Knowledge has always been precious.
Especially in a fundamentalist capitalist country, that saying has a very real, concrete meaning.
In America, if you've got no money—or too little money—do you expect a decent education?
Dream on.
So when the old Black man, Sloan, offered to pay for his, Fox's, and Kross's lives, Li Pu thought it over and agreed.
Li Pu hadn't wanted their lives in the first place; he only wanted compensation for his 'Little Red' and to learn more about that Loom of Fate.
Sloan now offering cash was an unexpected bonus.
Besides, Li Pu had already guessed something about that triangular eye symbol.
Just the international version of the 'Celestial Dragons'.
He was curious whether these people could take a super-assassin's bullets.
Li Pu pocketed the three million in cash and let them go.
As they left, Sloan thanked him sincerely—leaving Li Pu to sigh that kids must study hard, or they'll end up paying off people and still thanking them.
...8 p.m., a western dock in Hells Kitchen. A small boat rocked into the berth.
The owner, back from a 'fishing trip,' had tossed several oil drums into the Atlantic—drums filled with heavy 'cement'.
Before he could secure the mooring, a silenced pistol kissed his forehead.
Two crewmen reached for guns, only to find red dots blooming on foreheads and chests.
'Who are you? What do you want? Listen, I work for Kingpin—'
The gunman cut short the Captain's bluster.
'Felipe, fifty-five. You came from Cuba as a refugee thirty-plus years ago, hit New York's Hells Kitchen twenty years back. I know you dispose bodies for Kingpin. Let's talk about what I don't know. O-kay?'
He tapped Felipe's skull with the suppressor on the last syllable.
'Who killed William Roslyn—the retired CIA section chief hiding in Hells Kitchen—and his inner circle? Roslyn and Kingpin weren't in conflict; they might've partnered. No motive, yet Kingpin had you dump the body at sea. Don't bother lying—our recovery team is lifting it now.'
Shaken by the intel, Felipe still jutted his chin. 'Nonsense—I don't know anything!'
The intruder simply nodded, said, 'Got it,' and walked off the pier.
Beep-beep-beep...
Phil Coulson dialed Nick Fury on his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue secure phone. 'Director, Kingpin is courting the target. He had Roslyn killed and disposed the bodies. His men are too scared to admit it, though it's half-common knowledge in Hells Kitchen.'
'That's right—the codename "Agent Orange," supposedly killed by The Punisher, faked his death and resurfaced here. He has premium narcotics supply from his CIA days. Small batches, high prices, no turf wars. He was only testing retail at one community school.'
'Yes, Director. I'll go meet the man now.'
Coulson reached 47th Street. The block was eerily quiet; he reached for his side-arm instinctively. This was Hells Kitchen—after ten p.m. even NYPD avoids patrols without heavy backup.
Here, streetwalkers need pimps in illegal body-armor to fetch clients. With over 150 percent gun ownership per capita, thieves rarely last three days.
Organized crime is the norm—Gangs trade gunfire and RPGs like kids' toys. Artillery shells have been found in nearby scrapyards. In the World's top metropolis, local wars use howitzers—fantastic, yet ordinary here.
Yet tonight Coulson saw lit apartments and casual strollers—rifles slung like handbags. Apart from the firearms, it could pass for a middle-class suburb.
'Something's off,' he muttered, blaming the anomaly on the man who'd lived here almost three years.
'Did New York intel outsource to India? How did they miss this?'
Still grumbling, Coulson straightened his suit outside 'Li Pu's Auto Repair.'
'Sir, can I help you?'
A Black man in loud pink sweats approached, clipboard in hand, checking orders.
Computers and modern software sat unused—he preferred pen and paper.
A badge read: Manager Kevin.
Kevin grew suspicious: no car outside.
'Repair or buy? If you want a used car, we're sold out.'
'Actually, I'm looking for someone...'
Before Coulson finished, Kevin shouted, 'Luka boy, get over here!'
A giant clambered out of a service trench, bumping his head with a dull thud.
'What's up, Uncle Kevin?'
With Luka beside him, Kevin folded his arms. 'I don't know who you want, but this is the calmest spot in Hells Kitchen. If you're not here for business, leave. Mr. Li Pu's shop doesn't welcome trouble.'
Kevin, a softie, offered one chance; otherwise Luka would 'fix' the visitor—good with cars, better with people.
'Whoa, misunderstanding!'
Coulson raised both hands. 'I'm here for your boss, Mr. Li Pu. And I'm no gangster—my FBI badge is right here in my pocket.'