The gaze of every surviving man in the Imperial Club was fixed on Red Serpent, and a collective, involuntary shiver rippled through the hall. It wasn't just the sheer amount of hardware he was carrying; it was the clinical, professional way he wore it.
Underneath the dark fabric of his tailored coat, Red Serpent wore a high-grade tactical load-bearing vest. It wasn't rigged with the crude, desperate explosives of a suicide bomber. Instead, it was packed with the tools of a high-efficiency killing machine. Rows of high-capacity magazines were slotted into reinforced pouches, their polymer bases peeking out like the teeth of a predator.
At a glance, there were at least twenty magazines circling his waist and chest. In the grim math of the underworld, the calculation was simple and terrifyi
