Once the mandatory waiting period for his firearm purchase cleared, An Feng practically flew into the city.
He pushed open the heavy glass doors of the gun shop, and the clerk behind the counter immediately looked up with a grin.
“Hey, look who finally showed up!
Your toys are ready and waiting.” “Thanks, Jerry!” An Feng smiled, stepping up to the counter.
“I’ve been a bit buried with work lately and almost forgot the date.” “No worries at all, man,” Jerry said, waving off the apology.
“We hold onto unclaimed items for a while before we start making nuisance calls.” Jerry disappeared into the back and returned with two large cases, laying them flat on the counter.
He popped the latches to reveal a long tactical shotgun and a sleek handgun.
“Alright, let’s verify everything,” Jerry said, turning the cases toward him.
“We’ve got the Remington 870 with the synthetic stock, the overmolded non-slip grip, and the red dot optic.
And here’s your classic .45 caliber 1911.
Give ’em a feel.” An Feng picked them up one by one.
The weight of the metal, the cold texture of the grips, and the perfect balance of the weapons felt incredibly satisfying.
Jerry watched him slide the slide back on the 1911 with a practiced motion.
“Heading straight to the range?” “Oh, absolutely,” An Feng said.
He couldn’t wait.
After purchasing a few boxes of ammunition and renting some earmuffs, An Feng spent the next three hours in the shooting lane.
With the help of his mental biological computer, learning wasn’t a matter of slow, tedious practice—it was a matter of instant data assimilation.
Every time he pulled the trigger, his brain calculated the recoil, adjusted his grip pressure, and corrected his stance.
Within an hour, his muscle memory had completely adapted.
He went from a shaky novice to hitting tight, consistent groupings in the dead center of the targets.
The range master watched his progress through the bulletproof glass, looking utterly bewildered by how quickly the young guy was improving.
By the time An Feng stepped out of the range, smelling heavily of cordite and gun oil, he felt a massive rush of adrenaline.
He packed his new purchases away strictly according to the law: ammunition and firearms locked in separate cases, stowed securely in the trunk of his Ferrari where they were completely out of reach from the driver’s seat.
In California, having a loaded firearm within arm’s reach inside a vehicle is an easy way to get arrested on the spot during a routine traffic stop.
An Feng had no desire to test the local police department’s patience.
As he cruised down the long, straight highway under a brilliant blue sky, his clean laundry and gunpowder scent mixing in the breeze, he started thinking about his family back in China.
He wanted them to share in his new, comfortable life.
‘But how do I explain the sudden wealth?
he wondered.
Tell them I won the Powerball?
No, that sounds too sketchy.
Selling multi-million dollar agricultural patents is way more believable.
I’ll go with that.’ His train of thought was suddenly shattered by a deafening whoosh on his left.
A black Cadillac CTS blew past him like he was standing still.
An Feng glanced at his speedometer—he was doing a comfortable 60 miles per hour, which meant the Cadillac had to be pushing well over ninety.
“Moron,” An Feng muttered.
Before he could even finish the thought, another loud whoosh echoed beside him.
He blinked, watching a black-and-white Ford Crown Victoria with flashing red and blue lights scream past in hot pursuit.
An Feng’s eyes lit up.
He immediately flicked his Ferrari’s driving dial from “Comfort” to “Sport.” The engine note instantly changed, transitioning from a smooth purr to a throat-tearing growl.
He stepped on the gas, and the Italian stallion surged forward, closing the gap to the police chase in a matter of seconds.
An Feng kept a safe distance, thoroughly enjoying the front-row seat to a real-life police chase.
It wasn’t quite as dramatic as a Hollywood blockbuster—there were no helicopters or spike strips yet—but it was still highly entertaining.
The deputy in the Crown Vic was blaring his siren and shouting over the loudspeaker, ordering the Cadillac to pull over.
The driver of the CTS completely ignored him, weaving wildly across the lanes.
Deciding he’d had enough, the deputy surged forward, attempting to clip the Cadillac’s rear bumper to spin it out.
But the Cadillac driver suddenly slammed on his brakes.
The deputy swerved to avoid a direct rear-end collision, lost traction on the gravel shoulder, and plowed headfirst into a massive boulder on the side of the road.
The hood of the cruiser crumpled, and a thick plume of black smoke began pouring from the engine bay.
An Feng slammed on his brakes, bringing the Ferrari to a smooth, controlled stop nearby.
Just as he unbuckled his seatbelt to check on the officer, the crumpled door of the police car kicked open.
A very disheveled, very angry Sheriff James struggled to hoist his heavy frame out of the smoking vehicle.
He was clutching his radio in one hand and his sidearm in the other.
Spotting An Feng, James ran over, opened the passenger door of the Ferrari, and threw his massive weight into the leather seat.
“Follow him!
Don’t let him get away!” James gasped, pointing furiously down the highway.
An Feng stared at him, momentarily stunned.
‘Well, look at that.
I just got drafted by the local PD.’ He calmly buckled his seatbelt and looked over at the panting sheriff.
“You might want to put your seatbelt on, Sheriff.” “Just drive!” James barked, clutching his chest.
“Suit yourself,” An Feng said.
“Hold on tight.” An Feng floored the accelerator.
The raw horsepower of the Ferrari screamed to life, the tires biting into the asphalt as the car launched forward like a rocket.
The sudden, violent G-force slammed James back into his seat, knocking the wind right out of him.
Terrified, the sheriff’s hands flew to his safety belt, quickly buckling himself in as his eyes widened in sheer panic.
As the engine RPM climbed past 7,000, the exhaust note transitioned into a high-pitched, roaring wail.
To James, it felt less like a car ride and more like being strapped to the back of a raging bull.
In less than twenty seconds, they were right on the Cadillac’s bumper.
An Feng glanced at the digital dashboard—they were pushing past 130 miles per hour.
“Jesus Christ, slow down!” James yelled, white-knuckling the grab handle.
An Feng ignored the panic, keeping his eyes locked on the road ahead.
“Do you want me to stop him or not?” “Yes!
Just don’t kill us!” James pleaded.
“I really hope my insurance covers police chases,” An Feng muttered.
Up ahead, the Cadillac driver made a desperate, sharp right turn at an intersection, his rear tires losing grip and clipping a stationary car waiting at the light.
An Feng lightly tapped the brakes, downshifted using the paddle shifters, and flicked the steering wheel.
The Ferrari handled the high-speed corner with surgical precision, sticking to the asphalt like glue.
They pulled up alongside the sliding Cadillac.
The suspect, seeing the red sports car, immediately tried to ram them to force them off the road.
“Oh, a rookie mistake,” An Feng laughed.
Instead of backing off, An Feng surged slightly forward, aligning the front fender of the Ferrari with the rear quarter panel of the Cadillac.
With a sharp, calculated jerk of the steering wheel, he executed a textbook PIT maneuver, tapping the Cadillac’s rear flank.
The impact broke the Cadillac’s rear traction instantly.
The heavy sedan spun sideways, slide-slid across the dirt shoulder, and hit an embankment, flipping onto its side before coming to a grinding, dusty halt.
An Feng slammed on the brakes, performing a flawless 180-degree spin in the middle of the road to face the wrecked car, bringing the Ferrari to a gentle stop right in front of the suspect.
He turned to his passenger, who was clutching his chest, completely pale and trembling.
“Alright, Sheriff,” An Feng said with a cheerful grin.
“Your turn to play hero.”