102: Chapter 102 The Night Watchman's Medal

Three days later, City Hall.

The air here was completely different from the basement in Brooklyn.

It was filled with the scent of expensive perfume, the aroma of freshly ground coffee, and that suffocating sense of hypocrisy.

Camera flashes illuminated the room like lightning during a thunderstorm, clicking incessantly.

"...Detective Robert Chen, with extraordinary courage and wisdom, has consecutively cracked the Gambino Family money laundering case and the green devil drug trafficking case within a week, safeguarding the safety of New York citizens..."

The mayor was a bald, chubby man with a beaming smile, pinning a gold medal onto Chen Mo's chest.

His palms were sweaty, and when he shook hands, they felt wet and slippery, like a fish just pulled from the water.

"Well done, young man." The mayor lowered his voice. "For next year's election, I need more hero stories like yours. Understand?"

"It is my honor to serve New York, Mr. Mayor."

Chen Mo wore an impeccable smile, even turning to cooperate with the media, allowing them to capture a perfect profile shot.

Chief Sullivan was applauding from below the stage, and Sergeant Miller was applauding too, although he looked as if he were constipated.

Applause surged like a tide.

Chen Mo stood under the spotlight, yet he felt a chill running through his entire body.

This was the game of power.

As long as you could display enough spoils of war on the table, no one would care how those spoils were obtained, nor would anyone care how much blood flowed in the sewers to get them.

Half an hour later, in the locker room.

The noise was sealed off behind the heavy door.

There were only rows of cold metal lockers and long wooden benches here.

Chen Mo loosened his tie and tossed it onto the bench.

He looked down at the still-gleaming medal on his chest, a mocking curve forming on his lips, then he unpinned it and tossed it into the deepest corner of his locker like a coin.

It landed next to his service weapon.

"Congratulations, New York hero."

A voice came from the shadows in the back.

Chen Mo did not turn around; he didn't even pause in the act of taking off his clothes.

"This is the men's locker room, miss." He unbuttoned his shirt in front of the mirror.

Elizabeth Wayne—or rather, Nightingale as she was now—walked out, wearing a gray janitor's uniform and pushing a linen cart.

"I thought you would like that medal." Nightingale leaned against the locker, toying with a rag in her hand. "After all, it was bought with quite a few people's lives."

"That's just a theater ticket for the living." Chen Mo changed out of his shirt and put on a plain hoodie. "Get to the point. Have you found the source of that batch of green devil?"

Nightingale's expression turned serious.

"Found it, but the situation isn't good."

She pulled a photo from the lining of the linen cart and handed it to Chen Mo.

The photo was blurry; it had been taken secretly at the docks.

Several men wearing dockworker uniforms were moving cargo.

But their movements were too uniform; the coordination of their muscles while moving heavy objects, and the subconscious defensive formation they maintained while walking, were definitely not something ordinary laborers would possess.

"Eastern Europeans." Nightingale pointed to the back of one man's hand. When zoomed in, there was a blurry tattoo.

"This is the insignia of the Russian 76th Guards Air Assault Division. Even though it's been scrubbed, the traces are still there."

Chen Mo narrowed his eyes.

"Veterans?"

"Doesn't look like they've been retired for long." Nightingale's voice was heavy.

"I checked the immigration records; there is no information on these people. They either snuck in or came through some diplomatic backchannel. This batch of green devil was just a test. The thing they were actually escorting already entered a warehouse in New Jersey last night."

"What thing?"

"I don't know. But when I got close to that warehouse, I smelled something." Nightingale paused. "The smell of gun oil. A very strong smell of gun oil."

Chen Mo folded the photo in his hand a couple of times.

Russians, paratroopers, military hardware.

This clearly wasn't just about selling a few ecstasy pills for pocket money.

"It seems our old friend Ivanov hasn't been sunbathing on the beaches of Miami."

Chen Mo stuffed the photo into his pocket. "He's looking for payback."

Last time, using the Astor Bank incident, he swindled Ivanov and his dirty money, leaving him with nothing and making him a wanted man.

That kind of grudge—those Russians who value face more than their own lives would certainly not swallow that.

"Since it's regular military, we can't use assassin tactics. They are wolves, not dogs. If you kill one, you'll bring down the pack."

He slammed the locker door shut with a clang.

"Let them move first." Chen Mo looked at himself in the mirror. "I can't take this medal for nothing. Since I'm a cop, I have to wait for the 'criminals' to make the first mistake."

"But..."

"No 'buts'." Chen Mo cut her off. "Tell Richie to have his docks increase security. Don't sleep too soundly these next few nights."

Nightingale nodded and pushed the cart to leave.

When she reached the door, she suddenly stopped.

"Boss."

"Hm?"

"When you were smiling on stage just now," Nightingale said with her back to him, her voice very soft, "you really looked like those politicians who sold their souls to the devil."

"Thanks for the compliment." Chen Mo adjusted his collar in the mirror. "In this country, that is the highest praise."