Chapter 27: Don’t Panic, Call the Police First

Every home has blind spots unseen by others. Many envied Michael’s family and house—moving into a middle-class community at such a young age was no easy feat.

But the house wasn’t as perfect as Lynch imagined.

Some old appliances remained unchanged; wallpaper showed faint signs of decay; decorative plasterboard had begun cracking; and some floors had become unstable from age and termites.

Every family had similar issues—some just cosmetic, others related to family dynamics.

Fortunately, Michael’s job and position ensured no major family conflicts. The management at his key department guaranteed financial security and even some surplus money.

With financial freedom, family relations rarely soured. Affection and warmth often rested on material foundations, which some might see as unnecessary fuss.

When the dealer stepped on a floorboard Michael’s wife had asked twice to replace, a sharp creaking sound echoed through the empty house.

At midnight, noises from the living room quickly put many on edge.

Mrs. Michael turned on the light, pressed her ear against the door, and listened.

She was alone—the maid was not live-in; their house was just an ordinary middle-class detached home, not a villa or estate.

They had no extra bedrooms or bathrooms for a maid, and their child was away at a full-time private school.

The woman in her thirties listened carefully. The living room seemed silent again; the noise she heard felt like a trick of her mind.

She hesitated by the door. Should she check?

Usually Michael was home; she had never felt such fear in the big house. The door was the boundary between light and darkness.

Not everyone has the courage to open it and face the dark.

Meanwhile, the dealer gripped his gun tightly, quietly ascending the stairs. His fierce, almost crazed gaze fixed on the light beneath a second-floor door.

The faint light struggled to break through the narrow gap, barely illuminating an inch of floor outside.

Barefoot, moving slowly, he reached the master bedroom door. He knew stepping on the floorboard might have alerted someone inside; he waited for the door to open.

After several seconds, Mrs. Michael hesitantly opened the door. Her terrified scream was cut short by a punch before half a second passed, the ugly face dominating her view.

Outside, Lynch watched through a partially covered curtain as two shadows slipped past the window. The sudden scream abruptly stopped without alerting neighbors.

He packed his tools silently, climbed down the pole, glanced at the lit window, and headed for the gate.

If the dealer hadn’t come looking for him, willing to swallow this loss silently, the dealer wouldn’t exist in this story.

But the dealer was unwilling to lose quietly, making him a volatile threat, likely to cause serious trouble—especially since his greed might turn into a dagger aimed at Lynch’s back.

If Michael trusted the dealer, believing Lynch withheld his money, they might ally—an outcome Lynch despised.

When enemies unite, unexpected troubles multiply. So he set a trap for the dealer.

He planned to teach Michael a painful lesson while taking the chance to deal with the dealer. Otherwise, the dealer could cause trouble at the police station, shifting blame onto Lynch.

This was Lynch’s biggest worry. He wasn’t a well-known figure in the Baylor Federation or even in Sabin City.

A federal tax investigation chief shamelessly framing someone wasn’t impossible. If the dealer cooperated with Michael by self-incrimination, Lynch could be caught.

From what he learned in that small town: don’t let potential enemies unite. More people, more boldness; sooner or later, might becomes reality.

For them, success or failure is just a try. For Lynch, it could be devastating. The best solution was to solve them before they formed an alliance.

Lynch ran to the security post, quickly found the guard on duty, and shared his findings, immediately gaining attention.

After Michael discovered Lynch here before, he had asked the service company to keep an eye on his house, worried about leaving his wife alone during his business trip.

The service company promised to do their best for Michael, who held some local power.

They passed the message to the guards. Hearing this, the guard immediately called for backup on the radio and ran toward Michael’s house.

Another patrol hadn’t arrived yet, so the guard charged into the room, shouting questions.

Sometimes shouting is less to warn criminals of cops than to disrupt the crime itself. Police and investigators are not stupid.

Suddenly, the second-floor curtain was pulled back. the dealer, terrified, saw the approaching guard, glanced at the defeated Mrs. Michael, clenched his gun, and chose to flee.

He wasn’t there to die—he came for revenge. Though he hadn’t finished his plan, he’d avenged enough and saw no need to stay.

He retied his loosened belt, darted out the room, and climbed down from the second floor.

Before he could escape, the door was kicked open.

Eye contact locked; the approaching sirens snapped the dealer to attention. He drew his gun, shouted, and ran toward the door, “Don’t force me—get out of the way!”

Faced with a gun, most wouldn’t think their flesh could stop bullets. The guard froze and raised his hands.

The dealer smiled twistedly, realizing the power of the small weapon.

As the dealer fled, the guard searched upstairs for Mrs. Michael and radioed other guards.

Within thirty seconds, police sirens sounded outside. Middle-class neighborhoods always had patrol cars; some upscale areas had two or three permanently.

Poor districts or slums had none, and officials never admitted it.

Society is simple: your value determines your treatment.