Chapter 1121: Playing by the Rules (Patreon)

Mexican food wasn’t exactly Jack’s favorite. Though he could handle some spice, he preferred the numbing heat of Sichuan peppercorns. To him, chili peppers that weren’t infused with hot oil lacked soul.

In New York, one could buy Atlantic halibut—one of the largest flatfish species. It wasn’t quite the turbot used for the famed steamed fish head with chopped chili back home, but it worked well enough. Even with chopped chili, you still needed a splash of hot oil to bring out the aroma.

Ultimately, it came down to habits. In his previous life, Jack was from Jiangnan—not exactly close to the Shandong region—so to him, flour tortillas were fine for breakfast, maybe even lunch if you were in a rush. But having to eat cornmeal or tortillas for dinner as well? That was pushing it.

Luckily, Lopez took the group to a steakhouse. Aside from the strangely spicy chili-dusted dessert, everything else was quite palatable.

“You sure you don’t need me to come with you?” Lopez asked. Even knowing Jack and Clay could handle themselves, he still seemed uneasy with two pretty women—Hannah and JJ—coming along.

“Relax. We came prepared.”

Clay opened the SUV’s trunk, revealing their gear. The former Mexican Marine turned CBP agent blinked in surprise, then quickly changed his tune.

“The Gallows Gang is just a biker crew. They don’t even have that many guns. No need to go overboard.”

—

Beach, sand, bonfire-lit oil drums, beer kegs nearly as big as the oil barrels, an ice machine, and a boombox blaring rap music—this was the scene of a lively party.

Muscular bald guys, hairy bikers in leather vests, wiry junkies, and scantily clad women laughed and drank beer around the fires.

Then came the roar of three black GMC Yukons with California plates. Their sudden arrival clearly killed the mood. Even before the engines stopped, a few guys on Harleys had already flanked the convoy.

Jack and Clay, wearing bulletproof vests marked “FBI,” were the first to step out. Each wore a sleeveless T-shirt underneath—temperatures were still in the 70s even with the evening coastal breeze.

The stench of marijuana filled the air. Jack wrinkled his nose in disgust and ignored the tattooed toughs approaching him, striding straight toward a bald, burly man.

“Hector, right? FBI. Got a few questions.”

The guy—big chain around his neck, tight black shirt stretched over bulging pecs—could’ve passed for a young Vin Diesel from afar. Up close, he looked more like a discount version.

Hearing “FBI” caused a stir. Some of Hector’s men grabbed at the bulges on their belts; others pulled back their shirts to reveal holstered pistols.

Just then, the rest of the fugitive task force climbed out of the SUVs, each holding a Noveske N4 rifle. Alice, eager to gain field experience, looked visibly nervous, her finger hovering near the safety switch.

“Relax, everyone! Chill!” Hector raised a hand to calm his crew, flashing Jack a smirking smile. “Sorry, Agent. My guys just get a little overprotective.”

Jack scanned the group. Not even a shotgun in sight. Lopez’s intel checked out—just a low-level street gang.

Sure, street gangs like this often had bigger fish backing them—possibly even cartels—but they were FBI, not local Mexican cops.

So Jack cut straight to it. “Let’s hope so. I’d love to say we’re not here to cause trouble, but that depends on your cooperation.”

“Hah.” Hector’s ugly face strained to maintain a smile. “You’ve got guts, my friend.”

“I have no interest in being your friend.” Jack ignored Hector’s scowl and pulled out his phone, showing a picture of the deceased Lee Kern.

“Seen him? You or any of your boys?”

Hector barely glanced. His smirk deepened.

“This isn’t a daycare, Agent. Our girls aren’t into baby-faced kids. You’ve got the wrong guys.”

“No. He’s dead. I want to know where you’ve been the last 24 hours.”

As Jack grilled Hector, Clay and JJ showed the photo to the surrounding gang members, watching their reactions closely.

“Aw, what a shame,” Hector said with a shrug. “We’ve been partying here the whole time. Plenty of witnesses to vouch for me.”

“Then you won’t mind if we take a look around?”

Jack gestured to a row of tin shacks behind them—shovels and tools sat outside. If the murder weapon—a scythe—or containers of biodiesel were anywhere, it would be there.

The mood shifted. Several bulky bikers immediately stepped forward with threatening glares. Hector narrowed his eyes.

“Maybe, Agent. I’m a hospitable man...” His gaze flicked toward Hannah, JJ, and Alice—lust and malice flashing briefly in his eyes.

“How about a trade? Let those bitches of yours drink with us, and you can check wherever you want while we party.”

Before he finished, Jack’s hand snapped out and clamped around Hector’s thick neck. The pain bent the biker backward until he almost dropped to one knee.

Shouts of Spanish profanity erupted. Gang members started moving in, guns half-drawn—but Jack released Hector just before anyone could open fire, shoving him back several steps into his crew.

Time for the usual ritual. Jack and team might’ve been FBI, but this was Mexico—and they didn’t even have a warrant.

Even if the Gallows Gang was low-level, letting the feds search their turf without resistance would make Hector lose face. After this, how would he maintain control?

But it was also clear the FBI wasn’t bluffing—they came fully loaded. The only way to save face now was to settle things with fists.

At Hector’s barked orders, his guys holstered their weapons. Seeing this, Jack’s team flicked off their rifle safeties and lowered their barrels. Everyone was “playing by the rules.”

Then Hector yelled, and a massive, near-two-meter-tall Latino bodybuilder stepped forward, roaring as he ripped his T-shirt like it was tissue paper.

Pounding his chest, the hulking man—known as “Blood Axe”—challenged Jack. In response, Jack silently removed his vest, unholstered his gun, and took off his badge.

The sight of the “pretty-boy” FBI agent stepping into the ring stirred cheers and whistles from the gang members and their scantily clad groupies.

The crowd formed a circle. Jubal and the rest of the task force positioned themselves behind Jack. As Blood Axe flexed his chest in a grotesque show, Jack calmly stepped into the ring and waved him forward.

Snorting like an angry bull, Blood Axe lowered his stance and charged, his footsteps light and deceptive—clearly a Brazilian jiu-jitsu fighter.

Jack hadn’t expected to meet a genuine “wolf in pig’s clothing.” He quickly gave up thoughts of a simple brawl and ducked awkwardly to the side.

The crowd roared with laughter. Some flipped Jack off. The task force remained stone-faced—except for Hannah, who smirked knowingly.

She’d wrestled and grappled with Jack enough to know he hated ground combat with men. And BJJ was all about groundwork.

After creating some distance, Jack raised his guard and began light butterfly steps, occasionally scooping sand in warning.

Blood Axe tensed and raised a hand to hush the crowd—he recognized the signal: Jack would use dirty tricks if he kept forcing a takedown.

Blood Axe huffed, shifted into a side horse stance, and raised his open palm—karate-style.

Jack’s eyes lit up. “Now we’re talkin’.”

Blood Axe lunged first—his massive arm as thick as Jack’s thigh—his jab lightning fast. But Jack leaned aside, tapped the wrist, and deflected it harmlessly.

Still, the brute’s training kicked in. As he pulled back his arm, he launched a feint kick that morphed mid-air into a spinning downward chop—a nasty Brazilian axe kick.

Jack barely leaned back in time. Second time dodging, he sized up his opponent more seriously.

This guy’s not just muscle—he’s flashy too.

Blood Axe, too, began to worry. His tricks weren’t working. This soft-looking guy might be more dangerous than he appeared.

The crowd cheered louder, though a few started catching on. But most were still jeering at Jack.

“Take him down, Blood Axe! What are you waiting for?!” Hector growled, rubbing his neck.

One particularly enthusiastic woman even lifted her top and shouted, “Kick that pretty boy’s ass and I’m all yours tonight!”

Blood Axe snorted again, then mirrored Jack’s butterfly steps and raised his guard.

Jack sighed. “Knows a lot, huh?”

Then he attacked—right leg whipping toward the man’s gut.

Blood Axe blocked low—but the impact stung his forearm. Before he could recover, Jack’s spinning back kick slammed into his shoulder.

He stumbled three steps backward, pain lighting up his arm.

Jack didn’t let up. He closed in, elbowing the brute square in the gut—just below the sternum.

Blood Axe reeled, vomiting beer and bile in a spectacular arc between them.

Sidestepping the foul spray, Jack pointed at the now-pale Hector and crooked a finger.

“Or maybe all of you come at me. I changed my mind. I’m done wasting time.”