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

Chapter 234 Operation East is ready (17k)

The next morning, Lyon parked his car outside 10th Street again, without going directly past the police checkpoint.

A cold wind blew in from across the street, and the car windows weren't fully closed, yet the muttony smell of soup already filled the driver's cabin.

It still tastes the same. Oily, strong, with the aroma of onions and cumin spreading across the morning air.

The mutton stalls outside the mosque have reopened.

Lyon pushed open the car door, his boots breaking through a small patch of frozen mud.

The open space around the mosque is even denser than yesterday.

There were two queues in front of the food cart window.

One path leads to mutton soup, but the line is a bit short because only those who have registered in the first or second category can receive it.

The other line leads to the flatbread that Hassan and his men are selling, and the line is much longer, stretching to the end of the sidewalk and still not finished.

A volunteer wearing a gray robe and a white hat was carrying half a box of flatbread out of the temple gate, while Hassan, just like last time, was holding a stack of missionary pamphlets in his hand.

Overall, the number of people in the team is at least one-third larger than yesterday.

A few people were sitting on the ground at the edge of the line. They had been waiting in line for so long that they could no longer stand, so they just sat on the muddy ground and continued to wait.

The newspaper article from last night, which claimed that the "homeless crisis would be resolved within six months," is still in the pocket of Lyon's down jacket.

Looking around now, the mayor's solutions are crammed into this open space, densely packed, stretching as far as the eye can see.

Lyon pulled his mask up a bit, walked around the line, and headed towards the side entrance of the mosque.

Ray sat behind a plastic folding table on the outside of the food cart, with a new notebook on it.

He was still wearing that clean dark blue overalls, holding a pen in one hand and pointing to a black man at the front of the line with the other.

"Name."

"Ronnie Braden."

"Profession."

"I used to drive a truck delivering building materials, and I have a Class B driver's license."

"Can you do the work?"

"Yes, yes, I can move—I can move a lot of things."

Lei looked up at him, then wrote two words in his notebook and waved his hand to the right.

"Category 1. Go to the window for your soup. Next."

Lyon remained silent and walked around the group from the side.

Several people recognized him, their gazes lingered on his mask for a moment, then quickly looked away, moving slightly to the side.

No one was blocking his way.

Ray saw Leon approaching, put down his pen, and nodded.

"Boss."

"Whose new ledger is it?"

"I got a new one from Hassan. After you took the ledger yesterday, I went to him to get a new one. There were many more people registering today than yesterday."

Lyon placed the ledger in his hand on the table.

"I've marked three people inside for you; I've put an 'X' next to their names."

Lei took the notebook, looked down at the three names, and frowned slightly.

Why?

"The first one was armed robbery. He hit a convenience store clerk with a bottle, causing her to suffer a concussion and requiring more than twenty stitches. After hitting her, he stole forty dollars. He was later released after serving a year and a half in jail."

Leon put his hands in his pockets. "The second one, rape. The third one, rape plus exhibitionism, taking off his pants in the park in front of three children."

"If these three people come again, don't give them food. Don't chase them away, don't yell at them, don't cause any trouble. Just don't give them food. If they make a scene, then you can take action."

"clear."

When Lei said those two words, his voice was very deep, like a breath that rose from the bottom of his chest.

"And those porters, construction workers, and people who built houses that you registered yesterday, if they come again, tell them to wait for me behind the dining car."

Has anyone been here yet?

"There aren't any today, but they probably recorded four or five when they registered yesterday."

Lei opened the register. "Let me write down the names."

"Then you can continue watching."

Lyon glanced in the direction of the food truck, then turned and started walking towards the tent cluster.

The density of the rows of tents at the edge of the open space was much higher than yesterday.

A fifth row squeezed in after the fourth row. The fifth row extended crookedly from the east corner of the mosque. The tents were at most half a meter apart, and some were even touching each other.

Some people were squatting by the roadside drinking mutton soup, some were breaking flatbread into small pieces and stuffing them into their mouths, and some were bragging to the people next to them about how they had gambled away their houses in Las Vegas years ago, but no one paid any attention to them.

After walking a few more steps, someone suddenly cleared their throat behind Lyon.

It wasn't a real throat clearing; it was more like a "humph" sound, the kind that's intentional.

Lyon turned around, paused for a moment, and then recognized him as General MacArthur from yesterday.

Today he was wearing an extra military green baseball cap, and four or five bottle caps were pinned to his chest—Budweiser, Corona, and two flattened Heineken caps—stable to his left chest with pins. The caps were sparsely arranged but surprisingly neat, like a medal.

"Are you the commander here?" MacArthur asked Leon.

What do you need?

"How long have you been in charge of this place?"

"Not long after."

The old man nodded. "When I arrived yesterday, the line already stretched all the way to the street corner. It's even longer today."

"The mutton soup smells pretty good, though it's a little worse than the one I had in Busan. That North Korean woman in Busan didn't put this much salt in her soup."

Lyon looked at him.

"Have you been to Busan?"

"I told you, I ate mutton soup in Busan."

MacArthur lowered his hand from behind his back, reached into his coat pocket, rummaged around for a while, and pulled out a small pencil stub.

He held the pencil stub up to his eyes, looked at it, and then put it back.

"Now every relief station in the West End is reducing its portions. The church across the street was giving out one sandwich yesterday instead of two."

"The food truck next to the bus station hasn't come since Thursday, and the St. Mary's relief point behind the garbage dump was closed yesterday."

"And they don't give out as much stuff as you do."

Lyon frowned. "You've been wandering around the West End?"

"The general needs to inspect the front lines."

"So you've noticed that everyone else is reducing their intake, except for me."

"You haven't just not lost weight." MacArthur's eyes flashed beneath his messy eyebrows, a look that seemed to see right through him. "You're still gaining."

"What's wrong?"

"You've probably noticed that there are more people here, and many of their shoes are dirtier than others around here, covered in red clay from the South District."

Leon began to find this person somewhat interesting.

"You say you're a general? Even generals are queuing up for mutton soup?"

MacArthur pulled his head back and started walking towards the group of tents, with Leon following a couple of steps behind.

"I don't drink mutton soup. I only came today because I smelled it."

He gestured with his chin toward the food cart, "And I need to show off my medals."

"That's a bottle cap."

"The bottle cap is temporary."

"OK."

MacArthur walked to his tent and stopped.

His tent was the smallest of all, and it was set up right under the sign for the fire lane outside the east wall of the mosque.

He sat down at the tent entrance, pulled his hat brim down, and said, "Something's not right."

Lyon looked down at him.

"What's wrong with me?"

He scraped the oil stains off the edge of his hat brim with his thumb, then wiped his thumb clean on his overcoat.

"Normal people don't appear on my battlefield, soldiers."

"I've seen this before when I was in the Philippines."

The old man glanced at the homeless people nearby, then looked away.

"The Japanese drove civilians out of Bataan and made them walk toward our lines."

"There are too many people, we can't handle them all."

"As a result, the refugees overwhelmed the forward fortifications, and our machine gun company was overwhelmed by civilians before we could even fire a single shot."

Lyon looked at the eyes staring at him from under the brim of the hat.

This guy's eyes weren't big, the eyeballs were slightly yellow, and there were a few red blood vessels in the whites of his eyes, but the pupils weren't dilated.

"What do you think I want to do?"

"Still Bataan."

"In Bataan, some people were responsible for driving away civilians, some were responsible for providing relief to civilians, and a few companies that did not believe in evil set up temporary soup kitchens."

"Later, the soup kitchen collapsed."

"30,000 people died in the refugee camps."

"And in some parts of this city, the government's role seems to have disappeared."

"It's gone? You mean you found something else?"

"It means that these people traveled from the South District to the West District, covering most of the city."

"There were no shelters, no social workers, no checkpoints, no health department inspection vehicles. Nothing at all."

"Only you."

The old man's gaze fell on Lyon's mask. "Do you think this is a coincidence?"

After the old man finished speaking, he did not wait for a reply.

He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, took out a flatbread, broke it in half, stuffed the other half back in, and began to chew.

"So what do you think of me?" Leon asked.

The old man continued talking while chewing, ignoring the crumbs of pancake falling onto his collar.

"The way this city treats civilians reminds me of the transoceanic intelligence war during the Pacific War."

"Every army is sending civilians toward a certain target to wear down the enemy."

"Are you saying my actions didn't consider cutting losses?"

"That's the key point, soldier."

"What would a normal district commander do?"

"He would set up a buffer zone along the front of his defense zone, distributing the incoming refugees evenly among various supply stations, or simply close the gates of his defense zone."

"But the mosque in the western district did not close any doors, nor did it set up any real roadblocks on the road."

"On the contrary, all the civilians who came in were left to pile up here."

"On the surface, the commander of the defense zone here seems to have sufficient supplies and doesn't seem to care much about his position being overrun by civilians."

He stopped, took another bite of the pancake, chewed it a few times, and swallowed it.

"But if I were standing on the other side, the situation would be different."

Lyon remained silent.

The old man continued, "If it were me, and I had devised this refugee strategy, I would definitely want to see if anything in that person's territory would spontaneously emerge."

"For example, what?"

"Artillery positions. Supplies. Weak flank of the defensive line."

He stuffed the last piece of pancake into his mouth, "anything that can still be fired after a long siege."

"If this unit has been suppressed for so long and still has enough manpower to maintain an extra soup kitchen, then I would probably send a few more scouts over to see who is in charge of the soup kitchen, because this doesn't seem like standard procedure for the defending side."

Does increasing relief necessarily mean being on the defensive?

"No."

"The defending side will consider conserving food to cope with consumption, while those preparing to attack will be fed well."

"Because before you launch an attack, even if there's only one day left, you have to make sure the people following you have the strength to walk."

He paused for a moment, then said, "You're adding soup and flatbread to your food every day now."

"So you're not the defensive side that's saving food; you're the one preparing to lead the attack."

Lyon looked into the old man's eyes.

Those cloudy, light brown eyes were also looking at him.

Lyon took half a step forward, reducing the distance between himself and the old man to an arm's length.

"General, repeat what you just said: send scouts over."

"I am a five-star general! My understanding of strategy is indeed deeper than that of ordinary people. For example, the enemy commander may not think of this aspect, but you should not be unable to understand it."

Leon stood outside the tent, staring at him motionless for about five seconds.

"General, have you ever had a staff officer before? Did he know you spoke so logically and methodically?"

"My advisor? He doesn't know who I'm talking to."

He'll probably think I'm talking to thin air.

MacArthur stood up, dusted off his coat, and said, "I'm not like him."

"He came here because the position he was originally stationed at was ordered to be abandoned by the general command, and he had no other choice."

"I stayed in this place because I found it interesting."

He put his hands back behind his back.

"At Incheon, my staff said that it was difficult to land in North Korea. The tidal range was too large and the waterway was too narrow. If the North Koreans discovered us, the first batch of landing craft would all die in the water."

"But I don't believe it. I think it's okay just because I say so, because the enemy won't think I would think it's okay."

"But I failed that time because the enemy was smarter and stronger than me. Anyone who wants to fight them must be crazy."

He looked up and glanced at Lyon.

You don't believe it either.

Lyon lowered his head and pulled his hat down further.

"Do you think your judgment is very accurate?"

Whether my predictions are accurate or not is not important.

MacArthur shrugged, the beer caps on his chest clinking together. "The important thing is I still don't understand what you don't believe."

"I need enough people to eat my food."

MacArthur raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Even as he asked why, his eyes were still scanning Leon, and Leon could feel that gaze even through his mask.

Old, very old, not physically old, but with a keenness that comes from having seen many complex things.

"Because I want more people to have enough to eat."

MacArthur tilted his head to the side, and that ambiguous smile returned to his lips.

"Look, young man, we're both talking nonsense."

"No, General, I am not talking nonsense."

Lyon softened his tone, "General, how long have you been here?"

"Seattle? It started in the spring. It rained that day, I remember it clearly, because my tent got completely wet."

His tone suddenly shifted back to that of an ordinary old man rambling on, "The weather in this wretched place is nowhere near as bad as anywhere else I've ever been."

Have you ever been to Manila? It's the capital of the Philippines.

"no."

"Manila's rainy season is longer than here, but at least it's not as gloomy. Seattle's winters are like someone has covered the sky with a gray blanket and doesn't lift it for three months."

Lyon stood there and looked the old man up and down again.

The brim of his hat was splattered with mud, and inside the tent there was only a blanket and a tattered backpack. He was standing on a torn piece of cardboard, and the beer cap badges reflected a faint metallic sheen in the dim light.

A homeless man living under a fire escape, who could only afford to receive pancakes as relief from charity.

But he spoke of Bataan, he saw through the mayor's scheme to dump homeless people, he saw through the withdrawal of West End municipality, and he saw the hidden message in the relief efforts on one street.

Lyon glanced at him again.

Then Leon took his hand out of his jacket pocket, patted the dust off his sleeve, and said, "You're now in Category 3, you can only have bread, not soup."

The old man did not refute.

"If you can go three days without mentioning Incheon, Bataan, or the Pacific War to anyone, I can change you back to Category 1."

"Let me know when you can do it."

The old man was silent for a few seconds, then said something.

"Where should I give command?"

Lyon stared at him for a while, then suddenly laughed, the laughter muffled inside his mask, only a little bit coming out of his nose.

"Soldier, do you think you're being funny?" the old man asked seriously.

"You do not have command authority for the time being, General."

Lyon turned and walked towards the food truck. "Live first. Only by living can you have a chance."

I heard a soft thud of a beer cap behind me.

MacArthur had already crawled back into his tent, with only the hem of his overcoat sticking out of the tent flap.

On the other side, Lei was still registering at the registration table.

As Leon walked to the table, Ray looked up. "There are two people already waiting behind the food cart."

"Both of them were construction workers who registered yesterday, and one of them even said he could mix cement."

"OK."

Lyon took the register from Ray's desk, flipped to the pages registered yesterday, and quickly scanned the names and occupations.

Former construction worker, former cement mixer.

"How many more are there?"

"There are about two people in line to register."

"After registering, let them go to the back of the dining car as well."

Lyon put down the register, took two steps toward the food truck, then stopped, glanced back at the fire escape on the east wall of the mosque, and continued walking toward the back of the food truck.

Behind the food truck was an open space.

The open space was small, just wide enough for a small unloading truck to park. The ground was covered with gravel, which had been trampled into a mess.

The shadow of the mosque's side wall blocked half of the sunlight, while the other half fell on two people squatting on the ground drinking mutton soup.

Each of them held a bowl with a chipped rim, steam rising from the rim, and the air was filled with the smell of white pepper and mutton.

The one on the left is wearing a drab gray winter jacket; he has broad shoulders and a thick back.

He brought the bowl to his lips and drank very quickly, his mouth watering from the scalding heat.

The one on the right is more muscular, a big black man wearing a faded red and black plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a section of his dark forearm. His muscle definition is still there, but his skin has become loose due to long-term malnutrition.

With pieces of flatbread stuffed into his cheeks, he chewed until his shoulders moved.

His bowl was already half empty, with a few pieces of mutton with skin left at the bottom, which he couldn't bear to finish in one bite.

Lyon walked up to the two men and stopped.

The shadow fell on their bowls, and both of them stopped what they were doing and looked up.

The burly Black man pulled his gaze out of the bowl and scanned Lyon's windbreaker upwards.

He hadn't swallowed the pancake in his mouth yet, his cheeks were bulging, and he spoke indistinctly: "You are—uh, the boss Lei mentioned?"

"right."

"What kind of work?"

"We'll talk about it later."

Lyon nodded.

The man next to him, wearing a winter jacket, looked up at Leon.

"Did you pay for the soup?"

"right."

"There's so much meat in this soup."

He held the bowl up a little higher, as if to prove that he hadn't drunk it for nothing.

"When I registered last night, I registered as the first type, the one with the knife. He told me to come and have some soup today."

Leon didn't reply, but looked at his face.

This man has the typical frame of a manual laborer; his shoulders are broad, but not the kind that come from working out in a gym. Rather, they're the kind of broadness that comes from carrying cement since he was twenty.

"You registered as a construction worker yesterday?"

"Yes, yes, yes."

"What exactly are you doing?"

"I've done everything: framing, cement mixing, bricklaying."

"How long can you stir it?"

"I'll stir it for as long as you want. I used to stir it for twelve hours a day at the construction site of that commercial center in Redwood City."

Why did that construction site stop?

"The bank stopped lending money. The contractor ran away, and the foreman didn't even show up on the last day. We didn't find out the project was dead until noon."

Lyon matched the name in his mind with the name he had just scanned in the register.

Jarvis, the winter jacket maker, is a former construction worker who can mix cement.

"And you?" he asked, looking at the large black man.

"I both demolish walls and plaster them."

"What's your name?"

"Elton".

He stuffed the last piece of pancake into his mouth, and when he stood up, his knees made a cracking sound one after the other. His movements were a little stiff, as if his legs had gone numb from squatting for too long.

"All-powerful?"

"I'm an all-rounder. Demolishing walls, installing joists, laying plasterboard, plastering, painting walls—I've been doing this since I was seventeen."

Lyon looked into his eyes and couldn't detect any sign of lying.

Has anyone asked you to do any work?

"I recently went to the street corner to move refrigerators, but I stopped after three days."

Why?

"I carried a fifty-cent load for three days without a hot meal, and then I heard they had mutton soup here—"

Before he could finish speaking, two more people walked over from the direction of the food truck.

Lei walked in front, followed by two men carrying bowls. One was wearing dark blue canvas overalls with worn-out cuffs, and the other was wearing a dirty woolen hat. He carried bowls in both hands, taking a sip every few steps, and was almost tripped on a pebble by Lei's urging.

"Boss, there are two more, both of them are registered."

After Lei finished speaking, he turned around, leaving the two people behind.

The one in the canvas overalls spoke first: "My name is Cole. He said you're the boss."

What do you do?

"I used to work for a construction company, mostly doing interior demolition and alteration work. That meant tearing down old walls, installing new walls, and building partitions—basically, a demolition worker."

"How long have you been working?"

"Twelve years later, the company laid off employees. I said I could still work, but he said he knew that, but it was none of his business, and he still laid me off."

The one wearing the woolen hat was the last to speak. He first looked at his bowl and finished the last drop of soup.

"My name is Louis. I used to be a bricklayer; I could lay bricks, plaster cement, and do floor work."

"How did you become a homeless person?"

Louis's expression stiffened for a moment, then he tilted his head as if considering whether or not to tell the truth.

Finally, he said, "I was painting walls for someone else last month, but then my landlord said he wouldn't rent the place to me anymore, so I had nowhere to live and no savings to find a new place."

"Then people quickly found out that I had nowhere to live, and I lost the job painting the walls."

Elton, a large Black man, chimed in from the side, his voice muffled: "He used to share a tent with me, we know each other."

"Okay then."

Leon tucked both hands into his jacket pockets and took a half-step back so that all four faces could be seen.

"You four, listen up."

"Just call me RayFong. I've acquired a building on 12th Street and am going to turn it into a homeless community center. It's about a ten-minute drive from here."

"It's still empty now and needs renovation."

"To be more specific, it means demolishing a few walls, rebuilding partitions, converting a few rooms into dormitories, and possibly redoing the ground floor."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the four people.

"Meals and lodging included, $100 a day."

All four of them were stunned.

The bowl stopped clattering, my feet stopped moving, and even my breathing seemed lighter.

Jarvis, wearing a thermal jacket, was the first to react, but his first reaction was to frown.

He stared at Lyon for three or four seconds, then put the bowl on the ground and stood up.

"Is this mutual aid center the same as the relief centers I used to work at in California?"

"What I'm saying is that while we're working here, someone at the window will ask us if we've filled out any forms, or social workers will make us get up at 6:30 every day to take us to a group psychology class and tell us that we are a group that needs care in society."

Elton, the big black man, snorted.

"Social worker. Last time I was at that shelter in the South District, the social worker there wore glasses and told me to do career planning. He asked me to fill out a ten-page form first."

"After I filled out the form, she said my work experience needed to be re-certified, and the certification fee was two hundred US dollars, otherwise she couldn't help me find a job."

"If I had two hundred dollars, would I even be here with you?"

"I stayed at another place before. They would search your bag as soon as you entered to see if you had brought any food with you."

Why?

"Because the instant noodles they sell inside cost six dollars a box, you won't make any money if you bring your own."

"The area is cleared out at 10 a.m. every morning. Before clearing it out, the beds must be vacated, and the queue will be formed again at night."

"If you didn't manage to get a bed, you deserve it."

"With all this back and forth, how can I possibly work? I have no time."

Cole, dressed in overalls, nodded, his tone flat, but the content was even more outrageous: "I lived in a church in Tacoma."

"You must pray three times a day, or you won't get any food."

"Once I was late. It wasn't that I didn't want to go, but I was too late. But I really had work to do that day."

"Then the pastor said I wasn't devout enough, and made me stand in the rain for four hours before letting me in. When I got in, there were no beds left."

"Finally, the pastor said it was God's arrangement."

"That's nothing compared to what you've got."

Louis, wearing a wool hat, wiped the mud off the rim of the bowl with his sleeve.

"Last winter in Sammamish, it was minus 20 degrees Celsius. We queued outside for an hour before we could get in. I asked the social worker if I could sit in the corridor for the night, but she said it was against fire regulations."

Leon stood between the four men and noticed that none of them seemed angry when they spoke of these things.

It felt like he had gotten used to it; there was no expectation in his tone, only a disappointment that he had digested for many years.

"It's different there."

The four people turned to look at him.

"First, there are no social workers. Second, there is no need for prayer. Third, there are no forms."

"But there are still some things that need to be filled in."

Lyon said, "There's always a need to register entry and exit information and then get the work done."

"I don't need a lot of information. I just need to know what you can do, when you ran away, and when you came back."

"I might arrange for someone to help you find part-time and full-time jobs later."

"But not now, and we won't ask you to pay a registration fee. That's for the future. I can't guarantee whether you'll have a job, but there will be opportunities."

Jarvis, wearing a winter jacket, crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the ground for a moment.

When he looked up again, his brows were still furrowed, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

"Boss, you're not joking, are you?"

"Do I look like a joker?"

It was quiet, except for the sounds of Hassan and his assistant calling out as they distributed bread from the mosque, and the sound of someone overturning a metal bucket from the tents.

"That sounds better than any of the relief stations I've ever been to."

"How many people do you need?" Louis in the wool hat asked.

"Now, it's just the four of you."

"Then I'll go with you."

"I'm going too," said Elton, the big black man.

Jarvis, wearing a winter jacket, stood up and patted the mud off his jeans. "I can mix cement, I can do it for twelve hours a day."

Cole, dressed in canvas overalls, glanced at the remaining three people, shrugged, and said, "I'm the only one who didn't say anything here, okay? Sure, I'll go with you."

Lyon turned and walked towards the parking spot.

Four people followed behind, their footsteps sinking into the gravel, one deep and one shallow.

Elton, the big black man, was still rubbing his left leg, which had gone numb from squatting, while Louis pulled his beanie down a bit, as it was being blown away by the wind.

Lyon walked around to the driver's side, took out the key from his pocket, and pressed it.

The Explorer's headlights flashed twice, and the unlocking sound was almost inaudible amidst the noise of the crowd.

He opened the driver's side door and glanced back at the four people following behind him.

The passenger door was opened, and Jarvis, wearing a winter jacket, stood outside, looked inside, and then squeezed in.

The passenger seat was certainly not cramped. Although he had broad shoulders, the Explorer's passenger seat space was sufficient. He shamelessly adjusted the seat back so that he could barely stretch his legs out.

The back row was the real disaster. Normally, it's designed to seat only two people. If you're of average build, you could squeeze in another person in the middle without a problem, but these were all burly men.

"Can we sit down?"

Elton, the big black man, stared at the back seat, then looked at his own shoulder, then at Louis in the beanie next to him, and then at Leon. His expression gradually became serious.

"Yes, we can." Leon adjusted the driver's seat forward a bit. "But you guys will have to squeeze in."

Cole, dressed in canvas overalls, peeked into the back seat and then pulled back in.

"Brother, I used to box, back when I was in the 155-pound weight class. Not anymore."

Louis, in his beanie, nudged his shoulder. "So you got fat because of what you ate."

"I've been eating stir-fried potatoes with lard on construction sites for three years, and I'm still alive. I'm blessed by Lady Luck, so how about you make some room for me?"

"Stop talking nonsense. Get in the car, all of you."

Elton, the big black guy, was the first to climb in. After his massive frame, which could smash through walls, squeezed into the back seat, he could only sit sideways, with his right shoulder against the window and his knee against the back of the passenger seat.

Then Cole, dressed in canvas overalls, crawled in, leaving a gap of about forty centimeters between the two of them.

Louis first took off his woolen hat and held it in his hand, then leaned his upper body into the car, straddled one leg, hesitated for a few seconds outside the car door, then took a deep breath and squeezed himself into the middle of the back seat.

His left shoulder was pressed against Cole's ribs, who was wearing canvas overalls, while his right shoulder was wedged against Elton, a large black man. His knees were hitting the center armrest of the front seat, and he was in a position as if he had just been punched by someone.

Before he could even settle in, his head hit the roof of the car.

"Lower your head," Leon said.

"I've lowered my expectations."

"Lower it even further."

Louis, wearing a wool hat, slumped down half an inch and finally closed the door.

The car swayed slightly the moment the door closed, and the right rear wheel suspension creaked.

Lyon glanced at the back seat through the rearview mirror.

"Are you done yet?"

"alright.

"

"Really all better?"

"Damn it, stop asking, I can't move."

Lyon started the engine.

As the explorers slid off the roadside, a series of loud thuds of flesh colliding echoed from inside the carriage.

"Don't elbow me—!"

"Man! That's your elbow!"

"No, my elbow is here, that's Elton's knee."

"Don't move! Don't move! Anyone who moves dies!"

"My legs are numb," said Cole, who was wearing canvas overalls.

After he finished speaking, he pushed his knee up half an inch, and Leon felt his chair back sink forward a little more.

"Could you please stop bumping into my chair?" Leon said.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for a place to put my knees."

"Your knees can't reach the roof, so don't bother looking."

Lyon took a deep breath and slowly exhaled from his mask.

Never mind, business is more important.

He turned the steering wheel all the way to the left, and the Explorer turned onto Fourth Avenue, heading towards the Big T Barber Shop.

The shutter door of the barbershop on Fourth Avenue was closed.

Lyon parked the car on the side of the road, turned off the engine, and got out of the car. Almost simultaneously, the three people in the back seat started to rush out and rolled into a ball.

Elton, a large black man, was the first to crawl out from the right side. After standing up straight, he turned his neck and his cervical spine cracked.

Cole stepped out and stood on the sidewalk, taking a few deep breaths.

Louis was the last to get out of the car, rubbing his right shoulder, which had been pinched by the car door, with his left hand.

Lyon walked up to the shutter door of the barbershop and knocked twice.

Immediately, the sound of a chair being moved came from inside, followed by Big T's voice: "Who?"

"Open the door."

The roller shutter door was pushed up with a clatter.

Big T stood at the door, his hair a little messy, but he had changed his clothes into a clean black T-shirt, and the gold chain on his collar was still there.

He first saw Lyon, then he saw four burly men standing behind Lyon, one of whom was panting and holding his back, and another was turning his neck.

"Brother, are all these yours—?"

"Show them what's in the backyard."

Da T was interrupted and didn't ask any more questions. He stepped to the left, gestured for everyone to come in, then peeked out and glanced at the street outside before pulling his head back in. The roller shutter closed behind everyone again.

Big T's barbershop backyard looks more dilapidated than the front.

The empty corrugated boxes and old washing machine that were originally piled up have been moved to the corner of the wall. The cleared space is now filled with a dozen bags of cement, several bundles of wooden joists, and two stacks of plasterboard wrapped in plastic film.

Several pieces of plasterboard had been scraped off the edge, revealing white powder underneath, but overall it did not appear to be damp.

A white van was parked on the right, with the words "Seattle Express Moving - 24-Hour Service" printed on the side, though half of the lettering had been scratched off.

The truck's back door was open, and inside the cargo compartment were several bags of cement, two buckets of wall paint, and a pile of things covered with black woven cloth, the contents of which were unclear.

Big T stood in the middle of the yard, hands on his hips, his expression somewhere between smug and nervous.

"Brother, look, I went to find Frank right after you said that last night."

"The old man was indeed dozing off at the entrance of the construction site. I gave him two hundred yuan, and he immediately unlocked the container for me."

He walked over to the drywall and patted one of the stacks. "These are brand new, the plastic wrap hasn't even been completely removed."

"Is this the moving company's truck?"

"Yes, the guy from the moving company, the one I know."

He said he also had goods to pick up this morning and couldn't get away, so he asked me to drive two trucks over so he could use them for now.

"Besides this truck, there's another one that went to pick up goods and hasn't come back yet; it's on the way."

He turned to look at the four burly men behind Lyon. "These are the guys you called in to inspect the goods?"

"right."

"Then feel free to look around and test as you please."

Big T stepped aside, patted the side of the carriage hard, and glanced at the four construction workers.

Four people emerged from behind Lyon.

Jarvis was the first to act. He walked to the drywall, squatted down, and touched the cut surface with his hand.

Then he stood up, tapped the surface of one of the boards with his finger, and put his ear close to listen.

"How is it?"

"It will work. This is standard fireproof gypsum board, 5/8 inch thick, enough for a partition."

Jarvis ran his fingernail along the edge of the drywall again, scraping off a little white powder, which he then rubbed together.

"It's been sitting for a while, but it hasn't gotten damp or bubbled. As long as it's not soaked in water, it's fine."

Elton went around to the wooden frame, pulled out a strip of wood, held both ends with his hands and tried to bend it, but the strip didn't budge.

He then held the wooden strip up to his eyes and squinted to examine the grain of the wood.

"This one will do. It's spruce; although it's cheap, it's enough for the keel."

Big T next to her puffed out her chest a little more.

"What did I say? The underground parking lot that old Frank guards is full of good stuff."

Cole had already climbed onto the truck bed.

He squatted down next to the cement bags, tore open the corner of one of the bags, took out a small flashlight from his pocket, and shone it into the bag.

The flashlight beam shone on the gray powder.

"What grade of cement?" Louis asked him, looking up from under the car.

Cole reached into the bag, grabbed a handful, rubbed it between his fingers, and then held his palm up to the flashlight to examine it.

"425 grade, color is okay. No lumps, should be fine."

He patted the two buckets of paint next to him, unscrewed the caps, and smelled them. "Latex paint, it's been dry for a while, but it's still usable after stirring."

"What's that pile?" Louis asked, pointing to the object covered by the black woven cloth.

Cole reached out and lifted a corner, revealing a bundle of PVC pipes and several bends, as well as a tangled mess of electrical wires.

He flipped around, then jumped down from the carriage floor, bending his knees slightly, and patted the dust off his hands after regaining his balance.

"We don't know the size of the water pipe, but it seems like it should match. We'll measure the diameter there later, and if it's not right, we'll look for another one."

The four of them checked the yard for a few more minutes, with Leon watching from the side, his arms crossed.

"Where did you find these people?" Big T leaned closer and whispered.

"These guys seem much more reliable than my underlings."

"We found him among the homeless; he's a legitimate worker."

"Your little brother has never done any real work, has he? He can't even tell the difference between English and Spanish," Leon said.

Big T opened his mouth, then closed it again.

About ten minutes later.

Lyon only spoke after they had thoroughly examined all the materials under the car and along the wall.

"What else do you think is needed for the next shipment?"

Jarvis turned around and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Let me tell you, boss, from what you said today, there are about a dozen small private rooms on the second floor that need to be combined and repartitioned."

"right."

"That amount of drywall isn't enough."

"This is enough for about three or four standard rooms. If your building is really that big, we'll need at least three times that amount."

Elton added, "After the partition is finished, it needs to be plastered, which is Louis's job. He needs cement, sand, and fiberglass mesh, which are available on the truck, but not necessarily enough."

"Then let's take another one, the usual big T, you said you had another carload?"

"Yes, yes, there's another truckload, it should arrive before noon."

"OK."

Lyon pulled a wad of cash from the inside pocket of his jacket, flicked out eight hundred-dollar bills with his thumb, and handed them to Jarvis. "This is your wages for two days. Advance payment."

Jarvis looked at the stack of money, then stopped halfway through raising his hand.

"We haven't even started yet."

"That's why it's called prepayment."

Jarvis took the money, rubbed his fingers along the edge of the banknotes, then took out two, folded them, and stuffed them into the inner pocket of his winter jacket. He stuffed them in very deep, and even pressed them down on the outside with his hand afterward. He then handed the remaining six banknotes to the other three people.

"Should the goods on the truck be taken away directly?" Elton asked.

"Take it away. Also, take the things in the yard that are useful. If they can fit, stuff them in. If they can't fit, we'll take them away in another trip."

Lyon turned his gaze to Big T. "How much did all that cost, including the van's cargo, the drywall, and the wooden frame on the ground?"

Big T pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket and opened it.

The paper was covered with dense pencil writing, some parts of which were smudged by sweat, but he still squinted and read it line by line.

"Twelve bags of cement, four stacks of plasterboard, and thirty wooden joists. Plus the water pipes, electrical wires, and sand on the truck—"

He licked his thumb, turned the page, and said, "The market price is around four thousand. If it's 20%, it'll be eight hundred."

"Keep the records. They'll coordinate with you if they need anything else later."

Lyon pointed at Jarvis, "He's in charge of inspecting the goods. Make sure you write it down in your notebook. We'll settle the bill at the end. Like I said, 20% is 20%, you won't be shortchanged."

"clear."

Big T closed the notebook, stuffed it back into his pocket, and said, "So you're just going to drive this car away and then bring it back to me later?"

"right."

Lyon turned his gaze to Jarvis, "You four, take that van, take the goods to the location, and unload them in the backyard first."

"Where is the place?" Jarvis asked.

Leon took a step closer, lowering his voice so only the four of them could hear: "12th Street, Psychedelic Cat Nightclub. The one with the yellow seal at the entrance is it; the iron fence in the backyard is already open."

"There's someone waiting for you over there, a guy called Lao Han. He's the temporary manager of that building. You can discuss the renovations and partitions with Lao Han when you get there."

"You're professionals, so handle it yourselves. Just let me know the final plan so I can confirm it."

"I'll drive you there in a bit, and then you can run back and forth on your own."

Jarvis turned around, lowering his voice, "Boss, are you really letting us decide for ourselves?"

"right."

"Did we list the materials ourselves?"

"You guys handle things with Big T yourselves. From now on, you make the list of materials, and Big T will handle the rest. I'll only be responsible for the final accounting."

"You're industry insiders in this area, so I don't plan to get too involved."

The four workers fell silent for a second.

Jarvis stared at Leon for a long time, then lowered his head and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable with a boss who didn't boss him around.

"OK."

Big T, who was standing nearby, heard the words "list the materials yourself" and his face twitched.

He leaned closer to Lyon and whispered, "Brother, you want them to make a list for me? Aren't you afraid we'll team up and set you up?"

Leon paused for a moment, then looked at Big T and sighed speechlessly: "If you were going to set me up, why are you asking me?"

Big T opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again.

As a small-time boss who had only been learning to do business honestly for less than two days, he felt that he had entered a mode that he did not yet fully understand, but wisely chose not to ask any more questions.

"Are we getting ready to leave now?"

Jarvis got into the truck driver's seat, put one hand on the steering wheel, and leaned out to look at Lyon.

"Okay, let's get ready to go. Go to 12th Street and find a guy called Old Welder. I'll drive ahead and show you the way."

"Old welder, you're good."

Jarvis shrank back. The truck started, and the engine roared.

Lyon turned around, just about to walk back to his Ford Explorer through the back alley, when he suddenly stopped next to the big T.

"And remember this, these people's business has nothing to do with you."

"I know."

Big T raised his hands to shoulder height, palms facing forward. "I only sell goods, I know nothing else. You pay, I deliver, it's that simple."

Leon nodded, walked out of the barbershop, opened the Explorer's door, and got into the driver's seat.

He took off his mask, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Then he took a wet wipe from the glove box, wiped his face, started the engine, shifted gears, and drove off Fourth Avenue.

That pretty much covers today's tasks.

Jarvis, Elton, Cole, and Louis, the four construction workers, won't be queuing up for a whole day for mutton soup at the butcher shop, at least for the time being.

Lyon was well aware that these four men were far superior to Big T's underlings, not just in terms of fighting skills. As for why—

The working class, Lyon suddenly thought of the word.

While pondering this question, Lyon had a plethora of theories he might need to use, but judging solely from the performance of these four men, he felt that these construction workers were far superior to many of the lazy beggars or drug addicts on this American street who only knew how to talk their way out of trouble.

In the rearview mirror, the moving company's bread truck had already caught up.

Lyon drove the car toward Psychedelic Cat on 12th Street.

The time on the dial jumped to around eleven o'clock. The gray clouds in Seattle were hanging low, and a damp, cold wind swept across the windshield, making the plastic bags from the roadside supermarket roll several times.

Leon quickly brought the bread cart to them, and they stopped at the back door of the Psychedelic Cat. Leon didn't intend to stay and introduce each of them, so he left immediately.

However, just as the car reached the intersection of 12th Street, Leon stepped on the foot brake.

He saw a black Chevrolet parked on the street corner in the distance; he recognized the license plate.

He had seen this car at Blue Mountain Café that day.

Lyon turned the car into a side alley and turned off the engine.

He pushed open the car door and got out without making a sound; only the click of the latch sliding out of its slot was drowned out by the wind.

He pulled up the hood of his windbreaker and walked forward, keeping close to the brick wall at the alley entrance.

The sound of three people talking came from the street corner.

He stopped outside a large, overturned metal trash can and looked over it.

Victor and Carter stood beside the Chevrolet, both dressed casually. Carter held an open memo book in his hand, frowning as if he were looking at notes he had written to himself.

Standing opposite them was David.

Lyon narrowed his eyes slightly under the brim of his hat.

David Bart, that foolish underling, got his $3,000 tip and changed into a clean hoodie today, but his brain was clearly not working properly.

He was taking his hand out of his pocket and making some unintelligible gestures.

Victor spoke up: "How long have you been around here?"

David scratched his head. "A few months, I guess."

"Have you seen an elderly white man? Probably in his sixties or seventies, with gray hair, probably wearing glasses, and possibly with injuries."

Lyon narrowed his eyes.

After that day at the coffee shop, Victor did indeed come to this street to visit old Bill.

David tilted his head and thought for a moment. "An old man? There are plenty of old men on this street. Which one are you talking about?"

"Is it the guy who always rummages through plastic bottles at the garbage dump, or the guy who sits at the supermarket entrance playing chess?"

"This old man is rather special. He speaks differently and might use some technical jargon."

"What's your major?"

"Technical terminology. It means he speaks very precisely."

David frowned, put both hands in the pockets of his hoodie, and shrugged his shoulders.

"What do you mean by 'precise'? I met an old man who claimed to have built generators for General Electric. He talked a good game, but I thought he was just bragging."

Victor's lips twitched involuntarily. Leon was very familiar with this expression; he had seen it countless times in the police station.

This is the look on a patrol officer's face when he tries to explain to a hyperactive drug addict why he can't take his pants off at an intersection, and the addict turns around and questions why the officer can't understand his free will.

"So what does it mean exactly? Is he on drugs? What's the technical terminology?"

Carter glanced at the blank-faced Victor beside him and took the initiative to start the conversation.

"It's not about drugs. It's just—uh, it'll probably involve some technical stuff? Like gyroscopes, angle sensors?"

David tilted his head, opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again, his expression as if he was trying his best to use up all the knowledge he had stored in his brain.

"A spinning top? You mean one of those things that you spin around in a spinner?"

"No, it's not a toy spinning top, it's a gyroscope. It's a kind of—uh, used for navigation. An inertial navigation system or something."

"Navigation? I get it now, you're looking for one of those homeless people who wander around with a GPS tracker?"

"No, I'm serious, I think I do know this person."

Victor chimed in, "You know?"

"Yes, and that old man is probably no longer in this area."

David pulled his hand out of his pocket and gestured towards the dilapidated buildings across the street. "There are fewer people here lately, especially the boys' gang. I heard a lot of them have run away."

"We don't care about that."

"You should pay attention to this."

David's tone suddenly became very serious, because he was genuinely sharing information that he considered very important.

"There's no boss on 12th Street in the West District anymore. Let me tell you, if you want to do business here, now is the best time. There's no boss collecting protection money."

Victor's eyebrow twitched.

His eyes were still scanning David's face.

That look was exactly the same as the look he had when he glanced at the note Lyon handed him in the coffee shop; he was analyzing it.

He was trying to figure out what was hidden behind every word and every micro-expression.

But David's face really didn't hide anything; he was just plain stupid.

David was simply recalling someone he had never met, trying to describe a fictional character with his limited vocabulary that had nothing to do with reality, and then thinking that he might be able to get information fees from Victor. As a result, he became more and more confused.

Are you playing dumb with me?

Victor stared at him, his tone perfectly calm, but Leon could tell that Victor was frantically trying to figure out with his former FB|counterintelligence mind whether this bald thug was playing them.

"I'm not pretending to be stupid. I already said I know about this old guy, but you couldn't explain it clearly yourself. How would I know what the hell inertial guidance system is?"

Carter sighed beside him, clearly knowing things would turn out this way.

"Victor, forget it. Shall we try hiding somewhere else?"

He closed the memo and dusted it off. "Anyway, since we're here today, no matter what questions we ask, we can write in the final report that we've conducted an on-site visit."

"and then?"

"And that should be about it. You've already set the tone, it's just a formality."

"Just fill two pages with a report stating that after on-site investigation and questioning, no suspicious individuals with intelligence value were found in the area, and Old Bill is suspected of being silenced by a corporate spy," isn't that enough?

"————" Victor stared at Carter without saying a word.

"Uh—after that, we just have to pray that our boss will spare our lives and not investigate this matter further."

Carter sighed again, patted his forehead with the memo in his hand, then stuffed it back into his coat pocket and turned to open the driver's side door.

"Alright, that's enough."

Victor stood there, took one last look at David, and then looked at the abandoned laundromat across the street.

Then he turned around and got into the passenger seat.

The Chevrolet slid off the side of the road and drove south, its exhaust fumes lingering in the gray air for a moment before dissipating completely.

David remained standing there, watching the car turn the corner, scratching his enormous bald head.

"What exactly do these two want to ask? Why isn't there a tip fee? The previous boss was much more generous."

He muttered something to himself while looking at the telephone pole next to him.

Lyon stood in the shadows behind the trash can, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth beneath his mask.

David was amazing this time.

It seems that Victor has no doubt about his own story. Now, not only does he not intend to continue the investigation, but he is even planning to fabricate a report to shift the blame.

He pulled his hat down further, turned and silently walked away down the alley, got back into his car and turned onto the road leading to the apartment.

The apartment building came into view after only about ten minutes.

Then Lyon slammed on the brakes again.

Alex's refrigerated truck was parked next to the entrance of his apartment building.

The engine was still running, and white exhaust fumes were sputtering from the exhaust pipe.

Why did this guy come looking for me on his own initiative? Is there any new news from the East?

Lyon parked his car on the side of the road, removed the key, and got out.

Walking around to the driver's side of the truck, Lyon could see through the window that Alex was slumped over the steering wheel, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, and head nodding slightly with his breathing, looking like he was asleep.

Lyon raised his hand and tapped the glass twice.

Alex bounced, nearly hitting his forehead on the roof of the car.

He suddenly opened his eyes, and after seeing the eyes behind the mask and hat brim, he was stunned for a moment, then let out a long breath.

"That scared me to death."

"You're sleeping right in front of my apartment building, and you're afraid of being scared?"

"I fell asleep while waiting for you. No, why did it take you so long to get back?"

Lyon didn't answer the question. Instead, he glanced in the direction of the truck bed and then looked back at the streets surrounding the apartment.

"Weren't you supposed to be silent?"

"Damn it, you think I wanted to come?"

Alex rolled down all the car windows, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, "Let's talk in the car."

Leon opened the car door and sat in the passenger seat, while Alex rolled up the window again.

"Speak."

"Do you remember that encrypted text message you received before? The one about Victor's dirty laundry?"

"Remember."

"Because of the tight schedule and the lack of thorough security measures, after that text message was sent, your superiors ordered you to destroy the SIM card immediately, and that's why they lost contact with you."

"The problem is that the domestic authorities haven't had time to inform you of the specific arrangements for this evacuation."

"As for your safe house, apart from the high-rise buildings, only you, me, and Christopher know its exact location in the United States, and we cannot allow anyone else to know."

"So here I am. Remember to find an anonymous backup number to fill in the gaps as soon as possible."

"Um."

"As for what the urgent matter is, I was instructed by my superiors to inform you—"

Alex caught his breath and said, "We'll start tonight. By 10 p.m., you need to move Christopher to the suburban junkyard following the designated route."

"The people over there are ready."

Before Leon could reply, Alex added another sentence.

"I told you to tell you the specifics of the process, but don't worry about it."

"After arriving at the scrap yard according to the designated route, go around to the red container on the north side of the compound. The person who will meet you will open the container, and there is a hidden road inside that leads to another lane."

"You need to leave from there; you can't go back the way you came."

Leon nodded. "Is there anything I need to bring?"

"Christopher himself is not allowed to bring any electronic devices, including cell phones. He doesn't need them, and new ones will be provided for him when he arrives in the country."

"We won't take any other luggage; we'll leave the place empty."

"OK."

Alex nodded at Leon, as if he had accomplished something, then suddenly remembered something else.

"By the way, what's the situation with Victor? Is Thor's investigation still relentlessly pursuing you?"

"I just saw them with my own eyes."

"what?"

"He and his deputy were talking to one of my street informants on 12th Street. They questioned him for about ten minutes, rambled on about nothing, and then left."

"What kind of irrelevant question is that?"

"I'm asking if you can use a gyroscope to play with."

Alex stared blankly for about three seconds, mouth agape.

"and then?"

"His deputy said that the visit log was two pages long and they could go back and compile a report."

"so----"

"So Victor has temporarily given up on a deeper investigation."

"So, do I have to keep hiding?"

"Don't rush," Leon said.

"Victor may have given up on the case, but he didn't give up on me."

"The fact that he accepted my note at the coffee shop means he still thinks I have some use to him."

"But he probably won't contact me first during this period; he's waiting for the time when he needs my help."

"So for now, as long as I don't get too close to his face, you're safe for the time being."

Alex didn't answer, turning his gaze to the gray sky outside the window, and suddenly spoke a few seconds later.

"By the way, regarding the anthology you requested last time, we've prepared four English paperback volumes for you in China. They're old and unremarkable. I'll send them to you in a while."

Then his tone suddenly changed, taking on the relaxed feel of everyday conversation.

"Speaking of which, how's that mutton soup stall at the mosque doing lately? I haven't been there the last couple of days; I've been pretending to be dead."

"I added some money, enough to feed a few hundred homeless people."

"what?"

"You—" Alex's brow furrowed, then relaxed, then furrowed again.

"Didn't you say we couldn't use Dongfang's money for charity? Now you're secretly adding money behind my back?"

"Are you sick?" Alex retorted.

"I plan to build a homeless community to bring these homeless people together."

"where?"

"12th Street, Psychedelic Cat Nightclub"

Alex's eyes widened for a moment, then he raised his hand and pressed it against his temple, making a muffled sound that was somewhere between "fuck" and "I give up."

"You want to turn nightclubs into homeless communities?"

"Yes. The first floor is being converted into a cafeteria, and the second floor into dormitories. We just picked up four construction workers today, and they've already started bringing in building materials to demolish the walls."

"What do you plan to have these homeless people do for you?"

"Selecting talent."

Lyon put his hands back in his pockets, leaned against the door of the refrigerated truck, and looked at the gray exterior of the apartment building across the street.

"Send technical talents to the East, select general technical workers to do community operations, and keep the remaining ordinary people who can do the work to maintain the operation of the base."

"This is a preliminary idea."

"It's essentially the same principle as building schools for workers' children in coal mines back then."

"If the school is there, the miners will naturally bring their children over. Once the children come, the miners won't leave easily."

"I attract people with mutton soup, screen them for skills through registration, retain those who can work through the community, and then select the qualified ones to send back to their home countries."

"Of course, it's still early, and this needs to be improved."

"So you told me last time not to use Eastern money on Americans, but you still did it, because you plan to use Eastern money to send American talent to the East?"

"right."

"Are you planning to pick a few capable fighters from among them and keep them as your own grey military force?"

"It was just something I did."

"Damn, you really are."

Alex remained silent for a moment.

"Have you reported this to your superiors?"

"I don't have a path, please report it for me."

"Um.

""

Alex nodded in agreement. "I'll report this, but you need to give me some specifics."

"What is your approximate budget? How long do you expect it to take to select another batch of candidates for placement?"

"Let's start by increasing the current cost of mutton soup. I'll give you the exact figure after I've been running around for a week."

"There's no rush, and the people can't just run away. They're all stuck in the West District with nowhere to go. If I don't open this channel, they'll go hungry. Let's build the infrastructure first, and then we can pick them out later."

"OK."

Alex said the word softly, then reached into his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out a brown kraft paper envelope.

"The second funding for the operation. Another $50,000 in old bills."

"Speaking of which, you must have spent a lot of money on all this, right? Was the original budget enough?"

"I didn't use it all; I originally planned to use it as a base layer."

"——————————Awesome."

"I'll tell the higher-ups that your expenses are starting to increase, and that each subsequent batch of funds will need to be increased. There shouldn't be any problems, since they never intended to cut your funding in the first place."

Lyon took the envelope and weighed it in his hand.

The paper bag was heavy, with several vertical creases pressed into the bottom.

He stuffed the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Is there anything else?"

"That's all. Just informing you of tonight's operation. I'll remain silent from now on and won't be coming to the apartment again unless there's an emergency."

Lyon nodded.

Alex put his hands on the steering wheel and coughed; his throat sounded a little dry.

"I'm leaving now."

"be safe."

"I'd say that's more like it."

Lyon got out of the car, closed the door, and the refrigerated truck made a muffled revving sound before smoothly turning out of the apartment entrance and disappearing around the corner.