The deathly silence in the bar was broken by a muffled, tearful groan.
The burly Mexican whose own bottle had pierced his thigh woke in excruciating pain. Seeing blood pouring from the top of his thigh, he screamed like a pig being slaughtered.
Yet no one dared step forward to help him.
No one even dared spare him another glance.
Every gaze was riveted to the mysterious white man at the bar, like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
Fear spread wildly through the air like an invisible plague.
The bar manager, pale with terror, crawled out from behind the counter on his hands and knees, his lips trembling.
With shaking hands, he pulled a satellite phone from his pocket and rattled off a few words in Spanish, his voice filled with unmistakable panic.
Chen Lin did not rush him.
He simply pulled over a barstool and sat down at his leisure, lightly tapping his slender fingers against the counter.
Tap.
Tap.
In the bar's pin-drop silence, the sound beat against everyone's heart like the drums of death.
Less than five minutes later.
The bar's heavy back door was kicked open from outside.
A burly, middle-aged man with a full beard and a gold chain as thick as a thumb around his neck strode in, surrounded by a group of heavily armed henchmen.
He was Ricardo, the bar's owner and the Bloodhand Gang's second-in-command.
He was also the younger brother of Carlos, San Francisco's biggest arms dealer.
"Who dares cause trouble on my turf?!"
Ricardo roared as soon as he entered, sweeping the room with eyes as vicious as a starving wolf's.
When his gaze landed on Chen Lin's relaxed face, so utterly out of place amid his surroundings, his brows instantly knotted.
The manager scrambled over to his ear