Empire of Shadows

Our

Hammer got beaten again—this time by Ethan—and then the group returned to the company.

In the garage, Morris and Lawn spread waterproof tarps all over the floor.

Only then was Hammer brought in, looking very weak.

His head had suffered continuous heavy blows and beatings, leaving his consciousness somewhat blurred.

But the moment Elvin entered, Hammer suddenly perked up.

A sharp adrenaline rush made him more “awake” than ever. He looked at Elvin kneeling on the ground.

“It’s all my fault. I… beg your forgiveness, sir.”

Elvin lifted his shirt, pulling off the bandage to reveal a roughly fifteen-centimeter wound, with blackened thread edges on both sides.

His intestines had twisted. If not corrected, intestinal torsion leads to obstruction, necrosis, and eventually threatens life.This process doesn’t take long, especially when caused by external force—swelling, rupture, bleeding, then shock and death.

So the doctor had to take out his intestines, straighten them, and put them back—requiring a large incision.

During surgery, many hooks are placed around the incision’s edge and pulled outward to keep the opening large enough.

It’s very painful. Even now, his stomach and intestines still hurt.

“The doctor told me I was lucky—I almost died.”

He put down his shirt, looking at Hammer. Everyone else watched him.

“I didn’t survive because you went easy on me. It’s because my fate was tough enough. Your God didn’t want me in your heaven, so He sent me back.”

“Now, I’m going to do the same to you. If you survive, this ends here.”

“If you don’t, don’t blame me.”

Lance disengaged the safety on his pistol, loaded it, and handed it to Hammer.

Suddenly, Hammer jumped up and charged at Elvin.

Elvin wanted to say something but it was too late.

Hammer pulled the trigger. The sharp gunshots echoed in the cramped garage.

He fell less than two meters from Elvin.

One bullet hit his neck, four hit his body.

Looking at three bullet holes in the wall behind him, Lance took back the weapon.

“When you heal, you all better practice shooting!”

Blood flowed fast from his wounds, but thanks to the tarp on the floor, none soaked through.

They cleaned the scene, pried bullet heads stuck in bricks from the wall, then smashed the bullet holes into small pits to be cemented later.

They dragged the tarp and Hammer’s corpse to the yard’s sewer, lifted one end to drain the blood.

Oil barrels were ready. Following their usual method, Ethan threw him in and poured cement over.

There would be no special farewell ceremony tomorrow.

Lance ordered Mello to dump the body into Angel Lake.

Almost everyone—good or bad—disposed of bodies there.

Everyone knew some places by Angel Lake had barrels hidden underground, but no law enforcement—FBI, local police, or state police—ever wanted to investigate or even think about it.

Sometimes they even helped cover up what happened there!

The federal social rules were strange and incomprehensible.

Back at the hospital, Elvin felt much better though still in pain.

“They said you won’t let me use painkillers.”

Elvin, lying on the bed, felt another sharp pain.

Lance nodded, lighting a cigarette for him.

“Painkillers today cause addiction. Once you start, you’ll need them for life—and chances are you won’t live past forty.”

Elvin found it hard to believe.

“Is this poison or painkiller? Why do they do this?”

Lance shrugged.

“Because it makes profits.”

“I know your wounds hurt now, but you have to endure. Until safe painkillers appear, you, I, and everyone else better avoid them.”

At this time, doctors hadn’t fully realized—or already realized—the addiction problem.

But medical corporations loved this situation. If painkillers only sold for short-term pain, most people wouldn’t use them often.

Addiction meant once people started, they used them for life.

The profits made federal and global medical capital ecstatic!

They had pills, suppositories, and injections for convenient use anytime, anywhere.

Hearing Lance’s serious words, Elvin gave up trying to get painkillers from the hospital.

Luckily, pain was adaptive—once he could endure, it gradually became less severe.

The next morning, Hammer’s family reported him missing.

Someone on the way to work saw two police cars at the dock and told Lance.

If the police wanted, they could find out. The big commotion was partly to explain to the reporters and partly to give the perpetrators a countdown.

Lance called Officer Braden.

“Which precinct handles port police, and who’s in charge?”

Officer Braden was busy with the federal identity trade, but Lance knew not many people could get federal IDs through him.

Still, there were some.

In two months, by helping people confirm ancestry, Braden earned nearly five thousand bucks.

After the first two deals, his price was six hundred minimum. He kept two hundred; the rest went to recipients.

He arranged to transfer those relations away from people after some time so he could continue making money.

For many poor families, making money from missing children was uncomfortable but still better than poverty.

Lance provided such a business. Officer Braden was grateful and quickly answered.

“The entire port is managed by the port precinct. Their chief is about to retire and doesn’t handle work much. A new assistant chief named John, nicknamed Vulture, runs things.”

“If you want him to do something for you, you only need to prepare money that moves him.”

“When you meet him, you can say I introduced you. Don’t expect him to do you favors or charge less. It’s just an excuse to approach him.”

Lance stored this info.

“Thanks, I’ll treat you next time.”

“Waiting for good news!”

After hanging up, Lance whistled. Then the phone rang again—it was Vaughn.

“Hammer disappeared. Some say it involves you. They saw many illegal immigrants looking for him last night.”

Vaughn’s tone was neither angry nor anxious, more like blaming Lance’s carelessness. It felt strange.

Lance explained.

“He beat my friend. Surgery cost a lot. I want to find him to get the medical fees back, but can’t find him.”

“I promise this isn’t related to me.”

Vaughn thought a moment.

“You better solve this soon, or local workers will have conflicts with you.”

“Also, Ms. Debbie called. Your machines are already in your factory, and skilled workers are ready. You just need a professional manager before hiring and starting.”

Debbie moved fast—anyone even remotely political valued work highly.

She could easily monetize this—money, power, or other gains.

Lance was a little surprised.

“I’ll arrange it immediately…”

While pondering whom to assign, Mello knocked and poked his head in.

“The tailor and his son-in-law brought the clothes.”

Lance suddenly had an idea and stood up.

“I’m coming.”

The old tailor and his son-in-law had worked overtime to finish all the remaining clothes.

Though not as meticulous as Lance’s two suits, they were still good.

Much better than ordinary small tailors.

Everyone was changing into new clothes, smiling.

The old tailor held a notebook, standing by. If anyone found anything uncomfortable, he could note it and fix it later.

That was the skill of a good tailor—clothes could be altered anytime, unlike unskilled tailors who just said, “I can’t do it.”

When they saw Lance approaching, they warmly paused and greeted him.

This deal would feed them for over a month, and Lance promised to help them open a shop downtown.

Lance asked the son-in-law,

“I recently opened a garment factory but lack a manager. Do you have experience?”

Both were surprised but the son-in-law nodded quickly.

“I used to work in the empire, though not for a big operation.”

Actually, it wasn’t really a factory, just a slightly larger workshop—still considered a small factory.

Lance immediately invited him.

“Want to change jobs?”