Inside the Sterile Chamber, Matt Murdock struggled to prop up his upper body. Beneath his dark red cowl, his brow knotted tightly.
His superhuman hearing frantically reconstructed the scene in his mind: the rush of air as heavy objects landed, the frequency of the vibrations as they struck the floor, even the faint scrape of metal ammunition knocking together inside the crates.
"What... did you do?" Matt's voice was painfully hoarse. The effort tugged at the wound through his chest, making him suck in a sharp breath.
"Collected a debt." Yang Ming turned off the faucet and pulled over a paper towel to dry his fingers. "And cleared some flammable, explosive trash out of Hell's Kitchen while I was at it."
Frank drew a deep breath, suppressing the shock churning inside him. He hooked the cleaned Remington shotgun back onto his tactical vest and strode to the Sterile Chamber.
"We're leaving." Frank yanked open the chamber door, hooked an arm under Matt's shoulder, and forced him upright.
"His alveoli haven't fully sealed yet. If he goes out in the rain, there's a ninety percent chance of infection." Yang Ming tossed the crumpled paper towel neatly into the waste bin. "If he dies out there, don't expect a refund on the surgery."
"He'll die if he stays here." Gritting his teeth, Frank draped one of Matt's arms around his neck.
He turned back, his cold eyes fixed on Yang Ming, his tone deadly serious.
"Bullseye's missing, and you cleaned out Pier 47. That fat bastard Kingpin is going to lose his mind. Within half an hour, his gangs, his informants, even the NYPD cops on his payroll will turn all of Hell's Kitchen upside down."
Frank paused, his gaze sweeping over the three weapons crates on the floor.
"That cargo is too hot to handle. This clinic can't protect you."
Yang Ming walked to the triage desk, picked up the chipped mug bearing the words "I LOVE NY," and sipped the cheap coffee that had long since gone cold. "Don't trouble yourself. I'm a light sleeper. When rats come through my door, I usually stomp them dead."
Frank offered no further advice. He knew the man before him had the strength to back up his arrogance.
He took a short, slim tactical pencil from an inside pocket of his vest and pulled a blank prescription slip off the desk.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
An incredibly complex sequence of numbers and letters appeared on the paper.
Frank pushed the slip toward Yang Ming.
"Encrypted satellite frequency. Unregistered." Frank's voice carried the weight of gun smoke. "If you run into trouble, call this number. I owe you one."
Yang Ming glanced at the slip and casually tucked it into his pocket.
"The door's broken. Remember to pull the shutter all the way down when you leave." Yang Ming pointed at the battered entrance. "And don't track muddy water inside. My assistant just mopped the floor."
Frank gave Yang Ming a long look. Without another word, he hauled the weakened Matt into the fathomless downpour over Hell's Kitchen.
The battered shutter rolled down, shutting out the sound of wind and rain.
Dead silence settled over the clinic once more.
Jessica Jones leaned against the medicine cabinet and swallowed with difficulty. She stared at the three enormous weapons crates, then at Yang Ming drinking his coffee.
"Boss..." Jessica pointed at the crates on the floor, her voice a little unsteady. "Tell me honestly. Are you planning to found your own country in New York? Or become a warlord in the Middle East? If this stuff blows, we'll all be feeding the turtles in the Hudson River."
"Just a few tools for self-defense." Yang Ming set down his mug, walked into the storeroom, and brought out a heavy, meter-long steel crowbar.
"Self-defense? With half a ton of armor-piercing rounds?" Jessica rolled her eyes hard.
"You'll be seeing plenty more of this. Pick your jaw up off the floor."
Yang Ming walked over to the first green weapons crate.
The steel crowbar's tip slipped precisely into the gap in the hydraulic latch. He braced his core, and the muscles in both arms instantly tightened.
Crack-
A shrill sound of snapping metal rang out. Yang Ming forcibly pried apart all eight high-strength latches.
He lifted the heavy composite armor lid.
A pungent mix of machine oil, moisture absorbers, and the cold scent of gunpowder rushed into his face.
Yang Ming swept his gaze over the crate's contents. In his mind, [World-Class Firearms Mastery] surged like a flood through an opened dam, instantly converting every piece of equipment before him into precise data panels.
Twenty FGM-148 Javelin antitank missile launch tubes were neatly stacked on top.
Below them sat boxes of NATO-standard 5.56 mm Armor-Piercing Incendiary Rounds, their golden brass cases gleaming with a deadly sheen beneath the wall lamp.
"Good stuff." Yang Ming casually picked up a Javelin launch tube, feeling its perfect weight distribution.
He moved to the second crate.
Pried it open.
The contents of this crate made Yang Ming narrow his eyes slightly.
There were no piles of firearms. Only several exquisitely engineered silver cases, nestled in thick shock-absorbing foam.
Yang Ming lifted out a case with one hand. Enter a code? No need. He drew the Tactical Knife strapped to the outside of his thigh, shoved it into the keyhole, and twisted viciously.
The case sprang open.
Inside lay twelve matte-black metal disks, each only the size of a coin. At the center of each disk was a tiny red indicator light.
"An early Stark Industries product... miniature magnetic tracking high-explosive charges."
The knowledge bank in Yang Ming's mind automatically identified their origin.
Once placed against a metal surface, these things would automatically activate their magnetic grip. Each had the combined explosive yield of three High-Explosive Grenades, along with an anti-tamper fuse.
"Stark really is a genius at selling weapons. Come to think of it, has he gone to Afghanistan yet?" A cold smile curled Yang Ming's lips.
He kept searching. At the very bottom of the second wooden crate, he found several unusual mechanical assemblies.
Several hydraulic mechanical arms made of titanium alloy, along with a defective prototype Miniature Arc Reactor bearing the Stark Industries logo.
"Servo motor components for a personal exoskeleton?"
Yang Ming's heart gave a sudden thump.
They might be defective, but they represented the pinnacle of military technology in the Marvel Universe. If he brought them back to Gotham and found a skilled mechanic to modify them, his ability to protect himself would increase exponentially.
While Yang Ming took inventory of this priceless haul of "hard currency."
In the restraint chair at the center of the clinic.
Bullseye's eyelids twitched ever so slightly.
The effects of the propofol mixed with the sedative were rapidly fading under his far-above-average metabolism.
He didn't open his eyes immediately. That was the instinct of an elite killer.
His hearing returned first.
He heard the sharp crack of the metal crowbar breaking the latches.
He heard the crisp scrape of metal components knocking together as Yang Ming picked up the weapons.
"Javelin antitank missiles... armor-piercing rounds... miniature high-explosive charges..."
Bullseye's mind raced.
As Kingpin's number one assassin, he knew the manifest for the shipment at Pier 47 inside out. The items Yang Ming had named were precisely the key equipment packed into those three half-ton weapons crates.
Wait.
Bullseye suddenly felt as though an invisible hand had seized his heart in a crushing grip.
Three crates. A ton and a half altogether.
The docks were at least three kilometers from Lake Street. And Kingpin's men had multiple cordons in between.
How had this Asian doctor brought those three steel beasts back in less than twenty minutes?!
What about the helicopter? The fifty guards outside?
Cold sweat instantly soaked Bullseye's back. The killing skills he had always taken pride in were crushed to dust before a reality that completely defied the laws of physics.
He finally realized he had crossed a demon who couldn't be judged by any ordinary standard.
Fear slithered furiously up his spine like an icy venomous snake.
"Heart rate jumped from sixty to a hundred and twenty. Breathing's getting faster."
Without warning, a voice utterly devoid of warmth exploded beside Bullseye's ear.
Bullseye's eyes snapped open.
At some point, Yang Ming had come to stand in front of the restraint chair.
He was toying with the coin-sized Stark miniature tracking bomb. The matte-black metal disk flipped nimbly between his fingertips, its central red light blinking like the eye of Death.
Jessica stood nearby, holding the cast-iron heating pipe, her gaze like someone inspecting a pig awaiting slaughter.
"Perfect timing."
Yang Ming looked down at Bullseye, who was cinched tightly to the chair by eight leather straps.
He pulled over a swivel chair and sat in front of Bullseye. Crossing his legs, he leaned forward slightly.
"Let's talk." Yang Ming gently pressed the miniature bomb against the metal zipper on the chest of Bullseye's combat suit.
With a click, the magnetic grip engaged, and the red light immediately began flashing rapidly.
Bullseye's pupils shrank to pinpoints. He knew how powerful this thing was. If it detonated, his upper body would instantly become a cloud of bloody mist.
"You brought your men here and made a mess of my place. Now we're going to settle the bill."
Yang Ming raised one finger, his tone as casual as someone haggling at a market stall.
"Tell me everything about Kingpin. Or I'll stuff this bomb into your stomach, pack you up, and mail you to that fat bastard."