At eight o’clock on Monday morning, the dispatcher at Shunda Freight received a call from his boss, “Zhou Ming.” “Starting today, adjust the deliveries for those restaurants on Vietnamese Street,” Zhou Mo said over the line.
“Raise freight rates by fifty percent and shift delivery times to after four in the afternoon.
If they ask why, cite rising fuel costs and route optimization.” “Boss, they’re going to complain…” “Let them complain,” Zhou Mo said.
“Also, add a fifteen percent risk surcharge to those remittance lines in Mexico City.
The reason is ‘increased anti-money laundering compliance costs.'” The dispatcher logged the instructions and executed them immediately.
Two hours later, the manager of Saigon Restaurant—controlled by the Vietnamese gang—called in, screaming curses over the phone.
Shunda Freight’s customer service merely recited the official script.
By afternoon, a remittance broker working for the Mexican syndicate arrived to argue, only to leave empty-handed.
At the same time, rumors began circulating within the Wah Ching gang.
While drinking with a few low-level bosses at a casino, Frank “accidentally” revealed, “Monkey said that long-term partner businesses will get a thirty percent reduction on protection fees from now on.
Especially those honest, old-time local shopkeepers.” The news spread like wildfire.
By Wednesday, seven small businesses that had previously paid protection money to the Vietnamese gang or the Mexican syndicate quietly reached out to Wah Ching, expressing their desire to “switch backers.” On Thursday afternoon, two Vietnamese youths walked into Aunt Wang’s laundromat and kicked over a dryer.
“Next month’s money must be handed over tomorrow,” the leader spat.
“Or we burn the place down next time.” Five minutes after they left, two Wah Ching youths walked into the laundromat, claiming to be “newly hired handymen.” They stayed all afternoon and fixed the dryer.
That night, those same two Vietnamese youths were ambushed on their way home, beaten with wooden clubs in burlap sacks, and robbed of their wallets.
When the police arrived, the victims couldn’t describe their attackers, and the case went nowhere.
On Friday night, at a dockland warehouse.
Ah Hai, second-in-command of the Vietnamese gang, stared at the photographs in his hand.
The photos showed a crate of M16 rifles set against the backdrop of a warehouse controlled by the Mexican syndicate.
On the back, a message had been typed: *Tomorrow night at eleven, a deal goes down.
They plan to use these guns to take your turf in Chinatown.* “Where did these come from?” Ah Hai asked his subordinate.
“No idea.
Slipped under the door frame,” the man replied.
“Boss, should we hit them first?” At the exact same time, Carlos, the leader of the Mexican syndicate, received a similar set of photos.
The contents were nearly identical, but the text read: *The Vietnamese are coming for your guns, and then they’re framing Wah Ching.* “Test the waters,” Carlos ordered.
“Send someone over to the Vietnamese side to ask if they’ve got any big moves coming up recently.” Both sides dispatched men, and both sides received evasive answers.
The misunderstanding snowballed.
At eleven o’clock on Saturday night, outside Warehouse No.
7 in the docks district, both factions met.
Without a word spoken, gunfire broke out.
The firefight lasted eight minutes.
Two Vietnamese gang members died, three Mexicans were killed, and five others were wounded.
By the time police sirens wailed in the distance, both parties had already retreated.
Sunday’s headlines read: *Dockland Gang Shootout Leaves Five Dead, Five Injured; Police Launch Anti-Gang Operation.* Late Monday night, Ruan Wenxiong, leader of the Vietnamese gang, was throwing a fury-fueled tantrum inside his mistress’s apartment.
“Wah Ching, those Mexican bastards, and the cops—every last one of them is f***ing against me!” He smashed his wine glass against the floor.
“Ah Hai, take our men tomorrow and smash up two of Wah Ching’s casinos!
Show them who really—” Before he could finish, the lights went out.
The entire apartment building plunged into darkness.
Emergency lights flickered on, only to sputter and die seconds later.
“What’s going on?” Ruan Wenxiong rushed to the window.
The street outside was pitch-black as well; the entire block had lost power.
A faint rustle came from the balcony.
Ruan Wenxiong’s two bodyguards drew their guns instantly, but before they could aim, two playing cards pinned themselves into their necks.
The tranquilizer took effect in a flash, and both men crumpled softly to the floor.
Remy vaulted over the balcony railing and pushed open the glass door.
“Who are you…” Ruan Wenxiong scrambled backward, his hand reaching toward a revolver inside a drawer.
Remy didn’t give him the chance.
A third card flicked out, striking his wrist.
Ruan Wenxiong cried out in agony as the gun clattered onto the floor.
“Your men have already pulled out of Chinatown,” Remy said softly.
“Why insist on staying?” “That’s my turf!” Ruan Wenxiong roared.
“Skinny Monkey, that useless—” “Boss said leave no trace,” Remy murmured into his micro-throat-mic.
Remy searched the apartment, removing cash and ledgers from the bedroom safe, then deliberately tossed the drawers into disarray to stage a burglary.
Before leaving, he scattered a few cheap coins and trinkets across the entryway floor.
On Tuesday morning, news of Ruan Wenxiong’s death reached the Vietnamese gang.
Ah Hai, who was preparing to rally their forces for revenge, received an anonymous package.
Inside were copies of all transaction records the Vietnamese gang had ever made, as compiled by Wah Ching, along with a note: *The police have received a copy as well.
Suggest you pull out immediately.* Ah Hai stared at those records, cold sweat pouring down his back.
That very afternoon, he loaded twenty-some remaining men into cars and drove out of San Francisco.
On Wednesday night, Carlos, the Mexican boss, sat in his bar office, facing Skinny Monkey across the desk.
“An acquisition price at forty percent of market value?” Carlos sneered.
“Mr.
Hou, you must be joking.” “Times have changed, Mr.
Carlos.” Skinny Monkey took a slow sip of tea.
“Revenue at your two Chinatown bars dropped thirty percent last month.
The cops came by twice in three days to inspect, scaring off all your customers.
Forty percent is a fair price.” “I’m not selling.” “Then think it over a bit more.” Skinny Monkey stood up.
“Though a word of advice—security hasn’t been great lately.
Watch out for fires.” At two in the morning that night, a fire broke out in the wine cellar of Carlos’s largest bar.
It wasn’t an explosion, but a smoldering electrical fire caused by a short circuit, burning slowly yet stubbornly.
By the time the fire department arrived, half the cellar was destroyed.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Remy slipped into the second-floor office and used his portable scanner to duplicate every customer list and transaction record on the computer.
On Thursday morning, Carlos received two emails.
One was a damage assessment report for the bar, estimating repair costs at a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
The other was an anonymous copy of a delivery receipt from the police narcotics division, attached to duplicates of his illicit transaction records.
That afternoon, Skinny Monkey visited again.
“Now I’m offering sixty percent,” Skinny Monkey said.
“Last chance.” Carlos stared at him for a long time before finally nodding.
By Friday, the deal was finalized.
Carlos packed up his core members, took the cash, and moved across the bay to Oakland.
On Saturday night, three tables were set up at Dragon Pavilion Restaurant.
Wah Ching was celebrating their complete takeover of Chinatown’s core district.
Skinny Monkey sat at the head table, accepting toasts from his subordinates.
Yet he didn’t drink much, taking only small sips each time.
Midway through the feast, he excused himself to the restroom and made a call.
“Doctor Zhou, everything has been taken care of,” Skinny Monkey reported.
“The Vietnamese gang pulled out, and the Mexicans sold their bars.
The entire street belongs to us now.” On the other end of the line, Zhou Mo’s voice remained calm.
“Well done.
But remember, controlling territory is not the goal; making that territory profitable is.
Don’t let the brothers run wild.
Steady streams flow long.” “Understood.
Ah…
I’ll have someone deliver your cut tomorrow.
It comes out to about eighty thousand for this month.” “Leave it at the usual spot.” Zhou Mo paused.
“Also, don’t provoke the Russian gang or the Irish gang for now.
Digest what we’ve won first.” “Will do.” Hanging up, Skinny Monkey returned to the banquet.
His men were still making merry, but his mind had already shifted to the mountain of affairs waiting for him tomorrow.
On Sunday, inside the secret room of Renxin Hall.
Zhou Mo updated his strategic map.
The markers for the Vietnamese gang and the Mexican syndicate were removed.
The core district of Chinatown was shaded entirely in green, signaling absolute control.
Beside it, two new photographs were pinned up: Ivan Petrov, boss of the Russian mob, controlling six warehouses in the docklands district.
Sean Murphy, boss of the Irish gang, infiltrating three construction unions and two credit firms.
Remy sat at the workbench processing intelligence reports.
“Weyland-Yutani has realized their warehouse was destroyed,” he said.
“They’ve dispatched an internal security force to San Francisco—about twelve men, heavily armed.
The Foot Clan is assisting their investigation, but they aren’t making much headway.
The fire burned everything too cleanly.” “What about The Hand?” “Shadow Fox’s activity frequency has increased,” Remy added.
“They seem to be searching for something, though specifics are unclear.
They’ve had a few minor friction points with the Foot Clan.” Remy paused.
“Boss, should we take this opportunity to…” “No,” Zhou Mo shook his head.
“Digest our gains in Chinatown first.
The Russian and Irish gangs are far tougher to deal with than the Vietnamese.
They operate under legitimate business covers and possess political connections.
To handle them, we must use economic warfare, not brute force.” “What do you need me to do?” “Gather intelligence on Ivan and Sean’s financial standing.
Loan records, tax issues, cash flow deficits.
Along with the core client lists for their businesses,” Zhou Mo said.
“Starting next week, we will expand the operational scope of Shunda Freight and Tonghui Express into the docks and the construction industry.” “An economic war?” “The cleanest kind of war.” Zhou Mo closed his notebook.
“Tell Skinny Monkey to have his men keep a low profile lately.
We have more important work ahead.” After Remy left, Zhou Mo walked over to the window.
The night sky over Chinatown was bright with neon, the streets peaceful without brawls or gunshots.
It looked like any ordinary commercial street.
Yet only he knew that beneath this very street, the ownership had shifted entirely.