Go Find Sergei

Darnell leaned back on the folding chair, crossing his legs as he watched Lin An inspect the two M9s, flipping them over and over. He then pulled the ten grenades wrapped in cloth strips from a canvas bag, lining them up on the table one by one, arranging them in a straight line like someone with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

He was already so bored he had started counting the mosquitoes in the room... there were thirteen in total.

"Bro."

Just as Darnell was about to start naming the mosquitoes, he finally couldn't hold it in anymore.

"When are we going home? My mom has beef stew in the fridge."

Lin An didn't look up, his fingers tracing the safety pins of the M67 fragmentation grenades one by one to check the tension of the cloth strips.

"We aren't going home. We have business tonight."

"Business?"

Darnell put his leg down, the folding chair letting out a sharp screech of metal friction.

"What kind of business?"

Lin An put the last grenade back into the canvas bag and brushed the dust off his hands.

"Sergei is getting out of the 60th Precinct tonight, and we need to head to Brighton Beach to find him."

Darnell froze for a moment, taking a while to recall what this was all about.

"We're going to Brighton Beach tonight?"

"Yeah."

"That's Russian territory, man. They are very, very unfriendly toward brothers."

"Yeah, I know. So, are you going to let Sergei off the hook? The same Sergei who sent people to come after you?"

"Uh."

Darnell took a deep breath, then let it out in a long, drawn-out sigh that seemed to drain the very soul from his body.

He stood up, spun around in place, put his hands on his hips, and spun around again.

"No, no, as the baddest brother in New York City... I can't let some Russian think he can just send people to take me out and get away with it.

This is a matter of reputation. You get me? Reputation!"

However, after saying that, Darnell felt a twinge of regret and began to backpedal.

"The Russians in Brighton Beach don't like brothers, and this face of mine... Bro, you know how Russians look at Black people? They don't look at them, because they don't even bother—they just start swinging."

He walked over to Lin An, his speech as rapid-fire as a stand-up routine.

"I went to Brighton with Fatty once, just once, to buy a pack of cigarettes, and I got glared at six times... three guys, two glares each.

One of those old men, must've been sixty, looked at me like I owed him three lifetimes of rent. I told myself right then and there, I'm never coming back to this place if it kills me. And now you're telling me we're going there tonight to find a Russian mobster."

He looked at Lin An, waiting for a response.

Lin An finally looked up at him.

"It's a Ukrainian... besides, are you scared?"

"Me, scared?"

Darnell's voice jumped half an octave before he forced it back down, glancing at the door like a thief.

"I... I, Darnell Washington, the gift Jamaica gave to New York, would be scared of a few Russians in tracksuits? Bro, I'm just doing a risk assessment. You know what a risk assessment is? It's... it's thinking through the worst-case scenario before it happens, and then..."

"And then deciding not to go."

"And then deciding how to go!"

Darnell poked his own temple with his finger.

"Strategy, tactics, my mom says..."

"Your mom says God is watching you."

Darnell's mouth hung open, his finger frozen in mid-air, stunned for a second.

"How did you know I was going to say that?"

Lin An zipped up the canvas bag, looped the handle around his wrist, and then it vanished.

"Every time you bring up your mom, it's because you're trying to bolster your own courage... Let's go, brothers. If anyone has the means, toss me some Type 56 magazines and M9 Beretta magazines; we're going to need them tonight."

Speaking to the air, Lin An pushed open the wooden door and walked out.

Darnell stood where he was, his finger still poking his temple, watching Lin An's back disappear behind the door curtain. He sighed.

"Brighton Beach, Russians, fine. Who else is going to be your bro?"

With that, he followed him out.

On the first floor, Allen was sitting next to a tent in the lounge area, a shotgun resting across his knees, using an old towel to wipe the dust off the handguard.

When Lin An walked down the stairs, Allen stopped wiping.

"Allen."

"Report, Boss."

"You stay here tonight, then tell Old Joe that Darnell and I might not be here during the day tomorrow. If something comes up, contact us by phone."

Allen nodded.

Darnell came down the stairs and walked over to Lin An. His AirPods were still in, he had finally decided to put his hood up, and the zipper of his hoodie was pulled all the way to the top. He looked like a bear forced to go for a walk... his whole face screaming, "I don't want to go, but my legs won't listen."

Lin An headed toward the hidden exit of the furniture factory, with Darnell following closely behind.

In the alleyway of the abandoned factory district, that Roadster Bicycle was leaning against the wall. Nearby, a man was squatting in the corner, wrapped in a blanket and pretending to be a homeless person keeping watch... well, you couldn't really call it pretending; the man was a homeless person.

Darnell ignored him, walked straight over, gripped the handlebars, and swung his leg over, his movements as fluid as a cowboy mounting a horse.

"Get on."

After Lin An sat sideways on the back seat, Darnell stepped on the pedals, and the bicycle shot forward as if it had been kicked.

From the abandoned factory district to Brighton Beach, the straight-line distance is about nineteen kilometers. It takes an average person an hour and a half by bike, two subway transfers, or about forty minutes by car via the Beltway.

But Darnell's bicycle would be faster than the subway.

The bicycle surged out of the alley, turned onto Jamaica Avenue, and headed north.

Darnell leaned forward, his legs churning like pistons, the chain clicking and clacking rhythmically. The wind rushed into his hoodie, blowing the hood up into a bloated balloon.

Furthermore, his mouth wasn't idle either.

"Bro, you know, my stepfather said something when he was alive... a Black man who can ride a bike will never starve. I thought he was bragging back then, but now I get it, because with me on a bike, I run faster than the subway."

A car overtook them from the side. The driver poked his head out the window, took one look at this big guy pedaling a bicycle with an Asian man on the back, tearing down the motor vehicle lane, opened his mouth, and was then left behind.

Darnell didn't look back, raising his voice to drown out the wind.

"What are you looking at? Never seen someone working out before!"

Lin An sat on the back seat, one hand gripping the hem of Darnell's hoodie, the other resting on his knee, his expression calm.

The night wind blew his hair back, revealing a smooth forehead. He watched the streets of Queens flying past on both sides... the old apartment buildings of Jamaica, the row houses of Richmond Hill, the auto repair shops of Woodhaven, one after another, like a revolving lantern.

Besides that, there were faint sounds of gunfire in the distance. If it weren't for the fact that he had serious business to attend to tonight, Lin An definitely would have gone over to join the fun.

Bullet Screen scrolled by.

[Is Darnell's leg even human?]

[Twelve miles, carrying a person, speed looks like over forty kilometers per hour.]

[Darnell should enter the triathlon.]

[He's still talking, how is he still talking while riding so fast?]

[His mouth and legs are busy with their own things, not interfering with each other.]

[Brighton Beach, the streamer is going to provoke the Russians.]

[Hurry up, get on with it.]

The bicycle made a turn on Woodhaven Boulevard and entered a quieter residential area. Darnell's speed slowed down a bit; this stretch of road had narrow sidewalks, many parked cars, and poor visibility.

"Bro."

His voice drifted back from the front, sliced into fragments by the wind.

"I'm going to ask you a question."

"Ask."

"Sergei, do you know what he looks like?"

"I do."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"I do."

"Do you know where he's going after he leaves the 60th Precinct tonight?"

"I do."

Darnell was silent for two seconds. The bicycle turned again, the tires crunching over a patch of broken glass with a sharp sound.

"So how do you know? We've been together all day today."

He turned his head, his profile filled with confusion.

"You know, Darnell, the police at the 103rd Precinct are my good friends."

When Lin An said this, a large Crow circling at low altitude above the bicycle couldn't help but "caw" once, flapping its wings hard and making the leaves rustle.

"Holy crap... bro, that's your crow, isn't it!"

Darnell was startled by the sudden movement overhead. Lin An felt his back straighten even more as he inhaled, the fabric of the hoodie tightening, then relaxing again.

"Yes."

"Alright, I can't mess with it."

He pushed hard on the pedals, and the bicycle accelerated again.

The Bullet Screen scrolls.

[Good Ni Ge, good chauffeur]

[Chauffeur Darnell, the streamer's loyal mount]

[No, loyal brother]

The Roadster Bicycle quickly passed through the bridge tunnel of the Beltway and entered the territory of Brighton Beach, where the air took on a hint of sea salt.

The nights in Jamaica are noisy; the sounds of music, arguments, police sirens, and distant gunfire churn together into a boiling pot of chaos.

But the nights in Brighton Beach are quiet, with only the occasional Russian conversation leaking out from roadside shops. As cars pass by with their windows rolled halfway down, deep electronic music spills out, the drumbeats sounding like heartbeats.

The pedestrians on the street are mostly middle-aged white men. They wear dark jackets, walk with a steady pace, and have broad shoulders; their shadows stretch long as they pass under the streetlights. Occasionally, an old man sits on a bench with a Russian newspaper spread across his knees and a brown paper bag by his side.

This place doesn't feel much like the United States; it feels more like a Soviet neighborhood.

Darnell's pedaling slowed down as he entered a coasting state, his neck turning nervously as he scanned his surroundings.

"Bro, there's someone in that black Mercedes on the left. Two people at the entrance of that convenience store on the right, watching me... no, watching you... no, watching us."

"Normal."

"Normal?"

Darnell's voice nearly cracked, and he forced it back down. "How is that normal?"

"This is the territory of Russian immigrants. One of us is Black, one is Asian; we're naturally eye-catching here."

Lin An's voice was steady. He looked back, his gaze sliding past the black Mercedes on the side of the road, landing on the two men at the convenience store entrance, and then he smiled at them.

The Bullet Screen began to annotate.

[Black Mercedes, two people inside. One in the driver's seat, passenger seat empty, one in the rear right, currently smoking. The car is idling, taillights are on]

[Convenience store entrance, two people, dark jackets, hands in pockets. The pocket on the left has weight, sagging downward, suspected handgun]

[Thirty meters ahead, old man reading a newspaper under a streetlight. The paper is today's, but he has been sitting there for at least half an hour, because there are seven cigarette butts by his feet]

[He isn't reading the newspaper; he is watching this street]

[Ignore them, keep riding, don't stop. Black Sea Seafood is not far ahead, about a kilometer away. The restaurant is near the seaside]

[Once you're close, find a place with no one around to get off, then walk the rest of the way. The Roadster Bicycle is too conspicuous here]

The bicycle continued to coast forward as the main street of Brighton Beach unfolded before them.

On both sides of Brighton Beach Avenue are six-story brick apartment buildings with shops lining the ground floor: Russian Bakery, Eastern European Deli, Vodka Specialty Store, and travel agencies with narrow storefronts. The signs are written in Cyrillic, with English text squeezed underneath like a stepchild.

The air is filled with the charred aroma of baked bread, the sour scent of pickled cucumbers, and a faint, lingering breath of sea salt.

"Head into that small alley over there, then stop."

Lin An turned his head. Under his own observation and that of the Bullet Screen, he confirmed that no one was watching him, then directed Darnell toward a quiet corner.

"Hide the bike well."

Darnell got off, scanned the area, and pushed the bicycle into a narrow alley next to a closed bakery.

The alley is only one person wide, with withered vines crawling up the brick walls on both sides and flattened cardboard boxes and empty vodka bottles piled on the ground.

He leaned the bicycle against the base of the wall and pulled half a broken cardboard box from nearby to cover the frame.

He stepped back twice to look, felt it wasn't enough, then flipped the box over and covered it from a different angle, leaving only half of the rear wheel exposed.

"That'll do."

He brushed the dust off his hands and emerged from the alley.

"Bro, what do we do now?"

Darnell recalled his previous experiences going to Uptown Manhattan with Lin An.

"Are we going to find a place to eat, then change clothes, and carry coffee to look like tourists?"

"No, not this time."

Lin An shook his head.

"Russians are too xenophobic. The vast majority of permanent residents here are Russian-speaking immigrants; tourists are the ones who stand out here."

"What does 'stand out' mean?"

"You illiterate... anyway, just follow me."

Lin An looked up at the roof. Two Crows standing on the edge of a building were also tilting their heads, peering down with their small black eyes.

"Go, little sentinels."

Lin An reached into his coat, pulled out a bag of bread, and shook it at the two Crows.

"Go find me a path to the Black Sea Seafood restaurant that won't be seen by anyone else."

"Caw, caw..."