Chapter Twenty-Five: Gunfire

Thanks to the generous reward from the God of Mirrors, the half-immortal diligently writes on!

Three major border crossings had occurred, something rarely seen even in recent history across America. Even the local police force in Abilene had been completely reassigned, leaving only one plump female officer on duty at the station. Everyone else, including Corvin, had been dispatched to the border, as one of the incursion sites was near Abilene.

The news had reported on these events, but Qiu Fengyu couldn't shake a sense of unease. Troubled, he called Corvin, pulling out his phone and dialing her number.

"Hey, Qiu, things are hectic here, I'll call you back later!" Corvin's voice came from the other end, but after that one sentence, she hung up immediately; the background was filled with noise.

Qiu Fengyu paused, then called again.

This time, the call connected. Corvin's voice came through once more. "Hey, I told you, I'm really busy right now—"

"I just have one thing to say—be careful, especially on your way back. I just have a bad feeling," Qiu Fengyu said to her. "If you notice anything strange, call me."

"I understand, I will," Corvin replied, hanging up again. Faced with the chaos around her, she couldn't help but frown. Qiu Fengyu's words had made her more alert.

She turned and found her chief, Brack, sharing Qiu Fengyu's concern with him. Brack also sensed something amiss, and so he reminded everyone at the station to remain vigilant, not to let anyone exploit the chaos, and to prevent any acts of revenge.

It wasn't until past eleven at night, as they waited for the border patrol to take over, that the group prepared to head back. After a long and exhausting day, nothing had happened in the end. The tension had finally eased, and the group relaxed, planning to return from the border to the small town.

After the call, Qiu Fengyu frowned deeply. Three large-scale border crossings had pulled all the local police away, so if a fourth incursion occurred, those crossing would face no resistance at all. In other words, the first three crossings were diversions, meant to draw attention and cover a fourth attempt elsewhere. If a fourth crossing happened, this theory would be confirmed.

But where would this fourth crossing be? A tunnel? Unlikely. Since the last tunnel incident, the police had thoroughly checked every spot around the border, ensuring no tunnels extended into American territory.

Most likely, the border was now swarming with law enforcement—otherwise, there wouldn't be such a shortage of police. Entering by tunnel was no longer possible.

If there was a fourth crossing, where would be the best spot? Qiu Fengyu spread out the photographs he had taken in recent days on his desk, frowning as he thought.

The river seemed improbable—too deep, with steep banks, and the water too wide to bridge in a matter of days without being noticed and stopped.

Perhaps there wasn't a fourth crossing at all.

Qiu Fengyu knitted his brows and changed his line of thinking. If he himself were trying to cross from Mexico, and only had one night to do it, what would he do?

Qiu Fengyu's frown deepened. He couldn't shake the feeling, deep in his subconscious, that there had to be a fourth crossing, and that whoever came over would likely seek revenge—against himself, or against the police.

But where would it be?

His fingers drummed anxiously on the desk, creating a faint metallic tremor. Glancing over, he saw his Mustang's car keys.

"Oh, damn," he muttered, suddenly leaping up, grabbing the keys, and rushing out. The Mustang's engine rumbled low as it started up, and the car vanished into the night.

The road from town to the border crossed a mountain pass where the terrain dipped. On either side, hills rose steeply.

Three cars stood parked quietly in the dark—powerful vehicles, crouched in the night like monstrous beasts, ready to devour anything that approached.

"Sandoval, if you're lying to us, your days are numbered," a burly Mexican man holding an American-made M16 assault rifle said to a short, stout compatriot.

The short, fat man was none other than Agado Sandoval, the Mexican who had once been caught by Qiu Fengyu, and who had later escaped from prison with a cartel boss.

"I swear, it's the cops in that small town. And that outsider—that damned outsider! I saw him kill Neil Copley. It was him; he shot Mr. Copley with a pistol."

"Neil always wanted to do something big. He slipped away from everyone to prove he could be useful, otherwise he wouldn't have sought you groundhogs, crawling through tunnels—what a joke. A bunch of country bumpkins, damn it..."

"Neil really was Mr. Copley's brother?" Sandoval asked cautiously.

"Yes, unfortunately for him, he chose you idiots to help him," the big man spat on the ground. "He shouldn't have acted on his own. We had everything planned, but his recklessness cost him his life. Tonight, it's time for revenge. Once we're done, we report back to Mr. Copley."

"Someone's coming!" a lookout whispered urgently. "A car's approaching—just one car. Should we fire?"

"Are you brain-dead? You want to blow our cover now?" the big man growled, voice low. "Go check it out—don't do anything rash. We stay low until the cops are dead. Might just be a passerby. Go—quick!"

The gunman nodded and crept toward the oncoming headlights. It was indeed a car—they could hear the engine, powerful and throaty.

But a hundred meters short of their location, the vehicle stopped. Its headlights shone in their direction, momentarily blinding those crouched in the dark. Then, the lights went out.

Silence.

Qiu Fengyu had already climbed out of his trunk, crouched behind his car with his back pressed to it. He glanced at his wristwatch—the luminous dial making the time clearly visible.

The man with the rifle drew closer, inching toward the car and shouting in a low voice, "Who's there? Get out now, or I'll blow your head off!"

He leveled the weapon at the car, lunged forward, and yanked open the driver's door—only to find the seat empty.

"Oh, hell," he muttered, realizing too late that he was in trouble.

Sure enough, as he turned, a strong arm snaked around his neck. As he struggled for breath and reflexively tried to pull the trigger, he found his finger unable to move—the gap behind the trigger was filled by Qiu Fengyu's own finger, jamming the mechanism.

Then he heard the sickening crack of his own neck breaking. A hot liquid trickled down his leg—death's indignity.

"Hey, Salinas, what the hell are you doing?" the big man called out gruffly as the figure stumbled back toward them.

But the man said nothing, just kept walking.

Something was wrong. The big man pressed, "Damn it, where's that driver? Did you find him?"

But the figure remained silent, shambling closer.

"Something's off. Shine a light!" Sandoval urged.

The big man, frowning, nodded and switched on his flashlight, illuminating the shuffling figure. The man's head lolled at an unnatural angle, and behind him, another person was holding him up.

"Someone—" the big man started to shout, but before he could finish, a muzzle flashed from behind the corpse. The gun spat fire, bullets striking the big man mid-sentence and cutting him down before he could utter another word.

Sandoval tried to drop to the ground, but a bullet tore through his forehead, lifting his skullcap as his life spilled out.