American Medicine: I survived the death knell thanks to the devil.

Even an indirect purchase of a few boxes of cheap lidocaine, or a brief encounter with a Sikh distributor, would be enough for the DEA to nail him to their files.

"Damn Fourth Amendment," Miller cursed.

Since the Supreme Court ruled in the Carpenter case in 2018, the FBI has been unable to access a phone's history without a judge's search warrant.

A hard check will trigger a red warning and leave a trace in the system's backend.

If open methods don't work, we have to resort to covert ones.

Miller dialed a number, a long-time contact at Verizon's telecommunications security department in the Southern District of New York.

"Please help me locate a number."

The operator's backend performs base station triangulation, without entering the federal database or leaving electronic footprints.

The old-school detective's gray survival skill: find out the results, but never write down the process in the report.

It's effective, but shouldn't be overused.

Fifteen minutes later, the screen lit up.

A coordinate system, plus a red circle with a radius of 300 meters.

South Bronx, near Huntington Avenue.

It almost overlaps with the red dot on the DEA heatmap.

That's the awful thing about base station positioning; in Manhattan, the accuracy can be down to fifty meters.

But in the Bronx, where base stations are sparsely located, the error circle drawn by three base stations can cover half a street, two intersections, and at least three abandoned gas stations.

Maybe it's a coincidence.

Maybe not.

Miller opened another window and switched to the New York City Department of Transportation's ALPR (Automatic License Plate Recognition) system.

Type in the license plate number of the modified Cassie car and press Enter.

The trajectory of the past week: zero.

A modified car that runs in New York every day went undetected by any of the city's more than 6,000 surveillance cameras for seven days.

That's impossible in Manhattan. But in the South Bronx... it makes a passable argument.

The cameras here are broken and no one repairs them; they're stolen and no one replaces them—there are blind spots in the surveillance.

Miller turned off the computer, spat out the tasteless chewing gum, and started the car.

I have to go there in person.

We need to give him a warning and find out if he's wandered into places he shouldn't have.

Friday night, 11:40 p.m.

At the abandoned gas station in the South Bronx, only half of the lights were on; the other half were either broken or stolen.

Cassie was organizing equipment in the carriage.

I just finished a gout tophi removal procedure. The old Sikh man, whom Arjun introduced me to, gave me cash.

Cassie was sitting cross-legged in a chair, happily counting his money and muttering the numbers to himself.

Sachi leaned against the hood of the ambulance, smoking and glancing at his phone.

I bought this software for 15 yuan on a veterans' forum. It's specifically designed to sniff out Bluetooth and Wi-Fi probes within a half-mile radius.

A new signal popped up on the screen.

"CVSE-FED-7".

The default coding rules for federal law enforcement vehicles.

Sachi stubbed out his cigarette, turned around, and patted the driver's side window.

Two short and one long.

Inside the carriage, Cassie abruptly stopped counting the money, like a groundhog startled by a noise.

Lynn leaned out from behind the driver's seat: "Sachi?"

"A federal vehicle. Coming from the east, driving slowly, like they're looking for something. They'll be there in two minutes."

The license plate number is CVSE-FED-7.

Lynn felt a tightness in her back.

Miller's car.

If Miller knew about this connection, he would feel that his informant was secretly working for someone else behind his back.

Not to mention that there were also Indian generic drugs from Arjun on the vehicle, boxes of ceftriaxone, metronidazole, and lidocaine, each box printed with Devanagari Hindi script.

There is no legal way to explain why these items ended up in a modified ambulance in New York.

Lynn completed his thought process in a second.

"Cassie, put the cash away."

"Received, received!"

Cassie frantically grabbed the wad of banknotes, stuffed them into the hidden compartment of the seat, and pressed them down firmly.

"And Arjun's medicine."

The two men worked together, pushing the medicine box to its deepest point, covering it with the gray canvas that Cassie used to make a bed, and casually tossing a few old clothes and slippers on top.

It was reduced to a pile of junk that a poor resident doctor lived in in his car.

"Sachi, time?"

"45 seconds."

Lynn scanned the area again.

It looks exactly the same as it did a month ago, a shabby modified ambulance. Except for the homey feel that Cassie added to the place.

There's no need to hide the instruments. Miller knew they had basic surgical kits; he'd seen them before.

"Sachi, get out. Smoke normally. When he comes, you're just a homeless person taking a break at a gas station."

Miller had never met Satch. Having him disguise himself as a homeless man sitting outside would provide another perspective on what Miller was doing there.

"Understood." Sachi lit another cigarette and leaned back against the hood.

He even pulled out a piece of cardboard and put it under his butt before sitting on the ground.

In an instant, he transformed into a homeless person you could see anywhere. His posture, his eyes, even the rhythm of his breathing changed.

30 seconds.

Lynn scanned the carriage, preparing to turn off the lights, when his gaze suddenly fixed on Cassie.

A green corner of a Starbucks notebook peeked out from the left pocket of Cassie's white lab coat.

Inside, every single income and expense of the illegal clinic was clearly recorded in red and blue ink.

"Cassie, pocket."

Cassie lowered her head, her face turning deathly pale.

She yanked the notebook out and hurriedly reached for the hidden compartment.

"No, Lynn...it's full!"

She was so anxious that her voice was almost tearful; the cash and portable ultrasound device were stuffed so tightly that they couldn't be fastened at all.

There wasn't enough time to reopen the canvas and retrieve the Tibetan medicine.

"20 seconds, we've rounded the corner." Sachi's voice outside the car was completely flat.

Lynn stared at her oversized white coat: "Close to the skin."

Ignoring everything else, Cassie lifted her hem and desperately stuffed the cardboard book down her waistband into her underwear. The cold cardboard cover pressed against her stomach, making her shiver.

She was so thin that the notebook stretched out a noticeable ridge.

She could only button up her white coat one button at a time from the bottom up, like a nun preparing to die, all the way up to her neck.

The bulge is gone.

The time has come.

The black Chevrolet Suburban slowly drove into the gas station, its front end slightly tilted, headlights sweeping across the open space, and it accelerated closer.

The car window rolled down, and a wisp of smoke drifted out.

Miller got out of the car.

The familiar trench coat, the familiar hairline, chewing gum—just like when we first met.

He was also carrying a brown paper bag.

He first glanced at Sachi, who was sitting on the ground.

Sachi looked up, a bewildered expression on his face as if blinded by the car headlights, and muttered, "Hey bro, got any change?"

Miller ignored him.

But his gaze lingered on Sachi for about two seconds, taking in his size, before looking away.

He walked towards the ambulance and patted the metal wall inside the vehicle.

The paper bag in my hand was switched to another hand.

"Dr. Lin? Are you there?"

The carriage door was pulled open from the inside.

Lynn stood at the door, still wearing her gloves, and smelled faintly of disinfectant.

His expression was one of perfect surprise, a subtle helplessness at being "surprisely checked on by his boss in the middle of the night."

"Mr. Miller?"

"Just passing by."

Miller held up the brown paper bag in his hand. "I brought a bottle of wine. It's been a while since I've come to visit."

Inside the paper bag was a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey. A standard choice, not expensive, but not impolite either.

Before Lynn could reply, Miller stepped onto the pedal and into the carriage.

He wasn't very tall, but the trench coat he wore made him look imposing in the cramped space.

His eyes are looking.

There was no deliberate search; that would be too obvious and would hurt the feelings between "friends." I just glanced around naturally.

Instrument trays, canvas and slippers in the corner...

"Space is tight, shall we wait until we've earned enough money to buy another one?"

He casually placed the bottle on the counter, his finger unconsciously tracing a line across the surface.

The spot where that finger traced was exactly where Cassie had placed the instrument tray twenty minutes earlier.

There was a faint water stain on the tabletop.

"We'll have to make do." Lynn pulled two paper cups out of a cup holder.

"How have you been lately?" Miller leaned against the car wall and took the paper cup.

"It's alright. I'm new to orthopedics, so I do ward rounds and consultations every day, basically spending all my time at the hospital."

"Yeah, that's good. Did your salary go up?"

"The price has increased slightly, but it hasn't been approved yet. You know how it is with public hospitals; they can't raise prices much."

"Haha, that's true."

Miller took a sip of his drink and changed the subject. His tone was as casual as if he were talking about the weather.

"Have you heard about the recent unrest in the South Bronx?"