At five in the morning, Gotham's sky was a sickly leaden gray. Heavy clouds pressed down on the spires of its skyscrapers, nearly choking the breath from this city of sin.
The acrid sulfur smell of chemical plants drifted through the air, mingling with the rank stench of sewage and tightening the throat. Puddles on Lake Street reflected the dim yellow streetlights as Yang Ming slipped silently out of Alley 22 in a deep black windproof coat.
His tactical leather shoes struck the wet asphalt without a single unnecessary sound. The hem of his coat swayed slightly in the cold wind with his steady steps.
A fully loaded Thompson submachine gun hung from a tactical hook inside his coat. Two Stark miniature magnetic high-explosive bombs sat ready in his left pocket, while an Osborn high-carbon titanium alloy scalpel gleamed coldly in a strap on the outside of his right thigh.
Selene's information had been accurate. Cobblepot, known as "the Butcher," a middleman for the Falcone Family, was holed up in an abandoned meat-processing plant on the edge of the East End.
On the surface, it was a waste disposal site for expired frozen meat. Underground, however, it was Gotham's largest hub for organ harvesting and smuggling, where countless innocent lives were trampled underfoot.
The plant was only four blocks from Lake Street. Yang Ming took no detours, heading straight across the empty main road, every step steady and resolute.
At the third intersection, two black Ford sedans shot out sideways and blocked his path. Eight burly men in suits climbed out and silently spread into a semicircle as they approached. Their jackets bulged, and each had his right hand tucked inside, gripping a gun.
"You're Dr. Yang from Lake Street?" The lead man stopped ten meters away. A scar ran from the corner of his eye to his chin, and his voice was rough and hoarse.
He drew a MAC-10 compact submachine gun, its muzzle angled toward the ground, and threatened, "The boss wants to see you. Come quietly if you know what's good for you, or we'll break your legs and drag you there!"
The other seven drew their guns at the same time. The clack of charging handles shattered the dead silence of the morning, ending any possibility of negotiation.
Yang Ming stopped. His icy gaze swept over the eight men as [World-Class Firearms Mastery] activated instantly in his mind, rapidly calculating:
The distance between them was ten to fifteen meters. Available cover included the two Fords, a mailbox on the left, and a concrete utility pole on the right. The enemy weapons were most likely MAC-10s or Glocks, giving them considerable firepower.
Yang Ming's expression remained calm, his manner indifferent. He had no intention of wasting words. His right hand slipped into his coat pocket, his fingertips finding a miniature magnetic high-explosive bomb. His thumb pressed the activation button.
Then his wrist snapped with a swift, concealed motion. The matte-black metal disc traced a low arc and landed precisely in the gap between the undercarriages of the two Fords.
"What's that?"
One of the suited men cried out. The magnetic attachment activated with a click, fastening the bomb to a driveshaft. Its red light flashed frantically. The countdown was just one second.
The instant Yang Ming threw the bomb, he drove off with both legs and dove behind the mailbox on the left, his movement crisp and clean.
BOOM-!!!
The explosion tore through Gotham's morning. A savage shock wave flipped both Ford sedans, blasting holes through their undercarriages and sending fragments flying. Their fuel tanks detonated moments later. An orange-red fireball shot skyward, lighting half the sky as scorching air swept outward.
The four closest men were blown apart on the spot. Severed limbs scattered amid burning metal fragments.
Scarface was hurled seven or eight meters by the shock wave. He smashed through a convenience store's bulletproof glass and tumbled inside, covered in blood, his eardrums ruptured and his consciousness fading.
The remaining three, blinded by the flash, lay on the ground coughing violently, unable to fight back. Yang Ming rose from behind the mailbox and calmly brushed a few specks of dust off his coat.
He reached inside with his right hand, unhooked the Thompson submachine gun, flicked off the safety, and braced the stock against his shoulder. His icy gaze settled on the three struggling men.
Rat-tat! Two short bursts punched cleanly through the backs of two men's heads. Brains and blood splattered across the road, killing both instantly. From throwing the bomb to taking out seven men, less than five seconds had passed.
Of the eight gang enforcers, only the half-dead Scarface remained.
Yang Ming stepped over burning car wreckage toward the ruined convenience store. His footsteps sounded unusually clear, heavy with menace.
Scarface tried to push himself up and groped through the broken glass for his fallen submachine gun. A tactical leather shoe stamped down hard on his right hand.
Crack. Bone shattered, and Scarface screamed. Yang Ming pressed down and ground his palm to pieces, without a trace of pity in his eyes.
"Which basement level is Cobblepot on?" Yang Ming pressed the muzzle between his eyebrows. The cold barrel instantly silenced Scarface.
"The... the second basement level..." Scarface convulsed all over, his voice trembling.
"There's a security door. Only the boss's fingerprint can open it. Break it by force and you'll trigger the alarm. More than thirty gunmen inside will seal off the passage!"
"Lead the way."
Yang Ming moved the muzzle aside, grabbed Scarface by the collar, and hauled him out of the rubble like a dead dog, dragging him toward the plant.
Ten minutes later, the two reached the abandoned meat-processing plant.
The enormous rusty iron gates were shut tight, coated in dust and rust. The air reeked of blood, disinfectant, and a faint, nauseating stench of decay.
Yang Ming dragged Scarface to the entrance of the second basement level. A thick blast-resistant steel door blocked the way. Beside it was a security lock with fingerprint and retinal scanners.
The faint rumble of machinery and weak screams came from behind the door-the agonized cries of the prisoners.
"Open it." Yang Ming threw Scarface down in front of the security lock, his voice cold.
"I can't..." Scarface lay on the floor and shook his head in despair.
"Only the boss's fingerprint can open it. Breaking it by force will trigger the alarm!" Yang Ming studied the blast-resistant door: five-centimeter-thick homogeneous steel plate with an internal layer of cut-resistant ceramic. Ordinary methods would not open it.
He removed the Thompson's drum magazine and took a 5.56-millimeter armor-piercing incendiary round from his Storage Ring. Holding the primer end in his left hand, he drew his scalpel with his right and precisely pried open the bullet, pouring the incendiary compound and armor-piercing core into the gap around the security lock. Then he attached the second miniature high-explosive bomb.
"Shut up and cover your ears." Yang Ming retreated ten meters and braced his back against a load-bearing wall for protection.
BOOM!
The directional blast erupted. The miniature high-explosive bomb ignited the armor-piercing incendiary compound, and three-thousand-degree heat combined with the shock wave to melt straight through the security lock's circuitry.
The blast-resistant door's hydraulic locking mechanism warped in the heat, giving off a piercing screech of tearing metal. Then the door crashed inward with a bang, throwing up dust. Red alarm lights flashed frantically in the passage, and a shrill alarm echoed through the enclosed space.
"We're under attack! At the entrance!"
Shouts rose from deep inside the passage, followed by a rush of footsteps and clacking charging handles. More than thirty fully armed enforcers poured out of the slaughter room, their MAC-10 submachine guns trained on the doorway, ready to fire.
Yang Ming stood outside the door, his expression calm. The ring at the base of his right index finger flashed with a dim light, and an FGM-148 Javelin antitank missile launcher appeared out of thin air.
He hoisted the launcher onto his right shoulder and activated its infrared seeker. Through the sight, he clearly picked up the heat signatures of more than thirty people.
"Wh... what is that?!"
Scarface lay sprawled on the floor, terror written across his face, his mind utterly blank.
Yang Ming gave him an indifferent glance. "A ballistic salvation device. I'm rather merciful."
The moment the words left his mouth, Yang Ming pulled the trigger. With a hiss, a cold jet of gas burst from the rear of the launcher, smoothly ejecting the missile.
Half a second later, the main motor ignited. Orange-red exhaust filled the entrance passage as the missile shrieked straight toward the crowd deeper inside.
In an enclosed underground space, an antitank missile's high-explosive warhead meant absolute annihilation. No one had time to react. All they could do was face death as it came.