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

Chapter 230 Dealing with the Homeless Influx (1 words)

However, it will take time to compile, cross-reference, and then plan an absolutely safe cross-border route based on all the intelligence gathered by Old Tom and Mike, the scouts scattered throughout the forest.

This is not a task that can be completed in a day or two.

Even if Chen Jianjun and Shen Weiguo work around the clock, and the $500,000 bribe from Uncle Chen has been paid, and the lead plates have been welded into the dark compartment of the refrigerated truck, it will still take at least several more days just to coordinate the indigenous smuggling convoy, set up bait, and arrange safe houses for the other side of the border to receive them.

So at this moment, in downtown Seattle, Leon Vance still has to maintain the status quo while waiting, bearing the label of an anti-terrorism hero.

Meanwhile, this signboard is making life worse for a group of people.

Seattle Police Department West Precinct, third-floor interior conference room.

The yellowish fluorescent light tubes on the ceiling hummed irritatingly. Several cups of cold black coffee sat on the conference table, covered with a disgusting film of grease.

Five mid-level bureaucrats, some with large bellies and others with receding hairlines, sat around a long table. They were the promotion committee of the Seattle Police Department's West Precinct, responsible for evaluating officers' promotions.

No one spoke.

It's not that they have nothing to say, but that no one wants to be the fool to be the first to speak.

In the very center of the table, a file folder sat alone, ridiculously thick.

The kraft paper envelope was bulging, and the seal at the edge was even cracked, revealing a corner of the densely packed printed paper inside.

On the cover, the words "Lyon Vance" were scrawled in large black marker.

Executive Inspector McManus stared at the file for a full three thousand seconds.

He was a white male in his early fifties, with two folds of flesh piled up on his chin, his dark blue police shirt stretched taut by his belly, and two dark patches of sweat-soaked skin under his armpits.

He picked up the cup of cold coffee on the table, took a swig, then pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and vigorously wiped the sweat that kept seeping from his forehead.

McManus finally broke the silence.

"Okay, guys, we have to face reality."

He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and tapped the file folder with his finger.

"This file contains four firefight reports alone, two of which involve the use of automatic weapons and multiple deaths."

"There were two blasting applications, which also included the accidental detonation of several dozen kilograms of C4 explosives."

"The two most outrageous kills recorded by veterans are a former Marine Corps sniper who was shot in the head with a single bullet that pierced his scope, and a former special forces soldier who was buried alive under a collapsed precast concrete slab."

McManus's lips trembled slightly, and he scanned the assembled bureaucrats with a look of utter disbelief.

"According to regulations, based on his current media reputation and track record, he should have already received the rank of Third-Class Police Officer."

"But the problem is—"

McManus's voice suddenly rose, his finger digging into the name on the file folder.

"Who the hell is willing to be the first to sign this madman's promotion papers?"

The meeting room fell silent once again.

The buzzing of the fluorescent lights became even more piercing.

Inspector Flannery, a tall, thin man with a receding hairline, who was sitting to McManus's left, slammed his hand on the table.

"Are you kidding me, McManus?"

Flannery said irritably.

"Did you know that just last week, Leon Vance spun like a top into that strip club and took down more militants than a platoon?"

"Did you know that it took the forensic team two whole days to count all the bullets he fired during that firefight?"

"Are you going to ask us to sign his promotion papers now?"

Flannery's Adam's apple bobbed violently.

"What if he blows up half the block one day?"

"What if next time he's fighting not with gangsters, but with some Asian tourist who's wandered into a slum?"

"What if a human rights organization takes his killing record to federal court?"

He lowered his voice and stared intently at McManus.

"Do you know how those people in the Ministry of the Interior deal with people who sign off on things?"

"They'll take this piece of paper and drag us out of bed one by one and send us to federal prison."

"Would you be willing to explain to my wife why I signed under a ticking time bomb that could trigger a huge scandal at any moment?"

"You think you can just refuse to sign like that?"

Sitting opposite Flannery was Sergeant Moretti, a short, stocky man with a grimacing chin, who gave a cold laugh.

"Are you planning to turn on the TV tomorrow morning and watch those conservative anchors on Fox News bash us?"

"West District Police Bureau bureaucrats suppress anti-terrorism heroes; cowards within the system dare not promote true heroes—which headline would you like to hear?"

"I bet five dollars that they'll switch gears and start attacking the Democrats, then question why taxpayers are supporting a bunch of irresponsible good-for-nothings."

"Even if you don't care, what about Chief Sterling?"

Moretti looked around, his voice turning cold.

"Who in the police station dares to confront her directly now?"

"If you upset her, she only needs one word to transfer you to be in charge of compiling twelve years' worth of parking tickets."

"There was no air conditioning, no funding, just a broom and a pile of moldy documents."

"So you mean, going forward means death, and going backward also means death?" Flannery spread his hands.

"No." Moretti took a deep breath. "If we keep going, maybe no one will die."

The moment those words were spoken, everyone's eyes lit up.

McManus was the first to react.

He slowly turned his head, the light passing over Flannery, over Moretti, and finally landing on the person in the corner of the room who had been hunching over.

Harris. Administrative Assistant Inspector, responsible for meeting minutes and document filing. The youngest, least experienced, and seemingly most easily bullied person in the entire conference room.

He just brought this document in.

Harris sensed the oppressive gaze and instinctively shrank back.

"Harris".

McManus gave a friendly smile. "Go to the director's office and ask her what she thinks about our great hero's promotion."

"I?"

Harris's neck was completely tucked into his shirt collar. "Why me?"

Flannery immediately added, "We all have jobs to do and can't leave."

Harris looked at the cold coffee on the table, then at the four pairs of eyes around him, and knew that he probably couldn't escape.

He slowly stood up.

"I'll go."

Harris said with a mournful face, "But if I don't come back alive, remember to tell my wife I love her very much."

"Stop talking nonsense and go."

The conference room door clicked shut.

The remaining four people remained seated, staring at their now-cold coffee, and no one spoke.

McManus pulled out a handkerchief again and began wiping the sweat from his brow. Flannery stared at the ceiling, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Moretti reclined his chair as far back as possible, the heels creaking on the floor.

Fifteen minutes later.

The meeting room door was pushed open from the outside.

Harris walked in. His face was even paler than before, as if he had been drained of blood.

Four pairs of eyes simultaneously fell upon him.

"How is it?" McManus's handkerchief was already clenched into a ball.

Harris walked to his seat, poured himself a large glass of ice-cold water, gulped it down, and then spoke.

"When I knocked and went in, the chief was facing away from me, looking at the map of the West District branch's jurisdiction on the wall."

Harris's voice was hollow.

"I didn't dare ask directly. I just said that the promotion committee was processing a batch of police officers' promotion documents and I wanted to ask her to confirm the procedural priority, especially for officers who had recently made significant contributions in combat."

"What did she say?" Flannery's cigarette was already flattened from being chewed.

Harris swallowed.

She didn't turn around. She just smiled. Then she said—

Harris closed his eyes, trying to mimic Sterling's gentle yet chilling tone: "Now that he's doing SWAT work, let's not let him embarrass us in front of the media as a second-class patrol officer."

"As long as he doesn't drive the tank into the wealthy area, you can handle the procedural matters yourselves."

The meeting room was so quiet you couldn't even hear someone breathing.

"Didn't she say anything else?"

"No. She just kept looking at the map after she finished speaking, without even turning around."

After Harris finished speaking, he slumped back in his chair.

McManus put down the handkerchief, his nervous little eyes darting around rapidly.

Flannery pulled the rotten cigarette butt out of his mouth, his fingers unconsciously twisting the cigarette paper.

Moretti lowered the chair, leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and interlaced his fingers against his chin.

What does it mean that "since he's already doing the work of a SWAT officer"?

This means that Director Sterling has tacitly accepted everything that is currently happening.

She didn't care what Leon did in the gray area, how much C4 he used, or how many people he killed.

What does it mean to say, "Don't let him lose face in front of the media as a second-level patrol officer"?

This means she doesn't want Lyon's rank to be too low, thus diminishing her value and undermining the gains she's made recently.

No, what she really meant was that she didn't want this walking bounty and achievement to be labeled as "temporary law enforcement."

She needs Lyon to become more "formal" so that she can play the Lyon card more effectively in the next round of political confrontation.

As for the last sentence, "As long as he doesn't drive the tank into the rich area, you guys figure it out yourselves"?

At first glance, this sounds like a warning, but upon closer inspection, in her jurisdiction, as long as Lyon doesn't escalate the matter to the area where his benefactor is located, everything is negotiable.

The implication is that she will cover for her subordinates, including those who are "handling things as they see fit."

Moretti was the first to speak.

His tone changed drastically. "So, the director means she's willing to take on this?"

"She didn't say she was willing."

McManus had already unscrewed the cap of his pen, pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his forehead hard. "But she didn't say she didn't want to."

That's enough.

Flannery tossed his cigarette butt into a paper cup. "As long as we're not the only ones who have to shoulder the burden if something goes wrong."

"bring it on."

McManus no longer hesitated.

He stood up and pulled the ridiculously thick file folder on the table in front of him. "Don't keep her waiting too long."

He unscrewed the pen cap and quickly wrote his name on the first line of the "Promotion Approval Committee Signature Column".

The pen tip scratched across the paper with a soft, rustling sound, moving so fast it was as if afraid of burning its hand.

Signed.

He pushed the file folder into front of Franner.

Flannery sat up straight, grabbed the pen, hastily signed his name, and then shoved the file folder toward Moretti.

Moretti took the pen, signed it, and then pushed it to Harris in the corner.

Harris took another sip of water and, with trembling hands, signed his name in the last column.

The file folder quickly went around like cargo on a conveyor belt and eventually returned to McManus's hands.

McManus stared at the rows of signatures for two seconds to make sure nothing was missing, then handed it to someone sitting at the very end of the conference table who hadn't said a word.

Bradley.

Bradley took the file and flipped through it one last time.

He sighed, stood up, walked to the metal filing cabinet by the wall, and threw the bulging file folder into the basket labeled "Approved".

"Bang."

The file folder fell into the metal basket with a muffled thud.

Bradley let out a long sigh, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and slumped back into his chair like a deflated balloon.

"This guy's job title has finally been approved. Everyone, hurry up and get the next unlucky guy's documents over and get them done quickly, my heart is about to give out."

Office of the Chief of the West District Branch.

Victoria Sterling had been staring at the district map on the wall for a full twenty minutes.

The area circled in red on the map has more than doubled in size compared to last week.

Twelfth Street, Ninth Street, Eleventh Street, and even Fifth Avenue, which was originally relatively quiet, are now completely covered by dense red circles.

Next to each red circle is a date and number in very small print, which is the number of new homeless gathering points reported by the patrol police.

The figures for today haven't been tallied yet.

The coffee in her hand was almost gone, and the coffee stains at the bottom of the cup had formed a dark brown film.

Sterling put the cup on the table and rubbed his temples hard.

She's done a lot these past few days.

On the afternoon of the day she discovered the surge in homelessness, she ordered the precinct's patrol officers to set up a fixed checkpoint at the intersection of Fourth Avenue and 11th Street, turning back all homeless people attempting to venture into the commercial district.

She also specifically instructed that violence should not be used, and that the homeless should be led to a secluded area by using excuses such as "pipeline construction ahead" or "gas leak".

The next morning, she contacted the heads of three community churches and asked them to set up temporary food distribution points in the parking lot on the edge of the western district.

The cost of the food was covered by the police station, on the condition that the queue be placed in an inconspicuous location, in an attempt to continue guiding the homeless away from middle-class areas by distributing food.

Then, she even personally called the Municipal Health Department, demanding the restoration of control and removal of homeless people in the West End.

The junior employee who answered the phone was extremely polite, spouting nothing but official platitudes like "we'll handle it as soon as possible," and in the end, not even a sanitation truck driver was sent over.

The next day, she struck again, threatening several mid-level bureaucrats in the city hall with the Sterling family name.

The effect was immediate; two sanitation trucks drove onto Fourth Avenue that very afternoon.

But the next morning, the two vehicles disappeared, the reason given being that they had "received an order from higher authorities to relocate them across regions."

Of course she knew who was behind it all.

Mayor Reynolds didn't even bother with the pretense.

Sterling grabbed the ballpoint pen from the table and wrote another number in the blank space at the edge of the map: 17.

From early this morning until now, patrol officers have reported seventeen new tents that have appeared, and this is only the portion that the patrol officers have already seen.

Homeless people from other districts are still pouring in.

People wrapped in dirty blankets occupied bus stops and the steps in front of convenience stores; drug addicts were injecting themselves next to fire hydrants; and mentally unstable veterans were roaring at the air in the middle of intersections.

Sterling wasn't unwilling to clean.

She only had patrol officers under her command, no riot police, no logistical support, and no administrative authorization from the municipal government.

If she dares to order a forced clearing, human rights organizations will be putting up protest signs outside the precinct within four hours, CNN reported.

The press conference used "Republican cold-blooded female police chief tramples on homeless people" as the evening headline.

Those people don't care whether Reynolds was behind it or not; their opinions are dictated by their own interests, and they're all part of the Democratic Party.

Fox News will certainly speak up for her, but she can't rely on Fox alone, not only because this is the stronghold of the Blue Party, but also because Fox News simply can't compete with the resources the mayor has in terms of public opinion.

Moreover, if she were to expose this matter to the media, it would be tantamount to bringing the West Side security crisis to the forefront, letting all the big investors see that she couldn't even control a few streets.

Sterling tossed his pen onto the table, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the buzzing fluorescent light on the ceiling.

Her exquisite makeup concealed the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, but it couldn't hide the growing impatience in her eyes.

She glanced again at the red marker marks on the map, then abruptly pulled open the drawer on her right.

There was a black cell phone lying inside.

She picked up her phone, scrolled through her contact list, and finally stopped at a name.

Lyon Vance.

She stared at the name for two seconds.

At times like this, he's the only one I can turn to.

She dialed the number.

Inside the safe house, Leon was standing in front of the kitchen counter, spreading peanut butter on toast with a knife in his hand.

The moment his phone vibrated in his pocket, his shoulders instinctively tensed.

He put down his knife, took out his phone, and glanced at the screen.

Sterling.

Lyon's fingers paused for half a second.

His brain started working reflexively. Christopher was still in the safe house, Alex had entered a period of silence, Victor from Thor Corporation had just been tricked into wandering around Twelfth Street, and the follow-up instructions from the East had not yet arrived.

Why is she making a phone call at this time?

Damn it, could she have discovered something?

Leon took a deep breath, swiped his thumb across the answer button, and kept his voice calm.

"Good afternoon, Chief. Where did the sun rise today? Why would you call a lowly officer like me who's on administrative leave?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.

Then Sterling's voice came through, clearly indicating he hadn't slept well for several days: "How was your administrative leave?"

Lyon raised an eyebrow.

It didn't sound like he was going to interrogate someone; his tone suggested he was holding back his anger and wanted to vent it on someone.

His shoulders slumped slowly as he leaned against the kitchen counter.

"It's so comfortable, peanut butter toast with instant coffee, and I sleep for ten hours a day. I've almost forgotten what a police badge looks like."

""

"That's good," Sterling said. "Now wake up."

"What happened?"

"tramp."

Sterling let out a soft sigh. "Do you know how many people are sleeping on the streets in the West End right now? The number we've tallied today is more than double what it was last week."

"I know."

Lyon held his phone between his shoulder and picked up the knife again to continue spreading peanut butter.

"Since last week, there have been so many homeless people along Fourth Avenue and Sixth Street that they have blocked the sidewalks."

"The tent clusters in the south area are also moving here. In the past few days, I've even seen homeless people trying to scam passersby near Michelin-starred restaurants."

"Then you should also know what it's inconvenient for me to do."

"Hmm. I should even have a guess by now who did it."

Sterling gave a cold laugh on the other end of the phone, a laugh that sounded somewhat weary. "That bastard Reynolds."

"And your good colleague, Director Finch." Leon took a bite of toast and mumbled an extra piece of bread.

"I've done a lot of stupid things these past few days."

Sterling’s voice carried a hint of self-deprecation, “I had patrol officers set up roadblocks on Fourth Avenue to fake a pipe leak and drive people in remote areas, I emptied the police station’s slush fund to have the church distribute food in the parking lot, and I even called the hotline to demand the resumption of garbage collection.”

"And the result?"

"The Department of Health doesn't care. The homeless man gets the food, eats it in the parking lot, and then goes back to the main road. As for those patrols..."

Sterling paused for a second, "This morning a concerned citizen complained that the roadblocks we set up were blocking his way to work, forcing him to take a two-block detour."

Leon stuffed the rest of the toast into his mouth, chewed it twice, and swallowed it.

"So you're coming to me now because you've tried all your political policing methods and realized they don't work?"

Are you gloating?

"I'm summarizing for you."

A sigh came from the other end of the phone.

Sterling's voice lowered, sounding more tired.

"I can't force a clearing, I can't confront them publicly through the media, I can't beg my father, and I can't just stand by and watch the wealthy residents of the rich neighborhood continue to cause trouble because of this mess."

"So you came to me."

Yes. I'm looking for you.

Sterling paused. "By the way, I should let you know that you'll soon be a Level 3 Constable. It was just approved this afternoon."

.

Lyon paused for a moment.

"You're pretty quick. I've only been at ACU for about a month."

"What do you think? Normally, to be promoted from level two to level three, you need to serve at least three years in the bureau, and after the submitted materials go through the entire approval process, you have to wait at least another six months."

"Your pile of firefight reports and kill records would keep the committee going for three days and three nights if any police officer had them."

I insisted on pushing it over there for you.

"So now I owe you a favor, and you're taking advantage of me?"

"If you think so, then so be it." Sterling chuckled, his voice finally regaining a hint of its usual composure. "Anyway, help me think of a solution."

Lyon tossed the knife into the sink, leaned against the cabinet, and the edge of the stainless steel sink reflected his slightly squinted expression.

Homeless people are a nuisance, but they are also a resource.

He now has the lamb stall stronghold at the mosque, Ray as his outer security force to keep things under control, Big T's group of street informants who can gather information, and David keeping an eye on the emerging gang's movements on 12th Street.

Taking on this troublesome task would bring my plan to establish a stable talent pool one step further, and it would also cover up my unusual contact with homeless people.

What's missing?

What's lacking is the authority to mobilize patrol officers during their leave, and the backing of superiors when operating in gray areas.

Sterling has now proactively handed over this gap.

"ACU is still not fully staffed."

"They're both recovering from their injuries. Bulldozer's ribs have just healed, and Jacob's gunshot wound hasn't been stitched up yet."

Lyon sighed. "Carlos's leg is probably still hanging in the hospital."

"You're asking me to handle the homeless problem using proper methods? The firepower I can mobilize is less than that of a regular patrol team."

"Besides, ACU isn't really suited for this job."

When Leon spoke, his tone had returned to its usual slightly nonchalant manner.

"You can't exactly have Chloe carry C4 to blow up homeless people's tents, can you? That footage would be enough for CNN to broadcast for three years."

"What should we do then?"

"I'll handle it in another way."

Lyon pulled another spare phone out of his pocket and twirled it between his fingers.

"During the process, I may need to call up some patrol officers. I will coordinate with Sergeant Danfoss to determine who to call up."

"In addition, I may also use some people who are not easy to write in the action report."

"Outsiders?" Sterling paused for a beat. "Those street informants?"

"More or less."

Lyon placed his spare phone on the table.

"You just need to cover for me. If anything goes wrong during the process, such as someone complaining or a human rights organization coming to take pictures, you have to help me suppress it."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.

When Sterling spoke again, the weariness in his voice had mostly subsided.

"Don't cause any scandals. Just don't go into the rich neighborhoods and cause trouble, don't make national headlines, and don't let me get yelled at at the city hall hearing. The rest is up to you."

"Deal," Lyon said.

"Any other needs?" Sterling asked.

Give me a few more days.

"A few days?"

"It depends on my mood."

Lyon trailed off lazily, "After all, I'm still on vacation, and what I'm offering is just friendly help."

"Can't you put in a little more effort?"

"There's a proper way to be attentive," Leon said casually. "Don't rush me; rushing me could easily lead to a scandal."

Sterling laughed on the other end of the phone, a laugh born of exasperation and helplessness. "You just promised me you wouldn't cause any scandals."

"I'm just reminding you not to rush me."

"OK.

Sterling took a deep breath. "If you get this done, I'll give you extra overtime pay. If there's nothing else, I'm hanging up. I still have a bunch of reports to review."

"Eat more vitamins, Chief. Your voice sounds almost hoarse."

"Shut up."

The phone hangs up.

Lyon tossed his phone onto the kitchen counter and stood there for a moment.

Then he picked up the spare phone and scrolled to a contact labeled "Lei".

My thumb hovered over the dial button for two seconds.

He pressed it.

A waiting tone came through the receiver.

A sound.

Two sounds.

Third tone.

Click, the call connected.

The first sound in the background wasn't thunder, but a dull thud as the blade slammed into bone, followed by the scraping sound of the cleaver being forcefully pulled out.

"Boss," Lei said in a low voice, speaking slowly.

"How's it going at the stalls?"

"normal."

Lei paused, and then came the dull thud of a knife being chopped down from the other end of the phone.

"We just finished cutting up half a lamb. The people from lunchtime have left, and now there are about forty or fifty people still squatting in the open space."

"Hassan Imam brought over two more baskets of flatbread."

"Okay." Leon leaned against the edge of the cabinet. "There will be even more people in the next few days."

"Doubling? Or several times?"

"It's hard to say. But it will definitely be much more than it is now."

The sound of water droplets hitting a metal sheet came from the other end of the phone, clanging and banging. Lei must be washing his hands.

The silence lasted for a few seconds.

"Is the store still open?"

"Let's put aside the normal business operations for now."

"The original plan was to provide free relief every Wednesday and Sunday, but starting today, we will continue to provide relief every day as usual."

"Have Hassan put the ingredients on the table first, and I'll go over tomorrow to give him the money."

Ray did not answer immediately.

Lyon could hear the sound of fingernails unconsciously tapping on the cutting board from the other end of the phone, one tap after another, at even intervals.

"Boss," Lei finally spoke, "I have something to tell you."

"explain."

"I can't do it alone."

Lei's voice was as dry as ever, but he spoke a little faster than usual. "Managing queues, fighting, and stealing—I can handle it all on my own."

"But mosques are not just about this one aspect."

"You can climb over the wall to get into the warehouse on the west side, but the lock on the fire escape on the south side is broken. You can just move the trash cans and crawl in."

"The people inside the mosque can keep watch themselves, but I don't dare to rely on them. What if some white guy whose brain has been fried by drugs sneaks in with a Molotov cocktail and tells Muslims to go back? They won't be able to stop him."

"There's one more thing."

Ray spoke even faster, "There are all sorts of people among the homeless on the streets now."

"Yesterday, there was a guy in military uniform with the Norse symbol of Valhalla tattooed on his arm. When he saw Hassan come out to distribute bread, he started swearing and saying that Islam is Satanism."

"I pinned him to the ground and took his dagger, and he ran away. But people like that will definitely keep popping up."

Lyon switched the phone to his left ear, took out another anonymous SIM card from his pocket, glanced at it, and then put it back in.

"I know. So you'll have to find someone to help you."

"Who should I look for?"

"The group of homeless people squatting around the stall."

"No obvious drug addiction, not too old, and physically strong."

"The key is that there can't be anything wrong with your brain."

"We don't want those who can't even stand steadily, those who are having drug withdrawal and convulsing, or those who mutter incantations thinking they're Jesus' brother. We'll pick them out as temporary workers."

"How many people do you need?"

"Take as many as you can, and have them keep an eye on the key entrances around the mosque, including the fire escape and the western warehouse you just mentioned."

"There's no daily wage, but they provide two meals. They don't have to do anything else; they just stand there and watch, and if they see anything wrong, they'll call you out."

Ray was silent for a moment. Back when he was in the 1st Infantry Division, the local Iraqi militia were recruited in the same way.

"What if someone runs away while working?"

"Run then."

Lyon's voice sounded emotionless. "They were selected at the last minute anyway. Their departure doesn't mean a loss; it just means they weren't cut out for this."

"What if they steal something? Or cause trouble?"

"You should be able to handle this."

A very soft swallowing sound came from the microphone.

"Understood."

"You're in full charge of this," Lyon said. "How's Hassan doing?"

"Imam Hassan should be fine."

Lei responded, "He has already vacated that storage room in the backyard of the mosque these past two days, saying that he plans to let that orphan live there long-term."

"Is there anything else, boss?"

That's all. See you tomorrow.

Lyon hung up the phone and placed it on the cutting board.

He hadn't screwed the cap back on the peanut butter jar yet, so he casually screwed it back on and tossed it into the overhead cabinet.

Then he picked up his phone again and found another number.

Sergeant Danfoss.

I answered it after it rang twice.

"Vans".

Danfoss's voice had the roughness of someone who had been working long hours and staying up late for work.

"Aren't you on vacation? People on vacation calling people who are still working usually don't have anything good to say."

Lyon chuckled.

"Sergeant, you're making it sound like I used to cause you a lot of trouble."

"You say you don't cause trouble? Do you dare touch your badge and swear you've never given me any trouble?"

"My badge will smoke, so forget it."

Danfoss chuckled softly on the other end of the phone. "Speak, what do you want?"

"The mosque on 10th Street, the two main thoroughfares on the west and south sides. Your patrol officers will need to set up checkpoints there for the next few days."

Danfoss paused for a second.

"What are they checking at the checkpoint?"

"No need to check people. You can check vehicles. If you see any unfamiliar vehicles trying to transport supplies or people towards the mosque, just find a reason to stop them and question them."

"Illegal parking, broken taillights, non-functional brake lights, unclear license plates—just tear them off. Maintaining a deterrent presence there is enough."

"They're not checking people, just stopping cars. Is it a deterrent?"

"right."

Danfoss remained silent for a moment.

"Lyon, is this Sterling's intention?"

Leon leaned against the cabinet, looking at the closed door in the direction of the living room.

"Yes."

"That's good." Danvers breathed a sigh of relief, then muttered in a low voice, "I knew it."

"You agreed?"

"What do you mean, 'agree'? Every time you say you'll discuss something with me, it means I have absolutely no choice."

"You asked me to assign several patrol teams to stand guard at the mosque entrance, saying it was Sterling's idea. But I can't just ignore the daily calls in my jurisdiction, and where do I put the regular patrol duties? How do I fill out the reports?"

"Sergeant."

"Um?

""

"Do me this favor."

Danfoss fell silent on the other end of the line.

Then came the sound of the pen cap being pulled off, the sound of paper turning over, and then the sound of the ballpoint pen scribbling on the paper.

"A few days?"

"Let's see how things go."

"How many sets?"

"You can arrange it yourself. All I need is for there to be police cars parked on the road."

Danfoss slammed his pen on the table.

"Okay. I'll have Murphy, Harold, and Miller's teams go and wait there. You know Miller. If there's a car, flag it down; if not, just sit there."

"But if any complaints are brought against me, you'll have to call and explain yourself."

"no problem."

"You're not in a bad mood? Do you know how sensitive it is to stand guard near a mosque?"

"Sergeant, if you really don't want to get involved, I can find someone else."

"Bullshit, do you think I'd trust anyone else?"

Danfoss sighed again. "Are you sure you don't need more people?"

"Too many people would be too conspicuous. It's enough for the homeless to think that the police are just doing their regular duties; there's no need for them to feel like we're surrounding the mosque."

Danfoss clicked his tongue: "You've even figured out these kinds of details now. You're starting to resemble those heartless police inspectors who play psychological warfare in their offices more and more."

"I learned it from you."

"Bullshit. When did I ever teach you any of that?"

Danfoss cursed, then suddenly lowered his voice, "Remember, don't cause any big issues involving race or religion. Otherwise, next time you buy me a drink, I'll have to avoid the reporters."

"Understood."

Lyon hung up the phone.

He glanced at the time on his phone screen—12:44 PM—and then looked out at the hazy sky.

With the inner circle of the mosque providing food and thunder as a deterrent, and the presence of patrolling police on the perimeter, the homeless who come here are attracted by the signal that they can reliably receive food. Inside, they are kept in check and dare not cause trouble. Outside, those carrying knives and drugs will detour when they see police cars.

This area will become a temporarily controllable depression that can provide him with room to maneuver.

Lyon put his phone back in his pocket, turned around, and walked into the living room.