Your Armored Vehicle Is Great, but I Can't Get an Invoice for It
The black armored vehicle Number One had driven over was parked by the road.
Its body was made of thick bulletproof steel plating, its tires were military run-flats, and there was blood on the ram at the front.
Sing Sing walked around the vehicle, felt the door, then knocked on the roof.
"Nice piece of equipment."
Lorna eyed him warily. "What are you up to now?"
"Do you even need to ask?" Sing Sing slapped the hood, looking pained.
"Stryker's so rich that even some random enhanced operative he sends out gets to drive an armored vehicle. Isn't this kind of decadent capitalist asset just sitting by the roadside waiting to be confiscated? It has to be properly reclaimed."
"You want to drive it away?"
"Driving it away would be too conspicuous." Sing Sing shook his head. "Sell it."
Soft Serve's eyes widened. "Sell Stryker's armored vehicle? To whom? Who'd dare buy it?"
"Correction."
Sing Sing opened the driver's door.
"It's an abandoned vehicle without an owner now. Its owner has left his job."
Lorna glanced down, then up at the building.
"Number One left his job?"
"Permanently."
Sing Sing was already in the driver's seat. His voice came out muffled from inside the vehicle. "Reason for leaving: felt unwell and voluntarily fell apart."
It took Soft Serve two seconds to catch the double meaning, and she nearly choked on her ice cream.
Lorna almost laughed out loud, but the occasion was hardly appropriate, so she forced it back down.
Sing Sing found a black case in the vehicle. He opened it to find cash, spare magazines, a first-aid kit, and several syringes.
He took out the cash, moistened his thumb with saliva, and counted the bills one by one.
"Two thousand eight hundred dollars."
"Tsk, Stryker's people travel in style. How much is their daily allowance? Does it include compensation for missed meals?"
"That's their killing fund," Lorna said coldly.
"Now it's our evacuation fund."
Sing Sing tucked the money inside his jacket. "Money isn't good or evil. What matters is who it's spent on. Use it to buy plane tickets, and it'll have turned over a new leaf."
With that, he took out his phone and searched. Three results popped up.
The nearest was a kilometer away. Its sign read "Old Joe Auto Salvage," and its listing said: cash transactions, no questions about origins, open twenty-four hours.
"That's the one."
Sing Sing nodded in satisfaction, then turned his gaze to the bald thug still lying on the ground by the road.
"Don't kill me!" The bald man raised both hands, his palms covered in dirt and blood.
"I didn't see anything! I swear I didn't see anything! I'll quit the Black Snake Gang when I get back, I'll go to church and repent, I—"
Sing Sing squatted in front of him, his tone kind.
"Brother, relax. We're civilized people."
The bald man looked at the corpses strewn across the ground, then at the Pig Butchering Knife behind Sing Sing's waist.
He really wanted to ask if their standards for civilized people were a little broad.
Sing Sing pulled out the little knife he used to peel apples.
The bald man's face turned green. "Are you going to kill me?"
"Why would I kill you? If I killed someone like you, I'd have to clean up the scene. That's bad for the environment."
Sing Sing patted his face.
"Do me a favor."
"I'm giving you an upgrade. An internationally renowned anti-Mutant organization will be paying special attention to you. An opportunity like this doesn't come often, so make the most of it."
The bald man still wanted to struggle.
Lorna stood nearby, green light flashing at her fingertips.
Several iron pipes in a trash can rose into the air at once, their pointed ends aimed at him.
The bald man immediately went still, closing his eyes as tears of humiliation rolled down his face.
Sing Sing worked quickly.
One slice, one flick, one insertion, a quick wipe of the blood, and a bandage over the spot.
The whole thing took less than ten seconds.
The bald man hadn't even had time to cry out in pain.
Sing Sing pressed the bandage firmly into place and nodded in satisfaction.
"All done. Remember, no bathing, strenuous exercise, or getting close to strong magnetic fields for three days."
The bald man asked through his tears, "What am I supposed to do now?"
"Run."
"Where?"
Sing Sing thought for a moment. "The farther the better. Head west if you can. Nevada's nice, with a big desert. It'll be convenient for Stryker to find you."
The bald man completely broke down.
"Who the hell are you people?"
Sing Sing stood up and adjusted his white felt hat.
"We're concerned citizens here to help lighten the burden on local law enforcement in the United States."
With that, he took Lorna and Soft Serve into the armored vehicle.
The engine roared.
The vehicle slowly drove out of the neighborhood.
In the rearview mirror, the bald thug scrambled into an alley, beginning the first real pursuit of his life.
Lorna leaned back in the passenger seat and turned to look at Sing Sing.
"Aren't you afraid Stryker will find out?"
"That'll take time."
Sing Sing steered with one hand. "When he sees the signal moving, his first reaction will be to chase it. By the time he catches that thug, a few hours will have passed at the very least."
"Is a few hours enough for us to get away?"
"No."
"Then why do it?"
"Buying time is one reason." Sing Sing spoke seriously. "The other is that I want to see Stryker's face when he catches a gang thug."
Lorna fell silent for a moment.
"You're really awful, you know that?"
"Thanks."
Before long, the armored vehicle stopped outside the salvage yard.
Sing Sing looked at the words "no questions about origins" and was so moved he almost applauded.
"Look at that. Just look!" He pointed at the sign and turned to the two in the back seat. "Capitalism may be rotten, but independent business owners are still very flexible. That kind of customer service is worth learning from."
An old white man with a face full of beard came out of the sheet-metal building, carrying a cup of coffee.
When he saw the armored vehicle, he nearly spilled it.
"Motherfucker! Where'd you get that thing?"
Sing Sing got out, put on a professional smile, and straightened the collar of his white suit.
"It's a family heirloom."
Old Joe: "..."
He walked around the vehicle, felt the bulletproof steel plating, and kicked the tires.
"Military modifications. You definitely don't have the paperwork."
"If I had the paperwork, I wouldn't have come to you."
Sing Sing spoke with utter confidence.
Old Joe narrowed his eyes. "Five thousand."
Sing Sing immediately lost it. "Five thousand?! Are you robbing me? You're a professional robber, aren't you? Is running a salvage yard just your cover?"
Old Joe was stunned. "I'm paying for the vehicle. How am I robbing you?"
"This vehicle has bulletproof steel plating, military tires, reinforced suspension, and an independent communications system. The parts alone are worth more than five thousand!"
Sing Sing looked pained. "You're taking advantage of my misfortune, cheating a migrant worker who doesn't know the market!"
Old Joe sneered. "Then drive it away."
Sing Sing sat down on a battered chair nearby and crossed his legs.
"Let's negotiate. Properly. Show me you're serious, Comrade Joe."
Lorna and Soft Serve stood nearby, watching Sing Sing start haggling with an American salvage-yard owner.
The two men argued for fifteen minutes.
The final price was twelve thousand two hundred dollars.
Old Joe also threw in three barrels of gasoline, a case of canned food, and a Dodge Challenger that had already had two owners.
Sing Sing shook Old Joe's hand, his tone solemn.
"Comrade Joe, you're a man with an internationalist spirit."
Old Joe slapped the cash into his hand. "Get lost."
"Sure thing."
Sing Sing stuffed the money into his pocket, turned, and walked away.
Halfway there, he turned back for another look at the armored vehicle.
Reluctance was written all over his face.
"Such a good vehicle, and I sold it too cheap."
Sing Sing clutched his chest. "The greatest pain in life is knowing something's good but not being able to get an invoice and take it away."