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Jimmy patted Damon on the shoulder and began preparing his disguise.
A mask was mandatory.
Beneath it, Jimmy painted a traditional opera-style face pattern.
A second layer of insurance.
Even if the mask came off, his real face would not be exposed.
Damon was dressed the same way.
He glanced at Jimmy and asked, "So. What's your codename going to be?"
"Me?" Jimmy fastened his mask and started walking. "Wolverine."
…
"Wolverine."
"What?"
"I'm just saying… we're going the wrong way, We should be heading that direction. The car's over there."
Jimmy stared.
Damon stared back.
…
"You knew the route, right?" Damon asked.
"I thought you did."
"Huh?"
Nighttime here was nothing like Jimmy's neighborhood.
Hell's Kitchen lived up to its name.
In just two blocks, Jimmy ran into seven attempted muggings, two break-ins, and thirteen car thieves.
As for gunfire.
Twice.
Police presence.
Nonexistent.
Even if officers were nearby, none of them dared venture into the alleys at night.
…
Jimmy casually knocked out a would-be mugger and tossed him into a nearby dumpster.
Then he looked where Damon was gesturing.
A small warehouse.
The factory was underground.
Which meant stealth was off the table.
The guards at the entrance were alert.
Silent takedowns were impossible.
And above them.
Surveillance cameras.
Plenty of them.
Jimmy looked at Damon and sighed quickly.
I'll move in first, take them out.
You find a sniper position and cover me.
Damon gave an OK.
Still, he was confused.
This place was completely open.
How exactly was Jimmy planning to sneak in?
The answer came immediately.
Jimmy crouched near the guard booth.
Front leg bent.
Back leg coiled.
Damon, already prone on the rooftop, felt a chill run down his spine.
No way.
…Right?
Yes way.
"Whoosh!"
Jimmy launched himself forward.
"Enemy—"
Bang!
Jimmy-style infiltration.
The guard never finished shouting.
The booth and the man were sent flying together.
The booth shattered.
The man was done.
Shoulder charge.
Bang!
The warehouse doors were blasted off their hinges.
A storm of bullets poured out like a swarm of locusts.
Shouts.
Curses.
Gunfire overlapping.
"Boom!"
A shot rang out behind Jimmy.
On the rooftop, Damon fired.
A wet cracking sound followed.
The rooftop lookout was down.
Jimmy gave a thumbs-up.
Then he grabbed the bodies near the entrance and hurled them inside.
With a sharp step.
"Boom!!"
As bullets chased the figure at the doorway, Jimmy smashed straight through the wall and burst inside.
Twin guns raised.
Enemies everywhere.
Anything that moved got one shot.
Jimmy's weapons embodied a single philosophy.
Overkill equals safety.
One trigger pull.
One target gone.
Not just people.
With those guns, even an elephant would think twice.
Twin guns fired in rapid succession.
Jimmy counted rounds instinctively.
Magazine empty.
Release.
The spent magazine dropped.
He slammed a fresh one upward from his belt, caught it mid-motion, and locked it in place with a sharp shove.
Reload complete.
This was what people meant by outside seven steps, speed matters; inside seven steps, speed and accuracy matter.
And Jimmy was the definition.
He rolled, twisted, and kicked debris into incoming fire.
Bullets struck him more than once, but at most it was a brief sting.
Pain, nothing more.
Still, Jimmy's expression darkened.
Not because he was hurt.
Because Damon had made him wear this vest.
At best, it stopped pistol rounds.
The people here, however, had no sense of fairness. They were using rifles.
Against rifles, this vest was useless.
One shot in, one hole out.
Worse, the vest restricted his movement.
Bang!
The final shot punched a massive hole through the man in front of him.
The fight was over.
From initial breach to cleanup, the entire operation had taken nine and a half minutes.
Jimmy tore off the bulletproof vest and tossed it aside.
He listened carefully.
A hidden door leading downward revealed itself.
Basement.
He pulled it open.
"Whoosh!"
The welcome was enthusiastic.
An RPG launched upward, smashed through the roof, tore off tiles, and detonated in the air like fireworks.
From the narrow doorway, bullets poured out in a dense stream.
Jimmy pulled two steel-ball grenades from his belt and tossed them inside.
"Take cover."
Cover?
Jimmy listened to the chaotic shouts, estimated their positions, then threw two more grenades in.
These ones.
Pins still in.
Then he jumped in.
Full firepower.
Cover that could stop shrapnel meant nothing against the hand cannons in Jimmy's grip.
One shot.
One target.
Within moments, the basement was cleared.
Jimmy rushed deeper.
Behind glass panels on both sides were setups resembling crude laboratories.
Bodies lay scattered across the floor, twisted at unnatural angles.
Blood flowed freely.
A slaughterhouse.
These were homeless people.
Used as raw materials.
Now that Jimmy had breached the factory, they had been silenced immediately to protect secrets.
No hesitation.
No humanity.
At the far end, a downward tunnel was closing.
Jimmy kicked a steel pipe forward.
It jammed the door.
He sprinted, tore the hatch open, and charged in.
"Rat-tat-tat."
Muzzle flashes filled the space.
Jimmy had one strategy.
Advance.
Slash!
One blade fell.
Two heads rolled.
One man remained.
The supervisor.
He carried two heavy bags of cash.
Behind him, two others carried a product.
"Who are you?" the man screamed. "Who sent you? I'll pay double, just let me go."
He backed away in panic.
"You know who we work for, Frank D'Amico. You mess with him, you're dead."
Slash!
The man split in half.
Jimmy lifted the bags calmly.
"Kill you, take the money anyway, Why would I take double?"
He grabbed the cash and the product and ran.
Just as he reached the exit, he heard it.
Boom!
A massive explosion.
Something struck his back.
The world flipped.
Damon sprinted over.
"Are you okay? Say something. Are you hurt?"
Jimmy dug a finger into his ear.
"I'm fine I can hear you. You don't need to shout into my ear."
He stood up and glanced back.
"I was going to ask how to deal with the evidence, but that problem solved itself."
He paused, then lifted the remaining bags.
"These still need to go."
Jimmy hurled them into the flames.
In truth, the supervisor had already armed the self-destruct system before fleeing.
If Jimmy had been even a second slower, he would have taken the full blast.
That explained it.
The constant sense of danger.
The prickling skin.
He had assumed it was a combat instinct.
Turns out, he had been standing on a ticking bomb.
Lesson learned.
Next time, move faster.
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