Chapter Thirty-Two: The Gathering Storm 3

September’s weather was neither marred by sudden rainstorms nor scorched by the relentless glare of the sun, so the night carried none of that oppressive heaviness—a restless tang hung subtly in the air. It was already nine o’clock in the evening when a Jeep Wrangler pulled up at the gate of the deserted factory on the outskirts of the city.

The door opened, and a young man with refined features stepped out. At first glance, he seemed rather frail. In the passenger seat sat a woman; the youth hadn’t turned on the car lights, so one could barely discern her gender in the gloom. He exchanged a few words with the woman, then slammed the door and strode purposefully toward the factory.

Suddenly, a beam of light burst forth from the factory gate, piercing the darkness and shining straight into the young man’s face.

“Damn!” he cursed under his breath, freezing in place and holding his hands out levelly, as if he knew the rules here, waiting for someone to approach.

Sure enough, the harsh light seemed only meant to confirm his identity; after circling him briefly, it snapped off.

“Boss, this isn’t quite the time we agreed on,” rasped a low, hoarse voice as two men emerged from the factory, searching him while they spoke.

“Something came up at the last minute and caused a delay,” the young man replied calmly, paying no mind to their pat-down.

The two finished their search, exchanged glances and nodded, then led him into the factory.

By now, Chen Hongxu had already been retied after finishing his dinner of steamed buns. He sat on the ground, leaning against the wall, grudgingly impressed by the professionalism of these northeastern enforcers. After a brief, silent meal, they had dispersed without a word, hiding throughout the factory’s shadowy corners. Were it not for his own martial prowess, Chen doubted he could have detected their presence in such darkness.

Suddenly, the factory door swung open, and three men approached.

“Wang Bingcai, you’ve finally shown yourself,” Chen Hongxu’s eyes narrowed as he fixed a cold gaze on the man who had haunted his thoughts all week, despite only meeting him once before.

Wang Bingcai now lacked the brash confidence he’d shown at their first encounter. His tight shirt lent him a tidier air, and the new earring dangling from his lobe gave him a hint of swagger. He followed the two men, scrutinizing the factory’s interior in the weak moonlight spilling through the open door, careful and methodical, as if he were plotting something.

He was, after all, just an ordinary man. Only when he came within five or six meters of Chen Hongxu did he confirm that the figure slumped against the wall was indeed his quarry.

Wang’s eyes lit up. He stepped past the two escorts and planted himself beside Chen, hands on his hips, squinting as if admiring a trophy.

He smiled and, without turning his head, said, “It’s the right person. Good work, brothers.” With those words, his handsome face contorted into a snarl. He abruptly leaned down, intent on doing something to the seemingly helpless Chen Hongxu—perhaps deliver a slap.

But his attempt failed. A figure appeared as if from nowhere, an arm shooting out to grip his shoulder, yanking him back mid-motion. In a calm, unhurried voice, the newcomer said, “The target is confirmed. Where’s the money?”

To Chen Hongxu, these maneuvers were nothing remarkable, but Wang Bingcai, caught mid-action, shuddered in fright. He hesitated, a shadow flickering in his eyes, then quickly composed himself, shrugged off the hand on his shoulder and replied coolly, “The money’s no problem. Don’t you trust me?”

The man who stopped him was none other than the one with the dagger, who had appeared behind Wang like a ghost. He withdrew his hand without concern and said seriously, “Trust and following protocol are two different things. Cash for the goods.”

Wang Bingcai detected the unmistakable firmness in the man’s tone. He turned to face him. “Is this what everyone wants?”

“Brother Liu’s word is everyone’s word,” answered one of the men who had brought Wang in.

After a moment’s silence with no dissent, Wang Bingcai squinted and said, “If there’s no mutual trust, I doubt I’ll have more jobs for you next time.”

“Rules are rules. Cash for the goods,” the dagger-wielding man replied, expressionless, showing no anger at the threat.

Wang Bingcai bowed his head and chuckled, then said blandly, “The money’s in the car. I’ll fetch it now. No need for your men to follow me—the car has a delicate woman inside, I wouldn’t want to frighten her.” With that, he ignored the others and strode out of the factory.

Chen Hongxu, puzzled, suppressed the urge to break free of his ropes. Something was off about Wang Bingcai, and he wanted to see what game he was playing.

As Wang Bingcai stepped out, the dagger man signaled to the two standing nearby. “Tell the lookouts to stay alert—tonight won’t be peaceful.”

The two men responded quickly, hurrying out the factory’s back door, evidently to spread the word.

After they left, the dagger man cast a complicated glance at Chen Hongxu, sighed, and melted into the shadows.

Even someone as inexperienced as Chen Hongxu could sense Wang Bingcai’s duplicity—how much more so the dagger man, a hardened outlaw. If he lacked this much caution, he’d surely not have survived so long. As for why he let Wang go—was it a sliver of wishful thinking, or something else...?

The factory returned to its quiet, though it seemed those sent to fetch the money and relay messages had been gone for quite some time.

“Is there another trick? What is Wang Bingcai up to?” Chen Hongxu wondered, perplexed.

The dagger man now seemed certain Wang Bingcai was trouble. He glanced at the motionless vehicle outside, then barked, “Stay sharp, everyone. Looks like we’re being played.”

As if to confirm his warning, sudden footsteps thundered around the factory—an entire group was surrounding the place.

“They want to double-cross us? If I get hold of that pretty boy, I’ll crush his balls!” someone roared from the darkness, his rage unmistakable.

Chen Hongxu glanced toward the dagger man, curious how he would respond, since the group seemed to take their cues from him.

The dagger man’s eyes were grave. In a shadowy corner, he crouched, drawing two daggers from his pant leg. His face was grim, full of regret as he scraped the blades against the floor, sparks flashing in the darkness and illuminating his twisted expression—along with a hint of relief that Chen Hongxu couldn’t quite comprehend.

Author’s note:
Late update due to drinking at the grave—my apologies.