Tear!
The paper bag was ripped in half. Jay pulled out a glass bottle with a red label and placed it on the supply room's battered workbench.
"I don't drink much. Do you want this Erguotou from China?" Jay asked.
"Nah, we don't drink that stuff in the morning."
At the entrance to the modification garage deep inside the underground parking lot, Fat Deren shook his head repeatedly. "That stuff is strong, but it tastes awful. Honestly, I don't think any high-proof Chinese liquor tastes good. It's practically like gasoline."
"You've drunk gasoline?"
"Of course not," Skinny Junker said lazily from the side. "Though… we have drunk aviation fuel."
"Yeah," Deren chimed in. "Then we accidentally farted and landed in Moscow."
Argh!
Jay pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, feeling a throbbing at his temples. Is there a single normal person in the East Precinct?
He pulled an envelope from his pocket. "I got up too early today, so I didn't get another bottle, but I put some extra cash in. What do you think?"
Deren snatched the envelope, poured out the bills, and started counting with Junker.
"Three hundred… four hundred… five hundred… six hundred… sixty? Hey, what's with the extra money? If you're short on cash, we can stick to the five hundred we agreed on. We can forget about the liquor for now."
"It's… a sort of custom we have. That number signifies that everything will go smoothly. I hope it's enough for a bottle of liquor?"
"It's enough, more than enough! Don't worry, it'll be worth the price!" Deren stuffed the money into a drawer, then turned with Junker and, with a boom, pulled open the garage door.
"That's it?" Jay was slightly disappointed.
Staring at the large black commercial van parked in the center of the workshop, it looked rough and ugly.
Deren sauntered over and knocked on the side of the vehicle.
"Ten millimeters of steel plate plus an external ceramic shell. The undercarriage uses a V-shaped double-hull. Self-sealing, blast-proof fuel tank. Reinforced radiator. Engine…"
He looked back at Junker. "You tell him."
"We initially wanted to swap the engine for a 3116 diesel, but fuel consumption and heat were a problem, so we stuck with the original," Junker interjected.
"But I installed a GT38 turbocharger, and replaced the piston rods and injectors. Power is up by at least forty percent. Right now, in Gotham, probably nothing short of a tank is going to crash into you."
He opened the back door. "We removed the prisoner transport cage and just installed a few heavy-duty restraint rings. The rest of the space is fitted with squad seating and weapon racks.
Given your style, you probably won't be hauling many living prisoners back, right?"
"Wow! Wow!" Jay climbed into the driver's seat, touching the brand-new encrypted radio and the secured long-gun rack. "It even has new air conditioning!!"
"There's also an auxiliary generator and heavy-duty push bars on the front and back. It's ugly, but it works. We also reserved a tear gas port on the rear."
Fat Deren looked at the large GCPD lettering painted on the vehicle, a look of satisfied tenderness on his face. "Honestly, it's been years since we've worked on a car this seriously. Kid, don't you dare shame us."
"No problem, thank you both." Jay expressed his sincere gratitude. He knew that besides the risk of false accounting, Bob must have pulled some strings to get Internal Affairs to approve the asset audit. "I'm sure I caused you a lot of trouble."
"That's true," Deren nodded. "But we also made a nice profit on the bill we submitted…"
"Hey!" Skinny Junker glared at Deren.
Deren shrugged indifferently. "It's fine. He's one of Bob's trusted people."
——————————
When the newly modified war machine roared up to the gates of Blackgate Prison, Martin Scofield's head started buzzing again.
He spread out the East Precinct's paperwork, tapped on his keyboard with two index fingers for a moment, and checked the file. Then he gave Jay a kindly smile.
"Otis Flannigan? No problem. Honestly, the more poor wretches like him you take away, the better." Martin signed the document cheerfully. "Say hello to Bob for me. It's been a long time since we last met."
The escorting guard this time wasn't Morrison; Jay hadn't paid much attention to his name.
The guy's mouth was like a machine gun the entire way, rambling about everything from inmates and officers to delivery companies, and even his father's affair.
Jay kept his hands behind his back, fingers tightly interlaced, just to keep from physically plugging his ears.
Once the handover was finally completed, the guard enthusiastically bade him farewell.
"Hey! Jay, you're the most conversational guy I've met. Next time you come, I'll tell you about the heavy security block where the inmates bet on eating cockroaches, and the loser gets stabbed in the ass. The scene was just…"
"Next time, definitely next time."
Jay pushed Otis's back and hurried toward the exit without looking back. Faint farewells still echoed behind him. "Definitely next time! I'll tell you the story privately…"
Motherf—
It wasn't until he had escaped into the car that Jay finally breathed a sigh of relief. This was more painful than being hit by a flashbang.
He looked at Otis's flimsy prison uniform and shook his head, turning on the heater.
"This won't do. We need to get you some new—Holy cow!"
Something beneath Otis's loose uniform was suddenly moving rapidly upwards along his abdomen.
Then, a gray mouse head popped out of his collar. A chubby mouse hopped out of the collar and onto Otis's leg.
"Aaaaah… What the hell is that!"
Though Jay knew Otis had the ability to control rats, seeing one suddenly dart out right next to him was a completely different experience.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Officer!" Otis quickly picked up the mouse and held it in his palm. "This is… this is my friend, Bastian… He's well-behaved, has no diseases, and won't cause trouble."
The mouse seemed to understand him, stood up in the palm of his hand, and nodded rapidly.
"Holy shit, it really understands what you're saying?"
"Yes, actually… Officer, I… I can understand the general meaning of what the rats say, and they listen to me."
Even though he had known this fact, Jay still felt that this whole situation was profoundly unsettling.
"The only rats I recognize are Mickey, Jerry, and Pikachu."
Otis: ???
"Fine, the rats listen to you. But your previous job was as a professional rat catcher?" Jay shook his head in disbelief. "That's even more ridiculous than Kennedy happily applauding a street full of snipers."
——————
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