Chapter 14

“That’s right, we are civilized!” Lynch stepped back and straightened his collar. “Anything else? If not, I’ll be leaving—I have a lot to do.”

Michael couldn’t help but step forward and growl softly, “This is between us. Don’t involve my family—you’re breaking the rules!”

“Rules?” Lynch looked puzzled. “I’m not from your industry, haven’t dealt much with you. Are you sure those rules you mention apply to me?”

He smiled. “Of course, I’m a law-abiding citizen. I don’t need you to remind me. If there’s nothing else, I’m leaving.”

They stared at each other for three or five seconds. Michael stepped aside, and Lynch nodded slightly, brushing past him.

Watching Lynch walk away, Michael showed the badge inside his jacket, then backed his car off the sidewalk and soon parked at home.

He hurried inside to find his wife watching the afternoon drama. He quickly hugged her, surprising her. “Nothing unusual happened, right?”

“No one knocked or entered the yard?”

Michael’s wife was several years younger, which was typical for many who wanted to join the federal tax bureau—highest salary, best benefits, excellent work environment, plus unexpected perks.

This made every federal tax agent a hot commodity in the marriage market, regardless of gender.

Most men preferred younger women, sometimes three, five, or even ten years younger.

Michael’s wife was six years younger, and he cherished her dearly.

“No, no one came. I sat here watching TV all afternoon. If anyone had come, I would’ve noticed.”

The front door faced the living room directly. Any knocking or intrusion could be seen clearly through the bright window. The afternoon was calm, almost sleepy.

Michael sat beside his wife on the sofa, unsure how to explain his sudden business trip or warn her to be cautious about Lynch possibly showing up again.

Meanwhile, Lynch, after wandering around and buying some electrical supplies, returned to his temporary residence. He pulled out his keys to open the door when a man suddenly pressed a sharp object to his waist from behind.

A foul breath accompanied a harsh voice: “Where’s my money?”

Lynch paused briefly, then continued unlocking. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. “If you don’t want to get hurt, come in. We can talk this out.”

Within five seconds, Lynch had identified the man, thanks to years of experience accumulated in his past life. His vigorous, peak-condition twenty-year-old body gave him a strange sense of control—he had never felt so powerful.

The man hesitated but followed. Over two thousand Sol was no small amount for him. He was surprised Lynch wasn’t afraid of the knife.

The room was small—a bedroom connected to the door, a washroom inside. A faint smell of feces lingered. The man raised his eyebrows, expecting it to be cleaner.

That night, Lynch had showered a long time to wash away feces soaked into his pants. The smell still lingered despite many washes and air fresheners.

“Your business with Michael is your own. Give me my money back!” The man waved his knife, emphasizing his point.

After the newsboys left, he seized their bundles and found only about two thousand Sol—about six or seven hundred less than expected. This was not a trivial sum; for his paper-selling earnings, it was several months’ income.

He wouldn’t let the money vanish. He asked Michael, who denied involvement, so now he came to Lynch, hoping this young man was easier to deal with.

“I just want my money back. Understand? It’s nothing to do with me.”

Lynch tidied up and sat on the bed, legs crossed, hands on knees. He saw the man was nervous, rambling about the knife, but not really threatening.

His eyes flickered nervously, mostly on the floor between them. He was scared—his first time doing this: holding a knife, standing on someone else’s turf, demanding something.

Lynch smiled. “You know, even if I kill you now, the judge won’t punish me. You broke into my room armed.”

The man suddenly looked toward the door, realizing Lynch invited him inside not to hide witnesses but to trap him.

He became more agitated and fearful—now the hunter had become the hunted. His breathing quickened, nearly suffocating.

He stepped back, raised the knife, trying to act fierce, maybe slash Lynch’s clothes, but feared Lynch’s possible counterattack. He hesitated, lost.

Seeing this, Lynch pointed to a chair. “Why not sit and talk? Violence solves nothing.”

His tone was sincere. Perhaps moved by this, or Lynch’s calm, the man agreed and sat down.

Once seated, Lynch said, “Actually, my loss is much bigger—I lost five thousand Sol.” The man’s face showed shock and a hint of understanding.

“Have you thought maybe this is a setup?” Before he could answer, Lynch pressed on, “I gave five thousand to five kids. They counted it, and I counted it again in front of them. The money didn’t go missing with me.”

“After they left my room, did they come straight to you or somewhere else?”

“If they came to you directly, did you consider if those kids are trustworthy?”

“If they went elsewhere, could someone else be involved?”

Lynch shrugged with regret. “Michael tells others he got nothing from me, but I really lost five thousand. I believe it’s in his hands.”

These words quickly made the uneducated man suspicious. To avoid exposure and involvement, he hadn’t been nearby but waited down a more distant alley.

The kids didn’t return straight to him either but went to a room across the street to see Michael—about one or two minutes apart.

If the money went missing, it could only be with Michael.

He was beginning to believe this. The newsboys he sent were trusted, and they talked about counting the money. Lynch also counted it and watched the bundles.

Recalling this, Lynch added, “We all fear some people and dare not speak out. I believe it’s not just us afraid, the kids might be afraid too.”

“You came with a knife looking for me, but you picked the wrong person. Ask those kids; maybe you’ll find something new.”

Uneducated people are easy to fool!

Lynch’s eyes softened with a caring, kindly look.

Some might ask: if half the money was taken, wouldn’t the kids notice? I’d ask those who bought a pack of cigarettes for twenty, got eighty in change, but later only found thirty or forty in their pocket—didn’t they notice?

Within a reasonable intelligence level for the story, a little convenience to keep the plot smooth isn’t a problem.