Tremble, You Mafia Scum!

The sea breeze at Boston Harbor reeked of salt and fish.

In the passenger cabin, Bruce Jackson stood wearing a black trench coat.

He clutched a black sandalwood urn tightly in the crook of his left arm.

Bruce gently stroked the smooth wood, "My friend, we're home."

Bruce had served seven years in the military.

He had fought his way through brutal Middle Eastern battlefields that ordinary people couldn't even imagine, rising from a raw recruit to become the Grim Reaper that countless enemies feared.

The Apocalypse Mercenaries he had founded with his own hands had gathered hundreds of retired elite soldiers and top-tier operatives under its banner.

With just one word, Bruce could unleash a bloodbath in any country.

But right now, all he wanted was to bring home the ashes of the comrade who had taken a fatal bullet for him and lay him to rest.

Just as he reached the lower deck, Bruce's footsteps suddenly stopped.

His exceptional hearing, honed through years in the crossfire, caught a faint trace of crying.

The sound came from an abandoned storage hold at the very bottom of the cargo ship. It was a child's cry, filled with despair and terror.

In the ship's lower hold, under harsh fluorescent lights, more than 30 children under ten years old were chained to railings like livestock.

Each child was skin and bones, their eyes filled with extreme terror.

Seven or eight thugs with scarred faces and Irish gang tattoos on their arms smoked cigarettes while roughly prying open the children's mouths to inspect them.

Nathan exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, "This one's got 10.5 ounces of high-purity heroin stuffed in his belly. Mark him with a blue tag! Throw him in that iron cage over there!"

The gang leader held a stack of labels, marking weight indicators on the children's foreheads with practiced ease.

This ship was heading to international waters tonight, and these children were all tools for smuggling drugs.

A blonde girl only six or seven years old cried out desperately from extreme fear and severe abdominal pain.

"Mommy... I want my mommy..."

Nathan strode over and grabbed the blonde girl by her hair, lifting her into the air.

"Shut up! Bitch!"

The girl screamed in agony.

"I hate hearing kids cry."

Nathan pulled out a syringe filled with murky liquid from his waist. "Make one more sound, and I'll shut you up permanently right now!"

The vicious threat made the children tremble all over, not even daring to sob out loud.

Nathan let out a sinister laugh and was about to stick the needle in.

A deafening explosion echoed through the hold.

The locked steel cabin door dented inward before tearing apart under a massive external impact.

The violent force sent the heavy steel door flying with a terrifying whistle of wind, crushing two gang members who couldn't dodge in time.

Nathan's hand shook violently, dropping the syringe to the ground. "Who's there?"

Through the dust cloud, Bruce walked in like the Grim Reaper himself, holding the urn in one hand.

He glanced at the chained children, then at the syringe on the ground. His eyes instantly filled with murderous intent.

Seeing there was only one person, Nathan's face turned vicious. "You're dead!"

To avoid gunfire that would attract the police, he waved his hand sharply. "Use knives! Chop him to pieces!"

The remaining gang thugs immediately drew military knives and high-voltage stun batons, pouncing on Bruce like hungry wolves.

The thug charging in front only saw a blur before hearing the muffled crack of his own chest bones shattering.

Bruce delivered a brutal kick, sending the muscular man flying backward like a cannonball.

He smashed against the iron wall, spraying blood, and died on the spot.

Next, Bruce's figure blurred.

His right hand clamped like an iron vice onto another thug's wrist just as the man swung his stun baton.

The wrist snapped with a sickening crunch. Bruce seized the baton and ruthlessly shoved it into the man's throat.

It was a complete one-sided slaughter. In mere seconds, all five gang members had become lifeless corpses on the ground.

Nathan's courage shattered completely.

His legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground, his trembling hands desperately reaching for the phone in his pocket.

"Are you human or ghost?"

Bruce stepped over the corpses and stomped heavily on Nathan's thigh.

The sharp crack of the breaking femur echoed through the hold.

Nathan screamed in agony. In his final second alive, he managed to snap a photo of Bruce's back as he held the urn.

Bruce's boot shifted and crushed Nathan's throat, killing him on the spot.

Bruce pulled out his phone and dialed an encrypted number.

"Hank, bring your people to Boston Harbor. The Sea Queen cargo ship's lower hold has dozens of kids being used for drug smuggling. Remember to call ambulances."

On the other end, Boston Police Department senior detective Hank Harris was shocked.

"Bruce? You're back in the country! Wait, Boston Harbor is Mafia territory! Don't tell me you killed people from Klein's Irish gang?"

"So what if I did." Bruce's tone was cold.

"Damn it! Bruce, listen to me, get out of there right now! The Mafia has eyes all over the docks. If they get a photo of you, you're in big trouble!" Hank shouted frantically over the phone.

"Just come save the kids." Bruce hung up, crouched down, and very gently rubbed the blonde girl's head. "Don't be afraid. You're safe now."

Downtown Boston, in the luxurious top-floor office of the Irish gang headquarters, an extremely expensive crystal wine glass smashed hard against the wall. Klein, the top boss of the New York Mafia's Boston division, stared intently at a tablet computer on his desk.

On the screen was an extremely blurry photo.

It showed an ice-cold man who, even just from the back, radiated a chilling aura of death. In his left hand, he clutched a black sandalwood urn tightly.

This was the last photo Nathan had managed to send back before his throat was crushed.

Klein roared in furious rage, "Single-handedly killed seven of my elite men and cut off my drug smuggling line worth tens of millions every month? Issue my highest kill order! Lock down the docks immediately!"

He slammed his fist on the desk. "Whoever can capture that man holding the urn alive, or bring me his head! The bounty is 1,000,000 dollars!"

More than ten minutes later.

Bruce had just walked down the gangway from the cargo ship, his feet barely touching the concrete of Boston Harbor.

Seven or eight identical black sedans swarmed in, surrounding Bruce tightly.

The car doors flung open.

Over 100 gang members in black suits, their faces full of killing intent, rushed out.

Over 100 handguns and shotguns were cocked instantly, creating a sea of black muzzles locked dead onto Bruce in the center.