At 11:15 PM, Berth 37 of Fisherman’s Wharf stood in quiet gloom.
The sea breeze blew cold and heavy with the briny scent of salt.
Remy parked the car in the shadows fifty meters away, then turned to look at the back seat.
“We’re here,” he said.
Dembe Zuma sat in the back.
The stitches in his right leg wound had been removed, though he still limped slightly.
He wore a black jacket and cargo pants provided by Remy, making him look like an ordinary dockworker.
“Your boss isn’t coming?” Zuma asked.
“He’s watching.” Remy pointed to the roof of a distant warehouse.
“We all have our assignments.” Zuma nodded and opened the door.
Remy followed him out, and the two walked toward the berth.
A thirty-foot speedboat was docked alongside, its hull painted pitch-black and free of markings.
Two figures in waterproof gear stood by the vessel, holding submachine guns.
As Zuma approached, one of the men raised his weapon.
“Halt,” the man commanded.
Zuma stopped.
“Is Red here?” The cabin door swung open, and a figure stepped out.
He wore a dark trench coat, a fedora, and held an umbrella—despite the clear night sky.
He appeared to be in his forties, with a neat build and a mild, composed smile on his face.
“Dembe.” Raymond Reddington said, “I’m delighted to see you alive.” “Boss.” Zuma stepped forward, and the two shared a brief hug.
Reddington’s gaze drifted past Zuma, landing on Remy.
“And who might this be?” “The Doctor’s man,” Zuma said.
“They saved me.” “Ah, the mysterious Doctor.” Reddington removed his hat and bowed slightly.
“Please convey my deepest gratitude to him.
I trust the medical fees and extra compensation arrived intact?” Remy nodded.
“They arrived.
My boss told me to pass along a message: the muddy waters of San Francisco aren’t safe for swimming.
He suggests you get ashore early.” Reddington chuckled, the sound low and pleasant.
“Wise advice.
In fact, we are leaving tonight.
South America has a delightful climate, perfect for convalescence.” He turned to Zuma.
“Get on board.
It’s time to go.” Zuma stepped onto the boat, followed by the two mercenaries.
Reddington remained on the pier, turning back to Remy.
“I’d like to meet your boss,” he said.
“Right now, right here, for a brief private word.” Remy frowned.
“He didn’t say…” “He will come,” Reddington said with quiet conviction.
“I know he’s nearby.
Tell him I have something to say regarding certain…
friends in San Francisco.” Remy pressed his earpiece and spoke softly into the mic.
A few seconds later, he nodded.
“Ten minutes.
He’s waiting for you in the warehouse.” *** On the second floor of the warehouse, Zhou Mo stood by the window.
He hadn’t turned on any lights; moonlight poured through the broken glass, casting jagged patches on the floor.
Footsteps echoed up the stairwell.
Reddington walked up alone, still holding his umbrella.
“Good evening, Doctor,” he said.
“Or how should I address you?” “Zhou Mo,” Zhou Mo replied, turning around.
“The doctor at Renxin Hall.” “Doctor Chow.” Reddington stopped three meters away, studying him.
“You’re younger than I imagined.
And…
remarkably calm.
Most people who meet me are either terrified or eager to collect a bounty on my head.” “I’m not most people,” Zhou Mo said.
“Neither are you.
Let’s get down to business, Mr.
Reddington.
What did you want to say?” Reddington drew a small metal case from his inner coat pocket, opened it, and pulled out a cigar.
He didn’t light it, merely twirling it between his fingers.
“San Francisco is an intriguing city,” he said.
“Weyland-Yutani running alien organism experiments, the Foot Clan acting as their transport detail, the Hand watching from the shadows.
Plus SHIELD, the X-Men…
and now, you.” “I’m just a doctor.” “Does a doctor save a mercenary hunted by the FBI?” Reddington smiled.
“Does a doctor possess your kind of…
presence?” Zhou Mo gave no response.
“Fair enough.
If you’d rather not say, I won’t press.” Reddington put the cigar away.
“However, I owe you a favor.
Consider this piece of information an additional token of my gratitude.” “What information?” “Someone in the high ranks of the FBI’s San Francisco Field Office is involved in this,” Reddington said.
“Not a low-level official, but someone with the authority to mobilize major resources and cover up the truth.
Only a handful of people knew the location of our meeting, yet the FBI and Weyland-Yutani’s mercenaries showed up at the exact same time.” “A mole.” “And a high-ranking one at that.” Reddington nodded.
“I don’t know who it is specifically, but if you plan to keep operating in this city, you’d best be careful.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation has eyes everywhere.” Zhou Mo remained silent for a moment.
“Why tell me this?” “Two reasons,” Reddington said.
“First, you saved my right-hand man.
Second…” He paused.
“I don’t believe you’re on their side.
And in this world, anyone who isn’t an enemy is worth a measure of goodwill.” “Even if I’m a mysterious black-market doctor?” “Especially because you are a mysterious black-market doctor.” Reddington smiled.
“Well, I’ve said my piece.
Thank you again, Doctor Chow.
Should you ever require my services, you can reach me through the channel Dembe left behind.
At a price, naturally.” He turned toward the stairs, then paused.
“Oh, one more thing.” Reddington looked back over his shoulder.
“The Foot Clan pulled out of San Francisco tonight.
I don’t know why, but ninjas don’t abandon territory they’ve cultivated for years without good cause.
It means a larger power has intervened—or a greater threat has arrived.
Take care.” He descended the stairs, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Zhou Mo walked to the window and watched Reddington board the vessel.
The engine purred, the speedboat sliced through the dark water, and it vanished into the night.
Remy stepped out from the shadows.
“Boss, is what he said true?
There’s an FBI mole?” “It’s true,” Zhou Mo said.
“But we can’t move against them right now.
We’ll note it down for later.” “What about the Foot Clan pulling out?” “We’ll verify that tomorrow.” Zhou Mo turned to leave the warehouse.
“That’s enough for tonight.” *** The next morning at eight o’clock, Renxin Hall opened its doors right on schedule.
Zhou Mo sat in his consultation chair as usual, seeing patients and writing prescriptions.
At nine-thirty, a text arrived from Remy: [Confirmed.
Every Foot Clan stronghold is empty.
All the ninjas have vanished.
The underground intelligence network has completely blown up.] Zhou Mo replied: [Understood.] He slipped his phone back into his pocket.
The next patient was an old woman suffering from rheumatic pain.
Zhou Mo performed acupuncture on her and charged her twenty dollars.
At noon, he went to Old Canton Teahouse for lunch.
The restaurant was packed with neighborhood regulars, tourists, and a few young members of the Wah Ching gang.
Zhou Mo sat at a window table, and Old Wallace came over to take his order personally.
“Doctor Chow!
We’ve got fresh steamed sea bass today.” “I’ll take one, plus a plate of stir-fried seasonal greens,” Zhou Mo said.
“By the way, I heard you hired a new waiter?” “Yeah, came in two days ago.
Name’s Archie.” Old Wallace pointed toward a young man in the distance.
“Hard worker, just doesn’t talk much.” Zhou Mo looked over.
The young man looked to be in his twenties, Asian, of average height, wearing the restaurant’s white uniform while wiping down a table.
His movements were swift, clean, and utterly precise, lacking any wasted motion.
Zhou Mo narrowed his eyes.
*Wall-Piercing Vision* silently activated.
An ordinary person’s qi was diffuse, like a hazy aura of light.
But this young man named Archie was different.
His qi was solid and tightly restrained, like a sheathed blade.
More uniquely, its flow moved in a continuous, self-contained cycle—clearly the result of long-term, rigorous training.
It wasn’t standard martial arts; it was a far more profound cultivation method.
Archie seemed to sense something and turned toward Zhou Mo.
Their eyes met briefly.
Archie’s expression was calm, but deep within his gaze lay something sharp, like the glint off a steel edge.
He then lowered his head and went back to wiping the table.
Zhou Mo withdrew his perception and took a sip of tea.
“What’s wrong, Doctor?” Old Wallace asked.
“Nothing,” Zhou Mo said.
“Where is Archie from?” “Said he came up from LA to get a change of scenery.” Old Wallace lowered his voice.
“He looks sturdy enough, so I asked if he’d be willing to watch the shop at night, and he agreed.
Good, honest kid.” “I see.” Zhou Mo didn’t inquire further.
After lunch, Zhou Mo left the teahouse.
As he passed Archie, he deliberately slowed his steps.
“New here?” Zhou Mo asked.
Archie looked up.
“Yes, sir.
Just started two days ago.” “Getting used to the place?” “It’s fine.
Quite peaceful here.” Archie’s voice was flat, neutral, and devoid of emotion.
Zhou Mo nodded and stepped outside.
He didn’t look back, but he could feel Archie’s gaze lingering on his back for several seconds.
The sun shone brightly over the bustling street.
Zhou Mo walked slowly back to his clinic.