The heavy silence of the office was broken only by the rhythmic clicking of the wall clock. Zost stood motionless, his mind racing as he stared at the phone in his hand.
"Yes... Yes, Boss!" he stammered, his voice echoing in the empty restaurant.
The line clicked dead. Across town, the phone was slipped back into Dick's trembling hand, and before the mercenary could even blink, the golden blur that had just decimated a room full of killers vanished into the night sky.
In the fast-food restaurant, Zost, Lando, and Chara exchanged looks of profound shock. They didn't need words to communicate the terror they were feeling. Zost quickly hit the redial button.
"Dick! Talk to me! What just happened? Are you in one piece?"
On the other end of the line, Dick sat on the floor of a blood-spattered villa, his legs feeling like they were made of jelly. He looked at the carnage around him—bodies slumped over furniture, guns still gripped in cold hands.
"Big brother..." Dick's voice was a ragged whisper. "They're all dead. Every single one of them. I'm the only one left standing."
"Details, Dick! Give me details!" Zost barked.
"A light... a golden light just tore through the front door," Dick said, his eyes unfocused. "The guards opened fire—it sounded like a war zone for about five seconds. Then, silence. I didn't see him move, Zost. I just saw the muzzle flashes stop. It's like the bullets just turned around. Then that kid... that little boy... he walked up to me, took my phone, and told me to stay put."
"He spared you?"
"He looked me in the eye and said, 'Zost says you're the smart one.' Then he just... left. Big brother, is that our new Boss? Is he even human?"
"Come back to the base immediately," Zost said, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "The boss we had you watching was four kilometers away, and Leander got there in less than a minute. Do the math, Dick. From now on, we don't just follow his orders. We worship the ground he walks on. It's the only way we survive."
"Yes, big brother. Definitely. I'm moving now."
Zost hung up and looked at Lando and Chara. The two mercenaries, who had initially been skeptical of taking orders from a teenager, were now nodding so fast they looked like bobbleheads. Their fear had finally matured into a deep, unshakable respect.
High above the skyline of Queens, Leander Hayes was a streak of golden light against the velvet black of the night. He didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a surgeon removing a series of malignant tumors.
Originally, he had entertained the idea of negotiation. He had thought about "talking" to the other five bosses on Zost's list, perhaps intimidating them into retirement. But as he had skimmed the digital files on the way—records of human trafficking, heroin distribution to minors, and the cold-blooded execution of witnesses—Leander's patience had evaporated.
Negotiation was for people with a conscience. These men were just predators. And in the food chain of New York City, Leander had just moved to the very top.
Establish a new order. That was the thought repeating in his mind.
He spotted a convoy moving along the Long Island Expressway. It was the "Irish King of the Docks" moving in a bulletproof SUV, flanked by three cars of armed bodyguards. They were clearly spooked by the silence from Mike Ian's territory.
Leander didn't descend. He simply extended his hand and focused on the magnetic signatures of the vehicles' braking systems.
With a sharp clench of his fist, the lead car's calipers locked violently. The bulletproof SUV behind it couldn't react in time, slamming into the rear at eighty miles per hour. The two following cars piled in, creating a twisted accordion of steel.
Leander didn't wait for them to crawl out. He reached down with his mind, rupturing the fuel lines and sparking the batteries. The explosion was localized and intense. Within seconds, the convoy was a funeral pyre, the doors magnetically sealed shut by Leander's will.
He didn't stop to watch the flames. He banked left, heading toward a secluded villa in a gated community.
Three minutes later, another boss "slipped" in his marble bathroom, his skull crushed against the edge of the tub by a momentary spike in gravity.
Five minutes after that, the leader of a Russian Syndicate suffered a fatal "heart attack" in a crowded bar when the iron in his blood was momentarily polarized, stopping his heart instantly. The bar erupted in chaos, but the "Ghost" was already gone.
By the time Leander landed back at the entrance of Mike's Fast Food, only ten minutes had passed since he had left. The entire power structure of the Queens underworld had been decapitated.
He walked into the office just as Dick arrived, still pale and trembling. Dick saw his three brothers standing like statues beside the desk, looking at the child sitting in the leather chair. To Dick, Leander wasn't a child; he was the golden nightmare that had redefined his understanding of reality.
Leander's face was grim. The "cleanup" hadn't been pleasant. The smells of copper and burnt rubber still clung to his senses, making him feel a faint wave of nausea. He looked at the four men and reached out, a pulse of golden energy washing over Dick, stabilizing his frayed nerves and marking him with the same "leash" the others carried.
He stood up, grabbed the burlap sack containing the unconscious Mike O'Loughlin, and slung it over his shoulder.
"The board is clear," Leander said, his voice cold and resonant. "The major obstacles are gone. You have two days to absorb their remnants. I expect a report tomorrow night."
Before Zost could even offer a salute, Leander vanished through the hole in the roof, Mike's weight seemingly nothing to him.
The four brothers stood in silence. Dick touched his chest, feeling the warmth of the golden light beneath his skin.
"Big brother," Dick whispered. "What did he do to us?"
Zost looked at the sky, his expression a mix of awe and resignation. "He gave us a future, Dick. A dangerous, golden future. Now, get your gear. We have a lot of territory to swallow before the sun comes up."
Leander ascended past the clouds, the air thinning as he climbed. He tapped the side of his glasses, activating the HUD. "Jarvis, calculate trajectory for the African interior. Maximum stealth."
"Trajectory locked," the AI replied. "Estimated travel time at current acceleration: 22 minutes."
Leander surged forward, a golden protective shield encompassing the burlap sack in his hand to ensure Mike didn't freeze or suffocate in the upper atmosphere. He left a faint, shimmering thread of light behind him as he crossed the Atlantic.
Halfway across the ocean, a secure line pinged in his ear. The caller ID displayed a high-resolution avatar of a man with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes.
Worth Brandon. Walker's father.
Leander slowed his pace slightly, the wind whistling against his shield. "Connect. Hello, Mr. Brandon."
"You're the one who spoke to my son? The student... Leander?" The voice was deep, resonant, and carried the weight of a man who controlled billions of dollars in military hardware.
"I am," Leander replied. "I assume Walker gave you the gist of our situation. What do you think of my proposal?"
"I think you're either the most brilliant young man in New York or a very dangerous lunatic," Worth said. He was standing in his top-floor office in Brandon Tower, looking out over the flickering lights of Queens. "I need to know who I'm dealing with. Why should a group of my stature cooperate with a shadow?"
"You'll know my identity when the time is right," Leander said, looking down at the dark expanse of the ocean. "But you should know this: as of ten minutes ago, the 'chaotic' element of Queens has been eliminated. Tomorrow, the streets will be much quieter. My people are taking control."
Worth Brandon frowned, his fingers tapping against the glass of his window. "You seem very confident. Queens doesn't fall to a child, Leander. Even with Mike Ian dead, there are a dozen vipers ready to take his place."
"The vipers have already been dealt with, Mr. Worth. Their nests are empty. My subordinates are no longer just a gang; they are the new administration of the borough. But I need a partner who can handle the 'legal' side—logistics, supplies, and political shielding. That's where the Brandon Group comes in."
Worth fell silent, his mind calculating the risks. He had seen the fear in Walker's eyes tonight—a fear he had never seen before. "And what exactly is in it for me, Mr. Hayes? Why should I tether my legacy to an 'underground' project?"