Invasion of the United States

"The doctor you called is here. He wants forty thousand US dollars. I don't have enough cash, so you transfer it to him."

On the other end of the phone, the voice of "Gray Shark" was filled with anger and confusion, "First, tell me, how do you know so much about me?

I hardly leave my house once a year, and even my neighbors don't know me. How could you know so much?"

"Pay up, and I'll double the amount to you later." Raul ignored 'Gray Shark's question and gave a direct order.

"Fuck you, Victor! Don't let me find out what kind of shit you're pulling behind my back." "Gray Shark" cursed angrily, but he still complied.

A few minutes later, the underground doctor's electronic account received forty thousand US dollars in virtual currency. A slight smile finally appeared on his cold face.

He patted Raul's shoulder and said, "You have a good relationship with 'Gray Shark'." This was not a compliment, but rather a kind of envy and curiosity.

"Yeah, we're good friends." Raul replied with a bitter smile.

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'Corpse Collector' Ryo, this name was well known in the medical black market.

He was once an attending physician in the gunshot wound department of a major hospital. A scalpel in his hands was as flexible as a paintbrush, saving many patients from the hands of death.

But his fate changed completely due to a trip to the casino.

After getting into massive gambling debt, he stepped into the abyss, having to bid farewell to regular hospitals and struggle to survive in the medical black market.

Florida, this seemingly prosperous land, was jokingly referred to as "a place teeming with talented people."

Masses of immigrants flooded in like waves, bringing abundant cheap labor and enriching the local culture.

However, beneath the sun, shadows always lurk. Various gang forces took root and grew here, and grey industries quietly thrived in the dark, including medical needs.

Since stepping into the underground doctor business, Ryo was surprised to find that his income far exceeded what he earned in the hospital.

To better conduct his work, he modified a light truck. He meticulously arranged the compartment, turning it into a fully-equipped mobile surgery room.

The grey industries in Miami provided ample medical demand, and Ryo's annual surgery volume was several times that of his hospital days.

For each surgery, he could earn thousands or even tens of thousands of US dollars. Such wealth was enough for him to live a luxurious life with fancy cars and mansions.

However, high rewards often come with high risks. Ryo knew well that a slight mishap in this job could lead to ruin.

So, he generally wouldn't go out for consultations easily, unless introduced by an acquaintance. As for the nickname 'Corpse Collector,' it was because Ryo indeed handled bodies for people.

But fate always has a way of toying with people.

Ryo had treated injured members from various gangs. Those bloody scenes and fierce glares had become routine for him.

But he never expected that one day, a senior FBI detective would show up in front of him, becoming his 'customer.'

Carl Vincent, a senior staff member at the FBI Miami Branch, was a renowned figure in the bureau, having solved many major cases and made many enemies.

To force such a powerful character to seek treatment from an underground doctor, it must be a problem beyond what gangs could cause. There had to be something significant behind it. Text acquired from M|V|LEMP&YR.

The moment he saw Carl, Ryo felt a heavy foreboding, but his years of practicing on the black market taught him to stay calm under any circumstances.

"Bring the mobile stretcher over!" Ryo shouted to his wife. He and Raul carefully moved the unconscious Carl into the compartment of the work vehicle.

The mobile stretcher unfolded into a makeshift operating table. The next tasks were cleaning Carl's facial wounds, blood testing, blood transfusion, and suturing.

After receiving the blood transfusion, Carl briefly woke up in a daze.

He glanced at the masked medical staff and the glaring shadowless lamp but fell back into a deep sleep under the effect of the anesthetics before he could think of anything.

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Meanwhile, Raul, waiting outside the vehicle, received another call from 'Gray Shark.' "Kid, I have some good news for you.

After my diligent tracking, that altered extortion call has been restored. Do you want to hear it?"

'Gray Shark' put the phone close to the speaker and played the recording. A rough voice on the call repeated extortion words.

"I want one hundred million US dollars, or I will send the video of you killing Toto and Raul to the FBI..."

Hearing that voice, Raul felt a chill through his body—it was Congers, William Congers' voice.

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Early the next morning.

At dawn, with the first light of day.

When the sun shone on 114 Beach Road, it failed to dissipate the unsettling solemnity that surrounded the Congers' house.

A prominent cordon isolated the scene from outsiders. The flashing police lights and the top lights of the emergency vehicles intersected, creating a tense and oppressive atmosphere.

Police officers moved briskly, their expressions serious.

Some maintained order, others were examining the scene. Their hushed steps and low murmurs added a few degrees of gravity to the case's ambiance.

Director Matthew hurried to the scene. As soon as he got out of the car, his brows furrowed tightly into a knot.

The emergency medical staff were moving out three bodies. He approached and signaled them to stop, then lifted the shroud to glimpse at the faces of the deceased.

One officer stepped forward and quietly reported, "The shooters are illegal immigrants from Cuba, hired to do dirty work. No one knows them; there won't be any ties leading back to us."