104: Chapter 104 Declaration of War

In the conference room of the 127th Precinct in Brooklyn, the smoke was thick enough to form clouds near the ceiling.

The projector hummed, casting several high-definition photos onto the white screen.

The photos showed the bloody Red Hook District docks. The locations of the bodies had been marked with chalk, but the blood on the ground hadn't dried yet; one could almost smell the metallic scent of rust just by looking at the pictures.

"Twenty-three bodies."

Sergeant Miller slammed the laser pointer in his hand onto the table. The plastic casing cracked, and the batteries rolled onto the floor with a series of crisp sounds.

No one in the conference room dared to speak.

The old-timers who usually liked to tell dirty jokes in the Major Crimes Unit were currently bowing their heads, studying their coffee cups as if they could read the future of New York in them.

"It wasn't a gang war, and it wasn't a robbery." Miller's bloodshot eyes swept over everyone present, finally resting on Chen Mo.

"There are no ballistics records, no eyewitnesses, and the surveillance footage has been wiped cleaner than my bank account balance. This was a military operation, right under our noses."

Chen Mo leaned back in his chair, twirling a ballpoint pen in his hand.

He didn't look at Miller; his gaze fell on the sentry in the corner of the photo who had had his throat slit.

"This is an execution." Chen Mo spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it sounded exceptionally clear in the dead-silent conference room.

"Only the military would do this. For the sake of efficiency, leaving no survivors."

"I don't care if they're SEALs or the KGB!" Miller roared, spraying spittle half a meter away.

"This is Brooklyn! Not some goddamn Afghanistan! These bastards committing a massacre on my turf is like spitting on my badge!"

He grabbed his peaked cap from the corner of the table and jammed it onto his head, messing up his few remaining strands of hair even further.

"Everyone, cancel your time off. Comb through every sewer, dismissed!"

The officers, as if granted amnesty, pushed back their chairs and swarmed out.

Chen Mo stood up and slowly tidied the documents on the table.

Miller walked to the door, suddenly stopped, and looked back at Chen Mo.

"Robert." The old sergeant's voice lowered; beneath the flames of fury, there was a trace of undetectable exhaustion.

"I know you have unconventional connections, help me keep an eye out. This level of firepower isn't something a few thugs could get their hands on."

"I'll keep an eye on it, Boss." Chen Mo tucked the ballpoint pen into his shirt pocket.

Miller nodded, turned, and pushed the door open to leave. "I'm heading to headquarters. That idiot Chief Sullivan got chewed out by the Mayor until he wet his pants, and now he's insisting I go take the heat."

Chen Mo watched Miller's back disappear at the end of the hallway.

He walked to the window and watched Miller's old Ford Crown Victoria police cruiser turn on its lights below and merge into the morning rush hour traffic.

It was still raining, and the gray sky hung very low.

Chen Mo took out his phone. An encrypted message from Jack Martin popped up on the screen: [The school of fish is in the net, but those are sharks.]

Twenty minutes later.

At the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge.

The windshield wipers swung frantically, but they couldn't clear the curtain of water from the windshield.

Miller irritably honked the horn; the traffic ahead was jammed like a pot of overcooked porridge.

"Damn this weather." Miller cursed, reaching for the cigarette pack on the passenger seat.

Just then, on the emergency lane to the right, a heavy cement mixer that had been parked there suddenly started up.

There was no warning, no turn signal. The steel behemoth, weighing several dozen tons, was like a rhinoceros out of control. The engine let out a teeth-grinding roar, and the truck swerved violently to the left.

"Bang!"

The sound of tearing metal even drowned out the thunder.

The right side door of the Ford police cruiser instantly caved in, and the entire vehicle was shoved sideways by the massive impact, slamming hard into the concrete barrier on the left.

The airbag exploded, and white dust instantly filled the cabin.

Miller felt the world spinning. His ears were filled with sharp ringing, and his chest felt like it had been struck by a sledgehammer, leaving him unable to catch his breath.

He struggled, trying to reach for the service weapon at his waist.

The cab door of the cement mixer opened.

Three men wearing dark gray work clothes and black masks jumped down.

Their movements were shockingly fast and well-coordinated, as if they had rehearsed countless times.

One person held a short-barreled shotgun, aiming it at the terrified, screaming drivers nearby.

The other two held hydraulic cutters.

"Zzz—"

The teeth-grinding sound of metal cutting rang out. The deformed police car door was torn open like a piece of paper.

Miller's face was covered in blood, and his vision was blurry.

He saw a hand wearing a tactical glove reach in and grab the collar of his bulletproof vest.

"Bas...tard..." Miller coughed up a mouthful of blood, his fingers just barely touching the grip of his gun.

The butt of a gun slammed heavily against his forehead.

The world went black.

The whole process took less than forty seconds.

When the sirens of patrol cars finally arrived from the distance, the cement mixer was still blocking the middle of the road, but Miller and the attackers had already vanished into the complex network of ramps under the bridge.

Only a streetlamp pole by the road was still dripping with rainwater and engine oil.

127th Precinct, dispatch hall.

"All units, attention! Serious traffic accident at the Brooklyn Bridge approach! Officer injured! Repeat, officer injured!"

The roaring sound over the radio instantly froze the atmosphere in the hall.

Chen Mo was holding a cup of freshly made instant coffee, standing behind the dispatch console. He watched the footage from the traffic surveillance on the big screen: the police cruiser that had been crushed into scrap metal, and the glaring pool of blood on the ground.

"Zzz... zzz..."

The dozen or so walkie-talkies in the hall simultaneously emitted harsh static noise. Immediately after, the surveillance footage on the big screen flickered a few times and turned into static.

Three seconds later, a black audio waveform appeared in the center of the screen.

"Good morning, NYPD."

It was a voice processed through a voice changer, but the stiff way of enunciating, carrying a heavy taste of vodka, sounded like sandpaper grinding on glass.

The hall was deathly silent; everyone was staring at the screen.

"You took something you shouldn't have. That is Mr. Ivanov's pension."

The voice paused. In the background, a dull thud was heard, followed by a suppressed groan of pain.

That was Miller's voice.

The paper cup in Chen Mo's hand deformed, and the scalding coffee spilled out, running over his fingers, but he didn't react at all.

"We give you twenty-four hours," the Russian accent continued. "Transfer the money back to the original account. Every hour that passes, we will cut off one finger of this old cop. Starting with the left pinky."

"Zzz—"

The call cut off. The big screen jumped back to static, and then returned to the surveillance footage of the abandoned police car.

"Trace the signal!"

"Quick! Notify the SWAT team!"

"Lock onto that IP!"

The hall instantly erupted into chaos; shouting and ringing phones filled the air. Young officers scrambled around like headless chickens, and Chief Sullivan rushed out of his office, pale-faced, his tie crooked.

Chen Mo threw the crushed paper cup into the trash can.

He didn't speak, nor did he join the commotion. He pulled out a tissue, slowly and methodically wiped the coffee stains off his hand, and then turned and walked toward the stairwell.

His footsteps were steady, and his leather shoes made a rhythmic sound on the floor.

He reached the corner of the stairs, avoiding the surveillance camera.

Chen Mo took out his black backup phone and dialed a number.

His eyes were as cold as a block of ice just dragged out of a morgue freezer.

"Time to work."