Nolan, thinking quickly under pressure, suddenly clapped his hands together. The sharp sound cut through the children's excited chatter.
After ensuring he'd captured every child's attention, Nolan narrowed his eyes and spoke with animated enthusiasm.
"Children, do you miss your parents? Do you want to go home?"
Eleven small heads tilted upward, necks craning to look at him. Crystal-clear eyes blinked from dirty little faces, curiosity replacing some of the lingering fear.
For a moment, the children seemed to forget their little game of spinning around Nolan.
Nolan raised his eyebrows, nodded with satisfaction, and continued.
"You're all obedient, good children. That's exactly why I came to rescue you."
He leaned in conspiratorially.
"Now, the nice police officers are on their way here. And they're bringing lots of chocolate cake in their police cars!"
The children's eyes went wide.
"However," Nolan added seriously, "only the most obedient and well-behaved children get to eat chocolate cake. Are you good children?"
Instantly, the children's eyes filled with desperate longing. They shook their heads vigorously up and down, voices overlapping in a chorus of promises. Some were more articulate than others, but all conveyed the same message: they would be good.
Nolan raised his hand and pointed toward the warehouse entrance, smiling warmly.
"Uncle still has some things to finish, so I need everyone to go wait by the door for me, okay? Remember, don't leave without permission, or there won't be any chocolate cake. Do you understand?"
"Chocolate! Chocolate!" the children answered in unison, their little faces lighting up with joy at the promise of sweets.
Before Nolan could give further instructions, the children took initiative. They reached for each other's hands, forming a line, and walked toward the door with small, careful steps.
Nolan watched their excited backs and couldn't help but exhale with relief.
Dealing with children was far more challenging than dealing with gang members.
He quickly turned and ran back toward the location where the battle had occurred.
Nolan, his expression cold and businesslike once more, drew the long, narrow Catachan Fang from Vladimir's chest. He swung the blade sharply, flicking blood onto the concrete floor.
Then he methodically pulled every nail from the corpses and severed head, stuffing them into his pockets.
Nolan-brand homemade projectiles. Essential tools for killing and silencing witnesses.
The body he'd strangled earlier required no cleanup beyond repositioning slightly.
Nolan frowned, mentally reviewing his checklist. After confirming nothing was missing, he walked to the table in the open area.
Under the bright overhead lights, stacks of cash bills stood out prominently, almost inviting.
Nolan didn't hesitate.
He grabbed the black duffel bag that had been thrown on the table and began packing the money inside.
Consider it travel expense reimbursement from the gang. After all, even riding his bike all the way to Brooklyn had been physically demanding work.
A few minutes later, Nolan hefted the bulging bag, now containing roughly one million dollars in various denominations. He pulled out Sergei's phone, searched for several numbers online, and began dialing.
"Hello, this is the New York Times..."
Nolan deliberately lowered his voice, making it hoarse and deep.
"In Warehouse 10 near the Brooklyn Bridge, there are many missing children kidnapped by the Tracksuit Mafia."
After receiving confirmation that they'd received his tip, Nolan immediately hung up.
Then he made anonymous reports to other prominent media outlets: the Daily Bugle, the New York Post, several online news sites.
On his final call, Nolan contacted the police.
Then he picked up the heavy duffel bag and walked out.
The reason Nolan executed such a complicated operation was simple: he didn't trust the New York Police Department at all. There had to be high-ranking officials and corrupt officers colluding with criminal organizations.
So he borrowed the power of the media. Let journalists hungry for breaking news put pressure on the police. That way, the children standing in the public spotlight would have an extra layer of protection. Insurance against gang retaliation.
When Nolan opened the iron door, the children greeted him with enthusiastic cheers once again.
Perhaps most of the enthusiasm was for the promised chocolate cake rather than him personally. But when the exhausted Nolan glanced at their innocent smiling faces and sincere eyes, the last traces of worry in his heart disappeared like smoke in the wind.
Four o'clock in the morning in Brooklyn. The sky hung dark and heavy with clouds.
A long-brewing rainstorm was finally about to break.
In the shadow of bushes five hundred meters from Warehouse 10, Nolan watched police cars with flashing lights rush toward the location. Relief washed through him.
He looked down at the half stone resting in his palm. A slight smile touched his lips.
This was the reward the children had given him. The little girl with sparkling eyes had pressed it into his hand before he'd left, whispering "thank you" so quietly he'd barely heard it.
Worthless in monetary terms. Priceless in every way that mattered.
Nolan squinted, taking one last look at the warehouse location. Then he stood quickly and melted into the thick darkness.
Now, everything that followed had nothing to do with him.
Shortly after crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, the transformed Nolan stripped away his vigilante persona. He kept only the Catachan Fang and the stone. Everything else went into the fast-flowing East River, disappearing without a trace.
Military boots. Red bandana. Blood-stained nails and the steel pipe nail gun. Both borrowed phones.
Originally, even the clothes and pants Nolan wore should have been discarded. But because he hadn't prepared a change of clothing, and because riding his bike home naked seemed inadvisable, he'd have to deal with them at the apartment.
The dark sky began releasing fine raindrops.
Nolan carried his shoulder bag with the black duffel bag loaded on the bike's back seat, pedaling hard toward home.
After carefully opening the apartment door and stepping into the living room, the rain intensified. Rapid drops hammered against the windows, creating a constant rattling percussion.
After a sleepless night, exhausted Nolan finally allowed himself to completely relax.
His aunt's bedroom door remained closed. She apparently hadn't woken from sleep yet.
Nolan tiptoed through the dim living room. He carried the heavy duffel bag into his bedroom and hid it under the bed. Then he stripped off his clothes and entered the bathroom.
A few minutes later, Nolan, drowsy from the hot water's relaxing effect, forced himself to soak his clothes in disinfectant. The goal was destroying any remaining blood evidence on the fabric.
After finishing everything, Nolan stumbled back to bed.
The moment his eyelids closed, soft snoring echoed through the bedroom, mixing with the sound of raindrops on glass.
When Nolan opened his eyes again, the familiar sound of calculator buttons reached his ears from the living room.
Rain still poured outside the window, washing away all the city's filth.
Nolan picked up his phone to check the time. 11:10 AM.
Finding he'd only slept about six hours, Nolan didn't want to get up at all. He closed his eyes again, wanting to enjoy a lazy morning in rainy weather.
But despite tossing and turning for a long time, the sleepiness that had slipped away refused to return.
Nolan's eyes snapped open.
He lay in bed and activated the simulator.
[Simulation starting...]
[Current identity: Catachan recruit]
[Do you want to descend with this identity? If you refuse, descent will be randomized.]
Nolan narrowed his eyes, thinking carefully. Then he chose to refuse.
Right now, he needed powerful firearms and equipment. Or something even more potent.
For example, the Astartes' twenty-one organ implantation surgeries that created Space Marines.
After all, with the discovery of simulator resources, Nolan himself needed to become stronger as quickly as possible. Only that way could he establish a positive feedback loop.
Compared to robbing warehouses belonging to major arms companies, criminal organizations scattered throughout New York were obviously more suitable targets. More accessible. More numerous.
[You have arrived in the Warhammer universe]
[Location: Segmentum Tempestus, Krieg]
[You set foot on the planet's surface...]
[You have no time to observe your surroundings. Lethal radiation visible to the naked eye penetrates every cell in your body.]
[You begin feeling dizzy and experience difficulty breathing.]