The streetlight at the intersection of Broadway was broken. It flickered in the cold wind, making his eyes ache.
After watching the black car for a while, Lin An turned and walked back with Darnell, like a tourist.
"Darnell."
He spoke in a low voice, barely moving his lips.
"Yeah?"
"Don't look back. Just follow me, like a tourist."
He turned and headed the way they had come. Darnell hesitated, then quickly caught up, the camera around his neck swinging back and forth.
"What's wrong?"
Darnell lowered his voice.
"That black car."
Lin An's voice was barely audible.
"A Ford Crown Victoria. Parked across the street, engine still running."
Darnell's steps faltered.
"Don't stop."
Lin An said.
Darnell kept walking.
They headed north along Broadway for about thirty meters, then Lin An turned into an alley.
The alley wasn't deep. Fire escapes and trash cans lined both sides, and a wall blocked the far end. Several black garbage bags sat piled against it.
Lin An led Darnell into the shadow of a fire escape.
From there, through a gap at the mouth of the alley, they could see part of the intersection at 110th Street.
The black car was still there. The low rumble of its engine carried across half a block, like a crouching beast purring.
Darnell crouched, hugging his camera to his chest, and lowered his voice as much as he could.
"Bro, who's in there?"
"I don't know."
"Then how do you know something's wrong?"
"Crow told me."
Darnell glanced at him but didn't ask anything else.
"So what are we doing now?"
"Waiting."
"For what?"
"For a chance to solve my identity problem. Then we can focus on dealing with your trouble."
Darnell looked thoughtful.
"Is my trouble really that bad?"
"A gang of more than twenty gunmen and a monster came after you in New York. Doesn't that sound like a big problem for the two of us?"
"Uh, well... I... I don't know, bro."
The minutes ticked by.
The night wind swept into the alley, carrying the chill of March.
Darnell wore only a thin souvenir shirt. It fluttered in the wind, but he acted as if nothing was wrong. Lin An, on the other hand, shivered in the cold and had to quickly pull a windbreaker out of the System Store and put it on.
Naturally, the Bullet Screen mocked him for it.
Lin An didn't pay them much attention. He watched as some of the comments relayed what they could see.
[There's someone in the driver's seat, and someone in the passenger seat.]
[The rear windows are tinted, so I can't see inside. But judging by the car's suspension, there should be someone in the back too.]
[Not sure if it's one person or two, though.]
[So there should be three or four people in the car.]
[I spotted this car. It was cruising around Columbia University this afternoon. When Crow perched on its roof, I heard the people inside discussing how to go after Professor Robert.]
[So what's the streamer planning to do?]
[That's a secret.]
12:50 a.m.
A figure emerged from behind the iron gates in the direction of Columbia University. A crow on a nearby tree quickly flew over and circled above him for a while, confirming his identity.
It was Professor Robert. He wore a dark overcoat, a scarf draped over his shoulder, and carried a brown briefcase.
The gray-haired professor walked through the iron gate and headed south along Broadway.
This was his usual route... from the Mathematics Building to 110th Street, then west along Amsterdam Avenue for three blocks to his apartment building.
"Odd. Why are there crows out at night?"
Robert glanced up at the crow overhead, then at the dark bird-shaped silhouette on the streetlight beside the intersection. He shook his head, put the question out of his mind, and continued home.
Just as he reached the intersection and was about to cross, the black car across the street moved.
Its tires let out a short squeal as it lurched forward and blocked the professor's way.
At the same time, the doors opened and three men jumped out... two from the front and one from the back.
The first rushed at the professor, clamped a hand over his mouth, and grabbed his arm. The second snatched up his briefcase and threw it into the car. The third held the door open.
It was all over in less than three seconds.
The professor struggled, but what chance did a sixty-year-old math professor have against three young men?
They shoved him into the back seat and slammed the door.
The black car accelerated down Broadway, its taillights leaving two streaks of red in the night.
Darnell stood up.
"Bro..."
"Don't move."
Lin An pressed down on his shoulder.
He stood still, listening as the car's engine faded into the distance. Then he looked up at the streetlight.
The crow was still perched on top of it, its black feathers trembling slightly in the night wind.
It tilted its head at Lin An, then spread its wings and flew off in pursuit of the black car.
The Bullet Screen filled with comments.
[Holy shit, a kidnapping!]
[Someone stole the prey!]
[I memorized the license plate. Streamer, call the cops!]
[No point. Plates on cars like that are usually fake.]
[Streamer, go after them!]
[Crow's following them. Director, you're awesome!]
Lin An stayed where he was. After a while, there was still no sound of sirens, no screams, and no windows opening.
At last, he was sure no one had called the police.
Or perhaps no one nearby had seen what happened—or they had seen it and didn't want to get involved. In New York, if you saw someone shoved into a car in the middle of the night, the safest thing to do was pretend you hadn't seen a thing.
Lin An tossed his coffee cup against the wall, shoved the camera into his backpack, and zipped it up.
"Darnell."
"Yeah!"
"Get on the bike. We're after them."
Darnell looked at him, then toward the direction where the black car had disappeared.
"Bro, that's a car. This is a bicycle."
"You said you could outrun a motorcycle."
"I was bragging!"
"But your legs weren't. Hurry up. I'll give you a hundred bucks."
Darnell's eyes widened.
"Really?"
"Really."
Lin An immediately pulled out five twenty-dollar bills. Darnell snatched them, stuffed them into his pocket, then took a deep breath and swung onto the Roadster Bicycle, gripping the handlebars tightly.
Lin An climbed onto the back seat and rested one hand on his shoulder.
"South, along Broadway."
"No problem. Hold on, bro!"
Darnell slammed down on the pedals.
The Roadster Bicycle shot forward like a bull that had been stabbed. The chain rattled harshly, and the tires gave off the smell of burning rubber as they scraped over the asphalt.
Darnell's legs pumped like pistons, each stroke sending the bike surging forward.
The streetlights along Broadway flew past on either side.
Lin An held Darnell's shoulder and watched the Bullet Screen.
[Director's at Broadway and 106th Street. The black car turned west.]
[It's going about sixty and still accelerating.]
[Can Darnell keep up?]
[How fast is he going now?]
Lin An didn't know how fast they were going.
But he knew the wind stung his face more than before.
Darnell was breathing heavily, but he wasn't out of breath. His legs seemed powered by an engine that would never wear out, pumping in a steady rhythm like a metronome.
"Bro!"
Darnell's voice warped in the wind.
"If the cops catch me, tell my mom..."
"Tell her yourself."
"I mean, if it happens!"
"It won't."
The Roadster Bicycle shot through the intersection at 106th Street.
Lin An looked up at the sky... the crow's silhouette flashed through the halo of a streetlight, heading west.
"West. Amsterdam Avenue."
Lin An said.
Darnell swerved hard. The bike leaned until it was almost scraping the ground. Its tires squealed, then the bike straightened and surged onward.
Amsterdam Avenue was narrower than Broadway, and its streetlights were dimmer. Old apartment buildings lined both sides. Most windows were dark, with the occasional lit one shining like a sleepless eye.
The black car was two blocks ahead, its red taillights flickering in and out of sight in the night.
"I see it,"
Darnell said through gritted teeth.
"Slow down. Don't get too close."
"I know."
Darnell eased off a little, keeping about two blocks between them—close enough to see the taillights, but not close enough to be spotted.
The Bullet Screen filled with comments.
[The car turned north onto West 122nd Street.]
[That's a residential area. Harlem's farther north.]
[Where are the kidnappers taking the professor?]
[Stay on them.]
Compared to the car, the Roadster Bicycle rolled over the asphalt soundlessly.
There was no engine noise, only the chain's soft, rapid clatter and the hum of the tires—negligible beside the cars passing through Manhattan in the dead of night.
The crow circled overhead, its black wings spread like a flying shadow.
It sometimes landed on a streetlight to wait for them, then took off again to catch up with the car ahead.
Lin An checked the time on his phone.
1:10 a.m.
The black car continued north along Amsterdam Avenue. After passing 125th Street, it turned east onto a narrower street.
Darnell slowed down, and the bike swayed under the streetlight.
"Bro, I've never been here before."
"Follow the crow."
The black silhouette in the sky traced an arc in the moonlight and flew east.
Lin An patted Darnell on the shoulder. The Roadster Bicycle picked up speed again, its tires rolling over a pothole and splashing through a small puddle.
The buildings around them began to change. The brick apartment blocks gave way to detached wooden houses. Their front lawns were small, but each one was enclosed by a low wooden fence.
The streetlights were fewer, with one only every few blocks. Their dim light looked as if someone had turned the brightness down on purpose.
The black car slowed ahead.
Darnell immediately eased off. He stopped pedaling and let the bicycle coast on its own momentum. The chain's clatter faded, leaving only the faint hiss of the tires on the asphalt.
The car turned into a driveway and stopped in front of a two-story detached house.
The house was small, its white exterior paint peeling in places. The porch light was off.
At the end of the driveway stood a garage with its roll-up door shut. A waist-high wooden fence enclosed the driveway, and a small patch of yellowed grass lay behind it.
The car doors opened.
Three people got out of the car. The one in the back bent over and dragged a struggling figure out of the seat.
One man carried the figure's upper body, another lifted his legs, and the third walked ahead and pushed open the front door.
The door opened, and light spilled out for an instant, illuminating a rocking chair on the porch.
Then they hurried inside and shut the door.
Soon, a room on the second floor lit up.
The curtains were drawn.
Lin An and Darnell crouched behind the bushes across the street, about twenty meters away.
"Bro, what are we doing here?"
"Getting things done. Less talking."
Darnell shut up.
Lin An hid behind the bushes. He didn't need to peek out; the Bullet Screen viewers were already giving him a detailed look at the house.
[There's a camera at the front door, mounted on the porch ceiling. It's black and dome-shaped, pointed toward the driveway.]
[The camera's angle is about 120 degrees, covering the entire area in front of the house.]
[The front door is solid wood. It doesn't look very thick; one kick could break it open, but that would alert the people upstairs.]
[The curtains are drawn over all the first-floor windows, so you can't see inside.]
[There probably aren't any cameras behind the house. You can circle around from the side.]
Lin An read the Bullet Screen for a few seconds, then turned to look at Darnell.
"Let's go."
"Where?"
"Around back."
Darnell's mouth twitched. His face practically spelled out, "I don't want to go in," but he had already taken half a step forward.
The two of them crouched low and crept along the shadows at the side of the street. The wooden fence wasn't high. Lin An vaulted over it with one hand, and Darnell followed. His movements looked much more nimble than Lin An's.
But Lin An landed without a sound, while Darnell stepped on a dead branch and snapped it with a crack that rang out sharply in the quiet night.
They both froze.
Footsteps sounded upstairs... Someone took a couple of steps around the room, then stopped.
Lin An held a finger to his lips and didn't move.
About ten seconds later, the footsteps started up again, continuing at the same pace as before.
Darnell let out a breath of relief. Lin An glanced at him. There was no blame in his eyes, but Darnell's face still turned red.
The passage on the side was narrow, cluttered with two trash cans and a rusty barbecue grill. The ground was covered in gravel and dirt, crunching with every step.
Lin An kept close to the wall, placing each foot where the gravel was thinnest. Darnell followed behind, imitating him.
Behind the house was a small yard. The lawn had withered, and a bare maple tree stood in one corner. The back door was wooden, with a small window whose glass was so dirty it was impossible to see through.
The Bullet Screen was scrolling.
[No camera at the back door.]
[The lock looks like a regular spring lock. It shouldn't be hard to pick.]
[The light's still on in that second-floor room, and the curtains are drawn tight.]
[You can't see inside from out here, and they can't see outside from in there.]
Lin An tried the doorknob.
Locked.
That was no problem. Lin An took out a master key, poked it into the keyhole, fiddled with it a couple of times, and the lock clicked open.
He glanced back at Darnell, who was crouched behind him, clutching his camera in both hands. His eyes were wide, his face full of reluctance.
Lin An said nothing. He simply took out a baseball bat, handed it to Darnell, then mimed swinging a bat.
Darnell swallowed and took it.
Good.
Lin An gently pushed the door open a little, then turned sideways and squeezed through the gap. Darnell followed him inside.
The back door led into the kitchen. It was messy and stank, with nothing worth looking at.
At the other end of the kitchen was a door leading to a hallway, with a staircase at the far end.
The stairs were covered in dark red carpet. That was good news; it would muffle their footsteps.
The footsteps upstairs continued, moving from one end of the room to the other as if someone were pacing.
Lin An slowed down as he climbed. He lowered his toes first, then the balls of his feet, then his heels, leaning slightly forward with his weight over his front foot. That way, even if he stepped on a creaky stair, he could shift his weight away before it made a sound.
Darnell followed him, copying his movements.
The two of them went up.
[Go on, don't be shy. There are only four people in the house, and they're all in the room at the end.]
[Come on, streamer, hurry up. They're gonna do the old man.]
[Ugh, gross.]
The room on the second floor wasn't large, about twenty square meters.
A double bed with dark blue sheets sat by the window. A bedside lamp cast a dim, yellow glow.
Professor Robert Jero was shoved into the room.
A burly hand pressed down on his shoulder. He stumbled forward two steps, his knees hitting the edge of the bed, and he fell face-first onto it.
"Don't move."
A voice spoke above him. Low and emotionless.
Robert didn't move. He couldn't, either. An old academic researcher had no chance of wrestling with a burly man.
"Get up."
The hand grabbed Robert by the collar and hauled him off the bed. At last, he could see what was in the room.
There were other people inside.
He counted them.
Four: a bald man, a fat man, Ni Ge, and a Latino.
"That him?"
The bald man standing in front asked.
"That's him."
The fat man answered.
"A professor at Columbia University. Financial mathematics. He looks exactly like the photo the employer gave us."
The bald man nodded, walked over to Robert, bent down, and leaned close to his face.
"Robert Jero?"
Robert's lips trembled. He clenched his teeth, trying not to make a sound.
"I asked you a question. Are you Robert Jero?"
"Yes."
The bald man straightened and looked at the fat man, who nodded.
"Then that's settled."
The bald man turned and walked to the other end of the room. He picked up a black canvas bag from the corner and put it on the bed, then unzipped it.
Inside were several bundles of cash bound with rubber bands, all in brand-new hundred-dollar bills.
"The money's here. Fifty thousand. Count it."
The fat man walked over, picked up a bundle of bills, rubbed them between his fingers, and sniffed them.
"It's real."
"Obviously."
The fat man put the money back, zipped up the canvas bag, and picked it up.
"The guy checks out, the money checks out. It's been a pleasure doing business."
The bald man didn't reply. He looked at the fat man, then at Robert, and said something that nearly stopped Robert's heart.
"One more thing."
"What?"
"The boss said to let him go after we're done filming."
The fat man froze, then slapped his forehead.
"Oh, right. Come on, boys. Let's have some fun."
The bald man went to the bedside table and opened the drawer, taking something out.
A tripod.
He unfolded it and set it at the foot of the bed, facing the bed. Then he took a black Sony camcorder from the drawer.
He mounted the camcorder on the tripod, adjusted the angle, and pressed the power button. A red indicator light came on.
Robert's blood ran cold.
"W-what... what are you going to do?"
His voice shook. He could barely control his bladder.
The bald man ignored him. He took a second camcorder from the drawer, mounted it on a second tripod, and set it to the left of the bed. Then he set up a third one on the right.
Three camcorders, three angles. No blind spots.
Robert saw the camcorders and began to tremble.
"No..."
"Don't talk."
The Latino behind him reached out and rested a hand on Robert's shoulder. His fingers were long, his nails neatly trimmed.
"Now, be a good old man and cooperate. It'll be over soon. If you don't..."
The man paused.
"It might hurt."
Robert's teeth started chattering.
Four hands began tearing at Robert's clothes.
"No... please... don't..."
Robert struggled like a fish hauled onto shore, writhing among those burly arms, but he was far too weak. His strength was negligible.
Soon, all he had left on was a pair of gray underwear.
His sixty-year-old body was thin as a bundle of dry sticks. Helpless, he curled up on the edge of the bed like a peeled shrimp.
"Help..."
Before you continue