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

Chapter 99 The Water Ghost Gets a New Job

Pushing open the door, the smells inside were as mixed as those of the American ethnic group.

Hope 9, aged tobacco, and instant coffee —

The shop is small, with common items like AR-15 rifles and pump-action shotguns hanging on the walls.

Behind the counter stood an old man wearing a faded red and black checkered flannel shirt and a "Make America Great Again" hat.

little Red Riding Hood.

He spat a puff of chewing smoke into the wastebasket, turned his head, and continued to sell to the pregnant woman in front of him.

"Listen, Mrs. Fermi. Brooklyn is a terrible place, and you're about to have your second child."

The old man pushed a small, silver revolver in front of the pregnant woman.

"This Smith & Wesson 'Airweight' revolver is perfect for you."

"But—I'm afraid the fire might accidentally hurt the baby." The pregnant woman, with her belly protruding, looked hesitant.

"That's precisely its advantage."

The old man tapped on the glass counter: "A pure double-action trigger, it takes twelve pounds of finger strength to pull it. Put it in a tote bag full of formula and diapers, and it will definitely not go off accidentally from a scratch."

"If a drug-addicted lunatic breaks into your nursery, just take it out and empty the cylinders in his chest."

"The recoil is very gentle; the gunshot won't even wake a baby in a cradle."

Sachi frowned.

That's nonsense.

Any .38 caliber gunshot would be enough to alert all the neighbors on the floor.

But he knew the rules and shouldn't arbitrarily disrupt other people's businesses.

Clearly, the pregnant woman had been swayed by this rhetoric.

She readily swiped her credit card, stuffed the gun into a baby bag printed with Disney cartoons, and left.

The old man then turned his gaze to Lynn and Sachi.

His cloudy eyes swept over the two of them.

My gaze lingered for a moment on Sachi's thick knuckles and slightly tucked-in jaw.

He's a seasoned veteran; he saw right through Sachi's background.

Similarly, he also figured out who was the one paying.

Lynn was neatly dressed, with long, clean hands, and a unique air about her.

The old man decided to test the waters.

What if Lynn is the kind of middle-class Asian who craves excitement but doesn't know much about firearms?

"What do you two need? Self-defense? Hunting? Or perhaps you want to show off at the shooting range this weekend?"

The old man pulled an AR pistol from under the counter and slammed it heavily onto the glass surface.

The red anodized aluminum accessories and the huge muzzle brake look gaudy.

"Look at this little gem. Titanium alloy coating, hollowed-out trigger. Powerful firepower, cool design!"

"If you get into trouble, just show it to them, and those street thugs will wet their pants and run to their mothers."

The old man pushed the gun handle toward Lynn.

Lynn reached out and took the gun.

The moment your fingertips touch the cold gun barrel, "Pistol Mastery - Advanced" is fully awakened.

He gripped the pistol with his right hand, his index finger resting on the outside of the trigger guard the entire time.

With your left hand, pinch the lever from behind the upper receiver and pull it all the way back.

Looking down into the chamber from the ejection port, the chamber is empty.

Releasing the charging handle causes the bolt carrier to snap back to its original position under the action of the buffer spring, producing a crisp, clean metallic clang.

Extend your right index finger forward and press the magazine release button next to the trigger guard, while your left hand steadily catches the magazine the moment it falls off.

Flip the magazine over, scrape your fingernail along the inside of the feed port, and then bring it close to your nose and sniff it lightly.

Checking for carbon buildup and spring deformation is the fastest way to determine a gun's actual lifespan, a fact that even seasoned gun enthusiasts who have spent ten years at the shooting range may not know.

The magazine was reinserted, and he slapped it all the way down with the heel of his hand.

He flipped the gun over with his left hand, his gaze sweeping over the pins and slide rails on both sides of the receiver.

The thumb presses and manipulates the two disassembly pins in turn at a very fast speed.

Just like when he performs surgery, it's quick and precise.

Pull the charging handle half an inch with your left hand and feel the force of the buffer spring pushing the bolt back—this is the most direct way to determine whether the gun has been indiscriminately fired.

Finally, the cocking handle is reset, the trigger is pulled, and a dry shot is fired.

"Click".

Clean and efficient.

From receiving the gun to putting it down, it took no more than eight seconds.

The old man's smile froze.

He sold guns in the Red Hook district for thirty-two years.

Street thugs, private bodyguards, retired soldiers, and occasionally a few federal agents—he'd seen it all.

A novice will first grasp the gun handle and look for the trigger, because that's how it's portrayed in the movies.

Veterans would first pull the bolt to check the chamber, because the battlefield taught them this.

And those at the top of the food chain, like Delta Force and SEAL Team Six.

The first thing I did after getting the gun was, just like Lynn, to check the chamber, the magazine, and the wear and tear on the parts, leaving no stone unturned.

Sachi stepped forward, picked up the fancy AR pistol with one hand, and pressed his thumb directly onto the receiver pin.

With a click, it was pushed out, and the upper and lower receivers folded apart.

"Commercial-grade buffer tubes, inferior castings."

Sachi fiddled with the bolt with his large fingers.

"The gas key has no anti-torsional fixing stake. This kind of garbage will explode after firing three magazines in a row, or it will jam like the subway during the morning rush hour in New York."

The gun was thrown back onto the counter with a dull thud.

"Put away your toys, old man. Bring out some real stuff that can save your life."

The old man didn't reply.

His gaze was fixed on Lynn's hands.

Fair-skinned, slender, with well-defined joints.

The precision of his micro-management when controlling the gun is terrifying.

But Lynn's hands just struck the old man as very strange.

People who handle guns year-round develop calluses on the base of their thumbs, the pads of their index fingers, and the base of their palms—the result of repeatedly gripping the gun and enduring the recoil.

The calluses on this young man's fingers were concentrated on the outer side of his middle finger and the knuckle of his thumb.

These are marks that no firearm could leave.

An Asian young man with special forces-level gun control skills had no calluses on his hands from handling guns.

A chill ran down the old man's spine.

Having spent most of his life in the Red Hook District, he had seen people like this before.

A scavenger for a Colombian drug cartel, whose ostensible identity is a dentist, uses the same hands to pull teeth and to save lives.

And then there are the Russians over at Brighton Beach, who claim to run clinics but actually provide battlefield stitching for those former KGB lunatics.

Such people are either extremely dangerous crossover figures or "professional tools" under the command of some big shot.

They are definitely not Asian middle-class people seeking security.

The old man took a half step back without making a sound.

His right hand slowly drooped down to the edge of the counter, his fingertips already touching the grip of the Remington 870 that was always ready to be used.

The safety latch is closed.

But he only needs half a second to push it away.

If these two people are newcomers sent by the Gambino family or the Hongmen—

Using an Asian face that nobody recognizes as a starting point is indeed a shrewd tactic.

So all he can do today is roll behind the counter and pray that the first buckshot will incapacitate the big guy on the other side.

As for that young Asian man—

The old man wasn't sure.

He wasn't even sure if he could raise his gun faster than those hands.

Just as the old man's index finger was about to pull the trigger guard—

Lynn spoke up: "Mr. Arjun sent us."

The old man's fingers froze.

These words were like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.

He slowly withdrew his hand from under the counter.

He took a deep breath and took off the little red hat from his head.

"So he's Mr. Arjun's friend."

His voice carried a hint of respect and relief at surviving the ordeal.

"Mr. Arjun is a truly respectable man. Three years ago, my nephew was shot in the Bronx, and the hospital wanted to amputate his leg. It was all thanks to Mr. Arjun's connections that his leg was saved."

He glanced quickly at the strangely positioned calluses on Lynn's hands.

Could it be that the one who saved his nephew's leg was—

The old man swallowed the thought.

In the red-hook zone, excessive curiosity is a shortened lifespan.

He turned and yelled into the inner room, "Billy! Get out here and mind the shop!"

A young white man with a fish head and a face full of acne ran out, limping.

"Old man, I'm at a crucial moment!" He glared at the old man with annoyance.

The old man walked straight to the corner of the shop, where a bulky, old-fashioned "Freedom" brand safe stood.

He reached out and grabbed an inconspicuous rusty heating pipe on the side of the safe, pressing it down hard.

A dull groan of mechanical bearings grinding together rang out.

The entire one-ton safe, along with the wall panel behind it, slowly slid outwards.

Street smarts, rough around the edges, but ingenious.

"Please come in, gentlemen. I must have been blind just now."

After passing through the hidden door, a bright and spacious area suddenly appeared.

The underground armory is completely enclosed.

The air smelled of desiccant.

The walls were covered with uniform military and police weapons; there wasn't a single one of those fancy civilian toys outside.

"No background check required, serial numbers have all been removed."

The old man pointed to the wall, "These are all genuine 'Ghost Guns,' take your pick!"

Sachi had already begun scanning the weapons racks.

He needs to suppress fire at close range.

Sachi walked straight to the left and took out a matte black HKMP5A3.

Pulling the bolt and checking the chamber were all done in one smooth motion.

"Suitable for close-quarters combat in urban areas, at a distance of ten to twenty meters. Roller delayed locking, minimal recoil, thirty rounds in two seconds."

"I tucked the gun butt into my backpack and walked down the street without anyone giving me a second glance."

"That's it."

Lynn didn't explain further; he walked toward the pistol display area.

He already has a Glock 19, and for magazine compatibility and muscle memory consistency, he needs a replacement of the same caliber.

Lynn reached out and picked up a Glock 45.

"Good eye."

The old man explained, "It has a full-size grip and a compact, short barrel. The grip is long enough to hold seventeen rounds and provides excellent stability. The barrel is short enough for quick draw. It's perfect for hiding under a suit jacket."

Lynn gripped the gun handle.

A perfect fit.

"The slide has been slotted to accommodate a red dot sight, and the barrel is threaded so a suppressor can be screwed on at any time," the old man added.

"This one."

Lynn inserted the Glock 45 into his back half.

Next, Lynn's gaze fell on a row of compact handguns on the bottom shelf of the display case, and he picked up a Glock 26.

The gun is extremely short, the grip is only two fingers wide, and the overall size is not much larger than the palm of your hand.

The old man was taken aback.

"Intended for a lady?"

Lin removed the magazine and picked up a 17-round extended magazine for a Glock 45 from the side, inserting it into the magazine well of a Glock 26.

The bottom of the magazine protrudes significantly from the grip, but with a click, it locks perfectly.

"9mm is universal. In an emergency, she can use my magazine directly," Lynn told Satch.

Sachi nodded slightly.

This is a basic principle of special operations: the squad uses the same caliber of weapons and shares ammunition.

The doctor's tactical thinking was becoming increasingly unfathomable to him.

Lynn put the Glock 26 into his coat's inner pocket, casually asking, "Sachi, we've been doing well lately. Your old friend—"

Sachi immediately understood Lynn's meaning.

"Water Ghost is the best sniper I've ever seen. Within 800 meters, his marksman rifle shots never miss, and beyond 1000 meters, he can still feed bullets into the enemy's nostrils with a heavy sniper rifle."

"We have never failed in our cooperation in Afhan."

Lynn nodded: "What kind of gun did he use?"

Sachi glanced around and shook his head.

"The equipment that the water ghost likes to use isn't available here. He prefers a semi-automatic precision marksman rifle with a range of 800 meters or more. His old buddy turned it in when he retired from the team."

"Let's just pick one."

The old man clicked his tongue, walked smugly into the depths, took a rifle from a separate cabinet, and handed it over.

"Remington 700. Replaced with a thickened stainless steel barrel, McMillan tactical stock, and a two-pound competition trigger. Half an hour's angle within 400 meters, barely enough for 600 meters."

Sachi took it and tried the trigger.

He frowned and shook his head.

"The base is decent; it's a tactical model modified from a hunting rifle, with a manual bolt-action mechanism. The Submariner prefers semi-automatic, so this is only passable."

"Let's start with this; it's better than nothing."

"Check, please." Lynn said to the shopkeeper.

"The MP5 comes with six 30-round magazines, containing 300 rounds of 9mm hollow-point ammunition."

"Each Glock 45 and Glock 26 is equipped with four magazines, plus two hundred rounds of 9mm spare ammunition."

The old man casually put on his reading glasses.

"MP5, two Glocks, Remington 700, plus ammunition and miscellaneous items, totaling fifty-six thousand three hundred and thirty thousand —"

"Fine, just give me 50,000."

Having spent most of his life in this industry, his intuition and experience told him that this Asian man was no ordinary person.

"I have to give Mr. Arjun face, but I'd rather be your friend."

"Please continue to support me when I have big business opportunities in the future."

Lynn counted out enough cash and handed it to the boss.

"Since you've put it that way, keep an eye out for two things for me. A precision marksman rifle that meets my brother's requirements. And a full-steel hammer-action pistol."

The old man put the money away: "Good things are hard to come by, but I'll do my best."

"Young man, this is America. Guns are easy to get, but good guns are hard to come by."

Lynn understood what his boss meant. It would be absurd for someone to just pull out a fully automatic weapon and wreak havoc, like in GTA or some American TV shows.

Once inside the used RV, Lynn placed a Glock 45 loaded with ammunition into the passenger seat and tucked another Glock 26 into the innermost part of the glove box.

"Take this back and give it to Casillas."

Sachi started the engine and glanced at it: "She can shoot?"

"No, so you teach her."

"They only teach you how to turn off the safety and how to aim at a target within three meters and pull the trigger."

This is so that, in the worst-case scenario, Cassie will have some ability to protect herself.

Sachi didn't ask any more questions.

He took out his phone with one hand and dialed a number.

It rang for a long time before being answered, and there were some unclear breathing sounds on the other end of the phone.

"Listen, you water ghost."

"I've found you a new boss. I've got you a modified Remington 700 to make do for now; the real stuff is on its way."

The panting stopped.

Then came a hoarse, cold snort.