Chapter 296: The Blueprints
By the time the trip was over, Frank had already figured it out—
Ivan wasn't well off.
The man was scruffy from head to toe, wearing worn-out jeans and a frayed jacket. The hems of his pant legs were rubbed into fuzzy threads. He lived on who-knows-how-old compressed biscuits, probably leftovers from the Soviet era.
A Russian guy who couldn't even afford proper food or alcohol, casually pulling out some unknown blueprints and claiming they were worth hundreds of millions—billions, even?
Only an idiot would believe that.
If they were really worth that much, why wouldn't he sell them himself? Why personally go to New York for revenge?
With that kind of money, he could've hired professionals—paid killers to settle things for him.
Old Milkovich's people alone offered that kind of service. A few thousand to tens of thousands, depending on the target.
And if Ivan's enemy wasn't ordinary, then fine—hire top-tier international assassins. With tens of billions, what kind of killer couldn't he afford?
These days, even presidents could be assassinated. The U.S. president himself wasn't immune, let alone some third-world leader. In certain countries, presidents being assassinated was practically routine—though there always seemed to be America's shadow behind it.
So when Ivan said those blueprints were worth billions, Frank just treated it as a joke—something to laugh at.
Even the Blue Angel formula probably wouldn't sell for that much.
"Alright then, thanks for the gesture," Frank said, folding the blueprints and putting them away. He planned to let Lip take a look later—Lip was the only one at home who might actually understand them.
"Then let me return the favor," Frank added, pulling out a thick wad of cash—several thousand, maybe close to ten thousand—and tossing it to Ivan.
Because he was escorting shipments, Frank always carried large amounts of cash on him, just in case.
"Hm?" Ivan paused mid-drink.
"I told you—the blueprints were for the booze," Ivan said.
"I know," Frank replied, "but that liquor cost next to nothing. Your blueprints are supposedly worth billions. Besides, you're clearly short on cash. Let's just call it making a friend."
Ivan chuckled softly.
"Friends, huh…"
He didn't refuse. He pocketed the money.
After a moment, he asked, "Is David really your name?"
"Just call me by my nickname," Frank said as he hopped off the truck. "I'm heading out. Take care."
He didn't answer directly—but that was his answer.
"What's that?" Pinkman asked after unloading the cargo, noticing the rolled blueprints in Frank's hand. "You didn't have those earlier."
"A gift from a friend," Frank said.
This wasn't their first transaction. After several runs, everything went smoothly.
Once all the messy business was taken care of, Frank finally dragged his exhausted body home, blueprints in hand.
"Dad—!"
Debbie, the little angel, flew into his arms. Frank scooped her up and spun her around a few times.
"Did you behave while Dad was gone?" he asked with a smile.
Life at home went on much the same as before, without any dramatic changes.
Ever since money was no longer a problem, things had undeniably improved. The kids no longer had to scramble every day just to survive, no longer had to pinch pennies and worry about saving enough to make it through the winter.
Still, their troubles hadn't really decreased.
Each of them had their own growing pains—most of them emotional. And those were the kinds of problems Frank couldn't do much about.
"When's Lip coming back?" Frank asked.
"He'll be home this weekend," Sammi replied.
"Oh." Frank nodded, casually tossing the rolled-up blueprints back into his room. He'd wait until Lip was home to show them to him.
Frank and Pinkman stayed home for a couple of days to recover. Every escort run took a toll on both body and nerves.
Before they knew it, the weekend arrived, and Lip came home.
"Lip, hold on a second," Frank called out when Lip was about to head out after breakfast.
"What's up?" Lip asked, puzzled.
"Wait here. Take a look at this," Frank said, going back to his room and bringing out the blueprints Ivan had given him.
"This is…?"
Lip had imagined all sorts of things Frank might show him, but a set of blueprints was the last thing he expected.
"So? Can you make sense of it? What's it designing?" Frank asked.
"Where did you get this?" Lip asked, spreading the blueprints out on the table, clearly startled.
"A friend gave it to me," Frank replied casually.
"…" Lip didn't say anything more. Once the blueprints were laid out, his entire focus locked onto them. His eyes traced every line and notation with intense concentration.
Seeing how absorbed he was, Frank didn't interrupt. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat nearby, watching Lip and occasionally glancing at the drawings.
The blueprints were extremely technical. Frank couldn't understand the details, but some surface-level things were obvious even to him.
For example, the paper itself was old—yellowed with age. The ink had faded in places, the edges worn. In one corner, there seemed to be a handwritten year. Judging by it, the drawings were probably from the 1990s.
"Hah…"
After more than half an hour, during which Lip had pulled out a notebook, scribbled calculations, and even used a laptop, he finally let out a long breath and lit a cigarette.
"Well? Can you read it? What is it?" Frank asked again.
"I can't," Lip said, shaking his head.
"What?"
Frank looked genuinely shocked.
Lip's brilliance was universally acknowledged in the family. Whenever something broke—especially mechanical or electronic—it was always Lip who fixed it.
He even designed robots. Every year, he took part in underground college robot competitions—not harmless exhibitions, but brutal contests where robots fought each other like pit bulls. He'd even won championships, with sizable prize money.
And yet someone like Lip couldn't understand these blueprints?
That genuinely caught Frank off guard.
"I can only understand part of it," Lip said slowly. "It seems to involve energy transfer or energy circulation. The design is incredibly sophisticated—honestly, it's the work of a genius."
Geniuses tended to be proud, and Lip was no exception. He rarely praised anyone.
But these blueprints had clearly impressed him.
"Dad," Lip asked seriously, "where did you really get this?"
Even without fully understanding it, Lip could already tell this was something extraordinary. This wasn't the kind of thing someone casually picked up somewhere.
Forget about him—even the professors at his school might struggle to make sense of it. The technical depth was simply too high.
Let alone understanding it.
Even building it strictly according to the drawings would probably be impossible.