The torrential rain on Lake Street poured into the Underground Clinic through a hole at the bottom of the roll-up door. The water mixed with blood, broken glass, and scattered medical gauze on the floor, gathering in the low spots into a nauseating pool of dark red sludge.
The air filtration system hummed under the strain, trying to extract the concentrated tear gas residue and smell of gunpowder from the enclosed underground space.
Yang Ming stood in the center of the lobby. Three green military crates, each over two meters long and wide and weighing half a ton, occupied a third of the passageway.
The crates were coated in a special waterproof, corrosion-resistant matte paint. Stark Industries' anti-counterfeit markings gleamed a ghostly blue beneath the dim yellow wall lamps.
He bent down and gripped the edge of the first crate's high-strength composite armored lid with his right hand.
He had already broken the hydraulic latches with a crowbar. Now he only needed to brace his core and lift. The heavy metal lid flipped backward and crashed onto the concrete floor, shaking several damp flakes of plaster loose from the ceiling.
The overpowering smell of military-grade rust-preventive oil hit him.
Yang Ming scanned the shock-absorbing foam recesses inside the crate. Twenty FGM-148 Javelin antitank missile launch tubes lay in neat rows.
He casually pulled one out, supporting the middle of the tube with one hand, and flipped open the infrared seeker's protective cover with his thumb.
The optical sight's lens was completely unmarked, and the needle on the internal Freon coolant pressure gauge rested steadily in the green safe zone.
"Top quality."
Yang Ming returned the launch tube to its place. Man-portable heavy weapons capable of precisely locking onto armored targets two thousand meters away and delivering a top attack would sell for no less than two hundred thousand dollars apiece on the black market.
He moved to the second crate. Rows of NATO-standard 5.56 mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds were stacked inside. Yang Ming picked up a round and rubbed his fingertip along the brass casing.
The bullet tip bore red-and-black markings, with a high-hardness tungsten steel penetrator and incendiary compound inside. Issued for HK416 assault rifles, these rounds could easily punch through ten-millimeter-thick homogeneous steel plate within a hundred meters.
The third crate held the twelve Miniature Magnetic Tracking High-Explosive Charges, along with several sets of servo motor components for powered infantry exoskeletons. The titanium alloy gears reflected a cold, hard sheen under the lights.
"Move these crates into Storage Room No. 2. Put them against the wall and cover them with that waterproof tarp." Yang Ming pulled out a paper towel, wiped the rust-preventive oil from his fingers, and turned to give the order.
Jessica Jones was crouched beside the triage counter, listlessly scrubbing blood off a stainless steel table leg with a rag. At his order, she tossed the rag into a bucket, stood, and walked toward the three hulking crates.
She used no equipment to help her. Both hands clamped directly onto the metal load-bearing beam beneath the first ammunition crate. Her calf muscles tightened as she put her back and core into it.
With a piercing scrape of metal, she dragged the half-ton ammunition crate across the concrete floor by sheer force. Its base ground violently against the floor, leaving a white gouge two fingers wide.
Jessica breathed only a little faster than usual. For her normal ten-ton-class superhuman strength, a load like this did not even count as a warm-up.
In less than three minutes, all three crates were neatly arranged in the storage room's corner. Jessica pulled over a dusty green tarp and covered them completely.
Once she finished, she dusted off her hands and went to the sink to wash them. The running water swept over several red marks on her knuckles.
Jessica shut off the tap and leaned against the edge of the sink, looking at Yang Ming. He was using a broom to sweep the broken glass and spent casings in the lobby into a pile.
Jessica nudged the standing water with the toe of her shoe and cleared her throat.
"Boss."
Yang Ming did not even look up as he swept several .45-caliber casings into a plastic dustpan. "What is it?"
"I need some time off." Jessica tucked both hands into the pockets of her old jeans, sounding a little awkward.
"It's almost dawn. I need to go home and check on Trish. She was alone in the apartment when I left last night. This neighborhood just turned into World War III, and I'm worried."
Yang Ming's hands paused for half a second. He straightened and leaned the broom against the wall.
Trish Walker. Jessica's adoptive younger sister.
Yang Ming recalled the information he had on the girl. The two depended on each other, and Trish was Jessica's only weakness in this fucked-up world.
Yang Ming did not answer right away. He turned, walked behind the triage counter, and opened the bottom drawer.
Several brown paper bags sat inside, all filled with cash looted from gangsters. Yang Ming took out a bag and opened its seal. Inside were stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound with rubber bands.
He pulled out five stacks and casually tossed them onto the stainless steel countertop.
The edges of the bills rustled against the metal. Five thousand dollars.
"Take it." Yang Ming picked up a pen and crossed Jessica's name off today's duty roster.
"This is your pay for the month. I'm giving it to you in advance. Take your sister to Upper Town for a good meal, and buy her a couple of decent outfits while you're there. Stop making her wear that secondhand street-stall junk."
Jessica froze. She stared at the five thick stacks of bills on the counter and swallowed hard.
She had worked countless odd jobs in this city. Bartender, mover, even collecting debts for people.
Those bosses pinched every penny, and docking wages was routine. She had never seen anyone throw a whole month's pay at an employee on her first day.
"This... this is really for me?" Jessica stepped forward and touched the rough surface of the bills, making sure this was not some cruel joke.
"My rule is no credit, and no late pay either." Yang Ming shoved the duty roster back into the drawer.
"Take the money and get moving. If I don't see you here at eight sharp tomorrow morning to clean up the medical waste, I'll come to your apartment myself and extract those five thousand dollars from your bone marrow."
Jessica snatched up the bills and stuffed them into her jacket's inner pocket. When she looked up, her eyes were a little red. The hard, cold shell she had built over years on the streets cracked at that moment.
"You're the best boss in the world!" Jessica shouted, flinging her arms wide and lunging straight at Yang Ming.
Yang Ming did not so much as lift his eyelids. His right hand rose with perfect precision, his index finger extended to plant firmly in the center of Jessica's forehead.
That single finger stopped her superhuman momentum dead. Under the force, Jessica's head was pushed backward.
"Stay away from me. You reek of the sewer." Yang Ming withdrew his finger, pulled a disinfectant wipe from beside him, and leisurely wiped his fingertip. "Use the front door. Pull the roll-up door all the way down while you're at it."
Jessica rubbed her reddened forehead, not the least bit angry. She grinned, turned, and strode toward the entrance.
"Eight tomorrow morning. I'll be here on the dot!" Jessica bent down, gripped the bottom of the warped roll-up door with both hands, and yanked it down.
Amid a screech of scraping metal, the roll-up door slammed against the floor, completely shutting out the sound of wind and rain.
Silence returned to the clinic.
Yang Ming tossed the disinfectant wipe into the trash. He walked to the sink, turned on the tap, and washed the remaining dust from his hands.
His gaze swept across the empty clinic. He had dumped Bullseye outside the police station, Frank had taken Matt away, and the Rat Gang's corpses were stored in the ring.
The trouble in Hell's Kitchen was over for now. Kingpin's retaliation would take time to develop, and the NYPD's investigation had procedures to follow.
He had plenty of time to handle business on the other side.
Yang Ming dried his hands and walked to the door marked "Medical Supplies Warehouse" deep inside the clinic, which was strictly off-limits.
He placed his palm on the cold metal door handle. Pressed down.
A ghostly blue vortex spun silently within the doorframe, replacing the shelves that should have been packed with antibiotics and saline.
Yang Ming stepped through.