The sounds of those two deaths alerted the gunmen of Herman Odea on the first-floor living room. Already on edge, they drew their weapons and aimed toward the stairwell corner where the bodies had fallen.
"Breach in the building! Lock it down—full alert!"
"Control room, declare red status!"
"Target at the first-floor stairs—may be moving up! Eyes open!"
Shouts echoed as messages flew to the control room over comms. The control room slammed the alarm, putting the entire apartment on alert.
A dozen gunmen formed up on the first floor, sights leveled at the stairwell corner, inching forward.
They were sure no one could survive a dozen muzzles aimed at once.
They had no idea their enemy wasn't ordinary.
A few meters from the corner, a handful of tiny pebbles snapped out like bullets. Caught off guard, the gunmen didn't react in time—stone punched through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed in a fine mist. Screams broke out.
A figure in a black hooded sweatshirt and mask stepped into view.
He walked past the writhing, still-breathing men, bent to scoop up two pistols, and put rounds through foreheads with detached precision.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
As the shots faded, he turned and headed deeper along the first-floor corridor without hesitation.
It was a long passage. A door at the end clearly marked the back exit. Rooms lined both sides. As he passed one, he leveled a pistol at the door and fired.
Bang.
The bullet punched through the wood—and through the skull of the gunman hiding behind it.
He moved on, doubled back to his original approach, and climbed.
Checking both pistols with practiced motions, he took the stairs two at a time. Nearing the second floor, his eyes flicked up beneath the brim.
No pause at the landing—he exploded forward like a cheetah. As he cleared the final step, he spun midair. More than twenty gunmen lay in ambush along both walls. They had no time to react before he extended both arms and squeezed.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Muzzles bloomed fire in rapid cadence. Rounds found fatal targets—foreheads, temples, eyes.
In under two seconds, two dozen ambushers dropped dead.
Both magazines clicked empty.
He didn't hesitate. He pivoted toward the third floor, running as he reloaded, movements smooth and fast.
By the time he hit the next landing, fresh magazines were seated.
Once the killing began, he was a reaper—gunfire as his scythe—cutting through each level. Herman Odea's gunmen had nowhere to go but out a window.
But morale hadn't fully broken; they didn't run.
Ruthless bullets greeted them instead.
Numbers didn't matter—the intruder moved too fast, faster than ordinary eyes could track, and his accuracy was terrifying. Most never even processed what was happening before a round drilled their skull.
It took less than ten minutes.
Everyone with a gun in the building was dead—spared only were a few captive women.
Herman Odea himself died in his office.
He likely never imagined his crew would be erased tonight.
His final sight was the intruder—black hood, black sweats, black gloves, mask—dropping the last core gunmen in the office with surgical shots or a casual twist of the neck.
Then, at the door, that pistol—death itself—turned toward him. The flash bloomed, and everything went dark.
Outside Odea's office, Ben Shaw glanced at the body on the floor, the corners of his mouth lifting beneath the mask.
Another good harvest.
He didn't stop to ransack. To wipe the building fast, he'd used blitzkrieg tactics. After clearing the control room crew on the third floor, he kept moving upward, then circled back to the monitoring suite.
The system ran on VCRs—tape decks. There were more advanced setups in this era, but not for outfits like this. That kind of gear belonged to certain government agencies.
He pulled the tapes, powered down the system, and left.
Ben knew this kind of spree in Queens would draw serious attention. Even with the heavy rain, continuous gunfire carried.
He exited without delay. The downpour would wash away his trace scents and residuals.
Ten minutes after he slipped out, patrol cars converged on the apartment.
Boom!
Thunder cracked harder overhead. Lightning slashed the sky, making the night feel ominous.
The joint task force—uniforms, detectives, and forensics—fanned out, taping the perimeter and processing the scene.
A black Chevrolet SUV pulled up and four agents stepped out—FBI, led by Phil Coulson.
They waited, patient and professional, letting CSU run the first-, second-, and third-floor sweeps. No badge-flashing shortcuts.
Only after the initial pass did Coulson and a few investigators, with Captain George leading, step inside.
They all wore shoe covers, gloves, and caps.
No extra prints. No stray hairs.
"What the hell—I've never seen a scene this strange," Captain George muttered beside Agent Coulson, brow furrowed.