029, new mounts and backstabbers

After half a day.

After scouring nearly every gun shop, Zaire decided to give up for now.

According to what Zaire had learned, adhering to the law wouldn't get him anywhere.

Unless he went abroad to places like Mexico or the Middle East.

Or started a company and secured a lucrative contract to gain the favor of arms dealers.

Otherwise, there was no way to establish a channel.

To quickly acquire a large number of firearms.

In other words, aside from robbing an arms dealer's warehouse.

The only way for Zaire to get a large supply of firearms domestically.

Was through gangs.

After all, every gang has its own smuggling routes for firearms.

So, everything went back to square one.

However, it wasn't all fruitless.

Zaire hadn't come away empty-handed.

After spending five hundred dollars to get a suitable holster for his plasma pistol.

Zaire got a phone number of a private arms dealer from a gun shop owner.

According to the owner's gossip.

This dealer had no gang affiliations.

But he wouldn't entertain deals for fewer than a hundred guns to avoid misunderstandings.

And being mistaken for an undercover cop.

Zaire was skeptical.

But he didn't refuse the shop owner's help.

He decided to note down the phone number.

It was a non-gang smuggling route, after all.

Whether it was legitimate, Zaire would have to find out himself.

Walking down the street, Zaire decided to head home first.

He had a lot to deal with.

The restaurant's renovation needed his attention, and his aunt needed his input on the plans.

The makeup exams at Midtown High were also waiting for him...

Ah, my bike!

Zaire stopped in his tracks, suddenly remembering.

He slapped his forehead in frustration.

Maybe because of his strong build and abrupt movement.

The nearby pedestrians quickly stepped away, giving him a wide berth.

Standing still, Zaire took a deep breath.

He kept walking straight ahead.

As long as he wasn't embarrassed, it was others who would be.

As for his bike, given the current state of security in New York.

It would definitely be gone if it had been parked outside the school for over a day.

Zaire reluctantly accepted this reality.

After walking another block.

Zaire's eyes fell on a motorcycle shop on the side of the road.

Hesitating for a moment, he decided to upgrade.

He stepped into the shop and before he could look around.

A black-haired white salesman in a suit quickly approached him.

"Hello, sir. What kind of vehicle are you looking for? Do you have any specific models in mind?"

The salesman beamed enthusiastically.

Zaire shook his head politely and said:

"I don't know much about motorcycles. My only requirement is a good range."

Hearing this, the salesman became even more enthusiastic.

He gestured for Zaire to follow him to a display stand.

Pointing at a luxurious motorcycle rotating slowly.

"Handcrafted by master artisans, each metal part assembled by hand in a rugged style... the base model is only fifty thousand!"

"Uh... my second requirement is a lower price."

As a practical person, Zaire couldn't help but twitch his mouth.

He wasn't a motorcycle enthusiast.

Any motorcycle to him was just a... means of transportation.

Besides, the world of the wealthy was still far off for the aspiring millionaire Zaire.

Maybe one day he'd get a chance to fleece Stark...

"Ah, no worries, let's check out this one. It's the latest spring model... the same color scheme as Iron Man's, a trend among young people, priced at ten thousand, with a discount up to ten percent for credit card payments in installments!"

Unfortunately, despite the salesman's enthusiastic pitch.

Zaire took a deep breath.

He now regretted entering the store.

To end the ordeal quickly.

Zaire squinted, quickly scanning the various motorcycles around.

Then he decisively pointed to a vehicle with a rugged style.

"That one! What's the price?"

"Well..."

The salesman's smile seemed to freeze for a moment.

But he maintained his professionalism.

"This is a scooter, also known as a 'little lamb,' popular among women and men with your physique…"

"Only five thousand."

"But it doesn't meet your first requirement at all…"

The salesman smiled wryly, a hint of helplessness in his eyes.

However, Zaire smiled slightly:

"No problem, it's cheap... I'll take two, just in case!"

"Just in case?"

The salesman seemed puzzled by Zaire's words.

But selling products was a good thing.

When Zaire pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket.

The salesman had no more complaints.

After all, the customer is always right.

-----------------------

Hell's Kitchen, Baby Mall.

Numerous forensic experts from the FBI.

Dressed in white protective suits, moved in and out of the mall's main hall.

They were trying to extract more evidence from the ruins.

In the overgrown parking lot.

A white police car stood out among the many black vehicles.

Police Captain George Stacy sat in the driver's seat.

Holding a cup of coffee, flipping through the files spread out on the steering wheel.

As a liaison between the police and the FBI.

George had basic access to the case details.

Twenty hours after the incident.

Even though the genetic testing wasn't complete, the dental records.

The FBI had identified all the deceased.

Members of the Slavic "tracksuit mafia."

Except for their boss, Fat Bobby, who was missing, the rest were key gang members.

Barring any surprises.

The tracksuit mafia was now a part of New York's history.

Sipping his coffee, George absentmindedly flipped through the files.

Then he frowned deeply.

His hand trembled, almost spilling his coffee.

Even though he had seen the children's bodies firsthand.

Seeing them again in the photos.

George still couldn't bear it.

As a father himself, he couldn't imagine.

If his beloved daughter faced the same fate.

Could he still uphold the belief in justice brought by the law…

The crime scene was difficult to process.

But the case was straightforward.

Even a rookie could see the truth.

Revenge.

Bloody revenge.

For the slain children's bloody revenge.

A vigilante who had long fought crime finally crossed the blurred line out of unbearable pain and anger?

George, frowning deeply.

Stared at a photo of a broken club, lost in thought.

............

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