Chapter 648
Re-formulate the plan!
“Hank designed it. Its performance is at least two generations higher than the standard FBI equipment.” Mike pushed up his glasses, his fingers flying across the laptop keyboard. “I’ll scan the tea shop’s electromagnetic environment first—see what communication methods they use.”
A densely packed spectrum appeared on the screen—peaks and troughs of various colors undulated and danced on the coordinate axes, like an abstract visualization of music. Mike's eyes darted quickly across the waveforms, occasionally clicking on a peak with the mouse to zoom in.
“Interesting,” he said three minutes later. “There are two Wi-Fi signal sources inside the building—one is a commercial router in the tea shop on the ground floor, with a very weak signal, using the most basic WPA2 encryption, probably the kind for customers. The other is on the second floor—and that signal source isn't a regular router.”
"What is it?"
"The frequency signature matches that of a military-grade encrypted communication terminal. I've seen similar devices in Los Angeles—only in the DEA's operation to track the Mexican cartel. This type of terminal transmits data through a separate encrypted channel, bypassing any commercial network operator's servers. Intercepting its communications—" He shook his head, "is virtually impossible without the corresponding decryption key."
"But we can confirm its existence."
"Yes. Its very existence is proof—a military-grade encrypted communication terminal was hidden in a tea shop in Chinatown; this wasn't some trinket bought by a tea merchant for fun."
"what else?"
"Cell phone signal. I detected three active phones on the second floor. One of them sent an encrypted text message in the past ten minutes—not a regular SMS, but one sent through some kind of end-to-end encryption application. The recipient's number was anonymized, and I can't trace it. But I can determine the time of sending—3:29 PM—and the location of the base station transmitting the signal."
It was 3:29 PM. That was about twelve minutes after MX-031 left the tea shop. He was gone, and immediately the people inside sent an encrypted message to someone.
report.
“Continue to monitor all electromagnetic signals entering and exiting the building. Record the timestamps and base station information for every data packet sent and received—even if we can't decode the content, the metadata itself is valuable.”
"clear."
Lynn left the Highlander and returned to the fruit shop. Jane was still there, now holding a plastic bowl filled with sliced mangoes—she had indeed bought fruit, using it as a cover while also replenishing the energy depleted by telepathy.
“Things have changed.” Jane popped a piece of mango into her mouth. “The guy on the ground floor went up to the second floor at 3:35. Now all four of them are on the second floor. They’re talking more often—it’s not the same one-person-talking-while-the-others-listening pattern anymore, it’s become a group discussion. The atmosphere has changed too—it used to be routinely calm, now there’s a sense of urgency.”
"The news from MX-031 made them nervous."
"Maybe. But not the panicked kind of tension. More like—receiving an assignment that needs to be dealt with as soon as possible."
Lynn's phone vibrated. It was a text message from Jason.
"Search warrant progress: The duty judge for the Southern District of New York is Monica Ramirez. I spoke with her assistant. The judge requires reasonable grounds for prosecution before issuing the warrant. You need to provide me with an affidavit—explaining why there is reason to believe that Yonghe Tea House is linked to the interstate criminal organization under investigation."
Lynn called Jason back.
"I'll write the affidavit. There are three grounds for initiating the investigation: First, an individual with an alias, rescued from a facility identified by federal agencies as being affiliated with a criminal organization, went directly to this address after his release and remained inside for more than thirty minutes; second, an electromagnetic signal source identical to a military-grade encrypted communication terminal was present on the second floor of this address; third, within twelve minutes of the alias leaving, an encrypted communication was sent out from the second floor. Are these three grounds sufficient?"
"For Monica Ramirez—more than enough. She's one of the judges who hates organized crime the most. Last year, in a case involving the Colombo family, she issued a search warrant so extensive that it even included the suspect's dental clinic."
"Then hurry. I need the search warrant in my hands before six o'clock tomorrow morning."
"Six o'clock tomorrow morning? You plan to—"
"A surprise attack at dawn. Four to six in the morning is when human alertness is at its lowest. If those people on the second floor have a shift system, the reaction time of the personnel on duty at four or five in the morning will be at least one or two seconds slower than during the day. For us, that one or two seconds can mean the difference between life and death."
How many people do you need?
“Not many are needed. This isn’t Midway—no supersonic planes or mutant powers are required. This is a four-story brick building in Lower Manhattan, and the target is four unarmed—at least there’s no indication of them being armed yet. Six people are enough. You, me, Pedro, Mike, and two more people you trust.”
"Where is Diana?"
"She's still in Honolulu handling participant accommodations. Let her stay there to wrap things up."
"Where are Logan and the others?"
Lynn paused. His gaze swept past the pedestrians on Mott Street toward Canal Street in the distance—an NYPD patrol car was slowly driving along Canal Street, its roof light reflecting a white flash in the sunlight.
"No need. This time, we'll use our own people. FBI operations, FBI procedures. Search warrant, affidavit, lawful arrest, Miranda notification—not a single word of the process can be omitted. If we use mutant powers to raid a Manhattan business, the defense attorney will bring it up in court as evidence of illegal search. I can't take that risk."
"Understood. I'll arrange the manpower and search warrant. See you tomorrow morning."
“Jason.”
"Um?"
"Maintain confidentiality. Do not send any information about this operation through any FBI internal communication systems. All communication should be via private cell phone, and face-to-face communication is preferred."
“Received. The list of 173 traitors is still in Brooks’s office drawer—though he doesn’t know we already have a copy. I care about secrecy more than you do.” After hanging up, Lynn stood outside the fruit shop for almost three more hours.
The afternoon sun slowly slid down from the tops of the buildings to the west, turning the streets of Chinatown from gold to amber, and then from amber to a twilight with bluish-gray undertones. The shop lights began to come on one by one—first the neon signs of the restaurants facing the main street, then the white fluorescent tubes of the barbershops and massage parlors deep in the alleys, and finally the streetlights on the corners clicked on, casting warm yellow circular spots of light on the sidewalk.
Yonghe Tea House closed at six o'clock in the evening. The lights on the ground floor went out, and a handwritten sign that read "Come again tomorrow" hung on the door. But the lights on the second floor were still on—through the gaps in the not-fully-closed blinds, beams of light could be seen shining out and falling on the brick surface of the opposite building's wall.
Jane's surveillance continued. The four people on the second floor dropped to two around 7 p.m.—two of them left the building at 6:45 p.m. and 6:52 p.m. respectively. Jane described their route: one went south and entered the subway station towards East Broadway; the other went north up Bowery Street, where he got into a black Camry and drove away.
“The remaining two are on the second floor,” Jane said. Her face was pale after more than three hours of continuous mental monitoring, and a fine layer of sweat covered her forehead. “One is looking at something—maybe documents or a screen—very focused. The other is in the rest area, and his consciousness signals indicate he’s entering a light sleep.”
"Are they planning to stay overnight?"
"It seems so. Besides the work area, there's a living space on the second floor of the building—at least a bed or sofa. These two people are probably stationed here long-term."
"Okay. You can call it a day. Go back to the academy and rest. We don't need you tomorrow."
Jane glanced at him. "Are you sure you don't need emotional support?"
"Confirmed. Tomorrow will be a standard search warrant execution operation: six federal agents against four—or two—unarmed targets. No superpowers required."
Jane stood up from the folding stool—which the fruit shop owner had kindly brought out for her for the past three hours—and stretched. Her long red hair took on a dark bronze hue in the warm glow of the streetlights.
"Lynn."
"Um?"
"The person on the second floor who's been awake the whole time—the one looking at the documents—his mental structure is very special. I'm not talking about any supernatural abilities he has, but his way of thinking. An ordinary person's consciousness is like a river—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes turbulent, sometimes calm, branching and swirling in front of obstacles. But that person's consciousness is like—" She paused, choosing her words carefully, "like a precise clock. Every gear turns at a perfectly predictable frequency. There's no emotional interference, no drifting of attention. I've only ever seen two people with this kind of mental characteristic in my life—Professor Xavier, and Magneto."
"You're telling me that person is dangerous."
“I’m telling you that person isn’t an ordinary liaison. A liaison is a middleman, a conduit for information. But that person—he’s not like a conduit. He’s like a source of water.”
After saying that, Jane turned and left. Her figure quickly blurred in the lights and crowds of Chinatown, eventually disappearing into the darkness towards Bowery Street.
Lynn stood in front of the fruit shop for another ten minutes. His mind kept replaying Jane's words—"Not like a pipe, but like a water source."
If the person on the second floor is not a liaison officer but someone of a higher rank, then Yonghe Tea House is not just a liaison point—but a command node.
He took out his phone and sent Jason a final text message.
"The search warrant covers the entire building, including all four floors. We've also prepared a full set of evidence-sealing equipment—hard drive imaging tools, document storage bags, and cameras. This place might be more important than we thought."
That night he returned to Jason's apartment in the Lower East Side. Pedro and Mike were there too—the three of them sat in the living room around a hand-drawn architectural plan spread out on the coffee table, making final tactical decisions.
This floor plan was pieced together by Mike based on electromagnetic scan data from the afternoon and publicly available archives from the New York City Department of Buildings. The four-story brick building housing Yonghe Tea House was built in 1927—during the pre-Great Depression Chinatown building boom—a standard brick-and-wood structure, with each floor approximately 80 square meters. The ground floor was commercial space, while the second to fourth floors were originally residential, later combined into a continuous space during a renovation. A staircase in the northwest corner of the building leads from the ground floor to the fourth-floor rooftop. There is also a fire escape staircase on the east exterior wall—a cast-iron structure—accessible directly from a second-floor window.
“Two entrances.” Lynn drew two circles on the map with a pencil. “The main entrance—the door to the tea shop on the ground floor—and the fire escape.”
“There’s a third one.” Mike pointed to a small square at the back of the building on the floor plan. “There’s a back door in the alley leading to the ground floor storage area. From there, you can take an internal staircase to the second floor.”
“Three entrances. Six people. How to allocate them?” Pedro sat cross-legged on the sofa, Remington lying across his lap, his fingers unconsciously sliding back and forth between the pump and the wall.
"The main entrance is the primary attack route. Jason and I will enter through the main entrance, go up the stairs, and head straight to the second floor. Pedro, you and Mike will enter through the back door, go through the storage area, take the internal stairs, and reach the second floor from another direction—forming a pincer movement. The other two—Jason, the two you're looking for—will block off the fire escape staircases and the alleyway exits around the building. Make sure no one escapes through the windows or the rooftop."
"What if they have weapons?"
"There are no signs of weapons observed so far. But we can't rule it out. Everyone should wear bulletproof vests and conduct a quick security assessment before entering a building—if there are obvious signs of armed defense behind the door, we'll back out and revise our plan. I don't want to fight a street battle in a Manhattan apartment building."
"receive."
"Time: 4:15 AM. About two hours before sunrise, when the streets are quietest. Breakfast shops in Chinatown start preparing around 5 AM, and we need to get everything done before then—enter, secure the area, preserve evidence, and take people away. The whole process should take no more than twenty minutes."
Pedro nodded. Mike made a few annotations on the floor plan, then folded it up and put it in his pocket.
"Go to sleep." Jason brought out three bottles of beer from the kitchen and handed one to everyone. "We're leaving in four hours."
Lynn took a few sips of beer, lay down on the bed in the guest room, and closed his eyes. The sounds outside the Lower East Side apartment window were completely different from those in Westchester—no birdsong or rustling leaves in the wind, but instead the clatter of a garbage truck's hydraulic boom in the distance, laughter from a late-night talk show playing on a TV in the neighbor's house, and further away, the siren of an ambulance—not an emergency, but the intermittent wail of a car cruising at a moderate speed through the streets of Manhattan in the early morning, like a large, restless animal slowly moving through the city's veins. (End of Chapter)