36. The Second Encounter

8:00 a.m.

Lazy morning sunlight filtered through the window.

A gentle knock at the door was followed by a flood of towering men in black police uniforms, LVPD badges gleaming on their chests, pouring into Dean’s hospital room and sealing him in on all sides.

“Good morning, Dean. I’m Laurel Howard, Chief of the LVPD…”

The elderly man at the center of the crowd was in his early fifties, thin and stooped, temples flecked with gray, dark circles beneath his eyes, deep lines framing his mouth—a face marked by the passage of time.

Yet one could still glimpse, in the straight nose and deep eyes, the heroic bearing of his youth.

With a warm yet firm grip, he shook Dean’s hand, his voice robust but tinged with regret. “I’m sorry we arrived so late. Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine.” Dean’s gaze shifted; the cops entering all wore friendly, earnest smiles. “The wound’s been treated. The doctor says a few days’ rest and I’ll be good as new.”

Beyond the officers, Dean spotted a familiar face and was startled—a handsome FBI agent in a deep blue suit, refined in demeanor, black briefcase in hand: Holden Ford.

“God bless.”

The chief paused, sighing deeply, his tone sorrowful. “Dean, on behalf of the entire LVPD, I sincerely apologize for the incident on the anniversary. Our review failed… management was too lax… our response too slow… which led to…”

“For this heinous incident, the LVPD will ensure you receive satisfactory answers and compensation. Please rest and recover. Should you need anything, contact Officer Spears, who’s stationed here at the hospital.”

The mustachioed officer at the chief’s side gave Dean a gentle smile.

“Now, rest up, young man. Wishing you a swift recovery.” The chief patted Dean’s shoulder approvingly. “We’ll see you again in a few days.”

He departed with his entourage.

But one unwelcome figure lingered behind.

“We meet again. Remember me?” Holden made himself at home, sitting by Dean’s bed, grinning.

“The FBI who likes to hypothesize and threaten.” Dean shook his head in mild exasperation, rubbing his eyes.

His nerves still buzzing from last night’s heightened state, Dean had been too wired to sleep, even after utter exhaustion.

“It seems there’s been a misunderstanding between us, but don’t worry. I’ve cleared your uncle of the suspicion of murdering Bob.” Holden gave him a thumbs-up. “Now I’m here as a private citizen to thank you, and also to ask a few questions on behalf of the Bureau.”

Dean calmly peeled an orange from the bedside table, savoring the tart sweetness. “I have questions for you too. Was the situation serious? How many died?”

Holden’s expression darkened as he considered. “Preliminary counts put the dead at thirty-five—including your beloved principal, Mr. Ulysses. Over forty were wounded, filling two nearby hospitals.”

“This attack was catastrophic; Las Vegas hasn’t seen a shooting like this in twenty years.”

But then Holden’s gaze softened with undisgised admiration as he looked at Dean. “Even in such tragedy, the light of humanity shone through.”

“Because of your heroism, the school, LVPD, and city government plan to publicly award you a medal and a cash prize at the memorial.”

Dean paused mid-chew.

The hero who stands out attracts trouble; he had no desire to become a public figure.

Attention must be shared, so he said, “Surely I’m not the only one being honored? What about the other brave ones?”

“Who do you mean? Your classmates?” Holden looked puzzled.

“I recall some others helping me subdue the shooters. Principal Ulysses was there too… He was hit then.” Dean’s gaze was serious.

The brave had perished—dead men could not contradict his account.

“Wait!” Holden frowned suddenly, placing a finger to his lips for silence. “That doesn’t match what I know. The surviving witness, Wazell, insists you fought the shooters alone from start to finish.”

Dean’s expression became comically incredulous, and he repeated the story he’d given to Rust and the others the night before, this time even more convincingly.

“Wazell’s obsessed with Bruce Lee’s ‘Enter the Dragon,’ you know how it is. He probably thinks all Asians are Shaolin Kung Fu masters. He’s mistaken.”

Holden laced his fingers under his chin, his gaze sharp. “Our on-site analysis doesn’t match your story.”

“Then how did I, alone, take out three AK-wielding ex-soldiers and accomplish something so impossible?”

Holden said nothing.

This was the puzzle that had stumped the LVPD as well.

On the uniquely treacherous beach of Lake Mead, surrounded by three gunmen, how could an ordinary high schooler singlehandedly reverse the crisis?

Ballistics, scene reconstruction, eyewitness accounts, autopsies—none could fully reconstruct what had happened.

Even a Delta Force commando would likely have been riddled with bullets in that situation, let alone a teenager.

And Wazell’s testimony was vague and exaggerated, its credibility doubtful.

“Everyone who fought back with you was shot?” Holden asked.

“I can’t remember. I was too nervous.” Dean noticed the FBI’s skepticism and shook his head. “If you insist I did it alone, there’s nothing I can do.”

“But do you think people will accept that a yellow-skinned high schooler single-handedly killed three white gunmen and saved a group of white and black innocents?”

Holden frowned, his expression complex.

The social climate was tense.

That year, Japanese car exports were threatening to surpass America’s. The Big Three automakers were suffering, many had lost their jobs, and resentment toward the Japanese—and by extension all Asians—was running high.

Making an Asian the sole hero of the Lake Mead shooting carried immense public risk.

That was what the chief had asked him to clarify.

“Young man, I don’t know why you’re lying or so averse to being a hero, but I’ll respect your wishes and pass them on to the LVPD. Perhaps the Bureau will accommodate you.”

Holden scrutinized him, then took out pen and paper from his briefcase.

“But I have more questions. One gunman was strangled unconscious and then had his throat cut. That was you, right? Don’t deny it; we have fingerprint evidence. Where did you learn that?”

Dean answered evenly, “Just some wrestling from my uncle. That guy was badly wounded, couldn’t fight back. I held him like I practiced.”

“Why cut his throat after he was unconscious? Didn’t want to leave a witness?”

“How would I know if he was really out? He could’ve shot me if he got up. I’d never been in that situation before—I was terrified, just did what I could to survive. Do you understand?”

Holden jotted down a note, then pressed on. “How about your technique? The gunman’s windpipe and artery were both severed in one stroke—most people couldn’t find that spot.”

“I don’t know—maybe I was lucky. Agent, I don’t deny killing the gunman. Is that a crime? Do you have to interrogate me like a suspect?” Dean met his gaze directly. Playing weak or dumb would no longer help.

Holden shook his head and pulled a photo of a Colt M1911A1 from his pocket, laying it before Dean.

“Is this your gun? You used .45 ACP rounds to seriously wound two shooters. The angles were extraordinary—through the armpits, where their vests were weakest. How did you do it?”

Holden’s gaze was piercing.

Dean’s mind raced.

They’d surely lifted his fingerprints from the weapon; denial was pointless.

“Maybe God guided my aim.”

He remained vague.

“Don’t look at me like that. I registered, paid, paid my taxes—bought my gun legally, and only recently. I barely had time to practice. You can check—it’s all on record.”

Dean laid out his experience at the Silent Hunter shop.

“As for the money, you know my house was ransacked by thugs. I was scared, so I bought a gun for protection.”

“Where’d you get the money?”

“I wrote a song, sold it to the school band, made some cash. You can check, it’s all filed.”

Holden’s eyes flashed with an odd light. Circling Dean, he patted him on the shoulder and, when Dean wasn’t looking, plucked a hair from his hospital gown.

“Are all high schoolers this impressive nowadays? Facing down mass shooters, fighting back like a superhero, and still musically gifted—Dean, you’re a genius.”

His tone was full of admiration, tinged with a peculiar self-regard, as if praising his own reflection.

A genius—again.

Dean was tired of the word and changed the subject.

“By the way, I saw those three shooters at Silent Hunter when I left—they were buying weapons.”

“You’re sure?” Holden’s expression sharpened, hands sliding into his jacket pockets, discreetly stowing away the hair.

“Yes, I remember clearly. They stood out—one was even limping. The details all match.”

“Damn!” Holden cursed quietly. “I knew Nevada’s lax gun laws would cause a disaster.”

He nodded. “Thanks, Dean. You’ve helped a lot. Silent Hunter should yield new leads. In exchange, the LVPD won’t fault you for carrying a gun in public.”

“When do I get it back?” Dean, oddly sitting, stared into space rather than at Holden, as if talking to himself. “You won’t ‘civilly forfeit’ it, will you?”

“Which idiot in the LVPD would dare confiscate the hero’s weapon? If they did, I can already see tomorrow’s headlines: ‘Hero’s Gun Seized for Self-Defense, While Killers Run Free.’”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get it back.”

Holden promised solemnly, then suddenly shivered as a chill swept down his neck and a sharp pain pricked his scalp, as though someone were pulling his hair.

He didn’t notice his jacket pocket swell and flatten in a strange rhythm.

Dean, satisfied, recalled his Shadow.

“What have you found about the shooters? No family? How could they target a bunch of students?”

On the surface, Dean sounded indignant, but he was just fishing—he doubted they’d share such secrets with a high schooler.

But Holden, as ever, was unpredictable.

“Still investigating… but we’ve confirmed their backgrounds—all retired soldiers from California.”

“They fought in the war that ended eight years ago. Bodies wounded, minds broken by PTSD, unable to find steady work, not enough income to support their families, so they grew bitter.”

“Survivors say they made statements before the attack—so it was likely an act of revenge against American society.”

Holden spoke as if briefing a colleague.

Dean found Holden ever more inscrutable. Was it even legal to tell him all this?

“But there are still doubts…” Holden changed tack.

“Such as?” Dean offered him a glass of water.

“If they had enough money for automatic weapons and expensive armor, why not send it home, or use it to improve their own lives? Only one explanation—”

Holden broke off, pushing back his chair, apologizing with a gesture—clearly unwilling to say more.

But Dean could guess.

The only possibility—their families had already received money.

Whose money?

The true mastermind, the one who orchestrated the attack!

A face came unbidden to Dean’s mind—a round face, hooked nose, glossy black hair combed neatly, exuding the aura of a business elite.

Bob Lowe’s father—

James Lowe!

Dean’s body, beneath the hospital gown, tensed involuntarily.

If James Lowe had hired these killers to orchestrate this atrocity, it was for revenge against his son’s death.

Which meant Dean, as Bob’s killer, was the real target.

…

“Dean, are you unwell? Should I call the doctor?”

Dean shook his head, gulped down water to suppress his guilt. He had simply done what had to be done.

But he should have acted more decisively—eliminated the threat at the first sign.

Yet his past life in a peaceful, harmonious society still shaped him.

Indecisive, cautious by nature.

“This is a lesson,” he told himself.

This time, James Lowe must not be allowed to walk free!

Resolved, Dean glanced apologetically at Holden.

“I’d like to rest now. Let’s leave it here for today?”

Holden nodded briskly, stood, but paused at the door.

“Dean.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t worry. The title ‘hero’ is a powerful shield—no one will dare trouble you now. And I find myself admiring you more and more. We’ll meet again soon.”

…

Bang!

The door closed, and Holden left the room.

Leaning against the wooden door in the hallway, Holden flipped open his notebook and crossed out all his notes about Dean.

From his pocket, he carefully took the strand of hair, sealing it in a plastic bag.

“Most likely snuck into the mansion and killed his enemy Bob Lowe, cold and ruthless.”

“Risked his life at Lake Mead to kill the shooters and save lives, yet refuses to admit it or seek the spotlight.”

“A strange kid.”

Sunlight streamed through the hallway window.

Holden Ford walked away.

…

Inside the hospital room.

Back against the door, separated from Holden by only a thin barrier, Dean exited his god’s-eye perspective.

He recalled what he’d glimpsed from Holden’s notebook.

Holden struck him as odd—no apparent malice, but paying him unusual attention and always with some trick up his sleeve.

“But I won.”

During that brief conversation, Dean had used his Shadow to quietly swap his own hair in the FBI’s pocket for a strand of Holden’s.

“Enjoy analyzing your own hair and clearing my name. Try anything again and I’ll send you sky-high.”

“For now, focus on bringing down James Lowe. First, I have to find his whereabouts.”

A face appeared in his mind—a member of the baseball team.

“Maybe Bob Lowe’s old cronies know something.”