113: Chapter 113 The Collar Left for New York

In Chief Sullivan's office, even the air conditioning at full blast couldn't disperse the smell of cigars.

"You want to take leave?"

Chief Sullivan's fountain pen paused in mid-air, a blue dot of ink blooming on the document.

He looked up, his murky eyes rolling twice over Chen Mo's face, as if confirming whether this hot potato before him was truly planning to roll out of his sight.

"Miss Rockefeller has a project in Texas, and things haven't been peaceful over there lately." Chen Mo pushed a secondment application across the desk.

"As the actual head of the Brooklyn Anti-Gang Unit, and also as a public servant to the taxpayers, I have an obligation to protect an outstanding female entrepreneur, don't I?"

"Of course, of course."

Chief Sullivan threw the pen onto the desk, grabbed the official seal that only the chief could use, and slammed it down hard onto the application.

The dull thud sounded like a sigh of relief.

"You should go clear your head, Robert. New York has been too noisy lately. Some old guys have been complaining to me, saying that today's young people don't know the rules and do things too ruthlessly."

Chen Mo took the document and glanced at it. Approved for six months' leave.

This old fox wished he would stay in Texas for the rest of his life.

"I will give my regards to the Rockefeller Family for you." Chen Mo folded the document and tucked it into his inner suit pocket. "Also, while I'm away, the law and order in Brooklyn..."

"Don't worry about it." Chief Sullivan waved his fat hand, adorned with a gold ring. "As long as that 'package' arrives in my mailbox on time every month, Brooklyn will be the safest neighborhood in the entire United States."

Chen Mo smiled, turned, and pulled open the heavy oak door.

Walking out of the police station building, the sunlight made him squint.

Autumn in New York was approaching, and the wind carried the distinct fishy scent of the Hudson River.

He didn't go to get his car, but instead turned into an alleyway, the path leading to the back door of the morgue.

Old George was sitting next to the autopsy table, sharpening a knife.

That teeth-grinding friction sound echoed through the empty basement.

The old man didn't turn around. He held the sharpened scalpel up to the light, a cold gleam flashing across the blade.

"You're leaving," George said.

"You should retire too, George." Chen Mo leaned against the doorframe, not entering. "The sun in Texas is nice. Although there's a bit too much sand, it's good for your arthritis."

"I'm not going."

George put down the knife, fished a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his lab coat pocket, shook one out, and lit it.

"My fate belongs to the water; I can't leave this river. If I go to a place with nothing but cacti and rattlesnakes, old bones like mine won't last three days."

He exhaled a ring of smoke, which seemed especially choking in this space filled with the smell of formalin.

"Besides, someone has to watch over this place." George turned around, his face covered in age spots, expressionless.

"In case you get chopped up over there and sent back, there needs to be an acquaintance to sew you back together, so you don't end up missing limbs when you go to hell."

Chen Mo walked over, reached behind a specimen jar filled with severed limbs on the table, and pulled out a lighter to light one for himself.

"Then watch the house for me."

George didn't speak. He reached into a dirty drawer, rummaged around for a while, pulled out a paper matchbox soaked in grease, and tossed it onto the stainless steel table.

"If this were ten years ago, I would have gone with you. Back then, I could still shoot the wing off a fly from a thousand meters away."

George coughed twice. "Not anymore. There's a number on this. That person lives in El Paso, right on the US-Mexico border."

Chen Mo picked up the matchbox.

It had the name of a strip club printed on it, and a string of faded handwritten numbers on the back.

"He owes me his life." George threw the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it.

"If you run into trouble you can't handle in that godforsaken place—I mean, the kind that even you can't handle—call him."

"What does he do?"

"He used to be a smuggler, specializing in helping the CIA transport arms to South America. He washed his hands of that later, and now he seems to be a priest."

George grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "A priest who uses a shotgun to hold mass."

Chen Mo put the matchbox away.

"Thanks."

Coming out of the morgue, it was already dusk. Chen Mo sent a message to Nightingale.

[If you haven't boarded yet, you don't need to go.]

Three seconds later, the reply came.

[I'm in Dallas. The safe house is ready, and there are toys you like in the garage.]

This woman was always faster than he expected.

Chen Mo pocketed his phone and hailed a taxi.

"To Sunset Park."

...

In the VIP box of the Pink Flamingo Club, the music was shaking so hard that the glasses on the table were dancing.

Richie was hugging two new Russian girls, holding a thick stack of dollars in his hand and stuffing them into their lingerie.

Ever since the Gambino Family fell, this kid had inflated quickly. The custom Italian suit he wore couldn't hide the nouveau riche stench in his bones.

When the door was pushed open, Richie was just about to bury his face into a woman's chest.

He was about to curse, but when he looked up and saw that expressionless face, he was like someone struck by lightning. He bounced off the sofa, pushing the two Russian girls aside.

"Bo... Boss?"

Richie stammered, the money in his hand scattering all over the floor.

Chen Mo didn't look at him, walking straight to the middle of the sofa to sit down. He picked up the unopened bottle of Louis XIII on the table and weighed it in his hand.

"Get them out."

Richie waved his hand in a hurry. The two women grabbed their clothes from the floor and ran out as if fleeing for their lives.

The private room fell silent, with only the muffled sound of the subwoofer from outside remaining.

"I hear you've been living quite comfortably lately." Chen Mo placed the bottle on the marble tabletop with a crisp sound. "Not only did you take over the dockworkers' union, but you're also planning to open a branch in Queens?"

Cold sweat broke out on Richie's face.

He wiped his sweat while smiling obsequiously. "It's all to earn more money for you... The market there is huge. It used to be controlled by the Gambino people, but now that it's vacant, it would be a waste not to take it."

"Making money is a good thing."

Chen Mo pulled a cigar from the humidor on the table. Richie immediately pulled out a solid gold lighter and leaned in to light it.

The flame danced in Chen Mo's pupils. He took a puff and blew the smoke onto Richie's face.

"I'm going on a long trip."

Richie's hand trembled. "Where... where are you going?"

"That's not something you should worry about." Chen Mo watched the flickering red light of the cigarette tip.

"While I'm away, Jack will be responsible for auditing the accounts. If a single cent is missing from the daily revenue, I'll cut off one of your fingers."

He reached out and gently patted Richie's face, which was covered in flab.

The movement was light, as if petting a dog, but all of Richie's muscles tensed up, and he didn't even dare to breathe.

"Also, remember my rules." Chen Mo's voice was very low, low enough that only the two of them could hear.

"Don't touch the powder, especially that new blue or green stuff. If I find out you're selling those things on my turf..."

Chen Mo pressed the burning cigar tip onto the lapel of Richie's expensive suit.

Sizzle.

The high-end fabric was burned through, and the sparks seared his skin, emitting a smell of scorched flesh.

Richie's face twisted in pain, but he gritted his teeth and didn't make a sound, not even daring to flinch.

"...I'll stuff you into an oil drum, fill it with concrete, and sink you to the bottom of the Hudson River to keep the Russians company."

Chen Mo stubbed the cigar out on his chest. "Do you understand?"

"I... I understand, Boss." Richie said, trembling. "I swear, it's absolutely clean here."

Chen Mo stood up and brushed the ash off his hands.

"Watch the house, Richie. Don't force me to come back and kill you."

He pushed the door open and walked out.

The corridor was filled with red lights and green wine, with countless people craving money and flesh writhing about.

Chen Mo walked through the crowd, just like passing through a noisy graveyard.

Things in New York were finished.

The man who had put the collar around this city's neck was now going to unleash another vicious dog.