Finding the Demigods wasn't a problem. Everyone knew where they kept their stash of drugs, where did they go to eat or drink, where they spent their free time. The problem was that they were untouchable: no police officer dared to disturb them. Even the few local superheroes tended to stay away from them, not to mention the FBI. They took a blow at the gang a few years back, which ended in the massacre of not only the special agents on the case but the entire families of them. After that, just nobody was willing to risk it.

So when a lone man walked into the bar they owned, saying that he wanted to talk with Emerson Smith, their leader, the six gang members around didn't know what to do.

'Are you a cop?' one of them asked.

Blake stood in the middle of the bar floor. It was a surprisingly elegant place with hardwood parquet, dark red walls and expensive leather furniture. There was even a well-lit pool-table at one corner, a new one at that.

The members looked nothing like those bandana and sleeveless T-shirt-wearing, pimped car riding men from the movies: they all wore black suits with ties in the same colour as the wall was. They were all black: the Demigods never let anyone else into their lines but afro-Americans.

'I am not a cop,' answered Blake. Half a dozen wands were pointed at his face, but he looked calm and relaxed. 'I need to speak to Mr Smith.'

'Ain't nobody told us that the boss is going to have a guest today, bro, so you better turn around and get lost,' came from another man.

'I'm afraid you don't understand the situation, my friend,' explained Blake in a friendly voice. 'I am going to talk to Mr Smith. If you are standing in my way, I'm going to need to hurt you. I don't want to do that, so please, lower your weapons and step aside.'

A second of silence, then roaring laughter.

'A'ight, nigga, you got balls, but the show's over. Get the fuck out while you can.'

Six against one. That was Blake's speciality ever since he was barely a teenager; bullies never came alone.

'No,' he said.

'That's it, mothafucka, you asked for it,' came the angry answer.

He avoided the first curse by shifting his weight from one leg to another. The spell flew by his head close enough to scorch his hair a little. The second attack was a billiard ball, the black one with the number eight on it. He caught it with his bare hand, right in front of his face and threw it back. The ball shattered the attacker's wand and a couple of his fingers too before it hit him at the chest. Blake drew his wand.

Curses started to fly from five different directions. They only found the table Blake ordered in front of himself as a shield. It did not last long, so the man sent its remains towards two gang members, knocking them off of their feet.

'Enough!'

The voice was deep and used to giving orders rather than asking for things. It belonged to a man who stood in a doorway, behind the bar. Even though he was one of the most dangerous men in Brooklyn, if not in New York, he looked nothing like it: he was in his fifties, with an expensive haircut, a neat, greying moustache, a trendy, frameless pair of spectacles in a suit worth a fortune. He looked like a lawyer or an accountant.

He did not have to say it twice. The gangsters all lowered their weapons. One of them was out cold and another was complaining quietly about his broken fingers to his friend who was trying to heal them.

'Nigga broke them, just went and broke them, didya see it? Fuck, man, who does that? Hurt like shit, I'm gonna cut that motherfucker open…'

'I believe you wanted to talk to me,' said Emerson Smith, setting his glasses right. 'Follow me.'

He turned around and went back the way he came, didn't even checking if Blake followed. He did, carefully passing the gang members. He didn't think that they would dare to attack after their boss said no, but a man with his lifestyle couldn't afford assumptions.

The door led into a narrow, dark corridor with doors on both sides and easily cleanable plastic floor. According to the signs on the doors, there was a kitchen, a fridge as big as a room, some kind of storage and a staffroom. The last door closed the corridor from the other end. It was a massive one, probably metal covered with wooden panels. The sign on it said "Office". Smith left it ajar for Blake.

He pushed it in. The "Office" was as luxurious of a room as it gets, with a huge desk, leather armchairs, artwork on the walls, a leather sofa and a minibar with crystal bottles and glasses.

'Please, sit,' Mr Smith gestured towards one of the armchairs. Blake sat down. 'So… Forgive me for my straightforwardness, but who the Hell are you?'

'My name isn't important,' said Blake. 'My occupation is what might interest you.'

Smith smiled coldly, and his hand moved under the top of the desk. There must have been a gun or wand fixed on it for emergencies.

'Let me guess: you are a hitman who is about to offer me my own life in exchange for a good price, am I right?'

'In a manner of speaking, perhaps,' nodded Blake. 'I'm an agent of the MAGE, and I am offering you a deal. I will not bring down here half of the agency to look into your less legal business interests if you are willing to let go two members of your gang. They don't want to be Demigods anymore, and I need them out unharmed, with a guarantee that they and their families won't see any revenge.'

Emerson got up and walked to the minibar.

'Whiskey?' he asked. 'Or maybe a gin? I have a nice bottle of vodka, too, straight from Moscow, I think it would please you, Agent Blake. I heard that you spent quite some time there, hunting down a murderer… Impressive.'

He poured two inches of whiskey to himself, then he listed another crystal bottle, filled with transparent liquid and raised his eyebrow questioningly.

'It's a little early for me, thank you,' answered Blake with a polite smile.

'I like them, you know,' said Smith. 'The Russians. They are direct people. No bullshitting, if you would pardon my language. Sure, they tend to be a little extreme… But it's because of the cold if you ask me. When you have to fight off the very environment you are supposed to live in constantly, in every minute of every day of your life… That forms strong men. Although, we could say a thing or two about living in a murderous environment, you and me, couldn't we?'

He went back behind the big desk and sat down.

'We sure could,' agreed Blake. 'One of us even creating it.'

Smith chuckled.

'You are an amusing man, Agent Blake. But I'm afraid my schedule is quite packed, so why aren't we cutting to the chase, as they say? Here is my counter offer: I'll let you live, I will let your sweet, old mother live, and I won't ask the boys to rape your sister and her twin daughters. See, you are not the only one who did his homework. I knew about you the moment you crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. You know, this is my city. Nothing happens here without me knowing or allowing it. And I'm afraid I will have to ask my boys to teach a lesson to Mr Washington and his son. There is no delicate way to put it, they snitched.'

'And snitches get stitches, right?' asked Blake. 'The old rule.'

'I'm afraid so, yes. They will live, however, and that's the best you can get. But I keep the boy and his girlfriend. I'm gonna be honest with you, the girl would make more money as a whore, but the boy has a knack for break-ins. A real talent, which is weird, considering that he is from a good family where he never actually had to do it. Do we have a deal?'

Blake pretended to think a little, then he shook his head slowly.

'No deal,' he said and stood up.

'You don't understand, my friend,' said Emerson Smith. His voice was getting impatient. 'Send the agents, by all means. I will not spend a day in jail, and I have enough money and stashed resources to start over ten times if I need to. Do you think you are the first lonely cop who tried this crap on me?'

'Funny you should mention your money and resources,' said Blake. 'I have bad news. Your warehouse on Liberty is going to burn to ashes with all the drugs, cash and weapons you keep there, tonight, at 9 pm sharp. A tragic loss, indeed. That could be the end of it, but every time I see your boys around anyone I care about, another warehouse will follow. The one on Pitkin Street is gonna burn, and the ones in Bronx, Queens, New Jersey, Atlantic City, even Maine. And not just those, no: the bank accounts will be drained, even the ones in Switzerland, the ice cream vans you use for transporting the drugs are gonna burn. This bar is gonna burn, too, and your restaurants and bars and hot-dog kiosks, everything. Your whole life is going to burn, Emerson Smith. Your people will die. They will die by the dozen until they will fear me more than you and they will turn against you.'

'You cannot do that,' said Smith and he wasn't smiling anymore. 'You are an agent of the MAGE. You are a cop!'

'Try me' said Blake quietly, then turned his back to the old man. He almost reached the door when he heard the gun's safety clinking.

'Or I could kill you right here and now, you fucking psychopath,' Emerson said.

Blake turned back. Smith had a Glock, the same model Blake used to carry back in the day as a police officer. It was a serious gun.

'Go ahead,' he said. An empty click… And nothing. Smith pumped the trigger one more time: another quiet clicking noise. Blake reached into his jacket pocket and took out the clip he had removed while Emerson was busy at the minibar.

'9 pm,' Blake said, turned around again and walked away.