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While waiting for the call to connect, the Tinkerer didn't continue with the surgery. Instead, he casually asked, "By the way, sir, I still don't know your name."
Old White growled through clenched teeth, "Andrew Saxon. Remember that name well."
The Tinkerer tilted his head. "That name supposed to be famous? People hear it and instantly know who you are?"
"Go ahead and try it," Saxon said with a rare trace of pride. "Ask any gang, ask any cop—if someone doesn't know me, that only means he's not from Los Angeles."
When the white kid who had gone to fetch a phone returned, it wasn't with the desk phone the Tinkerer had imagined—but a portable one.
It was already 1993, and portable phones—what people would soon call "cell phones"—were starting to become popular. They didn't have the countless features of the twenty-first century's smartphones, but they did one important thing: they freed people from phone cords.
The Tinkerer glanced at the phone. A Siemens—Germany's finest. In those days, it was the best phone brand you could get, even rated higher than Nokia.
Simple reason: signal quality. Where other phones got nothing, Siemens could squeeze out a bar or two. That was its strength.
You could almost say—no one dared claim first place if Siemens was ranked second.
"You know how to use it?" the young man asked with a sneer.
"Easy." The Tinkerer took the phone, tapped 9-1-1, and pressed the green call button.
Because of the angle, only a few people standing behind him could see what he was doing. But everyone in the OR was wearing masks, so none of the others noticed the alarmed looks that appeared on those few faces.
Emergency calls never rang long. A moment later, someone picked up.
The Tinkerer immediately said, "I've located Andrew Saxon. We're in the old industrial district on the outskirts of Los Angeles, specifically at…"
He calmly described their exact location and how to get there.
It was only then that Old White and his men realized something was wrong. One of them raised his gun and shouted, "Who the hell are you calling? Who did you just call?"
Even Andrew Saxon, lying on the table, caught on and started cursing furiously.
The Tinkerer glanced at the gunman and leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the muzzle—taunting him.
Then, into the phone, he snapped, "Who I am doesn't matter. Believe me or don't. If this guy's not important, then don't bother coming."
Without hanging up, he handed the still-connected phone to the man holding the gun, giving him a contemptuous look to match his own tone. "Even when I hand you a chance, you don't dare take it. Useless."
"What did you do?! What the fuck did you just do to me?!" Old White roared, almost losing his mind.
The Tinkerer returned to the operating table, calmly picked up a surgical needle with a clamp, and finally began stitching. His voice was lazy, almost amused.
"I just wanted to see if your name really rings as loud as you say it does. If everyone knows it, right?
"Maybe, Mr. Saxon, the cops don't actually know who you are. And if that's the case, once I finish the surgery, you can do whatever you want with me.
"So let's gamble. Let's see if your name's really big enough in their eyes. Or maybe the police will take their sweet time, like always, showing up too late to catch anyone. Got some friends in the department? A few dirty cops? You'll need them now."
He smirked. "If you don't even have a few informants planted among the police, what kind of boss are you? When something like today happens, if nobody steps up to take the heat for you, and not even one person tips you off… well, that's just pathetic."
Old White bellowed, "You unlicensed quack! You think when the cops come, they'll let you walk free after cutting people open like this? If I'm caught, you're going down with me!
"And if you finish the operation before they get here—what makes you think you'll live long enough to see them? Don't think you can just leave me here for the cops to find, either!
"Hey! You—keep your guns on this bastard! If his hands stop moving, kill him on the spot! The rest of you, pack up and get the cars ready—we're moving our base!"
Andrew Saxon was nothing if not decisive. The moment he gave the order, his men sprang into motion—starting cars, packing gear, taking whatever they could and leaving what they couldn't.
The white kid who'd brought the Tinkerer here now stood behind him, pressing the gun to the back of the surgeon's head.
He'd wanted to kill this bastard from the start, but without the boss's permission, he hadn't dared. With the boss's life on the line, killing the doctor outright could've been seen as sabotaging him. But now that he had orders, he wasn't about to hesitate.
So he kept his aim steady, eyes locked on the Tinkerer's every movement.
Of course, the Tinkerer hadn't called 911 for nothing.
In this era, emergency dispatch systems weren't yet computer-linked. When a call came in, the operator didn't automatically see the caller's details or location on screen. Everything relied on manual input.
For major incidents or high-priority calls, multiple dispatchers might listen in—but only one would respond directly.
Still, to Saxon's credit, the moment his name was spoken, the emergency center took notice.
Not only did the on-duty supervisor listen in—through the background chatter, the Tinkerer even caught the sound of someone saying, "Patch this to the FBI."
That meant the response wouldn't just come from the LAPD—federal agents would be mobilized too. Once things hit the federal level, it was unlikely anyone would dismiss it as a prank call.
Unlikely, anyway.
Since arriving in this world, the Tinkerer had only dealt with a small-town sheriff in Alaska. He had no idea how efficient the LAPD really was—or whether some half-asleep operator might hang up thinking it was a joke.
But from the dispatch center's reaction, he expanded his awareness outward—listening.
A few kilometers away, he caught the distant crackle of police radios responding to a high-priority emergency.
The nearest precinct's orders weren't to storm the building immediately, but to block off the main roads leading in and out of the warehouse district.
The reason? Simple—because when he'd handed the phone over, the Tinkerer hadn't hung up. And the gun-wielding kid hadn't noticed. Too busy aiming to realize the line was still open.
The cops, hearing Andrew Saxon's shouting and cursing through the open line, already had plenty to go on.
Looks like your name really is famous, the Tinkerer thought with a grin.
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