92: Chapter 92 The Birth of a Puppet

At four in the morning, the streets of Brooklyn lay quietly on the dirty asphalt like a greyhound that had been dead for a long time.

Only the distant sound of sirens buzzed incessantly like mosquitoes.

Richie ran so hard his lungs felt like they were going to burst. The soles of his worn-out Nikes were almost worn flat, and every time his feet hit the ground, he could feel the hard vibration of the pavement.

He navigated the maze-like back alleys, expertly climbing over rusted chain-link fences and avoiding the shadows that might conceal homeless people or worse.

He didn't dare to look back.

The Asian cop with eyes as cold as ice blocks and those gunshots, rhythmically precise like a pile driver, kept echoing in his mind.

The dreadlocked boss was dead, Skinny Monkey was dead, and all the thugs who usually swaggered around were dead.

The cop named Robert was like a ghost; he didn't even need to look to raise his hand and blow someone's head off.

Richie panted heavily, ducking into the basement entrance of an abandoned apartment building.

This was his secret hideout, known only to himself.

He slid down against the moldy wall and sat.

"Damn it..." Richie cursed, his hands still shaking.

"You run pretty fast."

A calm voice suddenly rang out in the darkness.

As if struck by electricity, Richie bounced off the ground. Before he could even open the switchblade in his hand, a massive force pinned him back against the wall.

The hand wasn't particularly thick, but it locked around his throat like iron pliers, lifting his entire body off the ground.

Chen Mo stood in the shadows, his dirty hoodie almost merging with the darkness.

He looked at Richie's face, flushed from lack of oxygen, with no emotion in his eyes.

"I... I wasn't running..." Richie squeezed out with difficulty, his feet kicking wildly in the air.

Chen Mo let go.

Richie fell heavily to the ground, clutching his neck and coughing violently, tears and snot pouring out together.

"The road conditions over by Sunset Park are pretty good, suitable for long-distance running practice."

Chen Mo leaned against the wall, playing with the M1911 in his hand. "But I told you to wait for me at the back door."

"I... I was scared..." Richie shrank into the corner, his knife long since thrown somewhere unknown.

"Scared of the cops? Or scared of the remaining trash from the 18th Street Gang?"

Chen Mo sneered, pulled a heavy manila envelope from his pocket, and casually tossed it in front of Richie.

The paper bag hit the ground with a dull thud—the sound of cash striking the floor.

Richie froze. He hesitated for a moment, reached out to grab the bag, and tore open a slit.

It was full of green US dollars.

Covered in blood, carrying a smell of rust.

"This is from Dreadlocks' safe," Chen Mo said flatly.

"About fifty thousand dollars. Enough for a punk like you to squander for a while, or to buy a plane ticket and get the hell out of New York."

Richie's hands shook even more violently.

Having hung around Brooklyn for so many years, he had never even seen five thousand dollars, let alone fifty thousand.

"What... what do you want?" Richie looked up, his eyes filled with greed, but even more with wariness.

"The 18th Street Gang is finished." Chen Mo lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating half of his face.

"That basement casino is finished too. Starting tomorrow, those streets in Sunset Park will become a lawless no-man's-land.

Other gangs, like the Latin Kings or the Crips, will swim over like sharks smelling blood."

He blew a smoke ring, the smoke dispersing in the heavy, musty air.

"So here's the question, Richie: do you want to take this fifty thousand and run, hiding for the rest of your life in a place where nobody knows you, or do you want to stay?"

"Stay for what? To wait and get hacked to death by those guys?" Richie gritted his teeth. "I have no men, no guns. How am I supposed to fight them?"

"As long as you want them, you will have them."

Chen Mo ejected the magazine of the M1911 in his hand and kicked this murder weapon, which had just killed four people, along with the heavy gun, to Richie's feet.

"The gun is yours, the money is yours."

Chen Mo crouched down and looked straight into Richie's eyes.

"Those black pupils were bottomless, as if they could suck a person's soul inside."

"Do you want to be a rat scurrying around in the sewers for the rest of your life, or do you want to be the king of Brooklyn?"

Richie looked at the gun and the money on the ground, his throat as dry as if he had swallowed a handful of sand.

"Why... why are you helping me?"

"Help you?" Chen Mo smiled, a hint of mockery in his grin.

"No, I'm not helping you. I just need an obedient dog to keep an eye on this territory for me."

He stood up and brushed the dust off his hands.

"I don't want any other drug dealers coming into Sunset Park. I want this place to become a bit 'cleaner'. As for how you do it, that's your business.

If you can do it, this fifty thousand is your start-up capital, and I want sixty percent of whatever you make in the future. If you can't do it, or if you want to run with the money..."

Chen Mo didn't finish, merely flicking his cigarette butt into a dark corner.

The spark illuminated a crawling cockroach for a split second.

In the next second, Chen Mo's leather boot came down.

Splat.

The cockroach turned into a puddle of mushy fluid.

Richie shuddered all over.

He knew this wasn't just a threat.

This cop was a lunatic, but the bait he offered was too sweet.

In this godforsaken place, human life was cheap, but power and US dollars were valuable.

Richie took a deep breath, that beast-like desire returning to his eyes once more.

He grabbed the gun from the ground, the cold touch of metal helping him calm down.

"How do I contact you?" Richie asked.

"I'll find you."

Chen Mo turned and walked out, never looking back.

"Change out of those ragged clothes, Richie. Starting today, you're the boss."