The Hand.
A clan of demon worshipping undead assassins. The best in the business, and they were legion. It was not his lucky night.
Suddenly, in a rush of metal and black cloth they were on him, a swirling carnival of slashing blades, and powerful kicks. When the first one came, he ducked under a slashing sword cut, and delivered a massive blow to the ninja's rib cage. Then he snatched the sword from his limp hand, delivered another hard blow to another ninja, turned to his left and carved away the arm of a third one. As he continued to fight them off, someone managed to slice his arm. Though the cut wasn't immediately life threatening, it was still deeper than he would've liked.
He kicked out again, took a blow here, took a blow there, carved off a leg, then an arm, then a head. Then he took a hard kick to the chest, sending him skidding across the wet roof on his back. The pain in his shoulder flared to life, but there was no time to dwell on it. The business end of yet another sword came rushing down to meet him. He rolled to his left, and kicked out with his right leg. The creature's knee gave out with a sickening crack. Sparks flew as he rolled to his feet and blocked a quick flurry of attacks from a pair of opponents.
Attacking, he amputated an arm, chopped off a hand, then plunged the sword deep into someone else's chest. Spurts of green blood filled the night air. And still they came. Four more crept towards him. His sword flashed, and four heads fell at his feet. He almost slipped in the mixture of blood and rain. And still they came.
They wouldn't give up. He knew that. It wasn't the first time he had come into contact with the clan of demon ninjas. He didn't know how he had made their hit list, but he knew there was only one way off of it. And that was death.
That's when an idea hit him. Spinning on his boot heels, he took off for the edge of the roof, the mobster's conversations still continuing in his earpiece. As he neared the ledge, he leapt for all he was worth, his powerful legs propelling him over the edge and straight for the adjacent building in a full on swan dive.
He exploded through the window in a shower of tinkling glass, hit the ground, and dispersed the impact by immediately going into a shoulder roll.
Kazakov and the other gangsters stood, automatic weapons drawn. Before they could open fire on him, the platoon of Hand operatives came crashing through the rest of the windows. The gangsters didn't hesitate, and the air was ripped apart by gunfire. Clouds of green mist seeped into the room from the ninja's bullet riddled bodies. But still they kept coming.
One of the men tried to reload his weapon, a sword flashed, blood spirted, and his arm hit the floor, still holding the pistol. More swords flashed, arms and legs lashed out, and bullets split everything in their path. The room was awash in red and green blood from the two groups of combatants.
Moon Knight, still clutching a sword, stayed low to the ground as he dashed for the door. One of the ninjas slashed at his back opening up a bloody wound. Wincing in pain, Moon Knight whirled, blade extended. The creature's head hit the floor with a thud, trailed by a viscous spray of emerald green. Moon Knight snatched open the door and stumbled out into the hallway, smearing the walls with his own blood.
Glorious! Glorious! Khonshu howled with pleasure.
He descended the stairs as fast as his battered body would allow, his mind racing with thoughts about which of his enemies had the money as well as the connections to hire the Hand. Through blurred vision, he saw a young woman, early twenties, short brown hair, dressed like a waitress coming up the staircase. He screamed at her to go back, grabbed her by the arm and continued down the steps. She screamed and fought, but his powerful hands gripped her like a vice.
"What do you want from me?"she cried.
"To help you."
As he rushed down the stairs he noticed that he couldn't hear the ninjas in pursuit. Only, that meant nothing, since they were the Hand. There could've been a thousand of them behind him and they wouldn't have made a sound.
Finally, Moon Knight and the girl burst through the building's main doors and out onto the street, back into the monsoon. He told the girl to get into her car and drive away from here.
She looked at him seriously confused, noticed that he was covered head to toe in blood, then did what she was told.
Through his earpiece he could hear the death cry of the last of Kazakov's crew. Shortly thereafter, he found himself surrounded by five of the black pyjama clad hostiles, all of them brandishing swords stained a bloody red. They must've leapt from the apartment sixty feet up and landed on the street below.
Silent. Graceful as cats.
In awe of their athletic prowess, yet unwilling to concede defeat, he sank into a crouch, raised his sword.
"Come and get me you Godless *****s."