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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Gunfire echoed intermittently in the distance. For Americans, that sound might not be "normal," but it wasn't exactly shocking either.
Still, just because they were used to it didn't mean they weren't afraid. Maybe it was because they knew how deadly guns were that they understood the most important rule — get away from a shootout as fast as possible.
The route the Tinkerer chose wound through the dimly lit warehouse district. A few stretches were completely dark, making the people trailing behind him hold their breath in fear, but most paths at least had some working lights — a blessing at this hour.
The farther they went, the clearer it became that they were moving away from the battle. Relief started to show on everyone's faces.
But not all of them followed out of trust or gratitude. At least one had another idea in mind — and that's why he called out.
After they'd walked a good distance, a middle-aged Black man suddenly shouted, "Hey, brother, hold up a sec!"
The Tinkerer stopped and turned. "What is it?"
"Look, our boss just got ratted out to the cops by you. So now, we don't even know who's supposed to pay us. We helped you with that damn surgery — sweated blood, risked our necks. You're not just gonna leave us empty-handed, right?"
His tone was quick and clipped — the kind of sharp, streetwise rhythm that made his point clear enough.
The Tinkerer understood perfectly. It was about money. It was always about money.
Without a word, he tossed one of the duffel bags onto the ground in front of them. "This bag's yours. Split it however you like. I don't care. Nobody's ever seen me, got it?"
The Black man's grin spread wide. "Heh, you're all right, man. Don't worry, we know what to say—and what not to."
As he spoke, he was already the first to dive for the bag, yanking open the zipper to check what was inside.
Once one person moved, the rest followed like sharks smelling blood. Even the ones who'd only wanted to escape now scrambled to grab their share.
After all, they hadn't agreed to help with that illegal surgery out of compassion. They'd done it for cash.
Maybe they couldn't take as much as the lead surgeon, but surely they could split what was left evenly among themselves, right?
They fell on the pile like starving dogs, stuffing bundles of bills into their pockets, counting, snatching, arguing over denominations.
If they'd had any real criminal experience, they'd know how stupid it was to start dividing loot before reaching a safe place. But the sight of so much cash had blinded them all.
And then —
"LAPD! Nobody move!"
Shouts exploded from both directions. Officers with guns raised poured in from the front and back, flashlights slicing through the dark.
The gang of amateur surgeons froze, caught red-handed — literally.
Some clutched bills in their hands, unwilling to drop them. Others stared at the unopened duffel bag still half full on the ground. The result: none of them ran.
They were surrounded within seconds.
Only then did someone remember—
Wait. Where was he?
The Tinkerer hadn't taken a share. He hadn't even warned them.
They turned — and saw nothing. He was already gone.
"Another guy! There's another one who ran!" shouted the same middle-aged Black man who'd demanded the money in the first place, his voice full of panic.
The cops didn't even flinch. Everyone there was still wearing bloodstained clothes, surrounded by illicit cash. Whether or not they were tied directly to Andrew Saxon's case, they were clearly involved in something illegal. Handcuffs first, questions later.
As the officers pinned them to the ground, one veteran officer chuckled, "Relax. Whoever that guy was, he's not getting past our net.
"You're all educated folks, right? Don't make me read you your Miranda rights one by one. You know your rights, yeah? Or should we do the full ceremony?"
Another cop, less amused by the teasing, recited the full Miranda warning anyway — "You have the right to remain silent…" and so on.
Legally, that covered everyone on site. Anyone who claimed they hadn't been paying attention could argue insanity later — but that only led to a worse fate.
In America, being found "criminally insane" didn't mean freedom. It meant life in a psychiatric facility. You'd stay locked up until you actually went mad.
A few of the arrested tried to shout the Tinkerer's name, but all they knew was the alias "Fixman." No real name, no identity.
And the police operation was massive — LAPD and FBI both. There were more than enough units to divide responsibilities.
So while one team handled the captured suspects, others moved to secure the rest of the area. Nobody abandoned their post to chase one unknown fugitive.
The Black man's plan — to shift attention onto the Tinkerer and slip away in the confusion — was doomed before it began.
And besides, there was that big bag of cash. Once it was declared criminal proceeds, it would go straight into the department's "bonus fund."
Later, it'd be parceled out as case bonuses, commendations, or "officer welfare." The whole department would be grinning ear to ear.
Who said America didn't have legal ways to launder money? This one was foolproof — the only downside was that the original owner never saw a cent again.
As long as the officers reported their bonuses and paid taxes, that dirty cash became spotless overnight. (Fake bills, of course, would be filtered out.)
The FBI wouldn't bother fighting LAPD over it, either. Andrew Saxon — that catch — belonged to the Bureau.
Better to let the local cops enjoy their share. That way, next time the feds needed manpower, LAPD would come running.
Meanwhile, miles away, unseen by anyone, the Tinkerer was already gone.
Once he confirmed there were no witnesses, he'd activated his superhuman speed. No police cordon, no federal perimeter, not even solid walls could stop him when he went all out.
Earlier, he hadn't been able to use it with the others tagging along — they'd only have slowed him down. But once he ditched them, he shot through the gap in the still-forming police blockade and vanished.
For all the talk of an airtight operation, the warehouse district was huge. Before the police could close every exit, there were always cracks to slip through — if you were fast enough.
And when those greedy fools had demanded money, he hadn't hesitated.
One bag of cash was a small price to pay for a clean getaway.
Let them squabble. Let them get caught. He walked free.
He didn't even care whether he'd lost or gained anything. From the start, he'd never really expected to keep that money. It was dirty cash, impossible to spend openly.
So he gave it away without a second thought. What mattered was escaping alive.
As for the money? The Tinkerer didn't care in the slightest.
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