A Place to Call Home

The bicycle sped through the narrow alleys of the Jamaica Community.

Darnell's thick legs pedaled frantically like pistons, the chain emitting a dense crunching sound as the tires rolled over potholes, causing the frame to jolt violently.

[While reading this, I hope readers remember our domain, Taiwan Novel Network, to relieve boredom, ƚɯƙαɳ.ƈσɱ, super practical.]

Yet he rode fast and steady, like a tireless bull.

Lin An sat on the back seat, one hand resting on Darnell's shoulder while the other gripped the seat.

The sound of police sirens behind them was fading rapidly.

It wasn't that the police cars couldn't keep up; they had never discovered Darnell... The bullet comments drifted before Lin An, with a crow perched at the scene providing him with real-time intelligence.

Despite this, Darnell still steered the bicycle into a narrow alley, squeezing between two trash cans, his handlebars nearly scraping the walls.

Then another alley, another turn, another dive—using this method to shake off any potential police pursuit.

Darnell's familiarity with this neighborhood was like his own refrigerator... he knew exactly where everything was even with his eyes closed.

"Bro!"

Darnell's voice came from the front, filled with irrepressible excitement.

"Did you see it? Did you see it?!"

He turned his head while riding, nearly hitting a utility pole, swerving sharply and causing the bike to wobble.

"That bag of money, a whole bag, all U.S. dollars!"

Lin An gave a hum of acknowledgment.

"When I opened it just now, my eyes almost popped out!"

Darnell's voice grew higher, his speed of speech as fast as rapping.

"Do you know how many cars I flipped? That SUV, under the back seat, I was originally looking for guns or ammo... and then I pulled, a bag! Heavy as lead! When I unzipped it..."

He took a deep breath, as if savoring that moment.

"Green, it was all green, bro, that's the most beautiful color I've ever seen in my life."

The bullet comments refreshed rapidly.

[This black guy is overjoyed.]

[Who wouldn't be excited? Three to four hundred thousand dollars; he wouldn't earn half of that even after years of looting.]

[The question is, how much will he get to keep?]

[Streamer, don't be in such a rush to split the money; splitting it might not be a good thing.]

[That money was stolen from gang members. If Ni Ge suddenly has money, he'll definitely be targeted, and people will die.]

[Right, don't rush to count the cash. Let's review the fight from just now.]

[Review, review.]

[I'll start: Old Soldier Never Die is truly strong. He held the line by himself for so long.]

[He could have lived longer, but he had no cover; that position was too exposed.]

[No choice, he was the only one with experience among the five. If he didn't step up, who would?]

[Arcade Gun God wasn't bad either; he hit that skinny tall guy.]

[New York Veteran Driver and Nightclub Security were pure cannon fodder; they were shot as soon as they rushed out.]

[Cannon fodder is fine, at least they fired their guns. I won't even mention College Student; he died without firing a single shot, a waste of a slot.]

[You can't say that. Without them drawing fire, Old Soldier Never Die wouldn't have held on.]

[Besides, they were using fully automatic Glocks. That stuff isn't meant for precision; it's meant for spraying.]

[Spraying still depends on where you aim. With the way they were spraying, hitting one out of ten shots is already pretty good.]

[At the end of the day, it was a lack of preparation.]

[Right, the gear was too poor.]

[Five Glocks, not even a long gun. The other side had shotguns and submachine guns.]

[None of the five had any body armor. If there's a next time, call me; I'll donate some bulletproof vests, plates, and helmets so they can fight more comfortably.]

[I'm placing an order on Taobao for a heavy-duty bulletproof vest set; I'll donate it once it arrives.]

[Armor can be donated, but what about weapons?]

[The streamer has weapons. He collected quite a few: the Crips' MAC-11, Smith & Wesson, revolvers, double-barreled shotguns, the Rainstorm Gang's Glock 17, Ruger P89, and that shotgun.]

[Are those guns usable?]

[They are, but they've been fired; they have ballistic signatures.]

[What does that matter? The streamer isn't leaving fingerprints in the United States anyway.]

[Ballistic signatures aren't fingerprints; they are left by the rifling in the barrel. Every gun has its own ballistic characteristics. The police can match the shell casings to identify which gun fired the shots.]

[Then if the streamer uses these guns to hit people, the police will know it's the same gun as soon as they check.]

"Right, that's why these guns can't be used a second time."

"Shotguns are fine. Since they're smoothbore, it's hard to trace the ballistics. Using them twice is perfectly safe."

"Don't risk it. Even if the odds are low, if things blow up and the New York police get serious, they can still pull useful info from the casings."

"If the guns can't be used twice, why bother collecting them?"

"To trade them to the viewers, you idiot. Viewers can exchange points for items in the Live Stream Store. They aren't firing these in the real world, so ballistic markings don't matter to them."

"Makes sense."

"Wait, no. He isn't just making a profit on the spread. Viewers tip items for points, then use those points to redeem gear. He gets the tips."

"The streamer is a crafty one."

"Alright, alright, stop getting sidetracked. Let's keep talking tactics."

"Tactically, I think the biggest problem is the coordination."

"Five people doing their own thing, zero synergy."

"Old Soldier Never Die wants to coordinate, but he can't command the others."

"Arcade Gun God is okay; he understands orders, but he's slow to execute."

"As for the other three, two are reckless, and one is a coward."

"Recklessness is closer to bravery than cowardice."

"If these five keep fighting like this, they'll be finished the moment they run into a real military unit."

"So we have to train."

"How? We don't have a training ground."

"Live combat is the best training."

"Next time, don't just throw together a random group. Pick the people in advance and assign roles."

"Exactly. We need an assaulter, a gunner, and a sniper."

"A sniper? With our junk guns, we'd be lucky to hit a target at fifty meters."

"Then don't look that far ahead yet. Focus on close-quarters coordination first and just get a heavy-armor assaulter."

"I think information is the most important thing."

"Right, the info from the chat is key. Without us calling out positions, the streamer would've been turned into a sieve already."

"We did a decent job calling out positions this time, but it could be more precise."

"Like what?"

"Like marking every enemy's location in advance, marking cover, and marking the best shooting angles."

"And retreat routes. The streamer was a bit slow pulling back after hitting the Crips, and he almost got spotted by the Rainstorm Gang."

"True. When he retreated to the side yard of the church, the fat guy from the Rainstorm Gang was already looking in that direction."

"Good thing he crouched down fast."

"Next time, keep it in mind: shoot and move. Don't stay in one spot for more than five seconds."

"Also, the time spent looting the battlefield is too long. Three minutes is enough for the police to arrive several times over."

"That was because the battlefield was small and the bodies were concentrated. If the battlefield is larger next time, it'll take even longer."

"So someone needs to keep watch."

"Have Darnell keep watch?"

"Let's do it ourselves. Get some crows to scout the nearby buildings."

"Good point. Let's pick a few people to be sentries next time."

"Is anyone willing?"

"Why wouldn't they be? Don't think that spending your tipped points is a loss. If the streamer kicks the bucket, the whole Live Stream Store platform goes with him."

"Oh, right. What happened to the five 'cadavers' that got shot?"

"I traded them away."

"You son of a bitch, you really are a beast. You didn't leave a single cadaver for me."

Darnell kept talking.

"Bro, did you see that bald guy? The one from the Rainstorm Gang with all those necklaces? When he stood up, I thought he was going to charge, but then you..."

Amidst the rambling, the bicycle turned into the final alley, and the gray, two-story brick building of the Abandoned Furniture Factory appeared at the end of the street.

Moonlight shone on the front brick wall where the red paint had peeled away. The two rolling iron shutters looked like a pair of tightly closed lips, plastered with faded, white-streaked bank seals that fluttered slightly in the night breeze.

Darnell slowed down, the bicycle tires crunching over broken glass and dead branches on the road, making a faint, crisp sound.

"Bro, how do you think Old Joe and the others did with the job?"

"We'll know when we get there."

Lin An said.

The alley grew narrower, the buildings on both sides like two high walls, slicing the moonlight into a thin, long line.

Darnell turned into the narrow alley on the side of the factory... this alley was so narrow that only one person could pass through sideways, and the entrance was piled with discarded wooden boards and cardboard boxes; if you didn't look carefully, you wouldn't even notice there was a path behind them.

Darnell parked his bicycle at the alley entrance and locked it.

Lin An carried the travel bag, and the two walked one after the other into the depths of the alley.

Bullet comments drifted before Lin An's eyes.

[Someone, ahead]

A rectangular frame appeared in mid-air, marking the person's position.

Lin An's footsteps paused slightly, casting his gaze toward the end of the alley, into the shadows beside that gray iron door.

"Allen."

"It's me, boss."

A person stepped out from the darkness; it was indeed Allen.

He leaned on those two wooden crutches, standing unsteadily, but his spine was straight as a rod. His right hand was not supporting his weight on the crutch, hanging at his side, his fingertips only a few centimeters from the small of his back.

Lin An noticed something tucked behind his waist, covered by the hem of his jacket, making it impossible to see clearly.

But Lin An knew what it was... a Glock pistol.

"You're standing guard here?"

"Yes, Old Joe said the main entrance can't be used, the rolling shutter door was sealed by the bank, and he even hung something on the door."

"Hung what?"

"A trap."

Allen answered in a low voice.

"A trap that triggers the moment the door is opened."

[This cripple is pretty good]

[The spot he was crouching in just now, people at the alley entrance couldn't see him, but he could see the entrance]

[A veteran is a veteran]

Allen stepped aside to clear the way for the gray iron door behind him.

Lin An walked over and pulled the iron door open.

A damp, musty smell mixed with the scent of fresh sawdust surged out from inside; the basement stairs extended downward, with dim yellow light at the end.

Darnell followed behind Lin An, and as he passed Allen, he glanced down at the cripple.

Allen looked at him as well.

Darnell immediately averted his gaze and quickened his pace to catch up with Lin An.

[LMAO, Darnell chickened out]

[That cripple's eyes are actually a bit scary, like a dead man's]

[Don't say that about him, people who have been on the battlefield are like that]

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the full view of the basement appeared before them.

Emergency lights hung from the pipes overhead, illuminating the entire space in a dim yellow hue.

Old Joe was standing next to a workbench, holding a tape measure and measuring a wooden board; Danny was crouching in the corner, drilling holes in the wall with an electric drill, while Michael stood nearby handing him tools.

On the floor were piles of soundproofing cotton bags, some already opened with white fibers spilling out; on the walls were half-nailed wooden frames, with the soundproofing cotton stuffed inside and then sealed with boards.

The air was thick with the smell of sawdust and glue, making one's throat feel tight.

When Old Joe saw Lin An, he immediately put down the tape measure in his hand and bowed his waist.

"Boss."

Danny and Michael stopped their work at the same time, turned around, and respectfully greeted Lin An.

Hector poked his head out from another corner of the basement, his face covered in dust, holding a wrench in his hand as he checked the pipes in the corner.

His wife Maria followed behind him, holding a child in each hand; the two children's eyes were bright, looking at Lin An timidly.

Catherine sat on an old sofa in the corner, holding the sleeping Emily in her arms, with several bags of clothes and sleeping bags they had scavenged from the basement beside her.

Seeing Lin An enter, she stood up immediately, her lips moving, but no words came out.

Old Joe walked quickly to Lin An to report the day's work.

"Boss, the wooden frames are half-nailed, and we can stuff all the cotton in and seal it up by tomorrow..."

He paused, licking his dry, cracked lips.

"Also, it cost forty-five dollars to refuel the car today."

Lin An glanced at the wooden frames on the wall.

It wasn't nailed perfectly straight, but it was sturdy, and the gaps between the wooden boards were stuffed with soundproofing cotton; he pressed his hand against it, confirming it was packed tight.

"Is the front rolling shutter door sealed shut?"

Old Joe nodded.

"Yes, I even hung a bucket of paint and some tin cans on the door."

"Good work."

Lin An nodded.

"Can the trap be dismantled?"

"It can be dismantled."

"Good."

Lin An looked around the basement, finally resting his gaze on the child in Catherine's arms.

The child was sleeping soundly, a small face buried against its mother's chest, breathing steadily.

"You've worked hard today."

Lin An said.

"The plan has changed. My funds are a bit more flexible now, so tomorrow, find some time to recruit five more people to help you with the work. Then, split off two of them and have Miller drive them to the neighboring community to sell the clothing I gave you. And then, there are the flyers."

As he spoke, Lin An took out a stack of printed cleaner flyers and three disposable phones, handing them to Old Joe.

"Have your people distribute the flyers carefully. Give them to small grocery stores, restaurants, and similar shops. Our cleaning crew has low rates, so there should be people who need us. Also, take these phones and distribute them to the people going out to work. If they run into any trouble, have them call me, and I will resolve the issues."

Old Joe nodded vigorously, a few smile lines appearing on his gaunt face.

"Yes, Boss."

Lin An thought for a moment and continued.

"However, this work isn't the most important thing right now. What matters is that during the recruitment process, you should try your best to hire people with specific skills."

"Boss, what exactly do you mean by that..."

Old Joe asked cautiously.

"For example, a carpenter like yourself, or someone like Allen who has military experience... If you can find pilots, aircraft carrier ground crew, or retired university professors... Also, we don't need drug addicts."

Lin An emphasized.

"Junkies are no longer human. No matter how they swear they can quit, do not trust them."

"Understood, Boss, I understand."

Old Joe said, clearly in full agreement.

"Here, this is the budget for the work."

Lin An said, reaching into his coat to pull out a stack of ten and twenty-dollar bills, handing them to Old Joe.

The dirty money he had just acquired was perfect for this; gang money wouldn't have the special tracking dyes that bank money might, which would carry the risk of being traced if spent.

On one hand, the gangs didn't have that kind of capability, and on the other, these small bills were clearly intended to be spent without attracting the attention of the tax authorities.

As long as he didn't spend this bag of small bills on a massive scale or attempt to purchase physical assets—like buying the Abandoned Furniture Factory they were standing in—Lin An faced almost no risk of exposure.

Having received the money, Old Joe's attitude became even more respectful.

The carrot and the stick; such methods never go out of style, regardless of time or place.