bdsm-fiction Chapter 33 Re-establishing the Rules
Chapter 33 Re-establishing the Rules
Barron's eyes were still red, bloodshot from excitement.
He closed his laptop, supporting the bottom with one hand; the last frame of the surveillance footage still lingered on the screen.
The figure standing at the warehouse entrance with his back to the camera had four white letters printed on his vest.
"Look at the pace of the person walking to the finish line in the surveillance footage."
"His steps were almost always spaced out, with each step's distance not exceeding two centimeters in error."
"And the way he walks..."
He spread his five fingers and pressed his palm onto the cement ground next to him.
"The ball of the foot lands first, then transitions to the heel, and the weight transfer is very smooth, making the gait almost silent."
"Normal people land on their heels first, but he lands on his feet, it's the other way around."
"This shows that he has developed this gait into muscle memory through long-term specialized training."
He stood up and tucked the notebook under his arm.
"Only a level of self-discipline unimaginable to ordinary people could hone one's gait to this extent."
"He absolutely deserves the title of finish line."
"Alright, I know he's the end." Brock reached out and pressed the laptop screen down, then waved to Barron. "You go back to your investigation."
"Yes, Officer Brock."
Barron turned and ran towards the stairwell, his backpack making a tinkling sound.
Metal colliding with metal, dense but not harsh.
Brock's ears twitched, and he called out to Barron's retreating figure, "What's making that sound coming from your bag?"
Barron stopped at the top of the stairs, turned around, and had the expression of a collector who had just returned from an auction on his face.
"Oh, this is full of shell casings from the finish line. The bullets have to be removed by the forensic doctor before we can collect them, but I've already collected more than a hundred shell casings."
As he spoke, he tried to take off his backpack and unzip it to show Brock, his fingers already touching the zipper.
Brock waved his hand to interrupt him.
Barron didn't care, slung his backpack back over his shoulder, and continued running towards the lobby on the first floor.
Li En watched Baron's figure disappear around the corner of the stairs and thought the man was quite interesting.
Their professional skills are beyond question.
From ballistic angle to shoe print spacing to gait characteristics, each step was initially assessed on-site, and the data was readily available.
He had also considered recycling the spent cartridge cases.
But the characteristics of a space warehouse are what they are.
Individual cartridge cases and individual projectiles cannot be stacked; each one must occupy a separate slot.
There are only nine slots in the 3x3 grid, so there's nowhere to put it after I bring it back.
Moreover, the unlimited ammo Glock has a very real problem – magazine generation costs money.
The price is indeed not high, only 0.18 yuan per shot, but this setting does not deduct directly from the bank account. Instead, it is automatically calculated every time a bullet is fired from the gun barrel.
If you were to actually pick them out one by one and sell them, a 9mm bullet currently costs 0.2 yuan on the market, so the price difference is only two cents.
You can't earn much by picking your fingers until they bleed for two cents; you might as well just rob a gang.
Brock walked to Jeremiah's desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, rummaged through it, and pulled out a dark brown cigar box.
The lid of the box is decorated with gold Spanish lettering, and a small piece of the lacquer on the corner has been worn away.
He opened the box, pulled out one, twirled it between his fingers, and put it in his mouth.
The lighter's glow illuminated the lower half of his face, and the shadows of his cheekbones and nose bridge flickered under the light.
"Want one?"
"No."
Brock closed the cigar box and stuffed it directly into the inside pocket of his coat.
He walked to the glass window, leaned his shoulder against the window frame, and glanced down.
The bodies on the ground hadn't been removed yet; forensic personnel were taking photos and numbering them one by one, the flashes of their cameras going on and off in the warehouse.
"These gangsters deserve to die."
He took a deep drag on his cigar, the butt of which flashed brightly for a moment before dimming again, the smoke he exhaled swirling and dispersing under the fluorescent light.
"Li En, do you know that Midtown Manhattan was much more chaotic a decade or so ago than it is now?"
"At that time, the economy was developing rapidly, and the port's throughput was increasing year by year, which naturally led to all kinds of crimes."
"Smuggling, human trafficking, drugs, weapons—they have everything, but..."
His gaze lingered on the corpses downstairs. A cigar sat on the windowsill, its ash piled high and untouched.
The year they first put on their police uniforms, their colleagues at the Manhattan precinct were all full of energy.
Every morning during roll call, everyone stands and listens to the briefing with their backs ramrod straight.
The patrol officers and criminal police officers stand separately, but when these officers in dark blue uniforms go on patrol, they are supported by criminal police officers behind them.
Back then, the status of a police station wasn't determined by simply having a badge hanging on the door.
That respect was earned by countless colleagues risking their lives.
Later... he couldn't say exactly which year, but the rules started to loosen.
"You know, Lee En, even though this place is called Hell's Kitchen, there are still rules."
"Even if you're just a lowly drug dealer, if you see someone trying to snatch a child on the street, you'll stuff your goods into your pocket, grab a knife, and rush over."
"Even a homeless person sleeping under a ventilation duct will climb out of his cardboard box and rush over to punch someone if he sees someone assaulting a woman in the street."
His fingers tapped lightly twice on the windowsill.
"But……"
"But these guys have forgotten the old rules, haven't they?"
Li En's voice came from inside the warehouse; it was very calm.
He noticed a detail when he was frantically going through the files a couple of days ago.
While there were indeed cases of perverts who abused children in case files from twenty or thirty years ago, the proportion was extremely small.
Records of smuggling and trafficking are almost nonexistent.
Those gangs that make a living in the port have their own set of ironclad rules: they don't touch children.
This rule wasn't written on paper; it was passed down from generation to generation in the dockside bars.
But the situation at the port this time was completely different.
The containers were filled with Asian children, the youngest of whom was probably not even five years old.
The Razor Claws no longer follow this rule, nor does the Amick Corps.
The old rules of Hell's Kitchen have been retired, along with those older generation gangsters.
"Yes, the rules have become blurred." Brock took the cigar out of his mouth, the red glow of the cigarette butt reflecting in a small circle on the glass.
Li En also walked to the window and looked down.
Downstairs, the forensic team was stuffing bodies into body bags one by one, the sound of zippers echoing throughout.
"Then let's set up the rules again."
Brock did not respond to that statement.
He has been a policeman for thirty years.
When the current branch director was transferred here, he already had five more years of seniority than the current director.
Back then, when the police and those gang leaders fought face-to-face at the docks, how many people actually died behind the unspoken rules that were established?
Now, let alone the new recruits, even most of the police officers don't remember them.
But should we re-establish the rules?
He turned his gaze away from the window and looked down at his stomach.
The belt was digging into his belly, and the lighter was digging into his thigh in his pocket.
I don't have many years left until retirement.
He patted his stomach and changed the subject.
"Now that the surveillance cameras have captured SWAT, and the matter has blown up this big, the mayor will definitely hold the military accountable."
"Besides, now that the Razor Gang is completely wiped out, things might be quiet for the next few days, but those guys will definitely start fighting over territory after that, so your vacation is going to be ruined."
The thought of having to work overtime for the next few months made Brock feel a dull ache in his stomach again.
"What about the masked man and the West Street murder case?"
Li En wasn't concerned about this matter.
The Razor Gang is already on the ground; seizing territory is a headache for the bureau chief.
He was making money so that he would have more resources to deal with the hunters more easily.
Of course, there was also the reason based on my mood at the time; I just wanted to come and wipe them out.
If the police department abandons the investigation into the masked man and the West 38th Street case after the port incident, then they'll have to rely on themselves.
Brock reached up and rubbed his temples.
The case I just took on had already been mobilized at the police station, but now that it's turned into this mess, it definitely can't continue.
When the mayor called to question him, the police chief would only say: "We've deployed all our police force to deal with the Razor Gang's downfall."
Instead of saying: We are simultaneously chasing a masked vigilante and a street killer.
"Cherry will definitely continue to follow up on the West Street murder case. If you're interested, go ahead and follow it. Leave these troublesome matters to me."
Li En nodded and reached out to pat Brock on the back.
"Come to my house later."
Brock took on all the cases at the port and warehouse, which prompted Li En to decide to reward him.
"Huh? You don't have any live-in girls at home. Mrs. Hudson hates that kind of thing the most."
Of course, Brock knew where Li En lived; he was the one who helped him find room 301.
"Are you very familiar with Mrs. Hudson?" Li En immediately asked.
After two encounters, he always felt there was something inexplicably off about the old lady.
He doesn't sleep in the middle of the night, and opens the door whenever he hears footsteps in the hallway. When collecting rent, he even holds the money up to his nose to smell it.
"How many people can own a three-story house in Hell's Kitchen and still live to that age? Don't underestimate Mrs. Hudson, Lee."
Li En nodded.
Brock is absolutely right.
Although Clinton Gardens apartments look old, their location is excellent.
It's a ten-minute walk to the police station and less than half an hour to the port.
A person who can own three properties in this neighborhood and live a peaceful life into their sixties is not just an old lady collecting rent.
A piercing siren blared from outside the window.
The support convoy from the General Administration has arrived.
Several buses were parked outside the police cordon. The doors opened, and people in uniforms poured out.
Someone was shouting: Divide the victims into groups of twenty, numbered A to E.
Lee said to Brock:
"Things are almost done here, shall we go?"
The two went downstairs and crossed the hall.
As Li En passed by Baron, he saw him squatting next to a corpse, drawing an attack route map on the ground with chalk.
A dotted line extends from the warehouse entrance along the main passageway in the center of the hall, branching into several forks at the corner of the cubicle area. Each fork is marked with a number, and below the number is a small circle representing a corpse.
His white coat was covered in dust at the hem, but he didn't notice at all.
He is indeed a very capable professional, and we may need his help in the future.
Stepping out of the warehouse, the air felt clean again.
The sea breeze blowing in from the direction of the harbor dispersed most of the smell of gunpowder and blood from the streets.
Several buses dispatched by the General Administration were parked across the street, and the victims boarded the buses one by one under the guidance of the police officers.
There was also someone who was clearly sent by the municipal government office.
He stood beside the police line, dressed in a sharp suit and with his tie perfectly tied.
With a practiced expression of compassion on his face, he was bending over to speak to several victims squatting on the ground, pressing on their shoulders with each sentence.
A group of reporters surrounded him, snapping photos incessantly, their microphones practically shoving into his face.
Lee and Brock exchanged a glance, then looked away from the flashing lights and headed north along West 35th Street.
The shadows of the two people were stretched long by the streetlights, trailing across the cracked sidewalk.
Clinton Gardens, third floor.
Li En pushed open the door to 301, pressed the switch on the wall, and the light bulb flickered twice before turning on.
He walked to the travel bag in the center of the living room, squatted down, and unzipped it.
The bag of hundred-yuan bills was neatly stacked, bundled into more than a dozen bundles, each bundle tied together with white paper tape from the bank, the denomination and binding date printed on the tape.
Brock stood in the doorway and closed it.
Turning around, his gaze fell on the open travel bag, and his mouth moved slightly.
"You really did it?" Brock tried to keep his voice very low.
Actually, all night long, he didn't quite believe it was Li Enqian.
He didn't believe Li En had the guts.
No, he believed it.
He couldn't believe that a young man who had been a policeman for less than six months could wipe out a gang's stronghold of over a hundred people in such a short time.
Even though Barron had presented him with evidence piece by piece, he was still making excuses for himself.
It could be a retired special forces soldier seeking revenge, or it could be another gang impersonating SWAT members and engaging in double-crossing.
Only now, seeing the bag of banknotes on the ground and hearing Li En open the bag for him to see, did he finally remove the last obstacle blocking his mind.
He walked over to the travel bag and squatted down.
sizzle.
As the zipper was pulled all the way up, the smell of banknote ink wafted out of the bag.
The hundred-dollar bills feature Franklin's portrait, and each one is so crisp under the light that it could cut your hand.
His hands were on his knees, his fingers spread wide.
He swallowed his saliva, his lips were a little dry, and he stuck out his tongue to lick them.
But he didn't reach out.
He squatted there and tapped his fingers lightly twice on his knees.
This bag of money is enough for him to retire early.
No need to worry about other people's opinions, no need to work overtime, no need to be woken up by phone in the middle of the night to deal with the extra corpses at the dock.
After a while, he looked up, and his gaze met Li En's in the dim light of the living room.
"Lee En, do you want Hell's Kitchen to have rules again?"
Lee leaned against the edge of the folding table, his hands in his pockets, looking at Brock squatting next to the money bag.
"Brock, you've misunderstood. I'm just doing what I want to do."
"I'm not very interested in setting rules or saving the world."
Brock stood up and walked to stand in front of Lee.
His head only reached up to Lee En's chin, but he didn't take a single step back.
"No, Li En, you are strong, extremely strong."
One person took down hundreds of people armed with heavy firepower.
This isn't a question of whether it's strong or not, but rather a question of to what extent it's strong.
He no longer wanted to guess how Li En did it; he only knew one thing.
Such a level of combat capability cannot be ignored by this neighborhood.
Sooner or later, someone will come knocking on our door, either to recruit us or to test us.
After the initial probing comes the threat; after the threat, if you don't take sides, they will find a way to make you disappear.
"With great power comes great power."
He slowly uttered these words, pointing to his chest.
"And power comes from here."
He then pointed out the window, his fingertips pointing towards West 35th Street.
"And there too."
"I'm not asking you to be a hero, nor am I asking you to save the world."
Brock kept his voice very low.
"But your abilities will inevitably attract the attention of those seeking power, and if you don't fight for them..."
His eyes narrowed, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes radiated outwards.
"Then you will be attacked by those in power."
Lee En quietly met Brock's gaze.
He certainly understood what the other person was saying.
The more outstanding one's abilities, the more likely they are to be noticed by those in power.
Those people will not allow any uncontrolled, high-threat individual to move freely in their territory.
They either recruit people and turn them into tools in their hands.
Either eliminate it, or wipe it out before it becomes a threat.
Because power, in essence, is the monopoly of the right to use violence.
Anyone who dares to bypass this monopoly and use violence alone is challenging power itself.
He now has some ability to protect himself, but the threat of the hunters remains.
He didn't have the energy to think about anything else until he eliminated this threat.
"Brock, at least for now, I don't have any thoughts on it. There are other things that are more important."
"It's okay, you go do what you need to do, leave the rest to me," Brock laughed.
This smile was different from the one he usually wore when he was eating a donut in his car.
He stretched out his palm, fingers spread wide.
"So, I'm taking 700,000."
Li En looked into his eyes.
The room fell silent, save for the occasional cough from a homeless man outside the window.
The guy sleeping under the vent probably isn't asleep yet.
Moonlight streamed in through the window, falling on Lee's back and casting his shadow forward, covering Brock's entire upper body.
The edge of the shadow trembled on the pile of banknotes, then settled.
Li En spoke with a light laugh.
"How come I never realized you were so brave, Brock?"
"Take all the money in that bag, do whatever you want with it."
Brock withdrew his hand, turned around, bent down, grabbed the handle of the travel bag, and tried to lift it, but couldn't.
He changed his posture, slightly bent his knees, straightened his back, and with a second burst of strength, swung the bag onto his shoulder.
The weight of a hundred pounds of banknotes pressed down on his shoulder blades, making his steps falter.
But he kept his back very straight, and when he reached the door, his shoulder bumped against the door frame, he groaned, and continued walking forward.
The footsteps in the corridor sounded heavy, weighed down by the weight of the banknotes.
Each step made the wooden stairs creak deeper and longer than usual.
Moonlight streamed in through the window at the end of the corridor, where the curtains were not drawn.
The silhouette of Brock trying to straighten his body was clearly visible.
……