While George Stacy was buried in overtime and cursing the entire world under his breath, Hell's Kitchen's underworld had also received the message loud and clear. Devil Face was back, and this time he wasn't just making noise. He was erasing people.
Inside a hidden luxury office with the curtains drawn tight, Kingpin was holding a conference call.
His massive frame sat motionless in the darkness, but his voice carried absolute weight. "I'm completely certain he's the one behind it," he said. "If we keep acting separately, he'll kill us one by one until there's nobody left. My suggestion is simple. We work together, and we kill him."
An old woman's voice came through the speaker next. Calm, dry, and unpleasant. "I agree with Kingpin. This Devil Face is proving to be more troublesome than we expected."
Someone else cut in immediately. "And how exactly do you plan to kill him?"
Kingpin paused just long enough to make everyone listen. "I already formed a hunting team once, and they failed. So this time, I want something stronger. More professional killers. More manpower. A better plan. And this time…"
His lips curled into a cold smile.
"I'll be directing the operation in person."
The line went quiet for a moment. Even among criminals, that statement had weight. Then a doubtful voice finally spoke. "Are you sure about that?"
Kingpin's answer came without hesitation. "This time, I'm going to face him like a man."
That earned him the approval he wanted. One after another, the people on the call agreed to the proposal. They had all felt the pressure already. No one wanted to be next.
The old woman spoke again. "Then what's step one?"
Kingpin smiled wider, the kind of smile that meant somebody else was about to suffer. "Step one," he said, "is letting him get his revenge."
…
Locke's revenge had indeed been going very smoothly.
After wiping out the Gambino family, he followed it up with heavy blows against the Algerian mob and the Irish gangs. Bodies had been dropping, safehouses had been burned, and the streets were learning all over again what it meant when Devil Face decided to stop playing around.
Now he stood on top of a tall building, waiting quietly for the next target to appear.
Earlier that day, David had tracked down fresh intel. The Lanska brothers from the Russian mob were likely to show up at the bar below. Compared to most of the others on Locke's list, the two brothers weren't especially dangerous in a fight. The real problem was that they were excellent at disappearing.
Not just them, either.
Almost every surviving target had gone to ground. They were hiding in holes, switching locations, using decoys, and trying every trick they knew. Kingpin was the worst of all. The fat bastard hadn't just vanished—he'd also snatched Vanessa while he was at it.
That part was unforgivable.
Locke had a thousand creative ideas for what he wanted to do to Fisk when he found him, but unfortunately there wasn't anyone around worth sharing them with. David would probably understand, but hearing it over a headset just wasn't the same.
A few minutes later, the bar door finally opened.
Two drunk men staggered out, each with a woman in his arms. Their dates looked heavily made up, their heels unsteady, and neither seemed remotely aware they were attached to dead men walking. The brothers swayed toward a car parked along the street, laughing and leaning on each other as they went.
Locke narrowed his eyes.
The world in front of him changed instantly.
His vision tightened and sharpened as if an invisible lens had zoomed in, dragging the scene dozens of meters below right up to his face. The Lanska brothers suddenly looked as if they were standing only a few feet away. He could see the rough stubble on their jaws, the shine of sweat on their skin, even the drunken slackness around their mouths.
This was a new ability he had developed over the last two days.
Eagle Eyes.
The name was simple, but the effect was absurd. At long distances, he could now pick out tiny targets with terrifying clarity. A rabbit several thousand meters away, a rat on a rooftop more than ten kilometers out—if he focused, he could see it.
Combined with his other visual abilities, the amount of information pouring into his brain every time he scanned an area was ridiculous. That was exactly why, after his last batch of attribute points, he had dropped five points straight into Spirit.
Even then, he still had five points left unspent.
Those weren't being saved out of indecision. The instant recovery that came with assigning attribute points could be used in an emergency, and that kind of trump card was too useful to waste casually.
Below him, the Lanska brothers reached their car with the women still hanging off them.
David's voice came through the earpiece. "You should probably take them now. Your old pickup's not going to catch a Cadillac if they get rolling."
Locke kept watching through his scope. "I still want to know where they're hiding."
David snorted. "Relax. Without those two, the rest of those Russian meatheads won't be able to hide for long."
"Fair enough."
Locke raised the rifle, steadied his breathing, and fired twice in rapid succession.
The shots should have landed square in the brothers' chests.
But at the critical moment, the shorter one stumbled.
One bullet missed by inches and tore past his head. The other hit with brutal precision. A spray of bright red blood burst from his brother's chest, and the bigger Lanska jerked in place like a puppet with its strings cut.
The younger brother's heart nearly stopped. He didn't waste even half a second trying to understand what had happened. Instinct took over. He lunged forward and threw himself through the open car door.
Boom.
The next shot smashed into the roof.
Bang. Bang.
The windows held.
Bulletproof.
"Go! Go!" he screamed at the driver, but his eyes were locked on the street behind them.
His brother lay sprawled in the blood-slick road, staring back at him. Their eyes met one last time. The older man's pale blue pupils shifted weakly, as if he were trying to say something.
But blood was already spilling over his lips, over his teeth, and the light in his eyes faded second by second until there was nothing left there at all.
The tires shrieked against the asphalt. Blue smoke burst up around the car, swallowing the view, and the Cadillac shot forward.
On the rooftop, Locke adjusted and fired again.
This time he aimed for the wheel.
Bang.
The car swerved violently for a second, almost losing control before the driver somehow corrected it. The damaged wheel reduced their speed, but not enough to stop them.
Locke lowered the rifle, impressed despite himself. Lucky bastard.
Then he turned and headed for the stairs.
At that speed, there was still no way they were escaping his pickup.
The chase that followed was as ugly as it was intense.
Locke's battered old pickup roared through the streets at eighty miles an hour, somehow keeping pace with the Cadillac despite looking like it should have died years ago. He leaned out and fired repeatedly, bullets splashing white impact marks across the armored windows.
Under normal circumstances, with his master-level firearms skill, he could have hit the exact same point over and over until the glass failed.
The problem was the truck.
The damned thing rattled so hard it felt like every bolt in the frame was trying to shake itself loose. Keeping a perfect line of fire was almost impossible.
So Locke gave up on subtlety.
He pulled out the Executioner.
The moment the younger Lanska spotted the weapon, his face changed. "Move!" he shouted at the driver. "Get us out of line!"
Boom.
The reinforced rear window finally gave way under the impact. A jagged hole ripped open through the glass, spraying shards inward like knives. But the younger brother had reacted fast enough. He was already crouched low with his arms over his head, and the shot missed killing him by inches.
Locke was just about to chamber a second round when the Cadillac suddenly veered straight at him.
Shit.
He could fight. He could shoot. He could improvise. But driving? Driving was not one of his great talents. If the system bothered rating it, he probably wouldn't even hit proficiency.
The driver in the Cadillac, meanwhile, clearly knew exactly what he was doing.
Worse, Locke wasn't eager to find out what happened when a luxury armored sedan slammed into his rusted old truck at highway speed. He had a strong suspicion the answer involved his engine block landing in another zip code.
So he had to give way.
Still, the Cadillac couldn't build enough speed with the damaged wheel. It couldn't shake him, no matter how hard it tried.
Inside the car, the younger Lanska was starting to panic.
Then his phone rang.
He snatched it out, answered, and heard a voice he recognized instantly.
Kingpin.
"If you want to live," Fisk said, "you'll do exactly as I say."
The younger Lanska listened in silence, and with every word his face turned darker.
Kingpin informed him that a trap was already prepared. All he had to do was lure the man behind him there.
In that instant, everything clicked.
Earlier that day, one of his men had been whining nonstop about being stuck indoors too long and wanting to go out for a good time. The others had gotten worked up too, and eventually the brothers had brought people out with them.
Now he understood.
He and his brother had been bait from the start.
A wave of murderous rage surged through him so violently it almost choked him. But none of it could be directed where he wanted. Not now. Not while survival still depended on obedience.
After a long, bitter breath, he looked at the driver and said, "Take the next right. We've got a new destination."
A few minutes later, the Cadillac plunged into the underground parking garage of a large building.
Locke followed it in without hesitation.
That turned out to be a mistake.
The underground complex was sprawling, dim, and full of blind turns. Concrete pillars blocked sightlines, levels twisted over one another, and in the maze of ramps and lanes, the Cadillac vanished.
At almost the same time, his connection to David cut out.
Wonderful.
Locke tightened his grip on the wheel. I should've bought a Ferrari.
Then, from somewhere in the empty garage, a voice echoed through the concrete.
"Hello, Devil Face."
Locke's eyes flicked toward the source immediately. A speaker. A camera.
He relaxed on purpose, shrugged, and raised his voice. "You've got the wrong guy. I'm the new hero Iron Man. I know the one you're talking about, though. Handsome, powerful, irresistible to the public. Unfortunately, that's not me."
A deep laugh rolled through the speaker.
Then came a voice he knew all too well.
"You might be able to fool those useless police," Fisk said, "but you can't fool me, Devil Face."
Kingpin.
Locke fell silent for a moment. He neither confirmed nor denied it. Then a smile slowly spread across his face, sharp and mocking.
"Looks like you've turned into a clown hiding behind a microphone too, Wilson Grant Fisk," he called back. "Why don't you come out and face me yourself, you fat bastard?"
....
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