Marvel's whitewashing cop, you want me to save the world?

Chapter 97 Let Monsters Fight Monsters

The fifth floor of a building under construction in Lower Manhattan.

Shin, the leader of the Yakuza gang, paced back and forth with one hand in his suit trouser pocket.

With one hand supporting the eldest sister, Madam Gao, she held her cane in both hands, sat on an old wooden chair that had been moved up from the shed downstairs, and stared steadily at the window opening in front of her that had not yet been fitted with glass.

The Russian gang leader leaned against the wall, smoking a cigar; the smoke was torn into strips by the draft.

The Irish gang leader stood on the far side, arms crossed, his face showing suppressed anxiety for a while before he finally couldn't hold back any longer and burst out.

There was a gray-haired man in a suit standing nearby, whispering something.

"When exactly is that guy coming?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than footsteps echoed from the stairwell.

A man wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a dark gray suit walked up.

His hair was neatly combed, and after standing still, he bowed slightly to everyone present, with a perfectly appropriate expression of apology on his face.

"That gentleman has some matters to attend to today and cannot be present in person. I will convey his message on his behalf."

"Fuck!" the Irish gang leader cursed immediately, taking half a step forward and pointing at the newcomer.

"Does Kingpin look down on us? That's why he sent you here."

"Who do you think you are, what status do you hold, to be worthy of sitting at the same table with us?"

Wesley of the joint investment company turned his head and looked at the Irish leader's face.

His expression remained unchanged, his lips still curved as he apologized, but the temperature in his eyes instantly plummeted below freezing.

"His name cannot be mentioned here."

The Irish leader was rooted to the spot by those eyes, a chill running down his spine from his tailbone all the way to the back of his head.

He opened his mouth, clenched his teeth, and swallowed back what he was about to say.

The Irish gang in New York today is not what it used to be.

Hell's Kitchen lost its territory, and Keena Bar was burned to the ground.

After Nesbitt died, no one could be appointed as a new leader who could be accepted by the public.

He was able to maintain a position at the meeting table of the four major gangs because of the reputation left by his ancestors, not because of how many guns he still had.

That's why he was so anxious.

The old man in the suit with completely white hair and glasses quickly walked over from the side.

He wore a professional peacemaker's smile and pressed his hands down in the air.

"We're all on the same side, calm down, calm down, it's more important to talk things out, let's talk things out."

This old man is the accountant for the joint investment company and the various gangs present.

All the dirty money earned from drugs, weapons, protection money, and smuggling passed through his hands and then emerged as clean paper profits.

He holds considerable influence in this circle.

Wesley nodded at him, then looked away from his face and scanned everyone present again.

His gaze stopped when he passed Madam Gao.

Then he turned around, faced the old lady who had remained silent while sitting on the old wooden chair, and bowed respectfully.

"Greetings, Mrs. Gao."

Madam Gao raised her eyelids and nodded slightly at him, the movement so small it was almost imperceptible.

But this was already the highest level of courtesy she had shown to everyone present today.

"Let's get straight to business," she said, turning her gaze to Xin, who was still pacing to the side.

When Xin met Madam Gao's gaze, he slowly stopped walking.

He stood there, his hands pulled out of his pockets and hanging at his sides, his face showing annoyance that seemed to be suppressed by something, gradually sinking down.

He turned around and faced Wesley.

"If we gather all of us together, we should already have a solution, right?"

The scene fell silent instantly.

The wind whistled in through the window openings without glass, passing through the exposed steel bars and concrete pillars.

Wesley waited a moment before speaking.

"Those monsters from the Hell Sword have all personally experienced them."

No one responded.

The Russian gang leader took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at the flickering red light on the tip.

Xin put his hands back into his pockets, his knuckles clenching and unclenching under the fabric.

"Unlimited firing rights —"

"In just three days, many of you here have lost a lot of men."

"The most troublesome thing is not that a few people die. People can be replaced after they die, but there are always poor people on the streets."

"The problem is that dealing with them is difficult in itself."

Wesley's voice was neither too loud nor too soft, as if he were giving a quarterly performance report.

But this tone only made those present even more silent.

In just three days since its formation, the Hellsword Squad has thoroughly searched the Upper, Midtown, and Lower Manhattan districts.

Three black Hummer SUVs patrolled back and forth in their respective areas without changing shifts or taking breaks, and the team members inside didn't even stop at gas stations.

Nobody knows why their gas tanks are never empty.

In the past, when police encountered robberies, they would first pull out a Taser.

As long as the suspect doesn't retaliate with firearms, he will most likely survive.

The same goes for petty drug dealers on the street; at most, they get stun gunned twice, go to jail for a few months, and then come out to continue selling drugs.

It's different now.

The Hellsword team member raised his hand and fired a live shot into his thigh without hesitation.

Even with his leg broken, he still tried to fight back, but the next bullet went straight for his forehead.

There was no warning, and no Taser.

In just 72 hours, more than 20 criminals died at the hands of this squad.

Twenty lives, compared to the record of Lee En and Frank who single-handedly wiped out an entire gang, is indeed nothing in terms of numbers.

But their natures are completely different.

Lee and Frank took action in the gang's hideout and a port warehouse, with no bystanders and no cell phone recordings.

The next day, all that remained were corpses and a vaguely worded police report.

Hell's Sword was fired in broad daylight, on a sidewalk in a busy downtown area, right in front of the cell phone cameras of onlookers.

Public opinion was thus divided into two opposing camps.

Some people think that Hellsword is perfectly fine.

Criminals should be dealt with severely. If the police have the authority but dare not fire, what is the point of having the police?

Another group of people are fixated on the red line of "execution without trial".

They repeatedly questioned on social media and in television interviews: Who gave them the power of judges?

On what grounds can someone be sentenced to death for standing on the sidewalk?

The two factions were evenly matched and argued from morning till night.

The newspaper's editorial section changed its stance every day, and the television debate program broke viewership records for three consecutive weeks.

But Mayor Morris's approval rating has been rising due to this divisive public opinion.

The document he personally approved for the establishment of Hellsword has now become his most impressive achievement.

His re-election is no longer in doubt; it's a done deal.

Therefore, trying to take down this team through public opinion is simply not a viable option.

As for organizing people to ambush—they've already tried that.

The result was that all the ambushers were killed, each shot between the eyebrows.

Not a single member of the Hellsword squad was left with even a scratch.

The gap in physical fitness, reaction speed, and tactical coordination between the two sides cannot be bridged by sheer numbers.

The speed and agility with which those team members moved and changed direction were beyond what a normal human being should be able to achieve.

Wesley took a breath, pushed his glasses up his nose, and calmly gave his conclusion.

"Those guys are monsters. The best way to deal with monsters is to use them."

"What do you mean?" The accountant whirled around, his eyes wide as he stared at Wesley. "Since when did we have monsters in our company?"

The Russian gang leader switched his cigar from his right hand to his left, knocked off the ash, and said in a deep voice, "Bringing the monster in unintentionally is not a wise choice."

The accountant immediately turned to the Russian gang leader, twisting his neck even faster than before: "Do you know what kind of monster he's talking about?"

Madam Gao spoke at this moment, her voice not loud, but it reached everyone's ears very clearly.

"If you let those things in and take root, it won't be so easy to get rid of them."

The accountant shrugged, turned to Mrs. Gao, and raised her voice several octaves: "How come even you know? Aren't I a member of the company?"

"You all know, but I don't—what exactly is this monster you're talking about?"

Wesley reached up and adjusted his glasses, his eyes behind the lenses curving back into a gentle, reassuring tone.

"You're in charge of finances; you don't need to know these things."

"Okay." The accountant crossed his arms and stepped back to stand under a concrete pillar, gesturing as if he wouldn't get involved.

The yakuza leader, Shin, spoke up: "Can those monsters handle the Hellfire Sword? Our business in Manhattan has shrunk drastically because of them lately."

"The escorted goods couldn't leave the port, and they were dismantling the retail outlets on the streets one by one."

"The properties we acquired are so large that even forced demolition is impossible."

"If this continues, we'll starve to death before they even come to attack us."

"At the very least, it will cause them considerable trouble, divert their attention, and prevent them from focusing on our business lines all day long." After saying this, Wesley shifted his gaze from the letter and scanned each person present in turn.

"This is the best solution we can get right now."

Xin frowned.

He was silent for a moment, then turned around and looked at Madam Gao.

Madam Gao gripped her cane, met his gaze for two seconds, and gently lowered her chin.

Xin turned his gaze back to Wesley and nodded.

Seeing that the two had already expressed their opinions, Wesley turned to the Russian gang leader and the Irish gang leader.

The Russian gang leader didn't speak, put the cigar back in his mouth, and the flame suddenly lit up at the end.

That means you agree.

The Irish gang leader stood on the far side, arms crossed, his anxious expression masking something else entirely.

Like the accountant, he had no idea what the people in front of him were talking about.

The death of former leader Nesbitt was so sudden that many things were not handed over beforehand.

He had no idea what the so-called monster was.

But if you were to ask now, it would be tantamount to publicly admitting that the Irish group has lost its ticket to sit at the same table as the other three.

He tightened his face and pressed his chin down.

Wesley gave a professional smile and clapped his hands lightly.

"Then it's settled. We'll split the initial resources for luring those monsters over."

"All of your businesses will be temporarily suspended from today until Hellsword's attention is completely focused on them, at which point we will resume operations."

"It won't take long. There are monsters on both sides. Let them tear each other apart."

Meanwhile, in another noisy bar, colorful lights spun wildly above the dance floor, and the vibrations of a subwoofer traveled up the floor.

A group of men and women swayed their bodies in the center of the dance floor, the smells of sweat, alcohol, and perfume mingling together, swirling into a thick fog under the deafening music.

In a private room on the second floor, a young man was sprawled on the sofa.

His eyes gleamed a dark red in the dim light.

He casually hung up the phone and tossed it onto the coffee table. The screen was still lit, showing that the call had just been disconnected.

-

He stood up, walked to the railing, braced himself on the iron handrail, and looked down.

The swaying figures on the dance floor were reflected in his pupils, tinged with an abnormal color by the two dark red lights.

His lips parted to the sides, revealing a smile.

Then he raised his right hand and gestured in the direction of the DJ.

The DJ saw it and pressed a button on the mixing console.

The sprinkler pipes on the ceiling suddenly burst at the same time.

The red liquid gushed out of the nozzle; it was not a fine mist of fire extinguishing water.

This is all genuine blood, with a rusty smell and a sticky texture.

Blood splattered on the men and women who were writhing in pain.

The liquid flowed down their hair, along their cheeks, past their collarbones, and soaked through the few pieces of fabric they wore that barely covered anything.

No one screamed, no one ran away, and no one even stopped moving on the dance floor.

They tilted their heads back, opened their mouths, and let the red liquid flow down their throats.

Some people stuck out their tongues and licked the bloodstains on their companions' faces.

After one round of splashing, the music suddenly stopped.

The young man on the second floor spread his arms wide, his fingers pointing upwards, as if welcoming a moment that belonged only to him.

He announced loudly to the men and women below, "We don't have to stay cooped up in this place anymore."

"Follow me, Deacon Frost, to New York."

"The blood there is fresher."

He suddenly opened his mouth, revealing four sharp canine teeth, and let out a hoarse roar from deep in his throat.

Below on the dance floor, everyone simultaneously tilted their heads back and opened their mouths.

Hundreds of eyes reflected the same dark red light.