The combined army of the Gilt Rats and the Black Hounds had started out struggling far more than they had ever anticipated. They were significantly higher in total numbers, outnumbering the defenders three to one. Because of that sheer mass, they arrogantly believed that their overall physical strength was infinitely greater as well. But right now, breaching the heavily fortified Fortis compound was proving incredibly difficult and bloody.
That stalemate was because of a number of highly calculated reasons. Although the total number of the Billion Bloodline group was smaller, they were far better equipped. They contained high-grade tactical equipment and reinforced riot armor that protected them rather well from some of the blunt objects and low-caliber fire the street thugs were throwing at them.
This military-grade gear even allowed them to safely fight in close quarters against those rabid attackers that had brought rough blades and machetes, shrugging off glancing blows that would have normally gutted an unarmored man.
When Max had ruthlessly taken over the Fortis group from Bobo, he hadn’t just taken their lucrative contracts. He had smartly kept a stockpile of their top-end security equipment they had in the armory, and over the past few months, he had quietly funneled his funds into purchasing even more.
Having a smaller, more elite group of core people naturally meant that the overhead costs of outfitting them were significantly less, allowing him to afford the best gear on the black market. But the advantage was more than just thick Kevlar and stun batons.
The Bloodline group were simply vastly better, more disciplined fighters than the syndicates expected.
Max knew through brutal experience that a traditional syndicate grew its strength in several different, predictable ways. They had already seen this flawed methodology with the political connections and bribes they had arrogantly tried to use in order to take the other Stern family members down in the corporate world.
And if it ever came down to an actual, physical street fight, a typical syndicate would usually only have a few specialized, elite enforcers that could actually deal with the heavy job, while the rest were just intimidating fodder.
Because, fundamentally, the primary goal of a syndicate was usually always just to make more money. Even if they spent resources to temporarily increase their street strength or buy new territory, it was ultimately just to expand their margins and make more money in the end. Greed was their driving engine.
This was partially true for Max as well in a lot of practical ways. But because of his ultimate, deeply personal goal of violently taking down the untouchable White Tigers, his methodology was entirely different. He had put a , exhausting amount of time and effort into rigorously training absolutely everyone under his banner.
He wanted to aggressively raise their actual combat strength and loyalty, not just build their collective wealth. Besides, he was far more focused on building his own personal wealth and influence through shadow companies rather than just inflating the public wealth of the street gangs themselves. He was building an army, not a cartel.
Lastly, the one major tactical factor that none of the attacking syndicate leaders would have ever expected was the person secretly orchestrating the defense. It was Vivian. The brilliant ex-strategist of the Black Hounds was actively helping out the Bloodline group from the top floor.
She was masterfully using the narrow path of the ruined entrance to her absolute advantage, perfectly utilizing the bottleneck as well as the rest of the elevated terrain surrounding the Fortis building to create lethal kill zones.
Right now, it was exactly as if a disorganized, medieval army had come to blindly attack a fortified, modern castle. Because of the cameras and her deep knowledge of syndicate tactics, she held the absolute advantage in positioning, intel, and even more than that—she knew exactly how her former bosses thought.
Originally, when this turf war first started brewing, Vivian wasn’t entirely so sure whose side she should actually be on. She was a pragmatist; she only wanted to pick the undeniable winning side in all of this bloodshed to ensure her own survival.
She had a sneaking idea that the Gilt Rats would eventually join the mess to crush the upstarts, but she never expected them to join forces with the Black Hounds and mobilize as heavily as they were doing right now. It was a terrifying display of unified power.
But there were two specific, defining things that made her stubbornly stick to the Bloodline group despite the overwhelming odds outside the window.
First, seeing Max’s absolute, unwavering conviction when she had first met with him. When he spoke, he was looking far, far beyond the petty street-level squabbles of the Gilt Rats and the Black Hounds.
Vivian knew that at times, there were incredibly ambitious people that got so distracted with the grand "beyond"—their ultimate goals—that they would stupidly trip and fall over the immediate, dangerous obstacles that were placed right in front of them.
Yet, although Max constantly looked at the beyond, his focus was absolute. It was almost like the combined might of the Gilt Rats and the Black Hounds were just a minor, annoying stepping stone getting in the way of what he needed to do right now. He didn’t fear them; he merely viewed them as an obstacle to be systematically dismantled.
The second, more personal reason, was because the Black Hounds didn’t even try to reach out and get her back.
Sure, Darius might have quickly figured out that it was specifically her that had leaked their sensitive operational information to Max. But given her immense tactical value and history with the gang, she would have arrogantly thought she was more valuable to the Black Hounds alive. She expected that they would have at least attempted to negotiate or win her back with promises of wealth and power before the siege began.
But there was no such thing. There were no calls, no envoys, just a silent death sentence. Which was exactly why she had coldly decided to put her full, unparalleled strategic effort into defending the Fortis place and making Darius bleed for his disrespect.
"Now that they are predictably struggling at even getting the bulk of their forces through the ruined front door, it’s exactly the right time for them to send in a sharp, heavy arrow to break our lines," Vivian muttered to herself, her eyes tracking the movement on the monitors. "And I wonder exactly who that specialized arrow will be."
And Vivian was perfectly right. Due to the tough, grinding situation at the choke point, the syndicate leaders felt like they had no choice. They desperately needed to violently push past the narrow path in order to flood the courtyard and effectively use their advantage in numbers.
"I guess it’s finally time for me to get to work," Jett said, cracking his knuckles as he confidently walked ahead, his large, imposing back coming into clear view of the security cameras.
The other thugs parted like the red sea for him. They were absolutely confident that just him alone—with his terrifying strength and brutality—would be more than enough to completely break through the shield wall. When Jett cleared a bloody path, the rest of the horde could leave the grunts fighting the Fortis security outside and flood directly into the main building to raid the whole place floor by floor.
Ramon was absolutely sure that the coward Max Stern would be hiding somewhere deep in the penthouse of the building, and they would need to physically drag him out kicking and screaming.
Jett walked casually into the warzone. When he walked through the ruined front gates, he was a , arrogant target. One of the hidden Fortis security guards fired out a tactical stun gun directly at him. The wired prongs bit deep into his thick back, and thousands of volts violently shocked him.
Yet, there was nothing. Jett didn’t seize. He didn’t even flinch. He slowly turned around, a terrifying, psychotic grin spreading across his face as the electricity crackled harmlessly over his skin.
"Let’s get rid of you annoying little gnats first!" Jett claimed with a boom of laughter.
He reached around his thick neck, grabbed the live wires of the stun gun, and violently yanked the guard forward. As the terrified man stumbled, Jett tensed his hand and smashed it directly into the guard’s helmet, crushing the visor to pieces with a single, sickening blow.
He didn’t stop there. He then raised his other hand and casually slapped one of the heavily armored Bloodline men square in the chest. The sheer, inhuman force of the casual strike dented the Kevlar, sending the man’s heavy body flying backward through the air and crashing violently into another defender, breaking the line.
His brutal impact was immediate. He had only made a couple of casual movements, but it was physically changing the entire tactical situation rather quickly. The Bloodline defenders were visibly stepping back in fear.
Still, watching from the top floor, Vivian knew this exact scenario was going to happen. Jett was a blunt instrument, and blunt instruments were predictable.
"Which is exactly why," Vivian said, tapping her earpiece to open a secure channel to the training room. "We will be sending out our own, much sharper arrow to meet him."