Chapter Sixteen: A World Engulfed in Flames

Crash!

A black object smashed through the glass and hit the floor. Vladimir and his companions, seasoned by countless battles, reacted instantly. Without hesitation, they leapt aside, rolling across the ground to conceal themselves behind cover.

Fortunately, the anticipated explosion never came. The object lay motionless where it landed, and it was evidently not a bomb.

After a tense pause, they cautiously peered out from behind their barricade. The black object was a bundle wrapped in cloth, only slightly larger than a man’s palm, lying there quietly as if some careless youth had simply dropped it by accident.

“Carl, go see what it is,” Vladimir ordered.

At his words, one of the Russians hesitated, then stepped forward. His face was taut with anxiety as he approached the bundle, inching forward as if he were approaching the very gates of hell—his progress scarcely quicker than a tortoise.

Given the circumstances, no one felt his caution was unfounded.

Finally, the man called Carl reached the bundle. He gently nudged it with his foot, listening intently for any ticking or electronic hum. Hearing nothing, he breathed a small sigh of relief.

Drawing a deep breath, Carl crouched and picked up the bundle. Inside, packed tightly, was a thick stack of photographs.

Glancing at the top photo, Carl’s expression changed abruptly.

“Boss?!”

His eyes widened in shock, his hand trembling as he handed the bundle to Vladimir.

Noting Carl’s reaction, and recalling the sinister voice they’d heard moments before, Wesley felt a chill run down his spine. He instinctively took two steps back, his gaze flickering toward the garage door.

Carl’s demeanor unsettled Vladimir as well. With long strides, he snatched the bundle from Carl’s hands.

The instant his eyes fell upon the photographs, it was as if all the blood in his body froze. For a moment, he was transported back to a frigid Moscow winter. His fierce eyes filled with bloodshot veins, and tears as large as beans streamed down his face, breaking through like a breached dam.

“Anatoly!” he howled in anguish, and the photos scattered from his hands like petals in the wind.

In the pictures, Fisk’s face bulged with veins, twisted into a mask of fury—every muscle screaming with rage. Blood stained his contorted features, and at his feet lay Anatoly’s severed head, crushed repeatedly by a car door. Those eyes, brimming with terror and pleading, had never closed, even in death.

It was over.

Wesley, seeing the photos, could no longer maintain the composed veneer of a Wall Street elite. Panic flashed in his eyes. Without a second thought, he turned and sprinted for the garage exit.

Run, now—run!

No one could fault Wesley’s decisiveness, but it couldn’t change the fact that at heart he was a desk man. Even with adrenaline surging through him, he couldn’t hope to escape the garage in time.

In fact, his desperate flight only snapped Vladimir out of his grief.

Seeing Wesley’s retreating figure, Vladimir’s eyes blazed red. Like a demon risen from hell, he spat his judgment through gritted teeth.

“Kill them!”

With a furious roar, Vladimir whipped out his machine gun and opened fire on Wesley. At the same moment, the other Russian gangsters recovered their wits, turned their guns on Wesley’s men, and squeezed their triggers.

Rat-a-tat-tat—

Bullets tore into Wesley’s back, sparking fire and spraying blood in all directions. Blindsided by the sudden revelation of his betrayal, Wesley never made it to the garage door. He and his unprepared subordinates fell together in a crimson pool.

“Boss, what now?” Carl asked, staring at Wesley’s corpse.

“Blood for blood,” Vladimir growled. “Gather the men. I want Fisk—that fat pig—to join my brother in the grave!”

Boom!

An explosion of fire lit up Hell’s Kitchen, illuminating the night. Tonight, for Hell’s Kitchen, would be a night of chaos and violence.

Gunfire and explosions tore through the streets, transforming the neighborhood into a warzone—too much, even for a place as unruly as Hell’s Kitchen.

Vladimir was never a rational man, and Anatoly’s death had driven him utterly mad.

In his madness, he cared nothing for consequences. He started a gunfight in broad daylight, indifferent to the havoc it would wreak.

Vladimir was a madman, but Fisk was no more rational than he. Wesley might not have been inviolable in Fisk’s life, but he was one of his few friends. Wesley’s death didn’t drive Fisk insane, but it was enough to engulf him in rage.

The clash between these two was as thunderous as a summer storm.

Such chaos could not be hidden—Fisk’s grip on the media was incomplete, but even if he controlled it entirely, there was no way to conceal this.

Tonight, Hell’s Kitchen would become the focus of all America.

As the instigator of this disaster, Gu Zhongyan was watching closely. The difference was, he had no interest in the outcome of their battle; in fact, he already knew it.

Vladimir’s forces were decent, but compared to Fisk, they were no match. This attack would wound Fisk, but not destroy him—Vladimir’s downfall was only a matter of time.

For Gu Zhongyan, the only thing worth watching was The Hand.

Vladimir and Fisk were merely pawns of The Hand. By provoking their conflict, he aimed both to weaken The Hand’s strength and to force them into the open.

Until now, Vladimir and Fisk had carried out most of The Hand’s overt operations. With both in turmoil, The Hand would have to step in to clean up the mess—giving Gu Zhongyan his chance to find them.

After all, compared to the street-level gangs, tracking down members of a secret organization was no easy task.

On the rooftop of a high-rise at the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, three men stood at the parapet, watching the distant inferno with grim faces.

An elderly white man said, “Fisk is far too reckless. The Russian mob are our own people, after all. Yet for the sake of a woman, he’s made such a scene at this critical moment.”

“Well, it’s done now. With things blowing up like this, SHIELD will be here soon. If they uncover our plans, everything will be lost.”