At 3:00 AM, the lights in the base courtyard were still on.
Six vehicles drove in one by one.
The doors opened, and the Astra Militarum veterans filed out.
Their bodies were more or less stained with blood, but not a single one of them was injured.
Cecilia jumped down from the back row of the second SUV, her black combat uniform covered in dark red bloodstains.
She shook her ponytail, turned to pull open the trunk, and dragged out a bloody, burly man, tossing him onto the ground like a bag of garbage.
Darrell McCoy, Mad Dog himself, the leader of the Hellhounds Motorcycle Club.
He didn’t look mad at all now.
In fact, he looked like a stray dog that had been run over by a car.
With his hands tied behind his back, Mad Dog knelt on the concrete, letting out muffled, incoherent groans.
His right leg twisted to the side at a bizarre angle.
About one-third of the way down from his knee, a broken bone pushed up against his flesh in a terrifying bulge, though fortunately, it hadn’t punctured the skin yet.
His face was in even worse shape: his cheeks were highly swollen, the corners of his mouth torn, and blood dripped from his chin, leaving his entire mouth looking like a mashed tomato.
At least half his teeth were missing, and the remaining few wobbled precariously in his gums.
His eyes could still move, but they no longer held the ferocity expected of a gang boss—only fear, pain, and bewilderment remained.
Ross Vance walked out of the office building.
Seeing Mad Dog’s current state, his footsteps paused.
“Whoa.”
He tilted his head and sized the man up from head to toe.
“Cecilia, you call this a massage?”
Cecilia took a canvas bag out of the trunk, which contained several ledger books and a laptop salvaged from the second floor of Mad Dog’s Den.
“My Lord, he only broke a bit of a sweat.
I haven’t even cranked up the intensity yet.”
“…Fair enough.”
Ross Vance decided not to look too closely into what exactly a Battle Sister’s “massage” entailed.
Some things were better left unknown.
Mad Dog lay sprawled on the ground, mumbling something incoherent.
Ross Vance couldn’t make it out.
On the other side, Razor Dennis Hogan got out of the car on his own.
He was wearing pajamas and his hair was messy, but there wasn’t a single wound on his body.
The process of the Astra Militarum veterans bringing him out of his apartment had been incredibly simple.
At the time, Razor was sleeping, with a cup of cold chamomile tea and a half-read copy of the *Wall Street Journal* on his nightstand.
Two Astra Militarum veterans had silently opened his bedroom door and stood by the bed, looking down at him like two statues.
Razor had been jolted awake from his sleep by some sixth sense.
Opening his eyes, the first things he saw were the muzzles of two suppressed pistols, followed by two expressionless faces, and finally, the faint sound of gunfire in the distance outside the window, coming from the direction of the bar.
He was silent for three seconds, and then said very calmly, “Do I need to change my clothes?”
The veteran shook his head at him.
Razor then tossed aside his blanket, slipped into his slippers, walked to his walk-in closet to grab a dark gray cashmere coat to throw over his shoulders, and took a USB drive and an envelope from his nightstand drawer, handing them to Griffin.
“The USB drive contains the complete records of our financial accounts, and the envelope holds evidence of bribes paid to several precinct chiefs of the NYPD.
Since you are standing here, it means I have no bargaining chips.
Cooperation is my only way out.”
The two veterans took the items, glanced at him, and said, “Let’s go.”
And Razor really did follow them.
The entire process involved no resistance, no arguments, and absolutely nothing unexpected.
Ross Vance looked at Razor, who was standing in the courtyard looking quite well despite his messy hair.
Then he looked at Mad Dog, who was sprawled on the ground covered in blood, and couldn’t help but sigh.
“You’re both leaders, so how can there be such a massive gap in how you conduct yourselves?”
Razor was taken to the interrogation room on the second floor.
Inside, there was a single table and two chairs.
Griffin poured him a glass of water.
He offered his thanks, took a sip, and then began to spill everything without holding back.
The Hellhounds Motorcycle Club’s financial structure, their money laundering channels, and the details of their transactions with Mexican drug cartels.
The list and bribe amounts for the police officers, and the grey industries they ran covertly on Kingpin’s turf.
Even the blackmail material other gangs had stored with him.
Razor confessed everything in meticulous detail and with clear logic, as if presenting an end-of-year report.
Ross Vance sat opposite him, listening with a smile.
By the end, he couldn’t help but roast him.
“You really are incredibly loyal.”
Razor pushed up the wire-rimmed glasses on his nose, his expression remaining flat.
“In the face of life and death, loyalty is a luxury.
It’s as simple as that.”
Ross Vance stared at him for two seconds and laughed.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you once you’re done talking?”
“If you didn’t need me, you wouldn’t be sitting here talking with me for so long.
You’ve already taken my men and my turf; killing me wouldn’t cost you anything.
But keeping me alive gives you an extra brain that understands Hell’s Kitchen’s underworld.
No matter how you run the numbers, you win.”
Ross Vance raised an eyebrow.
This guy wasn’t just smart; he also knew how to display his value at the negotiating table.
“Fine.” Ross Vance stood up, brushing the wrinkles from his trousers.
“Stay here for a few days first.
We’ll talk when I’m in a better mood.”
He walked to the door, paused, and looked back at Razor.
“You’re quite an interesting person.”
He pushed the door open and walked out.
Ross Vance stood in the hallway for a moment, looking down at the Psionic Source in his chest.
From the moment the operation began, the Psionic Source hadn’t stopped, constantly drawing in new energy.
He could feel that his psionic reserves had at least tripled.
By 4:00 AM, the inventory of all spoils was complete.
Griffin had led his men to the underground vault Razor pointed out.
They pried open three iron doors and two safes, retrieving a staggering twelve million dollars in cash.
The banknotes were packed into a dozen canvas bags, piled in a corner of the base’s warehouse.
Six gold bars, each weighing four hundred ounces with a purity of 99.99%, worth approximately six million dollars at current market value.
Ross Vance hefted one of them.
It had a wonderful weight to it, far better than those from Sayid’s vault.
Three paper ledger books recorded every single source of income and expenditure of the Hellhounds over the past three years.
From street-level protection rackets to international drug trafficking, the entries were neat, and the handwriting was uniform—all penned by Razor himself.
The data on the USB drive was even more detailed, including every wire transfer record from their money-laundering accounts and login credentials for their offshore accounts.
On the list Razor had provided, the names of three NYPD precinct chiefs, two New York City councilmen, and a local judge were prominently featured.
Ross Vance made two copies of the list, locking one in his own safe and handing the other to Griffin.
“This list is far more valuable than that cash,” Ross Vance said as he stuffed the copy into a manila envelope and sealed it.
“Keep it.
It’ll come in handy later.”
The handguns, rifles, and shotguns seized from Mad Dog’s Den and the various footholds along Stewart Avenue filled three large iron crates.
Though most of them were cheap wares, they could still be used with a bit of sorting.
Cecilia walked over from behind, holding a tablet displaying some of the contents from Razor’s USB drive.
It was a hand-drawn map of Hell’s Kitchen’s power distribution, marking the territorial boundaries of major gangs, the locations of their strongholds, and even estimates of the armed personnel at each site.
“My Lord, this is very useful,” Cecilia said, handing over the tablet.
“Razor’s intelligence network is much deeper than we imagined.
Not only does he have informants in the police department and City Hall, but he also has a source inside Kingpin’s inner circle.
Although he doesn’t know the person’s true identity, every piece of intel has been verified, and the accuracy is highly reliable.”
Ross Vance took the tablet and swiped through a few times, his eyes lighting up.
The grand chessboard of Hell’s Kitchen was laid bare and broken down clearly on this map.
Kingpin’s power was like a colossal tree, its roots dug deep into every sewer line, office building, and legal or illegal business.
The Hand’s strongholds were marked with black skulls, scattered across several hidden locations, two of which didn’t even have street names on the map.
The Japanese Yakuza’s casinos were marked with red circles, densely covering nearly half the map.
The Mexicans’ drug warehouses were marked with green squares, all located near the harbor.
The Triads’ gambling dens were concentrated in the southeast corner—small in scale, but very stable.
Ross Vance handed the tablet back to Cecilia, turned, and walked to the warehouse door, gazing out at the still-dark night sky.
“Griffin.”
“Present.”
“Clean up the scene before daybreak.
Has the fire at Mad Dog’s Den been extinguished?”
“It has.
The fire department came and treated it as an ordinary fire.”
“Very well.
Melt down the gold tomorrow during the day and recast it.
Don’t leave any traceable marks.
Hand the ledgers and USB drive to Cecilia for safekeeping; she’s the expert in this area.”
Griffin noted down each instruction, then asked, “How should we handle Mad Dog and Razor?”
Ross Vance fell silent for two seconds.
“Bring Mad Dog into the courtyard.”
Soon, Mad Dog was dragged into the center of the courtyard.
He knelt on the cold concrete ground, covered in blood like a beast waiting to be slaughtered.
Twenty Astra Militarum veterans and three Battle Sisters stood around him, everyone expressionless.
Ross Vance stood before Mad Dog, looking down at him.
Mad Dog lifted his head, forcing open a slit through his swollen eyelids.
Through his mouth, which had only a few teeth remaining, he spat out a few slurred words.
“Who…
on earth…
are you…”
Ross Vance didn’t answer.
He took a deep breath, and the Psionic Source in his chest began to surge.
A faint golden light seeped from his body, spreading down his arms to his fingertips, looking exceptionally piercing in the dark of night.
“Darrell McCoy.”