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

Chapter 236 Personnel Handover (10k)

In the living room of the upscale apartment, only a floor lamp was on, casting a warm yellow light on the beige carpet and elongating the shadows of the sofa and coffee table.

Leon stood by the coffee table, zipped up his windbreaker to the collar, and then picked up the black baseball cap from the sofa and put it on his head.

His hat brim was pulled low, covering most of his face, revealing only a small patch of newly sprouted bluish-gray stubble.

He bent down, picked up the Glock 17 from the coffee table, removed the magazine, checked it, put it back in, and then holstered the gun in his waist holster.

A faint metallic clanging sound came from the doorway of the guest room on the other side of the living room.

Christopher stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. A dark gray cotton pajama set covered his thin body, and the left pant leg was cut open at the calf, revealing the thick gauze wrapped inside.

He was leaning on an aluminum cane with his right hand, the rubber pad at the bottom of the cane pressing against the wooden floor, making a dull thud with each step he took.

"Ready?" Leon looked up at him.

"Ready?" Christopher's voice was a little dry.

"I threw away my cane."

"What?"

"You don't need that. The wheelchair is behind the cabinet in the foyer. I'll push you out; carrying you out would be too conspicuous."

Christopher glanced down at the cane in his hand, then at his bandaged leg, then loosened his grip and leaned the cane against the doorframe.

Lyon walked into the foyer and pulled a folding wheelchair out from the gap between the shoe cabinet and the wall.

He got the wheelchair from Hank three days ago.

That day, he drove to an underground clinic, where Hank was wearing yellowed rubber gloves and stitching up a street thug whose head had been smashed by a beer bottle.

After the thug left, clutching his head, Leon immediately asked Hank if he had a wheelchair.

Hank took off his glasses and wiped them clean. He then brought out the old wheelchair with a gray-black frame from the storage room behind the clinic. He said it was given to him three months ago by a drug addict who owed medical bills as payment, and it hadn't been sold since.

Lyon paid 120 dollars in cash, didn't ask Hank for a receipt, folded up the wheelchair, stuffed it into the Explorer's trunk, and left.

Leon pushed the wheelchair in front of Christopher, stepped on the footrest lock, and unfolded the seat cushion.

"Remember Hank, the veterinarian at the underground clinic I mentioned to you before?"

"That scumbag doctor who burned the homeless man's wound?"

"He also deals in used medical equipment. I visited him last week."

"How could a veterinarian have a human wheelchair?"

"Because of the freedom, equality and openness of the United States, basic medical care does not distinguish between species, and the things that can be used are the same for everyone."

"Okay, come on up."

Christopher slowly moved to the front of the wheelchair, bracing himself against the wall with both hands. He turned around, grabbed the armrests, and gently lowered himself down.

He could still manage to put some weight on his right leg, but his left leg was completely unable to bear any weight. As his center of gravity sank downwards, he gritted his teeth, and a thin layer of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Once he was settled, Leon flipped down the footrest of the wheelchair and gently placed his bandaged left foot on it.

"This thing is a little more comfortable than I expected," Christopher said.

"Your standards are quite low."

"These past few days, my greatest entertainment while lying in that bed has been listening to the sirens outside the window. Now that I can be somewhere else, even in a wheelchair, it's better than that bed."

Lyon didn't reply, but pushed his wheelchair to the door and stopped.

"You wait here. I'll go out for a bit."

"Where to?"

"Watch where you're going."

"What road are you looking at?"

"Check if there's anyone in my car, check if there's anyone in the elevator, check if there's anyone on the street corner."

Leon pulled his baseball cap down over his head, brim down. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, go back to your bedroom, lock the door, and hide."

Christopher clenched his fist on the blanket, then released it, then clenched it again.

"it is good."

Lyon opened the apartment door and walked out, gently closing the door behind him.

Only the motion-activated lights on the ceiling were on in the corridor, casting a stark white light.

He walked to the elevator entrance and pressed the down button. When the elevator doors opened, the elevator was empty.

He went inside and leaned against the elevator wall, watching the floor numbers descend one by one. When he reached the first floor, the door opened.

The lobby was empty. The security guard on night shift at the front desk was asleep on the table, his phone screen still lit up, playing a replay of a talk show.

Lyon pushed open the glass door to the lobby and walked into the parking lot in front of the apartment building.

A cold wind blew in, causing the hem of my windbreaker to flap twice.

He stood at the door and glanced around.

The row of sycamore trees across from the apartment building were bare, and the streetlights beneath them cast a dim, yellowish glow.

There were no suspicious cars parked on the street, nor were there any idlers smoking in the corners.

The fire escape gate to his right was closed, and the neon lights of the 24-hour convenience store to his left were flashing, but there was no one at the door.

Lyon walked toward his Ford Explorer.

The car was parked on the right side of the apartment building, its body reflecting a dark gray light under the streetlights.

He walked around the car, squatted down to look at the chassis, checked all four doors for signs of prying, and then opened the driver's side door and got in.

The engine started, and the instrument panel lit up.

He rolled the car window down halfway and glanced at the rearview mirror; the parking lot was still empty.

Close the windows and turn off the engine.

He got out of the car and returned to the apartment building lobby. The security guard was still asleep. He entered the elevator and pressed the floor button.

The door opened, and he walked back to the apartment entrance, took out his key, and turned the lock.

Christopher was still in his wheelchair, in the same position, but his hands had been lowered from the armrests and placed on his knees.

He heard the door open and turned around.

"How is it?"

"You can go now."

Lyon walked to the back of the wheelchair and grasped the handles with both hands.

He moved the wheelchair back half a step, adjusted its direction, and then smoothly pushed it into the corridor.

As the wheelchair moved through the living room, Leon glanced at the light switch on the wall but didn't turn it off.

It's best to make the house look like the owner just went out to buy something.

The wheelchair's rubber wheels rolled over the corridor carpet, making a very slight rustling sound.

Christopher put his hands back on the handrail, his eyes fixed on the elevator door at the end of the corridor, and swallowed hard.

"Can't you say something to me?" Christopher said.

"What did you say?"

"Whatever. It's too quiet here; it feels like I'm being wheeled into an operating room."

"Didn't you go to the operating room in the church?"

"I've been there, but I don't remember the specifics."

"Then you should get used to it."

The elevator doors opened, and Leon pushed the wheelchair inside.

Christopher sat in his wheelchair, his eyes fixed on the row of numbers on the elevator panel. He remained silent for a few seconds, then spoke again: 0

"How long will it take us?"

"It would normally take half an hour to drive there."

"How long will it take you to drive there now?"

"It's also half an hour."

Christopher frowned slightly, but didn't press the matter.

Lyon continued, "Speeding is too conspicuous. There are still plenty of cars on the road at this hour, so I can speed freely, and I don't want to be pulled over by the police for speeding and have my license checked."

"What if there's an accident on the way?"

"I've allocated half an hour for handling any unexpected situations."

97

Christopher nodded.

The elevator arrived at the first floor and the doors opened.

The security guard in the lobby didn't change his posture, but tilted his head in a different direction, and his drool had already smeared a small patch on the duty logbook on the table.

Lyon pushed the wheelchair through the hall, opened the glass door, and pushed the wheelchair down the ramp at the entrance.

The cold wind was still blowing in the parking lot, and Christopher hunched his shoulders; his clothes were a bit too thin.

"Cold?" Leon asked.

"A little."

"Bear with it, there's heating in the car."

Leon pushed the wheelchair to the passenger side of the Explorer, opened the door, and helped Christopher up from the wheelchair.

Leon's physique and strength made the process smooth; he put Christopher in the passenger seat and pulled over the seatbelt to fasten it for him.

The wheelchair was folded up and stuffed into the trunk.

Lyon got into the driver's seat, started the engine, and the Explorer slowly slid out of the parking space.

When the car drove out of the apartment and onto the main road, Lyon did not accelerate, but maintained a speed slightly slower than the speed limit.

He saw no vehicles following him in his rearview mirror, but he still turned right at the first two traffic lights to make sure there were no tailgaters before turning onto the main road heading towards the western edge of the district.

After driving for about five or six minutes, he stopped on a quiet residential street.

The street is lined with old-fashioned two-story detached houses, with a few lights shining from the windows.

"Why did it stop?" Christopher asked.

"transfer."

"Is this one not good enough?"

""

"This vehicle cannot be driven to the handover point."

Leon pushed himself out of the car, turned to Christopher inside, and said, "Wait five minutes for me."

He closed the car door, pulled up his mask to cover most of his face, and walked along the sidewalk.

After walking about two hundred meters, Lyon turned into another street next door.

At the entrance to this street, only two streetlights were on, one of which was flashing incessantly.

On the right side of the road is a row of small factories surrounded by iron fences, and on the left are several old warehouses waiting to be renovated.

A silver-gray Toyota Camry was parked on the side of the street. The car was about 70% new, with several scratches on the bumper and an expired temporary parking permit on the windshield.

This car was rented by Lyon through Big T.

This afternoon, after confirming the evacuation operation with Alex, Lyon complained about the SIM card he'd taken from that vagrant.

Card sent a text message to Big T.

Lyon asked him to find an inconspicuous four-seater sedan, not too new, without any traffic violations, and without any obvious mechanical problems.

The cost of renting the car was added to the building material costs he owed to Da T. The car key was hidden in a concealed location next to the car, so there was no need for someone to handle it.

Big T replied that his car was parked here, and he had someone tape the key to the metal covering the tires.

Lyon walked over to the Camry, circled the car, kicked the four tires to check the tire pressure, and then looked down at the chassis.

Then he stood at the back of the car, turned around with his back to the trunk, and glanced at the warehouse windows and factory wire mesh around him.

No one was found to be tailing them.

He turned his gaze to the left side of the vehicle, walked to the front wheel arch, squatted down, and reached his hand into the gap in the sheet metal inside the wheel arch.

His fingertips touched a cold piece of wood. He pulled the car key, which was taped to the wheel arch, off the tape, and held it in his palm.

Leon stood up, opened the driver's side door, got in, inserted the key into the ignition, and turned it half a turn; the dashboard lights up.

The Camry's engine starts much quieter than the Explorer's, making it a standard family sedan.

He pulled the Camry from the side of the road, drove it around the block, parked it next to the Explorer, turned off the engine, and got out of the car.

Christopher was still in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window, looking a little drowsy but not asleep.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." Leon pulled the car over.

"Did you go around in circles again to check if anyone was following you?"

"right."

"You're exactly the same as that fat Asian guy Qi," Christopher said. "You're a very cautious person."

Lyon placed Christopher in the passenger seat of the Camry, then went to the trunk and transferred the wheelchair to the Camry.

He got into the Camry's driver's seat and started the engine.

The Camry's four-cylinder engine emitted a low-key roar, much quieter than the Explorer's V8.

He turned on the heater and pointed the air vent at Christopher's feet.

Are you still cold?

"Much better."

""

The car slid out of the street and drove towards the suburbs along the route provided by Alex.

The streetlights gradually thinned out, and the houses on both sides of the road became dark wastelands. Occasionally, a few half-withered fir trees would flash past the window.

This route was relayed by Alex. It must be strictly followed. Every section of the road has been pre-checked by personnel from the East to ensure there are no fixed surveillance cameras or roadblocks set up by the authorities. Furthermore, this route is not the fastest normal route to the suburbs, so there is no chance of colliding with any other vehicles that might be encountered unexpectedly.

Christopher leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the view outside the window.

After a while, he suddenly spoke up: "Why is this car more comfortable for you than the one I used to drive you in?"

"That Explorer has similar specifications to the Ya Bureau's car, with a stiff suspension and a tuning biased towards high-speed pursuit. This Camry is a family car, with a soft suspension."

"You seem to know everything."

"It's just that we've been driving too much."

The car drove forward for a few more minutes, the high beams cutting through the darkness, reflecting a thin layer of light onto the road ahead.

Christopher had closed his eyes and his breathing had calmed down.

Lyon held the steering wheel with one hand, but his mind was still working.

Big T did a decent job this time; he didn't leave anyone to stake out the area, nor did he try to be clever.

But it might not be as clean next time.

This delivery of Christopher reminded him of something else.

RayFong's cover identity needs to be further strengthened.

He was thinking that he should have Big T buy the Camry out directly, or simply transfer the ownership to a fake name.

RayFong needs his own mode of transportation. He can't be like before, where everyone, including Big T, knows what kind of car RayFong drives.

Since Halloween, he has been driving his Ford Explorer around, and no one would normally notice this detail.

But it's different now.

Construction has already begun on the Nile Han community, RayFong's name is on the mosque's registration book, and the workers at the Psychedelic Cat stronghold know that they are using RayFong's advance payment to demolish walls.

In the coming period, this community expansion will attract even more attention.

RayFong needs his own safe house.

It can't be that luxury apartment that Director Ya got for free anymore; the person living in that apartment should be Leon Vance.

Although the address cannot be directly traced because it is disguised as a seized property, Sterling and Raymond both know the people involved in the matter.

RayFong needs a separate place to live, a place that has no connection to Leon Vance in any official information.

You can't sue your own documents when renting a place; choose one where you can't sue Alex.

Big T should be able to make fake documents, but not now. Big T's loyalty isn't high enough right now. I can threaten him with force, but that can't completely guarantee my safety.

We need to nurture him for a while longer, let him earn more money for building materials, and then sever his connection with the mad dog Og who lost money on the 23rd Street. Only when he is completely inseparable from this relationship should we let him do these things.

Thinking of this, Lyon recalled the old man with a beer cap pinned to his chest in the mosque tent cluster that morning.

MacArthur.

The old man who called himself MacArthur had said there might be "scouts," and after he said that, Leon nodded.

Lyon nodded because he genuinely agreed with his opinion.

Mayor Reynolds was the first person who came to mind.

He had no reason not to be interested in the charitable partner who had suddenly appeared in the West End, especially since this person not only did not accept municipal funding, but also paid out of his own pocket to distribute supplies and maintain order in the tent cluster.

Reynolds' plan to dump your scumbags will be affected, but he is unsure whether Ray Fong is one of Sterling's men, and he is unsure whether he can win him over, so he will definitely send someone to find out who Ray Fong is.

Then there are the gangs.

Lyon angrily asked Big T how long it would take to clear the area without interference from the patrol. This was not only to pave the way for the future crackdown on the prostitutes in the West District, but also to expose Big T's line about Ray Fong's connections within the bureau.

Although Big T was the king's subordinate, he was just a minor leader with a big mouth who liked to boast about knowing people with influence in the capital.

If Big T were to slip up one day while drinking and say something like RayFong has the authority to mobilize patrol officers, the upper echelons of the royal court would definitely become interested in this masked person.

Those people definitely wouldn't dare touch Leon Vance, because he's an anti-terrorism hero and Sterling's trademark; anyone who touches him is doomed.

But RayFong was someone else in their eyes.

In their view, Ray Fong was a masked disfigured philanthropist who had no direct connection to Leon, the violent policeman in the West End.

They might think RayFong is just an external partner of the government, or another outside force entering the Western District, possibly having just established a relationship with the government, or even just a deliberate act of deception.

The latter hypothesis is more dangerous than the former.

If anyone starts digging deeper into Ray Fong's past, Lyon needs to make sure they can't equate Ray Fong with Lyon Vance directly. At most, they can only know about the part of Lyon who sued Sterling, namely that Ray Fong and Lyon have a collaboration.

To achieve this, RayFong must have an independent life trajectory.

This Camry is the first step in this system.

Christopher shifted in the passenger seat, adjusting the position of the bandaged leg.

Lyon glanced at the road behind him in the rearview mirror.

The road ended empty; there were no cars in sight.

"You're thinking about something," Christopher said.

"Um."

"What are you thinking?"

"You don't need to know."

"You saved my life, and then I leaked the company's top secrets. Next, I have to meet with people from the East, and then I have to be smuggled across the border."

"6

"I'm thinking of separating the two people's identities."

"Two identities?" Christopher turned to look at him. "You mean Ray Fong and Leon Vance?"

"You guys knew about this?"

"You and that Asian fat guy Qi both spoke Chinese, but I heard him sometimes call you RayFong and sometimes Leon."

Are you worried that someone will link these two people together?

"Someone might already be watching. The mayor's side, the factions on the streets, and some forces that I haven't even discovered myself."

"So how do you plan to break up?"

"Change cars, change residences, sever the activity patterns of the two identities," Lyon said. "This car is the first Ray."

Fong's car.

"Are you already doing it?"

"It's just the beginning of today."

Christopher leaned his head back against the car window, watching the shadows of the trees flashing past outside. He remained silent for a few seconds, then sighed softly.

"Sometimes I really don't know who you really are."

Lyon didn't answer, but glanced at the dial. The time on the dial jumped to 9:17, which was more than forty minutes before the designated rendezvous time.

He slowed down a little more, keeping himself on the safe route that had been thoroughly cleared by the East.

Soon, when they were about 300 meters away from the Daling junkyard, the road ahead began to narrow, and the piles of abandoned cars on both sides showed blurry outlines in the night.

Lyon turned off the low beam headlights, leaving only two faint white rings of daytime running lights.

With the speed reduced to 20 mph, the Camry glided forward almost silently along the gravel road.

He turned the steering wheel while glancing in the rearview mirror, which showed only the darkness left behind.

Then, Lyon's gaze passed over the windshield and locked onto the northernmost location of the factory ruins.

Three red shipping containers, stacked in two layers, with the paint on the bottom layer almost completely peeled off; these must be the red shipping containers Alex was referring to.

The Camry's tires rolled over the gravel, making a soft, grinding sound.

After the vehicle passed around a pile of old tires on the outermost side, the entire container area was fully revealed before us.

Four people emerged from the shadows of the shipping container.

They were wearing dark gray work uniforms with a faded "Express Freight" logo printed on the left chest, and dark work gloves on their hands.

The zipper on the jacket was pulled up to the collar, so it was impossible to tell what he was wearing underneath; it was probably a bulletproof vest.

Lyon parked the Camry five meters away from the container truck and put it back in neutral.

The person standing at the very front has already come over.

He was about 1.8 meters tall with broad shoulders, and the work clothes fit him a bit too tightly.

He walked out of the car, bent down to look at the passenger seat and the back seat, and then made a downward gesture towards the car window.

Lyon rolled down the driver's window halfway.

A gust of cold wind blew in, and Christopher coughed in the passenger seat.

The person extended their right hand, palm facing up.

"Notebook," he said in English, his voice low and flat.

Lyon stared at the glove on that hand for a second.

There was a dark stain on the palm of the glove, around the base of the thumb, as if it had been worn down from gripping something for a long time.

He pulled Christopher's notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to the other hand.

The man took the notebook, stepped back half a step, and opened it using the light from the flashlight shone by another person next to him.

His fingers didn't linger on the pages; he flipped directly to page seven or eight, paused for two seconds on a hand-drawn sketch of an electron microscope of lipid nanoparticles, then closed the notebook and nodded to the person next to him.

"There's a wheelchair in the trunk," Leon said.

The man had already turned around, tucking the notebook inside his jacket while waving his hand at him to indicate that he didn't need it.

He walked to the passenger side, opened the door, bent down, and draped Christopher's left arm over his shoulder.

A man who was squatting on the iron ladder jumped down and took Christopher's right arm from the other side.

The two men worked together to lift the thin old man from his seat. Their movements were steady, clearly indicating that they already knew Christopher's left leg was weak.

Christopher took a breath, which may have aggravated his wound, but he didn't cry out; he just gritted his teeth.

The two men closed the lid and helped him walk to the right side of the container.

There's a corner between the shipping container and the pile of junk cars. Once you walk past it, Lyon will be out of sight. Behind it is probably a dead end made up of more junk cars. The truck that's carrying the junk might be a refrigerated truck that will immediately head to the border after Lyon leaves.

A third person followed behind, holding the flashlight in his hand.

The flashlight beam flickered twice before being swallowed up by the shadow around the corner.

Only one person, leaning against a pile of wrecked cars, and Leon remained.

He walked to the front of the Camry and waved at the red cargo container.

The metal bars of the container were pushed open from the inside, revealing another person inside. It was unknown how many more guards were hidden in the darkness nearby.

The man near the pile of wrecked cars walked to the driver's seat of Lyon, bent down, and took out a folded piece of paper from the pocket on the front of his work clothes.

The strip of paper was ordinary white lined paper, torn from a notebook, with uneven edges.

He slipped the note through the crack in the car window.

Lyon took it and unfolded it.

A few lines were written in pencil on the paper:

The container truck passes through, and continues straight for 800 meters along the gravel road. After passing an abandoned water pumping station, turn right onto the dirt road. At the end of the dirt road, turn left onto County Road 143.

Continue southeast on 143 for 6 miles until you see the "Blue Mountain Gas Station" sign, then merge onto the main road.

The handwriting is very neat, with each letter capitalized and the strokes clear, but it gives a strange feeling and doesn't seem like normal right-handed handwriting.

Lyon folded the note back and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

He looked up and glanced inside the container.

The Camry's headlights shone a small section of the way in, and you could vaguely see the cargo container passing directly through the wire fence of the junkyard, leading to a gravel road that had been tamped down, with tall, dry grass on both sides.

Lyon shifted back into gear and released the brakes.

The Camry slowly drove into the container and passed through it in less than ten seconds.

Just as the rear of the truck passed the container, the container's main body emitted a heavy, muffled sound behind it.

Lyon glanced in the rearview mirror.

The red container had been closed, and as he drove away, its outline rapidly shrank into a dark red patch before being swallowed by darkness.

Christopher has been successfully delivered to the Eastern agents.

Lyon took a deep breath, turned the low beams back on, gripped the steering wheel, and drove onto the gravel road drawn on the note.

It is located on the northern slopes of the Katt Mountains, about eleven miles from the US-Canada border.

The county road makes a sharp bend here, with a steep rock face on the right and a dry riverbed thirty feet deep on the left.

Four pickup trucks were parked on the side of the road.

The car's high beams were on, four pairs of white lights shining in the same direction, towards the old wooden pier ahead, so narrow that only one car could pass at a time.

The four pickup trucks were in varying conditions.

At the very front was a dark blue Ford F-250, with a row of modified LED spotlights installed on the roof. The cargo bed was completely covered by a dark green tarpaulin, and unsurprisingly, some contraband was hidden underneath.

Two Chevrolet Silverados were parked side by side in the middle, and the third was an old gray-green Dodge Ram with mud all over its rear wheel arches and its exhaust pipe hanging from a wire, swaying every few seconds.

Each truck's cargo box was piled high with things: cardboard boxes, black plastic buckets, and canvas bags, all tightly bound together with nylon rope and rubber bands.

Several drivers and archers stood on the gravel road in front of the pier.

A short, stocky man, wearing a dark flannel shirt, jeans, and hiking boots, stood in front of the F-250's hood, arms crossed.

He was fifty years old, his face rough and red from the wind, his neck short and thick, his black hair tied back with an old rubber band, with a few strands of white hair.

He was a Navajo, and the locals called him Ben.

Lao Ben pulled the cigarette butt out of his mouth, threw it on the gravel ground, and crushed it out with the sole of his boot.

"The bridge is still narrow."

The young man standing next to him by the passenger door of the F-250 said something.

The young man, Da Ling, was in his early twenties, wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head, and his hands clenched into fists in his pockets to keep warm.

"This bridge has always been this narrow," Lao Ben said.

"I was just saying," the young man said.

"You only ever say it once."

"I didn't notice it when I walked past it last month."

"That's because it was daytime last month."

The young man pulled his hand out of his pocket, covered his mouth with his breath, and then buried his face back in his collar.

Another middle-aged man who was standing at the entrance of the car came up from behind.

He was tall, and Hu Yuan was clean-shaven, wearing a dark green hunting vest over a black thermal turtleneck sweater.

"How much longer?" asked the man in the hunting vest.

Ben raised his hand and glanced at the Casio electric watch on his wrist, its dial already scratched.

"We have twenty more minutes, so we'll proceed as planned," Ben said.

"Can't you leave earlier, with just twenty minutes to spare?" the hunter vest said.

"The other party set the time for 10 o'clock."

"Whether we pay earlier or later won't affect the payment, right?"

"It's not ugly, but I still accepted this amount from them."

Old Ben stretched out a hand, spread his fingers, and flipped it over, meaning 50,000.

The man in the hunting vest paused for a moment, then said, "US dollars?"

"What do you think? Mexican pesos?" Ben said.

This conversation was overheard by another young man on Thorod.

He put down the energy drink he was pouring into his mouth, jumped off the pickup truck while bracing himself against the edge of the cargo box, walked to the pier, and leaned half his body out into the riverbed below.

"There's still water down there," he said.

"There was water underneath the dry riverbed; it's just that it's dry on the surface," said the young man in the hoodie.

"I meant there's water for you. Look."

Lao Ben walked over, stepped onto the edge of the wooden planks of the pier, and looked down.

There was indeed a small stream of water in the center of the riverbed, thin and reflective in the afterglow of the high beams.

"It's because of the recent rain. It won't affect your crossing of the bridge, since you're not driving downhill," Lao Ben said.

The young man finished the remaining half-can of energy drink in one go, then threw the empty can into the riverbed. The aluminum can tumbled a few times before hitting the rocks, the sound lingering in the night wind for a few seconds.

"I have a feeling something's off tonight." He wiped his hands on his jeans.

"You seem off every night," said the hunter vest.

"No. Look, I haven't seen any patrols along the way."

"Isn't it good that we didn't see any patrols?" said the young man in the hoodie.

"Normally at this time of day, there are at least two state police SUVs making U-turns on the county roads alone. Tonight, there haven't been any."

"So you're complaining that no one's arresting you?"

"I'm not complaining—I just think it's too much of a coincidence."

Lao Ben then spoke up: "It was a coincidence. Maybe it was because of this coincidence that they paid me 50,000 to take this route."

"This road is quiet tonight, but they want us to be a little more conspicuous."

"Who do you think made the arrangements in advance?" asked the man in the hunting vest.

Lao Ben thought for a moment, "I don't know. Maybe the other party knows someone in the county, and perhaps they transferred the patrol for some activity."

.

"I don't need to know, I don't need to think. You all should stop overthinking."

The young man, who was drinking energy drinks, kicked a stone. The stone rolled a few times, hit a wooden post on the pier, and bounced into the darkness.

"I still feel it's too quiet tonight, so quiet that it makes me a little uncomfortable," he said.

Old Ben kept his hand on the hood of the F-250 and tapped it twice with his fingers.

"Listen," Ben said, his fingers still tapping, "you guys, I know tonight is different from usual in Beijing."

"Normally we carry out surprise raids in the middle of the night, quick in and quick out, hoping no one sees us. Tonight is different. Tonight we're going to turn on our headlights, drive around with our sirens blaring, and drive around with our windows down, hoping no one will see us."

He paused for a moment.

"I told you that."

"What are the partner's requirements?"

"They're not partners. What kind of partners are they? Partners are people we know, but these are strangers. They're just a few white guys asking me to do something."

"They said there was another shipment that needed to arrive after ours, and they didn't want that shipment to be seen."

"So we're going to try and grab attention?"

"right."

"Then why are we going in four cars at the same time? We don't usually travel with all four of us together."

"Because the white guy demanded four cars, four sections of road."

"Their exact words were that four vehicles would simultaneously and conspicuously cross different sections of the road, so that no matter which road had patrols, they would be drawn to them, and the next batch of goods could enter through another section of the road."

The young man in the hoodie frowned. "Well, he's certainly thought things through."

"Of course it was thorough, so thorough that I accepted 50,000 from him."

"What else is there besides this 50,000?" asked the man in the hunting vest.

"Fuel costs will be settled separately, and each vehicle will receive an additional 10,000, plus an extra 10,000 as bail."

"If any of us get arrested, this money will be kept for bail; if none of us get arrested, this tens of thousands will be extra hard-earned money."

"Isn't that too extravagant?"

"We're so wealthy we don't need to worry about anything. It's that simple."

The woman in the hunting vest was silent for a moment. "You always say that as long as it's luxurious enough, it'll be fine. It was the same thing in Oregon last time."

"Last time in Oregon, the client didn't arrange for us to be seen. This time it's different. This time, the client is asking us to be seen proactively."

"The fact that they want us to be high-profile means that either they've also taken care of the bail officers, or they know we're under protection now."

"Who will protect me?"

"Protected by political correctness, protected by our tribal identity, protected by Soros's Kiarostami and the media they like."

"You may be sarcastic, but I really think that even if we get caught, we won't be locked up for more than one night," said the young man in the hoodie.

"You're right, that's exactly what I think, so I never felt it was a hot potato to take his 50,000, because all the risk was on the other side."

"They provide the money, we provide the personnel, and they bear the risks."

"I'm not afraid of spending the night here, since I'm on bail anyway, and they even give me sandwiches while I'm in jail," the young man said, consuming energy drinks.

"You all know sandwiches are cold, right?" said the hunter vest.

"I know, I don't care. I just don't want to be locked up for too long. If I'm locked up, I won't be able to go back and take care of my mom."

"Your mom doesn't tell you she's watching you every day," said the young man in the hoodie.

"I'm not just watching over her; I need to help her change the gas cylinder. She can't move the gas cylinder properly."

"Then you should take this money even more."

Old Ben pulled his hand off the hood and glanced at his Casio watch on his wrist.

"It's ten o'clock. Let's go."

He pulled the hood open from the driver's seat of the F-250, got in, and started the engine. The muffled groan of the V8 engine exploded in front of the pier, and two puffs of white mist shot out from the exhaust pipe.

He rolled down the window and shouted outside, "Turn on all the lights, don't turn them off!"

"If you see a car parked on the side of the road, honk your horn!"

Several vehicles started their engines one after another.

The high beams shone on the wooden planks of the pier, illuminating the dry moss in every crevice of the wood, and then the engine roared to life.

The four pickup trucks then drove off on different roads.

The F-250 was the first to cross the bridge, then turned right onto a gravel road leading to the logging road. Solorod turned left at the fork into the extension of the county road, driving parallel to the dry riverbed. The old road went up the earthen slope opposite the pier, heading towards a higher ridgeline. The other Solorod continued along the logging road on the other side, to attract the attention of the border patrol.

Lao Ben turned on the radio, tuned it to the county's usual intercom frequency, and turned the volume down.

There's only white noise in the channel right now; no one's talking.

He kept the microphone volume at a level that was just audible.

About six miles down the county road, there's a fork in the road called Silverdale.

At that moment, a black state trooper patrol SUV was traveling south on the county road at a speed slightly faster than the usual patrol speed.

He might be on his way, or he might have just been startled by some clue, or something in the forest might have done something unusual.

The SUV's LED spotlights pierced the darkness, heading straight towards the signpost at the fork in the road.

Just as the light swept across the intersection, a Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck covered with a green tarpaulin appeared—the same car the young man with the energy drink had been driving.

He sped out from the other end of the side road, his high beams blaring, crunching over the gravel road, the engine roaring and the electronic music playing on the radio creating a deafening cacophony.

The two cars entered each other's field of vision at the same time, their high beams pointing directly at each other.