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

Meanwhile, in the "Red Square" nightclub in the East District, Igor slammed his satellite phone heavily onto the table, the plastic casing making a crisp sound.

"That old bastard Vladimir." Igor said, biting his cigar. Ashes fell onto his leather jacket, but he didn't bother to brush them off.

"It should be morning in Moscow right now. He's probably sitting in a heated room eating caviar and drinking vodka on the rocks." Igor opened a drawer, took out a bottle of whiskey, bit off the cork with his teeth, and poured himself half a glass.

"What did he say?" Gregory, sitting in the shadows opposite, asked.

He was still wearing that impeccably tailored black suit, his hands gloved and folded over his knees.

"What could he say?" Igor tilted his head back and gulped down the liquor, wincing from the spiciness.

"He said, 'Igor, you are the head of Seattle, and I trust your judgment. If you think that Lyon is an invincible devil, then do as he says. If you think we can still fight, then don't embarrass the Russians.'"

Igor slammed his glass on the table.

As the true mastermind of a transnational criminal organization, Vladimir's core drug supply, financial network, and armed base are all located in Eastern Europe.

For him, the Seattle branch was essentially just a sales outlet and a cash machine. They had no roots in Seattle and it was virtually impossible for them to break away from his headquarters there.

So no matter who is the second-in-command here, as long as the money is still paid, he doesn't care at all, and is even happy to see his subordinates fighting among themselves to maintain balance.

But his arrogant and condescending attitude created a blind spot. He thought the worst outcome would be the Seattle branch being shut down by the police, never imagining that Leon's real purpose was to take over his gang.

"Listen to this bullshit! What the hell does 'we'll see' even mean?"

"If I agree to that policeman's request to shut down the drug trade, and I lose hundreds of thousands or even millions in profits every month, he'll definitely come after me!"

"If I don't agree, that madman will twist my head off, and he can just replace me with someone else!"

Gregory frowned and calmly watched Igor vent his anger.

"The deadline is tonight," Gregory reminded him.

"Yesterday afternoon I accompanied him on a patrol of the neighborhood. He made his point clear, and I also agreed to give him those two old warehouses."

"Give it to him? You're practically giving it to him!"

The door to the private room was suddenly pushed open roughly from the outside.

Three burly men walked in, exuding a chill and a pungent smell of marijuana.

The leader was Boris, who used to be a prison guard in Siberia, specializing in leading people to grow potatoes. Now he was the gang's leader in charge of handling "dirty meat".

Following him were Ska and Anton, two KGB henchmen with sunken eyes from long-term methamphetamine use. "Igor, everyone's saying you're going to be that American cop Leon's dog?" Boris strode to the desk, placed his hands on the surface, and stared down at Igor.

His words were laced with hostility, whether it was his true intention or a subconscious reaction, his remarks were a probing and coercive act.

His actions were intended to deliberately provoke Igor, causing Igor to make an impulsive and wrong decision, so that he could seize power.

Boris exhaled a heavy breath from his nostrils, a mixture of alcohol and drugs.

Igor leaned back in his chair, his eyes turning cold. If he couldn't see through such a trick at a glance, he would never have become the second-in-command of the Eastern European gang.

"Boris, has your brain been fried by all that chemical waste? Didn't you know to knock before coming in?"

"The door's broken, just like our current rules," Scar said nervously, rubbing his hands together, his knuckles cracking.

"Igor, that cop told us to shut down the drug trade! He cut off the whole lion's share! What are we going to eat then? The rats on the streets of Seattle?"

"This is a disgrace!" Boris slammed his fist on the table.

"We came here in the 1990s, armed with guns, fighting Mexicans for territory and engaging in shootouts with Black people. It was only with great difficulty that we finally have the business we have today."

"Now, some cop who just appeared out of nowhere says a single sentence, and we're forced to give up the most lucrative opportunity?"

Please visit...to see the latest chapter! Address: dEqixs.oRg Boris stared with bloodshot eyes, his gaze shifting to Gregory.

"And you, Gregory! You old spy!"

"You were acting like a tour guide with that lunatic yesterday, did he promise to hand over the entire drug business to you?"

Gregory slowly stood up, walked up to Boris, and stared at him as if he were a dead object.

"Boris, have you lost even the most basic judgment due to drug use?"

Gregory's voice carried a chilling undertone.

"You think Lyon is trying to steal our drug business? You think he's trying to take our territory?"

"Isn't that right?!" Scar shouted.

"He slaughtered all the Mexicans! We originally wanted to cooperate with him, but he clearly had no such intention. Now it's our turn!"

"If Igor doesn't dare to make a move, tonight I'll take a few men to his lousy library, throw a few grenades in, and blow those bastards to smithereens!"

"You're welcome to try," Gregory sneered.

"Do you know what he was doing when we were fighting in the streets the night before last? After we reviewed it, we found that he was able to take on more than a dozen sentries and blow the heads off all the Mexican leaders in a matter of seconds." Gregory turned around and looked at Igor.

"Igor, they can't understand it, but you should be able to. I followed him all the way yesterday, and the more I looked at it, the more chills I felt down my spine."

"He got those homeless people to fix water pipes and connect electrical wires, and organized bankrupt construction workers and veterans with daily wages."

"He's even doing population registration! He knows how many people on each street can fix cars and how many can drive forklifts!"

"He's clearly not just grabbing territory."

Gregory pointed to the ceiling.

"Gangs only fight over territory to collect protection money and sell followers, but he doesn't want protection money or sell followers."

"He registered an NGO with the city hall and is now preparing to take on government contracts for sanitation and maintenance outsourcing."

Gregory paused, seemingly searching for the right words.

"We've seen this model before back in our hometown, so you definitely understand what it means."

The basement was silent for a few seconds. Boris was breathing heavily, seemingly not understanding Gregory's long-winded speech; he only understood that drugs couldn't be sold.

"I don't care what he's up to!" Boris drew his pistol and slammed it on the table. "Igor, if you hand over the drug business, the brothers won't recognize you as their boss anymore! We have to take him down tonight, or else..."

Before he could finish speaking, Igor pulled out a Glock from the drawer without warning and pressed the muzzle directly against Boris's chin.

The movements were so fast that Boris didn't even have time to react.

"What else?" Igor stood up, pointing his gun upwards, forcing Boris to look up.

"Boris, do you really think I wouldn't dare kill you?"

Igor's eyes were fierce.

"You think I don't know what you bunch of good-for-nothings are plotting behind the scenes? You're trying to provoke me into fighting Leon to the death. If I die, you can take over my position and continue selling your rotten medicine!"

"Igor...don't be impulsive..." Scar took a step back in fright.

"Shut up!" Igor roared.

He stared into Boris's eyes.

"Do you think we can survive tonight if I don't agree to his offer?"

"That monster doesn't need to fight us head-on. With his combat power, if he were willing to lower himself and make his move while you're sleeping, none of us would have a chance of surviving!" Igor slowly put away his gun, but his eyes remained fierce.

"Get out of here. If I hear of anyone else causing trouble at the library, I'll personally stuff them into the meat grinder."

Boris gritted his teeth, glared fiercely at Gregory, grabbed the gun on the table, and stormed out with Scar and Anton.

The basement was quiet again.

Igor slumped back into his chair and downed the remaining half-glass of whiskey in one gulp.

He rubbed his throbbing temples and remained silent for a long time.

"You've made up your mind?" Gregory sat back down in his chair.

"Do I have any other choice?" Igor gave a bitter smile.

He took out his cigar box, lit one, and the smoke swirled in the dim light.

"Gregory, do you remember when we first came to America?"

Igor stared at the ceiling.

"In the 1990s, my hometown was completely ruined. Those of us who had served in the military couldn't get our pay and couldn't afford bread." "We came here from overseas, thinking there was gold everywhere, but we could only work as thugs and sell harmful powders in the slums."

Igor took a big puff of his cigar.

"I've done bad things for twenty years, and I'm not ashamed of doing it for money. As long as I can eat steak, I don't care if those Americans die of drug addiction on the street."

He lowered his head and looked at his hands.

"But I am a former soldier after all. If I have the chance not to sell that stuff, I can still make money..." Igor's voice lowered.

"You mean Lyon is planning to take on municipal projects? To buy up foreclosed properties at rock-bottom prices?"

"Yes." Gregory nodded.

"He has connections with the police and a legitimate NGO. If we follow him, launder the identities of our capable subordinates, and work together to obtain legal contracts..." Igor quickly did the math in his mind.

Drug profits are indeed high, but the risks are also great. You also have to deal with the DEA, the FBI, and Mexicans who could shoot out at any time, even though they are now dead.

However, if you switch careers and work with Lyon in the gray market, making money from the city hall, it's not only safe, but you can even gain access to the city hall.

These people have long lived on the margins overseas, constantly on the edge of danger. Faced with the temptation of legally settling down in Lyon, simply changing their boss is indeed the best solution.

Vladimir was indifferent to his side's fate and didn't care about their lives, so naturally they had no reason to continue fighting for Moscow. Besides, he had no chance of winning against a monster like Lyon.

Rather than being forced into this situation by Lyon, it's more accurate to say that deep down, Igor was already tired of this precarious gangster life and was simply making excuses for himself.

As for Lyon, he didn't actually expect to win over the Eastern European gang by banning drugs. It was an unexpected gain from the internal chaos and power struggles within the Eastern European gang.

"I was coerced," Igor suddenly said, looking at Gregory as if trying to convince himself.

"Without Vladimir making a clear statement, these idiots below are going to rebel again. I had no choice but to bow down to that madman in order to save my brothers' lives."

Gregory looked at him, his eyes showing some understanding, but he didn't expose him.

"I will convey your decision to him."

"Tell him." Igor stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, his eyes hardening.

"The Eastern European gang has agreed to cut off the drug network in the East District. Before dawn tomorrow, I will cut off all the distribution channels I have."

"But in exchange, he has to take us on his NGO's ship."

"Understood." Gregory stood up and buttoned his suit jacket.

"Those guys from Boris..." Gregory stopped at the door. "I'll handle it." Igor's tone returned to the coldness of a mob boss.

"Since we've decided to cooperate with that monster even after the shootout, we need to offer something as a token of our loyalty. Those brain-damaged idiots are perfect for proving our sincerity to him."

Gregory nodded upon hearing this, pushed open the door, and stepped into the cold night.

……

Just as the Eastern European gang decided to follow Lyon, Horowitz parked his beat-up Ford on the edge of 7th Street in the East End, wrapped his gray trench coat tighter, and began walking, once again entering this neighborhood rumored to be occupied by the "Portland Gang".

He first crossed through the territory of the Eastern European group.

The place was still the same as always. Under the streetlights, a few drug addicts were huddled, convulsing. The alley reeked of urine. Occasionally, two bulletproof SUVs would drive past, their windows revealing dark gun barrels.

That's just how American gangsters are; Horowitz's used to it.

But as he crossed the intersection of Ninth Street, entering the area supposedly controlled by the Portland mob, his view suddenly opened up, and the scene changed abruptly.

The broken glass and syringes that were scattered all over the floor have disappeared.

The trash cans on the street corner were cleaned up, and even the graffiti was mostly covered up with gray paint.

Several homeless men in tattered coats were lined up, sweeping up sludge from a sewer drain. Next to them stood a tall man wearing a woolen hat and a worn camouflage jacket.

The man had a gun on his lower back, but he wasn't holding it directly in his hand. Instead, he was holding a steaming cup of coffee, standing ramrod straight, his eyes scanning the passing vehicles like radar.

Horowitz stopped and stood there stunned for a full ten seconds.

In his sixties, he had seen all sorts of gangs: Italians liked to form families, Mexicans liked to behead, and Russians liked to use RPGs.

But he had never seen any gang that, after taking over territory, first organize homeless people to sweep the streets.

Horowitz rubbed his eyes again; the scene made his heart, which had been dormant for over thirty years, clench violently.

The discipline and the atmosphere of labor reform were just like the Soviet communities he had seen in Siberia back then!

He took a deep breath, adjusted the muscles in his face, put on a bewildered and slightly lewd old man's expression, and slowly moved closer to the man in the camouflage jacket.

"Hey buddy." Horowitz pulled a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, took one out, and handed it to him. "Want one?"

The man turned his head and stared at him coldly. His eyes lacked the arrogance of a street thug; instead, they appeared somewhat numb, as if he had already seen through life and death.

"I don't smoke." The man's voice was hoarse and had a heavy Texas accent.

He was one of the veterans who joined the Lyon NGOs with Griffin's group, and now he was a junior squad leader in the East District street patrol team. "Okay, healthy living." Horowitz put the cigarette back in his mouth, lit it himself, and exhaled a puff of smoke.

"I came from the north. I heard there's a new owner here, and I'm looking for some fun. Where do you guys sell drugs? Or do you know, strip clubs?"

The man sized up Horowitz, noticing his trench coat, messy hair, and obviously older age.

"Old man, at your age you still need to buy drugs and hire strippers? Did you come all this way just to get yourself killed?" The man pointed to a homeless man sweeping the floor not far away.

"We don't have any powder here, nor do we have any naked women."

"If you want to have some fun, go back to the North District and find those capitalist lackeys. If you're starving, grab a broom and clean up that garbage dump over there. I'll give you a note so you can get a bowl of potato porridge with meat at the library in front."

Horowitz's hand, holding the cigarette, froze in mid-air.

"Potato puree?" he asked tentatively. "Aren't you guys from the Portland mob? What are you doing as social workers?"

"Gangs?" The man sneered and took a sip of coffee.