Chapter 175 The Prestige of the Older Generation

late at night.

South edge of Seattle.

A two-story old Victorian building stands alone in the shadows, far from the bustling streets.

This is a traditional funeral home in O'Connor.

The dark red paint on the building's exterior walls appeared somewhat mottled under the streetlights, and the attic windows on the roof resembled two dark, hollow eyes.

A night breeze blew by, and the few withered old oak trees in the yard rustled.

The air was filled with a complex smell, a mixture of the pungent formaldehyde preservative, the rich scent of white lilies, and a kind of aged frankincense often found in old Catholic churches.

This smell made the house seem both eerie and sinister, yet also gave it a solemn feel that made people subconsciously tread lightly.

A Dodge Challenger silently glided into the unloading area of ​​the funeral home's backyard and came to a steady stop in front of a few concrete steps.

The car door opened.

Alex and Leon jumped out of the car, and together they carried the heavy black body bag containing Sarah's body out of the cold, stuffy car and down the steps into the semi-basement embalming room of the funeral home.

The lights in the processing room were bright but not glaring. The walls were covered with white tiles, and the floor was spotless.

In the center of the room stood a stainless steel table, next to which were neatly arranged various glass containers, silicone tubes, and delicate suturing instruments used for injecting preservative solutions.

An elderly white man in his seventies was standing in front of the stainless steel counter, waiting for them.

This is O'Connor.

He was a typical Irish old man; his hair was completely white, but neatly combed.

He was wearing a well-tailored, high-quality black three-piece suit, with his tie neatly tied.

Even when he was engaged in this shady, underworld business of picking up the dead at night, he maintained a rigid and respectable old-fashioned gentlemanly demeanor.

A gleaming silver cross pendant hung on his chest.

"Put it up here."

Old man O'Connor's voice was deep and hoarse, with a heavy Irish accent.

Leon and Alex laid the body bag flat on the stainless steel table and unzipped it.

Old man O'Connor didn't ask a single question about the deceased's identity, nor did he glance at Leon and Alex.

He put on a pair of white rubber gloves, and his expression became extremely serious and focused.

He bent down slightly, his movements very gentle, and carefully examined Sarah's emaciated body, which was covered with needle marks.

His gaze swept over the girl's sunken eye sockets and withered limbs.

A fleeting, almost imperceptible hint of pity crossed O'Connor's stern face.

Based on his decades of experience, he could tell at a glance that this poor young girl had suffered a long and painful ordeal before her death.

He gently pulled over a clean white cloth and covered Sarah's body, concealing her shockingly sickly appearance.

Then, Mr. O'Connor took off the glove on his right hand.

He closed his eyes and solemnly made the sign of the cross on his chest with his right hand.

"Lord, grant her eternal rest and let eternal light shine upon her."

The old man whispered an ancient Catholic requiem in Latin, his voice echoing in the empty treatment room.

May this suffering soul find final peace and liberation in the embrace of the Lord.

Seeing O'Connor's ritualistic and respectful manner, Lyon, standing to the side, nodded slightly, his eyes softening.

Although the old man's fees were indeed not cheap, it was worth the money.

In this messed-up city where organs can be dismantled and sold at will for money, it's truly rare to find a craftsman with principles who still retains reverence for the dead.

Sarah entrusted her affairs to this old man; even if the ghost knew this from beyond the grave, it would shut up.

After praying, O'Connor put her gloves back on.

"Gentlemen, I understand the girl's situation."

He turned to look at Alex, his tone reverting to its usual businesslike rigidity:

"Replacing the preservative solution and filling the face with fat will take some time. I will try my best to make her look as peaceful as she did when she was healthy."

"You can come tomorrow afternoon at four o'clock to confirm her appearance and choose her clothes. If you are satisfied, I will arrange for someone to give her a dignified burial late the night after tomorrow."

"Thank you for your help, Mr. O'Connor."

Alex nodded, confirmed the procedure with the old man, and then turned and walked with Leon toward the back door they had come from.

"Creak—"

Just as the two of them placed their hands on the heavy security door handle, preparing to push the door open and leave.

Two blinding beams of headlights suddenly tore through the pitch-black night in the backyard.

A large black van without license plates, without even using its turn signals, screeched to a halt with its tires rubbing against gravel, and crashed straight into the unloading area in the backyard.

The car stopped almost touching the steps, completely blocking Lyon and Alex's way down.

"Bang! Bang!"

Before the truck had even come to a complete stop, the passenger side door and the rear sliding door were violently pushed open.

Four burly black men jumped down, their expressions tense.

Leading the way was Darrell, a burly black man with a long scar on his left cheek.

Behind him, three trusted henchmen were working together to carry a heavy, large, black waterproof sleeping bag out of the carriage.

The sleeping bag sagged down in the middle, creating a distinct human-shaped outline.

Darrell and his gang are completely on edge tonight.

Their leader, Marcus, had just been slaughtered like a pig in a heavily guarded safe house, and the entire Blood Gang West District branch was now in a powder keg that could fall apart at any moment.

They dragged their boss's body out overnight to find a black market embalmer for preservation, their nerves already on edge, afraid of letting the slightest word slip.

As soon as he jumped off the vehicle, he bumped into two strange men standing on the steps of the unloading area.

"Who goes there?!"

The three Blood Gang henchmen, dragging their sleeping bags, shuddered. Instinctively, they immediately put down their sleeping bags and reached out with their right hands to their bulging waists under their oversized coats.

"Stop! All of you, put your hands down!"

Darrell's eye muscles twitched violently. He turned around abruptly and let out a furious growl at his men in a low voice.

He absolutely cannot allow a shootout to break out at this time and in this place.

Once the gunshots are fired, the patrol officers from the South District will arrive within three minutes.

Once the police arrive, the secret hidden in that black sleeping bag on the ground will be completely exposed.

The news of the Blood Gang leader's violent death will spread throughout Seattle's underworld first thing tomorrow morning, and then all their mortal enemies will come to kick them while they're down.

After Darrell's harsh reprimand, the three henchmen stopped drawing their guns, but their hands remained firmly on their belts, their eyes fixed fiercely on the two men on the steps.

After suppressing his subordinate's impulsive behavior, Darrell turned around, frowned, and used the corner of the truck's headlights to examine the two people standing on the concrete steps.

The one on the left is a slightly overweight Asian man who is staring at them with wide eyes.

And the one on the right...

He was wearing a dark turtleneck jacket, tall and imposing. Although the lower half of his face was covered by a blue medical mask, his deep and aggressive steel-gray eyes were coldly looking down at him.

The moment Darrell's gaze met those eyes.

His fierce face froze instantly, and his breath stopped completely.

A fine layer of cold sweat suddenly seeped out from his forehead and back.

He definitely recognizes this person!

After the bloody battle in the industrial area a while ago, this man's photos and videos were played on Seattle's local news channels every day. The hundreds of members of the Blood Gang had long since etched this face into their very bones.

Moreover, Darrell knew better than anyone else that Marcus had hired someone on the dark web a few days ago, and the target was this very policeman!

Yesterday, Marcus had his chest crushed in the safe house. It's obvious that the enemy who came looking for him was the surviving cop!

Holy crap?!

So why is this cop here?!

Didn't he just kill Marcus on the outskirts of Tacoma? How could he possibly be at the back door of this underground funeral home on the southern edge of the city?!

Did he know we were going to bring the boss's body here for embalming?

Was he deliberately waiting here to ambush us?!

Countless guesses flashed through Darrell's mind in an instant, and shock overwhelmed him like a tsunami.

"Leon Vance..."

In utter shock, Darrell's lips went dry, and he unconsciously squeezed out the name through his teeth.

The three Blood Gang henchmen standing behind Darrell turned deathly pale upon hearing the name, their panic exploding instantly.

Kill Darlis's cops! Kill the real culprit who killed Boss Marcus!

"Hold!"

Panic and hostility instantly overwhelmed reason, and the three henchmen no longer cared about Darrell's earlier order to "not fire."

The three of them simultaneously drew their Glock pistols and short-barreled submachine guns from their waists, pointing them directly at Leon on the steps.

At the very moment they drew their guns.

Lyon, standing on the steps, felt a slight shiver run down the back of his neck.

A slight throbbing sensation appeared in my mind: [Danger Perception].

Leon's gaze instantly turned icy, and his right hand, which had been casually hanging at his side, darted inside his open jacket like lightning.

His fingers were already gripping the handle of the MP7 submachine gun with the silencer, and his thumb smoothly flicked off the safety.

If the gun muzzle on the other side were raised just half an inch higher, he could have blown the heads of all four black men to smithereens in a fraction of a second.

Standing next to Lyon, Alex was terrified when he saw the three dark gun barrels below.

"Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!"

Alex screamed inwardly, his legs went weak, and he instinctively wanted to hide behind the door frame.

Damn it, I'm just here to deliver the body of a girl who died of illness, to send her off on her final journey!

How could I possibly run into a gang fight at the back door of a morgue?! Has the security situation in America deteriorated to the point that even funeral homes are now targeted?!

Is it really that satisfying to kill and bury someone on the spot?

At that moment, Lyon, his finger on the trigger, glanced at Darrell's utterly shocked face and then at the heavy black waterproof sleeping bag at their feet.

He realized it too.

This is absolutely absurd.

What's this? A twist of fate?

Yesterday, he had just crushed Marcus, the leader of the Blood Gang, by stepping on his ribs and pinning him to the floor.

As a result, after he arrived at the underground funeral home and finished dealing with the assassin sister's funeral arrangements, he opened the door and bumped into Marcus's loyal henchmen, who were carrying their boss's body and running to the same roof to do embalming.

The odds are even more outrageous than winning the lottery.

Just as tensions were running high, a gunfight between the two sides was about to break out, and the air was almost frozen in a deathly silence.

"Creak—"

The heavy security door behind Lyon was pulled open from the inside.

Wearing a suit and a silver cross around his neck, the elderly O'Connor walked out from the bright lights of the preservation treatment room.

He had his hands in his suit trouser pockets, carrying nothing, and faced the dark muzzles of several guns pointing in his direction from below the steps, his stern face expressionless.

But the moment he appeared, the tense atmosphere in the backyard, which could have easily escalated into a bloody massacre, was abruptly suppressed by an invisible pressure.

"Put away those tin toys you have."

The old man's voice could be heard clearly in the quiet backyard.

"Darrell. You've been with Marcus for so many years, you should know the rules here."

"This is my yard. Here, in front of the dead, absolutely no knives or guns are allowed."

O'Connor looked at Darrell's tense face, her tone leaving no room for negotiation:

"Whatever grudges you have outside are your street business. If you want to fight, go fight in your street."

"But once you step into my territory, you have to abide by my rules."

"If you don't put your guns back in your crotches, you'd better get out of my yard right now with what you're carrying."

"Not only will I not take this job, but I will also never touch any of the Blood Gang's work again."

In this lawless land, O'Connor's rules are more effective than police warnings.

This old man has worked here for decades and has a very high reputation in the underworld.

He doesn't favor any particular power; he only cares about ensuring the dead depart with dignity.

Darrell wasn't actually sure if the old man had any deep connection with the Italian Mafia or Mexicans.

But within the Bloods alone, the two previous leaders, as well as several veteran leaders who died fighting for the gang, were all buried and sewn up by O'Connor himself on this stainless steel platform.

If I were to fire a shot in this yard tonight in a moment of impulsiveness, breaking O'Connor's rules, there would be no need for this policeman to lift a finger.

Tomorrow, those elders and uncles within the Blood Gang who value seniority will be the first to jump out and skin him alive.

No matter how ruthless a gang may be, they cannot draw their guns on the artisans who prepare their predecessors for burial.

Darrell clenched his back teeth, and the muscles in his cheeks bulged out.

He's a ruthless man, but he's not a brainless brute.

Marcus is dead. What he needs most now is to stabilize the situation, not to create an uncontrollable gunfight here.

"I just said, put the gun away."

Darrell didn't turn around, but lowered his voice and gave orders to his three trusted men behind him.

"Boss! But he..." one of the henchmen said anxiously, pointing to Leon on the steps.

"I told you to put the gun away! Didn't you understand?!"

Darrell growled. The henchmen could only angrily engage the safety and shove their guns back under their oversized coats.