OBS Chapter 1 Serious Work
Chapter 1 Serious Work
Zik woke up in the back seat, a dull ache shooting through the back of his head.
The visibility was extremely blurry, the light and shadows outside the car window rushed past, and the leather seats of the retro sedan were hard and chafed my back.
He was surrounded by a rapid-fire stream of English slang, spoken so fast and forcefully it was like having a mouthful of pebbles in his mouth. This was not a language he was familiar with, nor was it a world he knew.
"Is that kid still unconscious?" a man's voice came from the front row.
"His face is frighteningly pale," another voice replied, more hoarse. "Henry, are you sure he can work? He looks like he might throw up in your car at any moment."
Qi Ke subconsciously raised his hand and rubbed his forehead. The skin his fingertips touched was delicate but a little rough, not the hand he used to type on a keyboard all year round.
He slowly sat up straight, the leather chair making a slight rubbing sound beneath him.
The air inside the car was somewhat stuffy, a mixture of leather, cologne, and some kind of sweet, unsettling scent. He glanced at the rearview mirror, where a strange face was reflected.
He had short, blond hair, darker at the hairline, as if it had been deliberately bleached. Beneath high, prominent brow bones, a pair of light brown eyes were looking back at him. He had a straight nose and thin, tightly pressed lips. His face looked no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, his eyes filled with a blankness.
Is this me?
He is handsome, but that has absolutely nothing to do with him being a native-born Chinese.
I crossed?
The memories of Zik Rossi, or rather the original owner of this body, seeped into his consciousness intermittently.
Fragments. A shattered image. A kitchen always filled with the smell of tomatoes and basil. A man with a large, calloused hand patting his shoulder. The school corridor, the loud bang of a locker door slamming shut.
That's all.
It's as if someone scribbled haphazardly on this brain with an eraser, leaving only some blurry outlines.
Moreover, whether it was because the original owner of the body had damaged his brain or because of the author's wicked sense of humor, Qi Ke's memories of his past life were basically a jumbled mess.
"Tsk... My situation is so similar to a novel I read before, where the soul is transmigrated but there are no memories of the past life... What was it called again?"
Qi Ke mentally ranted, his brows furrowed. His memories of his past life were like water spilled on rice paper, a blurry mess. Apart from clearly knowing that he was an imposter who had transmigrated from China, everything else was a blank.
I can't remember the title of that novel, I can't remember the plot, and I don't even remember my name from my past life.
He tried to move, but a wave of soreness washed over him instantly. His throat was dry and painful, as if he had just recovered from a high fever. The original owner of this body was probably sick.
He looked out the window again, trying to find a trace of familiarity in the rapidly passing street scenes, but all he saw were unfamiliar sights:
The brick and stone buildings were covered in layers of spray-painted graffiti, and neon signs flickered in the night, some letters already dimmed. The cars parked along the roadside were boxy, their colors a somber olive green and rusty brown. Pedestrians, bundled in thick coats, hurried by, no one looking up.
The car stopped at a red light. The newsstand on the corner was still lit, its stall piled high with magazines. Time magazine's cover featured a man with thick glasses, the headline reading "Person of the Year: Anwar Sadat." Rolling Stone's cover showed a grinning Mick Jagger. Next to it, a copy of the New York Post had a front-page headline that was simple and direct: "The Cold Continues!"
But what caught Zik's eye was the date in the upper right corner of the newspaper.
Tuesday, April 1977, 12.
Zeke's mind was in even more turmoil. He knew nothing about America in this era, only vaguely recalling fragmented terms like "hippie" and "disco," but those were just distant symbols. He never imagined that he would actually be living in this era, with a completely unfamiliar face.
"Zike, wake up, we're almost there."
The voice came from the passenger seat. Zeke turned his head and met a pair of deep brown eyes. The man was about thirty years old, with his hair neatly combed, and the collar of his black overcoat turned up, obscuring half of his face. He was also quite handsome, with a faint scar on the bridge of his nose, probably a souvenir from a fight when he was young.
Memories flooded back. This was Henry, a member of the local construction union.
Henry was a regular customer at the Italian restaurant owned by Zeke's father, Rossi, and they had a long-standing relationship. The original owner of this body was a high school delinquent with terrible grades, and he might not even be able to graduate. Rossi was so worried that he asked Henry to find him a proper job so that he could settle down and not go astray on the streets.
Zik rolled his eyes inwardly: In the eyes of Italians, a sixteen-year-old boy is already an adult? This so-called proper job, could it be carrying bricks on a construction site?
As a law-abiding citizen who used to follow the rules, he felt that although this job was tiring, at least it was lawful, which was better than living a life of idleness on the streets.
He was secretly relieved when Henry's next words were like a bucket of ice water, pouring directly over his entire body.
"You look terrible. Are you still not fully recovered?" Henry frowned, his tone tinged with impatience. "Don't forget your job. Tommy and Stanley are in the car ahead. They're responsible for stopping cars and brandishing their guns. Remember, one of the drivers in the truck is one of ours. Once he tells you the dial code, you have to memorize it. That code can't be wrong, or it'll all be over."
Zik was stunned for a moment, his mind still reeling: "Dial dial password? What dial password?"
Before Henry could speak, the man driving laughed. He was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a gruesome scar on his forearm. His laughter was rough as he pounded the steering wheel and cursed:
"Shit, Zeke, if I hadn't watched you grow up in Brownsville, I'd really suspect you're from Mars!"
“Dentist, shut up.” Henry glared at the driver, slowing his pace. “Trucks that transport valuables have a keypad under the dashboard, just three buttons. You have to enter the correct code to start the engine, and you also need a code to open and close the doors. Otherwise, if the alarm goes off, we’ll all be exposed.”
Valuable goods? Password? Alarm?
Qi Ke's heart sank, a terrible thought rising in his mind. He tried to remain calm, his voice trembling slightly: "Then... if I get caught, how long will I be sentenced?"
In his mind, robbery was a serious crime, and if caught, one would be sentenced to at least ten or eight years in prison, let alone a premeditated gang crime involving guns. But Henry and the "dentist's" reaction completely baffled him.
"Don't be silly, Zeke." Henry scoffed, his tone full of disdain. "Jimmy's been leading us in this business since Kennedy Airport opened. Have you ever heard of anyone going to jail for robbing a truck?"
"What?" Zeke was shocked, almost jumping out of his seat. "You...you really went to rob us?"
This is the "legitimate job" that old Rossito Henry found? Robbery?!
Qi Ke's mind exploded instantly, and he frantically complained: Damn it, how did I end up as a robber? A sixteen-year-old robber at that? I don't even dare to run a red light, and the first thing I do after transmigrating is to rob a truck? What kind of hellish start is this!
"What else did you think it was?" The "dentist" laughed again, a hint of mockery in his eyes. "You think I'd really send you to lay bricks? That kind of work is beneath an Italian lad?"
What the heck?! Have I been transported to another world? Is America still a lawless land in this era?
After some questioning, Zeke realized that he had indeed been assuming things. In New York at that time, robbing an airport was a big business, and almost no one went to jail for it.
Airlines prefer to underestimate their losses and claim compensation from insurance companies rather than increase security, as that would only increase costs, delays, and inconvenience.
Truck drivers are naturally powerless to fight against the gangs around the airport; in fact, even the unions are just toys in the hands of the gangs.
Even more bizarrely, New York State legislators have never criminalized airport cargo robbery, which means that even if robbers are caught, they must also be charged with other offenses such as kidnapping, assault, possession of firearms, or theft for a prosecution to be effective.
However, those who rob goods are almost never associated with these crimes, because the act is essentially embezzlement.
JFK is a massive airport covering 5,000 acres and employing 50,000 staff.
Within months of its completion, the surrounding gangs knew the airport inside and out: they had countless acquaintances working there and knew exactly what goods were coming in and out every day.
"We have people at every airline. We have people at the Civil Aviation Administration. We have people for cleaners, maintenance workers, security guards, restaurant servers, cargo company drivers and dispatchers... we have people for everyone. The entire JFK airport is practically ours. Getting something is easier than getting it from your own home."
Henry's voice rang with pride, almost like someone who owned the place. Zeke listened, dumbfounded, as if a door to a new world had been opened. Was America in 1977 truly a lawless land?
He nodded slowly, his panic subsiding slightly. So this operation had an informant, and it did indeed seem risk-free and wouldn't actually harm anyone—at least that's what Henry said.
Now that things have come to this, he, a sixteen-year-old boy who has just transmigrated, has no memories, no status, and no backing, has no room to refuse and can only bite the bullet and go for it.
"Don't mess this up, Zeke," Henry cautioned again. "We're short-handed right now. If it weren't for your dad, you wouldn't get this easy, quick-money job. Just memorize a few numbers, drive for twenty minutes, and you'll be raking in green dollars—more than you'd earn in a week laying bricks on a construction site."
Qi Ke didn't speak, only nodded perfunctorily, but in his heart he was planning that once this operation was over, he must find a way to get out of this circle as soon as possible.
The longer he worked as a robber, the greater the risk became. He didn't want to end up in jail at such a young age, much less die in a gang shootout.
Just then, the "dentist" suddenly slammed on the brakes, pointed ahead, and exclaimed excitedly, "Look, that's the truck we're looking for!"
Following the direction he pointed, Qi Ke saw a huge freight truck slowly driving on the road ahead. The truck had faded airline logos on its body and was mottled, showing signs of age.
The license plate is from New York State, orange background with black lettering: TC-7814.
The Chevrolet Nova in front suddenly accelerated and veered sharply towards the cargo truck.
Immediately afterwards, a man wearing a black ski mask, like an agile monkey, leaned out of the car window, leaped onto the trailer of a moving truck, and pointed a dark gun muzzle from a paper bag in his hand at the driver's seat.
The screeching of tires against the ground, the truck driver's screams, and the robbers' shouts mingled together, shattering the tranquility of the street.
Zeke's heart leaped into his throat, and cold sweat broke out on his palms. Looking at the chaotic scene before him, he cursed inwardly again: Damn it, this is truly the land of freedom... I just transmigrated here and I have to experience a robbery firsthand. I can't live like this!
Henry put on his mask as well, turned around and gave him a shove, his tone urgent: "What are you daydreaming about? Get ready, we're getting on the truck in a bit, remember the code!"
Zeke took a deep breath, suppressing his panic and fear, and looked at the cargo truck that was gradually being brought under control, his eyes filled with confusion and helplessness: his life as a robber had begun so abruptly.