America: Starting from collecting corpses, leveling up to godhood

Chapter 99 The Feast at Hongmen

"Also—if I were you, I would call Chad."

Elena wiped the wasabi off her hands with a tissue and casually suggested it.

"Why bother with him? To use him as a negative example, to demonstrate how to drive a car into a cactus patch?"

"You can laugh at his driving skills, but you can't question his family background—his dad owns a local news station in Los Angeles." Elena raised an eyebrow.

"One of the most popular TV shows in California is the aerial footage of the LAPD confronting drug dealers on the highway, and he owns several aerial helicopters equipped with high-definition night vision devices."

She patted Chen Ming's arm.

"Chad idolizes you now. If you just ask, you can borrow a helicopter to do a live broadcast of the match from a God's-eye view in the desert without any problem—with that, the popularity of the match can double."

"He's still useful, huh? —" Chen Ming nodded thoughtfully, making a mental note of it.

After chatting for a while, the two parted ways outside the exhibition hall. Chen Ming hailed an Uber, got into the back seat, and dialed Mike's number.

"How's the situation—does your boss think my suggestion is enough to buy a few dozen beers?"

"He felt he could buy an entire brewery."

"7

On the other end of the phone, Mike's voice was a mix of the sounds of billiard balls hitting the ground and heavy metal rock music.

"I've already arranged for the site survey and perimeter cordon to be set up. The scaffolding can be erected, and there shouldn't be any major problems with cooperation."

Mike paused, his tone becoming serious.

"However, with so much equipment, how will the costs be spread out, and how will the profits from the illegal operation be divided, for the black market doctor and his brothers who have worked so hard?"

These things can't be explained clearly over the phone.

"so what?"

"You need to come to our gang's club for a meeting tomorrow night, where we'll finalize the rules and accounts in person."

7

Mike revealed his true purpose.

Going to a meeting at a gang's headquarters?

Chen Ming leaned back in his leather seat, a cold smile playing on his lips.

Having lived a Chinese life in his previous life, he was all too familiar with this kind of invitation.

The classic "Feast at Hongmen".

The heavy motorcycle gang, who make a living by licking blood in the desert, would never obediently sit down and calculate costs with an Asian man driving a food truck—this so-called meeting was 100% prepared with dozens of guns and baseball bats, intending to test his background and strength, and squeeze his profit share to the limit.

But Chen Ming did not intend to refuse.

"Sure," Chen Ming said casually, as if he were simply agreeing to go to Starbucks for a coffee.

"Send me your address, I'll be there tomorrow night—I hope you can treat me with some sincerity."

"Don't worry, it will definitely leave a deep impression on you."

Mike hung up the phone.

Chen Ming put down his phone and pinched his muscular arm through his clothes.

Let's test the waters then.

He was somewhat confident in his abilities.

The following evening, the setting sun baked the barren land on the edge of the desert red.

Chen Ming's Ford food truck bumped along the potholed dirt road before finally coming to a stop outside a car park fenced off with barbed wire.

This is the address provided by the Iron Horse Gang.

Through the windshield, you can see a dozen or so dilapidated RVs and heavy Harley motorcycles parked haphazardly inside. Seven or eight shirtless, tattooed white men are grilling meat around discarded gasoline drums, with several barking pit bulls tied up nearby.

A typical biker gang stronghold on the California fringe.

"Chen—does your appearance fee include compensation for the deceased's family?"

In the passenger seat, Sofia looked somewhat nervous, clutching a briefcase containing ledgers and a calculator.

"I'm just an accountant—and these guys look like they've just finished two pounds of meth and are ready to shove someone's head into an exhaust pipe."

"Don't worry, just focus on calculating the venue fee and personnel expenses with them, as long as the accounts are balanced."

Chen Ming patted the heavy bulletproof vest he was wearing under his shirt—after it was damaged last time, he had roughly repaired it with tape and a new insert.

He had a Glock tucked into his lower back, along with two unused M84 stun grenades from last time.

"What if they want to have their fortune told instead of keeping accounts?" Sophia swallowed.

"Leave that to us."

A crisp cocking sound came from the back row.

Old Joe, wearing a messy baseball cap, peeked halfway out of the shadows.

He was wearing a tactical vest today as well, and carrying a Remington M870, looking as if he were going to fight a counterinsurgency war in the Middle East.

"Old Joe, you didn't actually need to come." Chen Ming glanced at the fully armed veteran through the rearview mirror.

"Stop talking nonsense. I need to make money too. I'm putting all my money into your investment in my shooting range and my retirement fund for the rest of my life." He unusually put an expensive cigar into his mouth.

"I've dealt with these biker gangs for over a decade. They're a bunch of cowardly slugs who bully the weak and fear the strong. Having an extra shotgun at least makes them think twice before flipping the table."

"Alright then." Chen Ming didn't try to persuade him any further.

Pushing open the car door, the three of them stepped over the beer cans scattered on the ground and headed deeper into the camp.

The members of the Iron Horse Gang around them stopped what they were doing and cast malicious glances at them. Whistles rose and fell, and when they saw Sophia, several thugs even made extremely lewd gestures.

"Keep your mouths shut, or I'll help you close them."

Old Joe leveled his Remington, the muzzle of which intentionally or unintentionally swept across a few thugs.

Soon, Mike emerged from the largest double-decker extendable RV in the camp.

He wasn't wearing a leather vest today, but a black tight-fitting tank top, his muscles bulging out. His gaze swept over Chen Ming, Sophia, and Old Joe.

"Why bring a woman and an old man who's about to die?" Mike asked, somewhat puzzled.

"Are you here for a meeting, or to have a family dinner?"

"She's in charge of the accounting, and he's in charge of listening in." Chen Ming walked forward without changing his expression.

"Where's your boss? I'm in a hurry."

"The boss is waiting for you inside." Mike stepped aside and pointed to the slightly ajar door of the RV.

"But according to the rules—" He suddenly reached out and blocked Chen Ming's chest, his eyes fixed on his bulging trench coat.

"But you have to leave your weapons here before you see the boss. You can't just bring guns in here."

As soon as he finished speaking, a dozen or so members of the Iron Horse Gang surrounded him in perfect unison, some carrying crowbars and others pressing them against the gun handles at their waists.

The atmosphere instantly plummeted to freezing point.

Chen Ming didn't even lift his eyelids, but just stared coldly at the microphone blocking his way.

"Since you don't even have this much sincerity in treating your guests, then let's not hold this meeting anymore—let's go."

He said this and made a gesture as if to turn around.

Mike's face darkened, and he was about to explode.

"Splash!"

Old Joe deftly raised his Remington M870 to a horizontal position, pointing the muzzle directly at the head of the thug closest to him who was holding a crowbar.

"Don't force me to turn this place into your graveyard!" Old Joe roared, his bloodshot eyes wide open, looking like a desperate outlaw ready to open fire at any moment.

Seeing this, the surrounding Iron Horse Gang members also drew their guns, and more than a dozen pistols of various calibers and homemade shotguns were all pointed at Chen Ming and his two companions.

Before we even entered the room, the situation was already on the verge of escalating.

The standoff lasted less than ten seconds.

"Bang!"

The RV door was kicked open from the inside.

"Get the fuck out of here!"

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