"Break off the Black Hand" movie script
(Formerly known as "Severe Strike", Raw Deal)
Text/Walter Weijie (United States)
Translated by Wen Jian, Wu En, Ji Yan
1. There are often wonderful weather in autumn, and people feel extremely happy at this time.
On that dim October morning, there was no sunny "Indian Summer" in northeastern Illinois.
The light rain has been ticking down since dawn. On the concrete runway of this small airport, there are countless small puddles gleaming. A windsock dangling back and forth hung from a pole—it looked like the corpse of a drunkard.
Suddenly there was a slight rumbling sound. It became more and more obvious, and later turned into a rapid howling. A small two-engine passenger plane broke through the clouds, appeared over the end of the runway, and began to land. Soon after landing, the plane rolled slowly to a stop about 40 yards from the control tower.
The driver turned off the motor and unfastened his seat belt. Then he greeted the only passenger on that flight.
"Already here." The pilot said, then opened the door and lowered the gangway.
The passenger was an unobtrusive person of medium build, with an expressionless face and short brown hair. Wearing a dark blue suit, he looks like a manager of a medium-sized company.
The documents on this passenger, no matter the ID card or the driver's license, were forged. He is not called Arnold Fonold at all, and what he serves is not a corporate army, but another army. His silence was not because he was thinking about business. He is unwilling to keep his voice in the driver's memory.
The man in a blue suit walked down the ramp to the runway. He took a deep breath of moist air. Now he saw an inconspicuous van parked next to the airport office building; the black smoke from the exhaust pipe indicated that the car's motor was running. The man in a dark blue suit walked quickly towards the van.
This man stepped into the van and fastened his seat belt carefully. Only the amateur half-bottle of vinegar would take it lightly. For the expert, any unnecessary slight risk is not worth it. The van started immediately. It was already speeding on the highway to the west in six minutes.
2. The gust of wind caused ripples on the surface of the Great Lake.
With Lake Michigan 300 miles long and 100 miles wide, this little breeze can't make big waves.
The 28-foot-long motorboat broke through the waves and sailed toward the shore of the lake half a mile away.
When the motorboat arrived at the dock, it moved slowly and dexterously, sticking the hull to the dock. A strong man wearing sunglasses and a knee-length jacket jumped onto the dock. For such a big person, his movements can be said to be amazing agility. He carried a canvas bag of the kind that professional athletes usually carry. The canvas bag was stuffed with the heavy tools used in his special business.
Punctuality is very important in doing their job.
A minute delay can cause catastrophic destruction.
3. Union Railway Station, located in Chicago's business district, can be said to be the epitome of Chicago. It is huge, active, and boiling with unlimited energy. There was no one hanging out at Union Station. The people there are practical, and no one is indulging in dreams.
No one paid special attention to the short-distance passenger train from the suburbs that pitted at 12 to 10 minutes. No one paid special attention to the squinting man in the brown trench coat.
The man walked to the station hall and looked at the big clock on the wall, and then began to slow down.
His narrow, gloomy eyes suddenly flashed brightly.
They are all unpleasant guys.
Just like himself.
No one who had worked with him didn't call him the son of a bitch.
There was a person staring at him, the van driver who used to pick up passengers at the airport.
Now he saw the driver. There was no sign of acquaintance between the two, and then the squinting person followed the driver and left the station hall.
They walked towards the van. Two other men were already sitting in the back of the car, one was a passenger on the plane, and the other came by steamboat. They vacated the front compartment seat for the one who came by train, and then the driver got into the driver's seat.
The driver drove the Chrysler van cautiously through the densely-trafficed business district. He drove attentively. His task is to send these people to the destination without any mistakes.
They soon drove away from the outskirts of the city. The traffic is no longer as crowded as before. Now they have left Chicago for two hours. At this time, the man who came by the motorboat probed his hand to the cargo compartment behind him, and then took out the big canvas bag he had brought from the boat.
There is a 30.6 caliber semi-automatic rifle in the canvas bag. The gun is equipped with a muffler and telescope sight.
A 25.2-inch long submachine gun, a metal buttstock, and the smell of engine oil. There are also five magazines, each containing 32 bullets.
Four semi-automatic P-15 Browning pistols. It comes with 12 magazines, each of which can hold 15 bullets. This 9mm big bullet can explode fist-sized bullet holes in the human body.
A large-caliber continuous-fire shotgun. As far as its bullet hits, no matter what it is, it is killed immediately, including those stubborn big brown bears.
Then there are three grenades. They have powerful explosive power and can kill creatures within a radius of more than ten meters.
The men in the van selected their weapons, loaded them with bullets skillfully, and nodded in satisfaction.
Now they can make money. The compensation is high. The price they pay is also high.
4. The woods are dense. There is only a small town four miles away from here.
It can be said that there is not even a house here, except for the trees, it is a clearing. A fire monitoring tower stands in this clearing. On the high observation deck stood a man in a green parka and a brown hunter hat.
A large binoculars was hung from a belt around his neck. He put the binoculars in his eyes and quickly searched all directions in the woods.
He wasn't there waiting for someone or something, but he had to look around like this every 10 minutes during the four-hour duty time.
Now he heard some noise, so he turned his head and looked for the source of the noise. The sound came from a simple hunting house on the other side of the clearing—about 20 meters away from the monitoring tower. They now turn on the radio again. No TV reception here.
The lookout also has a radio device, but this is not for him to listen to music and the news. This is a radio transceiver, which is placed on the table in front of him. If a stranger approaches this open space, he will immediately report it to the people in the hunting house.
The hunting house can be said to be very comfortable, warm like spring, and there is food, as well as wine and coffee. But the most important thing is: there are people talking here. On the tower is a person alone. This is really unbearable, and it will be frightening to stay for an hour. The wind is screaming, and the grass and trees are all soldiers.
They have been here for 19 days, and nothing happened in 19 days.
A deer walked here a week ago. It's been a damn deer for three weeks.
What's the matter with the click on the left? It may be another nasty deer. The lookout leaned his binoculars up to Yanqing and leaned down and looked down in the direction where the sound was made.
In the bushes about 80 yards from the monitoring tower, the man who got off the train at Union Station hid behind a big tree. His sighting telescope was facing the lookout, and when the crosshairs on the lens overlapped with the lookout, he pulled the trigger of the semi-automatic rifle.
Then came another shot, the muffler was fully functional, and there was no sound, despite the 30.6 caliber of the warhead.
The people on the tower were caught off guard and staggered back, and crimson blood oozes from Parker's coat.
He finally fell to the ground.
Although he was in pain, he knew what to do now. He struggled to crawl to the table with the radio intercom. A burst of cold passed through his body. He trembled, stretched out his hand to the table, and then died.
The hunting house that was on fire was very warm. The two men sitting next to the pine table, wearing only T-shirts, each had a leather holster hung under their armpits, and an automatic pistol was inserted in the holster. One of the two armed men had sparse hair. He just passed his 37th birthday last week. The other is thick, with hair like a brush, and is younger than him. They are playing cards.
The third person walked out of the next room. He is 28 years old, with golden hair, handsome, with a childish smile on his face. The companions made fun of this beautiful Irish American, saying that he was like the carefree young man on the Air Force recruitment poster. His name is Blair Shannon, and he also has an automatic hand held under his armpit. He also carried an M16A1 rifle.
Shannon said, "Marcellino is still asleep, I'm going to pick up Ed's class now."
The two card friends nodded, their thoughts were completely focused on the card game. Shannon walked towards the door. He is the youngest here, but he is very knowledgeable.
Shannon opened the door, and 10 shotgun bullets were shot at him from nearby, like a sledgehammer hitting him, throwing him back into the house. Shannon was badly injured and was full of immense anger.
He can still shoot. When the two men playing cards jumped up and pulled out their weapons, Shannon's rifle had already shot out of the door.
The submachine gun swept him back and forth, and he was dead before he fell to the ground. The attackers rushed into the hunting house. The shotgun started firing again, and its bullet hit the face of the FBI agent with brushed hair. He lost the weapon in his hand and then fell to the ground.
The submachine gun fired two more shots. Another FBI agent was hit by a bullet, and his brutal curse stopped abruptly. He staggered and fell onto a chair, and was killed immediately.
The agent who was shot in the face was already bloody, and his mouth made a vague cry. The squinting killer slammed Browning's pistol at his forehead, and the cry stopped.
It has only been 14 seconds since Blair Shannon opened the door and went out.
Their mission is not to kill FBI agents, the reason for this is because these three people hinder their hands and feet.
The assassin fired at the walls and all the doors, and the hunting house was broken into pieces. After a burst of fierce shooting, they rushed towards an aisle, when the fourth Federal Investigative Week agent appeared, and he lay on the ground and aimed his gun at them.
The shotgun and the submachine gun fired at the same time, and he was beaten to the ground. The killers walked towards a bedroom. There were two people in the bedroom. One was an FBI agent with a stern face. He quickly blocked the door with furniture. Another person shivering with fright was the target of the killers' trip.
He was awakened by the violent gunfire in his sleep, curled up in his pajamas and pajamas, his two horrified eyes widened round.
He knew that these people came to him, and he knew who sent them—and why.
He was so frightened that he slumped and opened his mouth, afraid to speak.
In the hallway outside the bedroom, the killers stepped over the fourth agent's body to the bedroom door. They fired again, and their submachine guns fired at the door. The shotgun smashed the bedroom door to pieces.
The brawny man who came by motorboat shrugged, and then took a grenade from his long parka. When his companions retreated behind him, he leaned forward and prepared to ignite the grenade.
The agent in the bedroom quickly glanced at him, then shot him without losing the opportunity. The bullet hit his shoulder, causing him to turn sideways, and the exposed target was bigger. When the second bullet hit him, he yelled. The bullet hit his heart, and his cry stopped immediately.
"Damn it!" said the man who came by plane, his voice cruel. This is a catch phrase used by killers when they lose.
The submachine gun fired again, until the bullets ran out, he fell to the ground, reinstalled a cartridge, and shot into the door. After a fierce shot, he leaned over and rushed into the bedroom. Thunder couldn't hide his ears, the FBI agent fired only one shot and was hit with bullet holes in a burst of submachine guns.
Suddenly there was silence, and now only the one they wanted to clean up was left.
Marcellino's back pressed against the wall, his eyes dilated due to excessive horror. He was completely in terror. He wanted to speak, but he couldn't make a sentence. He couldn't move, he was paralyzed in front of death.
The squinting killer approached him. "After all we found you." He sneered.
Marcellino began to tremble. He can no longer control himself. Despite this, he still moved his body vigorously in despair. He moved back against the wall, but when his steps moved to a large mirror, he suddenly stopped: he saw his deformed face in the mirror.
"Don't you want to be a witness?" the killer said mockingly.
Marcellino whimpered and turned around in terror.
"Okay! Then you go to hell to testify!" The squinting man said, pulling the trigger.
"That's it," said the passenger in the blue suit, "let's go!"
The FBI agent lying in the aisle couldn't help groaning. He is seriously injured and will soon die.
The squint shot him. Then they left.
When they walked out of the hunting house, the radio in the house was still broadcasting Lee Nelson's singing.
5. This is the ideal moonlight for hunters.
The woods were dark, but the watch tower was brightly lit: the headlights of a dozen patrol cars were all on. There are also headlights on the corpse truck.
The headlights on the patrol car flashed hysterically, just like the duty lights on a lighthouse. In addition to the patrol cars of the central police agency and local police agencies, there are three vehicles without agency signs.
People are noisy in the woods that night. People pass messages through radio intercoms. They have seen a lot of deaths caused by car accidents and other disasters, but this is the first time they have seen such a cruel massacre.
The lights in the shattered hunting house were bright, and the laboratory technicians were searching for evidence. They carefully checked it inch by inch. The photographer captures the scene.
There were countless bullet shells on the ground, and the ground where the corpse was originally located has now been marked with chalk. In the front room, a corpse, already wrapped in a plastic bag, was placed on the ground.
A 55-year-old man with gray hair was sitting on the ground next to the corpse. His eyes were red and swollen, and the tears on his wide, painful face hadn't dried yet. He was wearing a gray casual suit, not a police uniform. He pinned an FBI ID card to his chest. The name on the ID card explained why he was so sad: the name was Harry Shannon. The handsome young agent who was shot by a shotgun was his son.
The plastic pocket beside him contained Blair Shannon's body.
When Harry Shannon stared at his dead son blankly, another person with an FBI ID pinned to his chest greeted him softly: "Harry, they are going to take him away."
Shannon raised his head, his eyes flickered. Then he opened the mouth of the plastic bag and looked at his son's face again. Tears flowed down Shannon's cheeks again. Finally he pulled the mouth of the bag closed.
"This damn business..." Shannon said bitterly. "I have been in this job for 27 years, but I have never planted it-my goodness!"
The extreme grief deformed his face again. He tried his best to suppress his sobbing. He must control himself.
In an instant, all the painful expressions on his face disappeared.
"Give me the list," he said, his voice calm and severe, "I want the list of all police officers who know where Marcellino is hiding."
"OK."
"And all those who might know..." Shannon continued, "The political and legal personnel in his hiding place-down to the clerks, up to the district court prosecutor or even higher."
Shannon stood up: "None of them can run away," he said. "I will catch these murderers one by one, no matter who he is. I will do whatever it takes—they have only one dead end."
The agent thought it was actually impossible to find out the leaker, but he could not tell the sad father, so the agent named Marshall Flynn could only nod in agreement.
Shannon watched the corpse truck leave until it disappeared from sight. "Never let it go!" he murmured, as if swearing.
He said nothing during the long journey back to Chicago. He is conceiving a plan.
6. A sunny afternoon on the hills on the outskirts of Barriet, North Carolina. Warmth-laziness-tranquility.
Suddenly this silence was broken. A heavy motorcycle appeared on the highway, rumbling forward at its highest speed. The prescribed standards have been exceeded. The motorist in a leather jacket is not a reckless man driving illegally, but a state policeman. He is not following a speeding vehicle or a criminal who absconded. On the contrary, he is being chased by others.
A broken, muddy jeep chased after the motorcycle, about 70 yards away. Sitting in the driver's seat of the jeep was a muscular man with no shaved beard. He looked stern, but not ugly. He made up his mind to stop the motorcycle.
Now the jeep is catching up. The man in the driver's seat did not seem to be afraid. Judging from the washed jeans and the denim jacket on him, he looks like a farmer in this area. But he didn't drive the car like a farmer at all. He acted thrillingly but drove the car skillfully.
The police understood this, and he suddenly turned a corner and jumped out of the concrete road, through the woods beside the road. He is also an excellent driver. Jeep couldn't chase in the woods at all, he thought.
The jeep made a sharp turn and also overtook the road. Its two front wheels vacated the ground high. With the sudden brake, the air suddenly filled with the smell of burnt rubber.
The jeep entered the woods like an armored car. The motorcycle has disappeared, but the jeep driver is not discouraged. When he was a child, Mark Kaminsky never gave up easily. Now of course not to mention.
Kaminsky drove a jeep through the trees in a zigzag pattern.
A branch swept across his forehead, and blood poured out from the inch-long wound. Another branch cut his cheek. There is only one thought in his mind: never let this prey escape.
On the other side of the woods, motorcycles passed through the bushes. The driver in the police uniform smiled triumphantly. He crossed the barren farmland and drove the motorcycle towards an old granary.
There must be a highway not far from here.
When the motorcycle passed the dilapidated granary, the jeep also came out of the forest, whizzing across the rough wasteland.
Kaminsky frowned and drove the jeep into the granary door, as if passing through a pinhole at a speed of 70 miles an hour.
The jeep whizzed past a pile of egg crates, the wooden crates squashed like matchboxes. Then he rushed towards a haystack, the hay flew all over the sky, and Kaminsky couldn't see anything for an instant.
The jeep continued to rush towards the pile of farm tools. An axe was hit against the wall, the blade was deeply embedded in the wall, and the handle of the axe was still trembling. The wooden handle of a dung fork broke into two halves, and the steel fork fell into a kerosene bucket, splashing kerosene on the ground.
Kaminsky dexterously made the jeep make a big turn and passed through the other door of the granary.
Kaminsky saw that the motorcycle was about 100 yards ahead, bumping along a winding road filled with rubbish and gravel.
Finally, the motorcycle jumped onto a concrete highway with a thud.
With the sound of rubber rubbing, Kaminsky's car also drove onto the highway. Watching the motorcycle farther and farther eagerly, now he has only one last chance.
He glanced at the accelerator pedal to the end and ventured through the middle of the vehicle. The drivers of those vehicles were shocked, and many of them swayed or even fled. A car simply drove out of the public network and drove to the forest area on the side of the road, which seemed to have a shortcut.
Kaminssay stared at the fleeing motorcycle intently. He saw the motorcycle disappeared completely, so he also drove the jeep out of the highway to the woods. He marched madly in the plantation forest. Almost out of the carriage several times.
A mile away, the sweaty rider stopped his motorcycle by the side of the road. He looked back panting, and he couldn't see the jeep at all, so he was relieved.
He drove the motorcycle off the road towards the field, and a minute later he saw a steep hill. The hills are covered with traces of motorcycle tires. Many motorcyclists have tested their climbing ability and off-road driving skills here. He calmly drove towards the top of the mountain at a steady speed.
When he was about to reach the top of the mountain, he glanced behind him and couldn't see the jeep.
He continued to move forward-to the top of the mountain.
He was dumbfounded. The muddy jeep was about 40 yards ahead of him.
The jeep was forced towards him. When the distance was about 15 yards, Kaminsky slammed on the accelerator. The jeep leaped forward and crashed into the motorcycle.
The bumper of the jeep collided with the front wheel of the motorcycle. The motorcycle overturned, and the people in the car threw from the car and rolled down the mountain. The shed parts of the motorcycle flew out in all directions.
As soon as the jeep was about to rush out of the mountain, Kaminsky braked hard and stopped the car at the last moment. The front wheel was half extended beyond the mountain.
When he jumped out of the jeep and walked down the mountain, there was silence around him. A sneer passed across his face. He won.
7. An hour later, 23 miles away, Barrett City.
Kaminsky's jeep stopped in front of a building, then Kaminsky jumped out of the jeep, opened the door of the back seat, and dragged out the angry passenger.
"Go in,'police officer'!" Kaminski bluntly ordered with his northern accent.
There are only two people in the office. A curly-haired deputy sheriff sat next to a radio transmitter; another younger deputy sheriff, a lanky and serious man, sat in front of a typewriter typing a report. When Kaminsky stepped into the office and pushed the handcuffed police officer in front of them, the two raised their heads.
"Damn it!" the young deputy sheriff said excitedly.
"You caught such a bastard!" The other deputy sheriff admired.
"I was caught on the spot." Kaminsky said.
"Damn it! I'm going to a fancy dress party."
"Are you wearing a police uniform at four o'clock in the afternoon?" asked the deputy sheriff who was sitting in front of the typewriter. "Where did you find him, Sharif?"
"On Route 74," Kaminsky replied, "He stopped a speeding person and forced him to hand over 50 yuan."
"He's nonsense!" said the prisoner, "it was those people who held me and asked me the way."
"Then what's the matter with the money?" asked the muscular Sharif.
He poured a glass of cold water from a paper cup.
"This is your imagination. They gave me the money."
"Stop talking nonsense! Lock him up!" Sharif ordered.
"Why are you detaining me?" the fake policeman asked.
"Pretending to be a policeman-resisting arrest-speeding-endangering traffic-damaging property-deceiving-insulting Sharif-and then there are vulgar words."
Then Kaminsky threw a revolver next to the typewriter.
"There are also illegally carrying guns." He added.
The angry fake policeman kicked Kaminsky to the bottom of his body. Kaminsky avoided him swiftly, then grabbed the guy like a chicken and threw it onto a chair. The chair broke.
8. Kaminsky should be smiling when he leaves the office and goes home.
But there was no expression on his face, and there was a gloomy look in his eyes.
Kaminsky is a person who can always solve problems independently. His sharp mind, quick response and strong physique make him more witty and capable than most people, but only a few people can realize this. The saying that muscular men don't have superb intelligence has a great influence.
When he drove a jeep on a tree-lined street, he thought to himself: "What a beautiful town!" It is full of a leisurely and comfortable atmosphere, and the residents are decent. There are far fewer criminal cases and violent crimes here than in the noisy, dirty, and crowded city where he used to work.
The people living here are conservatives, so they respect the law and law enforcement.
After 10 minutes he drove the car to the front of a house.
Mark Kaminsky slowed down to the carport, and finally stopped in front of the carport. Then he jumped out of the car and walked wearily towards the door. On the grass next to the door is an evening newspaper of the city. He picked up the evening paper.
Kaminsky straightened and walked into his home.
The entrance hallway leads directly to the living room. The right side of the room is full of comfortable but very cheap furniture, and a set of first-class fitness equipment is placed on the left side of the room.
A compact disc they love is spinning in the record player. Haydn's symphony came out of the stereo amplifier, like a cannon duster. The volume was adjusted to its maximum intensity, and the sound of this large band of 150 people was simply deafening.
"Amy, Amy?" he called, lowering his volume.
no answer. Amy Kaminsky is busy in the kitchen at this time. This charming, dark-brown-haired, almost 30-year-old woman wore a sleeveless cotton shirt. Her plump figure was not hidden by this dress. Her well-developed arm muscles show that she has also done bodybuilding exercises systematically.
Now she is busy with a cake that has just been taken out of the oven, using a spatula to wipe off the uneven chocolate coating on the cake.
When Kaminsky came to the kitchen door, Amy happened to take a bottle of beer, drank it in one breath, and then another bottle. Now Kaminsky knew what was going to happen. She is already half drunk, but still feels not enough. Tonight will be another unpleasant night.
"Do we have a party today?" he asked.
"Of course! I'm so glad you came back for the banquet so early today."
She looked around to find a place to put the empty bottle down, and then threw it into a waste bin, but it didn't. The wine bottle was broken into four pieces. Amy didn't even look at it, and continued to put chocolate on the cake.
"Is it just a party between us, or did you invite others?" he asked.
She took a bottle of beer that had already been opened, drank it in one breath, and then answered him.
"Just us, Sharif, who do you think would be interested in enjoying this wonderful festival in this bustling metropolis?" She added sharply.
She continued to spread the chocolate sauce on the cake, and then threw the spatula towards the washbasin. It happened to fall on a pile of freshly washed clothes, which was splashed with chocolate sauce.
"Then what are we celebrating?"
"Celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary." She said sourly, "Celebrate our five years of exile in this wild ghost place."
"Don't say that, this small town is very cute."
She stared at him, rubbing the chocolate sauce on the cake with her fingers.
"Stayed in this unlucky poor country for five full years, there was no symphony orchestra, no art gallery, no museum, no restaurant like foreigners. People had nothing to talk about except the weather and the harvest."
He shrugged and took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator.
"You will return to the FBI. We will return to New York and civilized society in the future. It would be nice if you didn't agree to them! Why didn't you stick to it, Mark?"
He couldn't bear it anymore. "You were in favor of me doing this in the first place." He said frankly, "If I were to negotiate with them seriously, they would drive me away, so that even this messenger here would not be able to get me."
He is tired of the quarrel that has become the norm. If you change the topic, you might be able to avoid it.
"What have you prepared?"
After he had finished speaking, she threw the cake at him. He bends swiftly, and the cake flies to the wall behind him.
He looked at the scraps of cake on the wall coldly, then turned to face his wife.
"Stop drinking and making cakes." He suggested to her mockingly.
She stared at him angrily, then picked up the wine and took another swig. Suddenly a smile appeared on her face, and then she laughed. She likes this strong, loving man and his unique sense of humor.
"You are such a weird person," she said softly.
The two of them laughed at this absurd situation. While laughing, he scraped the scraps of cake on the wall with his fingers and stuffed it into his mouth.
"Not bad!" he said. "Your cream tastes better when you scrape it off the wall."
It's not that these humorous words touched her, he is an excellent man, a rush of heat and desire is boiling in her body. She took off the sleeveless top from her head and let it fall to the ground.
"Can't we postpone dinner for a while?" she suggested, while looking at the bedroom.
"Good idea!" He agreed and hugged her.
On the big kitchen clock, the finger counted at six and five.
They didn't return to the kitchen until eight o'clock.
9. Mozart's piano concerto revolved in the dimly lit living room. Kaminsky enjoyed every note. He will always maintain the kind of hearing, vision and reaction that a 19-year-old sportsman possesses.
He leaned on a couch in thought. His wife, who had fallen asleep, put her head in his arms. Satisfied by the game of love, and at the same time anaesthetized by beer, she lay on the couch with her limbs loose-naked, her plump and sensual body is what painters dream of. She is a beautiful young woman.
She felt thirsty after the frantic dating, so she drank another bottle of beer. Her body is warm, but the empty wine bottle in her hand is cold.
Half-asleep and half-awake, she breathed out and smiled, and in an instant she became the happy and radiant woman who had just married him. Once she wakes up completely, when she comes into contact with the reality that she extremely hates again, she will become that sharp again. She can get anesthesia through sexual love and alcohol, but that is only a temporary escape.
She breathed lightly again and fell asleep. His strong arms gently lifted her up and hugged her back to the bed. He put her down carefully, took the wrinkled quilt to cover her beautiful carcass, and then gently kissed her on the lips. She smiled again in her sleep.
Kaminsky returned to the living room. He changed a record, then poured himself a glass of Matt Coutmbler in a big belly cup. After tasting a sip of this high-end French brandy, colorful memories popped up in his mind. He remembered how Amy drove 95 miles away on a hot day in July to buy his favorite French brandy for him to celebrate his birthday.
This kind of French brandy is not available in small cities. Following the sound of Isaac Stern's violin on the record player, he began to meditate again. Premium French brandy is not important-what is important is that it symbolizes the narrowness of life in this place.
No stimulation-no challenge. Everything is going on at a halved speed and reduced specifications. It's like those old-fashioned locomotives: Slowly, weary and collapsed.
Even the crime here is not qualified. The most exciting thing Sharif has encountered in a year is that he caught a motorcyclist who defrauded a gullible farmer of $50.
His 10 years at the FBI have been quite different. People there appreciated his outstanding talents very much and handed over some important cases to him. He has repeatedly eliminated those habitual offenders who have committed many crimes. The elite force he had participated in had fought against large-scale gangs and eliminated them. He once uncovered a spy group that stole secret military documents in Silicon Valley, California. He once defeated a group of hijackers at the airport with lightning intensive firepower and prevented a disaster.
Kaminsky thought of another big case. The "Four Cousins" implemented a drug trafficking program for the Atlantic City gamblers and East Coast drug dealers. The total value of the goods was 280 million U.S. dollars. The four brothers hired murderous Colombian cowboys to escort the goods. They are carrying a fierce weapon-the small MCLO automatic pistol, which can fire a thousand rounds per minute.
The "safe" of the four brothers is a warehouse in Queensland, New York City. From the street, these warehouses are very ordinary, but there are very strong iron gates and fortifications piled with sandbags. Bandits with guns and live ammunition stood guard for 24 hours. In addition, there are ferocious hounds and surveillance cameras in this fortress. The goods were transported in and out by a Mercedes car made of bullet-proof steel plates. This car was originally customized by a solitary man in Africa, but before delivery, the solitary man was assassinated and killed.
Kaminsky figured out a way to enter the gang's fortress. He disguised himself as a sweeper and put on a bulletproof vest in the sweeper's uniform. In an unusually cold morning, he drove a garbage truck equipped with a snowplow to the warehouse. In front of the warehouse door, he made a sharp turn and stepped on the accelerator to the end, so the car screamed and slammed into the door. The snow plough tore open the door like a can of sardines and broke into the fortress.
Amid the deafening cracks and sharp sirens, the Colombian guards swarmed. Kaminsky jumped out of the car, took out a grenade and threw it at the culprit. This is enough for these gangsters. Then the three-car FBI agents entered the fort and ended the battle. Most of the panicked gangsters surrendered before firing a shot. One of the gangsters fired a shot, and Kaminsky's bullet flew towards his left and right kneecaps, making him unable to resist.
The defense attorney for the injured criminal accused Kaminski of being sadistic, but the FBI knew him. There is no doubt that the criminal will not be able to walk for a long time, but this is much better than lying in a morgue. To Kaminsky's surprise, a correspondent of the New York Times who rarely spoke good things about the police also wrote an article to talk about it.
One of the four brothers was captured in the warehouse. The other two were arrested in their luxurious villa. The three brothers each paid $1 million in bail and released them on bail, and then they fled abroad.
Kaminski tasted the famous French brandy. He was not surprised at all when he recalled the news that the brothers had absconded. Those senior U.S. officials who set the bail at $1 million thought it was a large figure, but for a very wealthy criminal, it was really insignificant.
It was only in the Gibber case that he was furious. This case ruined his future.
The harsh telephone ringing brought him back to reality. He immediately picked up the microphone, hoping that the ringtone did not wake Amy.
"Hello? Hello? Is it Mark?" a familiar voice asked.
"I am."
"Mark? This is Harry Shannon."
Kaminsky took another sip from a big belly cup before replying.
"How are you? Harry. Long time no see."
"I have a problem to solve." Shannon is straightforward.
"Yes?"
"This is not a small problem, I have to talk to you."
"Let's talk about it then!"
"Can't speak on the phone."
"But I don't have time."
"Your life is not so good, right?" The FBI agent tentatively.
"I've passed it through a good mouth."
"Don't you want to live it again?"
But no matter what, he will never be as boring as he is now.
"Okay, Harry. How do we meet?"
10. High level of technology. This set of electronic devices is the latest radar ground detection equipment of the U.S. Army. It can detect a person's pace and a person's body temperature from a distance of 1,000 yards.
Shannon walked across the long rain channel in his head, and Kaminsky, who followed him, watched these unique scenes curiously. There were no such things during the Vietnam War.
"Your FBI specifically chooses this kind of weird place as a dating location." He said dryly.
Shannon shook his head.
"It's not our FBI—but me. The general here is my old friend. We were together during the Korean War."
They came to an iron gate on the left side of the tunnel. There is no keyhole, no knob, no handle. The camera above the iron door means that the door can only be opened with permission from the inside. The door only reads: B-81 is not allowed to enter without permission.
At this time Shannon said, "This is my personal business, Mark. If you don't want to do it, say it now."
This is not an official business of the FBI. Those in power at the FBI plan to completely forget the operative Mark Kaminsky who committed unforgivable mistakes in violation of discipline.
"I want to know what kind of work it is, Harry," he said.
Shannon took the FBI work card from his pocket and placed it in front of the camera lens. There was a slight buzzing sound, the camera lens was pointed at them, and the iron door opened automatically.
A metal stand was erected next to the three walls of the room, and thousands of video tapes were placed on the stand. In front of the fourth wall is a row of TV screens and projectors.
There is a beautiful black-and-white mixed-race woman in the room. Although she wore a pair of glasses with horny frames, it did not affect her beautiful appearance in the slightest. The shoulders of her military uniform wear epaulettes of the rank of lieutenant.
After Shannon reported her a number, she checked her written materials, and then pointed to one of the video players.
"Your tape is already loaded, Mr. Shannon," she said. "Can you schedule it yourself?"
Shannon nodded, so she sat down on a chair at the other end of the room-facing the door. She abides by the safety rules, and what is recorded on the tape has nothing to do with her.
Shannon and Kaminsky moved the two plastic armchairs in front of the player, and then Shannon turned on the player.
A man's face appeared on the screen. This is a long and narrow face with old wrinkles, and it coldly reveals a kind of arrogance and cruelty.
A close-up of this face fills the entire screen.
Like millions of other Americans, Kaminsky had already met this man. His fame depends not only on his huge wealth, but also on his mighty power to dominate people's life and death.
He does not recognize the existence of the government, and there is only one law in his mind-the law he made. He has his own bank and army. If anyone is not intimidated by him or unwilling to be bought by him, he orders his soldiers to kill anyone. Over the past 20 years, under his terrifying and brutal rule, more than 1,300 people have died.
His law is simple: you die if you don't pay. He is fascinated by his power and likes what the public opinion calls him: "Emperor".
"It's the'Emperor'!" Kaminsky said.
There is now a voice, but the speaker does not appear on the screen.
"Mr. Patrovita, I hope you can explain."
The gangster's piercing black eyes were expressionless.
He has been cross-examined by other accuser's agents.
They all have public support-but what good is this. He hired the best lawyer with a lot of money. For those who tried every possible means to bring him to justice, he coldly reported contempt.
"Mr. Patrovita, you deny all illegal income, deny the relationship with those organized criminal activities." The questioner spoke with a clear tone. "You said you made $79,000 in total last year."
The sound is so familiar. Kaminsky leaned forward.
"That means with the money, Mr. Patrovita, you bought a seven-bedroom villa here—you bought a hunting area in Wisconsin—you bought a three-bedroom house in Florida. The bedroom house-and four cars..."
At this moment the camera jumped to the face of another person, who was the one asking the question. This man was wearing a gray flannel suit with a blue shirt and a striped silk tie.
"This bitch chose blue because he knows that blue is the most pleasing on TV." Kaminsky estimated this very pertinently.
This man is cunning and good at offensive. He is only of medium size, but his ambition is surprisingly great.
"...At the same time you still maintain a lifestyle that even a millionaire is ashamed of. How do you use your small income of 79,000 yuan a year to maintain these expenses."
"This is Baxter, that bastard."
"I know." Shannon replied.
"Damn it, what position does he hold in Chicago?"
"Special prosecutor."
"A disgusting guy who doesn't care about the law." Kaminsky said sharply.
"The lawyer has to dig into the law, Mark."
"Many lawyers are very human, but Baxter is self-righteous. This bastard hypocrite has forced me to go nowhere."
"Mark, at that time you sent a criminal. He has a broken knee and is crippled for life."
"It's already cheaper for him."
"My God! Mark. You wound him like this, and the prosecutor will accuse you."
Kaminsky shook his head.
"He is not a man, but a beast." He retorted, "Isn't this case like I remember? Didn't you see the body that was cut into 13 sections? An 11-year-old girl was raped. Before losing consciousness, he was dismembered alive by a serrated knife."
Shannon lit a cigar. "He is sick, Mark."
"Only the appraisers, psychologists, and heavily hired lawyers called by his father said that." Kaminsky recalled. "What is it that he is just an unfortunately insane child, and that he is well-educated. His father used to study with the mayor at Yale University. Is it a child? He is 22 years old and a fully mature adult."
"The social atmosphere at that time," Shannon said, "people didn't like the police-at least they didn't like the rough police."
"No, Baxter wanted to take this opportunity to get his reputation, and to please the mayor's old friends. He wants to appear as a saint in news reports. I have repeatedly explained the truth to him: it is this The rich kid who went into the evil way threw the serrated knife that dismembered the girl at me first, do you know? He can still do karate."
Shannon closed the camera. "What did Baxter say?"
"You said I used excessive violence, what should I do? When a murderer took an eight-inch dagger and first stabbed you in the stomach, would you still enthusiastically ask him to sign? That’s it, this The butcher was sent to a nursing home for several years, where he received psychiatric treatment and painting lessons, until he was announced he had recovered-but my future was ruined.'Either you quit your job or you sue you', Baxter said to me."
"Now your only comfort is that he is also so cruel to Patrovita."
Shannon turned on the player, and the video tape started spinning again.
When the emperor responded to Baxter’s acrimonious question, he showed a sense of boredom: "These are worthless and tattered goods. I bought them for not much money. I have repeated these things four times, you guys. Why not ask my accountant?"
"Do you deny that you paid 1 million yuan?" The special prosecutor continued to ask questions persistently.
"To be honest, I borrowed from many people."
"To whom?"
"Old friend."
"Carl Roca and Sweed Swenson?" Baxter asked defiantly.
"I have a lot of old friends." The syndicate boss replied coldly.
"Are Swenson and Roca just friends, or are they both business associates?" Baxter asked, taking an FBI document that recorded the crimes of the two men.
Patrovita looked at his gray-haired lawyer, who he had hired at a salary of $200 an hour. The lawyer moved the knot of his tie, which was a secret sign.
"I'm very sick now, Mr. Baxter. You know I have a heart attack."
"Please answer the question."
"The doctor said I shouldn't be too nervous, and I asked for a break."
The scene changed on the screen. Now Baxter is interrogating another person, who appears to be 10 years younger than Patrovita, about 45 years old, strong and sturdy. Quite different from Patrovita's unpretentious dress, he wore a dazzling knitted striped suit with a dazzling satin tie on the collar of the yellow silk shirt. He wore a pair of leather boots worth six hundred dollars on his feet, and on his arm he wore a large Rollex watch-the kind of extra-large model that Arab sheiks liked. This man is vain, conceited, and rude.
"Mr. Roca..." Baxter began to ask.
"Listen," Rocca interrupted him with a rough and loud voice, "My business is very busy, and you are wasting my time. I ask for an extension, no matter what stupid question you have to ask. I have My right. I will never allow others to make things difficult for me here. This is not Russia, sir."
"Thank you for taking the Constitution class for us," Baxter replied mockingly. "All of us respect your inviolable rights, but we..."
Shannon closed the camera.
"Karl Roca, known as'Mr. Boots'." He said, "He used to trample on others in order to climb up in his youth. He killed for the first time when he was 17 years old. He gave the impression that as long as Whenever there is a chance, his leather boots will step on the face of a person (either a man or a woman)."
"What is his relationship with Patrovita?" Kaminsky asked.
"He is a man who buries corpses. If anyone offends the'emperor', Karl Rocca will sink him to Lake Michigan. Or send him to the waste press with his car. Otherwise, it will be straightforward. Send a killer. He does not hesitate to recruit the best marksmen at a high price."
"So that's a'respectable brother'?" Kaminsky asked, here he used the internal name of the Mafia.
"That's it."
"What the hell is it, Harry? What do you want me to do?"
Shannon paused cautiously. He saw that the beautiful female lieutenant's eyes were facing the other direction, unable to hear his words.
"What's the secret, Harry?" Kaminsky asked again.
"Do you remember my son?"
"Are you talking about Blair? A handsome guy. I only know that he works for the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Denver."
"They transferred him to Chicago 15 months ago."
"What's wrong with him?" Kaminsky asked.
Shannon's posture suddenly stiffened: "He's dead."
For an instant, the two of them stared at the screen with no picture. Then Shannon got up from the seat, took out the videotape from the player, and greeted the mulatto.
"Thank you! Lieutenant," he said.
She pressed the button to open the iron door, and the two of them left the room.
Kaminsky's thoughts focused on two questions: Where is Shannon going to send him? What is his plan?
As soon as Kaminsky and Shannon left the basement, they were surrounded by thunderous explosions and roaring shots. This is the general training ground of Camp Lejuna, North Carolina-a shooting range.
"This is Dante's hell in North Carolina." Kaminski thought. He used to stay in hell. Two years of barbaric fighting in a certain place in Asia gave him a lot of hell.
Half of the comrades in the special team of Kaminsky were transported back home in plastic bags, while others are still in the Tri-Service Mental Hospital. Some of them can no longer call their names.
Kaminsky forced himself to dispel these memories. They walked side by side, trying not to disturb themselves by this hell noise. Shannon's voice was very soft—despite the rumble of cannons.
"I'm telling you frankly, Mark. I never appreciate your way of handling cases. You are the best FBI agent I have ever met, but you are not a good agent."
Kaminsky shrugged.
"You have violated all the rules and regulations-multiple violations." Shannon continued, "You turn a deaf ear to the instructions of your superiors-you often go beyond your authority-your reconnaissance methods are ambiguous and suspicious-and you have abused violence and have exceeded You have your own set of rules of action, just like a damn independent army of one person charging and fighting."
Shannon stopped here and lit a cigarette.
"And all this is why I ask you to help." He added.
"What can I help you? What are you going to do?"
Shannon stopped and stared into Kaminsky's eyes. "I want to kill Luigi Patrovita."
"Why?"
"This is my duty to my son."
As they moved on, Kaminsky managed to find the connection between Shannon's dead son and the "emperor."
"Do you think it was Patrovita who killed Blair?"
"There are five agents besides my son."
"Is it the case in the woods that was published in the newspaper?"
Shannon nodded. "They guard a government witness, and his testimony can sentence Patrovita to life imprisonment. So Patrovita sent someone to kill all the witnesses and guards. Everything is arranged by him. He will do it. Pay the price for this."
"As the Old Testament said," Kaminsky thought, "An eye for an eye..."
"I'm a policeman and not a killer, Harry."
"I know that."
"And you have to understand that a Sharif from the country can't do what the FBI guys and your son can't do."
Shannon didn't answer immediately. An armored vehicle on the training ground happened to pass in front of them.
"You are wrong, Mark. I have 45,000 dollars, so I say you are totally wrong."
"$45,000?"
"My savings-the savings accumulated by every son. If it is not enough, I will sell the house. This is my personal business and I have to spend it myself."
"Are you going to deal with Patrovita's weapons and millions of dollars with $45,000?"
Take the pride of a mentally anguished father against the most powerful and brutal criminal organization in North America?
"What should I do after I take your 45,000 dollars?" Kaminsky asked curiously.
"You hit Patrovita's gang of gangsters, and then wipe them out completely. You can do this-as for what means you take, it has nothing to do with me."
"No one can eliminate Patrovita's organization." Kaminski said patiently. "Maybe I look a lot like Clint Eastwood?"
"You are like a very unfortunate person."
"Damn it! Can you tell me what you can do to change my misfortune?" Kaminsky was enraged.
"Resume your FBI job-you are very qualified for that job."
"Then how do you specifically envision this matter?"
"Two and a half years ago, we tried to send people into Patrovita's'family'? But I don't know which part of the leaked secrets, and our people are all ruined. One of them was burned alive. The other two were invisible. No trace, so I must do it alone. I am asking you to help me, not asking you to commit suicide." Shannon was very serious when he said this. "Only I know your role, Mark." He promised sincerely. "I know this is difficult and dangerous, but it is not impossible."
"There are only two possibilities-minimal chance and failure."
"Are you willing to continue to waste your life in this poor country?" Shannon asked challengingly. "Don't you want to use your hands to dominate your own life? Go ahead! This is a good opportunity for your reinstatement. Not only I will defend you."
"Who else?"
"A hundred and ten agents of the Chicago branch—friends of those brothers who died in the woods—will go to Washington to petition for your reinstatement. Hundreds of individuals will be with me, understand? You are going to be an indomitable hero. !"
Kaminsky was weighing.
"No one can refuse your reinstatement." Shannon insisted.
Kaminsky thought of his wife and her alcoholism. She alone is the only thing that Kaminsky has.
"Is it my way to dry the horse?" He wanted to make it clear.
"As always." Shannon answered him with a mocking smile. So they shook hands and made a deal.
"I will never ask you how to do it in the future." The gray-haired FBI agent promised. "It seems that your way will never satisfy me."
When Kaminsky drove to his home 12.6 hours later, he thought to himself: This is worse than letting him smoke a cigarette. "Smoking is harmful to health", but in the Patrovita gang, if there is a small mistake, it will lead to death.
Kaminsky does not smoke.
"A strong soul is contained in a strong body." This was what the Romans said two thousand years ago. As for the fact that very few of the descendants of the ancient Romans today have fallen into contemptible criminals, it does not affect his respect for the ancient Romans in the slightest. He opposed the idea of rashly listing all Italian Americans as potential mafia.
An organized criminal group is a huge institution—just like a police station. Every policeman knows this.
It is useless to rely on the power of the flesh alone, and his mind is also a powerful weapon just like his flesh. He must use resourcefulness to defeat this "emperor".
But the first step has made Kaminsky find it difficult to do it. Kaminsky is a man of integrity, honesty is his nature, and now he has to do something he has never done before-deceive his beloved wife.
Amy has endured so much unhappiness, and such an adventure will add new and unbearable pain to her. But if this adventurous plan is successful, they can live a better life. This time it must be achieved.
When he entered the house, he hugged and kissed Amy—and deceived her at the same time.
"I'm sorry, I came back so late," he said, "but there is good news to tell you that you are happy and happy. We may leave this place."
"Are you serious?"
"Absolutely serious." He replied straightforwardly, without even thinking about speaking more witty. "I just went to Lowley to visit an old friend. He called me and asked me to go there early this morning. He had just been appointed as the deputy chief of the police department in Philadelphia, and he said he could make a place for me."
"Oh my God!"
"The salary is about twice as high as mine, and Philadelphia has everything that is not here."
There was a happy light in her eyes, staring at the half-empty beer bottle in her hand, and then she went to the sink and poured out all the leftovers in the bottle.
"I don't need this now," she said happily. "We'll drink wine again when we get to Philadelphia. When will we move?"
"I'm afraid it will take eight to ten weeks, and you have to go through the formalities."
"Are you sure about this?"
"Ninety-five percent. Yeah! I think you can pack your luggage first."
She hugged him again. "I will clean up tomorrow."
"Why not tonight?" He talked humorously.
"I have other plans for the evening, Mr. Kaminsky." She announced to him with a mischievous smile, her eyes pointing towards the bedroom.
How happy she is!
Amy Kaminski never expected that she would be a "widow" in less than 48 hours.
13. It's too bad to die in such a night.
A bright moon hung high in the sky, and the silver light shone on the land of North Carolina, and the sky was cloudless.
When Cummins drove the police patrol car over the street lined with low hedges and drove a section of the city out of the city, he thought: If it's a dark night, you don't have to risk being seen.
"Chicago is going to be a different kind of tropical jungle." He thought. Towering skyscrapers, crowded people, and dense traffic all mean that the difference between the two is not very big. Just like in Vietnam, the god of death is always by his side.
In this dense, reinforced and concrete tropical jungle, the large numbers of Patrovitas with fortifications as cover possess powerful firepower and control the commanding heights.
Kaminsky confessed unabashedly that he did this for revenge. This is not just a wish, but an imperative. Although people have kicked him out of the FBI, his heart is still there, and he hates the murderers who killed the FBI agents. These murderers must pay the price, and the one who instigated them.
Kaminsky checked his watch. It's time to die.
He took the microphone from the stand of the intercom. "I'm Kaminsky, I'm Kaminsky. I'm on Highway 12 in the suburbs. I saw lights in the old Shiku, and there may be people hanging around. It's over."
A minute later he saw the tall barbed wire fence. The fence surrounds the warehouse complex of the oil company, which went bankrupt two years ago.
There is nothing special in the warehouse. The four reserve fuel tanks are filled with crude oil, and the fuel tanks are directly connected with cables, wires and tubing. At the north end of the warehouse is a small pump room. Except for the painted utensils, all the utensils have rust spots and can no longer be used.
A sign hung on the iron chain of the warehouse gate: "Stop using-no entry without permission-dangerous".
Kaminsky parked in front of the gate. He turned off the lights of the patrol car and hurried across the street. He pushed aside the dense bushes on the side of the road and walked in the undergrowth. Within a few steps, he found the canvas awning he had covered with branches the previous day. He pushed the branch away and lifted the canvas canopy.
A motorcycle was revealed. He pushed the car to the entrance of the warehouse, then took out the wire cutters from the patrol car to cut the chain that locked the gate.
Then he opened the door and drove the patrol car in.
He parked the car next to one of the fuel tanks, then jumped out of the car and looked at the ducts. In the bright moonlight he found what he was looking for-the switch tap of the pipe. He tried to unscrew it.
The faucet is stuck. It hasn't been turned for two years, and it is rusty. But he can't waste time here. Someone may pass by here at any time...
Kaminsky recognized that a jack was taken out of the trunk of the car. He banged the dragon's head vigorously with a jack. Then he spun again, using all the strength he had on his feet, beads of sweat leaked out from every pore of his body.
The dragon head turned slowly—Kaminsky turned vigorously and finally unscrewed. The gasoline came out of the gas tank and ran all over his feet.
Kaminsky shook his head, he needed more than this trickle. He knocked the jack on the faucet again. Then smoothly the faucet continued to spin, sparkling gasoline billowing out.
He ran to the motorcycle parked outside the fence. Step onto the seat and drive it to the uphill road 1,000 yards away. He took out a carbine from a plastic bag hanging on the car, turned his head and stared at the patrol car, raising the gun and aiming at the patrol car intently.
He must hit the gas tank of the car with one shot. If multiple bullet holes are found in the car wreck in the future, the entire plan will go bankrupt. Kaminsky pulled the trigger. In the middle of the fuel tank.
Flames spurted from the patrol car. After a second, the flame touched the gasoline on the ground. Another moment passed—then the fuel tank exploded like a thousand-pound bomb. The rain of fire like a fountain fell on the other fuel tanks.
Exploded again. The flame is getting bigger and bigger.
All non-metallic appliances in the patrol car and the warehouse are burning.
Kaminsky put his police pistol, armed belt, watch, home keys and car keys, and his favorite military dagger with "Sharif" engraved on it all in the front seat of the patrol car. At the same time he put his wallet and a pair of leather shoes beside the car.
The entire warehouse was a sea of fire, and the tongue of fire stretched out into the night sky of October.
Kaminski put the carbine back into the plastic bag and stepped onto the motorcycle.
When he drove the motorcycle to the top of the uphill road, he looked back again. There is only one fireball in the place where he once stood.
The patrol car no longer exists.
The same goes for Sharif Mark Kaminsky.
It is impossible to carry out an accurate scientific inspection of the debris at the scene-it is impossible in this small city.
No one will ask highly skilled FBI experts to come here to inspect these rubble with advanced instruments.
The local newspaper will report an unfortunate accident, and the pastor will give a friendly tribute to the deceased during this Sunday sermon. The mayor will give condolences to the widow, and the life insurance company will immediately pay $10,000 in compensation, and then a new Sharif will come to this small city.
At this moment, the person on the motorcycle is going to go far, far away from here. No one will look for him. Everyone thought he was dead.
He will have a new name, put on another outfit, and carry a new weapon.
In order to survive in the city he went to, he needed weapons. The city he went to was Chicago.
14. Kaminsky drove for three hours in the dark. Then he parked the car on the side of the road. He took out a five gallon oil can from a hidden place on the side of the road. He put it here the day before, and then filled the motorcycle's fuel tank. In this way, it can prevent the gas station staff from recalling his face once they see the picture of the Sharif who was burned to death in the newspaper.
He left the arterial highway and drove across the border towards Virginia. Half an hour later he reached a bridge about 80 yards across a small river. He drove to the center of the bridge, took the carbine out of the plastic bag, and then carefully wiped it to remove fingerprints from the gun.
He circled from side to side, staring at both ends of the bridge, and couldn't see any houses or car lights. He threw the carbine into the water in the center of the bridge. The carbine sank immediately.
Just after 11 o'clock, he found that the oil in the tank was almost running out. He felt a little tired at this time. There is a sign on the side of the highway: "A mile and a half ahead is the Reid Gas Station." He had to squint to see the writing on it. The sun dazzled him.
"Red" is a gas station with two oil towers. Kaminsky stopped the car and jumped down. He saw an obese man with almost bald hair sitting in the room at the gas station. Kaminsky nodded to him, and the fat man made a lazy gesture to him, let him do it himself, and then focused all his attention on the May issue of Playboy on his lap.
The dazzling sunlight kept Kaminsky from opening his eyes. He stuffed the tube into the fuel tank, then squinted his eyes and looked around. The gas station is located on the edge of a small town with about 50 houses.
In the bushes by the roadside, a young tramp with thick hair was secretly peeping at him.
After the gas tank was full, Kaminsky went to the gas station room to pay.
"It happens to be four gallons." He put a ten yuan bill on the table.
The fat man reluctantly glanced at the plump, white breasts of "Miss May", grumbled, and asked Kabinski for the change.
"Have you ever seen such beautiful breasts?" the fat man asked, "I mean, directly from me."
Kaminsky nodded.
"Lucky for you!" The fat man held up the picture on the pictorial. "This thing weighs at least 10 pounds, at least."
Kaminsky smiled. "I haven't weighed it. Where is the toilet?"
"Behind the house." The fat man raised his thumb and pointed towards the back door. Then he stared at "Miss May" blan
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