280: Dogs at the Gates of Hell

Chapter 280: The Dog at Hell's Gate. The rain still hadn't stopped.

A massive holographic projection flickered in mid-air; the girl holding a blue cocktail winked at the vehicles entering the city over and over again.

Every three seconds, the left side of her face would twitch due to a faulty circuit, making her look like a stroke patient having a seizure.

This was Sin City.

Chaotic, cheap, and filled with a nauseating sense of glitchiness.

Chen Mo twisted the throttle.

The heavy motorcycle carved a purple trail of light across the slick cross-river bridge, the engine's roar drowning out the churning waters below.

"Heart rate 192."

Ruan Qiushui's voice sounded somewhat ethereal in his mind. "The stimulant's effects will last another fifteen minutes. After that, your adrenaline will plummet like a roller coaster. If you don't find a place to lie down, you'll drop dead right on the curb."

"Fifteen minutes is enough."

Chen Mo stared ahead.

There was a roadblock at the bridgehead.

It wasn't a formal red-and-white barrier, but a 'toll station' piled together from scrapped armored vehicles and concrete blocks.

Seven or eight men in studded leather jackets, clutching shotguns, were huddled around a burning gasoline drum for warmth.

This was the Iron Cross Gang's territory.

To enter the city, you either paid up or left your life behind.

Screeech—!

Chen Mo squeezed the brakes.

The motorcycle's rear wheel locked, drifting sideways for over ten meters before coming to a steady halt in front of the roadblock.

Muddy water splashed onto the pant leg of the fat man in the lead.

"Fuck!"

The fat man cursed as he tossed aside his beer can and approached, carrying a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. "In a hurry to reincarnate? Don't you know the rules?"

He walked to the front of the bike and tapped the fuel tank with his bat.

Clang, clang, clang.

"Nice bike."

The fat man's cloudy eyes lit up.

He recognized the paint job; it was the emblem of the Neon Gang, that group of city-outskirt punks who did nothing but street race.

"What, the Neon Gang brats actually dare to drive into my territory and act wild?"

The fat man grinned cruelly and waved to his subordinates behind him. "Boys, looks like we've got a new ride tonight."

Several thugs immediately surrounded him.

The sound of shotgun slides racking was exceptionally piercing in the rainy night.

Chen Mo didn't move.

He wore a full-face helmet, the black visor concealing all expression.

Only his eyes, hidden behind the visor, rapidly scanned everyone's position.

Eight people.

Three shotguns, two assault rifles, the rest were melee weapons.

"Get off."

The fat man pointed the baseball bat at Chen Mo's helmet. "Take off the helmet, kneel down and lick my soles clean. If I'm in a good mood, maybe I'll only break one of your legs."

Chen Mo slowly raised his hand and placed it on the helmet's buckle.

"That's more like it."

The fat man whistled triumphantly. "Keep your eyes peeled from now on..."

Click.

The buckle released.

But Chen Mo didn't take off the helmet.

His mechanical arm, still emitting electrical sparks, suddenly grabbed the baseball bat the fat man had extended.

This modified mechanical arm had a grip strength exceeding five hundred kilograms.

Creeeak.

The solid wood baseball bat was crushed instantly, like a brittle cracker.

"Huh?"

Before the fat man could react, he felt a tightening at his chest.

Chen Mo had already seized his collar.

Using the motorcycle's weight and his core strength, Chen Mo swung the two-hundred-plus-pound fat man up with one hand like he was tossing trash.

Whoosh—

The fat man flew through the air in a parabola, slamming heavily into the two thugs on the left holding shotguns.

Bang! Bang!

The shotguns discharged accidentally.

But both chaotic shots blasted into the fat man's broad back, turning him into a sieve.

"Kill him!"

The rest finally reacted, shouting as they pulled their triggers.

But Chen Mo was no longer in his original position.

He kicked the motorcycle over and used the momentum to slide sideways, slipping under the chassis of the armored vehicle roadblock like a slippery loach.

Rat-tat-tat-tat!

Bullets struck the motorcycle and the ground, sparks flying everywhere.

The expensive heavy motorcycle was instantly reduced to scrap metal.

"Where is he?!"

"Under the vehicle!"

A man with a mohawk holding a machete had just bent over to check.

Pfft.

A silver Butterfly Knife, like a viper's tongue, darted out from under the car and precisely sliced through his Achilles tendon.

"Ah!"

The mohawk screamed and collapsed to his knees.

A second later, a mechanical hand reached out from the darkness, grabbed his ankle, and dragged him entirely under the vehicle.

The screaming stopped abruptly.

Only a few hair-raising sounds of bones snapping could be heard.

The remaining five panicked.

They fired wildly under the vehicle until their magazines were empty.

Click, click, click.

The sound of empty chambers echoed.

This brief silence became the signal of the Grim Reaper.

Boom!

The hatch on the other side of the armored vehicle was suddenly kicked open from the inside.

The emergency escape hatch on the chassis of this scrap vehicle, originally used as a roadblock, actually still worked.

Covered in mud, Chen Mo appeared behind them like a vengeful spirit crawling out of hell.

He held the machete he had snatched from the mohawk.

"Too slow."

Ruan Qiushui sighed.

A flash of a blade.

There were no fancy moves.

Just speed.

So fast that even the raindrops seemed to be sliced apart.

The two closest people only felt a chill at their necks before their vision began to spin.

That was the image they saw as their heads rolled onto the ground.

The remaining three turned to run.

But at this narrow bridgehead, where could they go?

Chen Mo casually threw the machete.

The machete spun through the air and embedded itself directly into the back of the fastest runner's skull.

Thud.

The corpse fell face-down into a puddle.

The last two were scared out of their wits; they threw down their weapons and knelt, kowtowing frantically.

"Don't kill me! Big brother! Grandpa! We were blind to your greatness!"

"Money! The money you want is all in that drum!"

Chen Mo walked up to them.

He took off his helmet and tossed it into the river.

The rain washed away the half-dried blood on his face, revealing a pale, almost sickly countenance.

"Where is the doctor here?"

His voice was raspy, as if his throat were filled with grit.

"Huh?"

The tattooed man on the left blanked for a moment, then reacted, nodding frantically.

"I know! I know! Turn right up ahead, enter 'Walled City.' There's a black clinic on the third basement level run by 'Butcher' Old Li! As long as you have money, he can stitch a dead man back together!"

"Walled City..."

Chen Mo narrowed his eyes.

He had heard of that place.

The filthiest, most chaotic slum in Sin City, and the easiest place to hide dirt.

"Car."

Chen Mo held out his hand.

The tattooed man tremblingly fished a car key from his pocket and pointed to a dilapidated pickup truck parked by the road. "That... that's our gang's body-disposal truck. The tank is full..."

Chen Mo took the key.

He didn't give the two another glance as he turned and walked toward the pickup.

"Thank you for sparing us, big brother! Thank you!"

The two felt like they'd received a royal pardon and slumped to the ground.

Only when the pickup's taillights vanished into the rain did they dare to crawl back up.

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