Bang.
The heavy sheet-metal door caved inward under a kick, crashing into the dim pool hall along with chunks of concrete from the doorframe.
Wearing the fleshy face of a middle-aged white man, Lucian stepped through the debris.
Before the burly Russians inside could draw their guns, Lucian had flashed in front of their bald boss, seized his throat with one hand, and lifted him into the air.
He read his memories.
A jumble of images flooded his mind: vodka, hookers with wavy hair, ledgers. Lucian quickly filtered through them and found the information he wanted.
He had robbed these men of their drugs earlier, and on his orders, the bald boss had reported it to the big boss, Nina, that very night. But two or three days had passed, and apart from replying, "Got it. I'll send someone to handle it soon," Nina had done nothing.
So you like leaving people on read.
He was rather speechless. These mobsters clearly had deep pockets. Unless he really made them hurt, that woman Nina wasn't going to come all the way from Russia to America herself.
Time to turn up the heat.
Following the lingering clues in the bald man's mind, he took out an underground casino three blocks away and two money-laundering operations in succession. After searching each person in charge's mind, he finally pieced together a location worth pursuing.
An abandoned meatpacking plant on the outskirts of Brooklyn.
Half an hour later.
Lucian hovered in the night sky, two hundred meters above the plant. Several heavy trucks were parked around the factory buildings below, and armed men patrolled back and forth with several Caucasian shepherd dogs on leashes.
According to the memories of those men in charge, this was Nina's largest arms distribution hub in New York, packed with