The gentleman sitting opposite Sanchez was sowhat uneasy.
At first glance, Sanchez didn’t seem like a good person. His face, head, hands, and wrists were covered in scars and tattoos. How could soone like this be a "good person"?
The gentleman wanted to switch seats but felt that suddenly changing seats might anger the gang mber opposite him who had been staring at him all along. He could only continue pretending to read the newspaper.
"Hey, give your newspaper."
The ferocious man opposite spoke. At first, the man reading the newspaper didn’t realize what was happening, but then he nodded repeatedly, "Actually, I just finished reading it... so..."
He saw a one-dollar bill; he didn’t know whether to take it or not. He initially thought this was just a fifty-cent "robbery," but now it seed not only wasn’t it a robbery, but he actually earned fifty cents.
While he hesitated, Sanchez leaned forward and stuffed the bill into the gentleman’s pocket, then took the newspaper from his hand.
"Though ferocious, he should be a good man," the newspaper-reading gentleman thought. At least Sanchez politely gave him money before taking the newspaper, indicating he was a civilized person.
If he was a civilized person, one shouldn’t judge him solely based on his appearance.
He turned his head, looking at the scenery outside the window. It seed the pitch-black night, as unchanging as ink in a bottle, was the most beautiful view at this mont.
Sanchez held the newspaper, the veins on his neck pulsating.
The photo in the paper was a candid shot. Lynch was walking in a crowd, and the picture happened to capture his side profile surrounded by people.
Handso, charming, a difficult-to-describe aura emanated from the newspaper.
But Sanchez was very angry.
This was a thief, a robber who stole what rightfully belonged to him!
Now, the problem has beco more complicated. It’s not just about convincing his uncle; it’s about convincing a wealthier Lynch, with more status and power in the Federation.
This makes everything troubleso.
Simultaneously, a fleeting murderous intent flashed in Sanchez’s heart. He could kill his uncle without hesitation now.
But before that, he had to deal with Lynch!
The next day, when the newspaper man woke up, the ferocious guy was already gone. He tidied up his appearance, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of the compartnt.
As his leather shoes touched the land of Bupen, a surge of "social elite" aura wildly erupted from his body.
Quickly, he blended into the crowd and disappeared.
He did not notice that there were many police near the station, at least more than usual. These police were there to maintain order if necessary, but those truly effective were the undercover special agents hidden within the crowd.
However, they were destined to gain nothing because Sanchez had already jumped from the train when it was approaching Bupen station.
He had to thank the Federation’s technological level for not letting the train speed exceed a hundred kiloters per hour. Otherwise, jumping off the train wouldn’t just be as simple as tripping and getting back up; he might lose his life.
Making slight changes to his appearance, a vagrant just casually mingled with a group of holess entering Bupen.
Bupen actually doesn’t have many vagrants. Everything here is very expensive, and the living burden of vagrants is heavy, plus the social elites in Bupen lack sympathy and compassion.
But ultimately, so people are unwilling to leave. After all, it’s the Federation’s core; even the food in the rescue shelters is better than elsewhere.
Nobody would pay attention to whether a vagrant entered the city in the morning, nor would anyone check their identity.
Filthy Sanchez, after entering the city, did not contact anyone, especially Mariluo’s General.
International calls still require manual transfers; he couldn’t act like an idiot, picking up the phone and telling the operator he was a damned bad guy exposing his target.
What he needs to do now is find a way to have a talk with Lynch, but first, he needs a gun.
Weapons are the foundation of friendly communication. When he was eight, he learned this with a gun and one bullet, and this principle made his wrist swell for over a week.
He arrived at a sowhat remote antique shop. The shop owner was a man in his forties.
He was polishing so antiques. When Sanchez entered, he glanced up briefly before resuming his work.
Sanchez walked to the counter, surveyed the environnt, and then stated his request, "I need a gun..."
The shop owner replied without looking up, "Sorry, if you want weapons, go to the supermarket or weapons shop; we don’t sell weapons here."
In the Federation, selling weapons requires a license, which is related to the outflow of weapons.
Sanchez took out all the money he had, over sixteen hundred dollars, slapping it down on the table.
Two coins disobediently rolled onto the ground, making a crisp collision sound. He cast a sidelong glance at the nearby silver-plated candlestick, "I need a gun."
The antique shop owner put down his work and sized up Sanchez before reaching out to pull open Sanchez’s collar, spotting the tattoo inside.
Tattoos inherently carry certain anings.
Religious significance or perhaps gang affiliations—police and governnt officials don’t get tattoos lightly. Sanchez’s chest tattoo clearly marked him as a gang mber.
The antique shop owner then released his grip, shaking his head, "Not enough money."
This ti, he didn’t ask Sanchez to leave; he just stated the money wasn’t enough. Sanchez frowned slightly, "There’s about eighteen hundred bucks here."
"You can go to the weapons store diagonally across the street and purchase a Federally registered weapon for thirteen hundred and fifty bucks, then you’ll have to show your gun permit and social security number, and they’ll even throw in a hundred rounds of ammunition," he said.
The antique shop owner maintained his superior deanor, tapping his finger on the counter, "But here, eighteen hundred bucks isn’t enough. You need twenty-five hundred bucks to buy a gun, and I’ll only give you seven bullets."
"Damn!"
Sanchez kicked the counter.
"Now it’s twenty-six hundred bucks; you can kick it a few more tis, I don’t mind!"
The antique shop owner looked at Sanchez’s dangerous gaze and without hesitation lifted his shirt, revealing a gun holster, its snap open with a pistol inside.
Sanchez paced back and forth in frustration; he was really out of money, having searched everywhere for cash and found nothing more than a di.
But the owner’s unyielding attitude was driving him berserk.
"Do you have pliers?" he suddenly asked.
"Those are cheap, only two bucks." The antique shop owner placed a secondhand pair of pliers on the counter.
Sanchez slamd his hands onto the counter with a bang, causing the shop owner’s hand to dart to his chest.
He glared fiercely at the owner for a while, then suddenly grabbed the pliers and stuffed them into his mouth.
Amid screams that seed to tear through his very being, he forcefully extracted a blood-soaked tooth.
A diamond was embedded in it—once a cavity.
His Doctor had repaired the cavity and was about to fill it in when Sanchez asked what material was hardest, least likely to be damaged.
The Doctor told him diamond, so he had them find a suitable diamond to fix into the tooth.
"Pah..." He spat out blood, slamd the pliers onto the counter, "This, plus eighteen hundred bucks, for a pistol and box of bullets."
The shop owner, intimidated by such a ruthless display, stood silent. No anesthesia, extracting his own tooth, and the pain was one thing, but that fierce soul indicated Sanchez was no ordinary gangster.
After a mont’s silence, the owner retrieved a box from beneath the counter containing a pistol.
"Just retired military issue, serial numbers removed, untraceable," he said, placing a box of bullets on the table, "Fifty rounds."
During the ordeal, Sanchez spat blood twice more. He glanced at the shop owner, "Got painkillers?"
The owner hesitated for a mont before taking out a small bottle and pouring out so pills, "These are potent—take one, and you won’t feel a thing for three hours, even if soone cuts your head off."
Sanchez nodded, popped a pill into his mouth, and swallowed it with blood.
He quickly inspected the gun before leaving with it and the bullets.
Outside, the sun shone brightly; he kept his head low as his cheek began to swell.
He tore a strip of cloth from his shirt, twisted it tight, and pushed it into his mouth wound, biting down hard.
There was no pain, although he could still feel the presence—amazing.
Walking felt almost like he was floating, as if he’d accidentally ingested a poisonous mushroom.
This reminded him of another major operation on the border: smuggling and selling Ghost Face Mushrooms.
Thinking of all these chaotic matters, he avoided the main road and headed down a side street toward downtown, where he needed to et Lynch first.
anwhile, the entire defensive system of Bupen sprang into action.
With the confirmation of the Federal manhunt, all major television networks interrupted their broadcasts with the news this morning. A newspaper delivery man, glancing at the wanted notice, realized the person facing him was the one on the poster.
He imdiately found the nearest Police Station to report his discovery.
After the FBI Investigators took over and questioned him repeatedly, he exited the Police Station, and everyone knew Sanchez had returned.
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