Chapter 2
The cold text [ORDER CONFIRMED] froze on the screen.
These brief words made no sound. They didn't startle even a single stray dog in the Brooklyn slums.
But the second this dark web protocol was executed, the global data hub ruling the underworld’s utmost elite was detonated like a ten-megaton nuclear warhead.
...
Somewhere in Eastern Europe, on the core frontlines of a war-torn country.
Wind and snow raged in the dark night. Deafening artillery fire painted half the sky red.
This was the temporary base of the formidable transnational mercenary syndicate, "Blood Cross."
Standing two meters tall, covered in horrifying scars and bullet wounds, the supreme leader of Blood Cross—Ivan, known as "The Tyrant"—was grinding his blood-soaked combat boot onto the face of a rival warlord amidst a field of dismembered bodies.
He raised a custom high-caliber Desert Eagle with one hand, a sadistic grin playing on his lips, preparing to blow the man’s brains out.
BEEP—Extreme Threat Combat Protocol Engaged.
Suddenly, the encrypted comms channel inside Ivan's tactical helmet was hijacked by a violent surge of static.
Immediately after, the micro-tactical terminal on his wrist let out a heart-stopping screech. The radar topography on the screen vanished. In its place was a bleeding, black-gold skull made entirely of code.
Below it, a single line of blood-red text:
[DEFCON-1: The Reaper is awake.]
CLATTER—
The Desert Eagle that had accompanied Ivan through seas of blood and mountains of corpses slipped from the Mercenary King’s hand without warning, hitting the freezing snow.
Under the shocked gazes of hundreds of bloodthirsty mercenaries and the desperate warlord beneath his foot, The Tyrant—a man who wouldn't blink at a carpet bombing from a regular army—felt his pupils shrink to the absolute limit.
The bloodlust in his eyes vanished entirely. It was replaced by an uncontrollable tremor and fanatical devotion.
"My Liege... it has been five years..."
Ivan violently jammed his finger against his helmet communicator. Using every ounce of strength in his body, he roared to every global branch base, his voice actually cracking with terror and awe.
"STAND DOWN ALL FORCES! Cease all hostilities immediately! Load up every piece of heavy armor and every attack gunship we have! Breach international airspace protocols! The entire legion drops into Brooklyn, New York!"
"If anyone dares to take a private contract and delays us by a single second, I will personally flay them alive! The Reaper has returned! We are going on a pilgrimage!!"
In that exact moment, it wasn't just Blood Cross. The dark nerve centers of the entire planet descended into an indescribable, frantic panic.
Italy, Sicily. The Underground Supreme Mafia Council.
The elders of the old-money Mafia families, controllers of the global gray-market economy, were cutting their rare steaks.
When the familiar blood-red skull suddenly popped up on the giant monitor, the eighty-year-old Grand Elder sitting at the head of the table stiffened. He had a heart attack on the spot.
Knocking over his wine, he crawled on the floor like a dying dog, screaming hoarsely at his subordinates: "Lockdown! Find out who the hell in New York offended HIM! I don't care who it is, tell every family on this Council to sever all ties with the New York branches immediately! We were almost dragged into our graves!"
At the same time, Wall Street, USA.
Inside the executive boardroom of the world's largest private military contractor, "Blackwater Defense."
CEO Richard, known as the "Wolf of Wall Street," turned as pale as a sheet the moment he saw the [DEFCON-1] protocol light up on the screen.
The suited thugs who had been casually discussing an armed acquisition of a ten-billion-dollar South American cobalt mine moments ago now didn't even dare to breathe.
"FUCK the South American project! FUCK the ten-billion-dollar contract!" Richard kicked over the priceless solid wood conference table like a deranged lunatic. He pointed at the screen with bloodshot eyes and roared, "Deploy the 'Warhammer' Royal Guards! Mobilize the C-17 heavy transport fleet straight to New York! We must arrive in Brooklyn before dawn to pledge our allegiance, or the Blackwater Consortium will be erased from the face of this planet by tomorrow!"
That night, hundreds of heavy transport planes, fully loaded with heavy ordnance and top-tier killers, scrambled at all costs, converging frantically on one tiny set of coordinates: Brooklyn.
And the instigator of this global Category-10 earthquake was currently sitting in a cheap, urine-and-stale-alcohol-scented bar in the Brooklyn slums.
"Look closely! This is solid fucking black gold! And it's embedded with top-tier rubies!"
Tommy stood arrogantly on a cigarette-burnt leather sofa, his face flushed red.
Trembling with excitement, he tossed the coin—the ultimate symbol of supreme power and abyssal terror to the global dark web—back and forth on the greasy table.
"You hillbillies don't know shit!" Tommy took a massive swig of cheap bourbon, pointing at the coin while bragging maniacally to the wide-eyed local thugs around him. "This here is the ultimate ticket to the upper echelon tomorrow night!"
"Boss, is this thing really enough to catch the Don's eye?" a flunky swallowed hard, staring greedily at the rubies.
"The Don? Heh! Tomorrow night, the great Don Falcone is holding the highest-level Mafia summit!" Tommy looked around, acting out his coronation fantasy like a ridiculous clown. "Tomorrow, even the veteran Mafia bosses will have to wait in line outside. But I, Tommy, will take this priceless treasure, walk straight into the innermost circle, and personally present this divine coin to the Godfather!"
"If the Don is happy, the Viper Gang ascends to heaven! After tomorrow, I'll be the Falcone Family’s right-hand man! If that mechanic loser still refuses to sign the divorce papers, I’ll have the Don's men chop him up and feed him to the dogs! Hahahaha!"
He laughed wildly, holding the black-gold coin high above his head. The cheap neon lights hit the blood-red eyes of the skull, reflecting a demonic glow.
In this run-down bar, he genuinely believed he was holding the crown to his ultimate life.
He had no idea he was playing with a nuclear launch button that had just triggered millions of armed mercenaries globally.
...
Pre-dawn.
I stood quietly in front of the leaky underground garage. Inside, my wife and daughter were sleeping soundly.
Nothing in this world was more important than their peace.
Suddenly, the overflowing puddle of muddy water at my feet rippled violently.
VROOOOM—!
The low, guttural roar of twin-turbo V8 engines sounded like behemoths tearing through the void.
Blinding tactical headlights sliced through the filthy Brooklyn rain.
Three pitch-black, full-size armored SUVs, devoid of any civilian license plates, crushed the puddles and trash cans in a violently aggressive stance. Operating in a flawless tactical formation, they slammed on the brakes right in front of Old Pop’s Auto Repair.
The doors swung open simultaneously.
Twelve behemoths, each standing over 6'3", fully armed and draped in black combat gear, slipped out of the vehicles like ghosts. In under two seconds, they secured every high ground and blind spot in the perimeter.
From the lead custom-armored Cadillac, a man stepped out.
He wore state-of-the-art Level III Kevlar tactical heavy armor. A hideous scar slashed across his face from his left eye down to his jawline.
My direct adjutant, Cerberus, strode toward me.
Ignoring the disgusting mixture of engine oil and sewer water beneath his feet, he dropped heavily to one knee before me without a second of hesitation.
His head was deeply bowed. With both hands, he raised a highly classified military-grade thermostatic lockbox. His raspy voice overflowed with fanatical reverence.
"My Lord! Awaiting your command!"
"Target: Falcone Hillside Estate," I said mildly, staring into the distance. "Tomorrow night, I want the entire Falcone Family to vanish."
