Only seven or eight dozen broken tripods and seals remained, and none of them had the strange sensation of alternating hot and cold like the black tripod.

Of course, in the antique world, authenticity and condition matter more when picking items. Outlandish unearthed relics like the dragon-headed black tripod are actually harder to sell, but there were still three or five people who showed some interest. As long as the price was right, they might not mind taking it.

These people were all far wealthier than Henry Brooks. Henry Brooks frowned, thinking that the black tripod was too strange—maybe it wasn’t a bad thing not to take it. He started looking to see if there was anything else worth picking up.

Grace Sutton, on the other hand, seemed a bit restless, glancing from time to time at the warehouse’s windowless main door.

Other than Henry Brooks, who couldn’t help but glance at Grace Sutton, no one else paid any attention to her unease.

“What’s going on?” Henry Brooks wondered in confusion. He noticed that even Fatty Goodwin seemed somewhat distracted today, which wasn’t how they usually acted.

Suddenly, the middle-aged man’s phone, which he always kept in hand, rang.

He answered the call, and his face changed dramatically. His triangular eyes swept over everyone with a vicious glare. Moving with surprising agility, he retreated to the side, pulled up a corner of a waterproof tarp, grabbed a double-barreled shotgun, and pointed it at the crowd, cursing furiously, “Which son of a bitch called the cops?”

Everyone was stunned, looking at each other in shock.

Although the middle-aged man only had a shotgun, a gun doesn’t care who it’s pointed at. Everyone turned pale with fear, not daring to make a sound, and no one knew what was happening.

“Old Jones, what are you doing? No one called the police. Don’t joke with us like this!” Fatty Goodwin managed to question him, still relatively calm.

Those five or six young men suddenly produced crowbars, long wrenches, and even a pig-sticking knife with a steel pipe welded to the handle, angrily surrounding them.

They hadn’t expected anyone to call the police either. The sudden turn of events left them flustered, but their expressions toward Henry Brooks and the others grew even more menacing, as if they wanted to drag out whoever called the cops and beat them up first.

Henry Brooks was also stunned, not knowing who among them might be a police informant, but he realized the middle-aged man must have stationed someone at the mountain road entrance to spot any police cars coming up.

If the police really stormed in, he wasn’t too worried—after all, no deal had taken place yet, so none of this had anything to do with them. But he was afraid that if anyone acted rashly before the police arrived and caused a misunderstanding, they’d die for nothing.

Seeing that no one spoke, the middle-aged man, shotgun in hand, grew more agitated and at a loss for what to do. After a while, he finally realized they needed to get out of there fast, rather than be trapped by the police coming up the mountain. He raised the shotgun and shouted:

“All of you, load the stuff onto the truck! Sam Powell, you guys guard the door. If anyone dares to run, beat them to death!”

Under the threat of the shotgun, Henry Brooks and the others didn’t dare resist and hurriedly loaded the goods onto the vehicle.

Except for the black tripod, the other items weren’t as heavy as expected. Faintly, they could hear police sirens. Once everything was loaded onto the bus, Henry Brooks and the others were herded onto it as well. Then the middle-aged man and three others brought up two large wooden crates.

When the lids of the crates were opened, everyone’s faces grew even more grim at what they saw inside.

Both crates were filled with detonators.

This gang dug up graves in the mountains, so explosives were a must. But bringing two crates of detonators onto the bus at this moment clearly wasn’t for tomb raiding.

From the sound of the sirens, it seemed the police cars had been blocked when they entered the village ahead.

The middle-aged man must have arranged for people there to incite the villagers to block the police. Henry Brooks wasn’t worried about what the police might do to them, but he hoped even more that the police cars would be stuck there and unable to get through. As long as they could shake off the police, the middle-aged man wouldn’t need to keep them as hostages against the cops.

But that seemed unlikely. Several police cars’ sirens were blaring—it was impossible for a group of villagers to block them all.

The driver, flustered, started the engine and stomped on the gas, but the steering wheel wasn’t straightened, and the bus veered toward the roadside drainage ditch. He slammed on the brakes, sending everyone tumbling. Henry Brooks banged his lower back on the corner of a seat, gasping in pain, while Grace Sutton fell into the aisle.

The bus couldn’t stop in time, tilted to one side, and slid into the drainage ditch, then crashed with a jolt...

Although the bus didn’t overturn, everyone was shaken dizzy. Grace Sutton was thrown between two rows of seats, and the black tripod tumbled toward her.

Grace Sutton screamed in fright. Fortunately, the dragon-headed black tripod was blocked by a seat and didn’t hit her directly, but as the bus tilted, it pressed down on her leg.

Seeing the door had burst open, Fatty Goodwin and a few others reacted first, rushing for the exit, hoping to escape before the police surrounded them—otherwise, they’d definitely be taken as hostages.

Henry Brooks tried to pull Grace Sutton up, but the black tripod was far heavier than expected. Both Henry Brooks and Grace Sutton pushed and pulled with all their might, but it didn’t budge. Grace Sutton was completely trapped between the seats, and in the chaos, no one else came to help.

“You bastards want to die?” A young man blocked the door. He didn’t have a shotgun, but he held a bundle of detonators and a disposable lighter, threatening to light the fuse and scare Fatty Goodwin and the others back.