Chapter 142 Preparing for Operation

The back room of Ray's Barber Shop on Fourth Avenue in Seattle.

Big T was sitting with his legs crossed in his large boss's chair, holding an anonymous cell phone that he usually used to receive business, and nodding repeatedly.

"No problem, sir. William McIntyre, a white man in his sixties, a homeless man. As long as he's still breathing on the streets of Seattle, I can find him."

"I'll pay $30,000 for the person and $5,000 for accurate leads. That's a fair price. I'll call this number immediately if I have any information."

Big T hung up the phone, threw it on the table, his face scrunched up, and his brows furrowed into a deep frown.

"William what what? Who the hell is that? I've never heard of him before."

Big T leaned back in his chair, took an orange from the fruit basket on the table, and started peeling it.

A $30,000 reward for catching a homeless person seems like a windfall. But the problem is, there are at least tens of thousands of homeless people in Seattle, scattered under bridges, in shelters, and in the sewers. Where are you going to find one?

He turned his head and peeked outside through the slightly ajar door.

In the front of the barbershop, his core henchmen were busy dividing a newly arrived batch of goods into small packages, while a few peripheral underlings were rushing to take the goods to the street corner to distribute to drug addicts.

Big T sighed.

With only a few dozen capable people under his command, he was already struggling to keep up with the drug distribution and protection money collection on just two streets.

Where would we find the extra manpower to search through trash cans all over the streets for an old white man named Old Bill?

It looks like I can take on this job, but I can't do it.

Big T smacked his lips, and suddenly, a name popped into his head.

Lyon Vance.

That's right! This big shot is the head of the police station's special operations team!

Isn't it much easier for the police to find people than for these street thugs? They have surveillance cameras, facial recognition, and can even directly check the registration list of relief stations in the system.

If this deal were told to Lyon, and he were to find the person, given the officer's greedy nature, he certainly wouldn't let this extra money slip by.

As the middleman providing the intelligence, I can get a share of the profits, earning a 20% commission on the information. I can make several thousand dollars for free without having my subordinates run themselves ragged. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

Big T thought about it more and more and felt that the idea was brilliant. He immediately picked up his usual cell phone and dialed Lyon's number.

……

Meanwhile, Leon, who had just settled Arthur in his luxury apartment, answered the phone.

"Hey bro! There's a quick buck job out there, wanna do it?"

Big T's excited voice came through the receiver:

"An executive from a big company just contacted me, offering a $30,000 reward for information leading to a homeless man named William McIntyre, nicknamed Old Bill."

"Even a clue can be worth several thousand dollars! Why don't you check the police system? It's free money!"

"If you find it, you can keep the lion's share of the reward, just leave me a small tip..."

Upon hearing the name "William McIntyre," Leon's fingers tightened slightly as he held his phone.

Holy crap.

His brain instantly went into high-speed operation.

William McIntyre? Bill Gates? Raytheon's security department has actually tracked down to the homeless level? And they've even started mobilizing street gangs to find him?

Could it be that my plan to sneak into that house and retrieve the hard drive has been exposed?

wrong.

Lyon took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.

If Raytheon's security department or the FBI had indeed locked onto him, it wouldn't be Big T calling now, but a fully armed tactical assault team coming to his door.

The fact that they are still using gangster channels and offering bounties as a broad-net search method can only mean one thing:

They discovered the data theft, but completely lost track of the trail, not knowing where Old Bill had gone or who had the data.

They are blind.

Having grasped this logic, Lyon's heartbeat calmed down.

"Well done, Big T," Leon said calmly into the phone.

"Huh? Boss, what's so great about it? I just answered a phone call..." Big T was completely bewildered. He had only provided a bounty, how could it be considered a great job?

"You have a bright future, Big T. Really, a very promising one." Leon ignored his doubts and continued to speak in that admiring tone.

Big T was even more confused, scratching his head repeatedly:

"No... Boss, did you hurt your head in the fight just now? What exactly is so promising about you?"

"So, are we still going to do this bounty? You can raise the profit-sharing percentage again; I'll take 10%..."

"I understand. You don't need to worry about it."

Lyon didn't answer his question, but changed the subject:

"I have something else I need to discuss with you, but I'm a bit busy lately. I'll come to your hair salon in person after my vacation ends in a few days."

"Oh? You want to talk to me about something?"

Big T was completely baffled, and his voice even carried a hint of fear, "Boss, I really haven't done anything wrong recently. That time I gave away turkeys was purely for charity..."

"I'm hanging up now. I'll contact you later."

Leon, too lazy to waste any more words, simply ended the call, leaving Big T bewildered in the wind.

What kind of gibberish is this guy talking about? I can't understand a word!

In the apartment, Lyon put his phone back in his pocket, crossed his hands under his chin, and fell into deep thought.

Big T's phone call served as a reminder to him.

Although they have access to official resources, there are often blind spots in the police's view.

Like today, when Raytheon's field agents post bounties in the underworld, it won't even make a ripple in the police system.

If Big T hadn't passed on the information to him in order to make a profit, he might have remained completely in the dark, unaware of when Old Bill was sold out by other gangs.

Having an intelligence network for the underworld is indeed a very useful thing.

After sending Old Bill away, I need to take some time to check Big T's specific business and confirm whether his gang is within a controllable range.

Leon rubbed his temples, deciding to put the plan aside for the time being. He stood up and headed towards Old Bill's room. He needed to remind the guy, who was now wanted by the entire city, that he absolutely must not go near the window during this period.

……

A few days later, late at night in Seattle.

Lyon has ended his brief administrative leave and returned to his position as the ACU team leader of the West Precinct.

At that moment, he was standing under an overpass, his hands in his pockets, watching Alex work in front of him.

A corpse was lying on the ground.

In Seattle's low-temperature environment, the rigor mortis process is prolonged.

Due to a lack of ATP, myosin and actin in the muscles become locked together, causing the deceased's joints to stiffen like rusty gears.

Alex had to use his knees to brace against the back of the corpse's legs and use his body weight to press down, forcibly bending the stiff legs before he could barely squeeze him into the standard-sized body bag.

Before the zipper was zipped up, a bloodless face was revealed.

This is a face of Chinese descent.

Looking at the obviously domestically styled down jacket on the corpse, and the pile of leaflets with random slogans scattered in the tattered snakeskin bag next to it, Leon and Alex exchanged a glance and immediately understood the composition of the corpse.

This is a story of a person who went through countless hardships, possibly even selling his house in China, to travel from the South American rainforest all the way to America.

When they arrived in this land of freedom, they discovered that not only was the air not sweet, but there was also no shortage of unlicensed workers washing dishes in Chinese restaurants.

In the end, when all their money was spent or stolen, they could only freeze to death under a bridge in Seattle during an icy rainstorm.

The two looked at the lifeless face without feeling anything, not even the slightest bit of sympathy.

They went to great lengths to jump into the fire pit; they got what they deserved.

"Sizzle—"

Alex expressionlessly pulled the zipper all the way down, completely sealing his face into darkness.

He stood up, took off his nitrile gloves, which reeked of the stench of death, and tossed them into a nearby medical waste bag before walking over to Lyon.

"We've received a reply from above."

Alex lowered his voice, sounding somewhat relaxed: "They've decided to take it."

Lyon's eyes narrowed, and he nodded slightly, signaling him to continue.

"2 AM tonight."

Alex leaned closer and rattled off an address in rapid succession: "An old farm machinery warehouse in an abandoned industrial park in the northern suburbs, near Highway 99."

"Take those two old men to the back door of that warehouse."

After giving the address, Alex paused, looked into Leon's eyes, and his expression became very serious:

"My task ends here, and your task ends here as well, just get the person through that door."

"Once the handover is complete, turn around and leave immediately. What happens after that—how to get them out of Seattle, how to get them through customs, how to cross the Pacific—is none of your concern, and don't ask about it."

Alex shrugged and added:

"Those who understand, understand. This isn't just what the higher-ups want; it's also to protect you. You're too big a target right now. The less they know, the safer everyone will be."

"I see."

Lyon nodded, not feeling offended.

The basic principles of intelligence work are physical isolation and information blockade.

That suburban farm machinery warehouse was clearly just a temporary transit point.

Once old Bill and Arthur are handed over to the contact, they will naturally use special diplomatic channels, hidden cargo ships, or other routes that even the FBI cannot detect to send them away.

Since I'm not on the same side as them, I certainly can't let him know the evacuation route.

That way, even if he gets arrested by the Ministry of Internal Affairs or the CIA for other reasons, no matter how many lie detector tests he takes, all he'll produce is a worthless empty warehouse address.

This professional separation actually made Lyon feel more at ease, as he perceived the other party's actions as highly professional.

"I will deliver the person at 2 a.m. sharp."

Lyon mentally reviewed the address and memorized it.