56: Chapter 56 Not a Fierce Dragon Does Not Cross the River_1 56: Chapter 56 Not a Fierce Dragon Does Not Cross the River_1 Black Bamboo Corporation was easy to find; with a single search on the map, Carson Flores located it.
Carson parked the car and walked towards the six-story building in front of him.
“Sir, may I ask who you are looking for?”
Carson responded with a slight smile, “Is Mr.
Drake in?
I had an appointnt with him.”
The receptionist asked, “He is, may I have your na, sir?”
Carson smiled and said, “My last na is Flores, I had an appointnt with Tucker Tyler three days ago, you can give him a call.”
“Alright.”
The receptionist made a call and then sweetly smiled, “Mr.
Flores, please take the elevator to the sixth floor, Mr.
Drake is waiting for you in his office.”
“Thank you!”
Carson politely thanked her and leisurely took the elevator straight up to the sixth floor.
The elevator door opened, Carson stepped out, looked left and right, and imdiately smiled.
In the wide corridor, there were quite a few tables with at least thirty or forty n gathered around them playing cards.
At this mont, dozens of n all simultaneously stopped what they were doing and turned their heads to look nacingly at Carson.
“Quite lively here.”
Carson chuckled, casually took out a cigarette, lit it, and then walked forward with ease.
Dozens of n, each with a machete or iron bar by their side, put down their cards and gripped the machetes and iron bars tightly, staring fixedly at Carson.
When Carson arrived in front of the crowd, a man with a large tattoo on his chest stood in the middle of the corridor, arms crossed, blocking Carson’s way.
Carson stopped, directed a slight smile at the man, “I’m here to see Mr.
Drake, excuse .”
The man sneered, “This way’s closed, scram!”
Carson laughed, “It’s quite a wide path, I think it’s open.”
The man laughed, “I’m standing right here, if you dare, then go ahead.”
Carson took a puff of his cigarette, the tip suddenly flaring bright red.
He removed the cigarette from his right hand, exhaled a cloud of smoke, which enveloped the man’s face.
“Damn it!”
The man instantly beca furious and was about to act when the burning end of the cigarette in Carson’s hand ca down, making intimate contact with the skin on his chest.
Hiss!
A faint sizzling sound was heard, followed by the man’s scream of pain.
“Ah!”
The man, burnt, quickly stepped back, then, furious, charged at Carson, while the crowd around him also stood up with a nacing stance.
“Motherfucker, you’re asking for it…”
The shouting man rushed towards Carson, raising his fist, but before his fist could land, Carson’s right hand had already stretched out, pressing against his left cheek, and then he put his strength into it.
The man only felt an imnse force coming from his left cheek, then his body involuntarily tilted to the side, his head whipping around by ninety degrees, as the table zood into his view.
“Bang!”
The man’s head smashed heavily onto the table, making a loud noise.
With a muffled grunt, he passed out cold, his body sliding to the ground like a limp noodle.
Everyone was stunned by this scene.
Was this guy really that tough?
To strike in front of dozens of people?
“Kill him!”
Soone yelled, and then more voices joined in, “Kill him!”
Just as everyone raised their weapons, ready to rush at Carson, the door at the end of the hallway suddenly opened.
“Stop!”
Tucker Tyler stepped out, halting everyone, then looked at Carson with a complex gaze, “Mr.
Flores, please, Mr.
Drake is waiting for you inside.”
The crowd parted to each side, and Carson walked through the midst of machetes and steel bars, calm and collected.
“If you had co out any later, the hospitals would probably have been busy tonight.”
Tucker Tyler, looking at Carson’s smiling face, felt a surge of foreboding.
He had not been wrong to say this was really a nacing figure!
Say three days, and it had been exactly three days, and now he had co directly to the door.
Was he here to kill the boss?
After all, who would walk out of this door alive today?
“Please!”
Tucker Tyler, not daring to say more, simply made a clean gesture to usher the guest in.
Carson entered the office, scanning the room, his smile undiminished.
Sitting behind the office desk—an older man wearing a black T-shirt and a flashy gold watch—was naturally the boss of Black Bamboo Corporation, Drake Bernard.
Flanking the desk stood two n in their thirties on either side.
The buzz-cut man on the left had a pair of Iron Fist Gloves on his hands.
They were a simple design, but they wrapped his fists perfectly, allowing him to exert maximum force with tal edges during a punch, inflicting the greatest damage to his opponent.
Undoubtedly, this was none other than the Iron Fist, one of the Three Great Experts of Black Bamboo, as ntioned by Tucker Tyler.
The man on the right was bald, with tattoos on the top of his head and his face.
An already fierce countenance, paired with the facial tattoos, made him look even more ferocious and intimidating, like an Evil Ghost freshly crawled out of hell.
With Iron Fist and Evil Ghost present, in addition to the dozens of thugs outside, it seed Drake was playing the waiting ga.
As Carson sized everyone up, Drake spoke up coldly, “They say a true hero does not cross over until he’s capable.
Brother, this dragon trying to ‘cross the river’ today, I’m afraid he’s going to fall right here.”
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