Me, Hammerhead, one of the biggest bosses in Hell's Kitchen, just got robbed?
You've gotta be fucking kidding me.
My already ugly face turned the color of raw liver in half a second. I could practically hear that smug bastard Wesley smirking on the other end of the phone. Ten minutes ago I was threatening Kingpin's lapdog that nobody touches the Maggia and walks away. Now this?
I shoved the two half-naked dealers off my lap so hard one of them hit the floor. I stood up, glaring at the poor bastard who brought the news like I was about to bite his throat out.
"Was it the Devil's crew? Daredevil? That red asshole?"
"N-no, boss. Not him."
Not him? Then who the hell—
The answer only made the rage worse.
"So some random nobody grew balls big enough to piss on Maggia territory?" My voice dropped to almost a whisper, the dangerous kind. "How many men did this 'nobody' bring?"
The guy swallowed, raised a single shaking finger.
"A hundred?"
He shook his head.
"Fifty?"
Another shake.
I was losing patience. "Spit it out!"
"One… just one guy, boss."
The whole private room went dead silent except for the slot machines outside.
One guy.
I laughed, short and ugly. "One guy walked into my casino, shot up my soldiers, and is still breathing? Where the fuck are our people?"
"He… he already dropped thirty-two of ours. Headshots mostly. We can't even get close. The guy's a demon with that gold pistol."
"Useless! Every last one of you!"
I was about to keep screaming when—
BOOM!
The wall behind me exploded inward. Plaster and smoke filled the VIP lounge like a bomb went off in a chimney.
And through the dust strolled a single figure, calm as Sunday morning, a shining golden Desert Eagle dangling from his right hand like it was jewelry.
He scanned the room, eyes finally landing on me.
"You the one they call Iron Head?"
I blinked. Iron Head? Kid's got a death wish and a sense of humor.
"That's me, asshole. And you're the dead man who thought he could rob the Maggia."
He shrugged. "You wouldn't pay protection to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s little side fund. So I came to collect personally."
My eye twitched. This guy was even more gangster than we were.
"Waste him!" I roared.
Every surviving soldier in the room yanked iron and opened up.
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!
The air turned into a lead storm.
The stranger sighed, rolled behind a flipped table, and muttered loud enough for everyone to hear: "Shoot first, talk never. New York hospitality, ladies and gentlemen."
Then everything slowed down—like the world hit molasses.
His hand rose. Gold flashed five times.
Five heads exploded like ripe melons.
The rest kept shooting, screaming, dying. Ten seconds later the only sounds were guns clicking empty and bodies hitting carpet.
Only three people still breathed: me, that coward Wesley cowering under the couch, and the golden-gun psycho walking toward me like he owned the place.
I climbed out from behind the bar, trying to keep whatever dignity a man with a flat metal skull has left.
"Who the hell are you? Who sent you?"
He smiled, almost polite.
"NYPD, technically. But tonight I'm on loan to some friends with three letters. They want to study that fancy steel plate in your head. Alive, preferably."
I glanced at the ridiculous hand-cannon. "NYPD issues solid-gold Desert Eagles now? Budget must be nice."
"Look," I growled, "walk away right now and we forget this ever happened."
He shook his head. "Can't. Got a quota."
"Then die!"
I charged, head lowered like a battering ram. I've flipped cars with this skull.
BANG!
The golden bullet hit me dead center in the forehead. I felt the impact—familiar, almost comforting—then the slug flattened and dropped to the floor with a pathetic clink.
I laughed, loud and crazy. "Invincible, you little shit! You can't hurt—"
BANG!
Fire exploded in my left knee. I collapsed, howling, clutching the shredded joint.
"Wh—why the leg?!" I screamed through the pain.
He looked down at me like I was the dumbest man alive.
"They call you Iron Head, genius. Even an idiot knows your head's the one part that's bulletproof. You think I'm gonna stand here mag-dumping your forehead all night?"
I stared at the smoking gold barrel pointed at my face, then at my ruined knee leaking blood onto the carpet.
For the first time in years, Hammerhead had absolutely nothing to say.