106: Chapter 106 The Mad Dog's Bone

The old site of the Brooklyn Shipyard, an underground air-raid shelter.

There was no sound of rain here, only the dull, low roar of fans spinning in the ventilation ducts, sounding like a dying old ox gasping for air.

The air was thick with the smell of machine oil, mold, and something even more pungent—the scent of burnt flesh.

Miller was tied to an iron chair welded to the floor.

His left pinky finger was gone, the stump cauterized by a soldering iron and covered in a charred scab, but that couldn't stop the pain that drilled deep into his marrow.

"I do not like repeating questions, Sergeant Miller."

Standing in front of Miller was a tall Slav.

He wore no mask, revealing a face as rough as granite.

A scar stretched from the corner of his left eye to the corner of his mouth, making him look like he was sneering even when he wasn't smiling.

He played with a pair of blood-stained pliers in his hands, his movements as gentle as if he were caressing a lover's hand.

"Where is the money?"

Miller struggled to lift his eyelids.

His right eye was swollen shut, leaving only a slit, and blood flowed down his brow bone into his eye, turning the world into a blurred red.

"Go... go fuck yourself..." Miller bared his teeth, revealing a mouth full of bloody teeth. "You Russian bastard... your pronunciation sounds like you've got something in your mouth..."

"Click."

The pliers clamped shut.

Miller's body went rigid, and the iron chair let out an unbearable creak.

A scream that didn't sound human erupted from his throat, but he quickly bit it back.

His ring finger was gone too.

The Slav tossed the severed finger into an iron bucket at his feet with a soft thud.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the blood off the pliers.

"You Americans are always too confident." The Slav—his codename was Siberian Wolf, formerly an ace of the 76th Guards Airborne Division—shook his head.

"Do you think we care about those few million dollars? That amount of money isn't even enough to cover our ammunition costs for a single day in Syria."

Miller gasped for air, cold sweat soaking his clothes through.

The pain kept him in a morbid state of alertness.

"Then... what do you... want?"

"We want to send a message."

Siberian Wolf turned and walked over to a large military-green box in the corner of the room.

He entered the password, the hydraulic lock popped open, and a puff of white, cold air escaped.

He carefully lifted out a silver-white metal canister, only the size of a soda bottle, imprinted with the snake eating its own tail that Miller had seen in Chen Mo's report.

Ouroboros.

"A byproduct of Project 734, we call it 'Red Dusk'." Siberian Wolf looked at the canister with a fanatical devotion in his eyes.

"An improved nerve agent. Just one canister like this, released through the ventilation system of Times Square..."

He turned his head to look at Miller, a cruel arc curling the corners of his mouth.

"On this cursed New Year's countdown night, everyone in Midtown Manhattan will cough out their own lungs within three minutes, just like cockroaches under insecticide. No antidote, no vaccine."

Miller's pupils constricted sharply.

This wasn't just gang revenge. This was a war.

"You... this is a terrorist attack..." Miller's voice trembled, not from pain, but from fear.

"No, this is a purge." Siberian Wolf put the metal canister back.

"Your city is sick; too much trash, too many parasites. The Council believes a high fever is needed to kill the virus. And we are just cleaners doing a job for money."

He walked back to Miller and patted Miller's face with the cold jaws of the pliers.

"The reason we're keeping you alive is that we need an audience. Someone who can tell those who survive who the master is here."

Miller stared at the Russian.

He thought of Chen Mo.

That bastard Robert might not be a good person either—ruthless, greedy, and lecherous—but at least he was maintaining order in this cesspool.

But this group of people, they wanted to smash the entire fish tank.

"You'd better kill me now." Miller suddenly laughed, spraying blood onto Siberian Wolf's boots.

"Otherwise, I will personally shove those pliers up your ass."

Siberian Wolf frowned and raised his foot, about to kick Miller in the chest.

Just then, the walkie-talkie at the entrance of the air-raid shelter suddenly rang.

"Boss, I think you should hear this."

It was the voice of his deputy, who was in charge of the perimeter guard.

Siberian Wolf picked up the walkie-talkie: "What is it?"

"Post number three has lost contact, and so has number five. We tried to call, but there's only static."

Siberian Wolf's expression changed.

He turned his head sharply to look at the surveillance monitor.

The screens that had originally displayed the twelve cameras around the perimeter of the air-raid shelter had all turned to static.

Outside this enclosed underground space, in that pitch-black rainy night, something was coming.

...

Five hundred meters outside the air-raid shelter, in an abandoned drainage ditch.

The rain was still falling, hitting the puddles and masking every subtle sound.

Chen Mo crouched beside a corpse.

It was a Russian sentry with a pitch-black tactical dagger stuck in his neck, the blood already drained dry.

Chen Mo wasn't wearing gloves, his right hand pressed against the corpse's still-warm forehead.

The system's cold prompt sounded in his mind, colder even than this rainy night.

[Extraction successful]

[Obtained memory fragment: Air-raid shelter structural map (incomplete)]

[Obtained skill: Russian Sambo Combat (Mastery)]

[Obtained status: Cold-Blooded Hunter (Perception range increased by 20%)]

As the memory fragments flooded in, a three-dimensional map instantly constructed itself in Chen Mo's mind.

Ventilation ducts, generator room, detention room, and the crossfire points that the Russians were so proud of.

Of course, there was also that "Red Dusk".

Chen Mo had previously used [Hacking Mastery] to hack into this sentry's communication headset; although he couldn't speak, he had heard the entire conversation between Siberian Wolf and Miller.

"Nerve gas..." Chen Mo pulled the dagger out of the corpse's neck and wiped it on the corpse's clothes. "Playing for high stakes."

He had originally thought this was just a simple rescue mission.

Kill a few people, fish that old stubborn Miller out, and flex his muscles along the way. But now, the nature of it had changed.

Chen Mo stood up and stretched his neck. His bones let out a slight cracking sound.

He didn't like being a hero. Heroes usually die young, and they're poor.

But he disliked it even more when someone caused trouble on his turf.

Brooklyn was his leek patch, and Manhattan was his ATM.

If it was for money, a few deaths didn't matter.

But if it was to poison the whole city, then who would be left for him to collect his "Legacy" from?

These Russians weren't just committing a terrorist attack; they were cutting off Chen Mo's source of income.