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

Chapter 251 Little Fanboy

Shortly after 10 a.m. the next day, two young men appeared on the street opposite the mosque.

A man wearing a faded dark blue hoodie, the hood off, his hands in the front pocket that looked like a bellyband, his shoulders slightly hunched forward.

Another tall, thin man, wearing a gray sweatshirt with pilling cuffs, leaned against the shutter of a closed dry cleaner on the street, glancing towards the mosque every now and then.

The two people had been standing there for almost twenty minutes, neither queuing for pancakes nor looking for anyone.

He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, turned his head, and whispered to the tall, thin guy next to him, "Hey, Black guy, is there something in your waistband?"

"I've been watching him for ages," the tall, thin guy said, his eyes barely moving and his mouth barely opening. "His belt is so tight, and his T-shirt is tucked into his pants. If he had a holster, there's no way I wouldn't have noticed."

"So there's no gun?"

"It doesn't look like it; at most, it might have hidden a knife."

Lei stood in front of the food cart, holding a registration book in his left hand and his right hand hanging by his thigh. His eyes occasionally swept over the homeless people queuing for soup and occasionally glanced at the dry cleaners across the street.

He stood steadily with his feet shoulder-width apart and his center of gravity slightly forward. He didn't walk over to the two young men or call out to them. He simply shifted his gaze away from them every few seconds and then looked back.

After he looked at the hoodie for the third time, he finally couldn't stand up any longer and pressed his back against the roller shutter door, lowering his voice even further.

"Did he notice we were watching him?"

"Of course he noticed a long time ago." The tall, thin man curled his lip slightly. "Look at the way he's looking at us, he keeps glancing at us."

Even the hoodie shifted its gaze a little, just like him, but its neck remained stiff.

"He's been staring at us for at least ten seconds. Damn, this job is fucking awful. And does the fact that he's spotted us mean the mission is a failure? Should we run away?"

"Are you an idiot? The boss told us to observe the patrol patterns, but he didn't say we couldn't be discovered by him. He doesn't know who sent us, because there are definitely a lot of people here to scout and observe the situation."

The tall, thin man clenched his fist in his pocket. "He doesn't have a gun anyway, what's there to be afraid of?"

"He probably doesn't have a gun," the hoodie said, tilting his chin towards the mosque. "What about those two in robes?"

The tall, thin man didn't respond.

Two middle-aged men were sitting on the steps of the side gate of the mosque. One was sitting cross-legged, drinking hot tea from a plastic cup, while the other was leaning against the door frame, wiping his hands with a towel.

Both of them were wearing gray robes, which looked quite ordinary, but no one could say for sure what was hidden under the loose robes.

"I really don't understand the point of coming here to scout things out," the hoodie muttered.

"Stop complaining. The boss said to just look and not touch. Besides, it's not like we didn't get anything. Look at those notes."

A black and white patrol car was driving slowly from the south of 10th Street. It almost stopped when it passed the mosque. The window rolled down, and the patrolman inside nodded to Ray. Ray nodded back to the patrolman.

The patrol car then continued driving forward, turned the corner, and disappeared.

"I come here for a walk every twenty minutes," the hoodie said. "That patrolman just came again."

Just as the tall, thin man was about to reply, the patrol car turned around and drove back from the opposite direction.

The patrol car stopped at the entrance to the fire lane in front of the mosque, with its front facing the roller shutter door of the dry cleaner, and the driver's side door was open.

A young patrolman stepped out of the car; he was about twenty-two years old—it was Miller.

The face that Leon had seen before, covered in acne, had now cleared up somewhat. A pistol was mounted in a holster at his waist, one hand rested on his belt buckle, and the other hung naturally at his side.

Hey, you two.

The hoodie's heel unconsciously slid backward, hitting the bottom of the roller shutter and making a metallic hum.

Miller didn't squint or deliberately slow down; he crossed the road at a normal pace, his shoes splashing water as they hit puddles in the cracked asphalt.

He stopped three steps away from the two young men, not so close that they would be nervous, nor so far that he would have to raise his voice to speak.

"I've seen you standing here for a long time. Are you waiting for someone?"

The hoodie shook its head.

"We won't wait for anyone."

"What place are you looking for?"

"Just browsing."

Miller looked at the hoodie, who took his hand out of his waist pocket and crumpled the loose thread at the hem.

Miller didn't press further, but he didn't remove his hand from his belt buckle; he glanced towards the mosque.

"Do you recognize that stall? Did you come by the smell of meat?"

"No," the tall, thin man said.

"Then what are you doing standing here?"

Miller turned his gaze back. "I saw you guys when I drove over, and when I came back after circling around, you were still there."

The hoodie swallowed hard.

"We're just passing by and are about to leave."

"Let's go now."

After Miller finished speaking, he even took a half step back to make way for them.

The hoodie glanced at the tall, thin man. The two of them walked out of the dry cleaner's door at the same time and turned into the alley. Out of the corner of his eye, he could feel that Lei was still standing in the same spot, maintaining that posture and watching their backs as they walked away.

Just then, the tall, thin man turned his head slightly as he walked deeper into the alley.

A flash of silver light appeared from the direction of the mosque, gone in an instant, but he saw it clearly.

A middle-aged man in a dark robe was leaning against the side wall of the mosque, sitting on a wooden bench, holding a hunting rifle with red electrical tape wrapped around the stock.

The middle-aged man was slowly wiping the barrel of his gun. When he saw the tall, thin man's gaze, he paused, then slowly raised the barrel, rested it on his shoulder, and nodded slowly toward the alleyway.

The tall, thin man turned his head back.

The two walked quickly through the alley, slowing down only when they reached the next block. The hoodie wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, glanced back at the alley entrance to make sure no one was following before speaking.

"Damn, there are hunting rifles in the mosque."

"I saw it." The tall, thin man swallowed. "And not only did he have a hunting rifle, but the guy was sitting on the stool on purpose to let us see him."

"What does this mean?"

"It means that the people at their mosque will protect RayFong's mutton stall, even at the cost of a bloody battle, and they would even be happy if we knew about it. That cripple is probably just pretending to be weak while actually being strong."

"I don't understand, is it just because RayFong is doing charity work here for free?"

"Go back and tell Vic right away, something's not right with this line—"

Miller watched the two men disappear into the alley, stood there for a few seconds to make sure they had no intention of turning back, and then turned back to the patrol car.

He opened the car door, got in, closed the door, and started the engine, but didn't immediately shift into gear.

He looked down at his hands.

It didn't shake.

This time my hand didn't shake.

He recalled the first time he met Lyon a few months ago; the man had just crossed paths with him on his first day of work, and then shot a black man dead.

Okay, that black man was indeed dangerous; he was already ready to draw his gun.

In short, from that time on, he felt that Leon was some kind of strange person, neither good nor bad, just dangerous.

Later, when Bob was shot while putting down a parking ticket, Leon was the first to drive up to help.

He remembered that when Leon's patrol car arrived, it looked like it was alive, speeding wildly on the road. He thought Leon and his men were going to crash into something, but they didn't.

He left Mia with him to help Bob, then left. He remembered that Leon later rammed the drug dealer's car.

At that time, he was holding the tourniquet, and his hand was shaking so badly that he almost dropped it. Later, he vomited in the hospital's public restroom.

Now that he can get rid of those two thugs, is that progress?

Miller leaned back in his seat, looking out the car window at the mosque's tent area. Several homeless people were queuing up for soup. After registering the last person in line, Ray tucked the ledger under his arm, picked up a bucket of water from the food cart, and walked towards the tent area.

He used to think that such places would scare him, but now he knows that as long as Ray is there, his patrol car is still driving around the streets, and Sergeant Danfoss is still yelling "Don't talk to the suspects" on the radio, this place can maintain order.

Leon never taught him these things, and he never talked to Leon about them either.

But every time he sits in the patrol car with his hands on the steering wheel, he thinks of that stormy night.

Then he stopped shaking.

Just then, the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder crackled to life.

"Miller, are you on the channel?" It was Danvers' voice.

"Yes. What's wrong?"

"It's not an emergency call, just a notification that the injury report at headquarters has been updated. Bob's rehabilitation assessment is complete, and his return to work is scheduled for the next couple of days."

Miller paused for a moment on the steering wheel.

"Then you have to tell him not to rush back to the site, but to finish filling out the registration form in the office first," Miller said.

"He knows what to do first, so you don't need to worry."

The walkie-talkie went dead.

Miller took the walkie-talkie off his shoulder, placed it on the passenger seat, looked out the windshield, and rested his hands on the steering wheel without moving.

Bob is coming back.

That seasoned veteran in his fifties could write a flawless police dispatch report even with his left hand.

He used to think Bob was too cowardly, but after working alone for a while, he realized that Bob wasn't cowardly; he just had life experience.

When Bob returned, he was taught how to handle things on this patrol route again, and he no longer had to manage it all by himself.

He looked down at his hands resting on the steering wheel. Then he shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror, where he saw his face, which looked thinner than it had a few months ago.

These past few months have felt like an eternity, yet it also feels like he just sat in the driver's seat of this car, waiting for someone to come to the passenger seat and scold him for speaking too softly during the interrogation and for writing too carelessly in his report.

And the guy who made all of this happen—

When was the last time he saw Leon Vance?

Actually, I think I saw him recently. It was one evening when Leon came out of ACU and walked past him in the corridor. He patted him on the shoulder and said, "Well done, Miller." Then he walked away.

Then his heart started beating faster than when those two thugs had been staring at him for so long.

He looked away from the rearview mirror, put his hands on the steering wheel, and started the car.

The patrol car slowly drove out of the fire lane and turned south along 10th Street.

Night fell quickly. The stone pavement in the back alley of the psychedelic cat was soaked in sewage from garbage trucks all year round, making it sticky to the soles of your shoes when you stepped on it.

Luke, the one who hadn't spoken during the meeting in Talon, was now standing in the shadows at the corner of the alley, his back against the damp brick wall, his right index finger rubbing against the seam of his trousers.

He was followed by three men, all wearing dark hoodies. They were clearly not the same level of thugs as the two ordinary men who had scouted the mosque during the day. One of the men had a hand-drawn map in his pocket, the edges of which were wrinkled from sweat.

The streetlights shone from the other end of the alley, their light cut off by the trash cans in the corner and the waist-high piles of scrap wood, casting several long, crooked shadows on the ground.

Thirty meters further in from the alley entrance, on the side wall of the psychedelic cat, there is a vent with sheet metal nailed to it. A piece of the sheet metal is curled up, and a dim yellow light shines through it.

Luke pulled his hat brim down half an inch, the shadow beneath it obscuring half of his face above his nose, leaving only his chin and lips visible.

He didn't rush inside.

"Open the image."

The subordinate, carrying the map, sat cross-legged, spread the map on his knees, and turned on the pen-shaped flashlight with his other hand. He covered the light with his sleeve, leaving only a spot of light the size of a coin.

The map was hand-drawn, drawn on lined paper torn from an account book; it appeared to be a floor plan of the Psychedelic Cats, showing back alleys,

The front door, side walls, fire escape, and second-floor private room windowsills were all clearly marked.

"You see the second-floor platform connected by the fire escape, and the third-floor rooftop?"

Luke pointed to the upper right corner of the picture with his index finger.

"The wire door from the fire escape to the rooftop on the third floor has rusted through. I saw it from the opposite rooftop this afternoon. The gap is big enough for a person to squeeze through sideways."

Three of his men leaned closer to examine the map. One of them pushed up the brim of his hat. This man had been a soldier and had been brought to a meeting by Tyrone before, but he had only listened in and hadn't said a word.

He was in his early fifties, and half of his faded tattoo was visible under his sleeve.

"Will that ladder make a noise when you climb it?"

"It's making noise, but the construction workers here keep banging on it." Luke looked away from the map and towards the depths of the alley.

"Did you hear that?"

Everyone stopped what they were doing.

In addition to a persistent low-frequency hum, the alleyway was also interspersed with the indirect sounds of hammering and metal scraping.

It came from the movie "Psychedelic Cat".

"They're doing renovations inside," Luke said in a low voice. "They haven't stopped since morning; the sound of hammers can drown out the sound of the fire escape."

"If we wait until midnight—" the veteran said.

"No need to wait," Luke interrupted him. "We're just scouting now; we won't invade tonight."

He took the map off his subordinate's lap, flipped it over, and on the back was drawn the distribution of alleyways and side streets near the psychedelic cat, with intersecting solid and dashed lines drawn in pencil and marked with several different colored symbols.

"There are too many forks in the alleys here. Take Doherty around to the side to check the markings. Come back here in half an hour. Don't go too far and don't run into anyone inside."

The veteran nodded, took the map, shone his flashlight to confirm the route, then turned it off, patted Doherty on the shoulder, and the two quickly disappeared along the wall at the right fork in the alley.

Luke remained standing against the wall, not moving.

The third henchman behind him, a thin-faced man with deep-set eyes and an old scar diagonally across his eyebrow, pulled out half a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his pocket, flicked one out, and handed it to Luke.

Luke didn't answer.

"Do you really think this place can be taken down?"

The thin-faced man put the cigarette back in his mouth without lighting it, just holding it there, the cigarette holder bobbing up and down against the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

"What I mean is, if we really go for it, what are you planning to do with RayFong, I think that's his name? Are you going to kill him or capture him alive?" the thin-faced man said.

"Kill him."

Luke said those two words without emphasizing them; he just said them calmly.

The thin-faced man stared at his face, half of which was covered by the brim of his hat, for a while.

"You weren't like this before, Luke."

"You're different from the people I know. You never killed anyone when you climbed buildings. You would just steal something and run away. If someone chased you, you would run."

"Now there's not a trace of hesitation in your eyes."

Luke turned his gaze away from the end of the alley and looked at the thin face.

The cigarette lingered on the thin-faced man's lips.

"You don't understand."

"I understand, we all understand. What did Fat Mike ever give you back then? He just helped you take on 100,000 yuan in high-interest loans. Was it worth risking your life for?"

Luke didn't answer, turning his gaze back to the depths of the alley.

The dim yellow light deep in the alley trembled in the mist, as if someone had walked through the corridor.

To be precise, it's not 100,000.

It's $194,000.

Five years ago, when Luke was still operating in the Southern Precinct, he made a living by breaking into homes at night to steal jewelry, committing burglaries without harming anyone or leaving fingerprints.

It wasn't because he was kind-hearted; it was mainly because he firmly believed that as long as he didn't hurt anyone, the cops wouldn't relentlessly pursue him or fight him to the death.

His daily life consisted of quickly squandering money when he had it, and borrowing from loan sharks when he ran out of money, essentially robbing Peter to pay Paul.

When they finally run out of money, they continue to steal, stealing large sums to pay off the loan sharks, and then continue their carefree lifestyle, repeating the cycle of borrowing money again when they run out of cash.

Then one time when he was scouting a location, something went wrong, and he missed it.

At that time, he already owed the loan company $194,000.

If they didn't come out within seven days, they would cut off my hand. That day was already the last day, and it was unrealistic to ask them for a few more days.

These people do whatever they want. If they were to grant leniency on their own, their business would be impossible to conduct.

In the end, Fat Mike paid off the debt for him.

Luke remembered that day he knelt in Fat Mike's basement, his knees hitting the moldy cement floor, his whole body trembling, his face covered in snot and tears.

Mike didn't look at him at the time; he was just sitting on the sofa eating fried chicken wings, wiping his greasy hands on the newspaper, and said, "I'll pay back the money for you. From now on, you'll stand behind me."

Luke didn't say anything, so Mike added another sentence.

"Remember, Fat Mike doesn't support idlers. If you get into trouble again, I won't save you a second time."

From then on, Luke stopped climbing the building. He became a sentry for Fat Mike, standing in the streets and alleys every morning at dawn, watching for any strangers approaching the casino and when the police car lights would appear.

He was no longer a thief; he became Fat Mike's eyes.

Mike covered $194,000 for him. Although he knew very well that Fat Mike wasn't doing charity, he was sure that Fat Mike knew his background and personality and knew that after investing money in him, he would most likely choose to follow him. This money wouldn't be wasted.

But he gave money, and that's money. Whether it was out of gratitude or a form of servitude, Luke didn't want to consider such questions.

The night Fat Mak died, he was still in the South District. He probably felt that as a thief, he wouldn't be of much use in a direct gang battle, so he didn't send him over.

After he found out about this, he dug his fingernails into his palm, creating several bloody grooves. At the time, he thought it would be better to just die in there together.

Luke shifted his gaze from the end of the alley back to the end.

"It's not just worth 100,000."

He paused under the brim of his hat.

"I owed Fat Mike a life before he was beaten to death."

"Instead of running away now, you're here going crazy with me. Don't ask me pointless questions like whether it's worth dying."

"You're just like me, it doesn't matter if it's money, feelings, or relatives."

The thin-faced man paused for a moment, his lips moved, but he didn't ask any further questions.

Luke took his hand out of his pocket and pointed his finger up along the cracks in the brickwork of the psychedelic cat's side wall.

"See that window on the second floor?"

The thin-faced man looked in the direction the finger was pointing. There was a vent on the second floor. The window frame was made of old aluminum alloy, and the waterproof sealant on the frame had dried and peeled off. The window was not closed tightly, and a faint light shone through.

A figure was carrying a plasterboard through the window; the shadow flickered on the glass and then disappeared.

"That window is connected to a ventilation duct. If we can pry off the sealant, the entire window frame can be removed without smashing it, and there won't be any noise."

Luke pulled his hand back.

"The ventilation duct leads to the private rooms on the second floor. Below the private rooms is a staircase, which can be used to break into the rooftop together."

"I've been here before and I know that the stairwell is narrow, only wide enough for two people to walk side by side. If there are guards inside, it's very difficult to attack from the front."

"But if someone sneaks in through the ventilation ducts and rooftop, reaches the stairwell, and takes out the person guarding the stairwell from behind, they can push directly from the front."

The woman with the thin face said in a low voice.

How many of them are there?

"There are about twenty right now, and we're still recruiting," Luke replied.

Luke sighed, then leaned against the side wall to stand up. The shadow under his hat grew heavier and heavier, completely blocking the light from the streetlights on the ground.

"Most of the twenty men looked like workers, not thugs."

"But the leader inside seems difficult to deal with, damn it," the thin-faced man said.

Luke looked away and pressed his hand down on the brim of his hat.

"I know."

He didn't say anything more, but pressed his body even closer to the damp brick wall and closed his eyes.

Construction noises emanated from inside the psychedelic cat, followed by a few more hammer blows, then the sharp hiss of an electric drill, before finally seeming to subside.

The streetlight flickered briefly at the entrance of the alley, probably due to an unstable wiring.