Chapter 3: Glock 19 (Please Keep Reading)

Aoxi immediately bent down and darted two steps to the front of a nearby car, raising his hand and firing two shots at the spot he remembered.

"You actually killed Hawks! I’m going to kill you! You bastard!" the Mexican shouted furiously, drawing his gun.

Bang, bang, bang—bullets rattled against Aoxi’s car, shattering the windows into a spray of glass.

Anyone familiar with shootouts knows that cars are fragile; only the engine block and wheel hubs offer some protection, and the rest of the vehicle provides no defense at all.

Aoxi didn’t bother to reply. He curled up tightly, making sure not to expose himself, and returned fire with two more shots toward the direction of the Mexican’s voice.

"You’ll regret this! I swear! You absolutely will!" the Mexican kept shouting, but the gunfire ceased. "Shit! Shit!"

After a moment’s thought, Aoxi risked it and crept around to the back of the car. Peeking out, he saw the Mexican’s pistol had jammed; the man was frantically working the slide, trying to clear the malfunction.

Bang. Bang.

The Mexican collapsed. There was no more need to fuss with the gun.

Aoxi slowly straightened, warily approached, and kicked both pistols away from the bodies. After confirming both men were dead, he finally exhaled in relief.

He glanced at the 1911 in his hand. It was a fine weapon, but the ammo was limited, and there were no spare magazines or bullets left—it wasn’t enough. He’d emptied this one as well. If he ever had the chance, he’d get a gun with a hundred rounds, just to let loose. He was developing a serious fear of being outgunned.

[Host has completed a double kill. Reward: one box of .45 ACP rounds, $200, and skill: Handgun Shooting level 1 upgraded to level 2.]

Level 1 handgun proficiency was equivalent to a soldier with six months of military training. Level 2 meant you were among the best shooters in your unit—top ten or twenty, or one of the top two in a squad.

On a larger scale, it wasn’t much, but in an average squad, you could just about serve as a marksman.

The most direct change Aoxi noticed was that, had he been level 2 before, he could have dealt with the two Mexicans in just three or four shots—his combat effectiveness had doubled.

He also felt his pocket grow heavier. Reaching inside, he found a large box of .45 ammo marked with "50 rounds."

Now he had bullets to use. Aoxi quickly removed the magazine, loaded it full, and chambered a round.

At that moment, a blue glow appeared in the pocket of one of the corpses. Aoxi walked over and found a wad of bills—over twenty notes, even more than the system’s reward.

He’d hit the jackpot!

The dollars given by the system glowed blue, but after Aoxi picked them up, the light slowly faded. The other bills didn’t glow.

A sudden doubt struck him—were these dollars really a reward from the system, or was the system just giving him the cash from the Mexican’s pocket?

Too few samples to say for sure.

And a deeper question: was the system’s money real or counterfeit?

Another thought crossed his mind: was the car the Mexican tried to steal unlocked? Could he drive it away? He did have a driver’s license, though he’d never owned a car back home. Having a car in Los Angeles would be convenient, even if it was hot. He wasn’t picky.

Suddenly, faint sirens wailed in the distance. Aoxi froze. Why were the cops so quick this time?

Then he understood—the police were usually slow, but this wasn’t far from where the Black guy had been killed. How much distance had he really put between himself and that spot by ducking through alleys? They had barely reached the scene of the earlier murder when this shootout erupted, with over a dozen gunshots. The police couldn’t possibly still take half an hour to arrive.

Aoxi turned and ran, grabbing the Mexican’s gun on his way out. All trophies must be claimed; as for the jammed one, he left it—bad luck.

He followed the main street back. The crowds had thinned but there were still people around, and with streetlights illuminating the way, it wasn’t too dangerous.

After walking for more than half an hour, Aoxi returned to the place he’d been staying—a corner formed by towering concrete walls.

As a rookie vagrant, Aoxi could sleep here simply because the more ambitious homeless in LA all had their own tents. The rest could sleep anywhere. There was plenty of space along this street.

A blanket on the ground was his bed, and he had a sleeping bag. He was lucky the LA weather was mild and the nights not too cold.

These things had been handed out during relief distributions over the past few days. Every day in LA, plenty of people and organizations distributed supplies: food, clothing, bedding, toiletries. Whether out of genuine charity, a desire for tax breaks, to build political capital, or to promote future charitable events, the aid still reached those in need. Thanks to these supplies, Aoxi hadn’t starved or frozen.

His current dream was to find someone handing out tents and sleep in the park—the cement at the foot of the wall was too hard, and the street too noisy and unsafe. A park would be much more comfortable.

Now Aoxi had money. On his way back, he bought four hamburgers, two orders of fries, and two cups of Pepsi.

He bought an extra meal for his neighbor, Big Black James.

Not all Black folks were the same; his neighbor was a good man. If James, a six-foot-three Black guy, hadn’t told him where to get relief supplies and shared his own with Aoxi, he would have starved the very first day.

So with money, Aoxi was happy to buy James a meal.

Relief usually only covered lunch; at night, you had to tough it out or eat leftovers from midday.

Today, Aoxi hadn’t gone to collect relief. Who knew how things went? James took the hamburger, wolfed it down in a few bites, nearly choking, and had to gulp down Pepsi to recover.

Clearly, things hadn’t gone well today.

Aoxi was starving, too. He devoured his own food, and soon both of them were lying back, resting after finishing every bite.

James sighed, "Pepsi is still the best!"

Aoxi nodded in agreement. Pepsi had a slight bitterness and spice, just like life. Coke was too sweet—too shallow.

"West, where did you get the money for food? Are you healed? Did you find a job?"

James knew Aoxi was injured. He’d checked on him while going out for relief, but Aoxi had already left. Now, seeing Aoxi looking so much better and able to buy burgers, James assumed he’d found a job and skipped the relief line today.

As for Aoxi’s stolen belongings, James never expected them back. In his experience, that was impossible.

Finding work was a little easier. There were many Chinese in Los Angeles, and some did well in business, often hiring fellow Chinese. So, for Chinese, finding work was easier than for Blacks or Mexicans.

Of course, exploitation was just as common, with no mercy shown.

"No, but today I used Chinese kung fu to help a rich man chase off a Black guy, and the rich man gave me some spare change," Aoxi lied easily.

As for why the rich man was so stingy, or why he had no bodyguards, or whether James would be annoyed at the story, none of it mattered.

James immediately sat up, eyes shining. "Like Bruce Lee and Jackie Lee? West, teach me Chinese kung fu too!"

"Sure, but real Chinese kung fu requires a formal apprenticeship. It’s like joining the Mafia—you can never quit, and you have to kneel and call me ‘father.’"

James hesitated, then steeled himself, about to stand up.

Aoxi was startled—James was over fifty! Who would want such a big son? He quickly pressed him down and told him to think it over until morning.

James fell into a troubled sleep.

Aoxi wiped the sweat from his brow, turned away, and took out the pistol he’d picked up after killing the Mexican. The system automatically identified it:

[Glock 19 Gen5 MOS FS semiautomatic pistol, manufactured by Glock USA. Fifth-generation Glock 19, with optic mounting plate and front serrations. Overall length: 185mm; barrel: 102mm; height: 128mm; empty weight: 675g; uses 9mm Parabellum rounds. Standard magazine: 15+1 capacity; loaded magazine: 240g; equipped with Holosun HS507C reflex sight.

A typical case of "all the gear, no idea"—no matter how good the gun or accessories, they’re useless otherwise.]