The gang of the Demigods went to war. The streets of Brownsville, this always dangerous neighbourhood in Brooklyn were flooded with well-dressed gang-members. Everyone in their right mind closed all their doors and windows, put a spell on them if they could, and sat in a silent terror, waiting for what's going to happen next. They raided the garage Booker Washington owned but found nobody. Three of them broke into Raven Blake's small apartment, but it was empty.

And things weren't only bad at Brownsville. In Manhattan, a little group of men in suits walked into the campus of Columbia, looking for Booker Washington Jr., arguing with the security guards and cursing them eventually. One of the guards suffered from serious burned injuries and was rushed to a hospital. The gangsters didn't find the man they were looking for.

At Brooklyn Heights, a stranger tried to convince the receptionist of the Brooklyn Arts and Science Elementary school that he was the friend of the Williams-Blake family and was there to pick up their twin sisters. The receptionist found that odd, for several reasons, but mostly because the sisters haven't attended the school that morning. Three other men, all in black suits with red ties, who let themselves into the big, two-story loft flat of the Williams-Blake family found it deserted. They asked the neighbours, but nobody had seen the family since last evening.

Emerson Smith was furious. His men couldn't find anyone, anyone at all he wanted to see. Even worse, some of them never came back: they ran into Cornelius Blake and ended up either in a hospital or a police station, with a valid order from the MAGE agent to arrest them. There were mere hours until the time that Blake named as the start of his crusade, and the Demigods proved to be powerless against him so far.

'We'll get the fucker at the warehouse, sir,' said one of his captains. 'There will be fifty men protecting the place. He's good, but he ain't no match for our boys. Not that many, anyway. Nobody is.'

Smith nodded. Yes, yes. True. He is just one man, a dangerous one, even a smart one, true, but any man can be killed with enough force. And he had enough. More than enough. Cornelius Blake is going to die tonight, he thought.

He did not die that night. He never even showed up at Liberty street, and all the 50 gang members that were waiting for him had a very boring night. Up until the point when the first news had arrived: even though that particular warehouse was safe and sound, five others were attacked around Brooklyn and were burned to the ground. Millions of dollars worth of drugs, weapons and property were lost, at least forty of the Demigods ended up in the hospital and a few in the morgue.

Emerson sat in his office alone and stared into the wood-covered metal door half-expecting Cornelius Blake to open it and finish the job. He didn't come, but around midnight Emerson got a text from a blocked number.

"I told you not to go near to my people. Stand down, Emerson, while you still have something to save."

'Fuck!' he shouted. Steps came running and somebody banged on the door.

'Boss, are you all right?'

'Get the fuck out of here, do not leave your post, you fucking idiot!' Smith answered.

There were fifteen Demigods, armed to the teeth, waiting in the bar in case Blake would decide to pop in again, and two more at every entrance.

Emerson had no intention to stop. He had blood and money to spare. And this was only one man. Someone, eventually, will kill him. And he rather lost a few more millions of dollars and a couple of nobodies than showing weakness. In his profession, a glimpse of softness can be deadly. All the other gangs in the city watched him with hungry stares, hoping to grab a slice of his territory if the Demigods would be gone for good. It only took one mistake and he was dead.

An idea just sparked in Emerson's mind. He grabbed his phone and looked up a number he didn't have to use for a long time.

'Yes. The name is Cornelius Blake. He is black, tall, muscular, I will send a picture. No, I want an open contract. Yes, it's the same man… How much extra for a MAGE agent? Half? Are you out of your… No, okay. It's all right. 750 thousand dollars, then. Just get the word out as soon as possible. I want him dead by tomorrow evening. Thank you.'

He put the phone down and leaned back in his chair. The Demigods might be a bunch of idiots, he had ten useless fuckers for every half-decent man, that was true. This kind of life didn't attract smart people, mostly. But those out there, the Shadows… They will get the job done. Elite hitmen with all kinds of military, police, even CIA background, lurking in every city of the United States, waiting for the next contract, the next target to kill. They were professionals. They will find and kill Blake.

Well, that, or he just signed his own death sentence, Emerson thought. He should have killed that motherfucking nigger when he had the chance. But the bastard outsmarted him that one time because he underestimated his opponent. That was a mistake he wasn't about to repeat.