American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

Diana paused for a moment and looked at Lynn.

"The road is blocked?" Lynn asked.

"Yes, a large truck overturned, spilling diesel fuel everywhere. The fire department and highway patrol are cleaning it up. If you want to continue east, you'll have to take a detour."

"How do we get around it?"

The man pointed south. "Twelve miles south of town, there's a country road that connects to State Route 34. Route 34 goes east, and after Big Island, it connects back to Route 80. It's a bit of a detour, but it's better than waiting on the road for over ten hours."

Lynn looked at him. The man's expression was natural, and his tone was casual, like a helpful local giving directions to a tourist. There was nothing glaringly wrong with him.

But Lynn's intuition was screaming.

He couldn't quite put his finger on what was making him uneasy. Perhaps it was the timing of the man's mention of the road closure—they had just arrived in this desolate town in the middle of the night, and this was the only gas station still open, and just then someone told them the road ahead was blocked and they needed to take a remote country road instead.

Perhaps it was the fleeting, subtle change in the man's expression when he saw the bullet holes on the hood. An ordinary person would likely be surprised or curious upon seeing those bullet holes, but this man merely glanced at them and looked away, as if he already knew how those bullet holes got there.

Perhaps it was that police car hidden in the shadows.

Perhaps it was just an overreaction stemming from being hunted down too many times in the past few days.

But Lynn preferred to trust his gut feeling rather than risk going down a path he didn't understand.

“Thanks for reminding me,” he said. “We’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think about it for too long,” the man yawned again. “You don’t have many other options at this hour. There are no hotels in town, and the nearest motel is sixty miles away. If you just wait here, it’ll be well before dawn.”

The gas pump jerked, and the numbers stopped changing. Diana pulled out the nozzle and hung it back up.

"How much?"

"Forty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents."

Diana took out her wallet, pulled out three twenty-dollar bills, and handed them over. The man took the money and slowly walked to the cashier to get his change.

Taking advantage of the brief moment, Lynn leaned close to Diana's ear.

"Don't go down the road he suggested."

Diana tilted her head slightly, without turning to look at him. "You think there's a problem?"

"Too many coincidences. The road was closed in the middle of the night, there just happened to be a secluded alternative route, and the police car just happened to be parked in the shadows of the hardware store."

"It could just be a coincidence."

Do you believe it?

Diana paused for a second. "I don't really believe it."

"We'll leave after we get our change. Don't go up to number 80 yet, and don't take the south road he mentioned. After leaving town, head north and find another road to go around."

"Go north on the road that isn't marked on the map."

"Any dirt road, whether marked or not, is fine, as long as it's not in the direction he pointed out to us."

The man came out of the cash register, a few loose bills in his hand. "Twelve dollars and thirty-eight cents, here's your change."

Diana took the change. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. If you're going to take the road to the south, remember to turn right at the first fork in the road, don't go left, that road is a dead end."

“I understand.” Diana nodded to him.

The two turned and walked toward the car.

The moment Lynn opened the passenger door, he heard a faint sound behind him—the sound of metal rubbing against leather.

He worked for the FBI for fourteen years, arresting drug dealers, arms dealers, serial killers, and international terrorists. He had heard that voice countless times—on the training field, in urban warfare, and in those dark corners where life and death hung in the balance.

That was the sound of a gun being pulled from its holster.

Lynn's body moved 0.3 seconds faster than his thoughts. He suddenly lowered his body, turned around, and pulled a Glock from his pocket with his right hand.

The scene he saw confirmed all his guesses—

The man at the gas station was no longer the sleepy-eyed country bumpkin. He held a silver revolver in his hand, the muzzle pointed directly at Lynn, and a cold, shrewd light gleamed in his small eyes.

But he didn't have time to pull the trigger.

Because Diana was faster than him.

Her SIG P320 had already sprung out of its holster, the dark muzzle pointed at the man's face, less than five meters away.

"Put down the gun." Diana's voice was as flat as a steel plate.

Under the lights of the gas station, the three people formed an eerie triangle—the man's gun was pointed at Lynn, Lynn's gun was pointed at the man, and Diana's gun was also pointed at the man.

The stalemate lasted for about three seconds.

“You don’t know who you’re up against.” The man’s tone changed; it was no longer the nonchalant tone from before, but a threatening growl hushed in his voice. His accent also subtly changed—the previous mumbled Midwestern peasant accent disappeared, replaced by a clearer, more angular way of speaking.

“I said put down the gun,” Diana repeated.

“I’m the deputy sheriff of Wayne County,” the man said. “Do you know what it means to draw a gun on a law enforcement officer?”

“Deputy Sheriff?” Lynn’s gun remained motionless. “Then why were you in the gas station checkout at midnight? Why did you draw your gun on us? Why did you lead us to that secluded country road to the south?”

The man's eye twitched.

“What news did you hear?” Lynn pressed. “Who contacted you? Was it a phone call or a text message? What did they tell you—that three people in a black Ford Taurus will be passing through here, and you need to find a way to lure them somewhere?”

The man opened his mouth, but didn't speak. His gun began to shake slightly.

“What awaits us on that road to the south?” Lynn pressed on. “More people? Or more of those—things that aren’t human?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man licked his lips. “You do.”

Lynn saw something in those small eyes—not courage, not conviction, not even greed. It was fear. This man was not a willing accomplice; he was a coerced or bribed pawn, a pawn placed on the edge of the chessboard, with no choice but to obey a greater power.

"How much did they give you?" Lynn lowered his voice.

The man stared at him, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

“Ten thousand dollars,” he finally spoke, his voice hoarse and weary, like someone who had been holding a secret in for a long time finally finding an outlet. “This evening I got a call on my personal number saying three men in a black Ford would be passing through Brockenberg, and I need to find a way to lure them south onto Mill Road. The money’s already in my wife’s account, and if I mess this up—”

He didn't finish his sentence.

"What if you mess it up?"

“They said they knew my daughter was attending college in Lincoln and knew which dorm she lived in.” The man’s lips twitched slightly.

The half of the "Chevrolet" sign above the gas station buzzed and flickered twice, casting flickering shadows on the three people's faces. A gust of wind came from the distant cornfield, the dry leaves clattering and crackling against each other, as if something was moving quickly through the crops.

“What’s on Mill Road?” Diana asked.

"I don't know. They didn't tell me much. They just said to send people in that direction and they'd handle the rest."

"Then what's with the gun in your hand? You were just about to fire."

The man looked down at the revolver in his hand. His finger was still on the trigger guard, but his strength seemed to have been largely depleted in the few words exchanged.

"They said if you don't listen to their advice, they'll find another way to keep you here."

"Does 'keep us alive' mean they'll kill us?"

"No...not death. He said he just wants to keep you from leaving, whether it's shooting a tire or calling in more people."

Who are the 'more people' you're referring to?

The man tilted his head slightly towards the police car hidden in the shadows. “Bill Mason, our sheriff. He’s waiting in the car. He got the same call too.”

Lynn and Diana exchanged a glance.

"Can the people in that car hear us?" Lynn asked.

"I don't know. The car windows were probably closed, and we weren't speaking loudly, so he might not have heard us clearly. But if he saw me standing here with a gun for so long without making a move, he would become suspicious."

Lynn quickly assessed the situation. A deputy sheriff stood before him with a gun, while a sheriff sat in a patrol car fifty meters away. If the sheriff sensed something was wrong, he might call for backup, mobilizing law enforcement from across the county. They couldn't afford an open confrontation with the local police in this small town—that would only make their presence more obvious.

"What's your name?" he asked the man.

"Gary Patterson."

“Okay, Gary. I’m giving you two choices.” Lynn’s voice was calm and clear, as if conducting a routine interrogation. “First choice: You put the gun on the ground, come with us to the alley over by the hardware store, and then I’ll handcuff you—don’t worry, I won’t hurt you—just say I subdued you, that you were powerless, and that the other party won’t blame you. I’ll take care of your daughter’s matter; once we get to New York, I can arrange federal witness protection resources to ensure her safety.”

Gary stared at him. "What's the second option?"

"The second option is for you to try shooting, and you'll find that my colleague's hand is much faster than your mouth."

Gary glanced at the muzzle of Lynn's gun, then at the muzzle of Diana's gun, and then let out a long sigh. He slowly bent down, placed the revolver on the ground, then straightened up and raised his hands.

“I don’t want to die in a gas station,” he said. “That would be too pathetic.”

Lynn strode forward, kicked the revolver aside, and then went behind Gary. He pulled a plastic cable tie from his jacket pocket—something he'd taken from Diana's emergency gear before Reno left—and tied Gary's hands behind his back.

"Walk."

The three men walked quickly toward the hardware store. A narrow alley, about three meters wide, separated the gas station from the hardware store. The alley was piled with old planks and metal barrels, and the ground was uneven with gravel. The black and white police car was parked at the other end of the alley, facing the main street.

Lynn led Gary to a thick water pipe in the middle of the alley and secured him to it with another cable tie.

“Don’t make a sound here,” Lynn said. “Someone will find you when it’s light.”

“What about Bill in that car?” Gary’s face was filled with anxiety. “What if he finds out I’m not here—”

"I'll handle it."

Lynn turned and walked towards the other end of the alley. Diana followed behind him, their steps as light as cats.

They stopped about ten meters from the police car. From this angle, the interior was visible—a large man sat in the driver's seat, wearing a dark green police uniform, his wide-brimmed hat resting on the dashboard, his head against the headrest, seemingly dozing. The windows were indeed closed, and the engine was off.

“I’ll move over from the driver’s side,” Lynn whispered in Diana’s ear. “You go around to the passenger side, and signal me when you’re in position.”

Diana nodded and silently moved to the other side of the alley, hugging the exterior wall of the hardware store as she approached the police car on the right. Her figure was almost invisible in the shadows, only occasionally flashing when a sliver of moonlight touched the tips of her tactical boots.

Lynn counted to five, then began to approach.

He moved step by step toward the driver's side of the police car, hugging the brick wall on the left side of the alley. Occasionally, there was a loose stone on the gravel ground, and he would test it with his toes before shifting his weight onto it, making sure it wouldn't make a sound.

Five meters. Three meters. Two meters.

He could hear snoring coming from inside the car. Bill Mason was indeed asleep, his mouth slightly open, a ring of gray stubble on his chin, and his nostrils flaring slightly with each breath. On his belt was a gun—it looked like a standard Glock 17—along with handcuffs, a walkie-talkie, and a can of pepper spray.

Lynn reached out her left hand and gently grasped the car door handle.

He glanced across the alley. Diana was already in position, crouching behind the police car on the right, raising her hand in an OK sign.

Lynn took a deep breath.

Then he yanked open the car door.

The moment Bill Mason awoke with a start, the world must have exploded before his eyes—a stranger's face suddenly appeared in front of him, a cold wind rushed in from the alley, and the seatbelt tightened around his body, causing him to instinctively lean back. His right hand reflexively reached for the gun at his waist, his fingers barely touching the grip—

Lynn's left fist had already slammed into his temple.

This was no casual punch. Lynn had received systematic close-quarters combat training at the FBI Academy in Quinticco; he knew the temple was one of the most vulnerable areas of the human body, and a precise strike could cause temporary loss of consciousness. He poured all his weight and the rotational power of his shoulder into this punch, the fist landing precisely two inches above Bill's right ear. (End of Chapter)