You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 215 New Forces (4k)

A basement on Twelfth Avenue.

The air here is filled with the pungent smell of cheap disinfectant, mixed with a lingering stench of blood.

The dim incandescent light crackled overhead, casting its light on a metal operating table.

Several anatomical diagrams with yellowed and curled edges were pasted on the wall. In the corner, a plastic bucket was haphazardly piled with gauze stained with dark red blood and discarded syringes, and several flies were hovering over it without restraint.

This is one of the notorious underground clinics in the West District.

The attending physician, Hank, was a thin white man standing beside the operating table, wearing rubber gloves stained with some unknown yellow substance and holding a pair of tweezers.

His assistant, Jerry, was a somewhat dull-looking fat man who stood to the side holding a scratched aluminum tray with several wads of cotton balls on it.

"Hiss—be gentle! Do you fucking want to kill me?!"

On the operating table lay a burly white man covered in tattoos.

This is Bart, a minor boss on 12th Street in the West End.

After the 12th Street Boys were kicked out by Leon, the saying "a shallow pond has many turtles, and there are big shots everywhere" applies, and these small gangs gradually became active.

At this moment, he was gripping the edge of the operating table tightly, his face contorted in pain, and his forehead covered in cold sweat.

His pants were cut in half, revealing his bleeding right buttock.

His younger brother David stood to the side, touching his huge bald head, holding a muddy baseball bat in his hand, looking anxious, but his timid and hesitant appearance was somewhat comical.

"The wound is torn very deep, and the tissue at the edges has already begun to die."

Hank used tweezers to poke Bart's bloody buttocks without any politeness, his tone gentle.

"Mr. Bart, are you going to the zoo to steal the tiger's lunch?"

"Fuck! Stop poking me!"

Bart angrily pounded on the operating table, the metal panel making a dull thud.

"Screw the tigers! The West End's gone completely mad lately, beggars are popping up everywhere on the streets!"

Bart launched into a tirade, spitting all over the floor.

"I took David to the convenience store on the corner to collect this month's protection money, and we ran into a homeless man pushing a shopping cart."

"That bastard must have drunk so much bath salts; his eyes were as red as a rabbit's, and he was foaming at the mouth, treating me like an NPC from a zombie movie!"

Bart felt increasingly aggrieved as he spoke: "He was yelling 'fresh brains' all the while, and then he just pounced on me and bit my ass!"

"Hilarious. Do you really think I'd pity you?"

After hearing this, Hank gave a cold, heartless smirk.

He threw the bloody tweezers back into the tray Jerry was holding.

"There are more than 700 kinds of bacteria in the human mouth. And the saliva of a homeless man who spends his days rummaging through garbage cans and snorting bath salts is not much different from a mobile biological weapons arsenal."

Hank slowly took off his gloves and wiped his hands with a dirty towel.

"If this kind of deep bite, which is accompanied by bodily fluids and deadly street germs, is not treated immediately, you will die of severe sepsis within 48 hours at most, or die like a rabid dog in the sewer when rabies develops."

Upon hearing the word "death," Bart's body involuntarily trembled.

"Then hurry up and treat me! Give me an injection! Give me medicine! Stitch me up! Quickly!"

"Of course. I am a doctor, and saving lives is my duty."

Hank walked to the old, worn-out desk next to him, picked up a calculator, and started pressing buttons rapidly.

"You need to get a tetanus antitoxin injection, the highest level of broad-spectrum antibiotics, and a full course of rabies vaccinations."

"The wound needs deep debridement to remove necrotic tissue, followed by meticulous suturing."

Hank pressed the equals key on the calculator, looked up, and said, "Since you're a regular customer, I'll give you a friendly price for the whole thing: two thousand US dollars. Cash. Thank you for your patronage."

Bart turned his head sharply, the movement aggravating his wound, causing him to gasp in pain.

"Two thousand US dollars?! Why the hell don't you just rob a bank?!"

Bart roared angrily, "I could go to the emergency room of a regular hospital downtown and use my medical insurance, and it wouldn't cost this much!"

Hank looked at Bart like he was an idiot.

"Mr. Bart, the registration fee and bed fee alone in the emergency room of a regular hospital would bankrupt you."

"Furthermore, do you think those doctors, seeing your gang tattoos and gunshot scars, will give you anesthesia first, or call the Seattle Police Department first?"

Hank pointed to the door: "The door's over there. If you're so capable, go to a proper hospital right now. I won't stop you. If they treat you, I'll pay you two thousand dollars."

Bart was speechless, his chest heaving violently.

Just then, David, the younger brother next to him, came over.

David, stroking his bald head, earnestly exposed his boss's blunder on the spot.

"Boss—Dr. Hank is right, we can't go to a proper hospital. And—"

David swallowed hard. "Our gang hasn't collected all the protection money for this month yet. The money in the account, plus the change in my pocket, only amounts to three hundred and forty-five dollars."

"I simply can't afford a bill of two thousand dollars."

David lowered his voice and suggested, in his self-righteousness, "How about I go out and rob a few people to raise some money for medical expenses?"

Bart rolled his eyes in exasperation at David's stupidity.

He endured the excruciating pain in his buttocks and slapped David's bald head hard with his backhand.

"Screw you! The cops in the West District are like madmen, arresting people everywhere. Do you want me to die already?!"

After beating David, Bart turned to Hank, his tone softening as he tried to bargain: "Hank, three hundred dollars. Save my life and get my wounds treated first. I'll give you the rest next month after I collect the protection money."

Hank shook his head indifferently.

"Unlicensed clinics do not offer credit. That's the rule."

Looking at Bart's pale face, which had turned deathly pale from blood loss and pain, Hank suddenly changed the subject, "However, since you only have three hundred dollars, I do have an alternative."

Bart's eyes lit up: "What plan?"

"Since you can't afford expensive advanced antibiotics and vaccines, we can only resort to the oldest physical disinfection method."

Hank turned to his dazed assistant and ordered, "Jerry, go to the backyard and get that iron skewer we usually use to brand gang traitors. Heat it on the gas stove until it turns white."

Jerry nodded and turned to walk towards the backyard.

Upon hearing the words "branded iron skewer," Bart's eyes widened instantly, and his voice cracked as he asked, "You—what do you want to do?"

"It's very simple."

Hank explained, "You just put a red-hot iron directly on your wound and cook the infected flesh thoroughly."

"Temperatures of several thousand degrees can kill all germs, viruses, and parasites instantly. Moreover, high temperatures can close blood vessels, eliminating the need for sutures."

"I'll only charge you two hundred dollars for this physical therapy. With the remaining one hundred dollars, I can sell you a bottle of cheap bourbon whiskey to drink as an anesthetic while you're being burned. It's extremely cost-effective."

Upon hearing this hellish treatment plan, Bart trembled with fear, his clothes instantly soaked with cold sweat.

"No, no, no! I absolutely won't do it!"

Bart shook his head frantically, his eyes filled with terror. "Fuck! I'd rather die of rabies like a dog than have my ass burned with a branding iron!"

However, David, the underling standing to the side, stroked his chin and seriously considered Hank's suggestion.

A few seconds later, David's eyes lit up.

He leaned close to Bart's ear and earnestly advised, "Boss, I think Dr. Hank's plan is really cost-effective."

Bart turned to his underling: "Are you out of your mind?!"

"Boss, let me do the math."

David counted on his fingers and analyzed in a serious tone.

"Two thousand US dollars and two hundred US dollars, that's a tenfold difference!"

"Our gang is almost out of money for bullets. If you choose the $200 option, we'll save $1,800! That's enough for us to recruit a few new members!"

David patted Bart on the shoulder, his expression one of grim determination: "Boss, to take over the 12th Street Boys and become the boss of 12th Street in the future, just bear with it."

"Dr. Hank's treatment may be a bit life-threatening, but it saves money! Just grit your teeth, and it'll be over in seconds!"

"Fuck your father, David!"

Bart lay sprawled on the operating table, roaring angrily.

"Of course you think it's good value for money since it's not your butt that's getting burned! You traitorous idiot!"

"Boss, I'm doing this all for the future of the gang!"

Just as Bart was about to get up from the operating table and strangle David, the door to the backyard was pushed open.

Jerry walked in with a blank expression.

In his hand, he held a thick iron skewer, its tip glowing red-white from the gas stove, radiating distorted heat.

Hank took the iron skewer, looked at the two still arguing, and smiled gently.

"Hold him down."

David immediately stepped forward and pressed down hard on Bart's shoulder.

"No! Let me go! David, you traitor! Help!"

"Sizzle—"

'

The red-hot branding iron was pressed against Bart's bloody wound. A thick, acrid smoke from burning flesh instantly filled the basement.

"Aaaaaaaahhhhh!!!"

A bloodcurdling scream, like a pig being slaughtered, pierced through the thick concrete walls of the basement and echoed for a long time in the cold air of Twelfth Avenue.

Leon also heard the scream. He stood outside the rusty iron door of the underground clinic, his hand, which he had just raised to knock on, hovering in mid-air.

He turned his head slightly and keenly caught a strange, burnt smell emanating from the air.

"Old man."

Lyon looked at Pastor Thomas, who was clutching the brown paper bag tightly beside him.

"Are you sure you come here often to trade drugs? The noise inside sounds like they're having a Texas barbecue, and the food is alive."

Thomas's gaunt cheek twitched, and his expression became somewhat unnatural.

Just ten minutes earlier, as they were preparing to leave St. Jude Church, Thomas had assured Lyon that he had an excellent reputation in the neighborhood.

The old pastor's exact words were: As long as he wears this black pastor's robe, even the drug dealers of the Blood Gang will bow to him when they pass by, and no one will dare to mess with him.

But Lyon wasn't buying it at all.

He knew very well that so-called prestige only worked when order was relatively stable and gangsters believed in honors.

Now, a large number of homeless people, drug addicts, and greenhorns who have just started living on the streets have migrated from the South and North districts and have no idea who the pastor of St. Judy's Church is.

The moment they saw the bulging brown paper bag in Thomas's arms, they would absolutely not hesitate to stab the old man in the heart with a screwdriver.

To ensure the funds intended for purchasing antibiotics wouldn't be robbed along the way, and also to ensure Thomas's safety, Leon acted as his bodyguard and followed along.

Before leaving, Leon entrusted the important task of guarding the baptismal chamber to Alex, and sternly warned the fat man to keep a close eye on Christopher on the marble platform and not to let the Pfizer researcher wake up and run around prematurely.

"I do come here to buy goods frequently."

Thomas stared at the rusty security door, swallowed hard, and tried to salvage his dignity as a former top medical expert.

"The attending physician inside is named Hank. Although his methods—well, they're a bit unconventional—I do know him. We're old acquaintances."

Thomas paused, then recalled.

"Back when I was the head of surgery at Englewood Hospital and was giving medical lectures all over the place, this kid was just a student sitting in the back row listening to the lectures."

"I even personally taught him a technique for suturing muscle tissue."

Lyon raised an eyebrow.

"For you, the head of two departments, to personally provide guidance, this quack doctor must have been a top student before?"

"No, that's not it."

Thomas coughed awkwardly.

"He was a dropout from the state university's veterinary college. He was expelled for stealing and reselling a potent anesthetic used in horse racing."

"However, he soon discovered that stitching up gunshot wounds for gangsters and stitching up the bellies of stray dogs seemed to be essentially the same, so he started doing it."

Lyon's eyes twitched slightly after hearing this outrageous resume.

"The healthcare ecosystem at the bottom of American society is truly eye-opening."

Leon muttered a complaint, then raised his right foot, clad in tactical boots, and kicked open the half-closed iron door with a "bang."

The two descended the dimly lit staircase to the basement.

Pushing open the wooden door, a strong smell of burnt flesh and cheap alcohol immediately hit you.

On the operating table, the gang leader named Bart had screamed himself hoarse. He was now lying on the metal sheet, his eyes rolled back, his body soaked in cold sweat, and his body was still twitching from time to time due to the excruciating pain.

The attending physician, Hank, was standing to the side, finishing up his work.

He handed the charred iron skewer to his dazed assistant Jerry, then casually picked up a bottle of anti-inflammatory powder that had been expired for who knows how long, and roughly sprinkled it onto Bart's charred black wound on his buttocks like pepper.

"Perfect."

Hank clapped his hands in satisfaction and turned to look at the huge, bald henchman next to him.

"David, you can go out and buy him a donut to celebrate. As long as he doesn't do anything stupid and get bitten by a zombie again, his butt will scab over in half a month."

David gave Hank a thumbs-up, looking at him with admiration: "Dr. Hank, your skills are absolutely amazing! The two hundred dollars were well worth it, it's a medical miracle!"

Lyon stood at the doorway and quietly watched it all unfold.

Then, he turned his head, his eyes filled with undisguised suspicion, and looked at Thomas beside him.

Leon didn't speak, but the meaning in his eyes was very clear:

Back then, you were preaching everywhere, and that's exactly what you taught him?

Thomas's old face instantly turned bright red.

"No—no, I didn't."

Thomas waved his hand awkwardly, wishing he could disappear into a crack in the ground.

"I swear, what I taught him back then was standard subcutaneous tension-reducing suture technique—definitely not this barbaric operation of branding pork with a hot iron."