Chapter 106

The warehouse office light was still on; a poor soul was working overtime.

The manager told him that by 9:30 a.m., he must have this document on his desk.

But the manager could swear to anyone he never required anyone to work overtime—it was all voluntary.

And the reason employees volunteered was that he hadn’t worked hard enough during regular hours and hadn’t finished his assigned tasks.

“Why can’t you finish your work during office hours, but everyone else can?”

“Is this your problem or mine?”

When he said the third sentence—“If you doubt your ability in this job, or suspect I’m targeting you, I can transfer you”—the poor overtime worker chose to compromise.

After all, he didn’t have to stay every day—just occasionally.

And as the manager said, he hadn’t demanded he work overtime—he’d merely hoped to see the completed document by 9:30 a.m.

He stretched, and it was barely seven; plenty of workers still labored on the dock. Thinking of them, he suddenly felt less irritated.

They toiled in the sweltering night, while he sat in an office—he already surpassed ninety-nine percent of overtime workers.

Once he reassured himself like that, overtime didn’t seem so bad; it even gave him a sense of superiority.

He’d written most of the document; in half an hour, he could go home.

He brewed himself a cup of cheap coffee and returned to his seat, ready to resume work.

As he held coffee in one hand and a pen in the other, the pen tip poised over the document to jot down numbers, his mind drifting to alcohol and naked girls, a sudden violent knock on the door made him jerk.

The pen skidded across the page, leaving a long, fluid arc; coffee spilled from the tilted cup.

Still-warm coffee splashed onto his body, his legs, and his genitals. As a human, his movements grew more frantic, and he instinctively set the cup down on the desk.

The document now bore not only a naturally flowing arc but a large coffee stain—he screamed and frantically wiped it, but… the ink re-wetted under the coffee, and as he wiped, his overtime work was ruined!

He glared at the door, stormed over, yanked it open, and roared without caring who stood outside or what they wanted, “What the hell did you just do?!”

The next second, a large hand clamped his head and shoved him into the office.

Instantly, he calmed down.

He couldn’t see who it was—the hand blocked his vision. He tried grabbing the wrist but couldn’t break free.

“Who are you?” That was the first sentence.

“Let go of me!” That was the second.

“Or I’ll…” The third sentence went unspoken—he took a punch to the stomach and fell silent.

The man released his head, and only then did he feel the sharp pain from being squeezed.

A tall, muscular man stood before him; behind him, another fellow looked like an idiot, constantly shaking his hair.

“I want Hammer’s file.”

The poor worker glanced quickly at their faces. There were too many people on the dock—he didn’t know who these two were, nor who Hammer was. “I don’t know who you mean by Hammer.”

The big man drew a knife from his waist and stabbed it into the desk with a sharp *thwip*.

Staring at the trembling blade, the poor worker swallowed hard. “I think I remember something…”

Similar scenes unfolded across the dock: two dockworkers sat on the shore’s steps, barefoot with feet in the sea, boasting.

Suddenly someone interrupted them, asking if they knew a man named Hammer and where he was.

Someone at home was eating cheap ground beef and potatoes when someone pounded on the door, demanding to know where Hammer was…

There were so many dockworkers—not everyone knew Hammer, let alone where he was.

But someone always knew.

People were reporting current leads to Lans at the hospital entrance when Enio ran up: “Someone saw him and his coworker head to Red Port Bar.”

Lans gave a few instructions to Allen, got in the car, and the person who knew the location sat in the front passenger seat to guide him.

Four cars carrying nineteen men sped through the streets; seven or eight minutes later, they pulled up outside Red Port Bar.

Red Port Bar was one of the more famous bars near Dock One, with a long history, but as more bars opened in the harbor, it lost competitiveness and gradually declined.

It wasn’t the hottest bar, but certainly not the emptiest.

The four cars parked outside; the bar’s flickering pink neon sign had two bulbs constantly blinking, giving it a run-down look.

The two muscular men smoking at the door noticed the cars stopping and instinctively turned to look.

Lans stepped out first, scanned the surroundings, then walked toward the bar entrance; the others followed.

The bouncer felt a chill run down his spine seeing them approach, but remembering his monthly paycheck, he stepped forward and raised a hand to block Lans’s path. “Sorry, we’re not serving customers tonight.”

“I’m looking for someone. I heard he’s here.”

The bouncer sized Lans up. “That’s none of my business.”

Lans kept his patience. “A friend of mine was beaten up. The men who did it are here.”

The bouncer remained the same, even growing impatient. “I told you, it’s none of my business—”

The next second, a gun pressed against his skull, forcing his head slightly sideways; he raised both hands.

The other bouncer reached for his waist—two more guns instantly aimed at him; he slowly withdrew his hand and raised it.

Hiram took both their guns and handed them to the others behind.

The bouncer facing Lans still looked defiant. He stared at Lans as if carving his face into his memory, then declared, “We’re Red Dog Gang.”

Lans plucked the cigarette from the bouncer’s raised hand, pressed the lit end against his cheek, and held it there. “So?”

The bouncer’s facial muscles twitched violently, his features alive with pain. When the cigarette stopped hissing, he asked, “May I know your name, sir?”

“Lans.” Lans glanced at the cigarette, dropped it on the ground. “Now can I go in and find him?”

The bouncer met his gaze. “We’re closed now, Mr. Lans. Prohibition—you know.”

“Then take me to where you’re still open.” Lans turned to the other bouncer. “You’ve got two men—I only need one to lead me.”

Both bouncers’ expressions shifted. They studied Lans—perhaps realizing this wasn’t a joke—the first one finally yielded.

“I understand. Follow me.”

Lans left two men behind. “Watch him. If he moves, shoot him.”

The leading bouncer gave his partner a helpless look, then led them past the main street, into a side alley.

Almost all underground bars now hide in basements—more concealed, since few people ever come to the backs of buildings unless they need to urinate.

Even then, they won’t wander to the basement door to peek or sniff.

“Hope you don’t cause trouble, Mr. Lans. Red Dog Gang isn’t easy to mess with,” the bouncer thought long and hard, then said this.

The cigarette burn on his face began to ache—he’d probably blister tomorrow. He felt hatred inside, but he was terrified.

Lans remained calm. “I just want to find someone. If you don’t do anything extra, I guarantee nothing bad will happen tonight.”

“But if you or your friends don’t want us to have a pleasant night, I guarantee your families will be crying for you tomorrow.”

The bouncer had no choice. He walked to the basement door and knocked.

The peephole slid open, revealing the big man and his men, then slammed shut with a *clack*—then the door opened.

The stench of a sealed bar environment burst out!

Alcohol, sweat, fishy odors, and strange smells mixed together—unbearably foul.

Lans stared at the dark entrance and smiled. “I seem to have a thing for basements!”

Few understood what he meant—but the doorkeeper inside immediately sensed something wrong. He glared at the bouncer. “What do you want?”

Clearly, he was smarter. Most doorkeepers were—because they had to tell whether knockers were cops, agents, spies, or buyers.

“I’m looking for someone named Hammer. Someone saw him here.”

The doorkeeper studied Lans and his group. “You can bring him out—but don’t start trouble inside the bar.”

Lans smiled. “See? We agree on this point!”

He signaled Ethan and Hiram to stay behind, watching the two men; the rest followed him into the bar.

Down the dark, rural-style stairs, a noisy scene erupted before them.

A girl danced wildly on stage, shaking her ass; drunk patrons around her shouted excitedly, some even tossing coins onto the stage.

The bar had no seats—only steel poles: one rod connected floor to ceiling, with a circular platform in the middle, thirty to forty centimeters wide, just enough to set down a drink.

Everyone stood, yet despite the awful conditions, the place was packed!

The newcomers drew no attention—everyone was chatting with their companions. Lans squeezed to the bar, placed two dollars on the counter, and asked, “Who’s Hammer?”