After leaving Dominic's place, Owen checked his watch—it was already past 9 PM. They had less than 37 hours left.
It was almost time for their meeting with the Black Dog gang. They hailed a cab back to the alley where they had left their car, then drove straight to the gang's turf.
Despite the name "Black Dog," the gang was actually an Asian crew. Their leader, Scott Pitt, was a big guy with Native American blood. His crew consisted mostly of black-haired, dark-eyed members of Native or Asian descent.
Owen had always gone easy on them because of their race, which had helped him build a good relationship with them. This time, the materials Heat needed were all within their business scope. Even if they didn't have everything on hand, they could definitely get it.
The Black Dog gang's headquarters was inside a two-story building. Owen had been there more than once. He parked outside and made his way upstairs with practiced ease.
"I'm here to see Scott."
The bouncer blocking the door was a massive man—he had an Asian face but the build of a European strongman. He stopped them, giving them a once-over as Owen stated his business.
After a quick radio call, the bouncer let them through.
Upstairs, Owen saw Scott lounging on a couch, flirting with a woman beside him.
Or rather, Scott was technically sitting, but to Owen, it looked more like he was sprawled out. The two-seater couch was nearly swallowed by his massive frame, his fat spilling over the sides.
"Hey, Scott."
"Hey, Officer Owen, long time no see. How's life?"
Scott Pitt's voice was deep and muffled. With the help of his men, he struggled to rise from the couch.
Standing close to two meters tall and weighing over 200 kilograms, Scott was a mountain of a man. His massive body was covered in tattoos, making him hard to ignore.
"Scott, I forgot to tell you—I'm not a cop anymore."
"Oh? Well, that's great. No wonder you're finally here for business."
They exchanged a few jokes before Owen handed Scott a list. He didn't bother introducing Heat—Scott's identity was sensitive, and unlike Dominic, knowing him wouldn't do Heat any favors.
The list, prepared by Heat, contained only essential materials.
Scott skimmed over it without much concern. There were small amounts of high-powered explosives, some fireworks-grade compounds, detonation cords, and miscellaneous items like detonators and blasting caps.
The quantities were small—nothing that could cause major destruction.
Scott passed the list to one of his men to handle. He liked these kinds of small deals—low risk, just specialized materials for particular jobs.
If someone came looking for bulk explosives, obviously planning something big, Scott usually wouldn't sell to them. They were just small-time hustlers; he had no interest in getting mixed up with terrorists.
"Is that all? Need any guns or ammo? What about vehicles? I got those too, all clean and untraceable."
Scott casually pitched his other business ventures. Most of his customers weren't exactly law-abiding citizens. He offered a one-stop shop—guns, explosives, and getaway cars.
"Oh, no thanks. We've got everything else. Just need these."
Owen politely declined. He wasn't about to waste money—his budget wasn't unlimited.
Take cars, for example—Scott would charge at least a few hundred bucks per vehicle. Throw in modifications, and it could easily cost over a grand each. Meanwhile, Owen had stolen their cars for free. If they had more time, he could've even handled the modifications himself.
Scott didn't mind losing out on that sale. Gaining a new customer like Owen was still a win.
As they waited, Owen casually chatted with Scott until one of Scott's men returned, carrying a black duffel bag.
Scott took the bag and handed it to Owen, who passed it to Heat for inspection. Then Owen turned back to Scott.
"How much, man?"
"Five grand. Friend price."
Owen nodded. The price was fair—Scott wasn't trying to rip him off.
He glanced at Heat, who gave him a subtle nod, signaling that everything was in order. Without hesitation, Owen paid up.
"My friend, much appreciated. We'll catch you later."
After leaving Scott's place, Owen checked the time—it was 11 PM. They had 35 hours left. Time was tight, and they had to assemble the explosives tonight. There were still plenty of other things to take care of tomorrow.
Taking advantage of the light traffic, Owen drove the planned route again. When he reached a particular intersection, he got out and discreetly placed four electronic trackers at pre-planned spots on the ground.
An hour later, in the pitch-black underground tunnels, Owen and Heat walked through the passageways with flashlights, carrying a heavy load of gear.
Suddenly, the signal receiver in Owen's hand started beeping. They were close.
After a bit more walking, the beeps grew faster. The numbers on the screen kept decreasing until finally, the beeping turned into a single long tone. The display read 0.
Okay. This was the spot—directly beneath the trackers.
Owen dropped a marking light, then moved on to find the other three locations. Soon, he had all four marked. Their positions matched exactly with the trackers he had placed above.
They swept their flashlights around. This area was a junction of several passageways—spacious enough for their needs.
With the location confirmed, Owen and Heat unloaded their gear and began setting up. Soon, emergency lights lit up the dark corners, pushing back the shadows.
Before long, the sound of a power drill echoed through the tunnels. Heat was working fast—he had already secured steel bars to the ceiling and was now hanging from them, drilling holes at precise intervals.
Owen did the same, each of them working on one side. The workload was enormous.
Thirty holes later, the drilling was done. Now came the most delicate part—installing the blasting caps and explosives. Even under normal conditions, this required extreme caution. Doing it while hanging in midair was even riskier.
One mistake, and they were both dead.
Heat took a few deep breaths, then carefully retrieved the blasting caps from his pack. With slow, precise movements, he installed them along with the explosives into the drilled holes.
Every step was deliberate. His focus was absolute.
Owen, being a bit of an amateur in this field, didn't get involved. He had learned some basics about explosives from Heat, but he was far from an expert—especially with something this sensitive. There was no room for error.
Heat moved at a painstakingly slow pace. Owen checked the time—four more hours had passed. It was now 3 AM. They had 31 hours left.
"Phew…"
Heat exhaled deeply. Half of the blasting caps were in place. Sweat was visible on his forehead—whether from exhaustion or nerves was unclear. Now, he switched sides to install the rest on Owen's section.
Minute by minute, time slipped away. Another hour passed.
Finally, all the blasting caps were installed. Heat then connected the detonation cords and the remote detonator. At last, everything was ready.
Owen checked his watch again—past 4 AM. Less than 30 hours remained.
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