Han surveyed his surroundings, his movements deliberate as he avoided the cameras mounted outside the shops. He positioned himself behind a decorative tree, his target firmly in sight: "John's Leatherworks" across the street.
As the first to call and his largest client, Han was certain old John held the answers.
The shop stood alone, a single-story building surrounded by vacant lots. Business seemed brisk; several customers entered and exited within a short time, all carrying bags of leather goods.
After observing for half an hour from his hiding spot, a sudden realization struck Han. He was being too cautious. This was Texas, land of the straightforward. These westerners respected strength, not subtlety. They feared power, not virtue. Without a show of force, no one would grant you respect.
Selecting a few stones from a nearby patch of grass, he hurled them with practiced precision. The two external cameras shattered simultaneously. Rising to his feet, Han strode purposefully towards the shop.
"Who the hell's out here causing trouble?!" A bald, burly John emerged, brandishing a Remington shotgun.
Before he could spot the source, a cold, sharp edge pressed against his neck.
"Inside, John. Now. Drop the gun." A chillingly familiar voice spoke from behind.
"Oh, Hank… don't do this. It wasn't my idea," John stammered, his hands trembling. He'd seen how sharp that scalpel could be, and now prayed the hand holding it remained steady.
Han shoved the bald man inside and flipped the sign to 'Closed.' After forcing John to leave the shotgun by the door, he maneuvered him to the back of the shop before releasing him.
"You know why I'm here, John. Who was it?" Han's gaze locked onto John's, forcing the older man to look away.
"Hank… they threatened my family. It was Frank..." Though unfamiliar with the concept of 'settling debts with the right person,' John held nothing back, spilling the entire story.
A recent police crackdown had wiped out the local gang controlling the streets. But in the land of the free, new criminals always emerged. Frank, freshly released from prison, had assembled a new crew of a dozen violent thugs, quickly filling the power vacuum.
They now operated two bars, a fur trading company, and a processing plant as fronts. Recently, they had strong-armed all the local leather shops into buying raw materials exclusively from their company.
John told Han everything, finishing with a terrified whisper, "Frank… he's a complete maniac..." He almost added another comment but stopped himself, thinking the man with the scalpel wasn't much better.
Now Han understood. This wasn't a personal vendetta; he was just collateral damage. As the critic MacArthur supposedly said, if life screws you, it's probably because you're not big enough. Han figured that while he might not be the biggest, he could still show enough to prove he wasn't impotent.
As John looked down and then up again, the young man before him had vanished. Not a creak of the floorboard, not a ring of the doorbell. It was as if he had never been there.
A cold sweat drenched John. He scrambled behind the counter, fumbling for the phone...
Han had already slipped out through an open window. He pulled out his phone, Googled an address, and committed the route to memory. He knew his enemy now. It was time for payback.
Living a second life, he refused to be constrained. Even if he was wrong, he'd see it through. These weren't good men anyway; he felt no guilt.
He walked briskly down two streets and retrieved a well-used dirt bike from a hidden thicket—his daily ride, stashed there earlier. Donning his helmet, he revved the engine, and the bike shot forward like an arrow.
He weaved skillfully through alleys and side streets. Just as he turned onto a main road, a piercing siren wailed behind him. The roar of an engine grew rapidly closer. A sense of wrongness prickled Han's spine. He swerved.
The bike carved an S-curve along the roadside.
BANG! BANG!
Two gunshots.
WHIZZ! WHIZZ! Two projectiles sliced through the air where he had been.
Every hair on Han's body stood on end. He was being shot at—for no reason! Damn it! He was still flesh and blood; bullets were a definitive no.
Before he could check his mirrors, another volley rang out. BANG! BANG! BANG! Almost simultaneously, Han yanked the handlebars back, and the bike launched over a shrub-lined embankment.
Behind him, branches splintered and leaves exploded as bullets tore through the bushes. A black pickup truck roared past on the road. Han clearly saw the driver—a white man, heavily tattooed across his scalp. In the passenger seat, a heavyset Mexican man leaned out the window, firing a rifle haphazardly behind them. It was clearly this man who had shot at Han.
Both were laughing maniacally, faces twisted with arrogance. Fury boiled within Han. He revved the engine, ready to give chase.
Another vehicle, a police cruiser with flashing lights and blaring siren, sped past in pursuit of the truck. A voice from the cruiser's loudspeaker commanded the truck to pull over. Han glanced over, surprised to hear a female officer's voice.
As the cruiser passed, he saw two blonde women inside. The passenger held her service weapon, aiming cautiously ahead. Han was mildly impressed. Being a cop in America was just a job, yet these two were bravely chasing armed criminals.
Han gunned his engine, his bike appearing and disappearing along the roadside slopes and embankments. After cresting a small hill, he heard several gunshots ahead, followed by the screech of tires and a loud CRUNCH.
Someone had clearly lost control and hit something.
Rounding the next bend, he saw the police cruiser, its front end wrapped around a tree. The two officers were struggling to get out, but the crumpled frame had jammed the doors shut. Spotting Han on his motorcycle, they frantically waved him over.
"Officers, how can I help?" Han asked, pulling up beside the wreck. If they hadn't been desperately calling for aid, he would have ridden right past.
"We saw you were shot at. We can be your witnesses," the passenger said, her voice strained. "The doors are jammed. Can you help pry them open? Marie is hurt." She looked at Han with hopeful eyes. Realizing the shooting victim was Asian—stereotypically seen as non-threatening—eased her tension slightly.
"OK." Han nodded curtly. He wedged his fingers into the deformed door seam of the passenger side and, with a controlled exertion, pried it open enough for the officer to tumble out.
Gasping for breath, she immediately begged him again. "Sir, I'm too shaky. Can you please get Marie out?"
"No problem." Han walked to the driver's side and repeated the process.
The officer inside had a leg injury. Blood soaked her tan pants around the thigh, where a tourniquet was already applied. Tears welled in her eyes as she choked out a "thank you."
Han leaned in. Carefully, to avoid her injured leg, he slid one arm under her back and the other under her knees, lifting her out in a cradle. As he straightened up, a sharp cry came from the other officer.
"GET DOWN!"