Chapter 108

Hammer was beaten again—by Ethan—and then the group returned to the company.

In the garage, Morris and Lawen spread waterproof tarps across the floor.

Then Hammer was brought in, now utterly drained.

His head had suffered repeated blunt trauma, constant beatings; his consciousness was growing hazy.

But the moment Erwin entered, he suddenly perked up a little.

A surge of adrenaline made him more alert than he’d ever been—he watched Erwin kneel on the ground, “It’s all my fault, I… I beg your forgiveness, sir.”

Erwin pulled up his shirt, peeled back the bandages, revealing a fifteen-centimeter wound, with black sutures on either side.

His intestines had twisted; if the torsion wasn’t corrected, it would lead to intestinal infarction and necrosis, ultimately threatening his life.

And this process doesn’t take long—especially when caused by external force: swelling, rupture, bleeding, then shock and death.

So the doctor had to pull out his intestines, straighten them, and put them back—requiring a larger incision.

During actual surgery, hooks are placed around the incision edge and pulled outward to ensure the opening is wide enough.

It’s excruciating—his abdomen still aches, his intestines still ache.

“The doctor told me I was lucky—I almost died.”

He lowered his shirt, looked at Hammer, and everyone watched him.

“I didn’t die because you held back—I survived because my life is stubborn. Your God didn’t want me in your heaven, so he sent me back.”

“Now, I’m going to do the same to you. If you survive, this ends here.”

“If you don’t, don’t blame me.”

Lans turned off the safety, chambered a round, and handed it to him.

Hammer suddenly stood and charged at Erwin—Erwin had been about to speak, but it was too late.

He pulled the trigger immediately—the sharp clicks of gunfire echoed in the confined garage, and he collapsed less than two meters from Erwin.

One bullet hit his neck, four struck his body. Looking at the three bullet holes in the wall behind him, Lans retrieved the weapon: “When your wound heals, all of you will train with guns!”

Blood quickly flowed from his wounds—luckily, the waterproof tarp prevented it from seeping into the floor.

They cleaned up the scene, pried out the bullets lodged in the bricks, smashed the bullet holes into small depressions, and would later fill them with cement.

They dragged the tarp and Hammer’s body to the yard’s drain, lifted one end, and let the blood flow into the sewer.

The oil drums had been ready for a while; following the previous method, Ethan tossed him in and packed it with cement.

There would be no special farewell ceremony tomorrow—Lans told Merro to dump him into Angel Lake.

Almost everyone—good or bad—disposed of bodies at Angel Lake.

Everyone knew there were several spots beneath Angel Lake filled with these gasoline drums—but the Federal Investigation Bureau, the local police, the state police, any law enforcement agency—none of them ever considered investigating, not even for a second!

Sometimes they even helped cover up what happened there!

Federal social rules are this strange—and utterly incomprehensible.

Back in the hospital bed, Erwin felt noticeably more comfortable, though still in pain.

“They say you won’t let me have painkillers,” Erwin, lying on the bed, felt another throbbing ache.

Lans nodded, lit a cigarette for him: “Modern painkillers are addictive. Once you use them, you’ll need them for life—and you’re unlikely to live past forty.”

Erwin found this unbelievable: “Are these drugs or poison? Why would they do this?”

Lans shrugged: “Because it generates profit.”

“I know your wound hurts, but you must learn to endure. Until safe painkillers exist, you, me, everyone—better not use them.”

At this time, medical scientists hadn’t yet realized—or had already realized—the addictive nature of these drugs.

But medical capital, led by hospital conglomerates, was delighted by this situation: if painkillers were only sold during acute pain, most people would use them only a few times in their lives.

But if they were addictive, it meant once someone used them once, they’d need them for life.

The profits generated were enough to make federal and global medical capital ecstatic!

They produced tablets, suppositories, and injections—all to make it easier for people to use them anytime, anywhere, according to their preferences.

Hearing Lans speak so seriously, Erwin abandoned the idea of requesting painkillers from the hospital.

Fortunately, pain is adaptable—once he learned to endure it, the pain gradually lessened.

The next morning, Hammer’s family reported him missing; someone saw two police cars at the dock while heading to work and told Lans.

If the police truly wanted to investigate, they could find the truth—but this public display served two purposes: to appease the informant, and to give the perpetrator a countdown.

Lans called Officer Bradden: “Which precinct manages the port? Who’s in charge?”

Officer Bradden was currently busy with federal identity sales—he knew from the start that few people could obtain federal status through him.

But even a few were enough.

In two months, he’d earned nearly five thousand dollars helping people reclaim ancestral ties.

Aside from the first two deals, he now charged at least six hundred dollars per transaction—he kept two hundred, the rest went to the recipient.

He’d also arranged with the recipients: later, he’d find a way to sever their ties to these identities, so they could keep profiting.

For many poor families, though using a missing child to make money made them uneasy, the prospect of a large income outweighed their guilt—the missing child, in their eyes, had become a source of comfort.

Lans had given him this business; Bradden was deeply grateful, so he answered quickly.

“The entire port falls under the Port Precinct. Their chief is about to retire and no longer handles duties—now a new assistant director runs things.”

“You might’ve heard his name—John. He also has a nickname: Vulture.”

“If you need him to do something, all you need is money that can move him.”

“Also, when you go to him, say I sent you—but don’t expect him to give me any favor or discount. It’s just an excuse to approach him.”

Lans memorized all this: “Thanks. Next time, I’ll treat you.”

“Wait for good news!”

After hanging up, Lans whistled—but the phone rang again. It was Varn.

“Hammer’s missing. People say it’s connected to you—they saw many illegal immigrants searching for him last night.” Varn’s tone wasn’t angry or frantic as expected—it sounded more like he was scolding Lans for being careless. It felt strange.

Lans explained: “He beat my friend, had surgery, cost a fortune. I wanted to find him and recover the medical fees, but couldn’t locate him.”

“I can guarantee it has nothing to do with me.”

Varn listened, thought a moment: “You’d better resolve this quickly—otherwise, tensions will flare again between local workers and you.”

“Also, Ms. Debbie called me. Your machines have arrived in your factory, skilled workers are hired—you now need a professional manager, then you can start recruiting and opening.”

Ms. Debbie acted swiftly—or rather, for anyone even slightly connected to politics at this time, such resources were invaluable.

She could easily convert them into money, power, or anything else.

Lans was surprised: “I’ll arrange it immediately…”

As he considered who to assign, Merro knocked and poked his head in: “The tailor and his son-in-law brought the clothes.”

Lans suddenly had an idea, stood up: “I’ll go now.”

The old tailor and his son-in-law worked overtime to finish all remaining garments—though finer details couldn’t match Lans’s two suits, they were still excellent.

Far superior to ordinary tailors, everyone was changing into new clothes, faces lit with smiles.

The old tailor stood beside them with a notebook, ready to record any discomfort—so he could return and adjust the fit.

That’s the mark of a skilled tailor: they can alter garments on the spot, unlike incompetent tailors who only say, “I can’t do it.”

Seeing Lans approach, the two warmly paused their work and greeted him.

After all, this job would feed them for over a month—and Lans promised to fund their shop in the city center.

Lans asked the tailor’s son-in-law: “I’m opening a garment factory, but I need a manager. Do you have experience in this?”

Both were surprised, but the son-in-law quickly nodded: “I worked in the Empire before, though the scale wasn’t large.”

It wasn’t quite a factory—just a larger workshop—but it could be called a small factory.

Lans immediately extended the offer: “Want a new job?”