Law America, the Devil's Agent

Evening, on the edge of the Blood Hand Gang's territory.

Holland unloaded the last box of cardboard boxes from Philadelphia General Industries from the back of the pickup truck and handed it to two gang members wearing hoodies.

The handover was swift and efficient, with no unnecessary words exchanged; only the thickness of the stack of cash remained as satisfying as ever.

After saying goodbye, he hummed a little tune and got into the driver's seat of the blue pickup truck.

Instead of starting the engine, he first took out the bulging bag from the glove box and ran his thumb along the edges of the banknotes.

After confirming the number was correct, his smile grew even brighter, and then he pulled out a small plastic bag—

It contained several enhancement pills that were obtained cheaply from the Blood Hand Gang.

He picked one out, cracked it with the bottom of a lighter, and took a deep drag.

The smell rushed into my brain through my nasal cavity, my pupils dilated slightly, and the whole world seemed to brighten.

"This is life."

He grinned at his swollen face in the rearview mirror, revealing a mouthful of yellowed and blackened teeth corroded by drugs and cheap cigarettes and alcohol.

Shouting slogans at the prison gate in the morning, delivering goods to the hospital at night.

I never dared to dream of earning money in a day before.

Without that stumbling block nagging him to quit drugs and alcohol, he can do as much as he wants and fill his liquor cabinet with whatever he wants.

As for his son, who constantly talks about "medical ethics," urges him to quit drinking and drugs, and encourages him to do community volunteer work—

He didn't even have a single thought in his mind.

While he was alive, he would only be a hindrance.

Now that he's dead, he's actually left his father a way to make money.

Is there a better deal than this?

He turned the key, and the pickup truck engine let out a hoarse roar.

He stepped on the gas, and the pickup truck drew a crooked arc on the empty streets of the industrial area.

However, he failed to notice that there was a cut on the tread of the right rear tire, made by a sharp object, which was expanding at a visible speed.

On the highway late at night, the streetlights became increasingly sparse.

The pickup truck turned onto a desolate road that ran through an abandoned factory area, with barbed wire fences and overgrown open spaces on both sides, and the occasional barking of stray dogs in the distance.

The car was picking up speed. Holland yawned, rubbed his eyes which were red from the enhancer, and was about to take another drag—

A blinding white light exploded out of the front without warning.

The directional, intense light shone precisely on his windshield, instantly turning the entire glass into a blinding white curtain.

He instinctively jerked the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes.

When you press the brake pedal all the way down, there is absolutely no resistance.

  

The car's speed did not decrease, and the front of the car had already veered off the road. The right front wheel hit the curb, and the entire car lost control in a violent twist.

The pickup truck overturned into a roadside ditch, its roof facing down, and the metal frame made a screeching twisting sound upon impact.

After an unknown amount of time, Holland opened his eyes.

He doesn't have the habit of wearing a seatbelt.

A long-term drug addict would never remember such a thing.

He was thrown into the gap between the driver's seat and the passenger seat, and a dull pain shot through his ribs.

He struggled to crawl out of the deformed car door and knelt by the overgrown ditch, panting heavily.

Mobile phone.

He trembled as he reached into his pocket.

But then he realized he couldn't call 911. Driving under the influence of drugs, drugs, and contraband cash would be tantamount to walking into a trap.

But he was calling his alcoholic wife, asking her to come pick him up.

He had just taken out his phone and hadn't even dialed a number when a sharp, dull pain shot through the back of his head.

The whole world seemed to spin halfway before sinking into darkness.

Before he fainted, he vaguely heard two voices talking:

"Loss, is that him?"

"That's him. The one who delivers for the Blood Hands gang. Someone's offering to see him. Take him away."

……

When I opened my eyes again, the blinding white light was back.

Holland instinctively closed his eyes tightly, waiting for his pupils to adjust before reopening them.

He found himself strapped to a dilapidated metal folding chair in a deserted, empty building.

The steel beams on the ceiling were rusty, and the walls were covered in graffiti.

Several burly Black men stood around, their arms and necks covered in tattoos, their eyes filled with undisguised malice.

He hurriedly called out:

"I am Holland Quays!"

I deliver goods for the Blood Hands gang!

I know Mr. Gerard from the Bloodhand Gang!

Bro, please let us go...

Before he could finish speaking, the burly man next to him punched him in the stomach.

His stomach acid and bile surged up at the same time, and he vomited a mouthful of acidic water mixed with blood. He curled up in the chair like a worm whose stomach had been stepped on.

"So, you're a member of the Blood Hand Gang?"

The burly man who hit him grabbed his hair and pulled it back, forcing him to tilt his head back.

"FUCK!"

The Blood Hands gang has recently taken over the entire black market for drugs north of Philadelphia, to the point that we're almost starving.

"You still dare to mention the Blood Hand Gang's name here?"

Several Black people nearby started commotion, hurling insults at each other.

Just when Holland thought he was going to be beaten to death, footsteps came from deep within the building.

Three men emerged from the shadows—

Leading the way was a burly Black man, followed by an Asian man in a charcoal gray suit, and next to him was a young white man holding a camera.

"Loss."

The burly man who had been grabbing Holland's hair released his grip, walked over, shook hands with the newcomer, and gestured with his chin toward Holland:

"This son of a bitch, I brought him as you said."

The crime scene has been cleaned up. Don't worry, he's vanished into thin air.

Los nodded, took out a wad of US dollars from his pocket, and handed them out one by one.

Several gang members took the money, exchanged a few pleasantries with Los, and then left whistling.

Only three people remained in the abandoned building, facing Holland.

Benny sat down behind the old wooden table next to him, opened the camera lens cap, opened his notebook, and removed the pen cap.

Link stood in front of Holland, looking down at him.

His gaze was cold and sharp.

"Holland, do you recognize me?"

Holland felt a little uneasy under his gaze.

He forced a fawning smile and spoke in a trembling voice:

"Judging from your attire, you're a lawyer... right?"

There must be some misunderstanding!

I am a victim, I am Nick Quix's father.

My son was killed by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and I'm on your side.

"Don't pretend you don't recognize me. I think O'Mill's lawyer has already given you my photo."

What role did you play in Nick Quixote's death?

Link's voice was calm and cold, and without any opening remarks, he went straight to the first question.

Holland's eyes darted around quickly.

Those eyes were bloodshot from the stimulation of the enhancer, but beneath the bloodshot lay an instinctive cunning belonging to a poisonous insect.

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

Nick is my son, and I am a victim's family member!

You can't treat me like this! I'm calling the police! I'm going to...

"Where are the things he left behind, the things he had left behind?"

"What is it? Nick's belongings? His tattered books and old notebooks?"

They're all at home, you can visit them anytime!

"Why don't you untie me first, and I'll take you home so we can talk slowly—"

"Who is your direct supervisor at Philadelphia General Hospital?"

"A hospital? I've never worked in a hospital, I'm just an ordinary person..."

"Who is the gang leader and person in charge of the Blood Hand Gang that you are in contact with?"

Holland's lips began to twitch unnaturally.

These questions came one after another without pause or emotion. It didn't feel like an interrogation; it felt more like fulfilling a pre-written list.

He swallowed hard, trying a different approach, his voice suddenly becoming humble and obsequious.

"Sir, I don't know what you're talking about."

I am just an ordinary father. My son was murdered, and I just want to seek justice for him.

I stood at the prison gate this morning. It was voluntary; no one forced me. I just wanted to do something for my son.

You can't treat me like this.

You are lawyers, lawyers cannot hit people, lawyers must uphold the law…

His mouth just wouldn't stop.

He began to complain about how miserable his childhood was, how Nick's mother abused him, how the community discriminated against his family, and that alcohol and drugs were not his fault, but that society had forced him to become like this.

He spoke with tears streaming down his face, his tears and snot mingling together, forming a disgusting wet stain on his swollen face.

But his eyes were constantly darting around, observing Link's reaction with every word he spoke, trying to find out which words would soften Link's heart and which words would buy him more time.

Benny's pen stopped on the notebook.

He looked up at Holland's tear-streaked face, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.

"Shut up!"

He stood up abruptly, the chair leg scraping against the floor with a piercing noise.

Holland shrank back slightly at his shout, but a smug smile flashed in his eyes immediately—

Benny's complete disarray proves that they are utterly helpless in the face of their own problems.

He felt he had the upper hand.

But Link raised a hand, gesturing for Benny to sit down.

Then he tilted his head to the side and called out:

"Loss."

Los emerged from the shadows deep within the building.

Along with him came a series of torture instruments that had been prepared beforehand, leaning against the wall.

Holland's expression froze, and a bad feeling welled up inside him.

"First, whip him twenty times with a thorny whip."

Then I asked him for three fingers.

You frequently handle medications, so you should know a little about stopping bleeding. After you finish the injection, bandage his finger.

Without hesitation, Los turned around, picked up the leather whip covered with metal barbs from the wall, and bent down to pick up the portable chainsaw from the ground.

The metal barbs of the whip gleamed coldly in the dim light, and Holland looked at it, a genuine fear finally showing on his face.

But he still hadn't completely given up on his wishful thinking—

Until Los walked up behind him and ripped open the back of his shirt.

"Ahhh!!"

With the first lash, the metal barbs scraped a deep, bloody gash across the skin and flesh.

Holland's screams echoed through the empty building.

Its body instinctively tried to curl forward, but it was tightly bound by the rope.

His spine was arched at an unnatural angle, and a bright red groove on his back was oozing blood.

"Mr. Holland, you're being very careless."

Link stood there, hands in his pockets, his voice casual as if he were chatting:

"He took a stimulant while driving, crashed on the side of the road, and injured his back like this."

"No, I...I..."

The second lash.

The scream tore through the air once more, the last note breaking into a series of sobs deep in the throat.

"No, please stop hitting me... I'll talk to you..."

"What did you say?"

"I'll talk, I'll talk, I want to say something first..."

The third lash.

There was no pause because of his words, only the dull sound of the whip hitting the bone.

Holland's pupils contracted sharply, his mouth gaped open, and he slumped back in his chair.

"It seems you're not ready to tell the truth yet."

Link sighed and snapped his fingers lightly.

Los understood immediately, bent down, took a mouthful of salt water, and sprayed it onto Holland's bloodied back.

Holland's entire body jolted up as if he had been electrocuted, and his scream broke through all previous limits, turning into a groan that was not human.

After enduring much torment, he finally broke down.

"I killed Nick...no, I didn't kill him, I did it with the hospital..."

They made me lure him to the Bloodhands' territory, saying he was too close to Hawthorne and couldn't be kept around..."

Link interrupted him:

Let's start from the beginning.

How did Nick Quixote die? What role did you play in it?

Not a single word was missed.

Holland hung his head, tears, snot, and blood dripping from his chin.

His voice became low and muffled, but in the face of pain, he finally abandoned all pretense and pretense.

He told the truth.

After Nathaniel Hawthorne's arrest, Nick Quix became extremely wary. He no longer trusted the hospital, no one, and not even his own parents.

But he ultimately overlooked it.

He couldn't help but trust his parents—that was his only weakness in life.

Holland and his wife lured Nick to the Blood Hands' territory by saying, "We want to quit drugs, please help us."

Then they left. When Nick was seen again, he was a meticulously arranged corpse covered in Nathaniel's marks.

Where are his belongings?

His belongings—notes, documents, diaries.

"They're all in the church."

Those are all junk; he doesn't have anything valuable.

There was only a pile of books and a few notebooks filled with writing.

He said he wanted to donate all his belongings to the community church after he died.

We were too lazy to deal with it, so we called the church staff to come and collect it.

His belongings, from clothes to books, were all in the church's storeroom.

That's all I know.

Who is your direct supervisor at Philadelphia General Hospital?

"Alan Morrison."

He arranged everything.

He was the one who asked me to transport goods for the hospital, he was the one who asked me to shout slogans at the prison gate after Nicolás's death, and he was the one who liaised with the people at the Vansk law firm—

These are my tasks.

He instructed me to keep an eye on Nathaniel Hawthorne's family and lawyers, and prevent them from visiting him in prison.

"Who is the person you are in contact with at the Vansk law firm?"

Quinil.

The assistant to O'Mill. He was with Morrison behind the tent that day.

He was responsible for telling me what slogans to shout every day, when to change shifts, and when I could leave.

He arranged all the work I did at the prison gate.

"Who is your contact person within the Blood Hand Gang?"

Gerard.

He was the leader of the Blood Hands gang, and all the goods coming out of the hospital were distributed through him.

Nick... Nick also died at his hands.

He wouldn't let me see. All I know is that he personally disposed of Nick's body. He said this was to ensure there were no future problems, to ensure no trace of the gang could be found, and to ensure all evidence pointed to Nathaniel.

Benny stopped writing.

The notebook was filled with dense notes, each line a potential weapon for cross-examination in court.

Link winked at Los.

Los put down the whip and began to stop the bleeding and bandage Holland.

Link and Benny turned and walked out of the building. Benny followed behind, remaining silent for a long time.

"Team leader,"

He finally spoke, his voice hesitant:

"Was what we just did...to treat someone like that appropriate?"

Are poisonous insects people?

Link didn't stop, his voice calm yet cold:

"The law is for people."

But for animals, there are no laws, and no rules.

We must use more primitive methods to get what we want.

Nick Quixote's life, Nathaniel Hawthorne's freedom, justice for the four victims—

Are all of these worth twenty lashes?

Benny remained silent for a moment when facing Link.

"value."

After a long time, the person they were waiting for finally arrived.

Outside the building, a black sedan arrived late.

The car door opened, and Miles White got out of the driver's seat. The DEA sergeant wasn't in uniform today, wearing a dark jacket, and had the casual look typical of friends meeting.

"My dear Attorney Link, where's the gift you promised? Where is it?"

Link smiled slightly and tilted his head towards Benny.

Benny handed Miles a stack of documents and photos of Holland's deal.

Miles took it, casually flipped to the first page, and his smile froze.

He continued flipping through the documents, faster and faster, until finally he closed them, looked up at Link, and his eyes gleamed with the sharp glint of a law enforcement officer who had caught the scent of prey.

"Holland Quays. That's a big fish."

"You and the FDA should be thrilled with what Holland is transporting and transferring—the illegal drugs he's transferring."

He's inside right now, and my assistant is treating his wounds.

I believe you can find even more information if you search for his website now.

Entrusting some things to your friends at the FDA can be more helpful.

Solving two major cases in quick succession is a significant achievement.

Miles looked down at the stack of documents in his hand, his smile growing wider.

"Thank you, Attorney Link."

Link calmly waved his hand, but then lowered his voice and took half a step forward.

Miles saw a meaningful smile on Link's face.

It was a temptation, an invitation.

"Sheriff Miles, I have an even bigger gift here. I don't know if you want it or not."

In this matter, both sides benefit; it's undoubtedly a very sweet cake.

"Oh? What is it?"

Miles raised an eyebrow.

"The Philadelphia General Hospital drug corruption case."