area51novel Chapter 47: As long as no one survives, it's an assassination.
Chapter 47: As long as no one survives, it's an assassination.
Lee stood on the sidewalk of 57th Street, leaning against a lamppost.
He looked at the 52-story building across the street.
Frank Amick Timber Supply Company.
The tempered glass curtain wall extends from the podium all the way to the CEO's office on the top floor, and the floodlights on the exterior walls illuminate the entire building brighter than on a cloudy day.
The revolving door at the lobby entrance was still slowly turning, and the night shift security guard in a suit stood behind the front desk with his hands crossed on the bulletproof glass countertop.
The headquarters of the Amick Group.
The Razor Gang, which was involved in human trafficking, only built a row of tin shacks on Warehouse Street. Jeremiah's office was a cubicle separated by tempered glass.
Frank Amick simply bought a building, put up a lumber supply company sign, and installed bulletproof glass behind the lobby reception desk.
The difference between the two is self-evident.
He had checked the building's records at the police station.
The Amick Cartel's drug distribution network covered the entire Manhattan area.
From street vendors in Hell's Kitchen to private parties on the Upper East Side, every step in between is settled here.
The list of high school students caught using drugs is quite long, with a thick stack of files.
In Hell's Kitchen, most of the bulk delivery drivers are teenagers.
He would ride his bicycle, carry his schoolbag, hide the goods in the inside pocket of his jacket, and earn twenty yuan on his way home from school.
Li En turned the volume of the police walkie-talkie down to the minimum and held it to his ear.
The dispatcher on the walkie-talkie is broadcasting updates on the Central Park incident.
All patrol units will increase patrols between Fifth Avenue and Eighth Avenue.
Riot police have been deployed to Times Square, and the march against human trafficking at the port is moving toward City Hall.
Times Square isn't far from this building, and the streets over there are probably full of people holding signs.
If they make too much noise, the riot police will not have more than five minutes to react.
He turned off the intercom and went around to the side of the building.
The employee passageway is a gray fire door, with a faint green light emanating from the emergency exit indicator light above the door frame.
The door wasn't locked.
He pushed open the door and went into the kitchen.
The kitchen was brightly lit.
The fluorescent tubes on the ceiling were arranged so densely that they made the stainless steel workbench appear white.
Several large pots were steaming on the stove, and the roar of the range hood was overhead.
A chubby Mexican cook was standing next to the counter, wearing an apron stained with oil, chopping onions with a cleaver in his hand.
Several other people were busy behind him; some were washing lobsters by the sink, while others were stacking ingredients into the freezer.
It's past 1 a.m., and there are still chefs cooking.
Li En stood at the doorway, his right hand instinctively moving towards his waist.
There are eight or nine people in the kitchen.
He could take care of everything in a minute; the gunshots would be mostly drowned out by the roar of the range hood.
But these people are just cooks.
Their hands had no calluses from gunshots; their fingernails were filled with chopped onions and flour, not gunpowder residue.
I went through the classic logic of stealth games in my mind.
If you kill everyone who discovers you, then it's not considered exposure.
But these people didn't provoke him.
What should we do? Should we kill them?
The Mexican cook looked up and saw Li En standing in the doorway.
He placed the cleaver on the cutting board, wiped his hands with his apron, and strode over, a relieved expression on his face.
"Hey, you're finally here! Come on over, the boss has been waiting for ages."
"...Huh?" Li En looked down at her casual clothes.
Dark gray sweatshirt, black cargo pants, soft-soled sneakers.
"There's nothing wrong with it, and it's not an electrician's kit," he asked, puzzled.
"Boss, are you waiting for me?"
"Nonsense, I can't cook Chinese food."
The cook gave him a disapproving look, his gaze lingering on his dark hair and mixed-race features.
"You're a Chinese cuisine chef, right?"
Li En remained silent for a fraction of a second.
My gaze swept over the kitchen, past the cook's shoulder.
The empty wok on the stove, the half-cut side dishes on the cutting board, and the row of clean aprons and chef's hats hanging next to the freezer.
"Yes, that's me."
He took a white apron from the shelf, put it around his neck, and tied a knot in the back.
He then took a flat chef's hat from the hook, put it on his head and pressed it down to cover his face a little.
Chinese chef!
He must have been a good cook in his past life.
He has completed at least the games "Stir-Fry Jianghu", "Oriental Night Sparrow Restaurant", and "Nonsense Kitchen".
Cooking is essentially about piling up ingredients.
As for what General Tso's Chicken is, I have absolutely no idea.
Li En walked to the stove, gripped the handle of the wok with his right hand, and turned on the gas stove switch with his left.
Flames leaped up from the stove burner, and the bottom of the pot heated up in seconds.
He scooped a spoonful of oil into the pot, and fine bubbles began to rise from the oil noodles.
The chicken was already cut on the cutting board, so he skipped the step of coating it with flour and directly poured the chicken pieces into the oil.
The sizzling sound of oil frying came from the bottom of the pot.
He stirred the chicken a couple of times with a large spoon, then scooped it out and set it aside.
Pour the oil back in, add a little of each of the chopped vegetables from the cutting board, and stir-fry.
His movements were fluid; he deftly flipped the large ladle in his hand, causing the food in the pot to tumble in the air before landing steadily back in the pot, displaying extreme confidence.
The Mexican chef stood to the side, watching Li En toss celery and basil leaves into the pot, his lips moving slightly.
"What kind of chicken is this? I don't think Chinese food uses basil leaves."
"Exclusive recipe." Li En flipped the spatula over again, making a crisp clanging sound as it tapped against the edge of the pan. "It's guaranteed to be delicious."
He picked up a can of chicken bouillon from the spice rack, scooped out a large spoonful, and flicked his wrist, throwing it all into the pot.
Then came a spoonful of salt and a small half spoonful of MSG.
The Mexican chef stared, mouth agape, as the spoonful of chicken bouillon was stirred into the broth with the spatula, his expression shifting from confusion to shock.
"So many?"
"Don't worry, I know what I'm doing." Li En put the lid on the pot, turned the heat down to low and simmered it for a few minutes, then lifted the lid.
A rich, savory aroma wafted from the pot, mingling with the caramelized scent of chicken and the herbal notes of celery and basil, quickly spreading throughout the kitchen.
Several chefs who were processing lobsters turned their heads at the same time, their nostrils flaring.
The Mexican chef smelled the chicken again and again, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the colorful fried chicken and Li En's face several times, but in the end he didn't say anything more.
A dozen minutes later, Li En ladled the stir-fried chicken, which had half a spoonful of salt, a large spoonful of chicken essence, a small spoonful of MSG, and a little bit of everything, into a white porcelain plate, and arranged a circle of broccoli around the edge of the plate as decoration.
"I'll personally deliver it to the boss."
The Mexican chef glanced at the finished product.
At least in terms of appearance, there is nothing wrong with this dish.
The dish is glossy, the side dishes are vibrant, and the presentation is quite elegant.
He waved to a young cook next to him.
"Go up and introduce today's dishes to the boss."
The chef was also Mexican, probably in his early twenties, with some acne scars on his face.
He pushed the food cart over and, together with Li En, placed several dishes on it.
Lobster, steak, salad, and that plate of General Tso's chicken still steaming hot.
The two pushed the food cart into the elevator, and the chef pressed the button for the 52nd floor.
The elevator doors slowly closed, and the car began to rise.
In the enclosed space, the strong aroma of chicken essence began to spread, growing stronger and stronger.
The chef couldn't help but take a deep breath, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
"Dude, this dish smells amazing."
"Of course."
Li En looked down at the plate of glistening fried chicken on the food cart and a slight upturn of her lips.
"Exclusive recipe, the boss will be absolutely satisfied after eating it."
The elevator stopped and the doors opened.
A long corridor stretched out in front of us.
A deep red carpet stretched from the elevator entrance all the way to the luxurious double wooden doors at the end of the corridor.
On the walls on both sides of the corridor hung several reproductions of classical oil paintings with gilded frames.
A security guard stands every few meters.
Five people from the elevator entrance to the end of the corridor.
Lee Eun and the chef pushed the food cart along the corridor.
The wheels of the food cart made a soft gurgling sound as they rolled over the carpet.
Several security guards glanced over at the same time, first at the chef, then at Li En's face.
Then everyone's nostrils twitched as the savory aroma wafted from the elevator along the food cart, filling the entire corridor.
The security guards exchanged glances, their lips curling into a smile.
Usually, the leftovers from the eldest son's meal are given to them to handle.
The thought of eating such high-quality food later made the men loosen their fingers from their holsters.
The double doors at the end of the corridor were pushed open.
A typical old-fashioned European gangster office is laid out.
A dark brown leather sofa, a mahogany wine cabinet, a gilded table lamp, and a surprisingly large Rembrandt portrait hanging on the wall.
A huge solid wood desk was placed by the window, its surface polished to a shine.
A bald man sat behind the desk, his head reflecting the orange-yellow light of the desk lamp.
Frank Amick.
"Finally here." Amick stood up from his swivel chair, walked around the desk to the dining table.
He was wearing a dark blue silk shirt with the top two buttons undone, and no watch on his wrist.
Amick's gaze swept over Lee En, and soon the savory aroma filled his nostrils, immediately attracting his attention, and he sat down at the table.
The chef quickly placed the dishes from the food cart onto the table one by one.
"This is a lobster..."
"Alright, I'm already tired of this stuff."
Amick waved his hand, his eyes searching the dining table.
"Where's my General Tso's Chicken?"
Li En brought the last plate of fried chicken to the table and placed it in front of Amick.
On a white porcelain plate, glistening chicken pieces are mixed with colorful side dishes, and a small puddle of sauce has accumulated at the bottom of the plate, still emitting wisps of steam.
"This is General Tso's Chicken made with our exclusive recipe."
"You look different from what I ate in Chinatown before."
Amick picked up his knife and fork and looked down at the dish.
It smells really good.
The intense umami flavor rushed into my nasal cavity, and my mouth started watering.
But the taste is a bit off; I can't quite put my finger on what's wrong.
"The dishes in Chinatown have all been adapted for local tastes, but mine is the most authentic and traditional way of making them."
Li En smiled and pushed the plate forward again.
"Eat quickly, or it will lose its warmth and flavor."
Amick forked a piece of chicken leg and put it in his mouth.
A strong umami flavor explodes on the tip of the tongue; the combined umami of chicken essence and MSG covers all the taste receptors in the mouth within a fraction of a second.
Then, the bitterness came.
Concentrated dozens of times, the chemical bitterness, forced out by the high temperature from the burnt pot residue and excessive seasonings, surges forth.
It tastes more bitter than an espresso, more bitter than burnt caramel, more bitter than anything edible.
"Ptooey!" Amick spat the chicken in his mouth onto the side of the plate, grabbed the water glass on the table and took a big gulp, his tongue still numb.
"What kind of junk is this?!"
The chef's knees buckled, and he knelt directly on the carpet, huddling up in a ball with his hands covering his head.
"Boss, he did it all by himself! It has nothing to do with me!"
Li En stopped smiling.
He looked down at the fried chicken in front of Amick, which had a hole poked in it with a fork, then glanced at the bits of chicken meat spat out on the side of the plate, and his face turned cold.
"You're wasting food."
His voice was completely different from when he was introducing the dishes.
Amick raised his head, his lips still tasting bitter, and reached for his waist with his right hand.
He had a gold-plated Beretta pocket pistol tucked behind his waist, the grip of which was engraved with the Amick Corporation logo.
"Fuck, get the hell out of here..."
puff.
A white light flashed across Amick's throat.
Blood spurted out in the orange-yellow light of the table lamp, splattering onto the white porcelain plate on the table, turning the General Tso's chicken into a dark red paste.
Amick's eyes widened, his mouth still open, the bitter taste lingering on his tongue, his throat neatly severed.
He fell backward, knocking over a chair, and the back of his head hit the carpet with a dull thud.
Li En rubbed the dagger on the tablecloth twice, both sides.
He looked at Amick, who was still convulsing on the ground, reached out and grabbed a piece of chicken from the plate that hadn't been splattered with blood, and put it in his mouth.
Ugh, why is it bitter?
It seems I really don't have a talent for cooking.
"ah!!"
The young chef glimpsed through his fingers the blood still seeping from the cut on the boss's neck. He screamed, jumped up from the ground, and staggered toward the door.
The door was kicked open.
Five security guards simultaneously drew their guns, pointing them towards the dining table.
Da da da.
Bullets hit the food cart, the white porcelain plates, and the chef.
The kitchen was instantly turned into a sieve.
Li En rolled sideways behind the solid wood desk, his back pressed against the heavy oak board.
The bullet was embedded in the tabletop, making a dull thud.
He squatted behind the table, took off his chef's hat and put it on the ground, and untied his apron, folded it neatly, and placed it beside him.
In the next instant, a full set of special operations suits covered his entire body, and an unlimited Glock ammunition fell into his palm.
He stood up from behind his desk.
The crosshair cuts from the forehead of the first security guard to the forehead of the second security guard, with almost no time interval between the two points.
Bang, bang.
After five gunshots, the corridor fell silent.
Five people lay on the carpet, all of them shot in the forehead.
The elevator dinged, and another group of security personnel was rushing up from downstairs.
Li En walked to the corner of the office, squatted down, and glanced at the safe.
Digital combination locks, mechanical rotary type, cannot be cracked by brute force.
However, the cabinet was not large, and there were no living creatures inside.
He placed his right hand on the cold metal surface of the safe, and a thought struck him.
The safe vanished into thin air.
He twisted his neck, making a slight cracking sound.
This time, I've taken on a mission as an assassin, so I have to complete the assassination properly.
……