Chapter 9: Giving No Mercy

With a loud bang, a chair shattered in Michael’s hand. His partner quickly stepped between him and the informant, trying to calm him down.

Today’s operation was a complete failure. Neither the sudden raid on Lynch during a delivery nor the search of his temporary residence uncovered anything unusual.

They didn’t find the five thousand in coins the informant had mentioned — not even a single coin, neither on Lynch nor in the room.

Failure meant Michael would lose face in front of his colleagues. The Federal Tax Bureau’s internal hierarchy and politics made this department fiercely competitive.

Everyone wanted to become a special agent, not just an investigator. Michael was one of the few with a real chance of promotion.

But if this failed operation spooked Lynch and Fox, causing the entire plan to collapse, Michael would become a laughingstock and would not expect a promotion for two or three years.

Most people blame others when things go wrong; Michael blamed the informant for unreliable intelligence.

He summoned the informant to this room and, in a rage, raised the chair and slammed it hard onto his back.

“Do you know how much I lost because of your false information?” he shouted, struggling to break free from his partner while pointing at the informant, who was hunched over the table in pain.

The informant was a news dealer; major intelligence in Sabin City and elsewhere was controlled by professional news dealers and their runners.

Runners would report unusual findings to the dealers—a side job between them.

They often received no pay or rewards, but the runners obeyed to maintain favors.

Some clever investigators and agents had similar informants. A dealer usually served multiple clients.

Everyone traded intelligence for money, not for justice or morals—no need to pretend otherwise.

People like Michael existed but were rare. Taking anger out on the informant was foolish.

The dealer’s face twisted in pain from the chair strike; hatred in his eyes soon softened.

He had leverage over Michael: he had involved a young girl, something Michael had uncovered.

Michael took the girl away and kept evidence—confession recordings, handwritten notes, and his fingerprints detailing the crime.

“I’m not lying. I gave that kid nearly fifteen hundred in coins. I swear I’m not lying!” he pleaded, hoping this nightmare would end soon.

He seemed to forget another girl once prayed similarly but never got what she hoped for.

Michael pushed his partner aside, grabbed the dealer’s hair, and punched him. His partner watched without intervening further.

Michael’s partner didn’t stop him unless weapons were involved; bare hands wouldn’t kill, but weapons might cause trouble.

If a death happened, it could be managed, just messier.

Sabin City was small; investigators, tax officials, and courts all knew each other. No one would ruin a promising government worker’s career over a gray-area individual.

There was a good chance of acquittal, as minor accidents during manhunts were somewhat tolerated.

One punch, two punches, three punches…

Michael kept hitting until the dealer’s cheek swelled and deformed, then stopped.

He shook his hands, grabbed a glass of water on the table, and poured it over the dealer’s head.

The cold water cleared the dealer’s blurred senses, but the mix of pain and numbness left him disoriented.

The pain was intense, but he couldn’t pinpoint where exactly.

“Send your guy five thousand in coins this afternoon, then we catch him in the act!” Michael said, quickly formulating a plan and glancing at his partner, who nodded in agreement.

Legally, this could be entrapment, and evidence obtained this way might be invalid.

But this was a small city, everyone knew each other, and there was no need to cause public embarrassment over internal matters.

Sometimes, frontline investigators manipulated evidence chains slightly to ensure criminals were convicted. It was common practice.

Michael yanked the dealer’s hair again, forcing him to lift his swollen, puffy face.

“Understand?” he demanded.

The dealer’s dodging eyes eased some of Michael’s anger and unspoken feelings. He was still the unyielding Michael, not a timid man backing down.

“Yes… I understand…”

Michael released him, wiped water from the dealer’s wet hair, patted his swollen face, and left with a faint satisfied smile amid the dealer’s cries.

Silence returned. The dealer’s eyes shifted from hatred and madness to submission.

He slowly stood, but sharp pain in his back forced him to bend over again. He grabbed his hat, paused for a moment, then left the room.

Meanwhile, Lynch, returning from the laundry to his temporary residence, saw the ransacked room and immediately called the police.

Yes, he reported it—he didn’t pretend nothing had happened, though he knew what had.

The police arrived quickly, surveyed the scene, and judged it a clear case of burglary. Lynch reported five hundred lost in coins, a significant amount.

As for solving the case, it depended on Lynch’s luck. According to the officers, no one knew who entered, there were no witnesses nearby, and unless the culprit repeated the crime and got caught, recovering the loss was unlikely.

Basically, the case was closed.

Just as the police prepared to leave, Lynch added a clue.

“Officer…”

The officer taking notes at the door turned from his colleagues to Lynch.

“Yes?”

“I remembered—I also lost a gold ring, a gift for my girlfriend. It’s engraved with ‘My Beloved Katherine’…” Lynch sighed, regretting not carrying it with him.

The police sympathized more and noted this detail at the bottom of the report.

“This is an important clue. If the thief tries to sell it soon, we might catch him.”

“Anything else to add?”

Lynch shook his head. “No, nothing else. Thank you for coming, sir.”

The officer put away his pen, held the clipboard, and adjusted his hat brim. “Wait for our good news, young man.”