At the Brooklyn precinct, Sera sat alone in her office.
A cup of coffee.
A box of donuts.
The newspaper lay open in her hands.
She had always held deep respect for Uncle Brad-the man who had brought her into the police force.
Ever since he'd been killed by a stray bullet during a gang skirmish, she hadn't had much of an appetite.
Nearly all the combat skills she possessed had been taught to her by him.
In many ways, he had been her mentor.
If not for her responsibility toward her younger brother, she would've already driven like a madwoman straight into Dasco territory to settle the score herself.
After a long, honest talk with Ryden-who had rushed back from MIT the night before-she now understood the plan moving forward.
Part of her felt relieved.
Watching her brother grow felt like seeing a seed she'd planted finally become a towering tree.
She was proud, too.
The fact that he protected those around him meant he had backbone.
That was what a real man looked like.
The only thing that bothered her, just a little, was this-
Ryden still only saw her as a sister.
After more than ten years, did he really feel nothing else?
Was his standard too high?
Or was she just... not seductive enough?
Brooklyn tonight was destined to be restless.
At 9:00 p.m., the Spades Gang finished assembling.
At 9:10 p.m., Hydra armbands and hoods went on.
At 9:15 p.m., combat orders were issued.
Everything moved with the precision of a military operation.
Several Black men with Hydra armbands, AK-47s slung under their coats, swaggered toward the bar entrance.
The girls at the door were still striking seductive poses.
"Hey handsome, come on in and play," one teased. "It's been a while, hasn't it? Let us take care of you."
Their practiced smiles were normally irresistible.
Under normal circumstances.
But tonight was different.
The boss was watching.
No one wanted to be filled with bullets.
"Get lost!" the lead man barked. "Get the hell out of my way!"
He slapped one of the girls aside without hesitation.
The bouncers reacted instantly, pulling out baseball bats as thick as a man's arm.
"Heh," the lead man sneered. "You're all dead."
He tossed his coat aside, revealing a tank top stretched over solid muscle.
Then he pulled out a weapon.
Not a pistol.
A thick, long assault rifle.
The black barrel gleamed with cold menace.
"Hydra!"
He pulled the trigger.
Flames burst from the muzzle.
Five or six bouncers walking over were instantly turned into sieves.
"Hail Hydra!" he shouted as he fired. "Civilians, get out! Dasco trash, come out and die!"
The vanguard had begun.
Behind them, the rest of the Spades Gang spread out, executing precision fire.
A portion of the core members led juniors around the flanks.
A standard tactic.
One perfected by the Nazi military, later used with terrifying efficiency by the Imperial Japanese Army-until they ran into the even more ruthless Chinese forces.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Glass shattered.
The spinning neon lights overhead exploded, raining shards onto the crowd.
Screams erupted.
Men and women who had been drinking and dancing moments earlier fled in blind panic.
Caught off guard, the Dasco Gang responded fast.
Pistols came out.
Orders were shouted.
Subordinates charged in.
A major gang couldn't afford to lose face.
The front of the bar was cleared for civilians to escape.
Hidden Spades members took aim and fired at the Dasco trash inside.
Terrence lay prone behind a dumpster.
In his hands was a modified Mauser 98k bolt-action rifle, fitted with a high-precision scope-the most famous sniper rifle of World War II.
Cheek pressed to the stock.
Eye locked to the scope.
He spotted a Dasco member crouched behind the bar.
He squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
The 7.62mm round screamed forward, driven by massive kinetic force.
Muzzle flash.
The glass shattered.
The bullet punched straight through the man's head, leaving a bloody hole.
"One."
Terrence growled low, like a wounded wolf.
"Dad... watch me."
"I'm avenging you."
His father had been killed by gang members for nothing.
There had been no justice.
Under Ryden's guidance, he chose the same path as Frank Castle.
Eye for an eye.
Because under capitalism, without money, justice meant nothing.
Ryden didn't stop him.
This was a road a man had to walk himself.
The fastest way to grow.
The first time Ryden had killed a chicken, he'd vomited at the sight of blood.
Later, he learned the truth.
Killing a man wasn't much different.
One shot.
No need to slit a throat.
People who committed unforgivable crimes deserved punishment.
"There's a sniper!" Malochevsky shouted as he ducked under a table.
He clutched his pistol, eyes locked on the entrance.
He didn't know who had come looking for trouble.
It didn't matter.
They'd all die.
A cruel smile tugged at his lips.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Gunfire echoed without pause.
The bar had emptied completely.
Even locals used to gang wars wouldn't stay to drink amid flying bullets.
Some shameless customers even took advantage of the chaos to skip their tabs.
Thud.
Another body dropped.
Blood sprayed as a second gunman was taken out by a headshot.
The Spades members at the entrance continued firing in controlled bursts.
They didn't rush in.
According to plan, they were waiting for the explosion.
Curiosity aside, not having to charge headfirst into gunfire was a blessing.
No one wanted to die.
Rat-tat-tat.
Gunfire erupted at the back door.
The Dasco members guarding the rear collapsed one after another.
All of them were well-built.
All of them trained.
None of that mattered.
An AK-47 didn't care.
It proved one thing.
If you weren't Captain America-
Don't try to stop bullets with your body.
You will die.
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