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

If you could only read one urban novel in your life, it would probably be "Why are you, a beautiful policewoman, always thinking about going back to the East?"

Two o'clock in the afternoon. In the underground room of a strip club called Pink Swan in Seattle's West Side.

The ceiling above was trembling slightly from the onslaught of heavy metal rock music from the first floor, and the screams of the enthusiastic drinkers and the vibrations from the steel pipe stage could be faintly heard.

However, in stark contrast to the decadent and chaotic scene outside, the atmosphere in this windowless underground chamber was so heavy it seemed to drip water.

The air was filled with the strong aroma of Cuban cigar smoke and the wonderful smell of fermented whiskey.

In the center of the room, Darrell and two other powerful minor leaders of the West Side Blood Gang were sitting around a large round table.

The fourth person was temporarily unavailable and therefore did not attend.

Sitting to Darrell's left was Jimmy, the owner of the strip club, nicknamed "Old Fox."

He was in his fifties, his hair was slicked back with hair gel, and he wore a wine-red suit that looked expensive but was actually tasteless. He had a thin cigarette between his fingers. He was a sly old fox in the gang who was in charge of coordinating the sex trade and underground strip clubs.

Sitting on the right is a mountain of flesh, nicknamed "Fat Mike".

This guy weighs nearly 300 pounds, and half of the gold chain around his neck is buried in fat.

He chewed on the fried chicken pieces on his plate while tapping the table with his greasy fingers.

He controlled more than half of the underground casinos and loan sharking businesses in the West District.

At this moment, these big shots were pointing at a West Side street map on the table, fiercely debating how to redefine the territory, how to take over the most profitable powder banks left by Marcus before his death, and even renegotiating the proportion of gang funds to be handed over each month.

In a dark corner at the very edge of the secret room.

Trey was all alone, tucked away in a single sofa.

His current appearance is absolutely miserable.

His head was wrapped in thick white bandages, and his left shoulder was tightly strapped in. He looked like a mummy that had just been dug out of a coffin, and could only sit slumped in an awkward position with his neck crooked.

Trey coldly watched the bigwigs arguing heatedly at the table, his face flushed, while inwardly cursing them furiously.

Those sons of bitches!

He was, after all, a hero who had "risked his life to protect the boss," but these old guys treated him like a mere mascot the moment they sat down.

They didn't even inquire about his injuries, nor did they offer any words of comfort. Instead, they brazenly began dividing up Marcus's inheritance right in front of him!

Although he didn't actually cover for the boss.

"Fine, argue, fight. Keep a record of everything you've eaten," Trey thought with a sinister smile. "Once I've caught my breath thanks to the Mexicans, the first thing I'll do is stuff all of you old bastards into a meat grinder and chop you into mincemeat!"

"Bang!"

Just then, Darrell slammed his hand on the table, interrupting the argument between old fox Jimmy and fat Mike about the ownership of two blocks.

"Shut the hell up, we'll talk about the territory later!"

Darrell's scarred face was contorted with rage from lack of sleep. He glanced around, then gritted his teeth and cut to the chase:

"Although I safely delivered the boss's body to old man O'Connor's place last night, and the scene was cleaned up."

"However, the boss hasn't shown up for over twenty-four hours, nor has he answered any calls!"

"Some people in the gang have already smelled blood. Especially that mad dog Lamar!"

Upon hearing the name Lamar, the faces of old fox Jimmy and fat Mike instantly turned ugly, with fat Mike even stopping chewing his fried chicken.

Lamar is a rising star leader of the West Side Blood Gang, who has only emerged in the last two years.

He was only in his early twenties, an extremely irritable, greedy, and utterly unscrupulous madman.

Unlike Darrell and other old-school gangsters who value rules and balance of interests, Lamar's gang consists entirely of underage black hooligans around fifteen or sixteen years old, whose brains are not yet fully developed.

These underage kids don't care about any code of honor. To buy the latest pair of Air Jordan sneakers, or to show off on short video platforms, they dare to take Glocks equipped with repeating sears and automatic rifles and go on a shooting spree at a crossroads in broad daylight.

Lamar had long been dissatisfied with Marcus and had provoked him openly and covertly on several occasions.

"This morning, Lamar's men started crossing the border."

Darrell took a deep breath, suppressing his anger:

"His gang of bastards, driving two stolen Kia sedans, sped right up to a street corner where one of my small-scale dealerships was located, and stole $20,000 worth of my goods!"

"He's testing the boss's life!"

"If Lamar confirms that the boss is dead, this mad dog will definitely launch an all-out war immediately, turning the entire West Side into a sieve to seize territory!"

Darrell glanced at his hands with lingering fear:

"Our current alliance has more men and guns, but if we really fight a full-scale war with those reckless brats, the losses will be astronomical. What's even more critical is..."

Darrell swallowed hard, the image of those cold, stagnant, steel-gray eyes from the funeral home backyard flashing involuntarily into his mind last night.

He shivered, his voice weak:

"If we make too much noise, we'll definitely attract that mad dog cop Leon Vance who's got C4 on him."

"That guy dared to bomb a six-story unfinished building. If we're not fully prepared and he targets us, we'll all be dead!"

Upon hearing Leon's name, the atmosphere in the secret room became even more oppressive.

Everyone saw the results of the anti-terrorism operation in the news a couple of days ago, and nobody wants to provoke that scoundrel.

Just then, the old fox Jimmy suddenly started chuckling.

He slowly took a drag of the slender cigarette, exhaled a smoke ring, and revealed a sinister smile:

"Darrell, you're just too tense. What's so difficult about dealing with a brainless idiot like Lamar?"

"Why risk your life yourself?"

Jimmy pointed to the ceiling with the finger holding the cigarette.

"Are we giving those patrol officers and sergeants at the West Precinct so much money every month just to buy them coffins?"

"Give Williams, or Inspector Connor, a call!"

"Spend some money and leak the addresses of Lamar's underground warehouses where he hides heavy weaponry, munitions, and flour to the cops."

"Let the police deal with them!"

"By borrowing my money, under the guise of a legitimate crackdown on organized crime, we can arrest Lamar and his gang of bastards and throw them all in jail without shedding a drop of blood—we won't even need to waste a single bullet!"

Darrell and Fat Mike's eyes lit up instantly upon hearing this.

"Brilliant! You old fox, you're still the most cunning one!"

Fat Mike slapped his thigh excitedly, his fat face jiggling:

"This is how our top brass should operate. Didn't Boss Marcus always do this? Sending the cops to bite our enemies—perfect!"

Darrell nodded in agreement, his gloom vanishing.

"I'll call Williams right now."

Darrell confidently pulled an anonymous cell phone from his pocket, a device he used specifically to contact corrupt cops.

To demonstrate to the other bigwigs the close relationship between himself and the police, he deliberately pressed the speakerphone button and placed his phone in the center of the round table.

"Beep...beep...beep..."

The phone rang for a long time.

The call rang for almost a minute, and just as Darrell was about to hang up, thinking the other party was unavailable, the call was finally answered.

However, before Darrell could even speak, a jarring, noisy background sound came from the phone's speaker.

"Beep beep beep—!" The sound of cars honking their horns frantically.

"Oh God bless you, officer, you are such a good man," an old woman said gratefully, her voice trembling.

"Beep—! Back up! That Ford! It's over the line! Back up!"

Accompanied by the sharp sound of a police siren, the roar of patrol sergeant Williams came through the phone; he sounded like he was in the middle of a noisy road.

Darrell paused for a moment, but still greeted him in a familiar tone:

"Hey Williams, my good buddy. So busy?"

"Any free? I'd like to treat you to a nice cup of coffee, and while I'm at it, I'll give you a crucial lead. I have the location of that mad dog Lamar's armory in the West End, all you have to do is..."

"Damn it, drinking coffee!!!"

Before Darrell could finish speaking, Williams on the other end of the phone reacted as if he had swallowed a live mouse in broad daylight, his voice instantly splitting into two tremors of fear and rage.

"Who the hell are you?! I don't know you, and don't you dare call me again!"

"I'm currently directing traffic at the Fourth Avenue intersection. I just helped an elderly woman and a pregnant woman cross the street!"

Williams' heavy breathing came through the phone:

"I'm a good cop who swears allegiance to the U.S. Constitution and serves the American people wholeheartedly. I swear I will never take a single penny of bribes!"

"If you, you damn gangster scum, dare call this number again, I'll take my entire squad of patrol officers in riot gear tonight and raid your strip club! I'll shove you down the toilet and flush you away!! Get out!!!"

"Snapped!"

With a loud bang, the phone was abruptly disconnected, and the sound of the phone being smashed against the asphalt could even be heard.

"Beep...beep...beep..."

A dial tone came from the hands-free speaker.

The underground chamber fell into a deathly silence.

Darrell's mouth gaped open, his confident smile frozen in place, his entire body as stiff as a black statue.

Old fox Jimmy didn't even notice the cigarette burning his fingers. Fat Mike's half-eaten fried chicken fell with a "thud" onto his crotch.

Even Trey, who was sitting in the corner watching coldly, was so shocked that his jaw almost dislocated.

What's going on?!

The three powerful gang leaders stared intently at the cell phone on the table, as if it were an alien communicator, utterly bewildered.

Williams, a corrupt cop in the Seattle West Precinct.

Directing traffic in the cold wind at a crossroads?!

Helping an elderly lady cross the street?!

He even went so far as to declare, with unwavering conviction, that he was a good police officer sworn to the Constitution and would never accept bribes?!

Is the world fucking destroyed?! Is God going to descend upon Seattle tomorrow and flood it?!

After a brief moment of stunned silence, Darrell and the others were instantly drenched in cold sweat and gripped by panic.

For some reason, the police were willing to brave the cold wind on the street to help the old lady rather than mention the cooperation, completely cutting off all contact with them.

What does this mean?

This means that the protective umbrella they built within the Seattle Police Department at a cost of tens of thousands of dollars has collapsed!

They're like people standing naked in the snow, completely exposed!

"Fuck!"

Drenched in sweat, Darrell grabbed his phone from the table and smashed it against the wall, shattering it into pieces.

"The cops have gone mad; we can't count on them!"

Darrell glared at Jimmy and Fat Mike through gritted teeth, a fierce glint in his eyes:

"Now that we're out of the police's help, we're on our own. We must act before that mad dog Lamar goes completely insane; we can't give him a chance to start a war!"

Jimmy wiped the cold sweat from his forehead: "How should we proceed? Should we lead a team straight to his stronghold?"

"No. That would be too much of a loss."

Darrell turned his head, his cold gaze suddenly falling on Trey in the corner.

Trey felt a chill run down his spine when he saw that look.

"We'll do it in Trey's name!"

"Tray is the only survivor who fought to the death to protect the boss during last night's attack."

"We have announced that although Boss Marcus was attacked, he was seriously injured but not dead, and is currently being treated in a secret intensive care unit."

"Under this pretext, we'll host a high-profile thank-you banquet and meeting at the Pink Swan Hotel tomorrow night, gathering all the small-time bosses in the West District to discuss how to find the mole and avenge our boss."

Darrell's finger slammed heavily on the map:

"No matter how arrogant Lamar is, he would never dare not attend such a high-level gang meeting while the boss is still alive."

"If he doesn't come, he's a traitor, and the whole gang will attack him."

"If he dares to step into this strip club..."

Darrell made a throat-slitting gesture: "At the banquet, in front of everyone, we'll use the smashing of glasses as a signal to shoot Lamar and his cronies dead!"

"Using his head as a weapon to forcibly take over the entire Western District!"

Upon hearing this simple and brutal plan, the old fox Jimmy and Fat Mike exchanged a glance, a ruthless glint in their eyes, and nodded heavily.

In a dark corner of the secret room.

Trey remained docile, trembling with pain, but as he lowered his head, a slight smile appeared on his lips.

God help me too.

A banquet to summon all the leaders of the West District?

Trey was frantically calculating in his mind.

As soon as he steps out the door, he will immediately send the time, location, and list of attendees of the banquet to his superior, word for word.

Let those idiots go kill Lamar.

Once they've fought to the bitter end, the Sinaloa Group's professional gunmen will take complete control of the strip club.