The Wolf of Los Angeles

Chapter 6: Grilled Squid

“California billionaire, founder and chairman of Ackman Pictures, Mr. Buddy Ackman, had a serious health decline last year.” Freddy, his will already shattered, endured the excruciating pain as he spilled the details: “During the crew’s preparation, I happened to overhear from the higher-ups that he was planning an organ transplant.”

Hawk said coldly, “Keep going.”

Freddy dared not slack off. “Since the start of the year, companies under the Ackman family have been conducting comprehensive medical examinations under the guise of welfare or charity. However, blood type Hh is already rare, and matching for organ transplants is even harder. You just happen to be a perfect match.”

He took a few heavy breaths and quickly shirked responsibility: “I was acting under orders—I had no choice! Otherwise, I’d lose my job. Without an income, my house, my car, my wife—everything would disappear into thin air.”

Hawk stared at him. “Get to the point.”

Freddy tried a different approach. “It was Bro Derek and Barack Bernan who forced me! They said if I didn’t do it, they’d fire me!”

Hawk knew Bro Derek was the crew’s producer and asked, “Who is Barack Bernan?”

Freddy answered, “Like me and Bro, he’s also Jewish and currently serves as the chairman of the Ackman Charity Foundation.”

Hawk wasn’t the least surprised. Charitable foundations in America often have ties to organ donation and transplantation. He pressed further, “Where are these two now?”

“Barack has already flown back to Los Angeles,” Freddy, still holding onto hope for survival, added, “When I left the set, Bro had mobilized all the security personnel. You think you can kill someone under the protection of a dozen guards? Once I lose contact, he’ll head straight back to L.A.”

“Los Angeles,” Hawk murmured with a nod.

Returning to the set was too risky. A Hollywood crew backed by a billionaire shooting in Provo could easily influence the local police and city hall.

Besides, his own overweight body wasn’t in its best condition.

Hawk had already planned to move to Los Angeles, and now his destination was clear.

Freddy made another desperate plea, “I swear, they forced me! I have no grudge against you…”

Hawk put away the knife and pulled out a Glock.

Freddy shouted, “You swore to God you’d spare me!”

Hawk didn’t say another word. A single shot blew Freddy’s brains out. Gathering the spoils, Hawk walked toward his parked vehicle.

On the hillside, the scent of blood wafted through the air, drawing more coyotes. Seeing the dangerous two-legged creature leave, they began cautiously descending one by one.

Hawk stashed his loot in the pickup truck, then searched the Mercedes thoroughly. Inside the glove compartment, he found Freddy’s wallet, which contained a decent amount of cash.

He took the cash and discarded the rest, then found a green jerry can in the trunk.

Perfect timing—his pickup truck was almost out of fuel. Hawk refueled the truck and inspected his haul one by one.

Even the two Glock pistols were disassembled and examined to ensure there were no trackers or GPS devices hidden inside.

As for the Mercedes, Hawk remembered David mentioning earlier that the crew had rented ten of them, most likely equipped with GPS trackers.

The pickup made a U-turn.

At the foot of the hill, the coyotes began their squid feast.

Hawk returned to the highway but didn’t head toward Provo. Instead, he drove north.

Snow began to fall, burying the remaining traces.

On a stretch of road near Utah Lake, an open, desolate area with no one in sight, Hawk stopped his vehicle. He retrieved a plastic bag and packed away the cleaned revolver, the fired Glock, the blood-stained coat, and other items needing disposal. He weighted the bag with metal and rocks, sealed it tightly, climbed up the cliff-like lakeshore, and threw it into the deep, dark waters.

He continued driving north, reaching the small town of Highland before nightfall.

Here, the snowfall was lighter. The pickup circled the town before stopping on the outskirts of a Black neighborhood.

Nearby was a junkyard run by African Americans.

Hawk tidied his belongings and cleared any traces, then walked away.

With their “principled” reputation, the junkyard crew would surely take care of the vehicle for him.

As soon as the snow stopped, several men from the junkyard began eyeing the pickup. After observing it multiple times, they decisively broke into it.

However, the truck was far too old to be worth reselling without modifications. The cost of refurbishing would likely outweigh the profits.

The junkyard crew unanimously agreed to dismantle it instead.

Here’s the translation of the provided text:

Hawk had already hitched a ride by now and arrived in Midway City late at night. He went into a small supermarket on the outskirts, buying an assortment of items, including a jacket and food.

The cold weather and heavy snow kept people off the streets. He found an old house with no lights on, observed it for a while to ensure it was empty, then climbed over the wall, unlocked the back door, and rested there for the night.

After a grueling ten-plus hours, Hawk was exhausted.

At dawn, a howling sound startled him awake. Sitting up straight on the worn-out sofa, he aimed his gun at the source of the noise. In the dim morning light, he realized it was just the wind outside.

Unable to fall back asleep, Hawk checked the front and back of the house. Seeing nothing unusual, he washed up briefly and sat down at the vanity with the items he bought last night.

He grabbed a razor and shaving foam, carefully shaving off all his facial hair. Then, taking the driver’s license labeled “Hawk Osmond” from the wooden cabin, he used the hairstyle in the photo as a reference. With clippers and scissors, he cut his messy long hair into a neat buzz cut.

Next, Hawk trimmed his eyebrows, prepared some hair dye, and dyed both his hair and eyebrows black to match the photo.

Gone were the scruffy brown beard and unruly hair. With slightly adjusted eyebrows and expressions, he looked like a completely different person.

“Hello, I’m Hawk Osmond.” Hawk practiced speaking, adjusting his tone to mimic the Wyoming accent he remembered from his past life. “My name is Hawk Osmond, and I’m from Wyoming.”

When you’re on the road, your identity is whatever you make it.

Thinking of those Jewish guys who wanted him dead, Hawk put on a pair of large, plain glasses, his expression calm and refined. “My favorite dish is stir-fried squid.”

The person in the vanity mirror no longer appeared disheveled and worn out but instead simple and unassuming.

Hawk pinched his cheeks and patted his slightly bulging belly—he needed to lose weight and reshape his physique.

He put away the driver’s license from the vanity, took out the one belonging to “Donning Ward,” and cut it into pieces with scissors. Together with the hair he shaved off, he placed it all in a tin cookie box, burned it to ashes, and flushed it down the toilet.

Last night, he also bought sandwiches and sausages. Hawk ate a bit, opened up a map, and spent some time studying it. He decided to spend the next few days constantly changing his appearance and location while hitchhiking. At the same time, he’d focus on losing weight, reshaping his face, and perfecting his Wyoming accent.

He was heading to Los Angeles with a new look, identity, and persona.

But to achieve this, he needed money.

Hawk pulled out his wallet and counted all his cash. In addition to the $17 he originally had, he’d looted some from Freddy and his group, leaving him with $472.

That wasn’t enough to make stir-fried squid. Especially when the main course involved four oversized squid.

Having been reborn for 24 hours, making money was still his top priority.

Hawk stared at the map, pondering how to earn some cash. Ideally, it would align with his new persona as “Hawk Osmond.”

His eyes settled on Park City nearby. Yesterday, David had mentioned the Sundance Film Festival was about to begin.

In his previous life, Hawk had experience in online public opinion control and knew a bit about the Sundance Film Festival. It was one of North America’s largest independent film festivals, drawing a large crowd of media and movie fans every year.

With tens of thousands of outsiders flocking in, it’d be easy to blend in.

The abundance of opportunists would also make it easier to find chances.

Hawk thought carefully for a while, recalling some ways to make money at the film festival. He decided to head to Sundance.

After meticulously cleaning up any traces, he left the house.

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