The car wheels rolled to a stop, pressing down the unsettled dust that had just begun to rise. The cheap vehicle, worth no more than two or three hundred dollars, parked in an alley across the street from the casino.
Lance placed the revolver in the car’s center console. He wasn’t sure if they would search him, and carrying the gun could end up arming his opponents if confiscated. The folding knife, however, was tucked discreetly behind his belt at his waist, a spot less likely to be searched.
After preparing himself, Lance turned to Morris. “Stay in the car. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, call this number and have them come find me.”
He handed Morris a slip of paper with Alberto’s number.
“Though,” Lance added, “I doubt you’ll need to use it.”
Lance had initially refused Fordis’s offer of help to avoid owing favors, but if his life was truly at stake, he’d rather owe a favor than gamble with survival. That said, he didn’t believe his life was in real danger. Killing over a handful of inexperienced kids wasn’t worth the risk of becoming a wanted criminal.
This wasn’t the Wild West, where you could vanish into the wilderness. In a city, both the police and criminal gangs would be after you, along with professional bounty hunters—specialists in tracking fugitives for rewards.
The Federation’s bounty hunters were a unique group who thrived on apprehending criminals for money. They originated in the West but spread across the country, drawn by government-issued bounties that offered a cost-effective alternative to deploying police forces.
And Lance had another safeguard: money. Nobody refused money, and money was Lance’s trump card.
Morris nodded obediently, staying in the car. Lance crossed the street, heading to the wooden door at the building’s rear. He knocked.
The peephole slid open, and suspicious eyes peered out. “You the one we’re waiting for?”
Lance stood confidently. “If I’ve got the right place, then yes, I’m the one.”
The door opened, revealing a brawny man. Lance, dressed in a dark shirt, appeared unarmed, but the man still insisted on a pat-down. After a quick search, he was allowed in.
“Go straight down. The lit room—boss is waiting,” the man instructed.
Lance nodded, descending the stairs with steady steps.
—
Inside the room, the young men, including Ennio, knelt on the floor, clutching their ears. Ennio’s left arm hung limp, the radius fractured. A guard stood behind them with a stick, ready to strike anyone who let go of their ears.
What began as a seemingly manageable punishment turned unbearable after several minutes. Faced with the choice between aching arms or pulled ears, most chose the latter, though they could hardly endure it.
Their grimaces and squirming created a comical scene, one at odds with the otherwise tense atmosphere.
When Lance entered, he couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Sorry,” he said, suppressing his amusement.
“Funny, is it?” The casino owner, Kent, straddled a chair backward, resting his chin on its backrest.
Lance nodded lightly. “A bit, yes. It’s my first time seeing this method—it’s rather creative.” He gestured toward his pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”
Kent scrutinized him for a moment before replying, “Go ahead.” Turning to a guard, he ordered, “Get our guest a chair.”
Kent adjusted his chair to face Lance as the latter took a seat, lit a cigarette, and exhaled. “So…”
Kent, intrigued by Lance’s calm demeanor, studied him intently. His original plan had been straightforward: gauge the financial company’s strength. If they were formidable, he’d let them go, fostering goodwill for potential future dealings in Jingang City, a place where paths inevitably crossed.
If they were weak, he’d squeeze them for money, feeling justified since Lance’s team had broken the unwritten rules.
However, Lance’s composed demeanor made it hard for Kent to determine if he was dealing with a strong player or an overconfident rookie.
“You broke the rules,” Kent began. “Your people lent money in my casino without my permission. That’s your mistake.”
It was customary for loan sharks to negotiate terms with casino owners, offering 20–30% of their profits to operate on-site. Ennio and his friends bypassed this process entirely, disrupting the established order.
Lance acknowledged the error. “You’re right—it’s my fault. I’m Lance. And you are…?”
“Kent,” the owner replied curtly.
“Very well, Mr. Kent. What must I do to take them with me?”
Kent scrutinized Lance for two minutes, his expression unchanged, but his eyes flickered with caution, greed, and curiosity. The clean-cut, smiling young man before him didn’t fit the image of a hardened finance operator. Instead, he seemed harmless—like a university student.
In most places, such an appearance would inspire trust. Here, it risked being seen as weakness.
Kent’s gaze lingered on Lance’s attire—a clean, expensive outfit. Licking his lips, he finally said, “Fifteen hundred dollars. Take them and go.”
He had initially intended to ask for five hundred but raised the figure to test Lance’s reaction.
Lance raised an eyebrow, chuckling lightly. “Fifteen hundred? That’s steep, Mr. Kent.”
“That kind of money could buy several lives, yet you’re only asking to take them away,” he continued, his tone conversational. “Perhaps we could be friends instead?”
Kent detected a subtle undercurrent in Lance’s words—a veiled threat. His expression hardened. “Are you threatening me?”
“Not at all,” Lance replied evenly. “I’m just noting the price is difficult to accept.”
Kent reiterated his position firmly. “Your people made a mistake in my casino. If you want friendship, fine—but only after I get paid.”
The guards began moving closer, ready to act on Kent’s command. Lance remained unflustered, showing no signs of fear or anxiety.
Like a stray dog confronting an unfamiliar person, Kent hesitated. Lance’s calmness suggested he had hidden resources, making Kent uncertain.
“Where’s Morris?” Kent asked suddenly, glancing at the bouncer near the stairs.
“I didn’t see him,” the man replied. “Only this gentleman came.”
Kent grew thoughtful. His tone softened slightly. “My father always taught me: when you make a mistake, you must take responsibility. That’s your duty, Mr. Lance.
“Fifteen hundred. Or…” He glanced at the kneeling boys. “I break their legs, and you take them as they are.”
Lance turned to look at the group. They avoided his gaze, embarrassed by their capture, their injuries, and their betrayal in revealing Lance’s name.
“Lance, don’t—” Ennio began, only to be silenced by a blow that left him writhing on the floor.
The guards stepped back at Kent’s signal. Lance didn’t react emotionally, maintaining his composure. After a moment, he turned back to Kent with a smile as if discussing a pleasant topic.
“Fifteen hundred dollars,” Lance repeated. “Cash or check?”
Kent burst into laughter, lighting his cigar. For him, such moments—whether frustrating or amusing—always called for a smoke.
“You’re a smart man, Lance!” Kent declared. “Cash. Checks are a hassle for us.”