Alfred Nobel Had No Mathematics Prize

Alfred Nobel Had No Mathematics Prize

Director George looked at Alvin in confusion. "Do you know where to find one of those things?"

Alvin smiled mysteriously. "I have an informant in Hell's Kitchen. He knows something about it. I'll dig that thing out of its nest soon enough."

Director George said uneasily, "If you take action, you have to notify me. I'll arrange for police support. I know you've got some capable people under you, especially that Frank Castle, but that thing is dangerous. I don't want anything to go wrong."

When Director George mentioned Frank, his expression did not look too pleasant. It seemed he was someone who knew the inside story.

Alvin smiled casually. "It's fine. More people would only be useless against that thing. If my guess is right, as long as we find the right method, even our little Ginny can handle it."

As he spoke, Alvin pinched Ginny's little nose, then continued, "Once I catch it, I'll let you know so you can come take a look. But you'd better prepare yourself. They should be the troublesome kind of thing I guessed they were. Troublesome for you, that is!"

Director George looked somewhat puzzled. "Why would they be troublesome for me? What about you?"

Alvin scooped Ginny up, spun her around in the air, and said meaningfully, "Because no matter how many of those things come, I can kill them all. But for you... here's a hint: those things may have existed for many years and have a huge population. So why don't you know anything about them?"

Director George sucked in a sharp breath, slammed his fist on the table, and cursed under his breath, "Those sons of bitches at S.H.I.E.L.D. must know something, but they didn't dare tell me." Then he looked at Alvin dejectedly. "Your guess might not be right, could it?"

Alvin shrugged. "That's right. Which is why I need to verify it myself. If those things really exist, then Hell's Kitchen will be their grave."

Director George was a man of firm resolve. Perhaps because Alvin made it sound so easy, and because he had said that once they found the right method, those things would not be difficult to deal with, George chose to pour himself a beer despite the possibility of major trouble in the future.

Alvin handed the beer to Director George and asked somewhat nervously, "George, my friend, what did you decide about what we discussed yesterday? About your daughter?"

George took a drink of beer and eyed Alvin sideways. In a strange tone, he said, "It only occurred to me after I got home yesterday that Alfred Nobel didn't have a mathematics prize. Buddy, you should look into whether that professor you mentioned faked his résumé."

Alvin scratched his scalp awkwardly. This was the downside of not having much schooling. Even bragging could get you exposed so easily. Still, seeing Jessica's utterly baffled expression at the mention of Nobel made Alvin feel a little better.

"A slip of the tongue, just a slip of the tongue. Once this is over, I invite you and your wife to come inspect our school. What? Your daughter should come too? There's no need for that! Children only need to focus on studying. Choosing a school is best left to the parents." Alvin urged Director George.

Director George was tempted. The conditions Alvin had mentioned before were very attractive to a father with a pretty daughter. After all, he could not keep an eye on his daughter every day, and there were far too many bad boys these days.

After thinking it over, George said, "Then once this is over, I'll arrange a time to come take a look. Buddy, I hope everything you said is true!"

Alvin patted his chest and promised, "Believe me. Not a single parent who visits will be able to refuse my school. It will become the cradle of the Ivy League."

"I hope so." Director George drained his beer in one gulp, said his goodbyes, and left the restaurant.

Watching the director drive off drunk again, Alvin snorted disdainfully. Lawbreaking bastard. Next time I get a traffic ticket, I'll give them your name. If you don't fix it for me, I'll report you.

Late at night, Alvin and JJ were sorting through equipment in the lobby of the Peace Hotel.

Holding a net gun modified from a shotgun, Alvin asked, "Is this thing sturdy?"

The excited JJ was stuffing rifle magazines into his gear. Hearing Alvin's question, he grinned. "Don't worry, Boss. Once this thing catches something, not even an elephant can break free."

Seeing how excited he was, Alvin thought for a moment about what they were likely to encounter. He pulled all the weapons off JJ, then handed him an old Remington shotgun and an old Springfield-made 1911 pistol.

"If we don't catch it, use this to kill it." Without further explanation, he hung a Glock 17 on his own belt.

All these guns had been modified by Alvin and inlaid with the rune "El," which would deal tremendous damage to undead creatures. It was the right medicine for the illness. What, use silver bullets? That was something rich people did. Alvin definitely did not have that kind of money, but didn't he have a cheat system?

Still, they could bring silver-plated knives. Following his boss's orders, the depressed JJ carried a silver-plated table knife only as long as his palm and as wide as a finger. He remembered it was a gift from old Kent. Kent used to specialize in fencing stolen goods, and after he quit, he gave all his decent tableware to Alvin.

Once everything was ready, Alvin went upstairs to check on his sleeping daughter. He kissed the top of her head and tucked in her blanket. Then he went to check on Nick. That kid could kick his blanket clean off with one leg; he was bound to amount to something someday.

Looking at Jessica's tightly shut door, Alvin smiled and shook his head. Then he went downstairs to meet JJ and headed out.

By the old pickup truck, Frank stood fully armed, leaning against the passenger-side door. He said impatiently, "I've been waiting for you forever. What took you so long?"

Did I even ask you to come, bro? Alvin complained inwardly, but he also felt reassured. That was what family felt like. I don't ask what it is. If you're going to fight, I grab my gear and go kick their ass with you.

Alvin looked over Frank's equipment: two FN SCAR assault rifles, two compact submachine guns, two pistols, and a tactical vest covered in magazines.

He gave JJ, whose eyes were full of envy, a smack, then said to Frank, "Bro, this isn't Iraq. We're not going to war. We're just catching a little animal. Isn't this a bit overkill?"

Frank looked at Alvin and JJ's gear, then at his own. He felt it was indeed a little excessive. Smiling awkwardly, he said, "Bring it along. If we don't need it, we can leave it in the truck."

JJ nodded furiously beside them, practically drooling over Frank's gear. Look at what he had: an ancient Remington and a 1911 that was obviously secondhand. Then look at Frank.

Alvin smiled and nodded. Fine, let him have his fun. He turned and went down to the restaurant basement. When he returned, he tossed Frank a Remington similar to JJ's and said, "Your guns might not work on those little animals. Take this."

Frank examined the shotgun in his hands. He did not question Alvin's judgment and nodded to show that he understood.

JJ drove, while Alvin sat in the passenger seat and gave directions. Frank sat in the back, taking off the guns on his body until only a Colt 1911 remained at his waist. He loaded shells into the Remington's magazine one by one.

Alvin stuck his hand out the window and tapped the roof rhythmically a few times. "Let's go."