Chapter Nine: Granny Liu’s Tavern

Misunderstood Dad—he wasn’t the one after all!

But how could an old lady be in a bar?

From the way Liang Bing was moving, it seemed the two were about to meet.

Gao Ning frowned, suddenly changing his mind. With a swift command, the American soldier, who had already slipped beyond the block’s boundaries, paused for a moment, then altered his route, leaping into a yard like a cat, snatching a drying garment ghost-like, and vanishing once more into the trees.

In a dense thicket, the American soldier crouched, wrapped his scattered gear in the clothing, buried it in a freshly dug hole, and camouflaged it lightly. Retracing his steps, he glanced back—nothing noteworthy at all.

Now, the American soldier wore nothing but his uniform.

His standard equipment included an automatic rifle resembling an M14 but bulkier, with about 180 rounds and two spare magazines.

He also carried some miraculous little pouches, filled with unknown chemicals—break one open, and it would swell rapidly to the size of a sandbag, solidifying gradually.

With these, the American soldier could construct a trench in mere minutes.

Though impressive, these were disposable and unrecoverable, a slight departure from their video game counterparts.

Ghost-like, the soldier crossed two blocks and slipped into a shadowy alley.

Sure enough, deep within, three or four Black street thugs clustered together, chatting excitedly about who knows what.

Striding forward, he drew their attention.

He came with a threatening air, clearly up to no good. The thugs exchanged glances, pulled out pistols without hesitation, and stepped forward, necks craned aggressively.

“Hey, soldier, you don’t belong here—go back to your battlefield!”

“No, look at him—he’s probably another poor soul with combat stress disorder. Crawl back to your mama and suckle, idiot!”

The thugs burst out laughing.

The soldier said nothing, closing the distance to five meters before suddenly charging.

He was a combat-type cyborg, his biological brain loaded with battle software; dealing with a few street punks was child’s play, even if they had guns.

Weighing far more than a normal man, he reached them in the blink of an eye, arms outstretched, barreling through their midst—his arms slammed down like hammers upon their foreheads.

The two thugs in front were sent flying, crashing into the ones behind.

They landed sprawled and tangled, their pistols flung away, clutching their chests in pain, unable to rise.

The lead thug was tougher; fighting through a blinding headache, he crawled a few meters, grabbed his pistol, and pointed it behind him.

“You bastard, what are you doing? That hurt like hell—tonight I’ll—huh? Where did he go?”

After rolling around awhile, the others managed to get up, their heads sporting swollen lumps but otherwise unharmed.

They looked left and right—the alley was narrow, with nowhere to hide. How had the soldier vanished in an instant?

“Damn it, he got away—go get him!”

The thugs ran off in a clamor. Then, a figure dropped lightly from above, carrying four cell phones and a fistful of loose change.

These were all the thugs owned!

Fortunately, technology wasn’t as advanced yet—no smartphones, only basic handsets, like pagers.

He searched the contacts, found the local number, then dialed each phone with the others, acquiring all their numbers.

After silencing the devices, he slipped them into his pockets and strode out of the alley to the main road, hailed a taxi, and headed straight for the bar.

Meanwhile, Liang Bing was also driving, searching for the bar’s address. The passenger seat held page three of the New York Times.

On a small photo advertisement, Mrs. Liu smiled kindly, giving a thumbs-up, and gestured toward the bar’s sign behind her.

Mario’s Pizza Tavern.

Before coming, she’d checked the address; with her temporary familiarity with New York, she found the place quickly.

Navigating the winding streets, she parked in front of Mario’s Pizza Tavern.

She hesitated, erring on the side of caution, and pulled into the small parking lot rather than stopping on the street.

After getting out, she glanced at the familiar sign and stepped briskly into the bar.

As she pushed open the door, lively chatter washed over her.

The decor was old-fashioned, evoking the warmth of a country tavern—shelves lined with gleaming glasses and round barrels.

Most patrons were burly men in casual clothes, holding massive beer mugs and laughing heartily, the mood infectious.

A barmaid, swaying her ample hips, approached and asked without expression, “How many in your party?”

“One.”

“Oh, then take a seat at the bar.”

Despite the title ‘barmaid,’ she was actually a Mexican woman in her forties—her face still slender, but her figure now all barrel.

It was clear she’d once had a fine physique.

But this was a common fate among white women; save for a rare few, most eventually became matronly.

As the barmaid was about to leave, a ten-dollar bill appeared in Liang Bing’s hand.

The barmaid’s eyes sparkled, and with lightning speed, the bill vanished into her blouse.

“Wow, you’re generous, ma’am. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I’m looking for someone—her.”

Liang Bing produced the newspaper. The barmaid glanced at it, then pointed behind the bar.

“So you’re looking for Mrs. Marchelle. She’s usually behind the bar, busy with her own affairs. Go right ahead.”

Liang Bing nodded, pushed through the crowd singing country songs, and advanced to the far end of the bar.

There, she saw Mrs. Liu seated at the innermost corner, head bent, glasses on, seemingly absorbed in the ledger.

“A bourbon, please.”

Liang Bing sat directly opposite Mrs. Liu.

Mrs. Liu looked up and smiled. “Isn’t this the time for champagne? A rare reunion in the mission world!”

“Let’s save champagne for the end. This mission is rather tricky.”