After a hot shower, Mike dried himself off.
He felt a bit lightheaded as he stepped out of the bathroom.
He walked to his desk, looked at his half-finished schedule, and continued adding to it:
13:30-14:00 Breakfast / Planning 14:00-16:30 Shopping (Clothing, shoes) 16:30-17:30 Gear Check 18:00-Midnight Bars / Nightclubs
He paused there.
The system mission mentioned the Scarlet Angels framing the Buffalo Gang, but it didn’t specify the personnel or the locations of their hideouts.
He needed to investigate.
In the conversation he’d overheard at the bar last time, that bald sub-leader mentioned “that batch of goods was hit.” He was likely referring to The Hand’s warehouse that Mike had cleared out.
Since the Buffalo Gang controlled the distribution side, they must have shared the loss.
Mike put down his pen.
His eyelids were growing heavier by the second.
He hurried to the bed, set his alarm for 1:00 PM, and collapsed into sleep.
He didn’t sleep soundly.
His dreams were filled with repeating images of ninjas dodging bullets in the warehouse.
In the dream, he tried to see the faces of the people in the shadows, but every time he got close, they dissolved into smoke.
When the alarm went off, Mike sat up abruptly, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.
He let out a long breath, wiped his face, and walked into the kitchen to open the fridge.
He fried two eggs, tucked them between slices of bread, and chewed on a carrot he’d washed.
Breakfast sat on the table next to the rough schedule he’d written earlier.
It was almost 1:30 PM.
Mike finished eating quickly and changed into ordinary jeans and a grey hoodie.
He took a waist bag from his bedroom drawer, which contained over a thousand dollars in cash—all “dirty money” from previous missions.
After spending some, this was all that remained.
He thought for a moment, then pulled out a few bills and put them back in the drawer.
He needed to keep some in reserve.
At 2:10 PM, Mike drove to a large supermarket in Brooklyn.
There weren’t many customers.
He headed straight for the men’s clothing section.
He chose two hoodies without prominent logos—one navy blue, one black.
The material was ordinary but thick.
He found two pairs of dark cargo pants with plenty of pockets for easy movement.
Shoes were harder to find.
He needed two pairs of soft-soled, silent athletic shoes with no distinctive tread patterns.
He bought a few other items he might need, checked out, and drove home.
Back at the apartment, he changed into the new black hoodie and cargo pants.
He did a few sets of stretches in the living room; the fabric wasn’t tight and didn’t restrict his movement.
Then came the gear check.
He retrieved the Desert Eagle from his system space and attached the DIY silencer.
The clamp was more secure than last time, and the connection between the suppressor and the barrel was tighter.
He practiced quick assembly and disassembly three times; his fastest attempt was twelve seconds.
“Still too slow,” Mike frowned.
But for now, there didn’t seem to be a better way.
He put the Desert Eagle back into his system space and tucked the silencer into a pocket of his cargo pants.
At 7:00 PM, night had fully fallen.
Mike cooked a bowl of instant noodles, adding a handful of chopped green onions along with the vegetable packet.
He rested briefly on the sofa after eating.
At 7:40 PM, he headed out.
His first stop was the “old place,” the bar he’d visited before.
He drove to a bus stop, parked two blocks away, and walked the rest of the distance.
The bar was called The Anvil.
The storefront was dilapidated, and half of the neon sign didn’t light up.
He pushed the door open, and a wave of heat smelling of alcohol, sweat, and perfume hit him.
The music was 80s hard rock.
Mike walked to the innermost seat at the bar and ordered a beer.
The bartender wiped a glass and glanced at Mike.
“New face.”
“Just passing through,” Mike said.
He was using a simple disguise again.
Although it was almost identical to the last one, with Mike’s amateur techniques, it was hard to make it exactly the same twice.
This time, he had also stuffed cotton in both cheeks.
The bartender didn’t ask further, set down the beer, and turned to serve other customers.
Mike drank slowly, scanning the interior.
There were over twenty people, mostly men.
In the booths against the wall, several men were playing poker.
At the other end of the bar, two young women were flirting with a man in a baseball cap.
There were no obvious Buffalo Gang members, nor the bald sub-leader he’d seen last time.
After sitting for half an hour with no results, Mike finished his beer, left ten dollars, and got up to leave.
This place was quite large.
There were bouncers at the door, but no line; it didn’t seem to require tickets.
Mike showed his ID, and the bouncer let him through with a glance.
Lights flashed inside the club, accompanied by a heavy electronic beat.
The dance floor was packed with swaying crowds, and the booths and tables were mostly full.
Mike went to the bar, ordered a whiskey on the rocks, and found a table with a good vantage point.
He pretended to look at his phone while actually observing the people coming and going.
Here, finally, were people who looked like gang members.
Three men wearing similar black T-shirts and neck tattoos entered one after another, heading straight for a booth in the back.
Mike stood up and moved a few steps closer.
Unfortunately, the music was too loud to hear the conversation, and he couldn’t get too close.
Fortunately, it wasn’t long before he saw someone in the booth pull out a small plastic bag and hand it to a newcomer, who took it and pulled out a wallet to count cash.
The transaction was fast, taking less than half a minute.
The man who handed over the bag had short brown hair and a scar over his left eyebrow.
The man left the booth, crossed the dance floor, and headed for the back door.
Mike set down his glass and followed.
The back door led to a narrow alley piled with dumpsters.
The light was dim, provided only by a small lamp above the club’s exit.
Scar-brow lit a cigarette, took two puffs, looked around, and walked deeper into the alley.
Mike kept his distance, keeping his footsteps light.
His dynamic vision allowed him to see the man’s silhouette clearly in the darkness.
Scar-brow reached the end of the alley and turned into another small path.
There were no streetlights here, only the faint glow reflecting from the distant main street.
Mike jogged to the corner and peeked out.
He saw Scar-brow stop at the back door of an old three-story apartment building, pull out a key, and go inside.
Mike quickly reached the door and shoved his hand out just as it was swinging shut.
The doorframe made a soft thud, but it didn’t lock.
Mike used his gloved hand to block the latch, leaving a crack, then stepped back and looked up.
A window on the third floor lit up.
The curtains weren’t drawn tightly, and he could see a shadow moving.
Ten minutes later, Mike went up.
He found it was a simple lock and felt a wave of relief.
He took a thin piece of metal from his pocket, slid it gently into the gap, felt a snag, turned it slightly with a bit of force, and heard a soft click.
The door opened.
Mike slipped inside immediately and closed the door behind him.
The apartment was small—a tiny living room and a bedroom.
Scar-brow was sitting on the bed in the bedroom, looking down and fiddling with a syringe, his back to Mike.
Mike was about to pull his gun when Scar-brow stiffened and spun around.
He’d been spotted!
Scar-brow was holding a syringe, the needle already poked into his left arm.
Seeing Mike, he reflexively pulled the syringe out and flung it at him!
The old Mike would have never dodged that, but his dynamic vision allowed him to clearly catch the cold glint of the needle.
He raised his left hand and caught the syringe firmly, the tip stopping ten centimeters from his chest.
Scar-brow froze, his eyes widening as if he couldn’t believe someone could just catch it.
Mike lunged forward.
Before the man could react, Mike gripped the syringe in his right hand and stabbed it into the man’s neck!
“Ugh!”
Scar-brow cried out in pain and instinctively tried to break free, but Mike’s left hand was already pinning his shoulder, while his right drove the needle into his neck.
Mike felt the needle penetrate skin and muscle.
He left the syringe in the man’s neck.
Scar-brow reached up and pulled the syringe out.
By then, Mike had already pulled his gun from the system space, pressing the muzzle to the back of the man’s head.
“Don’t move.”
“Who…
who are you?”
Scar-brow felt the hard steel against the back of his head.
His voice trembled as he dropped the syringe.
Blood began to seep from his neck.
Mike didn’t answer.
His gaze swept over the plastic bags on the table; they contained a white powder, the packaging similar to what he’d seen in the warehouse.
He released the man’s shoulder and took a half-step back with his gun raised.
“I ask, you answer.
Cooperate, and you might live.”
Scar-brow turned his head, staring at Mike through the reflection in the window.
His breathing was ragged.
The blood from his neck flowed down his skin, staining his collar red.
Suddenly, Scar-brow began to cough, spraying bloody froth from his mouth. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Mike frowned.
He looked down and saw blood trickling from the man’s lips, and the puncture wound in his neck was bubbling with blood.
F*ck!
The needle had hit too squarely—it might have pierced the esophagus or the carotid artery!
Mike cursed inwardly, his face flushing with embarrassment.
*Sorry, buddy.
I’m still new at this.
I didn’t actually mean to kill you.*
In the movies, people got poked in the neck all the time and never bled like this!
Mike looked around, his eyes landing on the socks on Scar-brow’s feet.
“Take off your socks,” Mike said.
Scar-brow didn’t move, his eyes dazed.
Junkies are such idiots!
*Don’t blame me when you’re dead!*
Mike cursed again in his head, knelt down, and roughly tore off one sock.
He balled it up and pressed it against the puncture in the man’s neck.
“Hold it there.”
Scar-brow mechanically raised his hand to press it.
“Listen, press hard.
The bleeding will stop.” Mike’s tone leveled out.
“Cooperate, and I’ll call an ambulance for you.
If you don’t, you die right here tonight.”
Scar-brow nodded, his fingers pressing hard.
“Name.”
“Ji…
Jimmy.”
“Jimmy, who do you work for?”
“Buffalo Gang…
I’m just a runner.”
“At Neon Abyss just now—who gave you the goods?”
Jimmy hesitated for a second.
Mike pressed the muzzle forward.
“Danny!
Woody Danny!
He also wears a black T-shirt…
looks like a block of wood!”
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know…
I swear!
I only know the distribution point.
There’s a villa in the North District.
Boss Jack goes there sometimes.”
Mike’s interest was piqued.
“Exact address.”
“Pine Street…
147.
Red brick wall, iron gate.” Jimmy started having trouble speaking.
Blood was seeping through his fingers.
“That’s all I know…
please help me…”
Mike stared at him.
“How many people are usually in the villa?”
“Three or four…
sometimes more…
more on collection days…” Jimmy’s voice grew weaker.
“Call the ambulance…”
Mike stood up, walked to the table, and picked up a small plastic bag.
It weighed about five grams.
He looked back at Jimmy.
The man had slumped onto the floor, leaning against the bed frame.
The hand pressing his neck had loosened, and the sock was soaked through.
A small pool of blood had formed on the bed and floor.
Mike stepped back and said softly, “I’ve already called the ambulance.
Just sleep for a while.”
Jimmy looked at him with vacant eyes.
A few seconds later, his eyelids drooped.
Mike did a quick sweep, making sure he hadn’t left any obvious traces.
He took one last look at Jimmy, who was barely breathing, and quietly slipped away.