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

Hassan Imam leaned back in his chair, his deep gaze sweeping back and forth between Alex and Lyon before finally nodding heavily.

"Can."

Hassan made the decision: "Since your white friends behind you aren't Christians, the mosque will provide you with an open space in front of your stall. I'll have some young people from the community help you maintain order and make sure those addicts don't come and wreck your place."

Alex breathed a sigh of relief and was about to respond when Hassan raised a hand to interrupt him.

"As for the ingredients, just like you said, I will provide you with the necessary supplies."

"Every sheep must be alive and healthy before it is slaughtered."

Hassan's voice sounded very solemn.

"The butcher must be a Muslim, and must recite the name of Allah when he makes the cut."

"The jugular vein and trachea must be severed in one stroke to drain the blood completely. Only meat treated in this way can be eaten by believers."

"I know."

Alex nodded; he had this in mind when he first said Hassan would be in charge of the food supply chain.

Hassan was very pleased with Alex's straightforward attitude. He pulled an old notebook from the pile of clutter on the table and turned to a blank page.

"I'll contact the halal butcher shop on 10th Street; they have the proper slaughtering certificate. I'll have the women in the community buy the flour and spices."

Hassan wrote down a few names on a piece of paper. "Give me two or three days. Once the venue and suppliers are all arranged, I'll have Jamal contact you."

"Deal." Alex rubbed his hands together.

Leon remained silent throughout, maintaining his new persona as a taciturn man, and then followed Alex and Jamal out of the incense-scented office.

……

That night, at 11:00 AM.

Deep in a private forest on Mercer Island, on the shores of Lake Washington, east of Seattle.

This is a traditional, old-fashioned, affluent neighborhood far from the hustle and bustle of the city.

Unlike the tech upstarts who are based in Bellevue and obsessed with installing facial recognition cameras and infrared laser nets on the exterior walls of their mansions, the Sterling family's headquarters presents a completely different picture.

A two-kilometer-long private asphalt driveway winds its way through a dense evergreen coniferous forest. There are no streetlights or conspicuous surveillance cameras on either side of the driveway.

In the dark forest, the real security network is made up of living people.

George, the old black man who picked up Lyon at the charity dinner organized by Sterling, was wearing a bulletproof black tactical vest with a windproof jacket over it.

He stood in the shade of a sturdy Douglas fir tree, holding an HK416 assault rifle fitted with a silencer.

His slightly yellowish eyes scanned the only passage leading to the main house.

Behind George, several burly men in dark coats were silently patrolling among the fallen leaves, leading two large Rottweilers.

These people do not belong to any security company; they are descendants of followers from the old Sterling era.

When their fathers were killed or injured in police infighting or street brawls, the Sterling family provided them with shelter, paid for their medical expenses, and covered their children's tuition.

Now, they have naturally become the Sterling family's private army.

Although they weren't named Sterling, they were more loyal than any mercenary who had signed a confidentiality agreement.

This feudal dependency relationship, reminiscent of medieval vassals, formed the most impregnable barrier of the manor.

Passing through the woods, the outline of a large stone and wood mansion came into view in the night.

The interior of the manor is devoid of any modern minimalist style.