"Master Ryden, you came to the right person."
Marlos leaned back, sounding pleased.
"Just the day before yesterday, at Stone Bay Docks, the Dasco Gang was smuggling. Hehe, every gang does that."
He lowered his voice slightly.
"But those Russians were moving drugs. Three hundred pounds of white powder. My god. They're insane. Aren't they afraid of killing people?"
He clicked his tongue.
"I heard the police caught wind of it and went to make arrests. It turned into a mess. Heavy gunfire. Several cops killed or wounded. I think four or five died."
He shrugged.
"Scary stuff. And yesterday? Dasco hired lawyers, pushed a few lackeys out to take the fall, and everything went quiet. Business as usual. They're still selling whatever they want. That's just how it goes."
"Do you know who was responsible?"
Ryden finished his drink in one go.
"One of the dead was my friend's father. I need revenge."
"Malochievsky."
Marlos didn't hesitate.
"A real bastard. Most hated guy around. Drugs. Women. I've heard he's crippled more than a few women too."
His eyes lit up.
"Master, what do you want to do? Call the brothers? We can go together."
"No."
Ryden shook his head.
"Get intel on everyone involved that day. Especially Malochievsky. There are too many people. We need to plan this."
He was calm.
"As the leader, I can't act on impulse."
Marlos straightened.
"Understood."
"Bring me everything. Routines. Routes. Guard numbers."
Ryden paused.
"Since the entire Dasco Gang is involved, prepare yourselves. It's time to replace them."
He looked up.
"Buy more weapons."
Terrence stayed silent the entire time.
He didn't know what to say.
He trusted Ryden.
Maybe because they were both Black, Marlos actually got along well with Terrence.
For the next two days, Ryden barely left the house.
He reviewed intel.
Tracked daily movements.
Mapped economic zones.
Analyzed future expansion routes.
One wrong move could trigger chaos.
He needed a clean strike.
End it in one blow.
Terrence was given funds to practice shooting.
He'd never held a gun before.
In a real fight, charging with a knife would be suicide.
Gang warfare happened in narrow streets and tight rooms.
Pistols ruled close quarters.
AK-47s weren't just lethal.
They were psychological weapons.
Imagine dozens of submachine guns aimed at you.
Who wouldn't panic?
The more Ryden dug, the clearer it became.
Dasco wasn't normal.
Smuggling was one thing.
Drugs were another.
But doing it this loudly?
That wasn't right.
This was American territory.
Even if the Soviets were strong, they couldn't reach this far.
And with war against the Nazis looming, it made even less sense.
So why the arrogance?
Hydra?
Or something else?
A haze of unease settled in.
Their headquarters was the Icarus Bar on 49th Street.
Gangs loved bars.
At night, neon lights flashed.
Women in heavy makeup and revealing clothes stood outside, pulling customers in.
If this were the old Ryden, he'd be drooling.
Now?
He barely glanced.
Terrence didn't notice either.
His mind was fixed on revenge.
49th Street was Dasco territory.
They collected protection money from the entire block.
If you didn't pay, your business didn't run.
Two men would stand outside your shop.
They wouldn't steal.
They wouldn't touch anything.
And the police couldn't do a thing.
Standing wasn't illegal.
The profits from this monopoly were enormous.
Everyone wanted in.
Better to be a high-ranking thug than a nobody getting beaten at the bottom.
Looking at the flashy street, Ryden felt sick.
He finally understood what chaos meant.
While waiting, he witnessed three robberies.
Two drug deals.
One sexual assault.
The victim was a man.
He didn't know him.
Ryden looked away.
To avoid detection, Grove members gathered separately.
Over twenty core members.
Each had an AK-47.
The mission wasn't disclosed.
Core members were reliable.
Peripheral ones weren't.
Spies existed everywhere.
Peripheral members carried knives and small-caliber pistols.
Weapons that only killed if you were lucky.
At nine sharp, everyone assembled.
Ryden and Terrence wore masks.
On their arms was a band with a golden octopus embroidered on it.
Anyone who recognized it would shout one word.
Hydra.
Yes.
Ryden was blaming Hydra again.
They'd surface sooner or later anyway.
As for joining them?
He wouldn't refuse.
Hydra. Avengers. It didn't matter.
They were tools.
If it made him stronger, he'd use them.
If he had the chance, he'd even join Themyscira.
Without strength, you were nobody.
With strength, the other guy was nobody.
It was that simple.
To be on top, he had to sharpen himself.
Hydra had countless branches.
Even Red Skull couldn't track them all.
Between Strucker, Red Skull, Mortis, and countless sub-factions, it was chaos.
Recognition didn't matter.
Hydra factions killed each other all the time.
That was also why Hydra never truly died.
Disunited.
But impossible to erase.
Their methods of manipulation and brainwashing were terrifying.
And that was exactly why Ryden wasn't afraid.
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