Blackstone Code-Chapter 654: Don’t Do Something You’ll Regret

A little after 7 p.m., the Deputy Director finished a full day’s work and made a call to the Director to report on the current situation.

Investigating Lynch wasn’t a simple task, but once started, there was no turning back.

After the call, he sat in his office a while longer before finally leaving.

Instead of heading straight home, he drove to a fast-food restaurant.

By now, his wife and child had likely already finished dinner. No doubt, they hadn’t left him anything decent.

Everyone has their own troubles. No one in this world is truly carefree. As long as you’re human, there are always things you just can’t achieve.

The Deputy Director had his share of worries. His relentless ambition over the years had indeed taken him to a high position.

According to the Federal Tax Bureau’s structure, his next step might be a promotion to head of a state tax bureau in a more remote area or a department head at a regional tax center.

Either move would be a huge leap for him—his authority would rise to another level, along with his social and political standing.

Reaching that level in his forties was no small feat—it required more than just connections or alliances, but real ability.

Yet, even so, he sometimes envied, even resented, certain women—especially the attractive ones.

They only needed to undress in front of someone powerful, lie down somewhere, throw a leg over his shoulder, and they’d land a great job and authority.

For example, the director at the Central Tax Center—a key hub in the mid-Federal region—was a woman in her thirties. Everyone knew how she got that position.

Looking at himself, burdened by endless work, constantly offending people on the Director’s behalf, one wrong move away from ruining his career—and even his family in shambles—it made him feel bitter.

His relationship with his wife wasn’t good. Years of being away for work had turned them into more like roommates sharing a house, barely maintaining the appearance of a family.

They had long since started sleeping in separate rooms. Sometimes, he didn’t see his wife for a whole week, even though they lived together—she’d already gone out for her workout when he got up in the morning, and was in her room by the time he got home at night.

On top of that, he knew she had a questionable relationship with her personal trainer. But what could he say?

With gains come losses. He traded the sweetness of family life for rising power—that was his own choice.

He parked outside the fast-food place, ordered his usual, added some grilled corn, and brought it back to the car.

Looking at the delicious, fragrant food in front of him, he rubbed his hands together and smiled, thinking, Where should I start?

Just then, he instinctively glanced at the rearview mirror—and every hair on his body stood on end. He shuddered violently, as if shocked, and reached for the glove box on the passenger side.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t do that…”

The voice from the backseat was young and calm.

His hand froze mid-motion. Slowly, he pulled it back. His panic quickly cooled. Sitting up straight, he looked at his now-disheveled tray of food. Not sure if the man in the back could see it, he still dusted his shirt and muttered, “I should clean up my clothes…”

This was the perfect era—no pagers, no mobile phones, no micro transmitters. No one had to worry that some little move might get them into big trouble.

“You’d better keep your hands on the wheel,” the voice said. “I might misunderstand your intentions. You know, when people get nervous, they do stupid things.”

There was no direct threat in the words, but both the speaker and the listener knew exactly what was being implied.

The Deputy Director slowly placed his hands on the steering wheel where they could be seen.

It was now late, close to 8 p.m. The car’s interior lights were off, and the parking lot wasn’t brightly lit. In the dim shadows, all he could make out in the rearview mirror was a blurry figure.

He was calmer now than before. He started trying to figure a way out of his current predicament. “If it’s money you want, there’s over a hundred in cash in my right pocket, and a checkbook in my left breast pocket. You can write a check for two thousand—that’s the limit.”

He glanced at the ring on his finger and paused for four or five seconds. “This ring is my wedding ring. It’s not worth much. I’d like to keep it.”

“You’ve got it wrong. I don’t want money. I just want to chat.”

“Chat about what?”

“About the person who convinced you people to move against me.”

The Deputy Director shook his head. “I’m not sure I follow, sir.” He paused. “How should I address you?”

He was trying to test the man in the shadows. Even a made-up name could offer some clues.

People often make instinctive, habitual choices when forced to answer quickly. Like a guy who just broke up with a blonde—next time he’s picking a girlfriend, he might avoid blondes (trauma avoidance, self-healing), or he might be drawn to them again (a deeper psychological issue, possibly unresolved).

That was just his first test. He had more questions ready to cross-reference and build a profile to figure out who this person was.

But what he didn’t expect was that the man behind him had no intention of hiding.

“You can call me Lynch. Or kid. Or Mr. Billionaire—though I’m not fond of that one. I prefer Mr. Lynch,” Lynch said casually.

Hearing that, the Deputy Director froze.

He couldn’t believe Lynch would just say his name outright. Didn’t he realize how much trouble that could cause?

“You seem surprised, sir,” Lynch said, chuckling lightly. His laugh was natural, like chatting with a friend.

The Deputy Director had fully regained his composure. “You’ve broken the law, Mr. Lynch.”

“Broken the law?” Lynch laughed out loud. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”

“We’re just having a chat. That’s not illegal. I happened to pass by, saw your car door open, and to prevent theft, I sat in the backseat to keep an eye on it.”

“I don’t think even the Federal Supreme Court would consider me a thief or suspect me of anything. You’re exaggerating.”

The Deputy Director fell silent. Lynch was right. Even if the police came by right now, there’d be nothing to charge him with.

First, Lynch had no direct involvement with his work. No conflict of interest.

Yes, the Tax Bureau had been ordered by certain people to bring Lynch down—but things had only just begun, and already hit roadblocks. Without Fox turning on Lynch, it would be very hard to implicate him.

If Lynch wasn’t officially implicated, then him sitting in the car right now was just an isolated incident. No judge would support punishing a prominent public figure over an event with no evidence, no harm, no loss, and no definable crime—something so ambiguous it wouldn’t even qualify as a case.

The Deputy Director could only stay silent and wait for Lynch to say more.

“There’s a saying—A single clash between gods can destroy a world. It means that the shockwaves from a battle between deities alone can obliterate everything.”

“I don’t want you to be my enemy. I don’t want anyone who has no direct conflict with me to become my enemy. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“You shouldn’t bear the weight of a conflict between me and someone else—shouldn’t carry responsibilities that aren’t yours, ones you can’t afford. That’s not courage, Director.”

“In this Federation’s history, more than one president has died unexpectedly. Even more officials and celebrities have died under mysterious circumstances. Accidents happen every day. They happen around me. They might happen around you.”

“When a president dies, the nation mourns. But when people like you and me die—who would mourn us?”

“Don’t do something you’ll regret. That’s not just advice—it’s experience.”

“All I want is the name of the person who passed the word to you. This is between me and him.”

As Lynch spoke, he placed a solid gold cigarette case on the passenger seat. The Deputy Director saw it and recognized it instantly. Only a handful of people in the entire Federation owned something like that.

He understood what Lynch meant. After a brief silence, he gave a name.

Lynch had been right. This kind of thing was bound to make enemies. And even if Lynch were arrested, he’d be out in three to five years at most.

Never underestimate the power of the wealthy. Even with a harsh sentence, they can find ways to pull strings and serve their time outside prison.

And when Lynch got out—would he seek revenge?

No one could bet against it. With that kind of money, there would always be people willing to do insane things for him.

Some losses you can afford.

Others—you can’t.

When facing psychological pressure, overreaction is far more dangerous than avoidance.