EFB Chapter 112 Security Forces
Chapter 112 Security Forces
Chapter 112 Security Forces
Taking advantage of the crowd after the concert, Qin Han left the beach and drove to "Veteran Bar".
As soon as you enter, the aroma of whiskey mixed with the strong smell of cigarettes hits you.
There's no noisy disco here; instead, an old-fashioned record player in the corner is playing jazz from the 1940s.
The bar was already quite full, with people chatting in twos and threes, the dim lights illuminating their mutilated limbs or scarred faces.
As Qin Han stepped into the store, the hushed conversation abruptly ceased, and more than a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him.
Without any noise or whistles, an elderly man with one arm near the door raised his wine glass and gave Qin Han a slight nod.
Then came the second, the third—
Clearly, General Samuel's old comrades had heard his story to some extent, and they expressed their acceptance of the young man in this silent way.
Qin Han nodded to the veterans, then walked straight to the bar.
A burly old man lifted the curtain of the kitchen and waved to Qin Han, signaling him to follow him inside.
He walked through the narrow kitchen and pushed open an iron door disguised as a cold storage room.
This is a windowless basement, with all sorts of old-looking car repair tools hanging on the walls:
Wrenches, jacks, and even acetylene torches.
A high-wattage incandescent bulb hangs from the ceiling, illuminating the entire room in minute detail.
In the center of the room, four people were tightly bound to iron chairs welded to the ground.
It was the same "tactical squad" from last night.
The long-haired man, disguised as a tourist, had his head drooping. His once flowing hair was now soaked with sweat and blood and stuck to his face, making him look extremely disheveled.
The couple pretending to be a couple: the man, covered in blood, was the one who shot and attacked him yesterday; the woman, her eyes filled with terror, had disheveled hair and looked like a female ghost.
As for the short man whose wrist had been broken, he was groaning in pain, his right hand swollen like a steamed bun.
"Pah!" General Samuel Fuller was sitting on a tool table, holding a blood-stained rag in his hand, slowly wiping a blood-stained pair of pliers.
Seeing Qin Han enter, the old general threw the pliers on the table with a loud clang: "These sons of bitches are tougher than I thought."
He pulled a flattened pack of Camel cigarettes from his pocket, poured one out, and put it in his mouth. "That long-haired kid must be the leader. I plucked two of his fingernails, and all he did was spout some nonsense in Japanese about Bushido," without uttering a single useful word.
Qin Han walked up to the long-haired man, who seemed to sense the presence of a stranger and barely raised his head.
His bloodshot eyes were fixed on Qin Han, a mocking smile twisting his lips as he forced out a few words through clenched teeth: "Zhi-pig."
"Smack!" Without saying a word, Qin Han punched him directly in the mouth, and several broken teeth mixed with blood and foam flew out.
"Don't bother." Samuel exhaled a smoke ring. "These guys are brainwashed suicide bombers, just like those crazy lunatics we encountered on the Pacific islands back then who charged in with the 'Hurray' spirit."
"Give me half a day, and I'll go and bring out my old buddy, an electric torture device specifically designed to deal with the Gestapo. I refuse to believe I can't pry their mouths open."
Qin Han waved his hand, stopping the old general.
"Samuel, for those who feel they are sacrificing themselves for a greater cause, physical pain only makes them feel like martyrs."
He pulled up a chair, straddled the long-haired man opposite him, and placed his hands on the back of the chair: "Name?"
The long-haired man just sneered, closed his eyes, and looked like he was about to be slaughtered.
"You're not going to tell me? That's fine."
Qin Han was not angry, because early this morning, the system provided him with a very useful piece of information.
Kenichi Yamamoto, head of the Yamamoto-gumi, a subordinate organization of the Yamaguchi-gumi, submitted four forged death certificates to the hospital.
The four individuals are named: Guigu Yamato, ————
Clearly, just like his master, when his own life was threatened, the system directly provided the necessary assistance.
For these suicide soldiers, death itself was not frightening; what was frightening was being forgotten, being discarded like trash, utterly worthless.
"Let me guess, you're from the Yamakane group, right? If I'm not mistaken, I can vaguely make out the outline of the character 'Ken' on the tattoo on the back of your hand."
The long-haired man's tightly closed eyelids twitched suddenly.
"Whether you confess or not doesn't really matter to me. Because just this morning, my informant in Japan sent me a message."
"Your team leader—what's his name again? Oh, right, Kenichi Yamamoto. He's really efficient."
Upon hearing the team leader's name, the four of them widened their eyes simultaneously, staring at Qin Han in horror.
This mission was extremely secretive; the Yamaguchi-gumi didn't even dare to send any official members, and only hired a few "outsourced" workers.
Even so, how did this man in front of me still manage to discover it?
Qin Han sighed deliberately, his tone tinged with pity: "What a pity, you've already become dead the moment you left Japan."
"Baka! You're talking nonsense!" The long-haired man suddenly opened his eyes, his neck veins bulging like earthworms with excitement. "The mission isn't over yet! How could the team leader—"
"Why not?" Qin Han coldly interrupted him: "I know you don't care about your lives, but—your records in the group have also been deleted."
"No one will remember what you did. Even three to five years from now, your former friends and so-called family members in the group will never mention your names again."
"Shut up! Shut up! I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" the long-haired man roared frantically, struggling wildly.
For people like them, faith is everything.
When he learned that the Yamaguchi-gumi had treated him as mere expendable material, making him work for them without even leaving his name, the sense of betrayal was more deadly than any form of torture.
"Don't believe me?" Qin Han sneered and announced the names of several people: "Guigu Yamato — four people, died in a car accident."
"This is the last piece of information you have left in Japan."
A deathly silence.
The long-haired man stopped struggling, as if his spine had been removed, and slumped into the chair.
"Car accident—" he muttered to himself, his voice filled with despair and self-mockery: "I actually died in a car accident—"
The female assassin next to her, with the weakest mental fortitude, had already broken down upon hearing this, crying and shouting, "I'll confess everything! I don't want to die without knowing why!"
Over the next half hour, the group revealed everything they knew.
"Besides us, there's another group that has already smuggled themselves into the United States."
"Who's leading the team? Who's the target? Where are they?" Qin Han immediately tensed up.
"The leader is—Onizuka's younger brother, Onizuka Jiro." The long-haired man lowered his head: "I don't know the specifics, because we only communicate through a single line."
"Is there anything else?" Qin Han pressed.
"Our contact was a military attaché at the Japanese Consulate in Los Angeles named Sato. He arranged all the funding and the evacuation route."
Qin Han nodded, stood up, folded the paper filled with confessions, and put it into his inner pocket.
He turned to Samuel: "General, is this enough information?"
Samuel had lost his earlier agitation; the composure of an old soldier had returned to him.
"That's enough." He threw his cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with his boot. "Even diplomats are involved. If Bill doesn't make a move soon, I'll personally go to Washington and crush his balls!"
"As for these few pieces of trash—" the old general glanced at the four completely crippled men, "Leave them to me. We're not far from Pearl Harbor—"
Qin Han didn't speak, but simply nodded silently.
Stepping out of the basement and back into the lively bar lobby, the feeling of being in another world made him take a deep breath of the sea-scented air.
"Qin." Samuel followed him out and patted him on the shoulder: "Be careful when you get back to America. Those lunatics who dared to hack into America directly are very likely carrying heavy weapons, much more dangerous than these guys who only know how to handle knives and guns."
"If needed, I can send a few 'children' back with you."
Qin Han shook his head and looked at the veteran gratefully: "This is your home. As for Los Angeles—I'll take care of it myself."
After saying goodbye to Samuel, Qin Han drove back to the Hilton Hotel.
Security remained tight, with armed police officers patrolling the corridors.
Pushing open the suite door, I found Rona sitting on a wicker chair on the terrace, holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold, lost in thought.
Hearing Qin Han enter, she immediately put down her cup and hurried over to greet him.
"How are you? Are you alright?" After looking Qin Han up and down and confirming that there were no new wounds on his body, he breathed a sigh of relief.
"I'm fine." Qin Han took off his coat, walked to the edge of the terrace, and looked at the calm sea in the distance, but his heart was churning with emotions.
"They confessed everything." He turned to look at Lorna, his expression grave. "The situation is more serious than we thought. It's not just in Hawaii; a group of people have also infiltrated Los Angeles."
He told Rona about Onizuka Jiro.
Lorna turned pale and covered her mouth: "My God—have they gone mad? Bringing heavy weapons into Los Angeles? That's American soil!"
"For a group of brainwashed far-right extremists, there's nothing they wouldn't dare to do," Qin Han said in a deep voice. "Their goal is clear: even if it means sacrificing everyone's lives for my master, it would still be a success for them. That way, they can directly destroy everything we've built up."
Even a seasoned journalist like Lorna, with her extensive experience, felt a chill run down her spine in the face of such a life-or-death attack.
"So what do we do? Call the police? Get the FBI involved?"
"Nobody knows for sure how many Japanese people are in the FBI," Qin Han shook his head. "We have to walk on two legs: leveraging Bill's influence in Washington, and relying on ourselves."
"We need a team. A security force that is our own, absolutely loyal, and willing to fight and struggle."
As Hans Pictures expands its reach, it will also affect more and more interests.
This time it was Japanese, next time it might be the Italian Mafia, or some other kind of outlaws.
Without its own defense forces, it will always be at a disadvantage when facing these unruly opponents.
"Go to a security company?" Lorna frowned. "Most security companies these days are either retired police officers or like the Pinkerton Detective Agency. They are professional, but they probably can't be relied on for things like assassinations."
"No need to look for outside companies." A young, arrogant face appeared in Qin Han's mind.
The apprentice he took in Chinatown was Zhou Ruofei, the leader of the "Joey Gang" of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association.
This young man, who started his own business because he despised the drug trade and led a group of young Chinese from Chinatown to make a name for themselves, is clearly the most reliable prospect.
"Lorna, do you remember the apprentice I took on in Chinatown?"
"Zhou Ruofei is a tough guy, and his men are all ruthless characters who have fought their way up in Chinatown. Most importantly, they are extremely loyal to us."
"If I provide the money, the equipment, and hire a few of Samuel's men to train them—" Qin Han's eyes grew brighter and brighter: "I could have a security force entirely composed of Chinese people."
"They're deeply entrenched in Los Angeles. No matter how powerful those Japanese are, they can't possibly beat these local bullies!"
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