Marvel's whitewashing cop, you want me to save the world?

Chapter 55 The two surrounded the gang

Chapter 55 The two surrounded the gang

The next morning, Lee arranged to meet Virginia downstairs at Clinton Gardens.

On the streets in the early morning, only a homeless man sleeping under a ventilation vent was packing up cardboard boxes. He slowly rolled his sleeping bag into a cylindrical shape and tied it with rope.

Lee En handed over the black nylon travel bag in his hand. When the bottom of the bag landed between Foggy's hands, Foggy's knees visibly sank down.

"Two hundred thousand, register a company, and name it Umbrella."

Virginia hugged the bag to her chest, looked down and unzipped it to take a look.

Inside were neatly stacked hundred-yuan bills, bound with white paper tape from the bank, the tape also bearing the binding date.

He zipped up his jacket, looked up at Li En, opened his mouth briefly, then closed it again, finally managing to squeeze out only one sentence.

"Umbrella? What does that name mean?"

"We'll protect this place. I'll leave the registration documents to you; I've already signed the agency agreement."

Li En handed over a folded sheet of print paper.

Registering a company here does not require the applicant to be present; a lawyer can simply follow the procedures with the power of attorney.

He turned and walked toward the police station, leaving Virgil standing at the apartment door with $200,000 in cash, his lips still silently uttering the name Umbrella.

When Li En pushed open the police station door, there were only a few officers on night duty in the lobby, tidying up the coffee cups on the table.

He walked through the hall and pushed open the door to the director's office.

Brock was sitting behind his desk, holding a freshly brewed cup of coffee, still steaming.

He saw Li En walk in without knocking and put his coffee cup on the table.

"Brock. How can we get the port contract?"

"Huh?" Brock's brows furrowed, and his coffee cup froze in mid-air.

"I've already had a lawyer register the company. Who do I need to contact to get the contract?" Li En continued to ask.

Brock put the coffee cup back on the table and took several seconds to process those two sentences.

"The port is government property, so if you want to get a contract, you have to go to the municipality."

"In other words, we need to find the mayor."

Lee En recalled the man who stood on the podium at the Central Park memorial service, speaking in a compassionate tone—a typical political figure.

To get such people to approve contracts, the profit figures from legitimate trade alone are not enough.

The money earned through legitimate trade is nowhere near as valuable as the money earned from human trafficking and drug dealing at the port.

Naturally, the amount of money available to the mayor is not much.

"Let Chief Gallo give it a try." Lee knew that Brock and Gallo had a deep relationship.

The two had worked together in Hell's Kitchen for over a decade. After Gallo rose from precinct chief to headquarters chief, Brock was able to stay in the Manhattan precinct thanks to this connection.

"No, Chief Gallo won't get involved in this kind of thing. That guy's a stubborn old man." Brock leaned back in his chair, which creaked as it went.

"And why are you running a company? If it's a problem like that, there's a pretty good lawyer recently named Saul Goodman who's very knowledgeable in this area."

"It was recommended by my old friend, and he's very reliable."

"No, this isn't a solution. It would be more convenient to start a company." Li En shook his head.

"Look at the Amick Group, the Irish conglomerate, they all have companies."

Amick Group is ostensibly a timber supplier, while the Irish group operates a taxi company.

All large organized crime groups have legitimate business operations covering them, allowing them to launder illicit money into legitimate cash and illegal profits into legal tax payments.

To get on stage, you need a legitimate company to handle your income.

"What are the mayor's weaknesses?" Lee En's eyes narrowed slightly.

"What weakness could that guy possibly have? He just loves money," Brock said, shrugging.

"He's only been in office for two years, and he's already made at least tens of millions."

"This little bit?" Li En's eyebrows twitched.

The mayor of New York City, one of the most watched municipal positions in the United States, earns only tens of millions of dollars over two years, which is considered quite honest in a sense.

Brock glared at him, annoyed.

"During his campaign, he not only received donations but also took out substantial loans. Is this a pure profit of tens of millions, or just my personal inference?"

.

Running for mayor of New York City requires a significant amount of money, including Google advertising, on-the-ground promotion, and polling.

Spending hundreds of millions is commonplace.

Taking out loans to campaign, then using connections to pay off debts after taking office—this is the standard financial model for politicians.

"Which gangs here are he most closely involved with?" Lee En agreed with Brock's statement.

"From what I understand, they're close to the Mexican gang." Brock moved his swivel chair forward, picked up the now-cold coffee from the table, took a sip, and lowered his voice.

"The Mexican faction helped him a lot during his campaign."

"Very well, Frank and I are going out for a bit." Li En turned and walked towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Brock jumped up from his chair, nearly spilling his coffee on the table.

He was all too familiar with that tone.

The last time Li En spoke in this tone, the Razor Gang's warehouse was emptied at 2 a.m.

"Isn't there another election coming up soon? Let the mayor know that his purse strings are not secure."

The door slammed shut in front of Brock with a dull thud.

Li En walked into the hall. Frank was sitting at his workstation cleaning his gun. Hearing Li En's footsteps, he looked up.

"Let's go, let's go to Mexico and help with the territory."

Frank stood up without saying a word and walked towards the armory.

Li En called out from behind him.

"You can spray on the logo."

Frank paused, turned his head, and a smile appeared on his lips.

When he smiles, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are very deep.

As they walked back toward the armory, their pace quickened slightly.

When Frank walked out, the entire police station lobby fell silent instantly.

The coffee cup in Bright's hand stopped in mid-air, tilted at just the right angle so that the coffee would flow to the rim; any more tilt and it would spill.

Several female civilian police officers who were organizing documents looked up at the same time, their fingers still on the keyboard, their typing rhythm completely interrupted.

The thugs who had been dragged in behind the iron bars were tapping on the bars with their fingernails to relieve their boredom when the tapping stopped abruptly at the same second.

Frank Castle stood in the center of the hall.

On the chest of the black bulletproof vest, a white skull is grinning at everyone.

The outline of the skull, the empty eye sockets, and the slightly open jaw.

It's exactly the same pattern as the one on the wall inside the Kina Bar.

The KSG shotgun was slung over his back, with the barrel protruding from his shoulder.

He wore a dark gray police jacket over his bulletproof vest, but the jacket was unzipped, and the skull was sticking out.

"What's wrong? Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?"

The door to the director's office opened.

Brock came out, still holding the doorknob in one hand, his gaze falling on the skull on Frank's chest, and blurted out.

"The Punisher!"

Frank turned his head and met Brock's gaze.

The silence in the hall deepened even further.

"Don't worry about it, Frank just likes the design. There's no rule against spraying skulls."

Li Enchao glanced around, raised his voice, and spoke calmly, but the silence continued.

The coffee in Bright's hand finally spilled, dripping onto his bulletproof vest on his chest, but he didn't look down.

"Frank's skull and crossbones symbol is the emblem of the police department's newly established special operations team, not the Punisher."

Li En took another half step forward and stood next to Frank, their shadows overlapping under the fluorescent light.

"Those who are interested can contact him to apply; the salary and benefits are very high."

"Special Forces?" Bright put his coffee cup on the dispatch desk and turned to look at Brock, who was still holding the doorknob.

The expression of shock that had been etched on his face was slowly shifting to something else, something that was hard to define as either excitement or a surge of adrenaline.

Brock glanced at Lee.

Li En and he made eye contact for a second.

Brock loosened the doorknob, took a step forward, and cleared his throat.

"Yes, that's right. As everyone knows, this is the special forces team. We set up this team to ensure the safety of the area."

Bright walked directly from behind the dispatch desk, stood in front of Frank, and raised his right hand.

"I'm applying to join!"

"Don't rush, think it over carefully." Li En walked over to Bright and patted him on the shoulder.

"The special forces are paid well, but it's very dangerous."

"Those who want to join, don't rush. You still need Frank's approval first. We're going on a mission now."

He turned around and walked towards the front door.

Frank strode after him, the hem of his dark gray police jacket swaying gently behind him, the white skull flickering in and out of the jacket's seams.

The two of them walked out with the imposing presence of a thousand troops.

The officers in the lobby watched as the iron door closed behind them, and the silence lasted for several seconds.

Then the police station was in an uproar.

"That really is the Punisher!"

"Has Frank gone mad, dressing like that in the police station?!"

"Didn't you hear what Li En said? That's the symbol of the Special Forces!"

"Special Forces, you idiot! That pattern is exactly the same as the one on site!"

Several police officers stood up from their seats at the same time and started discussing it amongst themselves.

Bright was still standing in front of the police station, staring at the closed iron gate, his right hand still in the same position as when he raised his hand to register.

The thugs behind the iron bars pressed their backs against the wall, and no one dared to make a sound.

"Quiet down!" Brock's voice came down from the second-floor observation deck, drowning out all the noise.

"Whether Frank is the Punisher or not is irrelevant. As for the specifics of the Special Forces, we can ask them ourselves when they return."

F

"Get to work."

The police officers slowly dispersed.

Brock strode back to his office and closed the door.

He went around behind the desk, picked up the landline receiver, and dialed a number on the dial pad.

He heard a dial tone coming from the receiver and used his other hand to loosen his tie knot.

"Hello, Chief Gallo, is this a convenient time?"

"Convenient, Brock, got some time for drinks today?"

Gallo's voice came through the receiver, casual in tone, against a quiet background.

"Gallo," Brock said, lowering his voice to just enough for the microphone to pick up.

"Go tell the mayor that someone wants the port contract."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

"What are you talking about out of the blue?" Gallo's tone remained as calm as before.

"Someone wants the port contract; let the mayor consider it."

Gallo switched the receiver to his other hand.

He could certainly understand that someone who could make Brock call in this tone couldn't just be someone else.

He had worked with Brock in Hell's Kitchen for over a decade and had never seen Brock call him on business.

Not even once.

Is there a problem?

"Of course it's troublesome, very troublesome, extremely troublesome."

Brock uttered the three words one by one, his tone a mixture of exhaustion and excitement. Then he stopped and took a breath.

"But being able to help him solve these problems made me feel the meaning of life."

"Is that so? I understand. I will pass it on to the mayor." Gallo did not ask any further questions.

He picked up on something from Brock's tone.

This seasoned veteran is in good spirits, even giving off a feeling of being back to his teens more than a decade ago.

"Come over for a drink sometime."

"OK."

Gallo hung up the phone, his finger hovered over the landline for a moment, then picked up the receiver and dialed another number.

An hour later, the emergency call center's phone and the police communication device rang simultaneously.

The dispatcher grabbed the receiver, still holding a pen in his other hand, and stared wide-eyed.

The logistics liaison officer next to him was holding a communicator to his ear, his lips moving silently.

The two of them stood up at the same time and shouted towards the observation deck on the second floor.

"A call has been made to report a large-scale gunfight at a Mexican gang's factory on the outskirts of the city!"

"Officer Lee is requesting backup. They have surrounded the Mexican gang and are currently in the process of eliminating them!"

Everyone in the police station who was working immediately stopped.

They were all asking themselves the same question at the same time:

What does it mean to have two people surround Mexico?

What does it mean that FAK is waging an annihilation campaign?

As for reports of large-scale gunfights, they have been ignored by everyone.

The gunfight took place at a Mexican gang's suburban factory.

Brock loosened his grip on the railing.

He took a deep breath, his chest bulging as he roared.

"Police dispatch!"

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