“If McCoy is the teeth of the Hellhounds, then Hogan is its brain.”
“He doesn’t participate in street brawls, but he is ten times more dangerous than McCoy.
McCoy will only hack you down in broad daylight; Hogan can make your whole family vanish from the shadows.
Plus, he has financial ties to several politicians in New York.”
After listening, Ross tapped his fingers twice on the table.
The teeth and the brain.
Mad Dog and Razor.
One responsible for the violence, the other for cleaning up the mess.
A standard gang configuration, nothing highly creative.
But Murdock was right: Razor was more dangerous than Mad Dog.
Not because he could fight, but because he had a brain and a web of connections.
“The intel is very detailed.” Ross closed the folder and pushed it to the side of the table.
“This is more than enough.
Now, leave the rest to us.”
Murdock stood up, pushing his empty coffee cup toward the center of the table.
“Mr.
Vance, I will take my leave now.
I hope to hear news of your success.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be disappointed,” Ross said with absolute confidence.
Murdock nodded to Ross, picked up his briefcase, and walked out.
He stopped at the doorway, turning his head slightly.
“If you can truly wipe the Hellhounds off the map…
my law firm will give you a twenty-percent discount in the future.”
Ross blinked, then burst into laughter.
“I thought you were going to say it would be free.”
“I’m a lawyer, not a philanthropist.”
Murdock pushed the door open and walked out without looking back.
His footsteps faded down the corridor, finally disappearing down the stairwell.
Ross looked down at the hand-drawn map on the table.
Griffin walked in from the adjacent room, carrying a freshly brewed cup of tea and placing it before Ross.
Ross took a sip, set the teacup down, and pressed his finger onto Stewart Avenue on the map.
“Gather everyone.
Meet me in the war room.”
“Yes, My Lord.” Griffin struck his chest with his right fist, turned, and strode out of the parlor.
In his mind, Ross was already running through various possible scenarios.
Three hundred core members, an entire street of assets, a paranoid leader in Mad Dog, and an insidious advisor in Razor.
This was not like the minor scuffle with the Three-Face Gang and their dozens of men.
If they wiped out all the core members on Stewart Avenue, the remaining hundreds of peripheral thugs would become a leaderless mob.
He wouldn’t even have to lift a finger; other gangs would naturally carve them up.
On the other hand, if there was a slip-up and Mad Dog or Razor escaped, it would cause complications down the road.
Therefore, this operation had to be surgical and absolute.
No loose ends.
Ross rose from his chair, picking up the half-finished tea as he strolled leisurely toward the war room.
The war room was located on the second floor of the middle of the three warehouses.
It had originally been a utility closet, packed with broken cardboard boxes and rusted iron shelves left behind by the shipping company.
Griffin and his men had spent an afternoon clearing it out, setting up a long table and bringing in a few folding chairs.
It was Spartan, but it had the advantage of being spacious; squeezing more than twenty people inside didn’t make it feel stuffy.
When Ross pushed the door open and entered, everyone had already gathered.
The long table was packed on both sides.
On the left sat the twenty Cadian veterans led by Griffin Voss; on the right were the three Battle Sisters led by Cecilia Vera.
Griffin had already made several copies of the intel Murdock had brought, laying them out neatly in front of everyone.
Ross walked to the head of the long table, set down his teacup, and swept his gaze across the room.
“I assume you’ve all read the intel.
I won’t waste words.”
“I have only three demands.”
“First, the Hellhounds’ mid-to-high leadership must be completely wiped out, especially Mad Dog, the leader, and Razor, the second-in-command.
I want their bodies—alive or dead.”
“Second, as for the other core members, kill anyone who dares to resist.”
“Third, squeeze every last asset out of them.
Cash, gold, real estate, vehicles, drug ledgers, evidence of official bribery—I want everything.
These items are either currency or insurance policies; they are far more useful in our hands than burning in hell with them.”
He lowered his hands, looking at Griffin and Cecilia.
“I won’t interfere with the specific tactical plan.
You are far more professional than I am in this area.”
Griffin and Cecilia stood up in unison, striking their chests.
“Understood, My Lord!”
“Alright, lay it out.” Ross pulled out a chair and sat down, settling into the role of an observer.
Griffin stood up first and walked over to the whiteboard hanging on the side wall.
The buildings on both sides of the street, every entry and exit point, sewer lines, and surrounding high ground were all clearly marked on the board.
Griffin picked up a red marker and drew a large circle in the center of the map.
“Stewart Avenue is about four hundred meters long.
There are seventeen mid-sized buildings on both sides.
The Hellhounds directly control eleven of them, including bars, casinos, pool halls, and several apartment buildings converted into dormitories.”
“Mad Dog’s base is above a bar in the middle of the street.
The bar is called the Mad Dog’s Den.
The first floor is open for business, while the second and third floors serve as McCoy’s private residence.
Razor Hogan lives in an apartment building at the end of the street, on the top floor.
It has the best vantage point and two independent fire escapes.”
Cecilia stood up, walked to the whiteboard, took the marker from Griffin, and drew an X at the end of the street.
“Razor’s residence requires special attention.
He has two escape routes: one leading to the back alley, and another leading to the roof of the adjacent building.
If we only block the front and back entrances, he could easily flee across the rooftops to the next building and vanish into the sewers.”
She set the marker down and turned to Griffin.
“I need two men to infiltrate the building opposite the end of the street an hour in advance and set up a sniper nest on the roof.
If Razor appears on the roof, eliminate him immediately.
If he doesn’t, seal off the rooftop exit once the raid begins to cut off his retreat.”
Griffin nodded, making a few notes in his pad.
“I’ll arrange the high ground.
Two of my veterans are our best marksmen.”
Cecilia nodded and turned back to mark the board.
“I will personally lead the raid on Mad Dog’s Den.
The first-floor bar is an open space with only one entrance.
The windows are all barred, and breaching them by force would waste time.
Therefore, we will storm directly through the front entrance and secure the room.”
Hearing this, Ross chimed in.
“How many people are usually in Mad Dog’s Den?”
Cecilia flipped through the copy of the intel.
“According to Murdock’s data, there are typically thirty to fifty core members drinking and playing cards on the first floor.
The second and third floors are McCoy’s private quarters; aside from him, there are always six personal bodyguards on rotating shifts.
The total number is between forty and sixty.”
“Not a problem for us.”
“The difference between forty thugs and sixty thugs is just an extra two minutes.”
Ross glanced at her, his lip twitching slightly.
The Battle Sisters were incredibly arrogant, but they certainly had the power to back it up.
Griffin stepped back to the whiteboard, took the marker, and began sketching their approach routes.
“I suggest we schedule the strike for two in the morning.”
He drew three arrows pointing toward Stewart Avenue from different directions.
“Two AM is when people are most exhausted, and it’s when the patrons in the bar will be at their drunkest.
The sentries at the door will likely be dozing off, and the people inside will either be wasted or high, cutting their reaction times by at least half compared to the daytime.”
Cecilia nodded in agreement.
“Two AM works.
We will have three hours of darkness before dawn, which is plenty of time to sweep the area and extract the goods.”
“My Lord, do you see any issues with this plan?”
“I have no objections.
You’re the experts,” Ross said, scanning the room to confirm no one else had questions.
“Then it’s settled.
Operation starts tomorrow at two in the morning.”
“After tomorrow, the Hellhounds Motorcycle Club will cease to exist in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“And our treasury will be significantly richer.”
He picked up his cold cup of tea, downed it in one gulp, and turned toward the door.
Outside the window at the end of the hallway, the neon lights of Hell’s Kitchen flickered dimly in the night sky.
By this time tomorrow, Stewart Avenue would have a new master.
And his psionic level would advance yet another step.