Taoist priest goes to America

The tall, thin man cleared his throat. "Not yet... We're on our way to pick him up."

"That boss, this Qiguer... we've investigated his background, but we can't find anything..."

"I heard he has no name, no address, and no social connections."

"People in the industry say he doesn't take orders from ordinary people. He only considers one thing when accepting an order: whether he's interested in it."

The tall, thin man swallowed hard. "We heard that he once traveled across three states for two months to pursue someone."

"It's not because that person is hard to find, it's because he wants to take it slow; he enjoys the process."

The short, stocky man chimed in, "Also, he was caught once in West Texas. I heard that while he was being held in custody, he took advantage of the police not looking, dug out a razor hidden in his eye socket, and used it to cut open the policeman's throat..."

Ischus interrupted, "He has his own rules. He doesn't listen to others."

"You give him a goal, and he does it in his own way. You can't ask, you can't rush, and you can't interfere."

Ishers lowered his voice, "This guy is interesting, but I don't want to mess with him at all."

"Why?" The tall, thin man and the short, stocky man were greatly shocked. "There are people you don't want to play with?"

"Because he has a kind of feeling that is the same as me, no, even more morbid than me."

"I only met him once, and the look in his eyes made me so disgusted that I got goosebumps."

"When he turned his face, his eyes were staring straight at me like a black goat eating chicks."

Ishes gritted his teeth: "Just tell him that as long as he can find that Dong Daren, that's all that matters. It doesn't matter what method he uses."

"Take him to that guy from Tokyo University and tell him that money is not a problem."

The short, stocky man nodded. "Understood, boss."

He hung up the phone, and the SUV turned into a narrow road without streetlights, flanked by abandoned warehouses with graffiti sprayed on the corrugated iron walls.

At the end of the road was an open iron gate, and it was pitch black inside.

The tall, thin man turned off the engine, exchanged a glance with the short, stocky man, and then got out of the car.

Deep inside the warehouse was a folding chair, and a person was sitting in it.

His jet-black bangs fell across his forehead, and the hair on both sides covered his ears, clinging to his head like a wig.

His face was thin, and his skin had a sickly look, as if he had just come out of a cellar.

The eyes were the most unsettling part; they were deep brown, expressionless, devoid of anger or pity.

He never blinked, dressed in dark casual clothes, a white shirt buttoned all the way up, black trousers, and gleaming black lace-up shoes. He maintained an unsettling neatness, as if he had just risen from an embalming table in a funeral home.

Two henchmen stood at the doorway, not venturing inside. The taller, thinner one spoke, "Mr. Chigurh, our boss wants us to take you to a target."

"We've located him at a hotel near Flatbush Avenue."

The man didn't move; his eyes were fixed on the darkness ahead, as if he were looking at something.

The short, stocky man pulled a photo out of his pocket, placed it on the ground, and pushed it forward with his toes.

"This is his photo. A student from Tokyo University, in his twenties. We don't know his name, but he's dangerous."

One night, he appeared in several places in Brooklyn, and people died wherever he went. Brownsville and Queens were among the places he left his mark. Our boss's brother was killed by him, and he even blew up our boss's villa." The short, stocky man paused, waiting for the other man's response.

The man stood up from his chair, walked to the photo, bent down, and picked it up.

He looked at the photo for a while, then stuffed it into his pocket. Then he looked up at the two people standing in the doorway and spoke.

Where is he?

When he spoke, the corners of his mouth almost never turned up or down. His entire face resembled an unpainted human skin mask, each feature fulfilling its function.

The tall, thin man breathed a sigh of relief. "Flatbusch Avenue, Northland Hotel. We can take you there now—"

The man raised a hand, made a shushing gesture, and shut his tall, thin mouth.

"I'll go myself," the man said. He picked up the black leather bag from the chair, then bent down and took something out of the glove box next to him: a silver cylindrical gas canister with a thin tube attached to the top, and a pointed nozzle at the end of the tube.

He squeezed the gas canister, put it in the black bag, and weighed it down with his leather bag. Then he extended his hand to the two men.

"Give me your car keys."

The tall, thin man was startled by the man's stare and immediately placed the Chevrolet SUV car keys in the man's hands.

The man walked toward the warehouse entrance, passing his two henchmen without even glancing at them.

His footsteps echoed through the empty warehouse, one after another, growing ever more distant.

The two henchmen stood there, looking at each other in bewilderment. The shorter, stockier one opened his mouth as if to say something, but said nothing.

They followed the man out of the warehouse and walked to the black Chevrolet SUV, where they saw him open the car door and place his briefcase on the passenger seat.

The short, stocky man strode forward. "Mr. Chigurh, we'll go with you. We're very familiar with that area."

"It's not that we doubt your abilities, but this guy from Dongda University is very difficult to deal with. We can lend you a hand."

The man turned around and looked at the short, stocky man, whose brown eyes gleamed dimly in the darkness.

He reached into his bag with his right hand and pulled out a pistol with a black silencer already screwed on. He gripped the gun with his left hand, the muzzle pointing downwards.

"You want to help me?" The man's tone was strange; he was asking someone a question, but his tone sounded like he was stating something.

The short, stocky man nodded, but before he could speak, the first bullet struck him in the forehead. There was no sound, only a soft "thud," like someone punching a pillow.

The short, stocky body fell backward, slid down against the car door, and remained motionless against the tire.

The tall, thin man was stunned. He hadn't yet reacted. What was going on? Why would Mr. Chigur suddenly kill someone?

However, Chigur didn't give him a chance to react. He turned the gun around and the second bullet hit the tall, thin man's forehead.

The tall, thin man stared in disbelief as blood gushed from his head. He fell backward onto the ground, face up, and remained motionless.

The man holstered the pistol and stuffed it back into his bag. He bent down and pulled the cell phone from the tall, thin hand.

The screen was still lit, and there was an unnamed number in the call log. He pressed the redial button and turned on speakerphone.

The phone rang twice before being answered. Ishes's hoarse voice came through the other end, "How is it? Did you see Chigur?"

The man did not answer.

Ishes waited two seconds. "Feed?"

"You need something from me?" The man's voice was flat.

Ishes fell silent. "Chigur?"

"Two of your men are dead. They wanted to help me, but I don't need anyone else's help; bringing two more people would be too much trouble."

Ishes exhaled heavily, his voice more urgent than before. "You already know the target's location. Find him, take care of him. Name your price."

Two million.

"Can."

Chigur hung up the phone and threw it on the ground. He opened the driver's side door, got in, and started the engine.

The headlights came on, casting beams of light on the road ahead. He took the photo out of his pocket, glanced at it, and placed it on the dashboard.

He then shifted gears and stepped on the gas, the gray sedan driving onto the highway towards Brooklyn. His hands rested on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping lightly.

In the passenger seat, Ang Lee and Chigurh are looking at each other in the photo.

The car passed under the bridge, heading south towards Flatbush Avenue. On the dashboard, a silver coin, placed beside the photograph sometime during the night, glittered in the streetlights.