Chapter Twenty-Seven: I Hate You

Thank you to Mr. Night Rain, the God of Mirrors, and Fake Ru 8:30 for the reward. The demigod will keep working hard!

"God bless!" Qiu Fengyu drew a cross over his chest. In truth, he didn't believe in God; it was just a gesture to steady his nerves.

The car roared once more. The iron bridge ahead was indeed a bit narrow, but Qiu Fengyu was confident he could make the jump and dash into Mexico.

"I love you, baby, don't let me down. We'll make it, everything will go according to plan. Come on, baby!" With that, Qiu Fengyu slammed the accelerator. The Mustang howled, shooting forward like lightning, accelerating again and again, then with a whir, the car launched into the air. In midair, he kept the car steady, his eyes locked on the landing point.

With a thunderous crash, the car landed precisely in the center of the suspended bridge and roared on. Qiu Fengyu released the steering wheel, drew two pistols from his waist, and charged toward the two trucks and the four men by the bridge. Before they could react, he gunned them down.

Spinning the pistols deftly, he sent the car in a half-circle skid, parking it perfectly. He searched one of the bodies for keys and a remote. With these, he could return here as planned.

He hid his own car by a small slope nearby, covered it with a tarp, then took one of the cars parked here and drove into the city on the Mexican side.

Under the night, the Mexican city glittered with lights, hardly different from America in that respect. The streets were deserted, with few people or cars—Mexicans rarely ventured out at night. This was cartel territory.

From the navigation history, Qiu Fengyu found the address of a luxury villa community and set the GPS for it. The car sped toward its destination like a ghost.

This was a fine car, too—strong and powerful to drive.

A sprawling villa district, with several grand houses. At the main gate, the sign read "Palace." There was a security system and two armed guards with M16 rifles.

Qiu Fengyu stopped at the gate, stuck a cross out the window, and waved it in the air. The two guards opened up, but as they looked inside, something felt off. One of them scrutinized Qiu Fengyu.

"Who are you?" He wasn't speaking English; it was a language Qiu Fengyu didn't understand—probably Spanish, as most Mexicans spoke it.

Qiu Fengyu got out of the car with his hands up. The two guards were standing too close together.

Without warning, Qiu Fengyu snatched a curved machete from the nearest guard's belt—a typical Mexican blade with a broad, leaf-shaped edge.

It was as if a gust of wind brushed past the man's throat—he felt a coolness, perhaps even heard the sound of wind. Yes, the sound was the blood spraying out in a fan, hissing like a breeze. It was the last sound he would ever hear.

The other guard raised his rifle, but a flash of white light crossed his vision. He felt a powerful blow to his chest, staggered back two steps, and then collapsed onto his back. The curved machete was buried deep in his chest.

Qiu Fengyu dragged both bodies into the gatehouse. Leisurely, he pulled the machete free. The famed Mexican blade lived up to its reputation—wielded, it felt perfect in his hand. Two pistols remained tucked at his waist.

With the machete in hand, Qiu Fengyu strode toward the main villa. He pulled up the hood of his jacket, now looking every bit the hip-hop youth from the streets of New York.

As he neared the door, two men in black suits suddenly appeared, shouting at the hooded, fast-walking Qiu Fengyu: "Hey, buddy, stop right there or I'll blow your head off!"

Qiu Fengyu reversed the machete behind his back and quickened his pace, closing in on the two bodyguards.

"Hey, asshole! I swear I'll blow your brains out," one guard shouted, drawing his pistol. The other reached into his suit for his weapon.

"It's about Neil—something your boss will be interested in," Qiu Fengyu said in English.

"Asshole, speak Spanish. This isn't goddamn America. This is Mexico—" He never finished. Qiu Fengyu leapt forward, and the man felt a sharp pain in his gut, as if struck by a heavy blow.

"What the hell are you doing?" The other pulled his hand from his jacket, gun in hand, just as a flash of white crossed his vision. Suddenly, his hand—still gripping the gun—fell to the ground. He stared in shock, not yet feeling pain, as the blade slashed his throat. The scream he tried to utter was stifled, becoming a gurgling hiss of blood.

"What's going on out there?" From inside the villa's hall, behind the glass doors, someone spotted the scene and began shouting. Two more men in black suits strode toward the entrance, drawing their pistols as they walked.

"Stop! Stay outside," one ordered, raising his weapon.

But Qiu Fengyu was faster. His hands moved with lethal speed—bang, bang! Both men dropped instantly. The others, startled by the gunshots, snapped to their senses and drew their weapons.

Bang, bang, bang—Qiu Fengyu advanced, firing rapidly. His shooting was swift and precise; before the others could react, both his pistols were empty.

Seven men lay dead in the hall, six remained, some with automatic rifles. As they finally began to fire, Qiu Fengyu was already behind a wall, reloading.

"Why are there gunshots?" On the rooftop, enjoying a massage from bikini-clad women by the pool, Harvey Copley frowned and spoke to his two bodyguards. "Go check it out," he ordered with a wave. The women massaging his shoulders quickly withdrew.

Not far from him lounged a middle-aged white man in his forties—slightly overweight but sharp-eyed. He wore swimming trunks and dangled a cigar, his companion also leaving.

"Someone dares come here looking for trouble?" He laughed at Harvey Copley, holding his cigar between his fingers. "It's settled, then: I’ll clean up the mess you made in America, and you’ll take care of the dollars for me."

"Deal," Harvey Copley nodded, rising to his feet. "I’ll sort this out quickly. I just hope you keep your word."

"We’ve been partners for years. Don’t you trust me? If not for me, you’d never have escaped back to Mexico so smoothly. I should be going—things seem a bit lively here."

"I’ll walk you out," said Harvey, rising and extending his hand. "To a fruitful partnership!" He picked up the black briefcase beside him and handed it over.

"To a fruitful partnership." The two men shook hands, sharing a smile.

A sudden crash—the glass doors at the rooftop entrance shattered as someone stumbled in, took two unsteady steps, and collapsed face-first to the floor.

Then another figure entered from outside, hood up. He glanced at the two men frozen in place and shrugged. "Having a party? Looks like I’m late."

"Who are you?" Harvey Copley demanded harshly. "Do you know who I am? I promise, if you lay a finger on me, you’ll never leave this house alive—"

Qiu Fengyu ignored his threats and slowly raised his pistol.

"Fine, take all my money. This case—there’s more than enough in here," Harvey pleaded, grabbing the briefcase from the other man and offering it.

"No, I don’t want your money," Qiu Fengyu replied, his gun still raised.

"Then tell me, what have I done to offend you? I don’t believe we’ve met. Speak plainly—there’s nothing that can’t be solved. Everything and everyone has a price!"

"The only thing I hate you for is—throwing a damn party without sending me an invitation!" With those words, Qiu Fengyu pulled the trigger. The bullet punched through Harvey Copley’s head, toppling him to the floor and then into the pool, chair and all.