MM Racing Page 225
Page 225
"Gentlemen,"
He finally spoke, his voice echoing in the empty warehouse, “My boss, a very important and impatient gentleman, has paid you a hefty sum to find Miss Max.”
But after all these days, all I've received are reports full of nonsense. This makes me very unhappy because you are the people I hired, and it makes me feel like you've been deceived.
One of the slightly older detectives forced himself to remain calm: "We've done our best! New York is so big, it's really hard for someone to hide..."
Before he could finish speaking, a burly man behind Franky stepped forward and punched him in the stomach without warning.
The detective groaned, curled up like a shrimp, and began to gag violently.
The other two turned deathly pale instantly.
Franky then raised his eyelids, his eyes devoid of any emotion: "Trying your best? Let me see how you 'try your best'."
He stood up and walked over to the three men. "Did you check all the banks, hotels, and airlines she might have visited? — Using your usual polite, permission-seeking methods?"
He stopped in front of a trembling detective: "Did you 'interrogate' all the informants, thugs, prostitutes, and bartenders near the place where she was last seen? —With money? Or with your detective agency's name?"
No one dared to answer.
"It seems there aren't any."
Franky answered his own question, his voice even colder, "You just went through the motions, thinking you could keep getting paid by dragging things out. You've treated me and my boss like fools."
The following process was brief and efficient.
Frankie's people are experts at inflicting maximum pain while avoiding permanent damage.
They didn't need to use many complicated instruments of torture; flathead screwdrivers, box screwdrivers, thumbtacks, nail guns, short sticks, and precise strikes to areas with dense nerves were enough to break down the psychological defenses of these pampered detectives.
Soon, the truth was revealed.
They indeed found no valuable clues.
It appears that they consciously avoided all conventional tracking methods.
They even doubted whether she was still in New York, but in order to continue collecting fees, they chose to conceal and delay.
Franky listened without showing any expression.
He had expected this. He waved his hand, and his men dragged the three bruised, mentally broken detectives away like dead dogs.
Franky muttered a curse under his breath, a curse directed at the detectives and at New York, which annoyed him, before pointing at three people:
"Hand them over to Mr. Liu. These three men can at least increase the Brooklyn Police Department's crime-solving rate by three percentage points!"
······
Having proven ineffective, Franky immediately switched to his most familiar channel—the underworld.
He knew that in such a megacity, finding someone who was deliberately hiding was often inefficient with official and overt forces; the truly omnipresent and all-pervasive forces were those that operated in the shadows.
Through his connections in Chicago, he quickly made contact with the heads of several influential human trafficking groups in New York.
These people control the city's underground transportation lines and information flow, especially the movement of "people".
The meeting was arranged in the back room of a noisy strip club.
The air was thick with smoke, a mixture of cheap cigars and alcohol.
Franky only brought two men with him, but his imposing presence, wielding a Chicago typewriter, overwhelmed the five or six men on the other side.
He skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the point, pushing a photo of Max Black in front of the other person. The redhead in the photo had a rebellious smile, exuding Brooklyn-esque sharpness and energy.
"Find this girl."
Franky's voice left no room for argument: "Find her, and we'll find the person we're looking for. Someone's offering $300,000 to find her unharmed. If you provide concrete information that will allow us to find her directly, $10,000 will be paid immediately."
The human traffickers exchanged glances.
Three hundred thousand US dollars was a huge temptation, but what they cared about more was Frankie himself.
They had long heard of the infamous "Bloody Hands Butcher Frankie" of Chicago.
This is a ruthless character known for his cruel methods and his unwavering commitment to his word. Now that he has set foot in New York, he is clearly determined to succeed.
Working with him could bring in a huge sum of money, but refusing or deceiving him could have dire consequences.
"Mr. Franky, many people go missing and reappear in New York every day..."
One of the leaders spoke tentatively.
Franky interrupted him, his eyes sharp as knives: "I know your capabilities. Your eyes and ears are everywhere—airports, train stations, docks, slums, even those shady clinics and motels that don't require ID."
This girl isn't a career criminal; she needs to live, she needs work, she needs contact with people. Mobilize all of you—brothels, underground casinos, illegal labor agencies, all the gray areas you control—I need to know where she is as quickly as possible.
The golden bait and the black threat worked in tandem, with astonishing efficiency.
These local tyrants immediately sprang into action, issuing orders swiftly through layers of networks.
An invisible yet dense net began to quietly spread throughout New York City, especially in Brooklyn and Queens.
Money and fear are the most powerful driving forces in the world.
Frankie's methods, though brutal, were extremely effective.
These human trafficking organizations possess underground intelligence networks that official detectives cannot match.
Their reach extends into every dark corner of the city; the homeless, drug addicts, prostitutes, illegal immigrants, petty thieves... are all potential informants for them.
An instant reward of ten thousand US dollars is enough to motivate these people to desperately recall and search.
Fragments of information began to come together.
Some people vaguely remember seeing this red-haired waitress at a cheap restaurant near Williamsburg; she had a sharp tongue.
The tip was passed up the chain of command, and after verification, the small restaurant where Max worked was quickly identified.
Several henchmen skilled in tracking and observation were dispatched, posing as customers and passersby to confirm the identities.
Sure enough, the girl in the photo was there, carrying plates quickly and shrewdly, working alongside another tall, blonde girl who seemed out of place in her surroundings.
What excited them even more was that, through further observation and inquiries, they confirmed the identity of the blonde girl—Caroline Channing, the ex-girlfriend of world boxing champion Victor Lee!
This discovery was a delightful surprise.
The report quickly reached the boss, who thought that Caroline's photograph could also be exchanged for a large sum of money, so the boss immediately informed Frankie about Max's news.
Franky simply replied on the phone, "Very good. Keep a close eye on them and figure out her routine."
However, Franky overestimated the discipline of the New York Mafia:
"This person is so important, if we capture them, won't we get more than 300,000?"
The human trafficker clapped his hands: "You're a genius!"
·······
Meanwhile, Max and Caroline were completely unaware of the impending danger.
They still lead typical lives of struggling to make a living, complaining to each other, and relying on each other for survival.
The work at that small Korean restaurant was demanding and the pay was meager, but at least it allowed them to pay the rent for their run-down apartment in Brooklyn.
Max continues to use her sharp tongue to confront the absurdity of the world, while Caroline struggles to maintain her "Upper East Side" dignity, even though that dignity seems to crumble in the face of greasy plates and picky customers.
I usually get off work after 11 p.m.
They would drag their tired bodies back to their apartments along a fixed route.
On the way, Max would complain about her sore feet and curse the world, while Caroline would plan their illusory cupcake business dream, trying to dispel the gloom of reality.
“I said, Caroline,”
As Max kicked at an empty can on the street, he said, "I really wanted to dump that plate of lamb on the bald guy who ordered lamb skewers today but complained that they smelled like lamb.
“Calm down, Max,”
Caroline sighed and straightened the collar of her cheap coat. "We need this job. And, theoretically, lamb does have its own unique gamey smell; that's an objective fact..."
"Oh, shut your 'objective facts' mouth! Next time he comes, I'll tell him that his head also has a unique 'superb intelligence' glow, which is also an objective fact!"
Max said viciously.
They walked noisily along the dimly lit, sparsely populated street.
This is a relatively relaxing moment in their day. Although they are tired, at least they have each other's company and can vent to relieve stress.
Even though Max knew who Caroline's ex-boyfriend was, and knew that Caroline didn't know that she and her ex-boyfriend had been very close—Max didn't think she could have anything to do with Victor again.
They were used to the silence of this road, unaware that several pairs of eyes had already locked onto them in the darkness.
"Fuck, this time I want five hundred thousand!"
Chapter 191 Wind City's Fury: Hurricane Rescue
The New York gang chose to commit the crime on a corner a block away from their (Max and Caroline's) apartment.
The streetlights here are broken, making the lighting dim, and there are almost no pedestrians or vehicles passing by at this time.
A black van without any markings was parked in the shadows ahead of time.
The traffickers' henchmen, all seasoned veterans in this trade, were scattered around like hyenas waiting for their prey.
As Max and Caroline appeared at the street corner, whispered communications were immediately relayed among the kidnappers.
"Targets have appeared, both at once."
"do it according to plan."
Max was imitating the restaurant owner's accent to make Caroline laugh, and Caroline covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
Suddenly, two dark figures darted out from the alley next to them and pounced on them at an incredible speed!
On the other side, two other people also closed in at the same time, completely blocking the escape route.
The attack happened too suddenly.
Max only had time to let out a short gasp before a rough, large hand covered her mouth from behind. The strong smell of chemicals (possibly ether or chloroform) assaulted her nose and mouth, making her instantly dizzy and unable to struggle.
With a sturdy burlap sack covering his head, the world was plunged into darkness and a sense of suffocation.
Caroline reacted a fraction of a second faster, screaming, "Max! Help—!"
But the sound stopped abruptly, and the same fate befell her. She felt a sharp pain in her neck, probably from some kind of sedative injection, and a strong drowsiness overwhelmed her consciousness like a tidal wave.