Chapter 125: Toot-toot-toot: 6664 Votes

Cars without special modifications aren’t bulletproof, so hiding inside them during heavy fire is like climbing into your coffin early.

No one knew which car Will was in, but anyone who raised their head was targeted by a concentrated barrage.

From the moment Lans returned to the car and slammed the accelerator until now, no more than three or four minutes had passed—maybe five, maybe less.

The smell after gunpowder detonates is intoxicating; some people love it, along with the scent of gasoline and banana water.

Others enjoy the smell of paint—there’s always someone who likes unusual odors.

The clicking of the firing pin striking empty chambers made Ethan drop his submachine gun back to his side and pull out his pistol, firing another burst at the nearest car.

The gunfire gradually subsided; the convoy parked on the road was riddled with holes, blood seeping steadily from gaps between doors and chassis.

Slowly, thickly, dripping onto the ground.

But someone was still alive here—likely more than one.

Searching each vehicle for survivors now wasn’t a good idea—it was too dangerous, and Lans didn’t want any more accidents, even though one had already happened.

The area was unnaturally quiet after the intense gunfire; he raised his pistol and fired several rounds at the cars’ fuel tanks, bullets piercing them and gasoline beginning to leak out. Others realized Lans’s intent and began firing at the tanks too.

“I thought it’d explode!” Ethan said, disappointed he hadn’t seen a fireworks show.

The air was thick with gasoline fumes; Lans sat in the car, pulled out a match, and struck it.

In that instant, its blinding white light illuminated his expressionless face; he tossed it carelessly onto a puddle of gasoline.

Soon all seven cars were ablaze; suddenly someone burst from a car door screaming, only to be cut down instantly by several shots.

Feeling the roaring flames around him, Will could no longer hide.

He shouted, “Don’t shoot! I have no weapon—I’m Will!”

He pushed open the door, raised both hands, and struggled to crawl out of the cabin.

As he exited, he tripped over something and dropped to his knees on the ground.

The gritty surface sent a sharp pain through him; everyone heard the sound of bone slamming against concrete—grating, unbearable.

He gritted his teeth, stood up stiffly, and looked around, dazed and confused.

Others burst from burning cars, but they had no luck like Will; soon they lay dead under a hail of bullets.

Lans stepped out of the car and stared at him.

This was the first and last time Lans and Will stood face to face.

“Let me go. Name your price,” Will said, forcing his voice steady—he dared not speak loudly, or his trembling would show.

A softer tone hid the shake beneath.

Lans shook his head, exhaled smoke; the firelight illuminated both men—someone burned inside like fire, someone else was ice-cold.

“You can’t afford the price, Will.”

Lans glanced at Ethan, extended his hand, signaling for the gun; Ethan handed it over—but gave him the submachine gun.

Lans glared at him, then turned back to Will and burst out laughing, feeling awkward. “Sorry—I didn’t plan to use this.”

Will kept pleading, “Listen, let’s end this. I’ll give you all my wealth over the years—”

Toot-toot-toot-toot!

Lans raised the submachine gun and didn’t let Will finish—he squeezed the trigger to the limit, turning Will into a sieve before his disbelieving eyes.

The firelight lit only half his face—one side bathed in flame, the other swallowed in shadow; he stood with legs slightly apart, until no more bullets could be fired.

The night wind lifted his coat and blew off his hat.

After emptying the entire magazine, he handed the submachine gun back to Ethan, his hand numb.

Will wasn’t dead yet, but his life had entered its final countdown.

He lay on the ground, his body convulsing uncontrollably from the instinct to survive—as if his body fought desperately to stay in this world.

But inside him, perhaps a pound of bullets, would grant him no such chance.

He spat a mouthful of blood, his eyes dimming; he still stared at Lans, as if asking why he hadn’t waited to hear him out.

Lans bent down, picked up his hat, brushed it twice against his coat, and put it on, a faint sneer on his lips, chin tilted slightly downward. “I said—you can’t afford the price.”

Then he returned to the car; the engine roared back to life, and the convoy vanished into the night.

Officer Lu Ka arrived at Senhu Villa to find his squad car empty and the villa deserted.

He cursed loudly, then stomped on the accelerator and hit the highway.

He assumed the people there hadn’t left yet—but he hadn’t expected they’d not only fled, but his own men were gone too!

He swore, no matter what, he’d make Will pay.

He pushed the car to its maximum speed; the two officers in the back turned pale. Suddenly, the radio crackled with a full-channel alert—

“...Imperial District...road segment experiencing heavy gunfire. Repeat, heavy gunfire on this segment. Suspected automatic weapons involved.”

“All nearby patrol units, respond immediately. Exercise caution...”

Lu Ka yanked the wheel sharply and sped toward the scene.

Ten minutes later, he arrived. The flames still burned; after showing his credentials, he entered the site, furious at the nearly extinguished wreckage.

“Where’s the fire truck?” he demanded, scanning the area. “It’s almost all burned out—where’s the damn fire truck?!”

As he spoke, the fire truck finally arrived, rushing in from sleep; the drowsy firefighters, still dutiful, connected the hydrant to the nearly dead embers.

Watching them wash away every last trace of evidence, Lu Ka gripped his head and kicked the ground hard—with the toe of his shoe dragging along the surface.

But by bad luck, his heel scraped off on the rough ground!

“Fuck!” Lu Ka roared, making everyone instinctively back away.

He paced back and forth, then sprinted to the body transport van, yanking open each body bag—until he saw Will’s face, then bolted back to his car.

He jumped in, slammed the accelerator, and sped off—Lans!

If he found Lans now, he could arrest him on the spot.

But obviously, he couldn’t find Lans.

Lans was inside a public phone booth, holding the surgeon’s business card: “...Sorry to call so late, but I’ve run into some trouble.”

“Yes, I know—but the situation is unusual.”

“Listen, we don’t have much time. On one side: twenty thousand and my friendship. On the other: my wrath. What’s your choice?”

“...Alright, of course. I’ll remember. Wait for me...”

He hung up, gave a location, and the convoy set off again.

Someone had been shot—more than one. Lans even suspected they might’ve hit their own men; in the darkness, everyone circled Will’s convoy firing, and no one could guarantee every bullet hit its target.

Ethan, the idiot, took a bullet in the thigh—he didn’t feel it until his pants soaked through.

Laun was shot in the arm; others were hit too. What surprised Lans was that Hailam, who’d fully leaned out the window, hadn’t been touched at all.

Four were shot, several others injured—no one knew how. Two needed stitches.

After the firefight, going to a big hospital was asking for trouble. He remembered the doctor who’d operated on Aierwen .

Lans liked doctors with good surgical skills who’d take private jobs.

Their initial exchange hadn’t gone smoothly, but now it was resolved.

There’s no one who can’t be persuaded—if you fail, you set the wrong terms.

The doctor had a friend with a private clinic, equipped for surgery; they were to go there.

Soon the car stopped outside the clinic; surgeries were performed in order of severity.

The operations lasted until past three in the morning.

Lans had already returned once; the paper bag in his hand held twenty thousand dollars.

The doctor stared at him, then at the bag, helplessly. “I won’t admit we ever met.”

Lans didn’t deny it. “Thank you sincerely—you saved several of my people today.”

“If you ever have trouble in Jingang City, anything I can fix, call me anytime!” He handed the doctor a business card.

The doctor didn’t want to take it—he’d been threatened out of bed at midnight to perform surgery on people who’d clearly just fought a battle. He didn’t want trouble.

But Lans’s threat was so blunt—he was just a doctor, nothing more. He had no choice but to yield.

Yet after the surgeries, he had new thoughts; he held the card lightly. “I’ll try not to use it.”

Lans clapped his shoulder. “Want me to drive you home?”

The doctor shook his head. “Take care of your own first.” He handed Lans some medicine and instructions for caring for the wounded.

When they stepped out of the clinic, Lans called Alberto—he needed help now.

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