Taoist priest goes to America

Doyle strode over, with Ang Lee following behind him.

A few people noticed them, glanced over, and then quickly looked away; it wasn't unusual to see someone wearing a hood in this place.

Some people thought Ang Lee was some kind of special "entertainment project" and whistled at him, but Ang Lee ignored them.

At the far end of the hall stood a door, the same deep red as the walls, and an old man stood in the doorway. He was in his sixties, with gray hair, and wearing a black waistcoat.

His face was very thin, and his overall silhouette resembled a folded, long-handled umbrella—thin and straight.

His eyes glanced at Doyle, then moved to Ang Lee's hood, and finally returned to the bartender.

"Isya," the bartender spoke first, "Doyle has caught the person Mr. Rabbitface wants. His throat is injured and he can't speak, so he's in a hurry and dragged me here to find you."

Isya nodded slightly, his gaze falling on the bandage around Doyle's neck.

"Have you found the person?" Isya's tone was flat, like a machine without emotion.

Doyle nodded and scribbled a sentence in his notebook: "Where is Mr. Rabbit Face?"

"The master is in the basement. He's entertaining guests tonight."

Doyle wrote another sentence: "I want to see him. The man has been brought."

Isya stepped aside to let him through the door. "Come with me."

He pushed open the door, behind which was a downward staircase with wide steps covered with a dark gray carpet that made no sound when stepped on.

There is a wall lamp every few meters on both sides of the staircase. The light is dim, just enough to see the steps under your feet.

There was a strong fragrance in the air, like the scent of pine and rose, mixed with the sweet aroma of fruit as it begins to rot.

At the end of the stairs was a corridor covered with a red carpet, and on the walls on both sides of the corridor hung many oil paintings, which were portraits of men in military uniforms.

The portraits show people of all ages, but their faces are all similar: square chins, blue eyes, and downturned mouths—typical American features, clearly indicating they are from the same family.

"A military family..." Li An saw all this through Doyle's eyes and silently guessed the background of this rabbit-faced man.

As you walk further in, the walls on both sides of the corridor are no longer adorned with oil paintings, but instead with rows of glass cabinets. The items displayed in the cabinets are not works of art, but rather different rabbit masks.

The white, ceramic-textured rabbit head masks are all different; some have ferocious expressions, some are calm, some are laughing wildly, and some are crying. They are neatly arranged in the dim light, watching the people passing by in the corridor.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, the leather shoes making a crisp "tap, tap" sound on the marble floor.

At the end of the corridor was another door. Isya pushed the door open, and his voice escaped from the crack in the door.

This was a vast underground space with a high ceiling and crystal chandeliers hanging from it, the lighting dimmed to a dark red. Deep red velvet curtains draped the walls, revealing glimpses of gold wallpaper between them.

The floor was made of dark gray marble, polished like a mirror, reflecting the chandelier and people's images.

There were a dozen or so strippers, wearing only black thongs, drinking and swaying past Li An and his group, the liquor dripping from their chins to their chests.

Isya walked ahead without stopping; he saw these scenes every day.

He walked through the crowd, around an empty wine bottle lying on the carpet, stepped into a puddle of water of unknown liquid, and left a trail of wet footprints on the marble floor.

Doyle and the bartender followed behind him, while Ang Lee brought up the rear.

In the center of the basement was a large iron cage, divided into four smaller cages by steel bars about the thickness of a thumb. Inside each smaller cage were four iron chairs, the surfaces of which were painted black.

Next to the cage was an operating table, covered with a white sheet, on which was a large patch of dark red blood.

Next to the operating table was a shelf filled with tools: scalpels, bone saws, electric drills, forceps of various sizes, and expanders, all gleaming under the warm light.

But that's not what Ang Lee noticed. What he noticed was one of the four cages, inside which was a middle-aged man covered in bloody wounds, his wrists and ankles pinned to an iron chair, unable to move.

The middle-aged man wore a mask over his mouth and could only utter muffled sobs. His bloodied knees were kneeling on the cement floor, and he was crying with red eyes.

Standing not far from the middle-aged man was a man who was taking off his blood-stained leather jacket and putting on a white bathrobe.

He opened his bathrobe to his arms, revealing his thin back and ribs.

His hair was dark brown, sparse and plastered to his scalp, with some bald patches. He had a long face, a thin, protruding chin, and deep-set eyes, giving him the appearance of a sickly, dissolute man.

The man stared at the middle-aged man kneeling on the ground before him, his bulging eyes reflecting the man's terrified expression, as if admiring a work of art. As the man's fear intensified, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and he let out a comfortable groan.

"Holy shit..."

Ang Lee was shocked; this American really knows how to play the game.

When someone came in through the door, that person didn't stop or even turn around.

His voice was low, hoarse from long-term alcoholism, and he spoke breathlessly:

"Doyle, I heard you brought someone with you?"

"Oh? Is this the rabbit-faced guy?" Li An looked at his frenzied state with Doyle's eyes. "He really is a pervert."

The middle-aged man kneeling on the ground heard someone enter and made a series of "hmm" sounds. His fingers scratched at the ground, his nails scraping against the concrete with a sharp sound.

"Quiet," the man said, loosening the rope around his neck.

The middle-aged man immediately stopped moving in fear, only his rapid breathing remained.

"Oh... my dear friend." The black nylon rope was still hanging around the man's neck. He walked slowly over and stopped in front of Li An.

"Is this the gift you brought for me? My beloved, whom I've been longing for day and night."

He ripped off the black mask covering Li Anduo and carefully examined Li Anduo's face.

Doyle nodded, took out a small notebook from his pocket, turned to a blank page, and wrote a line: "Yes, this is the person you wanted, Mr. Rabbitface."

The bartender next to him was taken aback and was about to say something, but was stopped by Isya.

Mr. Rabbit Face wasn't looking at his notebook; his gaze remained fixed on Ang Lee. His nostrils flared twice, like a hunting dog tracking a scent. His lips parted slightly, and the tip of his tongue touched between his teeth.

"Oh, look at this cute face..." Mr. Rabbit Face reached out and stroked Li An's face, but Li An disgustedly shook his face away.

Mr. Rabbit Face opened his lips, pressed his tongue against his palate, and displayed extreme excitement on his face.

As Ang Lee turned his head to dodge the outstretched hand, his right hand had already touched the seam of the handcuffs.

Two fingers grip the handcuff ring; with a strong pull, it will break off just like last time.

At the same time, he gathered strength in his left hand, intending to deliver a chop to Mr. Rabbit Face's throat the moment he broke free of his restraints, shutting him up.

Before he could even make a move, a cold metal tube struck the back of his head.

The person pressing against the back of his head was standing too close; at that distance, even if he broke free of the handcuffs, he wouldn't have time to turn around and make a move.

"Don't move. If you turn your head even slightly, I'll blow it up."

It was Isya, the butler had somehow gotten hold of a gun, and the muzzle was pressed firmly against the back of his chest.

"Loca, control Doyle," Isya's voice came from behind Li An.

The bartender named Roca reacted quickly to the sudden turn of events. He lunged forward, slipped his hands under Doyle's armpits, grabbed Doyle's shoulders, and pressed his knees against the back of Doyle's knees, pulling and pressing Doyle backward.

Doyle lost his balance and fell backward, where he was pinned to the ground by Loca.

Doyle didn't struggle; he was waiting for Ang Lee's orders.

Ang Lee didn't move; he felt the coldness on the back of his head. How many times had a gun been pointed at his head tonight?