Chapter 198 Old Man
Hassan Imam leaned back in his chair, his deep gaze sweeping back and forth between Alex and Lyon before finally nodding heavily.
"Can."
Hassan made the decision: "Since your white friends behind you aren't Christians, the mosque will provide you with an open space in front of your stall. I'll have some young people from the community help you maintain order and make sure those addicts don't come and wreck your place."
Alex breathed a sigh of relief and was about to respond when Hassan raised a hand to interrupt him.
"As for the ingredients, just like you said, I will provide you with the necessary supplies."
"Every sheep must be alive and healthy before it is slaughtered."
Hassan's voice sounded very solemn.
"The butcher must be a Muslim, and must recite the name of Allah when he makes the cut."
"The jugular vein and trachea must be severed in one stroke to drain the blood completely. Only meat treated in this way can be eaten by believers."
"I know."
Alex nodded; he had this in mind when he first said Hassan would be in charge of the food supply chain.
Hassan was very pleased with Alex's straightforward attitude. He pulled an old notebook from the pile of clutter on the table and turned to a blank page.
"I'll contact the halal butcher shop on 10th Street; they have the proper slaughtering certificate. I'll have the women in the community buy the flour and spices."
Hassan wrote down a few names on a piece of paper. "Give me two or three days. Once the venue and suppliers are all arranged, I'll have Jamal contact you."
"Deal." Alex rubbed his hands together.
Leon remained silent throughout, maintaining his new persona as a taciturn man, and then followed Alex and Jamal out of the incense-scented office.
……
That night, at 11:00 AM.
Deep in a private forest on Mercer Island, on the shores of Lake Washington, east of Seattle.
This is a traditional, old-fashioned, affluent neighborhood far from the hustle and bustle of the city.
Unlike the tech upstarts who are based in Bellevue and obsessed with installing facial recognition cameras and infrared laser nets on the exterior walls of their mansions, the Sterling family's headquarters presents a completely different picture.
A two-kilometer-long private asphalt driveway winds its way through a dense evergreen coniferous forest. There are no streetlights or conspicuous surveillance cameras on either side of the driveway.
In the dark forest, the real security network is made up of living people.
George, the old black man who picked up Lyon at the charity dinner organized by Sterling, was wearing a bulletproof black tactical vest with a windproof jacket over it.
He stood in the shade of a sturdy Douglas fir tree, holding an HK416 assault rifle fitted with a silencer.
His slightly yellowish eyes scanned the only passage leading to the main house.
Behind George, several burly men in dark coats were silently patrolling among the fallen leaves, leading two large Rottweilers.
These people do not belong to any security company; they are descendants of followers from the old Sterling era.
When their fathers were killed or injured in police infighting or street brawls, the Sterling family provided them with shelter, paid for their medical expenses, and covered their children's tuition.
Now, they have naturally become the Sterling family's private army.
Although they weren't named Sterling, they were more loyal than any mercenary who had signed a confidentiality agreement.
This feudal dependency relationship, reminiscent of medieval vassals, formed the most impregnable barrier of the manor.
Passing through the woods, the outline of a large stone and wood mansion came into view in the night.
The interior of the manor is devoid of any modern minimalist style. The walls were covered with dark red velvet wallpaper, and heavy brass chandeliers hung from the towering dome.
Dark oak wainscoting extends all the way to the ceiling, and the air is filled with the aromas of old cigars, leather, and aged whiskey.
The walls on both sides of the corridor are covered with rows of old photos framed in walnut wood.
The photos mostly show men in old-fashioned double-breasted police uniforms, shaking hands with successive mayors and governors of Seattle, and even politicians from Washington, D.C., across different eras.
These photos silently demonstrate the deep-rooted power network of this blue-blooded aristocratic family within the Seattle police force.
At the corner of the main staircase, an ornate double-barreled shotgun was nailed horizontally to the wall.
Several maids in old-fashioned black and white uniforms carried silver trays and walked briskly down the corridor with their heads down. Their rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the thick Persian carpet.
The maid carried the tray to the end of the corridor and gently pushed open a heavy double oak door.
This is the heart of the estate, old Sterling's study.
The oak firewood in the fireplace was burning brightly, making a soft crackling sound.
Victoria's father, former president of the Seattle Police Union, Sterling Sr., was reclining on a large Chesterfield leather sofa.
Victoria's father, former president of the Seattle Police Union, Sterling Sr., was reclining on a large Chesterfield leather sofa.
He will be seventy years old in two months, but thanks to a top-notch private medical team and anti-aging gene therapy in the United States, he looks no more than fifty.
His hair was still thick, but his temples were slightly gray. He was wearing a dark turtleneck cashmere sweater and holding a glass of single malt whiskey on the rocks.
The atmosphere in the room was not relaxed.
In the shadows of the floor-to-ceiling window, a thin, sparse-haired old man was holding an encrypted satellite phone and talking to someone in a cold, sinister voice.
He was Sterling's partner back then, named McFarlane.
Although he had long since retired from his position as deputy police chief, he still possessed a vast amount of incriminating information and a network of informants within the Seattle and even Washington state judicial systems.
"Listen, Judge Smith. I know that the Secret Service team leader named Leon from the West Precinct made quite a stir last night."
"Many people died at the scene; it was indeed a gruesome sight. But it was a gang fight, and the police were just there to collect the bodies."
There seemed to be an argument on the other end of the phone.
McFarlane sneered:
"Procedural justice? Don't mention that word to me."
"Which charitable foundation under your name did the money from last month's purchase of the apartment for that stripper in Portland come from?"
"Should I send my bank statements directly to the editorial department of The Seattle Times?"
The other party fell silent instantly.
"very good."
McFarlane's tone softened slightly, but the threat remained.
"Keep those lackeys in the Western District Attorney's Office in check who are about to file an investigation."
"If anyone in the Department of Home Affairs tries to infiltrate the Victoria branch, give them some other trouble, like checking their wives' overseas accounts."
"That cop named Lyon is now a valuable asset to our family, understand?"
After saying that, McFarlane hung up the phone and threw it on the table.
In the corner on the other side of the study stood two pale-faced young men.
Those were Victoria's two brothers, and the greatest disgrace to the Sterling family of this generation.
The eldest son, Richard, was wearing a wrinkled, expensive suit with his tie loosely pulled.
He just botched a $30 million insider trade on Wall Street and is now being relentlessly pursued by the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC).
The second son, Robert, had striking white hair, and there was even some white powder residue around his nostrils that hadn't been wiped off.
He got high at a nightclub downtown last night and crashed his Porsche into three parked cars.
Finally, George led a group of men to drag the completely drunk man out of the car, and while they were at it, they stuffed the unfortunate guy whose leg he had broken into the trunk and disposed of him.
Old Sterling swirled the whiskey glass in his hand, and an ice cube clinked against the glass.
He raised his eyelids and glanced at the two good-for-nothings in turn.
"In the West Side, Victoria, with a low-level patrolman who only spent a few thousand or tens of thousands of dollars in overtime pay, cleaned up half of the gang leaders in West Seattle and also got a huge grant from the city council."
Every word Old Sterling uttered was like a whip lashing across the faces of his two sons.
"And the two of you."
Old Sterling pointed at Richard, "Someone stupid enough to use his own real-name account to buy stock in a shell company."
He then pointed at Robert, "The other one doesn't even understand the most basic common sense of hiding drugs in the car."
Richard wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and tried to explain, "Father, the SEC is just making a routine inquiry. All they need is some money to grease the wheels..."
"Shut up."
Old Sterling interrupted him.
"If you can't even clean up your own mess, don't go after that piece of meat."
"The family spends millions every year to support those lawyers, not so that you can cause trouble like idiots outside."
McFarlane walked over, sat down on the sofa opposite old Sterling, and poured himself a glass of wine.
"The matter is settled."
McFarlane took a sip of whiskey.
"I spoke to several key judges and informants in the General Administration's Internal Affairs Department."
"The West End shootout will be firmly categorized as a gang war, and no one in the shadows can use it to push anything forward. Leon's file will be spotless."
"Well done, Mike." Old Sterling nodded. "Victoria has good taste."
At that moment, the study door was pushed open again.
A middle-aged man in a gray suit with short hair walked in. He was the head of the intelligence network under old Sterling and one of the family's core retainers.
He ignored the two young masters huddled in the corner and walked straight up to old Sterling.
The retainer opened the memo in his hand.
"Our informant at City Hall has reported that the mayor and Chief of Staff Finch have reached an agreement."
"They used an executive order to suspend all homeless clearing and eviction operations in the West End."
The retainer paused for a moment, then continued his report:
"Meanwhile, patrol officers in the South and North districts received covert instructions to move large numbers of homeless people, drug addicts, and mental patients to the West district."
"The gangs there were just wiped out by Lyon, leaving a huge security vacuum. The homeless are turning the West End into their new paradise."
Old Sterling's brow furrowed slightly.
McFarlane sneered:
"That hypocrite Reynolds. He knows he can't take away Leon's anti-terrorism hero aura on the front lines, so he wants to use these low-level scum to wear down Victoria's police force."
"Do we need to intervene?"
The retainer asked, "Can we find a few conservative media outlets to expose the mayor's plan?"
After hearing his retainer's report, old Sterling did not immediately give any instructions.
He leaned back in the large leather sofa, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace, his fingers slowly swirling the glass of whiskey.
The study was so quiet that the only sound was the crackling of the burning firewood. The retainer kept his head slightly bowed, remaining in a waiting posture.
"Victoria has been doing really well lately."
Old Sterling finally spoke, his voice steady, devoid of any excitement, as calm as a stagnant pool.
"From the firefight in the industrial zone last month, to the clearing of the area by the Pink Swans the night before last, and the press conference yesterday morning."
"She drove that hypocrite Reynolds to the point where he had to resort to such despicable means as being a vagrant."
He looked away from the fireplace and glanced at his eldest son Richard and second son Robert, who were huddled in the corner.
"Except for Henry, who is still in college and has some brains and is worth nurturing, your generation of young people are all a bunch of good-for-nothings."
Richard's shoulders twitched violently, and Robert buried his head in his chest, barely daring to breathe.
Old Sterling looked away, picked up his glass, and took a sip.
"The Sterling family has been running their business in Seattle for four generations, and now they have to rely on Victoria, a woman, to hold their storefront on the streets."
"That's a joke, really. But she's doing a better job than all of you slackers combined."
Old Sterling shook his head. He actually admired Victoria, but in his view, no matter how adept a woman was at navigating politics and power, her ultimate destiny should be to consolidate the family's interests through marriage.
Sitting across from him, McFarlane chuckled and picked up his bottle to pour himself some more wine.
"However, Victoria's judgment seems to have been influenced by the flashing lights and media praise lately."
Old Sterling then changed the subject, steering the conversation towards the young policeman who frequently appeared around his daughter.
"That young man named Leon Vance is really good."
Old Sterling gave a fair assessment, appearing quite satisfied.
"He's capable and ruthless enough to take care of all those gangsters on the street, and he doesn't ramble on when dealing with the media."
"He is a useful hound in this troubled time."
Old Sterling paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"But Victoria got too close to him."
"Whether at the previous charity gala or at yesterday morning's press conference, their physical distance and eye contact in front of the cameras have crossed the line."
The retainer stood still, not responding. McFarlane, on the other hand, swirled his glass with interest, waiting for his old partner to continue.