American comic book: I, with my abundant martial virtue, love to do good to others.

Chapter 749 Just Passing By

The Rio Grande isn't very wide in the Macallan section. The water is murky, a color somewhere between brown and green, with a few clumps of white foam floating on the surface. The bridge isn't long; it takes about seven or eight minutes to walk to the other side.

Pedestrians were on the bridge—those dragging suitcases, carrying large bags, and holding children—all heading south. No one was going north. The north side was deserted, except for a Mexican-plated taxi making a U-turn.

Lynn walked at the front, followed by Miles and four plainclothes agents. They weren't wearing bulletproof vests or federal insignia; their weapons were concealed under their clothing, and each carried an inconspicuous dark backpack. The six men looked like a group of ordinary Americans on business at the border—so ordinary that they wouldn't attract any second glances.

Border checks in Mexico are much more relaxed than in the US. A man in uniform sat behind a glass window looking at his phone, glancing at their passports out of the corner of his eye, stamping them, without even looking up. As Lynn walked past him, she smelled a strong aroma of coffee mixed with the musty, cold air from an old air conditioner.

Once they exited the border control building, Reynolds was right in front of them.

The first impression wasn't dirt or chaos, but the sounds. The roar of motorcycle engines, the repeated hawking of street vendors through megaphones, music emanating from some unknown building, a subwoofer vibrating so loudly it seemed to shake the ground, and the ubiquitous, incessant honking of car horns, like background noise. All the sounds piled together, like a pot of soup that had been simmering for too long, thick and mushy.

There was a mixed smell in the air. Gasoline, fried food, sewer, and an indescribable sweet smell, like it was coming from the fruit stalls on the street, but not quite, it was mixed with too many other things.

The buildings on the street were not tall, mostly two or three-story old houses with faded paint on their exteriors—pink, blue, and yellow—all covered in a layer of dust. Some walls were covered with huge graffiti, not artistic, but rather scribbled letters, numbers, and symbols—gang markings, like some kind of code only locals could decipher. The utility poles were tangled with wires, stretching from one pole to another, and down to the eaves, densely packed like a giant spider web covering the entire city.

Miles walked to Lynn's right, his backpack straps digging tightly into his shoulders, his glasses reflecting the blue neon sign of a pharmacy across the street. He kept his voice low.

"My friend said he's waiting for us near a market in the city center. His name is Mercado. It's about a 20-minute walk from here."

"Twenty minutes is too long." Lynn looked at the windows and doorways on both sides of the street. "We can't stay in this place for too long; we'll be too conspicuous. Let's call a car."

Miles walked to the side of the road and flagged down a green Volkswagen Beetle. These cars were everywhere in Reynosa, their paint peeling, bumpers taped shut, and windows creaking sharply when rolled down. The driver, a middle-aged man with a mustache, asked them in Spanish where they were going. Miles said Mercado, and the driver gestured for them to get in.

It was impossible for six people to squeeze into one Beetle. Lynn told Miles and the other two agents to go first, while he and the remaining two walked over, keeping in touch by phone. Miles hesitated for a moment, wanting to say something, but seeing Lynn's gaze, he swallowed his words, opened the car door, and got in. The Beetle's exhaust pipe spewed out a plume of black smoke, zigzagging into the traffic.

Lynn stood by the roadside, reached into his coat pocket, and touched the gun handle. His fingers rested on the handle, not gripping it tightly, just resting, like someone ready to draw a pen and put their hand on the pen cap.

"Which way?" a young agent behind him asked. His name was Bates, twenty-seven years old, and he had just graduated from Quantico last year. He looked younger than his age, with a round face that made him look like a college student. Lynn chose him for similar reasons as she chose Miles: quick-witted and decisive, and his Spanish was even better than Miles'. He had learned it as a child in Texas from his Mexican immigrant neighbors, and his accent was as fluent as a local's.

"Go south for two blocks first, then east," Lynn said.

They started to leave.

The sidewalk was riddled with potholes; in some places, the cement had crumbled into small pieces, exposing the sand beneath. Many cars were parked along the roadside, most so dirty their original color unrecognizable. A thin dog glanced at them from beside a trash can, then lowered its head again to continue rummaging through the garbage. An old woman sat on a plastic stool by the door, shelling beans; the pods tossed into a bowl at her feet with a crisp, crackling sound. She glanced at them, her gaze devoid of curiosity, only that conditioned reflex of wariness that had developed between strangers and danger.

Lynn noticed a few young people standing on the street corner. They were wearing baggy sweatpants, hoodies pulled up over their heads, leaning against the wall, either holding a phone or a cigarette. Their gazes followed him, then moved away after a couple of steps. Lynn had seen that kind of gaze far too many times; it wasn't curiosity, but rather an assessment—what these people had that was worth taking, how much they were worth, and whether it was worth the risk.

After walking for about ten minutes, the street narrowed further. The buildings on both sides were older, some windows boarded up, and some doors with rusty padlocks. The gang graffiti on the walls grew denser, some overlapping, layer upon layer, like some kind of frenzied collage. The sunlight could no longer reach the street; the high walls on both sides blocked the light out, leaving only a narrow strip of sky overhead, a pale blue, like a stretched crack.

Lynn's phone vibrated. A message from Miles: Arrived. My friend is waiting for me at the entrance. How much further?

Lynn typed: Ten minutes.

He shoved his phone back into his pocket and quickened his pace. Bates followed behind, his hand already inside his coat pocket.

The other detective, Chen, was in his early thirties. He was a man of few words and walked silently, like a cat moving in the shadows. He followed about three steps behind the two men, his eyes scanning every window and doorway on both sides of the street.

As they passed the entrance to a small alley, Lynn sensed something was wrong.

It wasn't a sound, nor a smell; it was the kind of alarm your body automatically generates when you stay in one place for too long, without needing to process it in your brain. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He slowed his pace.

The alley on the left isn't deep, about thirty meters long, ending at a wall with an iron gate that's closed. There are no windows on either side of the alley, just two bare concrete walls covered in spray paint. Several black garbage bags are piled at the alley entrance, their openings torn open, some of their contents spilling out and stinking in the sun.

Two people were standing in the alley.

Standing motionless in the shadows, untouched by the light, like two abandoned statues, Lynn's gaze swept over them. One of them moved. He stepped half a step forward from the wall, and the light fell on his face. Lynn could see that he looked to be under twenty, with a tattoo on his forehead—two letters, the meaning of which was unclear. His eyes held the look one only sees when faced with danger, not fear, but the look of an animal cornered and ready to bite.

Another person emerged from the shadows. Taller and thinner, he wore a black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, revealing a tattoo that ran from his wrist to his upper arm. The design was indistinct, but the color was dark, almost blending into his skin. He held a knife in his hand—not a folding knife, but a kitchen knife with a long blade, the tip pointing downwards, held loosely, as if he didn't mind being seen.

"Give me the money," the tall man said in Spanish, his voice not loud but very clear, each word sounding as if squeezed out from between his teeth.

Just as Bates was about to speak, Lynn raised his hand.

He looked at the two men, at the knife, at the tall man's hand holding it. The grip on his fingers wasn't that of a novice; it was natural, as if he'd gripped it countless times. The young man with the tattoo on his forehead had his hands in his pockets, which bulged out in a shape that wasn't shaped like a knife, but rather rounded, like the grip of a gun.

Lynn slowly pulled his hands out of his pockets, extending both arms to his sides, palms facing outwards. It's a universally understood gesture. I have no weapon; I don't want to fight. We can talk.

When his right palm faced outwards, the dressing was visible. The white dressing looked exceptionally clean in the filthy alleyway, so clean it seemed like a bad sign.

The tall man's gaze lingered on the dressing for a moment.

"American," he said, this time in English with a heavy accent, but every word was correct.

Lynn neither confirmed nor denied it.

"We're just passing through," he said in English, slowly and evenly, "We're not here to cause trouble."

The tall man smiled. It wasn't a smile; it was more like an emoticon that had been misplaced. His lips were pulled to the sides, but his eyes didn't move.

"Passersby need to pay a toll," he said, brandishing the knife in his hand, the blade flashing in the dim light of the alleyway. "Give me whatever you have on you. Cellphone, wallet, watch, ring. Everything."

The young man with the tattoo on his forehead pulled his hand out of his pocket.

Lynn saw the gun. It was black, small, probably a .22 caliber pocket pistol, and held it in his hand like a toy. But a toy wouldn't reflect that cold, greasy light.

"Bates," Lynn said in English, her voice very soft, "tell Chen that the one on the left is for you."

2

Bates didn't answer, but he moved half a step to the left.

"List."

Chen stood three steps behind, making no sound to indicate that he had heard, but Lynn knew he had.

The tall man frowned. He didn't understand Lynn's English, but he understood the rhythm. It wasn't the rhythm a passerby would use when facing a robbery; it was the rhythm someone would use when assigning tasks.

He raised his knife slightly.

It was this one lift.

Lynn moved.

His right hand shot out from the surrender position with such speed that the tall man's eyes couldn't keep up. The edge of his palm sliced ​​across the tall man's wrist, not striking, but cutting, with the precision of a carpenter drawing a line on a wooden board with the edge of a ruler. The knife flew from the tall man's hand, landed on the concrete floor, bounced twice, and made a crisp metallic sound.

At the same time, Bates lunged at the young man on his left. His movements were more brutal than Lynn's; his shoulder slammed into the man's chest, his left hand grabbed the man's wrist holding the gun and twisted it outwards, while his right hand pushed the slide upwards. The slide of the pocket pistol was pushed, the unloaded bullet jammed at the ejection port, and the gun was stuck. The young man let out a muffled groan, not from pain, but the instinctive sound of someone suddenly being thrown from a superior position, leaving no time to react.

Chen didn't move.

He stood there, looking at the alley entrance. He was looking outside, checking if anyone had noticed what was happening, and if anyone else was rushing this way. It was his habit to never look at things that were already resolved, only those that hadn't yet arrived.

The entire process takes no more than four seconds.

The tall man was pinned against the wall by Lynn's hand, his face pressed against the rough cement surface. A layer of skin was scraped off his lips, and beads of blood seeped out, dripping down his chin. His arm was twisted behind his back, the joint at a point where it would break with just a little more force. He didn't struggle, not because it didn't hurt, but because he knew struggling was useless.

Bates pinned the young man to the ground, his knee pressing against his back, the pocket pistol already kicked several meters away. The young man's face was pressed against the ground, the tattoo on his forehead smudged with dust, looking like two illegible letters.

"Don't move," Bates said in Spanish. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

The young man turned his face to the side and looked at Lynn with one eye.

Lynn had seen that look before. It wasn't fear, nor anger, but a calm, calculating gaze, assessing just how dangerous the person in front of him really was.

Lynn lowered her head and looked at the tall man's profile as he was pressed against the wall.

"Your knife is good," he said in Spanish, his voice flat, "but not suitable for robbery. It's too long; you can't maneuver it properly in narrow alleys. You should use a shorter one."

The tall man's lips were bleeding. He didn't speak, but his eyes moved slightly.

“I’m not here to teach you how to rob someone,” Lynn said. “I’m here to ask you a few questions. Answer honestly, and we’ll pretend this never happened. If you’re not honest,” he paused, applying a little more pressure. A slight, twanging sound came from the tall man’s shoulder. He took a breath, not shouting, but beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"Ask away," he said, his voice hoarse.

"Have you seen a Ford Explorer with dark U.S. license plates drive through this area in the last two days? It's big, new, and should be quite conspicuous in this area. There should be at least four people in the car."

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