Chapter 1140: Indifference, Directness, and the Smoker

Many people behind Lance recognized Roland from the newspapers.

After all, Roland had gained significant media attention as an "Eliminator of Evil."

Newspapers and magazines featured the hero's photograph.

Roland was a smart man. He hadn't given interviews, but reporters found other ways to dig up his past deeds.

His colleagues, those willing to speak to the media without directly harming Roland, became his "mouthpieces."

A clear image emerged: a "Scourge of Crime." Ordinary people loved figures like this because the traits he exhibited gave them a sense of security.

It was like people yearned for a truly fair and just Supreme Court Justice, providing a place for appeal when they faced injustice.

Having someone dedicated to cracking down on crime was the same. The lower strata of society were constantly engulfed in crime.

The media's praise of Roland also made some people wary of him, including the local gangs and the Bearded Director.

Although they were wary, the awkwardness of meeting him, especially with Lance present, was palpable.

Roland walked toward Lance after exchanging glances for a few seconds, his gaze lingering on the Bearded Director and the gang leaders behind Lance.

"Your social skills truly exceed my imagination. Are these all your friends?"

Lance looked back at the people behind him, then smiled. "All of them are contributing to the stability of the city."

"You have your methods, and I have mine. I once heard a saying."

"There is no distinction between good or bad work in society, because all work contributes to building the nation. You shouldn't think you are superior just because your job is better, or gives you more power and influence than others."

Roland was momentarily stunned. As a highly educated man, his first thought was that Lance had plagiarized the quote.

He didn't believe Lance could have conceived such an idea, but quickly realized the underlying message was a subtle jab at himself.

He scoffed. "I will remember your friends." After a few seconds, he added, "Let's talk."

Lance gestured for the others to leave, then he and Roland retreated to the room they had occupied earlier.

A faint ember glowed in the ashtray, but Lance didn't pick up the used cigar. He pulled out his yellowish ivory cigarette case and lit one of his own.

Director Roland noticed the old cigarette case. "That cigarette case seems meaningful to you."

He meant that for someone as influential as Lance, the case, although ivory, looked poorly maintained. It must have been a gift or held sentimental value.

Roland intended to use this to set a prelude for the conversation, something along the lines of "We both have people and things important to us," to gauge potential common ground.

Lance looked at the case, paused, then smiled. He nodded. "If you put it that way, it does hold some meaning."

"It was a gift from a friend of mine, but that friend was... a bit lacking in fulfilling the duties and responsibilities of a friend, and then he accidentally died."

Director Roland quietly asked, "Did you kill him?"

Lance laughed heartily. "Don't jump to conclusions. He was a foreigner. I was in the country when the accident happened."

Clearly, that line of inquiry wouldn't work. Director Roland fixed his gaze on Lance. After a few seconds, he decided to be direct.

"You killed that man."

Lance knew whom Roland was referring to, but he currently held the advantage. He wouldn't play along with Roland's round of games.

"I told you I was in the country when he died. I have an alibi. You can't accuse people recklessly."

"You are a law enforcer, Director. I've read the papers these past few days. The photographers are excellent; they always manage to capture your dignified and righteous side."

"The public views you as a good man, and good men shouldn't make wild accusations."

Director Roland looked intently at Lance, realizing this was a difficult opponent. Lance seemed to speak clearly but revealed nothing. "We have no irreconcilable conflict."

Lance curled his lip. No one, let alone a politician, would believe that statement.

"Yes, we are friends, close collaborators. We just completed a great undertaking!"

Watching Lance talk nonsense, Director Roland's patience was wearing thin. "It seems our problem can't be solved through communication."

Lance seemed to agree with him. "The moment you targeted me, our problems were doomed to be unresolved."

"If you only wanted to discuss these trivialities, honestly, I've already given you plenty of time."

"If you have nothing else to say, I think our conversation should end here."

Director Roland stared at him, his expression unchanged. "I want to tell you that you are leaving me no choice. You will unleash a terrifying opponent."

Lance stood up. "We are all in the jungle. Who is the prey, and who is the hunter? Who can say for sure?"

"Instead of testing me, you should worry about how to handle your masters."

Lance showed no respect. He excused himself without giving a reason and left.

Watching Lance walk away, Director Roland felt neither joy nor pain. He simply settled down.

He hadn't been so naive as to believe a few words would make Lance confess.

His actions were a ritual—a farewell to his past self, a psychological affirmation.

He wasn't becoming this way by choice; society, and these people, were forcing him to change.

He stood up, sighing, and walked out.

Over the next two days, if one ignored the unfortunate assassination of Bob inside the FBI premises, the entire operation was highly successful.

The deeply rooted gang family was eliminated, and more criminal and ugly facts were unearthed and delivered to Mr. Potter, becoming crucial leverage for his campaign.

Lance had a good couple of days too. The underworld in Old City reached a consensus. Under Lance and the Bearded Director's guidance, they peacefully divided the Perez family's territory.

This was possible because the Perez family's territory in Old City was large enough for every gang to get a piece, preventing a turf war.

Since the small conflict didn't escalate, local authorities, including the Mayor, praised the Police Chief for his excellent management.

If anyone's life was taking a turn for the worse, it was Director Roland's.

On the third day, after two days of "self-fermentation," he finally decided to take action.

That evening, the recently fired guard was having dinner with his wife and child. Although he had lost his FBI job, his experience would help him find good private sector work.

Some people were easily swayed. They were superstitious about former employees of prestigious Federal agencies, believing they were highly sought after.

"I've received interview invitations from two companies. I'm trying to decide which one to choose."

He discussed work at the dinner table. If someone discussed work at the dinner table, it meant they were either about to lose their job or had secured a new one.

The latter served as reassurance.

With a stable income, the family would feel secure.

His wife immediately smiled. Although their savings were sufficient for a while, stable income was always better.

His child didn't understand the importance of the job. For him, life was about school, which had no direct connection to making money.

He was more concerned about what his father would become.

"One company offered a moderate salary, about eighty dollars after tax. The work is simple—protecting people. The hours and holidays are flexible, and the income might increase."

"It's a bodyguard job. Someone recommended me for it."

"The other job pays much better—about two hundred dollars after tax, plus benefits and commission. But I'd have to leave the Federation and go to the Tanfit Continent."

"They have a project there and need security to prevent locals from taking advantage. I can't assess the risk, but the pay is substantial, with two months of paid vacation a year."

This was a difficult choice. The domestic job offered $80 after tax, about $1,000 annually. It was slightly risky and the pay was only slightly above average, not a significant step up.

The other job was great: $200 after tax, plus benefits. He might earn $230 to $250 a month.

Canned goods and Federal products were highly sought after in Tanfit. These goods could be easily monetized. But the downside was being away from home for a long time.

His wife wanted her husband to earn more but didn't want him away for long.

As a mature woman, she knew that if a husband was away for long, he would inevitably be unfaithful.

A man in his thirties or forties with a high income couldn't be expected to use his hand to satisfy himself.

Just as he was contemplating, a knock came at the door. The wife prepared to open it, but the guard stopped her. "I'll get it."

He wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin, then went to the door. He didn't disengage the safety but peeked through the crack. It was Director Roland.

He was stunned, but quickly unlocked the door. "I didn't know you were coming."

Director Roland glanced into the room, then tilted his head. "Come outside. I need to talk to you."

The guard had no choice. He and Director Roland walked out. Just as they left the house, FBI agents, hidden on both sides of the door, pinned him to the ground.

He was confused. When he was dragged up and handcuffed, his family rushed out, asking what was going on. He was terrified.

"Why are you arresting me? What did I do wrong?"

"I only made a mistake at work. Why are you treating me this way?"

He stared at Director Roland, unable to believe that the man who spoke of justice, ideals, and the future would do this to him!

His family asked questions, assuming a mistake had been made.

Director Roland glanced at the family and ordered his men, "Quiet them down."

Two agents immediately approached the family. The guard began to struggle. "Don't touch my family!"

But the response was two hard punches to his abdomen. The food he had just eaten erupted from his mouth.

The agents were ruthless. They had to act fast and efficiently.

The guard's family was shoved back inside. One agent's hand landed on the son's shoulder, and the struggling woman immediately fell silent.

Director Roland, looking disgusted, stepped back. "I wouldn't arrest you unless I had evidence."

"Take him away."

Some people were watching, but they remained still.

They quickly returned to the FBI headquarters. Roland planned to interrogate the guard himself.

The guard was locked in an interrogation room with Roland and a few other agents. Cameras were running. Roland wanted to ensure the interrogation was thorough and documented.

The guard was still shaken. He looked at Roland, trying to defend himself. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why are you arresting me?"

Roland placed evidence on the table. "After Bob's death, $50,000 was transferred into your son's account."

"Do you think people are stupid enough to transfer money to the wrong account? Do you think we wouldn't investigate your and your family's accounts?"

The guard was stunned. He knew he had opened an account for his son, but he didn't know about the transfer.

He didn't know how to explain. Roland's voice cut through his thoughts. "It looks like you won't confess. I'll have to help you remember."

He didn't stop the cameras. He rolled up his sleeves and punched the guard twice.

"Better now?"

"Are you remembering anything?"

"You know we have ways."

The guard was a mess. He knew Roland would extract the information he wanted.

Roland glanced at the clock. There was plenty of time. He rolled up his sleeves again.

This sacrifice was worth it. There was no change without bloodshed.