Chapter 6: THE TRAFFICKER
The Red Hook waterfront smelled like rust, salt, and the particular rot of a city that had forgotten how to clean up after itself. Old shipping containers stacked three high. Abandoned warehouses with windows like missing teeth. The distant groan of ships in the harbor.
And somewhere in that maze of decay, three women were waiting to be sold.
I'd spent the day doing reconnaissance—satellite imagery from the library's public computers, foot surveillance from a safe distance, piecing together guard rotations and entry points. The System's intel was good, but intel was only as useful as the person using it.
Tommy Vance ran a tight operation. Six guards, rotating in pairs. Cameras on the exterior doors, though half of them looked broken. A shipping container in the back lot that had been modified with ventilation—the "product storage," where human beings were kept like cargo.
The approach would be tricky. The kill would be messier.
I'd leveled up twice since my first mission. My TK could handle heavier objects now—maybe eighty kilograms if I pushed it. My reaction time had improved. I'd practiced deflecting thrown objects, building the reflexes I'd need to handle bullets.
Theoretically.
Theory and practice were very different things.
10:15 PM.
I approached from the east, using the stacked containers as cover. The first guard was smoking a cigarette near a maintenance door, his rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder. Amateur. In a real military operation, he'd have been shot for that kind of negligence.
I came up behind him, quiet, staying in his blind spot. When I was three meters away, I reached with my mind and crushed his throat.
No sound except a wet crunch and the soft thud of his body hitting the ground.
[GUARD 1/6 ELIMINATED]
[VEN: 135/140]
I dragged the body behind a container and moved on.
Guard two was patrolling the perimeter, walking a predictable route between two floodlights. I waited in the shadows until he passed, then followed.
The knife was in my hand before I consciously decided to use it. One quick thrust between the fourth and fifth ribs, angled upward into the heart. He gasped, stiffened, and went limp.
[GUARD 2/6 ELIMINATED]
[VEN: 130/140]
Two down. Four to go.
The main warehouse door was reinforced steel—not something I could kick in. But there was a service entrance on the north side, according to the blueprints I'd found in city records. Old, probably rusted, but easier to force.
I made my way around the building, hugging the shadows. The third and fourth guards were inside, visible through a grimy window. They were playing cards at a folding table, weapons within reach but not in hand.
Careless.
The service door was locked, but the mechanism was old. I focused my TK on the tumblers, applied pressure until something gave, and the door swung open with a low creak.
The guards heard it.
"What the—"
They scrambled for their weapons. One grabbed a shotgun, the other an AR-15.
I had maybe two seconds before they opened fire.
I reached with my mind, found the metal shelving unit against the near wall, and yanked. The shelf—loaded with tools, spare parts, and industrial equipment—toppled forward with a deafening crash. It caught the shotgun guard across the chest, pinning him to the ground.
[VEN: 95/140]
The AR-15 guard got his weapon up. Fired.
The muzzle flash was blinding in the dark warehouse. I threw myself sideways, reaching for the bullets with my TK, trying to deflect—
Pain.
Fire across my left shoulder. A graze, not a direct hit, but enough to stagger me.
I didn't stop moving. Couldn't stop. The guard was already adjusting his aim.
My TK caught the rifle's barrel, shoved it upward just as he fired again. The shots went wild, punching holes in the roof. I closed the distance, pulled my knife, and drove it into his throat before he could react.
[GUARD 3/6 ELIMINATED]
[GUARD 4/6 ELIMINATED — PINNED UNDER DEBRIS]
[VEN: 78/140]
I checked the pinned guard. Still alive, but unconscious, blood seeping from a head wound. I finished him quickly—one thrust through the eye socket.
Four down.
The gunfire would have alerted the remaining two guards. I needed to move.
The interior of the warehouse was a maze of stacked crates and rusty machinery. The remaining guards could be anywhere—waiting in ambush, calling for backup, preparing to execute the witnesses.
I moved fast, ignoring the burning pain in my shoulder. Blood soaked through my jacket, warm and wet. The wound wasn't serious, but it would slow me down if I didn't end this soon.
A sound from ahead. Footsteps. Voices.
"—the fuck was that? Tommy said this place was secure—"
"Shut up and check the container. If anyone touched the merchandise—"
The container. The women.
I rounded a corner and found them—two guards standing outside the modified shipping container, weapons raised, scanning for threats.
They saw me.
"There! He's—"
I grabbed the nearest object with my TK—a length of steel pipe leaning against the wall—and hurled it like a javelin. It caught the first guard in the chest, knocking him backward. Not dead, but down.
The second guard opened fire. Fully automatic. Bullets chewed through the air around me. I dove behind a crate, felt splinters pepper my face, heard the crack of rounds punching through thin metal.
[VEN: 60/140]
My TK couldn't deflect sustained fire. Not yet. I needed a different approach.
I focused on the floor—concrete, cracked, debris scattered everywhere. I lifted a chunk of broken cement and hurled it at the guard's head. He ducked. Kept firing.
Another chunk. Another miss.
The first guard was getting up, reaching for his fallen weapon.
Out of time.
I pulled the pistol I'd taken from Gerald Whitmore weeks ago—reloaded now with ammunition purchased from a very discreet supplier. Three shots. Two hit the first guard in the chest. One hit the second guard in the arm.
He dropped his rifle, screaming. I was on him in seconds, knife finding the gap between his vest and his helmet, opening his throat in a spray of arterial blood.
[GUARD 5/6 ELIMINATED]
[GUARD 6/6 ELIMINATED]
[AREA SECURED]
[VEN: 52/140]
I stood in the warehouse, breathing hard, shoulder screaming, blood on my hands and my face and my clothes. Six dead men. Necessary casualties.
The container.
I approached it carefully. The door was padlocked—a heavy-duty model that would take time to pick. I didn't have time. I focused my TK on the lock mechanism, felt the resistance, pushed harder.
[VEN: 35/140]
The lock shattered.
I pulled the door open.
Three faces stared back at me from the darkness.
Young. Early twenties, maybe younger. Malnourished, filthy, eyes wide with terror. They were huddled together in the corner of the container, which had been fitted with bare mattresses and a bucket for waste.
Human beings, stored like cargo.
"You're safe now," I said quietly. The words felt inadequate. "They're dead. All of them."
One of the women—dark hair, sharp features, a healing bruise on her cheekbone—spoke. Her English was accented. Eastern European.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who was too late for too many." I stepped back from the doorway, giving them space. "There's a shelter three blocks east. Saint Mary's. They'll help you."
The second woman—younger, maybe nineteen, bleach-blonde hair with dark roots—started crying. Silent tears, no sound. The third just stared at me with an expression I couldn't read.
I pulled out my wallet. Everything I had left after rent—$1,200. I set it on the floor inside the container.
"Take this. Get out of the city if you can. Don't go home. They know where you live."
The dark-haired woman picked up the money with trembling hands.
"Why?" she asked.
I didn't have a good answer.
"Because someone should."
I turned and walked out of the container before they could ask any more questions. Behind me, I heard movement—the women helping each other up, the rustle of fabric, the first steps toward freedom.
Three saved.
I sat on a crate outside the warehouse, waiting for my hands to stop shaking.
They didn't.
The tremor wasn't fear—I knew what fear felt like, and this wasn't it. It was the TK. I'd pushed too hard, used too much in too short a time. My body was paying the price.
Blood trickled from my nose. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.
[WARNING: VEN CRITICALLY LOW]
[CURRENT: 28/140]
[REGENERATION RATE: 1.2/MINUTE]
[ESTIMATED FULL RECOVERY: 93 MINUTES]
An hour and a half before I'd be back to full power. In the meantime, I was vulnerable—wounded, exhausted, sitting in a warehouse full of fresh corpses.
Time to go.
I searched the guards' bodies quickly, taking what was useful. A tactical vest that fit better than my jacket. Two burner phones. Cash—another $1,200. A decent knife to replace the one I'd left in someone's throat.
The mission completion notification pulsed in my vision.
[MISSION COMPLETE: QUEENS TRAFFICKING NETWORK — NODE 1]
[GRADE: A (VICTIM RESCUE BONUS APPLIED)]
[REWARDS: 2,000 EXP | 400 VP | SKILL BOOK (RANDOM)]
[LEVEL UP! 3 → 4]
[+5 STAT POINTS AVAILABLE]
[SKILL BOOK ACQUIRED: INTERROGATION (UNCOMMON)]
I allocated the points—two to Vitality for the health pool, two to Willpower for VEN capacity, one to Endurance for damage resistance. The level-up energy washed through me, taking the edge off my exhaustion, accelerating the healing in my shoulder.
Not enough to fully recover, but enough to get home.
I made my way out of the warehouse through the back lot, avoiding the pools of light from the remaining functional floodlights. The women were gone—I could see them in the distance, three shapes moving toward the shelter I'd pointed them to.
Three saved. Six dead.
The math was getting better.
The walk home took two hours. I couldn't risk the subway looking like this—blood-soaked, carrying weapons, obviously fresh from violence. Instead, I took back alleys, side streets, the routes that didn't have cameras or witnesses.
By the time I reached my apartment, the eastern sky was starting to lighten. Dawn. I'd been operational for nearly eight hours.
I stripped, showered, watched the blood swirl down the drain. The bullet graze on my shoulder was already scabbing over—the level-up regeneration working faster than normal healing. It would be a scar, but nothing worse.
I dressed the wound with supplies from the first aid kit I'd bought last week, then collapsed onto my mattress.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[CHAIN MISSION UPDATE: QUEENS TRAFFICKING NETWORK — 1/5 NODES ELIMINATED]
[REMAINING NODES: PROCESSING CENTER (E-RANK), DISTRIBUTION HUB (D-RANK), BUYER NETWORK (D-RANK), MASTERMIND (C-RANK)]
[NEW MISSION AVAILABLE: PROCESSING CENTER — ACCEPT?]
I dismissed the notification. Later. I needed sleep first.
But before I closed my eyes, I pulled up the news on my phone. Sure enough, the coverage was already starting:
"MASSACRE IN RED HOOK: SIX DEAD IN APPARENT GANG WAR."
"PUNISHER COPYCAT STRIKES AGAIN, POLICE SCRAMBLING FOR LEADS."
"VIGILANTE TERROR: IS NEW YORK BECOMING A WARZONE?"
The police thought it was gang violence. Good. The less they looked in my direction, the better.
But one article caught my attention—a follow-up to the warehouse story:
"Three women were discovered wandering near the scene, possibly victims of human trafficking. They are currently in protective custody and have declined to comment on their rescuer."
Three saved.
I set down the phone, closed my eyes, and let sleep take me.
Tomorrow, there would be more missions. More targets. More blood.
But tonight, three women were safe. Three women who would have been sold, abused, destroyed—they were free instead.
The math was simple. Keep adding to the right side of the equation.
Outside my window, Hell's Kitchen woke up. Car horns, sirens, the rumble of garbage trucks. The city that never stopped, demanding its due.
Marcus Cole lay on his mattress, surrounded by throw pillows that shouldn't matter but somehow did, and dreamed of fire.
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