TTB C12

Chapter 12 

9 “Go back and write an 800-word self-critique. Hand it in next week.”

Li Shang swung the car around and gave chase to the e-bike.

He Lin decided to confirm the situation first and switched back onto the radio channel: “Status report?”

Deputy Cai’s voice came through: “They tried to bolt, so we started early. We’ve got three accomplices, but the cordon didn’t hold—those two main suspects slipped out a back window.”

So Li Shang hadn’t misidentified them.

He Lin glanced out the window and understood the problem.

Maybe Zheng’s encirclement works downtown, but in this jumble of uneven terrain and tight levels, it was full of holes like a sieve.

Different arrest ops demand different tactics for the terrain; here it was essentially complex alley-warfare—frankly, their command plan was lacking.

“Stay still!” a bark came over the radio, with static, followed by, “Go, go—suspects running that way!”

Then Captain Zheng, audibly winded: “Don’t worry, Captain He—our people are in pursuit!”

“Understood,” He Lin replied. “We’re nearby—will assist if possible.”

The e-bike took two turns, never leaving their sightline.

The roads here spiderwebbed—narrow and dense.

Many lanes fit only a single car. Fortunately, traffic was light; Li Shang drove fast, skimming past the building walls.

They chased on—another sharp turn.

“Ease up!” Sweat trickled down He Lin’s back. “Accomplices are in custody—we can question them.”

He Lin had thought Li Shang steady; he hadn’t expected such relentless driving.

When Fang drove, He Lin always felt he was too slow on pursuit—wanting to take the wheel himself. With Li Shang, he only wanted him to ease off.

“I’ll be careful—nothing will happen,” Li Shang said, firm, hands never pausing.

Easy to say—hard to do.

In tight urban lanes, the tiniest lapse means a collision.

He Lin’s heart hovered for a full minute before he realized they weren’t barging blindly; Li Shang’s vision was razor-sharp—he kept the 3D map in mind, matched to reality, and computed which gaps could pass a car.

He watched for pedestrians and avoided obstacles with care.

Most striking—he stayed preternaturally calm through it all.

He Lin thought: this was the driving of a veteran—an awareness in all directions, hand-eye coordination honed to the extreme.

He had only seen driving like this in special police arrest ops before.

Even so, He Lin still sat taut with nerves.

Fortunately, under Li Shang’s hands, they were closing the distance.

The chase finally showed a glimmer of hope.

With only a few meters left, the e-bike realized it was being tailed, jerked its direction, and plunged into a narrower lane.

They crossed paths and missed again.

Li Shang didn’t force the line; his eyes swept the map, swung the car onto a wider parallel route.

The e-bike vanished from view ahead; Li Shang didn’t slow.

“Can you hold the direction?” He Lin asked.

Li Shang’s expression was unusually severe. “Anticipation.”

He had to anticipate before he could judge—He Lin hadn’t even had time to check the map when Li Shang turned again, choosing a route that wasn’t straight at all but a jagged, complex path.

How could Li Shang predict their run in a maze like Pianyifang on a first visit? “Where are you aiming now?” He Lin asked.

No answer; Li Shang twisted the wheel, and the car threaded a slit without a hair’s breadth to spare.

He Lin was fully turned around now. As he hesitated, Li Shang snapped: “Hold on!”

He Lin grabbed the handle just as the patrol car thumped down a short flight of steps, swung, and slid sideways into another lane.

They shot through an intersection, spun a tight U-turn mid-road.

Li Shang braked.

Tires screamed against pavement.

The patrol car blocked the lane, settling to a stable stop.

In mere minutes, He Lin’s back was soaked with sweat.

“Out,” Li Shang said, seatbelt clicking open—the tone so firm he sounded like the team lead.

He Lin followed, stepping out of the car.

They were only out to conduct interviews and lend a hand; neither carried a gun. He Lin snapped a police baton open and offered it over: “Know how to use it?”

A sidelong glance from Li Shang: “Won’t need it.”

“…”

Better to have a tool than not—especially for a rookie. But it was cumbersome; He Lin tossed it back into the car.

As they spoke, the e-bike zipped in from the side—their lanes intersected—and the patrol car boxed them in.

Li Shang’s prediction was spot on.

Up close, He Lin finally saw them. Up front was the short‑haired “yin‑yang” tan man—limbs and face tanned dark, with a stark white patch on the forehead. The rear passenger was pale, tall, and thin, wearing glasses—the two main suspects previously flagged.

He Lin remembered the files—“Yin‑yang head” was Fan Xiaozhuang; the man with glasses, Song Qing.

The e-bike was stuck mid-lane; too late to turn back.

“After them!” He Lin shouted.

Li Shang sprinted with him.

Seeing the trap, the pair abandoned the bike and ran.

They lived around Pianyifang—knew every twist. Not far ahead, they scrambled up onto the second level of the self-built houses.

These used to be storefronts—with higher ceilings than homes; the second level rose over five meters. Rooftop additions connected platforms close together—a ready-made parkour arena for the bold.

The fleeing suspects were desperate, hurling cardboard and planks behind them and even spilling a sack of drying beans to slow pursuit.

He Lin had always been strong in the 400‑meter obstacle—his fundamentals intact. He stepped cleanly over, flipped to dissipate force.

What surprised him—Li Shang kept right behind, running feather-light, nearly soundless.

In a blink, they crossed several platforms—over a hundred meters.

The two fled onto a larger platform where pigeons were kept—wings thundered as a flock took flight.

Fan Xiaozhuang, running behind, snatched up clothesline wires and a metal rack, flinging them back.

He Lin’s step paused. He grabbed the rack; clothes nearly fell off.

Li Shang bent back at the waist, chin up—slipping beneath a taut wire.

He landed and, in silent accord, went straight for Song Qing.

Seeing capture imminent, Song Qing darted toward a rooftop storage shed. With a single punch he smashed a window—the glass shattered.

Li Shang turned his face away, shoulder leading to avoid the spraying shards.

Song Qing seized a long, sharp shard—brandishing it like a knife—jabbed forward and shouted, “Don’t you fucking come any closer—”

Li Shang’s eyes chilled; he moved, striking the hand holding the glass—

At the same time, He Lin closed with Fan Xiaozhuang—the suspect shorter but stockier. Fan snapped a kick at He Lin.

He Lin slipped past and feinted as if to block—then struck where Fan didn’t expect.

Before Fan could react, He Lin clamped his right wrist—iron‑vise tight.

He Lin gave no time—wrist lock, elbow slam—the clean, classic offensive sequence.

One hand locked the wrist; his hips twisted as he dragged forward. As the suspect’s balance broke, He Lin’s other elbow drove down—thudding into Fan’s back.

Fan howled, doubled over, nearly vomiting.

He Lin wrenched the wrist, pinned the arm behind the back—crisp, efficient, no flourish—neutralized him in seconds, forcing him down.

He Lin cuffed him swiftly, glancing toward the other side.

Song Qing’s glass was gone; he staggered to the roof’s edge, wavered, then leapt—vanishing.

Li Shang followed—one toe at the edge, a light, decisive jump.

For a moment, only drifting pigeon feathers hung in the air—falling gently, announcing the battle just fought.

He Lin’s heart lurched—an intense drop.

He cuffed Fan to a pipe, then sprinted to the edge and looked down.

Five‑plus meters—not high, not low—but without proper breakfall, easy to break a leg.

Below, Li Shang crouched; Song Qing lay on the ground.

Seeing He Lin, Li Shang stood, impassive, flashing a hand signal—mission accomplished.

He Lin exhaled. “You alright?”

“He may have injured his leg,” Li Shang called up. “He jumped on his own…”

He Lin cursed under his breath. He opted not to jump, pounded down the stairs, vaulted the last few steps, and landed nearby.

Song Qing’s glasses were shattered; he lay groaning, face bruised, right arm limp—maybe broken.

He Lin strode to Li Shang—taller by a few centimeters—and demanded: “Why did you jump after him?”

“It’s not that high,” Li Shang answered calmly. “I was afraid he’d get away.”

The logic was brazen. “Five‑plus meters ‘not high’? Then what is?” He Lin shot back.

Li Shang frowned slightly, silent, sensing He Lin’s anger.

He Lin bent quickly to check him—no fractures, seemingly uninjured. He scolded: “We’d have caught him anyway. I was here. No need for heroics.”

As a newcomer, Li Shang hadn’t been issued a sidearm or cuffs. He Lin pulled a spare pair—only then noticing Song Qing’s state: face a mess, arm dangling oddly, moaning nonstop.

Some injuries didn’t look like a simple fall. He Lin frowned: “His arm…”

“I dislocated it,” Li Shang said matter‑of‑factly. “He had a glass shard. I wanted to prevent injuries.”

“…”

Ah. No wonder the man had jumped.

Sensing He Lin’s angrier turn, Li Shang crouched. Amid Song Qing’s wailing, he pushed and pulled—two crisp clacks—the joint seated cleanly.

“…” He Lin stared.

Li Shang looked up. “It’s fine. I can reset joints.”

He Lin hissed a breath—some memory prickled; his own arm seemed to throb in sympathy.

—

He Lin cuffed Song Qing, retrieved Fan Xiaozhuang from above, and waited for Zheng’s team.

The anti‑theft unit arrived soon after—with torrents of thanks.

He Lin saved the chewing‑out for private.

Once Zheng had taken custody, they parked by the curb. He Lin finally let loose, serious and stern: “That was too flashy—street racing and rooftop jumps? If someone filmed it, they’d think we were arresting an international fugitive!”

Li Shang hesitated, then answered, “Arrests should be done with full effort.”

“No more driving like that,” He Lin said. “And watch your methods during arrests.”

A faint furrow returned to Li Shang’s brow; He Lin’s logic didn’t fully track for him. Reviewing, he found not one wasted motion—fastest and most direct.

But for the captain’s sake, he paused and answered, “Understood.”

The hard edge of pursuit vanished from him; he lowered his head, coughed lightly twice, and blinked in fatigue.

He Lin’s stomach sank. “You look pale.”

Li Shang’s face had lost color—pale enough that even his lips washed out. He shook his head lightly: “Maybe it’s been too long since I did heavy exertion.”

“And you still ran like that?” He Lin said. “I’ll drive.”

Before they switched seats, He Lin said, “Hold on.”

He fell silent, studying Li Shang.

Li Shang frowned faintly; He Lin leaned in, eyes more focused. “Don’t move.”

The cabin went too quiet.

Li Shang froze, swallowed—a small movement in his throat—and dropped his lashes, avoiding He Lin’s gaze.

He looked almost resigned to fate, which made He Lin frown. “What are you afraid of?” He guided Li Shang’s neck gently aside. “This cut—doesn’t it hurt?”

On his fair neck a two‑centimeter gash bled into the collar—the glass from earlier, likely. The blood had clotted some.

Only now did Li Shang register the pain; his shoulders relaxed and he reached up to wipe it.

He Lin slapped his hand lightly away. “Don’t risk infection.” He deftly pulled an alcohol swab from his bag, cleaned the wound, and applied a bandage.

Li Shang lifted his gaze, thumb tracing the edge of the bandage thoughtfully.

They got out and swapped seats.

In the passenger seat, Li Shang sat with a faint crease between his brows, silent—as if the street chase, the fight, the shoulder dislocation, the rooftop jump were never his doing.

At the wheel, He Lin let out a long breath.

Thinking it over, he decided the earlier penalty was too light and added, firmly, “Go back and write an 800‑word self‑critique. Turn it in next week.”