Chapter 40: Sudden Change

After enjoying some good liquor, Zhou Zhihan left the old cowboy's motel. He had secured the men he needed, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice.

As to how he intended to use them, the old cowboy was curious, Sarah Palin was envious, and Candy Duffy was expectant. Zhou Zhihan was a generous and easygoing man, possessing a slightly roguish yet unpretentious charm that perfectly suited the old cowboy’s temperament. People are like that—when two individuals are on the same wavelength, everything is easy to discuss and resolve; if their temperaments clash and they cannot stand each other, even the simplest task is bound to fail.

It was eight-thirty when he left the motel. Ten minutes later, Zhou Zhihan was cycling down Bruce Street, nonchalantly passing in front of Villa 21. The house was pitch black, and there was no police cordon around it. The lights were on in the neighboring houses, and through the windows, he could see housewives cleaning and moving about.

Zhou Zhihan possessed exceptional eyesight. He could see that there were no plainclothes sentries lurking in the shadows around the villa. This meant the police had closed the case, ruling He Ningyu’s death as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning and excluding the possibility of homicide. The most significant piece of evidence for his deduction was that the neighbors on both sides were living their lives as usual. If the police had suspected foul play, they would have evacuated the residents of the surrounding houses for safety reasons, and at the very least, they would have cordoned off the scene for a few days while the investigation was underway. In a murder case, the neighbors would be terrified, wondering if a killer was still lurking nearby.

Zhou Zhihan wove his bike through the alleyways, checking with his peripheral vision to ensure he wasn't being followed. He reached the tree in the suburbs where he had hidden the gold, climbed up, retrieved it, tucked it into his backpack, and cycled toward the Chinese Association.

It was now ten-thirty at night. An hour later, he arrived near the Chinese Association and saw from a distance that the gates were shut tight. It was nearly midnight; the shadows along the street were ink-black, and there were no pedestrians. Occasionally, the distant sound of a dog barking echoed through the night.

Zhou Zhihan spent four or five minutes observing from the darkness. Confident that the area was clear, he slowly crept toward the Association, sticking to the shadows left by the storefronts. He couldn't go in through the main gate; he would have to scale the wall, which was over three meters high. For an ordinary person, this would be difficult without a ladder, but for Zhou Zhihan, it was a piece of cake. He had observed earlier that day that the top of the wall was free of broken glass or sharpened bamboo spikes.

His vision, hearing, and perception of his surroundings were far superior to what they had been in the past; within a radius of dozens of meters, not even the slightest rustle could escape his ears. In this era, most shops in Chinatown closed by six or seven in the evening. After that, there were no customers to be found. Many overseas Chinese still held onto the customs of their ancestors; merchants, in particular, would wake up early, eat leftovers for breakfast, grab a simple bite for lunch, and then, at night, prepare a lavish dinner, gathering the whole family together to eat and chat in harmony. Another reason was that the social status of Chinese immigrants in America at the time was low, and the security in the area was poor, so most shopkeepers shut their doors early and never ventured out at night.

The streets were silent and deserted, with only a few faint slivers of light leaking from the closed shops. Zhou Zhihan felt his alertness heighten. There was a thrill in moving through the night like this; for a moment, he felt like one of the agile, wall-scaling heroes from the films he had watched. He was suddenly reminded of the legendary hero Yan Shuangying: "I guess there are no bullets in your gun..." "I hate it when people point guns at me..." "I guess you dare not fire, because you know that as long as you don't fire, there is still a glimmer of hope..."

Recalling those iconic lines, Zhou Zhihan couldn't help but feel a wave of nostalgia. A faint smile touched his lips. Seeing no one around, he stepped back, took a running start, leaped with his left foot, kicked off the wall with his right, and hooked his left hand over the top. He landed on the wall without a sound, crouching there to listen. The courtyard was quiet, and the building was dark.

Satisfied that the area was clear, he dropped into the yard, pushed open the back door, and placed the gold on a table. But immediately, he felt this was a mistake. The Association was merely a meeting place; besides a few desks, chairs, and a water heater, there was nothing of value, so thieves rarely targeted it. However, if he left the gold there now, who knew who would be the first to open the doors in the morning? Would they succumb to the temptation and pocket the gold? Zhou Zhihan couldn't stay here all night to guard it—that wasn't realistic.

Faced with massive wealth, the human heart is unpredictable, and greed is an inherent trait. When the value of wealth exceeds a person's moral threshold, morality often crumbles. He realized his previous plan was naive, perhaps influenced by too many martial arts novels where heroes left gold on the doorsteps of the poor without considering the consequences. He chuckled at his own lack of foresight; leaving the gold here was indeed inappropriate.

This gold was vital for ensuring the eleven P-26 fighter planes could be shipped back to his homeland. Suddenly, the gold felt like a hot coal in his hands. He couldn't leave it in the dark, yet he was worried about being discovered if he delivered it during the day. After a few seconds of deliberation, he decided to take the gold with him and find a better time. Yes, he would wait for the next gathering at the Association. He would find a young child, give him a few dollars, and have him deliver the gold—wrapped like a book with a donation note inside—to be opened in front of everyone. That would be foolproof.

With that plan in mind, he packed the gold away. Just as he was about to climb over the wall to leave, he heard light footsteps approaching from about twenty meters away. He froze on the wall, ready to drop back into the yard or exit from the other side if necessary.

The footsteps drew closer. Three figures emerged from the shadows of the shops, stood silently at the intersection for a few minutes, and then headed northwest. Watching their backs, Zhou Zhihan recognized them: they were the three Japanese students he had encountered at the motel earlier that afternoon.

What were they doing in Chinatown at this hour? If they didn't speak, one couldn't tell they were Japanese just by looking at them. Zhou Zhihan leaped down and followed them from a distance. Suddenly, the three men vanished in front of a small building.

Zhou Zhihan crept forward, and as he looked at the building, he drew a sharp breath, frustrated by his own lack of experience. This small building was the very restaurant where he had been drinking with Huang Xinrui and Huang Panyang earlier that day. Instantly, the face of the patriotic restaurant owner flashed before his eyes.