The operation left almost everyone confused.
The Dead End Gang certainly was.
The civilians watching from behind their curtains were.
Even the SHIELD tactical teams had no idea what was going on.
Most of them had spent years enduring brutal training and impossible selection standards just to earn a place in SHIELD. Their previous missions had involved terrorists, rogue enhanced individuals, and threats capable of causing mass casualties.
Now they were kicking in doors to arrest neighborhood street punks.
Even stranger, command had issued unusually strict instructions.
No unnecessary conversation.
No questioning the suspects.
No discussing the mission.
The only things they were permitted to say were variations of:
"Drop your weapon."
"Hands where I can see them."
"You’re under arrest."
That was it.
Naturally, speculation spread through the teams.
Were these gangsters actually deep-cover operatives?
Some kind of sleeper cell?
Because they sure didn’t look the part.
At first, the uncertainty made every operator exceptionally cautious.
For all they knew, one of these scruffy-looking gang members could suddenly scream a battle cry, detonate an explosive vest, or reveal himself to be an enhanced individual capable of leveling a building.
Reality proved considerably less dramatic.
The moment heavily armed SHIELD operators pointed assault rifles at them, the Dead End Gang’s bravado evaporated.
Most dropped to their knees before anyone said a word.
Several burst into tears.
One unfortunate operative even had a suspect panic badly enough to wet his boots.
By then, many SHIELD agents had reached another conclusion.
Maybe the government had simply decided SHIELD should start handling organized crime.
It would explain today’s assignment.
Mostly.
The operation itself had become almost embarrassingly one-sided.
Barely an hour after it began, nearly every target had already been rounded up and loaded into transport vehicles.
Only one team remained in the field.
Not because they were slow.
Because they’d finished so quickly that command had immediately redirected them to another address.
Five operators advanced silently down the hallway of an aging apartment building.
Despite the increasingly ridiculous nature of the mission, they maintained textbook room-clearing discipline.
Training didn’t disappear simply because today’s suspects looked unimpressive.
Leading the team was a broad-shouldered Black operative known by the callsign Zealot.
His real name was Becky.
Years of distinguished service and fearless combat had earned him the nickname, and today would be no different.
Questions about the mission belonged to headquarters.
His job was simple.
Complete the assignment.
According to intelligence, the apartment belonged to one of the Dead End Gang’s enforcers. The suspect had returned home the previous evening and hadn’t been seen since.
Zealot signaled his team into position.
Four operators stacked against either side of the doorway.
The fifth readied the battering ram.
Zealot raised a clenched fist.
Held it.
Then chopped it downward.
Go.
The ram slammed into the apartment door.
At the exact same instant...
Every instinct Zealot possessed screamed.
Danger.
The door burst inward.
A tiny metallic click reached his ears.
Soft.
Almost drowned out by splintering wood.
But veterans learned to recognize certain sounds.
And Zealot knew that one far too well.
"Grenade!"
He threw himself backward, dragging the nearest teammate with him.
A fraction of a second later...
The apartment exploded.
The blast echoed across Brooklyn.
Inside Richter Curios...
Evenson finished the last mouthful of instant noodles.
He tossed the empty cup neatly into the trash.
"Your delivery has exploded."
He accepted a mop from Sarah.
"...Please enjoy your package."
Then, with complete seriousness, he began cleaning the noodle broth he’d spilled across the floor while trying to look dramatic a moment earlier.
The explosion was impossible to miss.
Several blocks away, Coulson stopped in his tracks.
One glance toward the smoke told him exactly which team had been hit.
He grabbed his radio.
"Team Thirteen, report!"
Static.
"Team Thirteen, respond!"
Several agonizing seconds passed.
Finally...
A weak voice crackled through the speaker.
"...Sir..."
"...We’ve..."
"...been ambushed..."
Coulson’s jaw tightened.
"Damn it."
He switched channels immediately.
"Teams Five and Nine."
"Move to Team Thirteen immediately."
"Maintain maximum alert."
"Lethal force is authorized."
"Bring medical personnel."
Three minutes later, another transmission arrived.
"Sir, this is Team Nine leader Loring."
"We’re on scene."
"Report."
There was a brief silence.
Then...
"Four dead."
"One critically wounded."
The officer’s voice remained professional, but the anger beneath it was unmistakable.
Coulson closed his eyes for a moment.
"Target?"
Another voice answered.
"Sir, Team Five leader Jack."
"We searched the apartment."
"The suspect is gone."
Coulson gripped the radio tightly enough for his knuckles to whiten.
"What happened?"
"Who attacked them?"
Loring answered after inspecting the apartment.
"No attackers."
"The doorway was booby-trapped."
"Tripwire."
"At least three fragmentation grenades mounted behind the door."
Coulson exhaled slowly.
His voice was calm again.
Too calm.
"Continue the operation."
"Find the target."
"Recover our wounded."
"And bring our people home."
He lowered the radio.
A dangerous anger burned behind his usually gentle expression.
"Hydra..."
Elsewhere in Brooklyn...
The police commissioner sat alone in his office, drenched in sweat.
The Dead End Gang had flourished for years under his protection.
He’d accepted bribes.
Ignored complaints.
Looked the other way.
At the time, it had seemed harmless enough.
A small neighborhood gang.
Nothing extraordinary.
Then SHIELD had arrived.
Helicopters.
Military vehicles.
Special operations teams.
The commissioner knew far more about SHIELD than ordinary civilians.
He understood one simple fact.
SHIELD never intervened over minor crimes.
If they had mobilized like this...
Then the Dead End Gang must have been connected to something unimaginably serious.
At this point, discovering a dirty bomb inside one of their hideouts wouldn’t even surprise him.
But that wasn’t what terrified him.
His thoughts had turned inward.
What happens to me?
Life imprisonment?
The electric chair?
Neither outcome sounded survivable.
Slowly, he reached into his desk drawer and removed his service pistol.
Perhaps...
If he ended things himself...
His family could at least keep his money.
Just then...
BOOM!
The distant explosion shook the building.
Startled, he dropped the pistol onto the floor.
He stared at it.
His hand trembled.
But suddenly...
Hope crept back into his thoughts.
I didn’t know.
I only protected them.
I never knew what they were involved in.
Maybe... maybe that’s enough.
Maybe I can survive this.
His breathing gradually steadied.
Then his stomach twisted violently.
Pain exploded through his abdomen.
His throat tightened.
He couldn’t breathe.
Poison.
The realization struck instantly.
But how?
He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since SHIELD launched its operation.
Which meant...
Last night.
The beautiful woman.
The one with the hypnotic eyes.
She had persuaded him to try a "special new stimulant."
His pupils shrank.
He had been poisoned before today ever began.
Despair flooded him.
Moments ago he’d abandoned the idea of suicide.
Now death had arrived anyway.
Summoning the last of his strength, he forced his lungs to work.
He screamed the woman’s name.
The office door burst open.
Coulson led a squad of SHIELD agents inside.
The moment he heard the dying commissioner utter that final name...
The color drained from his face.
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