Chapter 12

Roger arrived at Juan's shack at top speed.

At this moment, the brown-skinned man was crouching silently on the ground, examining Jose's food bowl.

"What happened?"

Roger frowned, scanning the surroundings; apart from being messier than the past two days, the shack showed no other difference.

"Someone took Jose."

Juan's voice was low, yet tinged with gritted teeth, and the cold fury in his eyes could not be contained.

"Why say that?"

"Because Jose didn't finish the food I gave it."

Roger looked at the stainless steel bowl; half a German sausage remained inside.

He remembered how much that little thing loved sausage—half a German sausage vanished in two minutes flat.

"It never did this. If there was food, it always finished it before going out." Juan stood up, fists clenched until his knuckles turned blue.

Roger asked, "How long were you gone?"

"An hour. I went to queue for lunch."

"Shit." If it really was vagrants who took Jose, an hour was more than enough for them to skin, roast, and eat it clean.

Such things happened all the time in the camp; whether cat or dog, to these starved bastards, they were all delicacies—they didn't care about the bond between owner and pet, and after devouring everything, they'd often mock the owner too.

Some vagrants couldn't hold on and just snapped, falling into addiction to leaves or stimulants.

Even those who held on gradually sank into decay, lacking any emotional anchor.

Seeing Juan's ashen face, Roger suddenly had an idea and glanced at the System Panel.

Right now, Jose's name was still in the Anchor Point.

That meant it was still alive.

After all, a dead dog couldn't provide an Anchor Point.

Thinking of this, Roger perked up and hurriedly said, "Juan, maybe they came late and haven't acted on Jose yet!"

Hearing this, Juan's sorrow vanished, replaced by ruthless coldness: "You're right."

Then the man pulled a dagger from beneath the tattered rug, shoved it into his boot, and stepped out of the shack.

Roger followed behind him.

When the two stood on the street, Juan crouched down to examine the dust for footprints, and within moments reached a conclusion:

"Three sets of footprints, all larger than average, all male, and all heading in the same direction—they're a group."

Juan rose, pointing southward—the entrance to Clay Street, leading to several other roads.

Roger raised an eyebrow, surprised; he hadn't expected the man to have such skills.

But now wasn't the time for astonishment. He looked around, then spotted a vagrant sitting by the roadside, pulled two one-dollar bills from his pocket, and placed them before him.

"Listen, three men just left the shack over there, carrying a dog. Did you see them?"

The vagrant grabbed the dollars with filthy hands, eyes darting left and right, then nodded vaguely: "Yeah, I saw 'em. They moved fast. That dog was fat—tasted good, I bet."

He swallowed hard, looking hungry.

"Where did they go?"

"I didn't pay attention."

"Bang!" Roger slammed his fist against the wall beside the vagrant's head, snarling: "Bastard, you lying to me? You were staring at that dog the whole time—you couldn't not know where they went!"

The vagrant jumped back, about to flee, when he saw Juan draw his dagger.

"They, they went to South Prudon Street. I advise you not to mess with them," the vagrant blurted out in panic.

"Do you know them?" Roger pressed.

The vagrant hesitated. Roger urged: "Speak now, or I'll make you taste a beating!"

The vagrant nodded fearfully: "Yes, I know him—he's connected to the Blood Gang. None of us dare touch him."

"Who is he?"

"Gideon. Don't you dare say I told you—I know nothing!"

Just as Roger was about to press for more details, Juan spoke: "I know where that damn Gideon is."

The ruthlessness in his voice chilled even the warm wind.

Roger released the vagrant's collar and hurried after Juan toward South Prudon Street.

Juan walked as he spoke: "Gideon sells leaves. I heard he's tied to the Blood Gang. I'll handle them myself."

"Blood Gang?" Roger knew the gang—famous nationwide, with branches across America. But in Xiya, their presence was small, rarely active near Third Avenue.

So Roger guessed the dog-thief Gideon was merely some low-level thug under a Blood Gang member—after all, if he were real gang, he wouldn't be reduced to a street vagrant.

He shook his head: "Jose matters to me too."

Juan glanced at him, surprised Roger was willing to risk himself for him.

"Thanks."

The two ran swiftly to South Prudon Street and soon learned the whereabouts of Gideon and his men.

In fact, they made no effort to hide or avoid attention. After capturing Jose, they returned to the camp openly.

"Woof, woof, woof!"

Jose bared its teeth inside the cage, howling furiously, radiating aggression.

Not far away, a large pot had been lit, its water boiling and bubbling.

A bald vagrant shoved a wooden stick into the cage, trying to beat the pit bull, but the dog dodged and bit down hard.

"Fuck! You damn dog, let go!" The bald man cursed, yanking backward with all his strength.

For a moment, man and dog struggled, then the pit bull suddenly released its grip, sending the vagrant tumbling to the ground.

"Bastards!"

The bald man was furious, but helpless against the pitbull.

Gideon walked over and kicked the bald man on the butt: "Useless trash, can't even handle a single dog."

The bald man covered his rear, looking a little wronged: "This dog is so vicious it's like it's got rabies!"

"Cut the crap, you're just a total coward—you only get hard when your wife's getting screwed." Gideon taunted, then burst into laughter.

Another vagrant, a big tall fellow who had been preparing the sauce, laughed along when he heard this.

The bald man didn't dare talk back and silently endured the two men's bullying.

Just then, he suddenly spotted two hurried figures appearing not far away.

"Look, someone's coming." He pointed at the newcomers.

Gideon turned to look at Juan and Roger, who had rushed over, frowning: "Who are these two scrawny sticks?"

This dog-stealing was purely on the spur of the moment, so they didn't know the pitbull's owner.

But when the pitbull caught the scent of the two, it suddenly whined a few times, then barked even more happily.

"Jose!" Juan, seeing the dog in the cage, was thrilled and wanted to let it out of the cage right away.

But the bald man waved his wooden stick and blocked him, threatening: "Hey, you mixed-breed coward, if you don't want a stick shoved up your ass, don't come any closer!"

Seeing this, Juan's eyes flashed with killing intent; he casually drew a dagger from his boot and charged forward.

Before the bald man could react, the man was already right in front of him.

In his panic, the bald man swung the wooden stick down on him wildly, but Juan just sidestepped, then drove his dagger out like a venomous snake, stabbing it viciously into the bald man's waist and belly.

"Ugh…" The bald man covered his blood-soaked clothes in disbelief and collapsed to the ground.

Juan had just been about to pull out the dagger when he heard the wind of something coming from behind his ear.

He instinctively tried to dodge, but his body, starved of nutrition for days on end, wasn't obeying orders well and was much slower.

The next second, Gideon's iron rod slammed heavily into his back, making him cry out in pain.

"Shit! Fatty, take them out!"

Gideon stared viciously at Juan.

The other vagrant, hearing his boss's order, hurriedly tossed down the seasoning box and charged over.

But by now Roger had already rushed over and blocked him.

Fatty swung his fists, wanting to finish him off.

Roger nimbly ducked, then as he straightened up, landed a vicious punch right on Fatty's temple.

"Bam!"

Fatty was sent staggering two steps back by the punch and sat down on the ground, dizzy and seeing stars.

Seeing this, Gideon spat on the ground and drew a handgun from his waist.