"Boss, this isn't the time," whispered captain Roger Hanks, gripping Zhao Dong's arm. "We'll deal with that bug later."
Zhao Dong exhaled hard, fists still clenched. Then he nodded, turned, and walked away.
His eyes swept across the stadium. The field was chaos—players and coaches still tangled in fights, and even in the stands, some fans had started throwing punches. If this kept spiraling, tonight would end in disaster.
"Enough! Stop fighting!" Zhao Dong dropped another Giants defender with a straight right, then raised his arms high, his voice booming across the field.
"Break it up! Help the security, keep order—use force if you have to!"
At his signal, his bodyguards moved quickly to assist stadium security.
"Stop fighting, alright?" one bodyguard shouted as he stepped between a Giants lineman and a Jets backup.
The Giant ignored him, still grappling.
Bang!
A swift kick from the bodyguard folded him instantly, ending the scuffle right there.
With Zhao Dong leading the charge, the riot finally began to cool. Order was slowly restored, though dozens of Giants weren't so lucky. More than twenty players and nearly a dozen coaches and trainers were left sprawled across the grass after "help" from Zhao Dong's men.
"This is a disgrace!" Giants head coach Tom Coughlin bellowed, face red with rage. He jabbed a finger toward Zhao Dong. "Zhao, you sent your bodyguards onto the field to fight! The league won't let you get away with this—we'll appeal!"
Zhao Dong's expression turned icy. "Bodyguards? Who said anything about bodyguards? They're official security staff of the New York Jets."
It was the perfect cover. Lindsay had arranged long ago that Zhao Dong's private security detail be given official contracts as Jets stadium personnel. Tonight, it paid off.
If the league reviewed this incident, they couldn't punish him—in fact, they might even commend him for "helping restore order."
"You…" Coughlin sputtered, furious and helpless. To him, it was shameless billionaire maneuvering at its worst.
---
The toll on the Giants was brutal: sixteen or seventeen players down, plus half a dozen coaches and trainers injured. Worst of all, cornerback No. 12 and Ringer "Black Panther" Howard were stretchered off, both battered within an inch of their lives.
But as Panther's stretcher reached the tunnel, a wall of police blocked the way.
"Gentlemen…"
The lead sheriff produced his badge—and an arrest warrant. "We're taking Howard into custody."
"What? He's half-dead!" General Manager John Stickman rushed forward, panicked. "At least let him reach the hospital first!"
"Of course," the sheriff said smoothly, nodding. He snapped a pair of handcuffs onto Panther's limp wrist, chaining him to the stretcher.
Stickman's jaw clenched. He waved the trainers forward. "Go. Get him out of here."
"Pike, escort them," the sheriff ordered three officers.
As half the police detail left with Panther, Stickman's face paled. He turned stiffly back to the sheriff. "You… you're not done, are you?"
The sheriff smiled coldly. "Not even close. We've got another warrant."
Stickman's stomach sank. When the name on the paper registered, he almost staggered.
Reynolds Ruhl. Their star wideout.
"It's over…" Stickman muttered under his breath. "The Giants are finished."
---
Minutes later, as management regrouped in the tunnel, one executive finally spoke up, voice low.
"Sir… Lawrence Taylor was arrested not long ago. Now Panther and Ruhl. Don't you think someone's targeting us?"
Stickman froze. "What do you mean?"
"I checked the warrants," the exec said carefully. "There aren't any special charges. Honestly? Eighty percent of this league could be indicted for the same things."
"Who do you suspect?" Stickman's tone sharpened.
The exec hesitated, then whispered, "Maybe… the Jets?"
"No chance," another manager cut in instantly. "If it were them, the league would bury them alive. The NFL doesn't protect vendettas."
The exec grimaced. "I just can't ignore it. Look at the timing. And this season, the Jets purged half their locker room—every guy who'd made racist remarks toward Zhao Dong got shipped out."
He stopped himself there. What he really wanted to say—that Zhao Dong and Lindsay might be pulling strings at levels untouchable to the Giants—he dared not voice aloud. Some enemies you could fight. Wall Street titans weren't among them.
The rest of the room came to the same conclusion without anyone spelling it out.
Both Lawrence Taylor, long-retired, and Panther had been outspoken, racist, and vicious in their comments toward Zhao Dong. Now they were in handcuffs—or a hospital bed.
"From now on, when we trade for players…" one manager said darkly, "do we have to screen them the way the Jets do?"
"That's impossible," another snapped. "There are over a thousand guys in this league. You think many of them don't have baggage? Racism's everywhere in this sport."
"Damn it," a third muttered bitterly. "He should've never come to the NFL. You can't purge this league. If he wants everyone with skeletons arrested, there'll be barely anyone left to play."
"Yes. He should adapt to our league instead of resorting to methods like this."
"Control what the players say to the media. Ban them from making those kinds of remarks publicly—that's still possible."
"But what about Black Panther and White Panther? Without them, the Giants are finished!"
"Then prepare for a lawsuit. Try to clear them."
"Clear them? Against Lindsay's legal team? She's got dozens of top-tier lawyers, ties to state legislators, Congress, and half the Wall Street boardrooms. How do we fight that?"
"Then appeal to the league office. We can't allow this to keep happening. If it does, the entire NFL will suffer."
"Good idea. Let's push the league."
While the Giants' management scrambled in panic, the game resumed.
But the Giants, crippled by injuries, had no fight left. The Jets steamrolled them. By the final whistle, it was a one-sided blowout.
Frustrated and beaten, the Giants players trudged off the field, muttering curses under their breath.
At the tunnel, however, another blow awaited.
"Reynolds Ruhl?"
A sheriff and his deputies stepped forward, blocking the way. One hand hovered over his holstered pistol as he waved an arrest warrant in the other. His voice was flat and cold.
"I'm Reynolds," Ruhl answered, chest tightening. His pulse quickened.
"Take him."
The sheriff gave a nod.
"Hands behind your head! Down on the ground—now!" one deputy barked, gun drawn as he rushed Ruhl.
"What the hell are you doing?!" several Giants players shouted, moving instinctively to defend their teammate.
"Back off!" the sheriff snapped, as his men drew their pistols and chambered rounds. In an instant, barrels were leveled at the group.
"Stand down! Don't move!" Giants executives, who had rushed back to the tunnel, yelled frantically.
Ruhl was slammed to the turf. One officer knelt hard on his neck, another pressed his back while snapping handcuffs over his wrists.
"I can't breathe! Let me up!" Ruhl struggled, his voice strained.
"Shut it!" the officer growled, pressing down harder.
This wasn't just an arrest—it was an order from higher up. The deputy wasn't about to take chances, not even with a star white receiver.
Only once the cuffs clicked shut did they haul Ruhl to his feet. He was bruised, shaken, and humiliated—but at least not left unconscious like Panther had been.
---
An hour later, both teams faced the media.
Reporters swarmed, cameras flashing.
"Zhao Dong, Black Panther and White Panther have been arrested. Do you have any comment?" a Jets beat reporter asked.
Zhao Dong leaned into the mic with a cool smile. "If they didn't do anything wrong, I wish them well. Maybe they'll be free soon."
"Zhao Dong, Black Panther is badly injured. Did you attack him?" another reporter pressed.
"Did you see me do it?" Zhao Dong shot back.
"Of course not—your bodyguards blocked the view," the reporter said coldly.
"That's slander," Zhao Dong's tone hardened. "My legal team will see you in court. Congratulations."
The reporter's eyes widened. "What? I'm a journalist—it's my job to ask tough questions!"
"Your job is to report facts," Zhao Dong said sharply, "not invent lies."
The reporter sighed, shoulders slumping. "Fine. I withdraw the question and apologize."
Zhao Dong smirked. "If apologies solved everything, why would we need laws? No—you'll still see the inside of a courtroom. And here's some advice: you can eat whatever you like, but you can't say whatever you want. Words carry consequences."
"You're going too far, Zhao Dong!" the reporter snapped, face flushed with anger.
"Too far?" Zhao Dong leaned forward, eyes cold. "If I really wanted to go too far, you wouldn't even be standing here."
The reporter went pale, speechless. His fury had nowhere to land.
Another journalist jumped in quickly. "Zhao Dong, what's your stance on fighting and violence on the field?"
Zhao Dong's face turned serious. "I oppose violence. I've worked hard to build the Jets into a team that represents class and discipline—another true New York gentlemen's franchise.
"You saw it tonight. When the brawl broke out, I led security onto the field to break it up. The New York Jets will be the model of non-violence for this league."
The press corps shifted uncomfortably, exchanging uneasy looks.
Model of non-violence?
Everyone in the room remembered the sight of Zhao Dong flattening defenders and his men taking down half the Giants' roster. The claim sounded absurd, but none of them dared say it aloud.
---
End of Chapter
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