107: Chapter 107 Turning Off the Lights

The entrance to the air-raid shelter was like a giant maw swallowing the light, with rainwater gathering into murky streams that flowed down the moss-covered steps.

Chen Mo drew a Nepalese military knife from his waist.

The curvature of this blade was well-suited for cutting, especially in such a confined space.

He took a deep breath of the musty air, his lungs expanding as his heart rate began to drop.

The [Russian Sambo Combat Technique] he had just extracted gave his muscles a strange kind of memory.

His joints seemed to become more flexible, and a desire to snap something surged through his veins.

He reached out and felt for the cover of the power distribution box.

"Click."

The dim emergency lights inside the shelter flickered twice and then went out completely.

The fans stopped spinning, and that muffled, low roar vanished, leaving only the sound of rain drumming against the ground.

The moment darkness descended, Chen Mo moved.

He did not activate his night-vision goggles.

Under the augmentation of the [Cold-Blooded Hunter] state, the darkness was no longer an obstacle, but his skin, an extension of his perception.

Five meters ahead, two red cigarette butts flickered in the darkness.

"What happened?" a low Russian curse rang out, "Go check the generator."

Footsteps approached. Heavy, dragging sounds—the sound of military boots stepping in the accumulated water.

Chen Mo pressed against the cold, damp wall like a gecko.

When the first sentry passed in front of him, he could even smell the mixture of cheap tobacco and vodka on the other man.

With a swift strike of the blade.

There was no sound.

Chen Mo's palm pressed against the back of the blade; the sharp edge sliced through the trachea and carotid artery as easily as cutting through a piece of soft butter.

He caught the falling corpse, pressed his knee against the man's spine, and slowly laid him down into the water.

Warmth flowed down his wrist and into his sleeve.

[Extraction successful]

[Obtained Skill Fragment: Rifle Mastery (1/5)]

[Obtained Asset Clue: Switzerland Anonymous Account (Incomplete)]

Chen Mo did not pause.

He wiped his hands on the corpse's tactical vest, stepped over the body, and walked toward the second sentry, who was still fumbling in the darkness.

"Yuri?" The sentry turned on the tactical flashlight on his gun, the beam of light swaying wildly in the dust-filled air, "Stop joking around, this isn't funny."

The beam swept across the wall, across the ground, and finally fixed on the pair of hands reaching out from the darkness.

Those hands grabbed the barrel and jerked it upward.

"Crack."

The sound of bone shattering was exceptionally crisp in the deathly silent corridor.

The sentry's wrist was bent at a gruesome angle, and before his scream could escape his throat, a cold blade had already pierced through his lower jaw, penetrating his brain.

Chen Mo pulled out the knife, and the corpse collapsed, twitching.

He picked up the modified AK12 rifle, skillfully ejected the magazine, and checked the ammunition.

"Four more."

He whispered to the air, his voice colder than the chill of the underground.

...

Deep inside the air-raid shelter, in the interrogation room.

The moment the emergency lights went out, Siberian Wolf stood up abruptly.

His grey eyes constricted in the darkness, like a beast searching for prey.

"Night-vision goggles!" he growled.

Two subordinates quickly pulled down the monocular night-vision devices on their helmets, and green fluorescence lit up before their eyes.

They raised their guns, standing back-to-back facing the door.

"Bzz... bzzzt..."

In the walkie-talkie, which should have been transmitting reports from the sentries, there was only the dead silence of static.

Miller sat on that iron chair, the excruciating pain keeping him conscious.

He grinned in the darkness, a hideous smile mixed with bloody foam.

"Looks like... your janitor... has arrived." Miller's voice was weak, but carried a hint of schadenfreude.

Siberian Wolf walked up to Miller, grabbed him by the collar, and pressed the muzzle of his gun against Miller's temple.

"Let him in," Siberian Wolf shouted toward the door, his voice echoing in the empty room, "Otherwise, I'll paint the walls with this old guy's brains!"

There was no response.

Only the faint, intermittent sound of dripping water came from deep in the corridor.

"Drip."

"Drip."

The sound grew closer and closer, like some kind of countdown.

Suddenly, a black cylinder rolled in through the crack in the door.

"Grenade!" one of the subordinates shouted, diving toward cover.

"Bang!"

It wasn't an explosion, but a blinding white light. A flashbang.

In the narrow, enclosed underground space, the power of the flashbang was amplified several times over.

The massive ringing in their ears instantly destroyed everyone's sense of balance, and the intense light turned their night-vision goggles into a blinding, ghastly white.

Gunshots rang out.

Not the rapid, full-auto spray, but rhythmic, single shots.

"Pffft."

"Pffft."

"Pffft."

Three muffled sounds.

That was the distinct sound of an M1911 equipped with a silencer—low, lethal.

Siberian Wolf fired toward the door on instinct, the bullets striking the concrete wall and sending sparks flying.

He shoved Miller's chair aside, grabbed the silver metal canister on the table, and turned to rush toward the escape passage on the other side of the room.

"Stop him!"

This was the last thing he said to his subordinates.

The bright light faded.

Miller struggled to open his eyes, which had been stung by the intense light, and saw a figure standing in the doorway.

The person was wearing a black tactical trench coat, holding a smoking pistol in his hand.

Three corpses lay on the ground.

Each one had a dark red bullet hole in the center of their forehead, as precise as if measured with a ruler.

Chen Mo stepped over the bodies on the ground and walked up to Miller.

"Is this your retirement plan?" Chen Mo glanced at Miller's bleeding hand, "Getting yourself crippled?"

Miller wanted to laugh, but it tugged at his wounds, and he gasped in pain.

"Shut up... Robert." Miller panted, "That bastard... took the poison gas canister... and ran."

Chen Mo raised his gun and fired two shots at the iron chains on Miller's wrists.

Sparks flew, and the chains broke.

"Can you still walk?"

"As long as I'm not dead... I can walk." Miller leaned on the chair to stand up, nearly falling over.

Chen Mo reached out to steady him.

"This is a work-related injury." Chen Mo jammed an adrenaline syringe into Miller's thigh, "Remember to approve double overtime pay for me when we get back."

Miller let out a roar as the medicine was injected, a flush of color appearing on his pale face.

"Where is he going?" Chen Mo asked, supporting Miller as they walked out, while casually searching one of the mercenary corpses and pulling out a spare magazine.

"Times Square." Miller gritted his teeth, "The countdown... is tonight."

Chen Mo's movements paused for a second.

He lifted his wrist and glanced at that cheap Casio watch.

23:05.

There were fifty-five minutes left until the New Year bell rang.