Not Flinching from a Direct Confrontation

Wow!

Wow!

Wow!

Three police cars and six armored vehicles roared out of NYPD headquarters, sirens blaring, charging straight for the textile factory perched on the New Jersey riverbank like a castle.

Eighty miles per hour!

Along the way, this convoy drew the stares of countless New York onlookers.

Including...

Carlos, who was late because of something that happened last night.

Carlos had his reasons. Last night, he'd stayed at The Continental Hotel until his son got off work, then secretly tailed him—word had it his son Wesley was being targeted by The Assistance.

Sure enough.

Fire Fox came out to seduce his son.

Carlos got into a shootout with Fire Fox in some discount store in Queens, but his son, blinded by her looks, believed she was a good person, hopped into her car, and took off.

That's why Carlos was running late today.

Now?

Carlos drove an unremarkable car, trailing behind, watching the police convoy ahead. His face was expressionless, but his mind was churning.

Was that guy really planning to use the NYPD to fight The Assistance?

Carlos had guessed as much yesterday when Lake told him to keep an eye on the precinct in the morning, but he hadn't really believed it—not that he doubted Lake, but he doubted the NYPD would actually attack the textile factory.

He knew his own people.

Over the years, The Assistance, using the textile factory as a base, had not only built a solid partnership with the Disabled Association, but Director Sloan had also thrown money around to worm his way into the mayor's campaign team.

Now the land around the castle belonged to The Assistance—a reward for the campaign team's success. Without a payoff, who would sink real gold into backing a mayoral run?

So...

Carlos didn't think the NYPD would storm the textile factory based on just his so-called confession, given that connection.

But now, Carlos was confused.

Still, he wasn't optimistic about this operation. The police department was, after all, a public institution. Even if they went to the factory, they'd never find any evidence proving it was a front for an assassin organization.

So what the hell was that guy playing at?

Was he gambling?

Carlos thought to himself.

Half an hour later.

Just as Lake led the SWAT convoy across the bridge to the castle, closing in on the factory, Director Sloan—who was inside discussing yesterday's explosion at David's apartment—got a phone call.

After hanging up.

Sloan listened to the sirens growing closer, narrowed his eyes, and said to the group sitting in his office, "The NYPD is here. Go back to work."

Fire Fox and the others exchanged glances.

Butcher said in a low voice, "What about that guy?"

Sloan frowned slightly, recalling Wesley—who had come by this morning wanting to join them and was now tied up, awaiting special training—and said to Butcher, "Training hasn't started yet, has it?"

Butcher shook his head.

Sloan said, "Put him in the warehouse for now. We'll deal with him after we handle the cops outside."

Butcher nodded.

Outside the castle.

Lake got out of the car, looked up at the textile factory that resembled a medieval fortress. This thing was practically an antique—better to let Lake keep it intact than let that Wasteful Xiaobai blow it to pieces.

About five minutes later!

Clank!

The castle's drawbridge slowly lowered.

A white-haired, bearded Director Sloan led a group of factory managers out, walking straight toward Lake: "Welcome, welcome, Detective Edwin."

Lake narrowed his eyes, his expression unchanged, and shook hands: "Good afternoon, Mr. Sloan."

Sloan knowing him wasn't surprising—half an hour had passed, and in those five minutes just now, Sloan had probably already gotten all of Lake's info.

But you're dead today.

I swear it.

After shaking hands, Lake gestured to Joe beside him.

Joe got the hint and immediately presented a signed search warrant to Sloan: "Mr. Sloan, we suspect your textile factory is directly linked to an assassin organization. This is a search warrant."

Sloan looked shocked, as if he couldn't believe it: "An assassin organization? I think this must be a huge misunderstanding. Look at them—does the NYPD really think a bunch of disabled people could be assassins?"

Lake couldn't be bothered to argue with Sloan. "Mr. Sloan, so you're saying you don't want us to go in and search?"

Sloan looked at Lake.

Their eyes met.

Sloan's heart stirred. Having spent years in the assassin underworld, even if he didn't understand how they'd been exposed, he could see the thick killing intent in Lake's eyes.

The unguarded kind.

Yes.

Lake hadn't bothered to hide it at all. The more he did this, the higher the chance The Assistance would take a desperate risk. Once the gunfire started, Lake could blow up the castle and face no trouble at all.

"Mr. Sloan?"

"..."

Sloan snapped back to reality, let out a laugh, and made a welcoming gesture. "Of course. Our Textile Factory has always abided by the law. Detective Edwin, search as you please. But if you find nothing, Detective Edwin might find himself in some trouble."

Lake chuckled. "Don't worry about that, Mr. Sloan. Let me be clear—it took me a whole day to get this search warrant. I was planning to visit right after the stitches were done yesterday afternoon."

With that.

Lake waved his right hand at the lined-up officers and special agents behind him. "Search everything. Even the toilets—unscrew the faucets and see if anything's hidden inside."

The officers shouted in unison, "Yes, sir!"

Lake shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled at Sloan.

Sloan returned a trademark grin.

Lake said, "Mr. Sloan, shall we? Take us to your office?"

Sloan made no other move, simply gesturing with an open hand. "Please!"

Lake nodded to Joe beside him.

They entered the castle.

Swish!

Lake looked up immediately, his gaze locking onto a woman with fiery red curly hair standing by the second-floor window of the textile factory's security room, watching them.

"Fire Fox."

"...What?"

Lake turned to Sloan, who had stopped to look at him. The corner of his mouth curled upward as he kept his eyes on the now-vanished figure from the second-floor window. His tone was flat. "That woman just now—she's the assassin Fire Fox, isn't she, Mr. Sloan?"

Sloan's heart pounded, but his expression stayed still. "Haha, Detective Edwin, you jest. Most of our workers here are disabled laborers. Where would we find an assassin?"

Lake laughed dryly, his tone dripping with meaning. "Is that so? Then, Mr. Sloan, are you saying my informant is lying?"

Sloan: "..."

Happy weekend!