It was pouring in New York.
The downpour made the day feel different. On 163rd Street and 89th Avenue in Jamaica, Queens, storefronts and walk-ups lined both sides, all stamped with that early-2000s American look—walls covered in graffiti of every style.
People of every color lived here—diverse but poor. Diversity didn't cancel chaos; it often guaranteed it.
Gangs of all sizes worked these blocks.
But lately, Queens' gangs had gone quiet—very quiet. Crime rates had even dipped. The reason was simple: a serial killer had been active for four months.
His targets were robbers, pushers, and gang members.
The body count had passed two hundred—horrifying by any measure.
Gangsters were used to trampling laws and lives with impunity. Few ever made them pay. But a figure like a God of Death had appeared.
He moved like a ghost through the dark, hunting them and harvesting their lives.
They tried to find him—formed alliances, posted bounties.
It didn't matter. The ghost kept killing. Some crews in Queens even abandoned their turf in fear.
They gave up territory to survive.
Some were terrified. Some weren't.
One who wasn't was Herman Odea, a Hispanic shot-caller.
His outfit was born in prison. He recruited Hispanic inmates and built the Herman Odea Gunslingers, a crew that ran both inside and outside, carving out a big slice of Queens.
Every member wore a tattoo of a full-sized pistol on the lower abdomen. Discipline was strict and old-school.
They had ties to Mexican traffickers and ran home invasions, carjackings, assaults, and murders.
Since founding, they'd counted roughly two hundred members—those were just the core. They stockpiled firearms, and their reputation was vicious.
Because of the messy web of interests, NYPD rarely picked a fight with them.
But tonight, Death's footsteps were drawing near. The rain would wash sins and blood alike.
Herman Odea's turf spanned more than a dozen streets, but their base sat in an apartment building at 163rd and 89th in Jamaica. Bars, shops, and markets flanked it; there were few residential towers nearby.
The terrain was complicated—back doors everywhere, basement routes, choke points. If attacked, they could fight from cover, hide below, or slip out the back.
Open for business—but cautious.
That's how gangs survive.
Boom—
Thunder cracked as rain hammered down, but the bar lights still blazed, welcoming patrons. Cars and bikes crowded the lot, and people streamed in.
Women in revealing outfits with perfect figures and heavy makeup moved in packs with their dates, ready for the night.
Across the way stood the apartment building—old brick and tile, a fenced yard out front topped with barbed wire. Hidden sentries and cameras covered the exterior.
Herman Odea had built a serious perimeter.
It still wouldn't stop Death.
The bar's noise and the rain masked the signs.
Under the black sky and the heavy curtain of rain, no one noticed the figure on a rooftop not far from the apartment building, silently watching, eyes sweeping, cataloging.
He picked out the hidden sentries in the dark. The rain didn't hinder his sight. Like an eagle, he traced the cameras' placements.
Finally, his gaze settled on the ten-plus-story apartment.
He bent his knees—and jumped.
Bang.
He cut through the rain like an arrow, clearing tens of meters of distance and height, landing at a top-floor window by the main entrance.
Gloved fingers gripped the sill. He eased open the unlocked window and slipped inside, landing in a neat roll.
A small room—bed, bathroom—empty.
Clinging to the sill, he glanced around: no camera. He shut the window, padded to the door, pressed his ear to it, and expanded his senses.
Information flooded in.
Hearing and smell magnified. Working together, they scanned the entire building, sketching a 3D map in his mind. In that mental model, figures and details snapped into place—
Footsteps and movement, the layered stinks of rot and smoke and sweat, the metallic tang of guns, alcohol on breath, the frequency of every vibration.
He opened his eyes.
Footsteps approached. He slid to the hinge side of the door, pressed into the gap.
The handle turned. The door opened. A man stepped in.
As he turned to shut the door, a hand clamped over his mouth and nose.
Surprise flickered; pain followed; consciousness vanished a heartbeat later.
The intruder eased him down, stepped out, and closed the door.
He glanced up at the camera at the end of the corridor, unreadable, then quickened his pace to the stairwell. One hand on the rail, he dropped the spiral shaft, falling more than ten floors to the ground level.
Bang!!
He hit the first floor with a solid thud, landing in a low squat, unshaken.
The stairwell opened onto a corner by the living room. Two men, alerted by the sound, turned into the corner.
Two gloved fists flashed like lightning, smashing into their throats.
Crack, crack. Collapsed windpipes. They clutched their necks, stumbled back two steps, faces twisted in despair and pain, then hit the floor.