The End of the Street Thugs

San Francisco, Bayview-Hunters Bayview District.

This is another festering wound beneath the city's glamorous facade. Dilapidated low-rent housing, abandoned warehouses, and rusty auto repair shops constitute the main landscape of this neighborhood.

The streets were sparsely populated, with only a few figures occasionally flashing by, wearing oversized hoodies and walking unsteadily, their eyes wary and empty. The air was filled with the stench of rotting garbage, the cloying sweetness of marijuana, and a faint, metallic smell of violence and poverty.

On an open-air basketball court on the edge of the community, the ground was uneven and the net of the basketball hoop was tattered, with only a few loose threads fluttering in the wind. Several young black men were gathered in the shade under the backboard, some sitting and some standing, some smoking, some scrolling on their phones, and some idly staring at the sky.

Deshawn leaned against a broken concrete sill, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips. He took a deep drag, then slowly exhaled, a look of blissful smugness on his face. He wore a large black T-shirt with an exaggerated gold skull print on the front, a thick silver chain around his neck, and his hair was braided into tight dreadlocks and tied in a bun at the back of his head.

Beside him, Malik was squatting on the ground, aimlessly poking at the ants with a twig. He was a bit more muscular than Deshawn, bald, with a faint tattoo on his neck, and looked more taciturn.

There were four or five accomplices around him, all dressed similarly and seemingly idle.

"Damn, this life is so boring," complained one of his accomplices, wearing a crooked hat, as he stubbed out his cigarette on the stands. "The money we got from that Chink restaurant is almost gone again."

"What's the rush?" Deshawn said lazily, his tone carrying the ease of a controller. "Money? We can always find another source when it runs out. There are plenty of easy targets around here, especially those big shots from Great East run restaurants and supermarkets. They're all cowardly and timid, yet they've made a fortune. A little intimidation and they'll obediently hand over their money."

He took a drag of his cigarette and continued to offer his "brilliant insights": "Remember this, the money from the Great East is the easiest to get. They're like a flock of sheep, only knowing how to bury their heads in making money, they don't know how to stick together, and they don't know how to resist. As long as you scare them, they'll obediently listen. What was that woman's name again? Feng Ya? Wasn't she pretty arrogant at first? She even called the police? And what happened? Didn't we teach her a lesson? I heard she closed her shop and ran away, hahaha!"

He let out a burst of unrestrained laughter, which his companions joined in. The laughter echoed across the empty stadium, carrying a cruel naiveté.

Malik didn't laugh. He stopped fiddling with the ants, looked up, and said with a hint of hesitation and unease, "Deshawn, I have a feeling... something's not right about this. That female boss, I found out later, she doesn't seem to be completely without connections. I heard she knows some... people from the Fuqing Gang."

"The Fuqing Gang?" Deshawn scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "Come on, Malik, you're just a coward. The Fuqing Gang mainly operates in Chinatown, busy with their smuggling and money laundering. They don't have time to bother with this little suburban restaurant mess. Besides, even if they wanted to, do you think we ' South District Black Snakes ' are pushovers? They wouldn't dare cause trouble on our turf!"

He lifted his shirt to reveal the grip of a pistol tucked into his belt—a heavily blued and worn Glock 19, its dull metallic sheen gleaming in the sunlight. He had bought it for a hefty price from a drug dealer; it was his confidence and pride.

"See that?" Deshawn patted the gun handle, a hint of smug confidence on his face. "With this in hand, nobody can touch us. No matter how powerful the Fuqing Gang is, do you think they'd dare to shoot us in the street? The police aren't pushovers. If they cause a big commotion, they'll be the ones in trouble."

Malik opened his mouth, as if to say something, but ultimately remained silent. While he felt Deshawn was overly optimistic, he had to admit that Deshawn's analysis had some merit. The Fuqing Gang indeed rarely interfered in these petty squabbles in the community. Perhaps... he was really overthinking it?

He lowered his head again and continued to fiddle with the ants, but the unease in his heart, like a seed buried in the soil, quietly took root.

Just then--

Three black Chevrolet Suburban, like silent steel behemoths, drove silently into the dilapidated street and slowly came to a stop at the edge of the basketball court.

The engine shuts off. The car doors open almost simultaneously.

Eight men, dressed in matching black suits, white shirts, and black ties, filed out. They were tall and moved in perfect unison, their faces expressionless, their eyes cold and focused, like soldiers who had just emerged from a military base rather than ordinary citizens who should be appearing on the streets of San Francisco.

After getting out of the car, they didn't exchange any words, but walked steadily towards Deshawn and his group on the basketball court in a loose fan shape.

The footsteps sounded particularly clear on the empty street, carrying a kind of oppressive rhythm.

Deshawn and his group quickly noticed the unusual commotion. They stopped laughing and their eyes turned to the approaching men in black. At first, they were curious, then wary, and finally—as the men in black drew closer and their cold, menacing aura grew clearer—they turned to unease and fear.

"Hey, hey, hey..." Deshawn stood up, threw the cigarette butt on the ground, and stubbed it out with his toe. He tried to maintain his "controlling" demeanor, but his voice unconsciously carried a hint of tension, "Who are you people? What are you doing here? You've come to the wrong place, haven't you?"

The men in black did not answer, nor did they stop. The leader was a white man with a very short buzz cut, a stern face, and a sharply defined jaw—the same man with the crew cut who had intercepted Feng Ya on the street earlier, the one who spoke Chinese. He stopped about five meters from Deshawn. The other men in black also stopped, forming a semi-surrounding of Deshawn and his group like seven silent Iron Tower.

The crew-cut man's gaze swept over Deshawn and Malik's faces before he spoke, his voice steady and low, devoid of any emotion:

"Which one of you is Deshawn? Which one is Malik?"

Deshawn and Malik exchanged a glance, both seeing surprise and uncertainty in each other's eyes. Deshawn, forcing a smile, stepped forward, his neck stiff, his tone clearly provocative and threatening:

"I am Deshawn. Who the hell are you? Looking for trouble? I'm warning you, this is ' South District Black Snakes ' territory! Get the hell out of here! Otherwise..."

He lifted his shirt again, revealing the grip of the Glock 19 at his waist, making an exaggerated gesture, trying to intimidate the other party. In his view, although these men in black outnumbered him, they looked like "respectable people"—perhaps security guards from a company, or private bodyguards of a wealthy man. Such people usually wouldn't dare to actually use guns on the street; as long as he showed his weapon, they would back down.

However, he miscalculated.

Seeing Deshawn brandish his pistol, the men in black showed no fear whatsoever; instead, they laughed.

It wasn't the kind of friendly, conciliatory laugh. Instead, it was a laugh tinged with contempt, mockery, and even a hint of excitement, as if they had seen something amusing.

The crew-cut man smiled too. His lips curled slightly upward, revealing a row of neat white teeth, but the smile appeared particularly cold in the afternoon sunlight.

He didn't draw his gun. He simply slowly reached out his right hand and unbuttoned his suit jacket.

Then he turned to the side, so that Deshawn and Malik could clearly see what was hanging from his waist—

That was an MP5K submachine gun.

The compact gun, with its black metallic sheen, short barrel, and signature slightly curved magazine, was secured to the crew-cut man's waist with a quick-release holster and a sling across his shoulder, as if it were simply part of his everyday work gear.

Immediately afterwards, the other seven men in black also made the same move--

Unbutton his suit jacket, turn to the side, and show off his waist.

Seven MP5Ks, under the afternoon sun, reflected a cold and orderly metallic gleam.

Deshawn's arrogance and provocation froze instantly, like ice. The lone Glock 19 at his waist looked like a child with a toy water gun facing a line of heavily armed special forces in front of these MP5Ks.

Cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead.

Malik's face turned pale, and he instinctively took a half-step back.

The other accomplices were so frightened they dared not breathe, some even trembling slightly.

But Deshawn was Deshawn. He was a small-time boss of the "South District Black Snakes" in this area. He had seen some of the world and experienced some dangerous situations. Although he was afraid, his long-standing street-smart, indomitable courage and a morbid obsession with "face" made him unwilling to back down in front of his subordinates, especially in front of this group of mysterious men in black.

He figured that although the other side was well-equipped, they might not dare to actually open fire in the city. This was San Francisco, not Chicago, not Detroit. If shots were fired, the police would arrive quickly. No matter how powerful the other side was, could they really go against the entire San Francisco Police Department?

If you act tough enough, the other party might back down.

He gritted his teeth, suppressing his fear, and his right hand suddenly reached to his waist, gripping the grip of the Glock 19!

"Fuck your mothers! You think you can scare me just because you have good guns?!" he roared, trying to intimidate them with his voice and imposing manner. "Go ahead and shoot! Come on! Let's see who dies first!!"

He suddenly drew his pistol and pointed it at the crew-cut man!

However--

His finger hadn't even had time to pull the trigger.

"Bang."

A crisp, short, suppressed gunshot.

It wasn't the Glock that Deshawn hadn't even fired yet.

Instead, it came from the hand of the crew-cut man opposite him—who, without him noticing, had produced a P226 pistol, also equipped with a silencer.

Deshawn felt as if his right wrist, which was holding the gun, had been struck hard by an invisible Iron Hammer! A sharp pain shot through him, his arm went numb, and his fingers involuntarily loosened—the Glock 19 flew out of his hand, tumbled a few times in the air, and fell to the ground in the distance with a "thud".

He looked down and saw a bloody hole in his right wrist. Blood was gushing out.

"Ah--!!!" Only then did he feel the belated, excruciating pain, letting out a shrill scream. He gripped his injured right wrist tightly with his left hand and staggered backward.

The crew-cut man expressionlessly sheathed his P226, smoothly returning it to its holster at his waist. He didn't even glance at Deshawn, as if he had merely swatted a mosquito.

Then, he nodded slightly to the man in black behind him.

The next second--

Seven MP5Ks roared simultaneously!

"Da da da da da--!!!"

A barrage of deafening gunfire erupted suddenly across the empty basketball court! Bullets, like a storm of metal, swept past Deshawn's accomplices behind him!

Those young thugs who were just moments before arrogant, fearful, and hesitant didn't even have time to let out a complete scream before being struck by a hail of bullets. Their bodies trembled and twisted violently as if electrocuted before collapsing one after another! Blood quickly spread across the uneven cement ground, pooling into dark red streams.

The gunshot came suddenly and went quickly, lasting only three or four seconds.

When the last echo faded into the air, there was no one left standing on the basketball court except for Deshawn and Malik.

Five corpses lay scattered in pools of blood. Some were still twitching unconsciously, while others were completely still. The air was thick with the nauseating smell of gunpowder and blood.

Deshawn clutched his bleeding wrist, staring blankly at the hellish scene before him, his mind a complete blank. He even forgot the pain, forgot to scream, just stood there, watching, as if his soul had left his body.

Malik's legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees with a thud, his face ashen and his body trembling violently. He opened his mouth, trying to scream, but no sound came out. A warm, wet sensation spread rapidly between his legs—he had lost control of his bladder.

The crew-cut man walked up to Deshawn and looked down at him. His grey eyes held no emotion, only a cold, predatory calm.

"Mr. Deshawn," he began, his voice still steady and deep, "Now, can we have a proper talk?"

Deshawn looked up at the man before him, who resembled the Grim Reaper, his lips trembling, and finally let out a desperate, tearful murmur:

"Who... who are you people...?"

The crew-cut man didn't answer his question. He simply tilted his head and gestured towards the several black Suburbans parked nearby.

"Our boss wants to see you. And you too." He glanced at Malik was kneeling on the ground, almost limp.

"Please."

Deshawn and Malik, like two chickens with their necks choked, under the watchful eyes of the dark gun barrels and the corpses scattered on the ground, had no courage to resist and could only obediently and tremblingly be forced into one of the Suburbans.

The car door closed, and the engine started.

Three black steel behemoths, just as silently and swiftly as they arrived, drove away from the basketball court that had just been transformed into a battlefield, disappearing into the afternoon sun of San Francisco.

All that remained were the five gradually cooling corpses and a patch of cement soaked in blood, waiting for the police and ambulances to arrive at an unknown time.

The Bayview District remains dilapidated and silent.

It was as if nothing had happened.