Closing the Net

Whistles and cheers erupted in the mess hall. The prisoners watching the one-sided brawl were not afraid; instead, they became excited.

Some people were banging on the table, some were whistling, and some were cheering loudly.

Life in prison is too monotonous, and a thrilling fight is like a free performance in the midst of the dull days; no one would complain about the excitement.

However, Wang Dao'an's situation is not optimistic.

Although he had taken down four people, he had also taken a few hits himself—he had a scratch on his left cheek, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, and a tear in the cuff of his right sleeve, revealing a shallow scratch underneath. His breathing became rapid, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Just then, several more people stood up from another direction in the cafeteria.

Those were the dreadlocked man's accomplices—not just four, but seven or eight. They were originally scattered throughout the cafeteria, but seeing their leader and brothers being taken down, they all stood up and gathered around Wang Dao'an.

Wang Dao'an took two steps back, leaning against the wall, his gaze quickly sweeping over the approaching faces. His fists were still stained with blood, and his breathing had not yet fully calmed, but he showed no sign of backing down.

He took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and prepared for the next onslaught.

The atmosphere in the canteen became tense. The prisoners who had been cheering and whistling gradually quieted down, and everyone held their breath, watching the impending new round of melee.

Just then, a series of hurried footsteps came from the entrance of the cafeteria.

Several prison guards appeared at the door, but instead of rushing in to stop the fight, they stood at the door with their arms crossed, watching the chaotic scene in the canteen as if it were a show.

Their faces showed no signs of tension or anxiety, but rather an air of keen interest, as if the fight before them had nothing to do with them.

One of the prison guards, standing behind several others, had a somewhat subtle expression on his face.

He was about forty years old, of medium build, with brown hair and an unremarkable face. He wore a uniform like the other prison guards, with handcuffs and a walkie-talkie hanging from his waist, looking no different from anyone else. But his right hand was, with an extremely slow and inconspicuous movement, quietly reaching towards his chest.

His gaze remained fixed on Wang Dao'an.

In another corner of the cafeteria, Viktor Kovacs' pupils contracted slightly as he witnessed this scene.

He was still hesitant about whether to take action, but the situation had already spiraled out of his control.

If the target is seriously injured by the Latinos in the melee and sent to the prison hospital, their subsequent plans will all fall through—it's several times more difficult to carry out an operation in a prison hospital than in the prison ward.

He cannot allow his target to be injured and hospitalized.

At least, not now.

Viktor gave a wink to one of his men sitting next to him.

The subordinate understood immediately, nodded slightly, then stood up and, pretending to be an onlooker, walked towards the direction of the melee. His two other subordinates also stood up and followed, blending into the crowd.

They walked away naturally, indistinguishable from the other prisoners watching the spectacle. But their eyes remained fixed on Wang Dao'an.

One of them, as he walked past a table, casually picked something up from the tabletop—a sharpened toothbrush. The plastic handle of the toothbrush was whittled into a sharp cone shape, the tip gleaming coldly under the light.

He held the sharpened toothbrush in his hand, tucked it into his sleeve, and continued walking forward.

The four people drew closer and closer, blending into the crowd of onlookers, and gradually approached Wang Dao'an from behind.

Wang Dao'an was focused intently on the approaching Latinos ahead, unaware of the commotion behind him.

The sharpened toothbrush was getting closer and closer to his lower back.

Just then--

"Bang!"

A gunshot rang out.

The gunshot rang out in the enclosed cafeteria space like a thunderclap, making everyone's eardrums buzz. The fluorescent light tubes on the ceiling swayed slightly and flickered a few times.

Everyone was stunned.

The echo of the gunshot still reverberated in the air when a burst of blood erupted from the chest of the man holding the sharpened toothbrush.

He glanced down at his chest, his expression shifting from confusion to fear. He swayed, the toothbrush falling softly from his hand. Then his knees buckled, and he slowly collapsed to the ground, landing on his side. His body twitched twice before coming to rest.

Blood gushed from his chest, quickly spreading across the ground to form a dark red pool.

A deathly silence fell over the cafeteria.

Everyone froze in place, their gazes shifting from the fallen figure to the direction from which the gunshots had come.

In another corner of the canteen, four men dressed in prison uniforms had somehow stood up. In their hands, each held a black Glock pistol, wisps of smoke rising from the muzzles.

They formed a semi-circular defensive formation, protecting Wang Dao'an in the center. Their positions were meticulously calculated, maintaining optimal firing angles from each other with no blind spots. Their expressions were cold and focused, their gazes sweeping over everyone in the canteen like hawks.

One of them, who looked to be in his early thirties, had a stern face, a short buzz cut, and a gruesome scar on his arm. He held up his gun, the muzzle slowly sweeping across the crowd, and spoke in an unquestionable tone:

"Everyone stay still, cover your heads and squat down."

His voice wasn't loud, but in the quiet cafeteria, every word was crystal clear.

No one dared to move.

Those Latinos who had just been shouting to teach Wang Dao'an lesson were now frozen in place, their faces pale, their hands unconsciously raised above their heads. Although they had spent many years on the streets and seen many guns, the instinctive fear they felt when a gun was actually pointed at them was still overwhelming.

In the crowd, one person did not squat down as instructed.

That was one of the dreadlocks guy's henchmen. Taking advantage of the chaos, he quietly moved a few steps toward the cafeteria entrance, trying to slip out unnoticed.

The gunman noticed his movement.

He gave no warnings, no shouts, he simply turned his gun around and pulled the trigger.

"Bang!"

A second shot rang out.

A burst of blood erupted from the man's thigh. He screamed in agony, fell forward, and crashed to the ground, clutching his thigh and writhing in pain.

"I told you, no one is allowed to move." The mercenary's voice remained calm, as if the shot he'd just fired was merely a casual swat at a mosquito. "Next time, I won't shoot the leg."

This time, no one dared to make a move.

In the canteen, dozens of prisoners squatted down in unison, heads in their hands, like a harvested wheat field.

Just then, the cafeteria door was pushed open.

A team of fully armed prison guards filed in, numbering about a dozen, each wearing riot gear and carrying shotguns or submachine guns. They quickly took control of all the entrances and exits of the canteen, sealing off the entire space.

Leading the group was a middle-aged man in a high-ranking police officer's uniform—Warden James Horton.

He strode into the cafeteria, his gaze sweeping over the bodies on the ground—the tattooed man with a bullet hole in his chest, the Latino man with a gunshot wound to his thigh, and the wounded lying on the ground groaning—before settling on the four armed mercenaries.

He did not order them to lay down their weapons.

He didn't even glance at them.

He simply waved his hand and said to the prison guards behind him, "Take those men away."

The prison guards sprang into action. They bypassed the four armed mercenaries—as if they didn't exist—and went straight to the Latinos crouching on the ground, and to Viktor Kovacs, who was still sitting in the corner, his face ashen.

"What are you doing? I didn't do anything!" Viktor tried to struggle, but two prison guards grabbed his arms on either side and pulled him up from the chair.

"Behave yourself!" a prison guard yelled, forcefully twisting his hands behind his back and handcuffing them.

Viktor was led towards the cafeteria entrance. As he passed Wang Dao'an, he turned and gave Wang Dao'an a deep look, his eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions—anger, confusion, resentment, and a hint of fear.

Wang Dao'an did not look at him.

He stood within the protective circle of the four mercenaries, his expression calm, as if everything that had just happened had nothing to do with him.

Meanwhile, in another corner of the canteen, the prison guard who had just stealthily reached into his pocket was also subdued by two colleagues. He tried to resist, but was quickly overpowered. One of the guards searched his pocket and found something the size of a palm—a modified ring with a tiny protrusion on its surface. Pressing it would pop out a steel needle as thin as a hair. The tip of the needle gleamed with a ghostly blue light, clearly poisoned.

Warden Horton glanced at the ring, his expression unchanged. He said calmly, "Take it away."

The prison guard was dragged away, his face pale, his lips trembling, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he said nothing.

The entire cafeteria was completely sealed off. Entry was permitted, but exit was not.

That afternoon, Warden Horton personally presided over the interrogation room and interrogated several of the arrested prisoners.

He didn't use any illegal methods—there was no need. In prison, there are plenty of interrogation methods, and every one of them is legal. Sleep deprivation, food restriction, prolonged standing, extreme temperatures, and most effectively—isolation.

You can't fight against iron.

Even human will cannot.

Less than half an hour later, the first person to speak broke down.

The tattooed man who had been shot through the chest did not die—the bullet had missed his heart, passing through the edge of his lung and causing serious but not fatal damage. After receiving basic treatment in the infirmary, he was taken to the interrogation room. When Horton told him that he would face charges of attempted murder and at least twenty years of additional imprisonment, he confessed everything without hesitation.

He was a member of the "Bad Boys" gang.

"Bad Boys" is a notorious street gang in South Seattle that primarily deals in smuggling, drug trafficking, and prostitution. The gang has approximately two hundred official members in the Seattle area and controls a drug distribution network and underground casinos across several city blocks.

Viktor Kovacs is the head of the "Bad Boys" gang in this prison. A few days ago, he received orders from the gang's higher-ups to kill an Asia had just been imprisoned—the one in the sketch.

The source of the instructions was not revealed by the gang's higher-ups. Viktor only knew that it was a "big deal," with a high price offered and the requirement that it be done cleanly and efficiently, leaving no trace.

As for the prison guard whose poisoned ring was found, his explanation was even simpler.

He received an anonymous letter containing evidence of bribery—several photos and an audio recording documenting his repeated acceptance of money from prisoners' families over the past few years to provide them with contraband and special treatment. The letter threatened that if he did not cooperate, the evidence would be sent to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

In exchange, he was asked to approach the target after he was transferred to Block C and stab him with the poisoned ring. In return, he would receive a large sum of money and a plane ticket to South America.

He didn't know who the sender was. The letter was sent by regular mail, with no sender's address, no fingerprints, and no traceable information. The only thing he knew was that the sender was very familiar with the inner workings of the prison—they knew the warden would take money to do things, they knew the target would be transferred to Block C, and they knew where his weakness as a prison guard lay.

Horton compiled the two interrogation records into a complete report and delivered it to Lin Feng that evening.

Lin Feng sat on the sofa in cell number 7 of Block X, flipping through the report with a calm expression.

The "Bad Boys" gang. A street gang that actually dared to take on this kind of job.

There must be someone behind them directing them.

That person was the one he was truly looking for.

He closed the report, remained silent for a moment, then picked up his phone and dialed a number.

After the call connected, he only said one sentence, "Have K pull up all the information on the ' Bad Boys ' gang. Start from their leader and investigate upwards layer by layer. I need to know who's behind them."

He hung up the phone, leaned back on the sofa, and gazed out the window at the night sky.

"Let me see," he murmured to himself, "Just how well you've kept this hidden."