"Michael, verifying our theory is easy—but you'll need to do it yourself."
Michael looked at Leo with confusion.
"The workers' resentment has reached a boiling point. Doat's death is just the spark—there will definitely be a riot tomorrow.
You need to visit the workers tonight, one by one, and bring the wages they're owed.
Nothing calms rage like money. Convince them to stand down, to give up storming the lumberyard.
Once this plan is ruined, our enemy will be forced to make another move—and when he does, we'll spot his fingerprints.
But most importantly—don't reveal that I'm involved.
Oh, and one more thing—after visiting the workers, don't go home. Go straight to the police station."
Leo rattled off a string of instructions. Michael scrambled to jot them down on a scrap of paper, asking as he wrote:
"What do I say to them?"
"You're no good at lying, so don't. Just tell them the truth. Your presence alone will convince most of them."
"Then I'll go find Ricardo. He'll help persuade them."
"Find John instead. Ricardo's no longer the union leader."
Michael's face fell—he had lost his strongest ally.
As they stepped out of the building, they ran into Sean, who had just returned to find Leo.
"Commander," Sean said, "we've cleaned everything up."
In modern times, there was an underground profession known as "cleaners."
In his previous life, Leo had read about them. While training his special operations team, he made it a training subject.
Combining information from his past life, Leo developed a set of principles for being a cleaner.
Sean and the others had helped build that system. So when they said "clean," it meant clean.
Not even the FBI's best forensic teams would find anything—let alone the local Lynchburg cops.
Of course, they still couldn't match the professionals of future TV shows—bodies weren't erased, just made completely unidentifiable.
Leo smiled. Sometimes, the absence of evidence was the best smoke screen.
Michael went off alone to find John, while Leo stayed behind to talk with his old brothers-in-arms.
He and Sean walked to a dirt road not far from the lumberyard. A wagon was parked there. Desmond and the others were smoking beside it.
"You poured everything in?" Leo asked Daniel.
Daniel nodded.
The wagon was filled with barrels. Inside each one, corpses soaked in hydrofluoric acid.
It wasn't quite the miracle solution from Breaking Bad, but it was enough to destroy faces, hands, and any identifying features.
"Thanks, guys," Leo said.
"Boss," Joseph said, "you've saved our lives more than once.
But even if you hadn't—how could any of us stand by while scum like that run wild in our town?
When I was fourteen, I shot a bastard who tried to attack my father. Blew him off the porch with a hunting rifle."
"Yeah," Sean added with a grin, "when I was a kid working cattle out past the ranch, I saw my old man shoot plenty of trespassers on sight."
"And besides, Commander," Daniel said, "they killed Doat! That was Doat, man!"
Daniel had grown up partially as an orphan. He and Doat had often played together.
"God won't forgive them," Desmond said firmly, his eyes locked on Leo.
Leo rubbed his forehead. He'd momentarily forgotten—this wasn't peaceful modern-day China.
This was America, where gunfire was just another day.
Still, he felt deeply moved. He could hear the reassurance in their voices, and more importantly—their unconditional trust.
"No more speeches," Leo said. "You know the motto—Special Operations!"
"All glory, all loss, we live and die as one!"
Their hands stacked together under the moonlight, a gesture from the Pacific war years.
It was a ritual of silence.
As a special forces unit, they'd sometimes been assigned missions that broke moral lines.
After such jobs, they'd do this—an oath to secrecy.
Break it, and you'd become the enemy. And those who became enemies of the special forces... always died.
"Desmond," Leo continued, "you, Daniel, and Sean—take the barrels up the mountain to the next town and bury them. Do it cleanly."
Desmond looked pained. He wanted to protest—but when he saw the stern expression on Leo's face, he just sighed, made a cross on his chest, and got to work.
"What about me, Boss?" Joseph asked.
Leo looked down at the unconscious man beside him—the one thug who had fled and been caught.
"You and I will deal with him."
The Lynchburg Police Department was small—only 12 officers.
Tonight, after the public stabbing, all of them had been sent out—except for one: Joseph's father, Chief Jonathan, who stayed behind to wait for updates.
When he heard noise outside the front door, Jonathan looked up and frowned.
"Joseph, you're supposed to be home in bed."
Mayor Patrick had warned him that this attack wasn't simple.
Jonathan knew his son was capable—too capable. That's why he hadn't let Joseph join the manhunt.
Not out of fear for his safety—but because he knew Joseph might actually catch someone.
The station's light was old and dim. Jonathan didn't notice the complex expression on his son's face as he stood in the shadows.
"I found the man who killed Doat," Joseph said, skipping the small talk.
Jonathan cursed silently. He squinted, trying to make out his son's features, but failed—just a blurred silhouette.
"How can you be sure he's the killer?"
That's when Joseph sighed.
He stepped out of the shadows and looked his father in the eye.
"As a police chief, shouldn't your first question be: 'Where is he? Take me to him!'"
Jonathan's heart sank—but he still tried to deflect.
"I just wanted to confirm that it's the right guy."
Joseph had learned some microexpression analysis from Leo—not enough to be a master, but enough to catch the flicker of panic that crossed his father's face.
Leo was right.
Joseph felt a bitter ache inside. He'd prepared for this possibility, but who wants to find out their father is a crooked cop?
"Real or not, he's outside. When he wakes up, you can ask him yourself."
Joseph pointed toward the door.
Jonathan rushed outside—and there he saw the man lying unconscious on the ground.
He cursed under his breath again.
Just hours earlier, Mayor Patrick had sworn everything was under control.