8:20 p.m,a small convoy of garish muscle cars rolled into Hells Kitchen in grand style.
Coming to Hells Kitchen at night, even out-of-town Gangs worry the locals might rob them.
Following the boss's intel, the convoy never slowed, screeching straight up to the gate of an abandoned factory near the end of 47th.
They'd meant to launch a surprise attack.
But before they could park, they saw a tall Asian man lounging at the factory door, one leg crossed over the other.
A double-barrel lay across his lap, a revolver at his hip.
'Stop!'
The crew chief barked at the driver to hit the brakes—if anything felt off, they'd spin round and bolt.
After all, this was Hells Kitchen; they'd already spotted two guns, and who knew how many barrels were trained on them from the shadows.
'Cool!'
Little Broly, crouched at a second-floor window with little Koz, watched their dad Face the uninvited guests in high spirits.
'Those guys only have a power level of five, but Dad's aura is absolutely killer!'
Little Koz sucked a finger, blinking his big eyes.
He wasn't even six months old; Broly had rattled off the last line in Chinese, and even with a Primarch's intellect Koz only half-grasped it.
'Cool-bi? Cruel… kill…'
Koz picked the two words he understood and tried to make sense of Broly's praise.
'Oh, Broly, Daddy's about to launch a sneak-suck on the bad guys and cruelly shoot them dead, right?'
'Not sneak-suck, sneak-attack—never mind. Just watch the show, Koz; trust Dad's skills.'
Broly copied Li Pu and ruffled his 'dumb little brother's' hair.
Koz was growing fast, so Broly had to stand on tiptoe to reach his head.
Their antics couldn't escape Li Pu's senses.
Knowing his sons worried about him, the Old Father could only shake his head in resignation—though he felt warmed inside.
'Those two little brats.'
Of course that tenderness was reserved for family; outsiders—especially those with ill intent—got no such courtesy.
'Hey, you lot! Yeah, I'm talking to you thieving bastards!'
He hefted the shotgun one-handed, using the muzzle to jab at the cars.
'You're here, so quit playing statue—what are you posing as, dumb turtles?'
They didn't catch the Chinglish, but they read the contempt on his Face.
After waiting and seeing no movement, the men began to suspect they'd spooked themselves.
'Maybe this guy isn't tipped off and lying in ambush—just happened to be chilling on his doorstep.'
The crew chief decided that was probably right.
'It's Hells Kitchen; sitting outside with a shotgun for protection is normal.'
With that, he beckoned his boys: 'Out, and keep your steel handy—don't let the locals think we're soft.'
Whereupon the gold-chained Black hulk yanked a Desert Eagle from his waist and led the exit.
First out carried risk, but Face mattered in the underworld; no respect meant no followers.
Once down, he was ringed by his men as they advanced toward Li Pu, who waved them over.
He sized things up while walking.
The guy looked young—Asians were hard to read, but he couldn't be past thirty.
Intel said he had two sons; the family had hit New York recently, living off a food truck.
His outfit—work boots, jeans, a flannel over tee—screamed redneck, some back-country hick fresh off the farm.
Just his bad luck: shortly after arriving he'd befriended someone carrying 'trouble'.
That 'trouble' had stirred big trouble.
A super-wealthy client wanted the Bloody Pepper to erase 'trouble' and everyone connected, before it spread.
'Hey, you!'
Li Pu's shout snapped the man out of his thoughts.
'Scared to walk without a huddle? Move like high-school girls to the bathroom—can't even outpace an old lady.'
Even in English the insult landed; the Bloody Pepper Gang bristled.
They snapped rifles up, but before shooting they needed room.
Small-time thugs, after all.
Come to kill, yet no sniper on overwatch and still they bunched up out of habit.
Li Pu fired first; one blast from the double-barrel and they panicked.
A dozen men, a dozen guns, a dozen chickens spraying 'faith shots'.
Bang-bang-bang—after the string of shots half the crew lay injured by friendly fire, close-range executions.
Any rounds heading Li Pu's way?
A few slipped through.
He snatched them from the air and flicked them back in equal number.
One exchange and they all lay crumpled short of his gate—only the chief still breathing.
The Black leader's Desert Eagle locked open; the seven fist-sized exit wounds in his boys' backs testified to his zeal.
Before he could reload, Li Pu blinked to his side and stomped.
'Aaaargh—!'
Flesh and pistol merged into a mash of meat and metal under Li Pu's boot.
Next, Li Pu rested a foot 'gently' on the man's neck.
'Oh Jesus, mercy—I can't breathe!' Only now, at death's door, did he remember God.