You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 247 Party Affairs (8k)

West District, an underground parking garage.

This underground car dealership used to be one of the Bloods' most profitable modification garages. Two years ago, Marcus took it over from a bankrupt 4S store, turning the above-ground store into a proper used car showroom, while keeping the underground space for his private work.

The stolen cars are dismantled here, the VIN codes are changed, they are repainted, and then they are put back on the road with clean license plates.

The shops on the ground are now closed.

The basement was filled with the smells of engine oil, metal shavings, and old tires, and a few fluorescent lights were on.

The light bulbs were old, and several of them kept flickering, emitting a buzzing electrical sound, which made everyone's face turn white and blue in turns.

Black tire tracks remain on the cement floor in the corner, and several lifts are parked in their work positions with hooks hanging in mid-air.

Tyrone was sitting in an old swivel chair facing the door.

This swivel chair has been sitting in this basement for a while now; the leather has long since cracked, revealing the yellowed sponge underneath.

He sat very far back, his back slumped into the chair, his hands resting on his thighs, his fingers interlaced, and there were several old knife scars on the back of his hands.

He was in high spirits when he was released from the detention cell a few days ago. After leaving the branch office, he kept thinking about how to find an opportunity to kill that gray-eyed policeman.

But things slowly changed on his way back to the gang.

He first went back to the Pink Swan.

The roller shutter door was sealed with yellow police tape, half of which was rotten from being soaked by rainwater. There were dried, blackened bloodstains on the ground in the back alley, and several homeless men were squatting there dismantling a Harley-Davidson motorcycle that had been burned to a shell.

He stood across the street for a while, then turned and walked away.

After that, he went straight back to the car modification shop and chatted with the old man who was in charge.

The old man said that the police had come last night. Two patrol officers who looked uneasy asked him some questions but were easily fooled and sent away. They were very proactive and even cleaned up the trash in front of his shop.

As Tyrone stood in front of the iron gate of the car modification shop, he suddenly thought of that old man, Jimmy.

That old fox who runs the sex trade always applies styling powder several times before every meeting, and he's so pretentious.

Then he thought of Fat Mike, that 300-pound mountain of flesh, with a gold chain around his neck so thick it could tether a dog, and whose whole face shook when he laughed.

Then he thought of Darrell.

Now all of these people are dead.

Not a single one was left.

He casually tossed the half-eaten loaf of bread he'd bought on the way to a stray cat and then walked away.

Later, Tyrone also visited an unfinished building that had reportedly collapsed due to a terrorist bombing, as well as Marcus's former safe house.

Now, he's back at the car dealership, looking noticeably thinner than when he was released from prison. He has thick stubble on his chin and deep dark lines under his eyes.

Tyrone had changed out of the shirt he wore in the police station corridor and was now wearing a dark gray hoodie with the hood turned up behind his neck and a small oil stain on the chest.

He was surrounded by a group of people.

Four remaining minor leaders of the Blood Gang who were still able to command were present; two were standing, and two were squatting.

The first person standing there was Benny. He had black hair, short sideburns, a burn scar on his neck, was in his early thirties, had a thick mustache hanging down, and was wearing an oil-stained denim jacket.

He used to be an underground boxer in Las Vegas for a few years. Later, he ran away to Seattle after accumulating some debt. Marcus gave him some money and took him in, which led him to get involved in the car theft business.

Behind him stood his two henchmen, one bald and the other with a dreadlock, both leaning against the support pillars in silence.

The second person standing was Vic, a veteran, almost fifty years old. Tyrone didn't really know how Vic met Marcus, only that he used to be Marcus's driver and was later assigned to manage the casino in the south.

Vic was wearing a polo shirt with a gray tattoo peeking out from the cuffs. He had his hands in his pockets and had barely spoken since he came in.

The one squatting is Donnie, in his early twenties. He's the nephew of Jimmy, the old fox who used to manage the Pink Swans.

He used to work as a bouncer at the Pink Swan. The night Jimmy died at the Pink Swan, he was naturally off duty. Now his face was pale and his eyes were red and swollen, clearly from crying for a long time.

There was another one squatting down, holding a can of beer. His name was Luke, a former henchman of Fat Mike. He was thirty-two years old and wore a black baseball cap with the brim pulled low, obscuring half of his face in shadow.

A group of people stood opposite them, spread out, but there was an invisible line separating them from Tailong's group.

Mad Dog Aug, the leader of the 23rd Street Kings gang, was the one standing at the very front of this group.

He was also a Black man with a long, thin face, a sharp chin, sparse eyebrows that were almost invisible, and a downturned mouth, giving him a naturally fierce appearance.

He was about 1.8 meters tall, with a stocky build, and wore a gold chain around his neck with a cross hanging from the end of the chain outside his collar.

He was wearing a black leather jacket, the zipper was undone, and underneath was a shirt printed with "23rdStret".

An old Kings T-shirt.

Three of Aug stood behind him, all armed.

There was a lift between him and Tyrone, and the shadow of the hook was cast between them by the flashing fluorescent lights overhead, swaying back and forth.

"They're almost all here," Tyrone said. "Then let's talk."

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His voice was low and a little dry, echoing in the basement.

No one responded.

Donnie looked up at him, his lips moved, and then he lowered his head again.

Tyrone placed his hands on his knees, slowly sat up a little straighter, and then looked up at Mad Dog Aug.

"Marcus is dead. You should have known that by now."

After those words were spoken, it seemed as if some of the air in the basement was sucked away, and the buzzing sound of electricity became even more piercing.

"Darrell is dead, Fat Mike is dead, Jimmy is dead."

He read out the names one by one, his tone calm, seemingly without any emotional fluctuation.

"Lamar and his gang went too far in the gunfight inside, dragging everyone in with them."

He paused.

"Right now, the Blood Gang only has a few minor leaders left that I can command, along with some of their underlings. But those younger brothers don't need to come and listen to our conversation, so I didn't bring them all."

Donnie said with his head down, "My uncle didn't want to get involved in that at first, but Fat Mike dragged him along."

"There's no point in saying all this now," Tyrone said. "A dead man is a dead man."

Doni didn't argue and lowered his head again.

Mad Dog Aug spoke.

"So you're the head of the Blood Gang now, Dog?"

"There's no one in charge."

Tyrone looked up, his eyes calm in the dim light. "I'm just still alive."

He leaned back in his chair and reached into a cardboard box next to him to take out a can of beer.

Then he broke the beer bottle, placed it on the table, and looked at the mad dog, Aug.

"The West Side Blood Gang is finished."

Tyrone's voice was so calm that it didn't sound like someone who had just lost a bunch of brothers.

Are you happy now?

Mad Dog Aug tilted his head and glanced at Talon.

"I wasn't particularly happy," he said.

"You guys are no good, but I'm not stupid either. The West District is now a complete no-man's land. People are running around on the streets. Neither you nor I can benefit from it."

"We're definitely not going to get anything." Tyrone put his hand on the beer can. "That cop hasn't stopped yet."

Benny took a step forward from the pillar, threw the cigarette butt in his hand on the ground, and stubbed it out with the sole of his shoe.

"Tyrone," Benny said.

"You called us over here, and brought Aug here too. What exactly are you planning to do? Just tell me."

Tyrone looked at him.

"I called Aug here because he's the last person in the West Side who can be considered one of our own, besides us."

"Those little shrimps outside either ran away or were scared by the patrol officers and scurried back into the damn sewers."

He turned to Aug.

"You're in the wholesale business, and half of our shipments have always passed through your hands, right?"

Aug nodded.

He picked up a cigarette between his index and middle fingers, and the ash fell onto the cement floor, which he then wiped with his heel.

“Yes,” he said. “When Marcus was there, he always gave me very fair prices, especially for the cocaine shipment. Other districts couldn’t get that price, but I was able to.”

Tyrone didn't respond to that.

"Now let's get down to business."

He loosened his crossed fingers, then slapped his hands on his knees and stood up.

"Leon Vance".

His voice lowered slightly the moment the name appeared, and he enunciated each word clearly.

"It was all done by that policeman."

When Mad Dog Aug heard the name, he paused for a moment while smoking.

Neither Benny nor Vic said anything.

Donnie was still squatting in the corner, and after hearing the name, he buried his face in his knees.

"The incident at the Pink Swan Hotel that night was a raid led by Leon Vance."

"The incident that happened to Marcus at the safe house in the suburbs was also related to this person; he was the one who did it."

"This guy is now a level 3 police officer, but he's not like those corrupt cops you know who just coast along on their paychecks. He doesn't care much about procedures or what other gangs might think."

He stopped and turned to look at Benny, Vic, and Donnie.

"Everyone is aware of the losses we've suffered."

"Marcus is gone, Fat Mike who was in charge of the goods is gone, Jimmy who was in charge of the premises is gone, Darrell who was in charge of the people is gone, and everyone has scattered."

"Our business in every neighborhood has been taken over by others."

He glanced at Aug and continued.

"Have you ever thought that if we don't kill Lyon now, he'll keep killing us until he kills us all or drives us out of the West End?"

"If you leave the West Side, what do you want to do? Start from scratch again? Or go work as a lackey for another gang?"

"Especially you guys." Tyrone looked at the group on his side.

"Your background looks worse in the eyes of other gangs. Your boss was killed and you ran away without any retaliation. We are not the kind of small gang with only three or four street thugs."

Benny turned his face to the wall, exhaled, and swallowed without speaking.

Aug threw the cigarette butt in his hand on the ground and took a step forward.

"I know all that you're talking about. Ever since the Pink Swan incident, some of my underlings have been terrified."

"Two of them ran back to Nebraska, and another one got caught on his way back. There aren't many people who dare to take on jobs now."

He paused.

"But I also heard that Marcus hired a group of professionals before the incident, probably for that unfinished building project."

"None of those guys came back. This guy blew their heads off with a few shots. You're inviting us to go and die?"

Aug took another step forward, his leather jacket sleeve rubbing against the oil stains on the lift.

"At first, I wondered if I was overthinking things and misjudging Leon's strength. Later, I specifically asked some people in the know and found out that this guy is indeed a monster who is even crazier than a madman."

Benny turned around abruptly and looked at Aug.

"So what do you want to do?" His voice rose.

"So, should we just let him wipe us all out, one by one?"

"Two months ago, we were the biggest in the West District; two months later, we're not even as good as a homeless person!"

"Do you know what people outside are saying? Our revenue has dropped by more than 70%! 70%!"

Tyrone remained standing there, his hands hanging at his sides.

Og ignored Benny, took a step forward, and continued to look at Tyrone.

"Then what else can we do? Tell me! Marcus's hired assassins have all been taken out, are we still going to send men to ambush him? Have you seen that building that was bombed?"

"I've seen it."

Tyrone's voice was still as flat as ever.

"The unfinished building was destroyed by bombing, and I went to see it after I came out."

Aug remained silent.

Tyrone looked around the basement, his gaze sweeping across everyone's faces.

"After I got out of the detention center, I looked around and the more I thought about it, the more I felt that there was no point in living."

He pulled his collar down a little, revealing a scar on his chest. "I was shot here when I was with Marcus taking down the Portlanders in the West Side."

"Marcus threw his entire week's drug profits at the black doctor that night and brought me back from the Hutchison."

Tyrone looked at Benny.

"You weren't with the Blood Gang back then, Vic was."

Vic lowered his head and didn't say anything.

Tyrone continued speaking.

"Many of my men were given their lives by Marcus."

"The day I got out, I stood in the back alley of the Pink Swan, looking at the dried blood on the ground, and thought that I would like to serve a few more decades in prison."

"But I'm already out, so I have to get to work."

Tyrone paused for a moment.

"Ogg, do you think I'm forcing you to join us against Lyon?"

"No, I'm going to take him down. I'm definitely going to find him, and I can go alone."

He pointed to Aug next to him.

"But you can't pretend you have nothing to do with this."

"If we don't take over the rest of our territory, and if Leon doesn't die, the corrupt cops won't dare to turn back. If the corrupt cops don't turn back, we won't have any protection at all."

"Without protection, any rookie patrol officer could easily shut down one of our operations."

Tyrone placed his hands on the table and pressed them down. When he spoke again, his voice was deeper than before.

"I've spoken with Connor."

Mad Dog Aug frowned, took a deep breath, and then asked, "Who?"

"A police inspector from the Western District Precinct."

Tyrone tapped his finger on the table.

"I've known him for several years; he used to pass us messages."

"After I got out, I asked someone to find him. It cost me a lot of money and effort, but at least he was willing to come out and say a few words to me."

Tyrone paused, but no one else spoke.

"But he's in a terrible situation now, spending his days squatting at intersections directing traffic for elementary school students."

"He hated Leon to death, but he couldn't do anything about it."

"What did he say?"

He said not everyone in the police department liked this Leon Vance.

"There are factions within the organization, and Lyon has offended more than just us during its law enforcement operations."

"Lyon has Sterling protecting her. Sterling was sent by the family behind the police union. Those old corrupt cops are all terrified because Lyon has recorded them accepting bribes."

"But fear is one thing, fear of Lyon doesn't mean they don't hate Lyon."

"Connor said that at least half the people in the precinct now hope that counterterrorism hero" gets hit by a car one night.

"He's still alive because no one dares to step forward."

"If we take action, they can take advantage of that."

"Some police officers, even if they don't help us, they won't help him either; they'll choose to stand by and do nothing."

Mad Dog Aug remained silent for a long time.

All that remained in the warehouse was the buzzing of the old freezer motor in the corner.

Then he spoke.

"How much more did Connor reveal?" His voice slowed. "Could he just have someone open the police station for us?"

"He couldn't make that promise," Tyrone said. "But he said they also had people in the Ministry of the Interior."

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"As long as we have the opportunity to take action and clean things up thoroughly, no one will really investigate to the end."

"At least they won't go all out to chase after it."

Mad Dog Aug crossed his arms.

"You make it sound so easy," he said, "but you still haven't answered my question: what are you going to use to fight? Your fists? Would everyone be willing to die for this?"

Aug looked at the people around him.

Donnie looked up from the corner; his eyes were still red, but his voice was no longer trembling.

"My uncle is dead," he said, "but my men can still fight."

Donnie slowly stood up, leaned against the wall, and looked at Tyrone.

Benny glanced at him, then at Vic.

“Let me be honest,” Benny said, “this guy is a lunatic, and he’s surrounded by lunatics.”

"Those few ACU guys, each with a military rifle, and they even have demolition experts. The entire precinct's arsenal isn't as ruthless as them."

He took out his cigarette case, intending to smoke one, but found it empty. He crumpled the case into a ball and threw it away.

Mad Dog Aug tilted his head.

Are you scared?

Benny abruptly turned to stare at him, his jaw clenched, his hands clenched into fists, and the muscles in his arms bulged in his sleeves.

"While I was hacking people to pieces in the street, you were probably squatting outside a Latino casino selling counterfeit cigarettes!"

"You're just a nouveau riche who's only risen to prominence in the last two years. Your power was built on the spoils of the Blood Gang's heyday. You think I'm afraid?"

"So you agree to that too." Aug glanced at Vic and Luke, who had been standing silently to the side, shook his head, sighed, and looked at Talon. "So you haven't figured out the specifics of how to execute the plan yet, have you?"

"right."

Tyrone said he turned halfway around and looked at the gang leaders.

"So what I mean is, don't make a move yet, nobody should move now."

"Touching him now is suicide. I've thought it through since the night I got back. The first thing I'll do after I get out isn't to seek revenge on Leon, but to sit down with you all and finish talking about this."

His voice slowed down a little.

"Go back and think about it. Even if you don't follow along, at least don't back down anymore. If you back down again, there will be no West District left."

He paused for a moment.

"While you're thinking about it, I'll continue investigating him with the corrupt cops in the police station."

"Leon is not a god. He has weaknesses, people he knows, people he contacts and meets in private, and he has a damn regular life. I don't believe he just clocks in and arrests people every day."

"Sooner or later I'll find out what he can't afford to lose."

Doni glanced at Aug, then at Tyrone, gritted his teeth, and turned to walk towards the door.

"I hate him," he paused at the door, then led his men out.

Benny looked up, nodded to Tyrone, and followed Donnie out with his men.

Mad Dog Aug turned around and looked at Tyrone.

"You have my phone number. Remember to call me if there's any progress."

"Okay," Tyrone said.

Aug also left with his men.

Only Tyrone, Vic, and Luke, who hadn't said much, remained in the basement.

Tyrone turned around, picked up the car keys that were next to the chair, and turned off the light.

The underground parking garage returned to its original darkness. Tyrone stood in the darkness for a while, then went outside. The street outside the garage was quiet, with only a few faint police sirens that could be heard in the distance. After that, he disappeared without a trace.

Lin Jianping's residence is not inside the scrap yard.

He rented a second-floor room in an old-fashioned apartment building two alleys north of the intersection of Sixth Street and Jackson Street.

-

The landlord of this building is a Vietnamese man who fled in the 1980s and is now paralyzed in a nursing home, barely clinging to life with his savings.

Lin Jianping would put the rent money into the nursing home's mailbox every month, and no one ever came to check the room.

The south-facing room in this house was used as a storage room, filled with account books and old newspapers, while the north-facing room was a bedroom, with its window facing the ventilation vent of the laundry room next door.

In the middle of the living room, there was a folding table, two chairs, and a clock that had long since stopped standing against the wall. The curtains were dark gray blackout fabric, and from the outside, the windows and walls were completely dark.

Three years ago, Lin Jianping had walked all over the exterior walls of the building and the two fire escape staircases at the front and back, and personally confirmed that there were no cameras within a radius of 30 meters.

At this moment, a middle-aged man in a dark blue jacket was standing next to the folding table in the living room. He looked to be in his early fifties and had a pair of old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

Lin Jianping called him Lao Zhou.

Old Zhou arrived two hours ago, taking the fire escape from the back alley. He didn't call beforehand; he just knocked on the door.

Lin Jianping was stunned for several seconds when he opened the door and saw him.

Because several years ago, Lao Zhou had been mentally preparing himself for a long-term infiltration in Chinatown.

They never saw each other again after that.

Lin Jianping stood near the door, still wearing his blue work clothes from the daytime, with oil stains on his elbows that couldn't be washed off. He stood there, his mind already going over the events of the evening several times.

The encrypted instructions I received a few days ago were worded very formally.

The instructions referred to the returning geese as "comrades," but Lin Jianping didn't think much of it at the time.

But now Lao Zhou has arrived.

Old Zhou isn't the kind of person who just comes to Seattle on business trips.

This person came to my door in person and made it clear that he wanted to wait for RayFong to arrive before we could talk.

Lin Jianping's mind raced.

There are only a few possibilities that would warrant sending Lao Zhou to make the trip personally, and he hasn't considered the highest level possibility yet.

"That Guiyan—" Lin Jianping began, then changed his words, "RayFong, what exactly time will he arrive tonight?"

"Soon," Old Zhou said, glancing down at his watch. "We've already arranged for someone to notify him. He has some things to finish up, so it shouldn't take more than half an hour."

Lin Jianping nodded.

"Um—Comrade Zhou," Lin Jianping said, "Guiyan will be here soon. Should we check the next scrap line first, or—"

"First, we will proceed with the organizational procedures."

The man surnamed Zhou put the canvas bag on the ground, took out a plastic bag from it, opened it to reveal a red Party flag folded into a square, and laid it flat on the folding table, which made Lin Jianping's eyelids twitch.

Then Lao Zhou straightened up and looked at Lin Jianping.

"The organization sent me here, not to confirm your contact method. This matter is not my responsibility, and I shouldn't know the specifics." He looked at Lin Jianping. "Tonight I'm here to help Guiyan with her emergency Party membership application. Your work can be discussed after I leave; it won't be delayed."

Lin Jianping's right hand, which was reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, stopped outside his pocket upon hearing this. He slowly lowered his hand, letting it hang by his trouser leg, his fingers rubbing against his thigh.

The room was quiet for about five or six seconds before Old Zhou turned his head and glanced at Lin Jianping.

How much do you know about migrating geese?

Lin Jianping thought for a moment.

"I haven't met him in person yet. I'm just following orders from the organization to liaise with him."

He paused for a moment, then recited the information he had previously organized in his mind, one point at a time.

"Codenamed Guiyan, his public identity is RayFong. In the past few months, he has built a homeless community in the West District and turned an abandoned nightclub into a base. He already has more than a dozen people under his command."

"He set up security, hired welders and construction workers, and even set up a mutton stall at the entrance of the mosque as a talent screening station. Before the organization informed him of his situation, I also sent people to observe him, and what we observed at that time was that he was recruiting homeless people."

Lin Jianping paused for a moment.

"I felt this person was unusual even before, and now the organization calls him 'comrade,' so his political awareness must be quite high; he's not just an ordinary high-value informant."

Lin Jianping took two steps forward, stood opposite the folding table, and looked down at the unfolded Party flag.

"I've been in Seattle for quite a while," he said. "I've never actually seen an American's name printed under this flag, and they even sent someone specifically for it."

Comrade Zhou placed his hand on the back of the chair.

"Your wording needs to be corrected."

"Don't call him an American," he said. "Just call him comrade."

Lin Jianping raised his head, his brows furrowed and then relaxed. He didn't reply, but simply pulled his hands completely out of his pockets and straightened up a bit.

Don't call them Americans.

Call him comrade.

This sentence contains more information than the encrypted instructions he had received in the past few days.

"Comrade Guiyan." Lin Jianping repeated it, as if he were savoring the weight of those words.

Then the scattered clues in his mind suddenly began to piece together on their own.

Old Zhou works in the Party affairs department.

People from the Party Affairs Department flew over specifically to personally correct his way of addressing a white American homeless leader.

That means RayFong is definitely not the American he previously thought he was, Lin Jianping thought.

This might be a deep sea where some former leader buried overseas and never retrieved, where a person was left to linger for over a decade, and has recently been reactivated.

As for why he is only joining the party now, he speculated that it might be because the identity he has maintained until now is very complicated, and the organization only recently obtained the relevant files and information, so it arranged this emergency ceremony.

After thinking about this, Lin Jianping felt that he had figured things out.

As for the speed and ruthlessness of the expansion of that homeless community, it suddenly makes sense. It would be outrageous if it were an ordinary American, but it's not surprising if it's one of their own, especially a professionally trained Deep Sea.

He raised his eyes again and looked at Lao Zhou.

"I understand." Lin Jianping gestured to Lao Zhou, "I won't ask any other questions."

Lin Jianping knew very well that information the organization wouldn't give him was information he shouldn't ask, especially in some historically inherited deep-sea work, where he, as an outsider, didn't have much authority.

His job is simply to provide support.

Old Zhou glanced at him.

"I'm not telling you to ask fewer questions," Old Zhou said. "I'm telling you that from today's oath-taking ceremony onwards, he will be an equal party member with you. You will be frequently coordinating tasks with him in the future, so don't use that mindset of managing informants at that time."

"You've been in Seattle for several years and have done solid work at the grassroots level. You're a veteran here and someone the organization trusts," Comrade Zhou said. "Therefore, the organization hopes that you will attend the oath-taking ceremony as a senior party member."

"This is both an encouragement to Comrade Guiyan and a way to let you see for yourself his official status within the organization, so as to avoid any unnecessary concerns when cooperating with him in the future."

"You must give full play to the exemplary and inspiring role of veteran Party members. Guiyan has a special identity and a special environment for his covert operations. He needs to be able to see his comrades, know that he has the organization behind him and his comrades by his side."

He stopped and looked at Lin Jianping.

"Is it possible?"

Lin Jianping subconsciously wiped the hem of his clothes with his hand, and then found that he had added another oil stain to his clothes.

"Yes," he said, "I can do it."

Then, as if remembering something, he went back to his bedroom, probably to find a clean set of work clothes.