Peter WHY...

Peter crouched on the catwalk, his Shadow suit blending into the lab's shadows. The Black Tar groaned as vats hissed below and lab guys sliced powder on steel tables. Ten guards were stationed around,four patrolled the catwalk above, while six paced the deck with rifles slung low. Five workers packed bricks of drugs nearby. 

Fifteen were already here, Peter thought to himself. I need to see what's in that shipment before I make a move.

Fog hung heavy outside, and snow drifted down, silencing the docks. He waited with his breath even, the visor dimming the glow of the lab's lights. Minutes crawled by slowly. 

This better be worth it, he thought. More men are coming, which changes everything, so I've got to stay sharp.

Engines rumbled as two SUVs rolled up, black and shiny against the snowy pier. Their tires bit into the slush, and ten men spilled out, clad in armor and gripping semi-automatic rifles. Their vests bulked them up, and their rifles caught the faint light. 

That makes twenty-five now, Peter thought. Ten extra guys with heavy guns mean damn good security more than I expected.

A guard by the railing, tall with a bald head, shouted in a low voice, "Line up, the shipment's here!" Another snapped back in a rough tone, "Keep your eyes peeled and cover it!" The men fanned out quickly five took positions along the pier, and five boxed in around the ship. 

They're locked in tight, Peter thought. I didn't expect this many—whatever's coming must be serious.

A ship eased into view, moving slowly and quietly as it sliced through the fog. Its hull was rusted with no name visible, docking smoothly at Pier 7 where ropes pulled it snug against the pier. The gang moved fast, with the new guys taking the lead. "Careful, you idiots!" a beefy thug barked, his rifle raised. "Boss wants it smooth, so go slow!" Another muttered, "Black boxes are sealed up, don't screw it."

They hauled crates from the ship, black and sealed with no markings, their weight evident as grunts broke the quiet while they lifted. They loaded them into an ice cream truck, white with a faded logo, parked close to the dock. An ice cream truck? Peter thought. That's a smart cover, those boxes look heavy and locked tight, so what's inside? Drugs, guns, or something else?

Twenty-five men were now at the harbor—ten new arrivals, ten guards, and five lab hands. Rifles swept the dark as armor clinked faintly in the fog. This is bigger than I figured, Peter thought. Kingpin's doubling down. 

He watched the ice cream truck load up with black boxes stacked tight. Twenty-five men were now in play—ten new arrivals from the SUVs, armored and gripping semi-automatics, plus the fifteen already here, ten guards and five lab workers cutting powder below. He decided to hit both the shipment and the lab today. 

This is going to piss off Kingpin real good, he thought to himself as he gripped his Beretta, feeling its cold weight in his hand. No webs, no climbing, Shadow didn't mess around. His danger sense hummed faintly, ready to catch any trouble. I'm making this messy tonight, he thought as he pulled the revolver too, dual-wielding with a steady grip.

He was set to strike when shouts broke out. A guard on the catwalk, a big guy with a scarred face, yelled low, "Someone's here!" Another barked back in a rough voice, "Get him!" Rifles swung up fast. Peter moved quickly and kept low as he aimed the Beretta and squeezed off two shots that cracked loud through the air. The first guard's chest bloomed red, and he dropped hard to the catwalk. The second spun around, but he was too slow—the revolver barked, and his head snapped back as he fell. Two down already, Peter thought as chaos erupted around him.

Shouts filled the lab "He's here!" "Take him out!" and rifles blazed. Peter ducked as his danger sense flared, a bullet whizzing past his helmet and pinging off the steel railing. He rolled behind a vat, hearing shots spark against it, and popped up to fire the Beretta again, catching a guard in the shoulder. The guy spun off the walk and crashed below with a scream that cut off fast. That's three, Peter thought as he kept moving.

The lab guys bolted, five of them scattered, grabbing pipes and knives off the tables. Peter jumped down and landed hard, his armor clanking against the floor. The revolver roared, and one worker dropped with his chest torn open, flipping a table as he fell. Another swung a knife at him, slashing the air, but Peter's danger sense buzzed, he sidestepped and cracked the guy's skull with the Beretta's butt. Five gone now, and the lab's toast, he thought as he scanned the chaos.

Guards rushed in ten from the deck, ten from the SUVs, all firing semis that chewed through crates and walls. Peter dove and rolled under a table as shots sparked above him. That was a close one, he thought, feeling the heat of the near miss. He popped out and fired wild, the Beretta ripped through a guard's leg, sending him spinning into the snow, while the revolver punched another's gut, dropping him fast with red pooling around him. Screams echoed outside as bullets tore through a dock shack, shattering glass loud enough to draw eyes. Public's hit now, and the media's going to eat this up, Peter thought, knowing the mess would spread.

More guards came, their rifles blazing in a storm of lead. Peter ran and vaulted a crate as his danger sense screamed, he ducked a burst, feeling a graze burn his shoulder. That was too close, he thought, shaking it off. He spun and emptied the Beretta, dropping three more with chests torn open, their bodies sprawling in the snow. He reloaded fast and fired the revolver twice, two fell, heads snapping back hard. Halfway there, he thought as he kept pushing.

The lab had to go, Peter grabbed a vat and tipped it, liquid splashing across the floor with fumes flaring up. He lit a match and tossed it, and flames roared to life, catching tables and blackening powder in thick smoke. Guards choked as five rushed him through the haze. He charged, the Beretta jammed, so he ditched it and let the revolver bark twice, dropping two with holes punched through them. He punched hard, his armor smashing a jaw, crumpling the third guy, and dodged a swing as his danger sense buzzed—an elbow cracked a throat, and the revolver finished the fifth. Lab's done, and that's twenty gone, he thought as smoke stung his eyes.

Five left the SUV crew kept firing semis that ripped the deck apart. Peter sprinted and tossed the empty revolver, grabbing a fallen rifle to fire full auto in a wild spray. Three dropped fast, their chests shredded as snow stained red. The last two ran, he chased and tackled one, snapping his neck with a quick twist. The final guy turned, but his rifle jammed, Peter slammed his helmet down, cracking the skull on steel. All twenty-five are down now, he thought, chest heaving.

Flames roared as the lab cooked off chemicals popped loud, smoke billowing black. Sirens wailed in the distance, and dock lights flashed red outside. Kingpin's screwed, and the media's coming, Peter thought. Time to get out.