In downtown Los Angeles, in a high-end apartment building.
On the ninth floor, inside an apartment.
"Stan, have you gone mad?"
At this moment, in one of the rooms in the apartment.
A somewhat portly middle-aged Black man was shouting angrily at Stanfield.
Stanfield shook his head with complete indifference, even though the other party was the Deputy Director of the Los Angeles Narcotics Bureau.
"Kleiter, you have to help me this time."
"I know you don't like me visiting your home, and you don't want anyone to know about the deals between us."
"But this time, I've run into a bit of trouble."
"If it's not resolved properly, I think it might make things very difficult for us."
A flash of contempt crossed Stanfield's eyes.
The fat Black man in front of him was one of his umbrellas on the surface.
This guy, as the Deputy Director of the Los Angeles Narcotics Bureau, had been doing this for the past dozen years.
Without his protection and cooperation, with Stanfield's police rank, it would have been impossible to get hold of so many drugs to sell for profit.
In a sense, he was the 'black glove' this guy used to rake in money.
Now that he, Stanfield, was in trouble, he naturally came to him for help.
Kleiter was furious; in recent years he had sensed that Stanfield was slipping out of his control.
There had once been a few black gloves under him who helped sell off the drugs deliberately hidden after the Drug Enforcement Bureau's busts.
But over the past dozen years they had died one after another in various accidents.
The causes were bizarre, growing ever stranger.
Especially in the last two or three years, as Kleiter sought to climb higher.
The crooked cops he had newly recruited perished before they could start earning for him.
Some were electrocuted, others missed a step on the stairs and broke their necks.
There were even deaths from peanut allergy or choking on milk—absurd ends!
Kleiter knew perfectly well that behind these grotesque fatalities was Stanfield, the black glove who was slipping his leash, voicing dissatisfaction.
His secret investigations showed Stanfield's power had swelled beyond imagination.
Inside the Los Angeles Narcotics Bureau, numerous mid- and high-level officers had been corrupted by Stanfield's money.
Word had it that Stanfield had befriended several influential city-council and state senator members.
With more umbrellas overhead, the already sinister and cunning Stanfield had grown less deferential to Kleiter these years.
Naturally, Kleiter felt anger and resentment.
If not for the fact that Stanfield's tribute had only increased.
And that, on the surface, Stanfield still stood on his side.
Kleiter would long ago have moved to eliminate him.
But now the tail was too big to cut off.
'Sigh!'
He sighed inwardly.
Over the years Kleiter had taken millions of us dollars in dirty money from Stanfield.
He knew he and this villain were in the same boat.
So, sensing veiled threats in Stanfield's words.
Kleiter swallowed his rage, gave a soft grunt, and countered, 'It's late, I won't waste words.'
'Speak up—what trouble have you stirred now, and what do you need me to do?'
Stanfield smiled; he had been certain the fat man in the dark would yield.
He lifted the travel bag he'd brought and tossed it in front of Kleiter.
Then said bluntly, 'Someone's eyeing a shipment of mine. I need to borrow your internal clearance for a while, and two mobilization orders so I can call on the tactical squad at any time.'
'I won't make things hard for you—here's fifty thousand. After I settle this, another fifty is yours.'
At the mention of a million-us dollar payoff, Kleiter's expression finally softened.
Yet he understood that Stanfield must have provoked serious trouble this time.
Otherwise the man would never offer such a large sum.
When the previous chief of the Drug Enforcement Bureau had grown suspicious and tried to investigate Stanfield.
It was said he had merely spent seven hundred thousand us dollars.
To have a state senator use his influence and have that chief transferred.
Tens of thousands was enough to make heavy-weight politicians act.
His gaze was irresistibly drawn to the bag stuffed with five hundred thousand us dollars.
After a moment's hesitation, Kleiter finally succumbed to the lure of the million-us dollar reward.
'Fine!'
He gritted his teeth and agreed.
'Stan, this is the last time.'
Kleiter stared at him darkly. 'You've gone too far these years; I can barely suppress the complaints inside the bureau.'
'Conduct yourself.'
Stanfield stood with a smile and bowed to him.
Yet his face showed not a trace of concern.
He was indeed cunning, but also a major drug fiend.
For more than ten years he had handled drugs for Kleiter.
Out of curiosity, Stanfield had become addicted himself.
Now his dependence grew heavier by the day.
So heavy that he needed several hits a day, leaving him floating in a hazy daze for long stretches.
Reason corroded by narcotics made Stanfield ever colder, crazier, and ever more unbridled.
He had become like a ticking bomb.
Sooner or later he would detonate.
When that day came, Kleiter would not be the only one caught in the blast.
Soon, after taking the elevator down to the underground garage.
Stanfield had just neared his car when a subordinate sprang out to open the door for him.
The moment he settled into the car, a man in the front passenger seat twisted around to report to Stanfield.
"Stan, we dug up something on Michael."
"That old bastard is every bit as dirty as you thought!"
"Today he asked a few friends if anyone needs a big load of poison."
"Happens one of our informants is pretty tight with him."
"When he tipped me off, I told the informant to fish for details."
"Right now we're sure the brain-dead bastard is holding at least four kilos."
"Must be the stash we left with him."
Stanfield leaned back in the rear seat, listening in silence.
Before long, veins bulged across his forehead, neck, even the backs of his hands.
In an instant, fury flared up and consumed him like wildfire.
"Good. Very good!"
Stanfield laughed in rage. "Keep eyes on him; we'll settle everything tomorrow."
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