On a rare, cloud-heavy night over California’s Orange County, the sky above was starless, shrouded in thick clouds that also veiled any trace of moonlight. A Pacific breeze carried a damp chill, adding a hint of coolness to Newport’s otherwise dry air.

On the cliffside near Crystal Cove State Park, a bright red Alfa Romeo 8C roared as it maneuvered skillfully, weaving up the winding road toward the summit. Deng Shiyang eased off the accelerator, his left foot lightly tapping the brake pedal as the car’s tires squealed against the asphalt, the sound piercing through the closed cabin. He flicked the left paddle shifter, downshifting from fourth to third gear, then turned the wheel sharply, sending the Alfa Romeo into a narrow right-hand bend.

Releasing the brakes and pressing down on the accelerator, the 4.7-liter V8 engine let out a powerful growl. The tachometer’s needle shot up by 2000 RPM, and a solid pushback surged through his body, the sports car darting forward like a streak of dark red against the night as it vanished around the bend.

Coming out of the turn, he spotted a straight stretch ahead. As the over-rev lights on the dashboard blinked on, he positioned his right index finger on the paddle shifter but didn’t shift gears. Instead, he gradually eased off the accelerator, quieting the engine.

Two dim orange-red lights blinked rhythmically in the distance at the end of the straightaway.

Deng Shiyang slowed further, driving toward the lights.

As he neared, the scene ahead took shape under the dim streetlights. A dark green, vintage Dodge Challenger sat by the roadside with its doors open, hazard lights flashing. Judging by the square taillights, it was a first-generation Challenger.

In front of the Challenger stood a provocatively dressed white woman waving her arms urgently. She wore a pair of ultra-short hot pants that only reach the top of the thigh, with sandals adorned with oversized sunflowers. Her pink crop top revealed a black bikini beneath, and her ample chest bounced Jumping and jumping with her waving hands, as if threatening to spill out.

The Alfa Romeo came to a stop a few feet in front of the Dodge, and the woman immediately strutted over. It was only now, as she leaned toward the window, that Deng Shiyang got a good look at her. She had on garish makeup, concealing any hint of her actual age, and oversized pink teardrop earrings dangled beside her face. She has long wavy golden-red hair, but it can be seen from the black heads exposed at the roots that this blonde hair is not natural.

As he lowered the window, the “Hot girl” leaned in, crossing her arms and bending down, her voice soft and sweet. “Sir, my car broke down. Could I borrow your phone to make a call?”

“No problem.”

Deng Shiyang’s gaze lingered for a moment on the deep cleavage, then he reached for the iPhone in his storage compartment.

But before he could hand iPhone over, a wiry man sprang from the Dodge, rushing up to the front of the Alfa Romeo, a silver handgun in his right hand pointed squarely at Deng Shiyang through the windshield.

“Hands up. Now! Hands where I can see them,” the man barked menacingly.

“Damn it!” Deng Shiyang cursed inwardly as he raised both hands slowly, keeping them in clear view.

He felt a pang of regret. He had a concealed carry permit from the county sheriff’s office, which allowed him to legally carry a handgun. But Newport Beach, known for its affluence, was a safe area. Carrying a handgun in the car seemed not only unnecessary but uncomfortable.

California law stipulates that when transporting firearms in a vehicle, the gun and ammunition must be stored separately, and all firearms must be locked in the trunk, not in any passenger-accessible area. Concealed carry permits don’t allow you to store a gun in the vehicle itself.

A gun enthusiast once posted on the NRA forum, mocking U.S. gun laws, saying they were “the kind of thing politicians come up with after a drunken night out or a visit to the brothel.” He now wholeheartedly agreed with this statement.

“Turn off the engine,” the gunman ordered. “Only use one hand.”

Deng Shiyang complied, slowly reaching down with his right hand to turn the key to “on,” which cut the engine but kept the lights on.

No sooner had the engine stopped than two more people climbed out of the Dodge. The woman, looking fearful of the two men, quickly stepped back.

One of the men stormed over to the driver’s side of the Alfa, pulling on the door handle to open it. The car was still locked, so he resorted to pounding on the window and yanking the handle repeatedly, as if trying to rip the door off its hinges.

“Open the door. Now,” the man with the gun ordered.

Deng Shiyang unbuckled his seatbelt and unlocked the door. It was wrenched open immediately, and a powerful hand grabbed his left shoulder, dragging him out of the car. He heard the unpleasant tearing sound of fabric as the back of his jacket ripped open.

He felt a pain in his heart. This dark blue plaid blazer was a fully handmade custom piece from the old Oxxford tailors in Chicago.The production alone takes ten weeks to cut and sew, not including tailoring and pattern making, as well as the waiting time for previous appointments.

The man at the door roughly yanked him out, shoving him onto the road.

“Don’t hurt me, man,” Deng Shiyang stammered, raising his hands in an expression of fear while covertly observing the robbers.

Aside from the “Hot girl” there were three of them.

The leader was a wiry Latino man with a pointy chin, sporting a head of curly, chestnut hair. He wore a grimy jacket over baggy brown pants and black outdoor boots. The model of his gun was unclear, but its shape suggested a compact Smith & Wesson.

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“Pointy Chin” looked awful—sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and a runny nose. Clearly, he was a heavy drug user, and heavy drug users were frail but dangerous. Drug addiction not only ravages the body but also erodes the mind, leaving users unpredictable and often violent when high or in withdrawal.

The second was the large white man who had yanked him from the car. This bald brute was adorned with piercings across his nose, brow, lips, and chin, with a black swastika tattooed on his neck. He wore a black, studded rocker’s leather jacket with nothing underneath, exposing his chest, which was covered in a chaotic array of tattoos.

“Baldy” was built like a beast, a man whose size was matched only by his volatility. He bared his yellowed teeth, revealing a silver tongue ring every time he spoke, compulsively wiping the corners of his mouth with his sleeve. Given his erratic behavior, Deng Shiyang suspected he was high on something as well. These drugs created a heightened sense of aggression, dulled pain perception, and generally made users harder to subdue in a fight.

The last was a young Black teenager, wearing a white backward baseball cap and a thick gold chain around his neck. He wearing a white vest and dark brown adidas jacket with fluorescent stripes on the sleeves , navy blue knee-length shorts, and black-and-white Nike sneakers. He looked like an aspiring rapper.

“Kid” was shorter, with a baby face, looking no older than sixteen. But his eyes were cold, and his gaze was that of someone accustomed to seeing people as inanimate objects. His hands were crossed in front of his chest, hiding his hands in his armpits, making it impossible to tell if he was armed. Compared to the two dazed addicts, he had an unsettling calmness and composure. Deng Shiyang instinctively regarded him as the most dangerous of the three.

“Alright, Mr. Armani,” sneered Pointy Chin, sniffing loudly. He raised the gun in front of his face, his voice menacing, “Got anything for me?”

“Your please take the car drive away…” Deng Shiyang stammered, feigning terror.

“Are you messing with me?” Pointy Chin snapped, his anger flaring. “Hand over your wallet.” He raised his gun as if to strike, snarling, “I’ll kill you right here, asshole.”

“Take it easy, man,” Deng Shiyang said, shrinking back, his left hand gripping his blazer, the other pulling a gray ostrich-leather Hermes wallet from his inner pocket.

“And that watch,” the man added, eyeing the Parmigiani tourbillon on his wrist.

Deng Shiyang obediently removed the watch from his left wrist, offering both items with shaking hands, taking a step back.

Pointy Chin walked up, greedily eyeing the wallet and watch. Deng Shiyang kept his face tense with fear, his hands trembling, and backed up slightly.

“Three steps…two steps…” Deng Shiyang silently calculated their distance. Just as the man reached him, he let the wallet drop to the ground.

Pointy Chin’s eyes instinctively followed the wallet as it fell. In that split second, Deng Shiyang’s left foot lunged forward as his left hand shot out, clamping down on the gun. He pushed the slide back about half a centimeter.

The first reaction of "Pointy Chin" is to pull the trigger, but the automatic pistol with the slide not in place cannot be fired. Then he felt the gun in his hand being twisted upwards, and the trigger guard almost broke his right index finger. He unconsciously leaned back with his upper body in pain, he was caught off guard.

This was the opening Deng Shiyang needed.

While seizing the gun, he had already slipped his watch band around his right fingers, tightening his grip as he drove the stainless-steel case watch into the man’s jaw with a solid punch.

The punch landed squarely, and the solid stainless-steel watch case fractured the man’s narrow chin in several places. The impact not only tore the ligaments connecting both jaw joints but also dislocated his jaw.

Pointy Chin’s head snapped backward, and he toppled straight down. Although his grip on the gun slightly altered his fall, his left shoulder hitting the ground first, the back of his head still slammed hard onto the asphalt, knocking him out cold before he could even scream.

It all happened in a flash, and as Pointy Chin lay sprawled, Baldy finally registered what was happening and lunged forward with a roar.

Deng Shiyang sidestepped swiftly, dodging Baldy’s charge and slipping behind him. He jabbed downward with the gun in his left hand, aiming the gun’s the protrusion on the rear of the handle grip at Baldy’s left kidney.

Stimulants could dull pain, but the blow was powerful enough to render Baldy speechless with pain. He staggered forward, nearly dropping to his knees but barely managed to stay on his feet with a large, shaky step.

Just then, Deng Shiyang’s second punch came. Using his right leg to push off, he concentrated all his strength in his right fist, which was still wrapped around his watch, and swung it heavily into the back of Baldy’s neck. The burly man fell face-first onto the ground.

The Kid reacted faster than Baldy, immediately sprinting toward him. But with the Dodge Challenger between them, he had to circle the entire Alfa Romeo to reach Deng Shiyang. By that time, his two companions were already down.

Deng Shiyang had been keeping a close eye on the Kid all along. After flooring Baldy, he turned and started running along the road. Before he’d grabbed the gun, he’d noted that Pointy Chin’s handgun’s safety was off, and as soon as he felt the slide, he knew it was loaded. At a safe distance, he’d have no problem taking down this menacing teenager.

But the "Kid" is not a fuel-efficient lamp. He saw that Deng Shiyang could not immediately enter the shooting state, hunching over and rushing at him with a fierce determination. In his right hand, he held a four-inch double-edged knife, the blade glinting ominously under the streetlight.

Though Deng Shiyang had the advantage in height and stride, his dress pants and leather shoes weren’t made for running. But the "Kid" seemed determined to kill him, chasing him with a dagger, and for a while he couldn't get rid of him. The "Kid" hell-bent on finishing him, chased relentlessly, closing the gap. Thus, an almost comic scene unfolded on the mountain road—a wiry teenager armed with a knife chasing a grown man with a gun, a scene reminiscent of a slapstick Charlie Chaplin movie.

After running a dozen yards, Deng Shiyang suddenly turned, hurling the watch he’d been holding backward. The move caught the Kid off guard, making him instinctively slow down, lifting his hand to swat away the oncoming object.

That split-second pause sealed his fate. Deng Shiyang quickly switched the gun to his right hand, raised it single-handedly, and fired at the Kid’s chest.

Bang, bang, bang—

The three rapid shots, from barely a step away, would have hit their mark even if Deng Shiyang had closed his eyes. After firing, he sidestepped smoothly.

The Kid seemed as if he’d been struck by lightning, his body convulsing violently. He stumbled forward a few steps before his head drooped, and he collapsed to the ground.

Just then, Deng Shiyang felt a sharp pain in his right hand. He switched the gun to his left, stepped over to the fallen Kid, and fired a final shot into the back of his head, turning his white baseball cap red.

Satisfied that the Kid was dead, Deng Shiyang examined his injured right hand under the streetlight. His index and middle fingers were red and swollen near the knuckles, making it impossible to bend them. It seems that those two punches just caused a lot of damage to the finger bones and ligaments.

He placed the gun in his left hand, awkwardly pressing the magazine release button with his left thumb and middle finger. He removed the magazine with his right thumb and ring finger, finding three bullets remaining, plus one in the chamber. This Smith & Wesson 3913 LS still had four rounds left—enough to deal with the remaining robber.

As he walked back to his car , he saw that the “Hot girl” and her Dodge Challenger had disappeared. Pointy Chin lay unconscious on the ground, while Baldy was struggling to stand.

Deng Shiyang raised his gun and fired into Baldy’s knee. A scream pierced the quiet night, echoing down the mountainside.

This was an old IRA method of dealing with informants. The single 9mm round had shattered Baldy’s kneecap and torn apart the knee ligaments, rendering the leg useless even if it didn’t need amputation.

Ignoring Baldy’s writhing and screaming, Deng Shiyang approached his car. He glanced at Pointy Chin lying on the ground and fired a shot into his right thigh. Then he leaned into the car, grabbed his phone, and dialed 911.