Chapter 202 New Talents
Chapter 202 New Talents
The cold night wind swirled discarded newspapers across the empty streets of Fourth Avenue.
Big T, accompanied by four thugs wielding aluminum baseball bats and rusty iron pipes, menacingly turned into the dark alleyway beside the barbershop.
He had expected to see a chaotic brawl, or a group of homeless people pinning his men to the ground and robbing them.
But the atmosphere in the alley was eerily unsettling.
Martin, whose thigh was stabbed, was being supported by two other street corner boys, leaning against the red brick wall on the side of the alley.
Martin clutched his thigh, red blood seeping from between his fingers, and gasped in pain.
But the homeless, stabbing madman did not continue his rampage as Big T had predicted.
He was lying upside down in a pile of black garbage bags that smelled sour, a few meters away, clutching his stomach and rolling around.
This was a thin, elderly white man wearing a tattered white coat that had long since yellowed and whose original color was no longer discernible, with a broken stethoscope hanging around his neck.
"I—I'm giving them tetanus vaccines!"
The old man struggled in the garbage heap while muttering nervously to himself.
"This neighborhood is infected—my treatment plan is perfect—you cannot refuse treatment!"
Big T's gaze passed over the mad old man and landed on the black man standing between Martin and the group of homeless people.
It was the black tumor that his subordinate had just mentioned.
The Black man was wearing a pilling grey hooded sweatshirt, and there was an obvious unnatural stiffness around his left knee.
But the way he stood there didn't look like a wimp begging on the street at all.
His feet were slightly apart, his center of gravity was low, and he was holding a half-meter-long iron rod upside down in his hand.
The sleeves of the hoodie were rolled up above the elbows, revealing well-defined muscles and prominent veins on the exposed forearms.
More importantly, it was his eyes.
Those were eyes that had seen blood, eyes that were deathly still and calm, without the numbness or madness of an ordinary homeless person.
He pointed with the iron pipe in his hand at the concrete ground in front of him, drawing an invisible line between Martin and the group of homeless people.
"I've already kicked that crazy guy away."
The black cripple looked at the approaching T-shirt without the slightest fear.
"That's enough. We need to set up camp in this sheltered alley. You take your men and leave, and we'll all be fine."
When Big T heard this, he felt like his lungs were about to explode.
He turned his head and glanced again into the depths of the alley.
A dozen or so homeless people dressed in tattered clothes and pushing shopping carts stood behind the tumor, their eyes gleaming with greed as they stared intently at Big T.
They clearly didn't dare to lead the charge themselves, but as long as this capable, lame black man held the alleyway, they could follow and bring in their tattered mattresses.
"Are you trying to teach me how to do things?"
Big T was so angry he laughed. He suddenly lifted the hem of his sports jacket and grabbed the handle of the Glock pistol at his waist with his right hand.
"That's the rule here! Take your men and this pile of junk, and get out of my territory right now! Or I'll turn you all into dead dogs tonight!"
Big T's voice was loud, but his hand holding the gun was actually trembling.
The image of Leon flashed uncontrollably through his mind once again.
If he dares to fire that shot on the street during this period, the black man will definitely die, but he himself will most likely not be able to escape either.
The black man stood still, his gaze lingering for two seconds on Big T's slightly trembling right hand, before slowly raising his head to look directly into Big T's eyes.
"You won't shoot."
The sick man tapped the iron pipe in his palm twice.
"Although I just came from the South District, I also know that the police in the West District have gone crazy these past two days."
"A lot of the powerful gangs here have died, and now there are patrol cars everywhere on the streets."
"If you dare pull the trigger, this street will be blocked off by the cops within ten minutes. Then, it won't be us nameless homeless people going to jail, it will be you."
The sick man took half a step forward, the dragging sensation in his left leg making his movement slightly heavy, but the oppressive feeling instantly amplified.
"If you don't fire, with just those guys behind you wielding baseball bats—"
Zi glanced at the thugs behind Big T, "I guarantee I'll smash all their kneecaps before they even get close to me."
Big T swallowed hard.
He looked at the outline of the bulging pectoral muscles under the cripple's hoodie, then turned to look at the thugs behind him.
He knew very well that this tumor wasn't just boasting.
If we didn't use guns, the five of us would most likely be crippled by this professionally trained guy if we charged in.
The air in the alley seemed to freeze.
Big T dared not fire, and he had no chance of winning in hand-to-hand combat. But he absolutely could not just slink away like that.
He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his cheeks twitching, his right hand still gripping the pistol, his left hand tightly clutching an aluminum baseball bat.
The black man with the tumor remained standing, making no further provocations, simply maintaining a defensive posture.
The two groups of people were locked in a fierce standoff less than five meters apart in this narrow alleyway filled with the stench of urine and blood.
Just as Big T and the black man with the tumor were locked in a stalemate in the dark alley, a tall figure silently blended into the crowd of homeless people watching the spectacle on the street outside the alley entrance.
Lyon stood next to a shopping cart full of junk, his back habitually leaning against the cold red brick wall.
He had changed out of the casual clothes he wore on his date with Mia earlier that day, and was now wearing an inconspicuous gray waterproof windbreaker, a black baseball cap pulled low over his head, and a black medical protective mask over his face.
This is the "RayFong" suit he wore yesterday morning when he went to the West District Mosque to meet Imam Hassan.
He originally planned to take Mia back to her apartment after his date tonight, and then go to Fourth Avenue under the cover of night to find Big T, the local bigwig.
Ever since he taught Big T a lesson last time, this guy has become extremely obedient. He even revealed to me before that Thor Corporation was searching for Old Bill.
Lyon originally intended to use the dilapidated neighborhood of Big T to understand the specific scale of the West Side homeless migration, and incidentally outsource the headhunting task of finding bankrupt tech talents like Old Bill to the street corner boys running errands for Big T.
As soon as they arrived near Ray's barbershop, they saw the two groups of people confronting each other in a dark alley.
With his hands in the pockets of his jacket, Leon turned his head slightly and glanced at a white homeless man standing on tiptoe, peering into the alley.
"What's going on in there?" Leon asked in a low, indifferent voice.
The white homeless man was engrossed in watching and, without turning his head, excitedly shared the information: "Hey, they're fighting over territory! That black guy with the gun is the boss of this barbershop, and he was trying to kick us out."
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"Turns out that the black cripple was a tough guy; he kicked that crazy old man who kept spouting about vaccines into the trash heap, and now he's going head-to-head with the boss!"
"The boss even drew his gun, but he didn't have the guts to fire it."
Following the direction the homeless man pointed, Leon's gaze pierced through the gaps in the crowd and landed on the sick black man.
His gaze swept quickly over the man's slightly bent but explosive left leg, his taut back muscles, and the web of his hand gripping the iron pipe.
Although the man was wearing a tattered hoodie and covered in mud, his standard defensive stance and unwavering gaze when facing a gun could not have been developed by begging on the streets.
In addition, there are calluses on the tiger's mouth —
Veterans may even have seen bloodshed overseas.
Lyon's lips curled slightly beneath his mask.
That's why he came here.
Lyon straightened up from the wall.
He ignored the homeless man who was still babbling beside him, kept his hands in his pockets, and strode forward, pushing aside the homeless men blocking his way, heading into the depths of the dark alley.
"Hey! What are you doing? There are guns over there!" the homeless man muttered in annoyance after being pushed away.
Lyon did not turn around.
With his terrifying body control granted by his 20 points of agility, he approached Big T with almost no sound as his footsteps landed on the puddle.
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