Chapter 13: A Wonderful Night in Hell's Kitchen

The street battle grew ever more intense. Another wave of gang members arrived as reinforcements. Luke was locked in fierce combat with these newcomers. His firepower alone suppressed such a large group of ruthless thugs that no one on the opposing side dared to lift their heads. If word got out, few would believe it.

The residents of Hell’s Kitchen cowered in their homes, trembling in fear. The relentless explosions could be heard from streets away. Gang wars were not uncommon here, but rarely did they involve such overwhelming firepower. Clearly, something big was happening tonight.

Those fighting Luke never managed to figure out how many enemies they faced. The sheer ferocity of the onslaught led each of them to suspect there must be at least ten adversaries from some unknown gang. None could have guessed that only one person was attacking them—and even less that their opponent was a child.

Luke spotted another wave of reinforcements approaching, but this time, it seemed two rival factions had arrived simultaneously. The chaos escalated. Somehow, the two groups began shooting at each other as soon as they got out of their vehicles. Bullets rattled against cars, walls, and bodies, plunging the scene into utter disorder. With Luke in the mix, the conflict became a three-way melee.

A tremendous explosion sent a dumpster flying, scattering burning garbage everywhere. The crackling of gunfire was unceasing, and the thunderous blasts shook the air, making ears ache. The battleground reverberated with Russian and English curses and shouts. It appeared the newcomers were members of the Russian mafia.

Luke maintained an orange aura shield around himself, deflecting every stray bullet that whizzed through the battlefield. Combat brought exhilaration and adrenaline; he gleefully tossed grenades into the fray.

The first group and the Russians, locked in combat, found themselves repeatedly bombarded by grenades, scattering their fighters. Both factions were unsure whose side Luke was on.

“Kill! Kill! Kill! Slaughter them all!” Lotus was even more excited than Luke. Tonight, the glory of the Apostle shone over the entire scene; every cell in Lotus’s body yearned to escalate the chaos.

Lotus’s wish was granted. As the two gangs battled fiercely, yet another crowd arrived. A swarm of men leapt from four vans, each wielding submachine guns and shouting in rapid-fire Japanese. The Yakuza had joined the fray.

Now, the three-sided conflict became a four-way battle. The Yakuza, the largest contingent, surrounded the Russians and the first group, unleashing carnage and causing massive casualties.

The embattled Russians, stirred by desperation, rose up and fired wildly, mowing down swathes of Yakuza. The Japanese quickly sought cover and returned fire against the surviving Russians. The air was thick with bullets, turning the street into a storm of blood and violence.

Luke, sheltered behind his shield, stared at the chaos in awe. He couldn’t help but marvel, “Damn, this is wild. Looks like the weather’s nice tonight—everyone’s out for a stroll.”

Just as the script of “mantis stalking the cicada, while the oriole lurks behind” seemed poised to play out, with the Yakuza ready to seize victory as the oriole, headlights flashed in the distance. An SUV sped to a halt, and five or six men disembarked, two of them hefting thick, long armaments on their shoulders.

“Damn, RPG launchers? Are you planning to blow the place to bits?” Luke’s jaw nearly dropped.

Whoever they were, they were formidable. Both launched their rockets; two missiles streaked through the night, trailing brilliant fire, and plunged into the midst of the Yakuza.

Boom—

The climax of the night arrived. After two deafening explosions, a strange silence reigned. The Yakuza were stunned by the devastating power of the RPGs; in an instant, more than half were dead or wounded.

The initial gang perked up. Outnumbered and outgunned moments earlier by the Russians and Yakuza, they now seized the opportunity, emerging from cover to launch attacks on the remaining Russians and Yakuza.

Luke observed for a moment, deducing that these newcomers with extraordinary firepower must be Kingpin’s men. They were truly incensed; otherwise, they wouldn’t have deployed such destructive weapons as RPGs.

Thinking this, Luke kept his hands busy, hurling more grenades. An electric grenade landed near the RPG-wielders as they prepared to reload. Seeing it, they instantly dropped their launchers and dove for cover. With a resounding blast, the SUV behind them was rendered useless.

Luke focused his grenades on the Russians, while the newcomers targeted the Yakuza. With grenades in front and RPGs behind, the Russians and Japanese were bombarded into retreat, howling in agony.

Luke reached for another grenade—nothing left. He had thrown all 163 electric grenades he’d brought tonight. “These electric grenades are fantastic,” he thought. “I’ll have to make more next time.”

In the distance, sirens wailed. The NYPD could no longer sit idle.

Throughout the night, the police switchboard had nearly been overwhelmed with calls; ignoring the situation was no longer an option. The NYPD had to respond, albeit reluctantly.

The last arrivals, those with overwhelming firepower, were the first to leave, clearly unwilling to encounter the police.

Hearing the sirens, the Yakuza shouted among themselves and began to retreat.

Oddly, the few remaining Russians were undeterred; seeing the police arrive, they turned their guns on the patrol cars and opened fire. The officers barely stepped out before a hail of bullets felled several. The survivors scrambled for cover behind their vehicles, returning fire in panic.

Witnessing this, Luke couldn’t help but click his tongue in admiration. “No wonder they’re called the warrior nation—truly fierce.”

“Kill! Kill! Kill!” Lotus continued to shriek in his ear.

Luke rolled his eyes, removed his Iron Man mask, and tossed it into his storage space. He wasn’t as crazed as Lotus; he knew it was time to leave.

Before departing, he saw a crowd of NYPD officers cowering behind their cars, unable to stand up against a handful of Russians. Marvel’s New York police, Luke mused, were truly pathetic—nothing but a bunch of drunks and layabouts.

But it wasn’t entirely their fault. The officers had expected a routine patrol, only to encounter rampaging Russians armed exclusively with submachine guns. The police, by contrast, carried only small service pistols. The difference in firepower was stark.

Luke withdrew from the battlefield, turning a corner of a nearby building, only to run straight into a group of burly, armed Russians—clearly reinforcements.

Both sides stopped in their tracks. The Russians carried submachine guns, even AK-47s.

One burly Russian strode up and demanded, “Hey, kid, did you see a group of people? Which way did they run?”

Luke bit his finger, feigning confusion, and pointed in a direction with a childish voice. “That way!”

The Russian immediately barked at his men, “Chase them! Anatoly wants us to bring back as many alive as possible!”

“Ura!!”

As the bloodthirsty Russians marched off, a strange smile crept across Luke’s youthful face.

“Catch me? Dream on. Eat shit, you pretty boy, and take a grenade to your mother.”

He took out a skateboard from his storage space, set it on the ground, patted his backside, and rolled home.

All combatants had begun to withdraw, leaving only the berserk Russians exchanging fire with the NYPD.

Tonight would surely be a sleepless night for the residents of Hell’s Kitchen…