons manufacturing, especially the kind of cutting-edge weapons development you listed in your business scope.
Just the preliminary approvals require going through seven or eight different departments.
I’ll find a way to help you bypass some of the red tape, but you cannot rush me on the timeline.”
Ross waved his hand.
“The timeline is fine with me, as long as it gets done.
It’s not like I’m in a rush to go public.”
Murdock nodded and opened the folder.
“Good.
Now let’s talk about the specific details of the Hellhounds Motorcycle Club.”
Ross leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table.
“The Hellhounds Motorcycle Club has many chapters across the country—California, Texas, Florida.
But there’s no hierarchy between them; each chapter manages its own turf.
It’s just a bunch of bikers sharing the same name without a unified command system.”
Murdock flipped open the first page, which showed a blurry, secretly taken photograph.
Despite the low quality, one could make out a heavily tattooed, muscular man in a leather vest riding a Harley.
“The leader of the Hell’s Kitchen chapter goes by the nickname Mad Dog.
His real name is Darrell McCoy.”
“Mad Dog?” Ross raised an eyebrow.
“What a colorful name.
Does it mean he never lets go once he bites, or that he bites everyone when he goes crazy?”
“Both.”
“McCoy used to be a motorcycle stunt rider.
He had great skills, but he was a loose cannon.
After being kicked off the racing team for drug abuse and violent tendencies, he started hanging around Hell’s Kitchen.
He began by leading a few other expelled bikers to rob convenience stores, but gradually grew his operation, swallowing up several minor gangs until he became the leader of the Hellhounds.”
He flipped to the next page.
This was a clearer photo showing McCoy standing next to a chromed-out Harley, a cigar clenched between his teeth and a fierce glint in his eyes as he wrapped his arms around two scantily clad women.
“This man operates completely without regard for consequences.
He has no plan, no lines he won’t cross, and he eliminates anyone who stands in his way.
He has dozens of lives on his hands, and those he has crippled are countless.”
Murdock’s voice grew grim.
“He is extremely paranoid about his own safety.
He rarely steps out, delegating everything to his subordinates.
Even on the rare occasions he does venture out, he keeps at least a dozen bodyguards tightly surrounding him, sealing off any possible sniper angles.”
“I once tried to capture him.
I tracked him for a month, mapped out three of his routes, and selected two ambush points.
But whenever I made a move, his men always arrived to back him up incredibly fast.”
“Relax,” Ross said, leaning back in his chair with a casual tone.
“We’ll wipe them out completely for you this time.
Just sit back and watch the news.”
Murdock composed himself and turned to the next page.
“Moving on, the Hellhounds claim to have three to four thousand members, but that number is inflated just to intimidate people.
The actual roster is barely over a thousand, and most of them are peripheral hangers-on who only show up on weekends to ride, drink, and make up the numbers.”
“The actual salaried core members number about three hundred.
These are the thugs McCoy handpicked himself.
Most have criminal records, and a dozen are regulars on the FBI’s most-wanted list.
They handle protection rackets, turf wars, and drug trafficking.
They are the backbone of the Hellhounds.”
Murdock pulled a hand-drawn map from his folder and spread it across the table.
The map detailed the layout of an entire street, with every building’s location, height, and entry point clearly marked.
It even highlighted several spots with potential weapon caches and basement escape routes.
“They control an entire street in eastern Hell’s Kitchen called Stewart Avenue.
Every shop, bar, and apartment building on this street is either owned by them or pays them protection money.
You could say the whole street is their turf.”
He drew a circle on the map with his finger.
“To prevent retaliation, McCoy demands that all core members sleep on this street at night.
If there aren’t enough apartments, they squeeze into rooms above the bars.
Either way, no one is allowed to leave after ten in the evening.
This means late night is when their core force is most concentrated, and only core members and a few hangers-on are present.
No innocent bystanders, no ordinary residents—it’s the perfect opportunity to sweep them all up at once.”
“What about their second-in-command?” Ross asked.
“The second-in-command is nicknamed Razor.
His real name is Dennis Hogan.”
Murdock pulled out a photo showing a thin, pale man wearing gold-rimmed glasses.
He looked less like a gangster and more like an accountant.
“He oversees all of the gang’s business operations.
Drug deals, money laundering, and bribing police officers and officials—Hogan handles it all.”