Three days later, the remaining smoke from the streets of Chicago cleared.
The air was filled with a pungent smell of gunpowder and disinfectant.
The Crips' "Skulls" who once spread like a black plague have been reduced to cold casualty figures in the news under the ruthless crushing of the National Guard.
Cook Prison was already full, and had to contact seven prisons in nearby cities to barely accommodate a large number of Crips.
The "Crips," a name that once made the Chicago Police Department retreat, had its huge and arrogant power uprooted, collapsed, and almost completely ended.
Stanley, once the "underground emperor of Chicago", fell from the clouds and became a wanted criminal with a burnt smell all over his body and everyone wanted to kill him.
As icy rain pounded through Chicago's labyrinthine back alleys, Stanley huddled behind a giant trash can that exuded the pungent smell of urine and rotting garbage.
His once priceless flak jacket was now stained with mud and oil, mostly hidden by a pair of dirty stolen overalls he had hastily thrown on as he fled the apartment.
The hair that was once carefully groomed was now greasy and matted, with unknown debris on it.
The only thing that still had a hint of the "Crip Gang Boss" was the pair of eyes that still flashed with fear and resentment in the dim light.
The front page of the Chicago Sun-Times, in addition to highlighting the success of the National Guard's action and the demise of the Crips, featured a bounty notice for Stanley.
The photo used was his official photo of himself at a charity dinner a few years ago, looking very proud. Below it was a glaring number: $
One million dollars!
His crimes are listed below: rebellion, plotting terrorist attacks, murder of law enforcement officers, multiple murders, organized crime...
"Fuck!" Stanley bit his lip hard.
One million is enough to turn any of his former "brothers", any drug addict on the street, or any hypocritical citizen into a murderous evil ghost.
He felt like he had become a moving vault, and all the shadows around him were filled with greedy eyes.
High-end restaurants and hotels? Forget it. He tried to contact several trusted individuals he considered completely reliable, but their phones were either turned off or quickly hung up. When he dialed one number, he got a cold warning from a bounty hunter: "Stanley? Listen, your location is being tracked. We suggest you surrender yourself. You might live a few more days."
Stanley was almost driven to despair.
In despair, his only hope is Thorne, the New York real estate developer who pushed him to the brink of ruin. Now, he no longer expects Thorne to fulfill his promises, but only hopes that Thorne can save his life.
Late at night, with the last glimmer of hope, Stanley found a remote telephone booth on the side of the road and called Thorne.
There was a long busy tone on the phone, and Stanley's heart almost jumped out of his throat.
Just when he was desperately thinking that even this last straw would sink, Thorne's unique voice, with the accent of a Wall Street elite but distorted by extreme shock, suddenly rang out from the receiver:
"Hello... Hello?! Stanley? Is... is that you? Holy shit! How could you still be alive?! The TV news... the National Guard's battle report... they all said you..."
Thorne's voice was intermittent, filled with disbelief and a huge panic after his plans were disrupted. The overwhelming news reports of the eradication results and the $1 million reward announcement had long made him believe that this tool, along with the entire Crip, was completely scrapped.
"Mr. Thorne! It's me! Help me!" Stanley's voice was like a dying wild dog, "There are fucking police and soldiers outside! And a group of hyenas who smell money and want to kill me! I have nowhere to hide! For God's sake... For the sake of me 'doing a great thing' for you! Rescue me! You promised..." He was incoherent, no longer caring about the dignity of a gang boss, and only wanted to grasp this only way to survive.
There was silence on the other end of the receiver for five seconds, and Stanley could even hear Thorne's heavy breathing.
"Tell me your exact location now! Street name! Are there any obvious signs nearby? Immediately! Right now!" Thorne replied.
Stanley hurriedly reported the location of the telephone booth in a back alley and the rusty sign of an abandoned factory next to it.
"Okay, listen! Just stay in the darkest corner of that damn alley! Don't show up!" Thorne ordered hurriedly with a cold tone, "I will send an unmarked black Chevrolet Suburban with a license plate number ending in 47V. The person in the car is my personal bodyguard!" After that, Thorne hung up the phone.
Stanley hid in the corner, and soon after, a black Chevrolet stopped quietly in the alley.
Stanley, who was like a frightened bird, finally saw the light of hope for survival. He used his hands and feet to crawl out from behind the garbage dump and got into the warm and luxurious back seat of the car.
The car door closed heavily, the engine roared, and the car quickly merged into the traffic flow of Chicago on a rainy night, as if it had never existed.
Stanley, curled up in the soft leather seat in the car, finally escaped the iron hoof of the National Guard and the sky-high bounty, and was able to take a break temporarily.
…
Thorne looked down at the brilliant night lights of New York through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows.
When Stanley, reeking of cheap perfume and sweat, was brought before him, Thorne turned around.
There was no surprise in his eyes, only deep, undisguised disgust, as if he saw a piece of toxic garbage breaking into his sterile world.
"Help me, Thorne!" Stanley's voice trembled with excitement and fear. "National Guard! Damn Reeves mobilized the National Guard! The entire Crip Gang is finished... It's all finished! For God's sake, for... for the sake of fifty million dollars and the Blue Roof Project, help me get out of here! Anywhere, Africa, South America!"
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