At nine o'clock at night, Jason, Harley, and David drove to Queens, parking their car in a shadowy alley near the Mexican gang's headquarters.
Harley and David got out, carrying black duffel bags loaded with guns and ammunition.
Jason walked over and reminded them, "The Mexican gang has two to three hundred gunmen, all armed with automatic rifles. Even though your shooting skills are top-notch, the numbers are heavily against you, so be extra careful."
He pointed to a nearby high-rise and said, "I'll be up there watching. If you run into trouble you can't handle, call me immediately."
"Got it, boss."
"Don't worry, honey."
Both were seasoned pros, not rookies. If they encountered a tough enemy, they wouldn't just charge in recklessly.
After giving his instructions, Harley and David left the alley with their black bags, quickly heading toward the slums.
Once they were gone, Jason gathered energy at his feet, leaped into the air, and flew to the nearby high-rise.
After confirming the rooftop was empty, he sat on the edge, legs dangling toward the ground, pulled out a high-tech binoculars, and watched the two moving swiftly, full of anticipation.
By nine, the sky was pitch black.
To save electricity, the slum residents lit red bonfires along the roads.
Some idle folks sat around, drinking cheap beer and chatting sporadically.
Suddenly, a man and a woman walked into the slum's entrance.
They wore full protective body armor, held large-caliber automatic rifles, and carried bulging black bags on their backs.
These two were clearly prime targets, but with automatic rifles in hand, the shady types around could only abandon any thoughts of robbery.
As the two walked off, someone asked curiously, "What's going on today? Morning, noon, afternoon, and now evening—four groups have shown up, and they all look like bad news."
His companion tossed some wood into the fire and said calmly, "Don't forget, this is the Mexican gang's headquarters. No matter how many tough guys show up, it's not surprising."
Harley and David ventured deeper, following pre-gathered intel, and soon reached the Mexican gang's territory.
At that moment, several men in plaid button up shirts, holding AK-47s, surrounded them.
The lead gangster barked, "Stop! Who are you?"
The two exchanged a glance, and Harley asked with a sweet smile, "Is Mr. Guzman here? We have urgent business with him."
"Looking for the boss again? Didn't some people come by this afternoon? Why more tonight?" The lead gangster muttered, but he still asked warily, "Who are you? What do you want with the boss?"
Since he didn't deny it, Guzman was indeed still here.
Harley and David gave faint smiles. "We're…"
Suddenly, they raised their rifles and pulled the triggers.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The gangsters didn't have time to react. Blood sprayed from their foreheads as they collapsed to the ground.
The muffled gunshots echoed far in the night, alerting every Mexican gang member in the area.
"Enemies!"
They rushed downstairs, guns in hand, full of aggression.
At that moment, the small-time leaders shouted, "Calm the hell down! Remember what we learned this afternoon. Stick to the plan."
Hearing this, the gangsters cooled off and, following the instructions of those mysterious figures, took up ambush positions in the building's corners and stairwells.
After firing, Harley and David immediately ducked behind cover on either side.
But after waiting two full minutes, the expected swarm of Mexican gang members didn't show.
David found it odd. By normal logic, after killing someone on Mexican gang turf, the next scene should be their gunmen surrounding them from all directions.
Only then could the fragmentation grenades in his bag come into play.
The gang would come in waves, get mowed down, realize they couldn't win after a few rounds, and then scatter in a panicked rout—that was the standard gangster script.
But after waiting a few more minutes, it was like the gang had vanished. Not one showed up.
Harley and David became anxious. They were outnumbered and outgunned; dragging this out was bad for them. They needed a plan.
David, bold and skilled, tested the waters by briefly exposing himself before ducking back.
The next second, a hail of bullets rained down on the spot where he'd just been.
Trouble—they were pinned down!
David's expression turned grim.
Judging by the gunfire, the nearby buildings were already occupied by gang members.
But they didn't rush out. Instead, they stayed hidden at windows and rooftops, locking down the duo's cover positions.
"David, what do we do now?"
Harley's voice came through the invisible earpiece.
Though both had level-10 firearms mastery, Harley lagged far behind David in physical conditioning, combat experience, and adaptability.
On a shooting range, hitting stationary or moving targets, the gap might not be obvious. But in a life-or-death pinch like this, David's years as a mercenary made the difference glaringly clear.
David frowned, analyzing.
The gang was holed up in the buildings. Staying outside in cover just made them sitting ducks.
They had to find a way to get inside and fight in the corridors.
David opened his bag and pulled out two smoke grenades.
Harley caught his meaning, grabbed two of her own, and tossed them outside their cover.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The shots hit nothing.
Hiss!
Smoke grenades released thick white clouds, obscuring the cover and surrounding streets completely.
David didn't move rashly. Instead, he threw a few pebbles onto the ground.
Clack! Clack!
With their vision blocked, the Mexican gang members, trained for only a few hours, grew confused.
This was beyond their playbook.
Hearing movement from the cover, they assumed the targets were coming out.
Without thinking, they opened fire, unloading their magazines wildly at the cover positions.
When their clips ran dry, the gunfire stopped abruptly.
At that moment, Harley and David vaulted out of cover, donning thermal imaging goggles.
In the white fog, they each slipped into different buildings.
The gang members at the windows had just reloaded when gunfire erupted from the corridors.
"Shit!"
"Enemies got in!"
"Hide! Take them out!"
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
The corridors were pitch black, with the Mexican gang relying on just a dozen flashlights for light.
Harley and David, on the other hand, had bags full of weapons, ammo, and cutting-edge tech.
Their shooting skills were leagues apart, and their gear was half a century ahead.
Once Harley and David entered the buildings, it was like tigers among sheep—a completely one-sided slaughter began.
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