97: Chapter 97 A dog that bites doesn't bark.

In the torrential rain, the steel cables of the Queensboro Bridge looked like a row of sharp blades cutting through the night sky.

The windshield wipers swung frantically, making a grating, teeth-gritting screech, yet they could not clear the thick curtain of water on the windshield.

Chen Mo held the steering wheel with one hand while using the other to slide the newly burned CD into the car stereo.

Bach's "Air on the G String" flowed out, mingling with the sound of the rain.

He glanced at the rearview mirror; the unlicensed black Chevrolet Suburban had been tailing him for three blocks.

Too close.

A professional tail would maintain a distance of two car lengths and utilize blind spots.

But this car seemed terrified he would escape, tailgating the Ford's bumper relentlessly.

This wasn't tailing; this was hunting.

"Finally, they're here."

Chen Mo chuckled softly, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel.

The old fogies of the Gambino Family were even more impatient than he had anticipated.

The IRS audit was like a burning coal stuffed down their throats, forcing these self-proclaimed elegant mafiosi to tear off their masks and unleash the mad dogs they kept in cages.

A row of streetlights ahead suddenly went out.

Chen Mo slammed on the brakes.

"Screeech—"

The tires left two scorched black streaks on the wet asphalt, and the Ford barely managed to stop in the middle of the road.

At almost the exact same second, there was a deafening boom.

A heavy garbage truck, like a rampaging rhino, charged out from a side road, violently smashing into the spot where he should have just passed.

The concrete barrier was shattered to pieces, and stone fragments flew everywhere like shrapnel, clattering against the Ford's hood.

If he had braked half a second later, he would have been crushed into a meat patty by now.

[System Notification: Asset Halo (Passive) triggered. Primary asset 'Physical Body' has evaded a devastating blow.]

Chen Mo ignored the pale gold text flashing across his retina. Without even unbuckling his seatbelt, he quickly shifted into reverse and spun the steering wheel hard.

The Chevrolet Suburban behind him had already rushed up.

Before the car had even come to a full stop, its doors were kicked open. Two men wearing raincoats and hockey masks leaped out, emptying a magazine of MP5 submachine gun fire toward the Ford's driver's seat.

"Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—"

The windshield instantly spiderwebbed as countless glass shards flew wildly inside the cabin.

Chen Mo had already shrunk back and slid into the passenger seat. He drew his M1911 from under his ribs with his right hand, kicked open the door with his left, and rolled out into the rain.

The freezing rain instantly soaked his shirt, but he felt no cold—only a long-lost, blood-boiling heat.

"Over there! Kill him! The boss said to bring back his head!"

A coarse, raspy voice roared through the curtain of rain.

Chen Mo crawled along the roadside gutter, cold muddy water pouring down his collar.

Holding his breath, he used the thunderous sound of their heartbeats to pinpoint their locations.

Three men. Two submachine guns, one shotgun.

A standard execution setup.

"Come out! I know you're not dead, cop!"

Footsteps approached.

The sound of leather boots splashing through puddles was exceptionally grating.

Chen Mo suddenly erupted from the gutter.

[Gun Kata] activated.

Time seemed to stretch out in his eyes.

The trajectories of the falling raindrops became clearly discernible. The masked gunman was turning his barrel to the left, his finger just resting on the trigger.

"Bang!"

Chen Mo's first shot blew right through the man's knee.

Without a single pause, he used the recoil to spin around, his barrel swinging toward his right rear as if it had eyes of its own.

"Bang!"

The second gunman had just peeked out from behind the car when a red dot appeared between his brows.

Blood mixed with brains splattered onto the Chevrolet's headlights, dyeing the beam of light a grotesque crimson.

"Ahhh—"

The first gunman, his knee shattered, was still screaming. In his agonizing pain, his finger locked onto the trigger of his submachine gun, sending bullets flying wildly into the sky, showering the streetlights with sparks.

"Fuck! Fuck!"

The remaining leader had clearly not expected this turn of events.

He roared, raising a sawed-off remington shotgun and firing blindly in Chen Mo's direction.

"Boom!"

The Ford's trunk was blasted with a gaping hole, its metal peeling back.

Just as the leader pumped the forend to chamber a second round, a stray pebble from who-knows-where—likely a fragment from the garbage truck's earlier crash—jammed perfectly into the shotgun's ejection port.

It jammed.

The leader froze for a second, violently yanking at the forend.

This was the chance.

Chen Mo sprang up from the puddle, lunging across the five-meter gap like a cheetah.

He didn't shoot; his M1911's magazine was already empty.

Using his gun as a hammer, he rode the momentum of his sprint and slammed it hard against the leader's wrist.

*Crack.*

The sound of fracturing bone was clear. The shotgun clattered to the ground.

The leader reacted incredibly fast, drawing a Kukri-like machete from behind his waist with his left hand and slashing upward toward Chen Mo's throat.

The strike was vicious and cunning, whistling through the air—clearly the work of a melee weapon expert.

Chen Mo tilted his head. The blade grazed his cheek, leaving a bloody trail.

"Interesting."

Chen Mo licked the metallic taste of blood from the corner of his mouth. There was no fear in his eyes, only the excitement of finding a new toy.

He tossed aside his empty gun and met his opponent bare-handed.

The overpass on this rainy night had become a colosseum.

The leader's blade-work was exceptionally savage, every slash aiming for major arteries and joints.

Yet Chen Mo was like a slippery loach, managing to evade fatal blows by mere millimeters while striking the other man's ribs, armpits, and the side of his neck with his fists.

"Die!"

The leader roared, taking a punch to thrust his machete straight at Chen Mo's heart.

It was a trap—a flaw Chen Mo had intentionally exposed.

Just as the tip of the blade was about to pierce his bulletproof vest, the puddle beneath the leader's feet caused him to slip.

It was only a minor stumble.

But in a life-and-death struggle, this was the gateway to hell.

Chen Mo seized this fraction of a second of imbalance.

His right hand clamped onto the leader's knife-wielding wrist like a steel vise, snapping it downward while driving his knee violently into the man's elbow joint.

*Crack!*

The elbow bent backward at a horrific angle, and the machete slipped from his grasp.

Chen Mo caught the falling machete in mid-air, the motion so fluid it looked as though he had practiced it a thousand times.

He spun around, his arm guiding the blade to draw a perfect semi-circle in the air.

*Squelch.*

The sound of sharp metal slicing through flesh was drowned out by the rain.

The leader's movements froze.

He clutched his neck, torrents of blood gushing through his fingers as a gurgling sound bubbled from his throat.

His eyes bulged as he stared fixedly at Chen Mo, seemingly unable to believe he had lost just like this.

"You... are not... a cop..."

These were the final words he left to the world.

His corpse collapsed heavily into the puddle, splashing up dirty water.

Chen Mo stood in the pouring rain, panting heavily.

The rain washed the blood from his face. His wounds stung like fire, but they were quickly replaced by a strange numbness.

He walked over to the corpse and squatted down.

The man had an old scar running across his entire face, looking as if he had been clawed by some wild beast.

"Mad Dog Tony." Chen Mo recognized the face. "The Gambino Family's top enforcer. I heard you use a knife more than a gun to kill people."

He reached out and pressed his hand against Tony's rapidly cooling forehead.

[System Notification: Freshly deceased target detected (Elite Assassin).]

[Extracting...]

[Obtained Skill: Melee Weapon Mastery (Dagger/Short Blade). Description: As long as it has an edge, it is the Grim Reaper's scythe in your hands. You can use a butter knife to strip a person's entire spine in three seconds.]

[Obtained Status: Complete Pain Block (1 Hour). Description: This body endured countless bouts of torture during its lifetime, and its nervous system learned how to deceive the brain. Once activated, you will become a killing machine that feels no pain.]

An icy current surged through his fingertips and into Chen Mo's mind.

Countless pieces of knowledge regarding assassination, dissection, and human anatomy flashed by like a slideshow.

He subconsciously spun the machete in his hand. The heavy Kukri now felt as light as a feather.

Chen Mo stood up and looked at the mess scattered all over the ground.

Faint police sirens echoed from the distance.

The NYPD always had a habit of showing up only after the movie was over.

He walked over to the Chevrolet, which was still running, and popped the trunk.

Inside lay a black duffel bag. Unzipping it revealed a gold-plated Desert Eagle and several stacks of cash bound with rubber bands.

"Is this your blood money?"

Chen Mo lifted the duffel bag out and picked up the machete.

He walked over to Mad Dog Tony's corpse, his gaze lingering on the heavily tattooed head for two seconds.

"Since you came all this way, I should at least send a return gift to your master."

He raised the blade.

The blade fell.

...

Half an hour later, a black cab pulled up in front of an underground clinic in Brooklyn.

Chen Mo walked inside, carrying the dripping black waterproof bag.

The clinic was filled with the smell of formalin and stale tobacco.

Old George was sitting by the operating table, stitching up an arm of unknown origin.

Seeing Chen Mo enter, the old man didn't even raise an eyebrow.

"I knew you'd show up tonight." George snipped the suture. "The Italians made their move?"

"Yeah." Chen Mo tossed the bag onto a stainless steel tray, letting out a dull thud.

"Patch me up. And wrap this up in the finest gift paper you have."

George glanced at the tattooed face peeking from the opening of the bag, his scissors pausing mid-air.

"Mad Dog Tony?" The old man finally looked up, a trace of surprise flashing in his cloudy eyes. "You slaughtered him?"

"He was unlucky." Chen Mo stripped off his soaked shirt, revealing several shocking bruises and slash wounds. "The rain was too heavy, and the road was too slick."

George shook his head, picking up an alcohol cotton ball to start cleaning the wounds on Chen Mo's back.

"What do you plan to do? Mail this thing to Old Gambino?"

"Mail it?" Chen Mo lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, letting the nicotine soothe his fading adrenaline. "That would be too impolite. I'm going to deliver it myself."

"Are you insane?" George's hands froze.

"Tomorrow is Old Gambino's seventieth birthday banquet, which is also the godfather's succession ceremony. Half of New York's gangs will be there. If you walk in carrying that thing, they'll turn you into Swiss cheese."

"That's my business."

Chen Mo looked at his reflection in the mirror.

His eyes looked exceptionally deep through the swirling smoke, like a bottomless dry well.

"George, prepare a suit for me. Make it black, the kind you'd wear to a funeral."

"Are you going to a funeral?"

"No." Chen Mo blew out a smoke ring, a cruel arch forming at the corner of his mouth. "I'm going to host one."

He turned around, pulled a USB drive from his pocket, and tossed it gently in his hand.

"And I brought a gift far more interesting than a head."

Inside that USB drive was something he had extracted from Mad Dog Tony's body.

An audio recording regarding betrayal, sellouts, and an FBI informant.

For a crumbling mafia family, this was the real nuclear bomb.

"By the way," Chen Mo said as he slipped into the white shirt George tossed him and buttoned it up.

"Give Richie a call. Tell him to ditch those cheap street clothes and dress like a decent human being. Tomorrow night, he's going to meet a lot of big shots."

"You're taking that kid along?"

"Someone has to clean up the mess." Chen Mo tied his tie and adjusted his collar in the mirror. "Once the old trash is swept away, we need a new trash can, don't we?"

Outside the window, the rain kept falling, and thunder rumbled.

Chen Mo pushed open the door and vanished into the rainy night.

It was as if he had never been there, leaving behind only the faint scent of blood in the air and a human head wrapped in exquisite gift paper.