The church door swung open, and a handful of punks with dreadlocks pushed their way inside like they already owned the place. The one in front, a narrow-eyed man with dyed gold tips woven into his hair, stopped short when he saw Locke standing there instead of Father Emma.
His expression shifted for only a second, but Locke caught it.
"Where's the old priest?" the man asked.
Locke swept his gaze across the group without changing expression. There were five of them total, and the system quietly marked four as Black Iron-level prey. That alone was enough to put him on alert. Whatever these people wanted, it wasn't going to be anything good.
He shook his head and answered evenly, "Father Emma left on a pilgrimage to the Vatican. He'll be gone for a while. Can I help you with something?"
The man frowned. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm the acting priest," Locke said. "I'll be handling the church for the next three months. And you are...?"
The leader gave his dreadlocks a little shake, then spread his hands like he was introducing royalty. "Kid, we're from the Flame Crips. Didn't the old man tell you the church owes protection money?"
Locke stared at him for half a beat, and a very unpleasant feeling rose in his chest. So that was it. Father Emma hadn't just hired a replacement and vanished into the sunset. The old bastard had dumped a live grenade in his lap and walked away smiling.
He kept his face calm and said, "No. He didn't mention anything like that."
The gang leader stepped closer and jabbed a finger into Locke's chest. "Then let me explain it to you. This block stays peaceful because of us. We keep things under control around here."
Locke almost laughed.
Peaceful.
In Hell's Kitchen.
That was a hell of a sentence.
He glanced at the cross behind the altar and said, "I heard the church already has protection."
The leader followed his eyes toward the crucifix and snorted. "You don't get it. He handles demons. I handle the streets. Everybody's got their own job. Without the Flame Crips looking out for this place, even Jesus isn't keeping your church safe."
Locke scratched the side of his head, pretending to think it over, but his mind had already jumped ahead. He suddenly remembered the envelope Father Emma had handed him before bolting.
That explained a lot.
So he asked in a cautious tone, "How much is this monthly... protection?"
"Five thousand dollars."
Locke almost smiled.
Old dog.
Now he finally understood why Father Emma had moved so fast. The man had practically sprinted off into retirement with a clear conscience and fifteen hundred dollars' worth of bait left behind.
For one brief second, Locke even wondered whether the system had bugged out. How had it not flagged the old priest? Dumping this kind of mess onto somebody else felt criminal on a spiritual level.
Still, he didn't let any of that show.
He spread his hands apologetically and said, "I really didn't know about any of this. I don't have that kind of cash ready right now. How about tomorrow... no, better yet, the day after tomorrow?"
The leader smiled and pulled a handgun from his waistband.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Locke's jaw tightened.
He was stronger now, faster too, and the skills the system had given him were absolutely real. But five armed men inside a church was still a terrible situation. It didn't matter how sloppy their aim was. One stray bullet could end everything right here.
There was no reason to gamble when he had time to work with.
So he reached into his coat, pulled out Father Emma's envelope, and put on a much friendlier smile.
"You know what," he said, "I suddenly remembered I do happen to have fifteen hundred in cash."
The leader holstered the gun with a grin and took the envelope, patting Locke on the shoulder like they were old friends. "That's more like it. Nobody who goes against the Flame Crips ends well. I like you, kid."
Locke kept smiling. "Since I'm under your protection now, where exactly do I go if I need help?"
The leader waved a hand toward the street. "End of the block. Flame Auto Repair."
"Got it," Locke said pleasantly. "Travel safe. May God watch over you."
He saw them all the way to the door.
The five punks walked out laughing, and their voices carried clearly back into the church before the door even finished swinging shut.
"Knew that guy wouldn't do anything."
"My piece was loaded. If he twitched, I would've dropped him."
"We should hit this place more often."
One of the younger ones laughed and said, "Did you see his face? He was pissed, but he still had to smile. Just like one of those Japanese businessmen."
The moment Locke heard that, something hot and sharp rose straight through his chest.
Japanese?
His eyes narrowed.
Originally, he'd already marked four of them for death because the system had done it for him. The fifth one had escaped only because his sins hadn't stacked up enough yet to qualify.
Not anymore.
Now he was prey too.
Not in the system's eyes maybe, but in Locke's.
He closed the church door gently behind them, and by the time the latch clicked into place, his expression had gone completely cold.
"You're dead," he said softly to the empty room. "All of you."
…
The Flame Crips were nothing special.
They were a tiny neighborhood gang, maybe a dozen members at most, bottom-feeders in the criminal food chain. No real structure, no discipline, no code. They stole, robbed, sold drugs, ran little scams, and bullied whoever looked weaker than they were. Compared to the Mafia, the Yakuza, or the Triads, they were barely even worth mentioning.
That didn't make them harmless.
Small gangs were often the worst kind. Big organizations at least had rules. These idiots had none, and men with no future and no discipline were often willing to do almost anything.
Late that night, five drunk figures stumbled out of Flame Auto Repair, cursing and laughing as they made their way down the block. They were sloppy, loud, and exactly as careful as Locke had expected.
A few moments later, an egg dropped out of the dark and exploded across Golden Fang's head.
He froze.
His friends stared at the yellow smear running down his face, then burst into laughter.
Golden Fang wiped at his cheek and shouted, "Shut up! Shut the hell up!"
Before he could say anything else, two more eggs came flying in from nowhere. Three of the men got splattered this time, and the whole group spun toward the source at once.
At the mouth of a nearby alley, a figure in black stood under the weak streetlight. He wore dark clothes, a red devil mask, and the kind of calm posture that felt more insulting than a shouted challenge.
The figure raised one hand.
Then gave them the finger.
After that, he turned and vanished into the alley.
That was enough.
All five of them charged after him without thinking, drunk pride overriding whatever little survival instinct they still had.
The first one screamed after only a few steps.
He'd come down with his full weight on a hidden spike trap and collapsed clutching his foot.
The second man went straight through an uncovered manhole and dropped with one leg twisted below him, howling as his body jammed halfway into the opening.
The third slipped hard on a slick patch Locke had prepared beforehand and smashed his forehead against the pavement. Blood spread immediately.
Before the remaining two could process what was happening, Locke stepped out of the dark.
Bang. Bang.
Two precise strikes.
The first man dropped before he could raise his gun. The second folded a heartbeat later, unconscious before his knees hit the ground.
Then Locke moved down the line calmly, efficiently, putting the other three out one by one. In the darkness, with the rainwater and blood and broken curses mixing together, his voice came out low and cold.
"I'm only a combat master," he murmured. "Go ahead and enlighten me."
A few minutes later, an old pickup truck rolled out of the alley and disappeared into the night.
…
Behind Emma Church, under the pale moonlight, Locke pulled back the tarp covering the bed of the truck.
Five pairs of terrified eyes stared up at him instantly.
Every one of them was gagged. Every one of them was bound so tightly they could barely move.
People who killed often understood one truth better than anyone else. Murder itself was easy. Getting rid of the body was the real problem.
Locke had spent half the afternoon thinking about that.
He looked at the pit he had dug in the church garden, then looked back at the men in the truck, judged their sizes, and let out a tired sigh. He'd underestimated how much room five living bodies actually took up.
So he grabbed the shovel again and kept digging.
The five men watched every movement with absolute horror. Their bodies twisted helplessly against the ropes, tears running down their faces, muffled sobs trapped behind the cloth in their mouths. Whatever swagger they'd had in the church was gone now.
Locke wasn't doing this on impulse.
Ever since finishing his first kill the night before, he'd been replaying the system's evaluation screen in his head. Upgrade status. Cause of death. Freshness. Final emotion. Emotional rating.
He still didn't fully understand what "upgrade" meant. That part was too vague. But the rest was easier to break down.
Cause of death paired naturally with freshness, which suggested the system wanted variety. It didn't just want punishment. It wanted different punishments.
Final emotion clearly matched emotional rating, which meant the system also encouraged him to drag powerful emotions out of his prey before death. Fear was just one option, not the only one.
That was why he'd done all this.
By now, he was certain their emotional rating had to be through the roof.
As for tonight's method of execution, he'd already chosen it.
Buried alive.
He lifted them one by one and dropped them into the pit.
Golden Fang went in first.
Then the others.
The last to fall was the one the system hadn't officially marked as prey. But Locke knew that only meant the guy hadn't stacked up enough sins yet. It didn't mean he was innocent.
After dropping him in, Locke crouched by the edge, patted the man lightly on the cheek, and said, "I honestly wasn't planning to kill you. Then you called me Japanese."
The man's eyes bulged.
"Do you understand how insulting that is?" Locke asked seriously. "That kind of disrespect really leaves me with no choice. So go down there, talk to the King of Hell, and try to be a better person next time around. And if you still want revenge, come find me in eighteen years. Assuming you can beat me."
The man thrashed wildly, but the ropes held.
He wasn't escaping.
None of them were.
The five of them lay tangled together at the bottom of the pit, trembling and trying to scream through their gags. Locke rested both hands on the shovel handle and looked down at Golden Fang.
"See?" he said with a smile. "I told you this place was under God's protection. But you insisted on poaching His business. So now I'm sending you all to meet Him. When you get there, say hello for me. Tell Him to remember my good work when I come up later."
Then he started shoveling dirt.
Rustle.
Rustle.
He'd only thrown in two shovelfuls when a pounding sound came from the front of the church.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Locke froze.
Had someone found him?
No.
Impossible.
He jammed the shovel into the ground, wiped his hands, and moved silently up to the second-floor balcony. From there, he looked down toward the street.
No police cars.
No flashing lights.
Just one tall, skinny man weaving in front of the church doors, knocking like his life depended on it while slurring his words.
"Open up... Father... open the door..."
Locke stared at him for a second.
He could have ignored it. But if the guy kept yelling, he'd draw attention sooner or later, and that was the last thing Locke needed with five half-buried gangsters in the backyard.
So after making sure nobody in the pit was getting out, he went downstairs and opened the front door.
A bearded man reeking of whiskey lurched inside.
Locke caught him by the shoulders, but the guy suddenly bent forward and vomited all over the church floor like a ruptured fire hydrant.
For one dark, beautiful second, Locke genuinely wanted to kill him.
The trap was ready.
The hole was open.
He could toss the man in and save himself the cleanup.
Maybe the drunk sensed something in his face, because his legs gave out and he burst into tears right there in the middle of the church.
"Father," he cried, "my life is a mess. I can't go home. I can't face my wife. Can God help me?"
Locke rolled his eyes.
What timing.
He was already in the middle of sending five men to meet God, so maybe this idiot could carry a message on the way. Or maybe he ought to go in person.