"Ding-dong—"
It was already late, but the doorbell rang outside Gus's mansion.
Seeing who it was on the monitor, Gus, still in a bathrobe, frowned slightly. Even so, he chose to open the door himself and told the guards not to intervene.
Moments later, he met his uninvited guest.
"Chief Griffin."
Gus rose from the sofa with a smile. "What brings you here so late without a call ahead of time? I could have prepared something."
The chief's expression was the exact opposite of the rage he had shown in the interrogation room last time. Now his face wore a warm, almost genial smile.
He waved a hand casually. "Eh, I'm getting old. Don't sleep much anymore. Figured I'd drop by and say hello since I wasn't doing anything."
"I see." Gus's eyes flickered. This friendly attitude clearly came as a surprise.
He gestured for the chief to sit and told a maid to prepare two cups of tea.
But the chief shook his head and said, with pointed meaning, "I just had a very good cup of tea half an hour ago. But I've heard you know your cigars, Gus. Think I might have a chance to try one of your top-shelf sticks tonight?"
Although Griffin's unexpected late-night visit and odd tone made him wary, Gus still smiled and nodded.
"Being able to enjoy a cigar with Chief Griffin is more than most people in Chicago could ever dream of. This way, please—my study."
Soon, the previously empty study held two middle‑aged men of different colors.
They sat facing each other at the desk, cigars in hand, glasses of amber whiskey before them. Smoke curled in the air, and the atmosphere was harmoniously strange.
After a stretch of silence, Gus swirled his drink and spoke first. "Chicago's had no shortage of legends, and you are definitely one of them, Chief Griffin."
"I've heard that when you were in Commercial Crimes, you arrested dozens of white‑collar scammers in just two years and recovered over a hundred million in losses. That's a legend if ever there was one."
The chief only sighed at the praise. "After dealing with fraudsters that long, I actually envy some of my classmates. The ones who went to DEA or the Bureau—those guys put more crooks in the ground every year than I've even laid eyes on. It's a shame, really…"
As he spoke, he suddenly drew his sidearm and tossed it onto the desk, face full of rue. "Back in Desert Storm, I put down more than two digits' worth of terrorists myself. Then I became a cop and never fired a shot. That punk Rorschach even jokes that my gun is 'too kind to kill.' Hahaha…"
Gazing at the pistol on the desk, Gus's lips curled slightly. Then his tone dropped. "If you're here to beg for Rorschach, you're going to be disappointed."
Griffin snorted and shook his head. "You've known Rorschach longer than I have, Gus. You really think he's that easy to knock down?"
Gus stared at him for a moment, then said slowly, "I've got no interest in talking about a dead man. But since you're here, it saves me the trouble of sending someone to get you."
He picked up a pen, wrote a string of numbers on a napkin, and slid it across.
The chief glanced down and raised his brows. A half‑smile tugged at his mouth. "Tsk tsk. Five million dollars? That's more than twenty years of my salary. Trying to buy my conscience?"
The warmth vanished from Gus's face. He tapped the table and said, "Every year I donate the same amount to the department to improve pay, benefits, and facilities. I'd like to think you won't squander that generosity over one little detective."
Just as Gus was about to press his case, the phone rang sharply in the hall.
A moment later, a maid knocked on the study door and said quietly, "Sir, the plant is calling. They say there's an urgent matter."
Gus's tapping finger stilled. He gave the calm, unmoved chief a long look, then nodded. "Excuse me a moment."
When he left, the chief slowly exhaled a plume of smoke and set his cigar down.
A few minutes later.
When Gus returned, his face was dark as thunder.
He had just learned that several of his food processing plants had been raided and shut down by police for "food safety violations."
"You think that little trick is enough to scare me?"
He shot a cold glance at Griffin and said flatly, "Once FDA opens in the morning, my plants will be back in business. All your authority gets you is a one‑night closure."
The chief shrugged. "If there really weren't any problems, my officers wouldn't have had grounds to shut them down."
Gus's face stayed flat. "So you've really decided to make me your enemy. In that case, good luck."
Griffin only smiled, stubbed out his cigar, and rose. "Good smoke. I've enjoyed myself. Let's call it a night."
He held out his hand, but Gus did not even look at it.
"Have you ever seen anyone walk into a funeral parlor and shake hands with a corpse?" he said coldly.
"Hahaha. Fair point."
The chief nodded repeatedly, then added, "For the record, you guessed wrong. I didn't come here to plead for Rorschach tonight."
He held Gus's gloomy gaze. "I just wanted to see the great Chicago kingpin one last time."
With that, he patted his round belly, yawned, and left the study.
Gus took a long drag on his cigar, his face shifting through shades of light and dark.
He suddenly realized that ever since he had expanded into New York and gotten into the business of kidnapping kids, his life had only gotten worse by the day.
——————————
The next morning.
Sunlight broke through the clouds and poured into a house full of scars.
Bare‑chested, Rorschach stood before the mirror, staring at his own reflection.
After a moment, he slammed his fist forward.
Crash—
The glass shattered, raining shards to the floor and revealing a heavy wooden panel behind it.
Rorschach gripped the edges of the panel and yanked. It swung open at once.
Rows of black metal and golden brass gleamed behind it—a miniature armory.
SIG Sauer MPX full‑auto carbine. Benelli M2 tactical semi‑auto shotgun. Glock 34 TTI Combat Master. ADT electric remote‑detonated bombs. M545 general‑purpose fragmentation grenades…
And his favorite: an AR‑15 automatic rifle, with an 11.5‑inch barrel, coated bolt carrier, compensator, and a six‑power magnified optic.
The perfect blend of power and precision.
He lit a cigarette slowly, feeling the blood in his veins begin to boil.
(End of Chapter)
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