108: Chapter 108 The Countdown to Times Square

The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with a damp, sticky scent, a mixture of cheap perfume, marijuana, and the charred smell of hot dogs.

It was the smell of hundreds of thousands of people packed together, fermenting.

Times Square had turned into a giant sardine can.

The neon lights flickered like crazy, illuminating everyone's faces with a pale, frenzied glow.

On the massive LED screen, that crystal ball hung in mid-air, looking like a severed head waiting for execution.

"Boss, I'm going blind."

Jack Martin's complaint came through the earpiece, laced with static, with the crisp sound of frantic keyboard typing in the background.

"The facial recognition system is overloaded. There are at least three hundred thousand people here, and half of them have painted their faces with damn face paint or are wearing silly New Year's glasses."

Chen Mo turned up the collar of his trench coat to block out the musty smell he'd picked up in the sewer earlier.

He stood on the corner of 42nd Street, half of his body hidden in the shadow of a billboard.

"Look for the people who aren't smiling."

Chen Mo's voice was very soft, drowned out by the deafening electronic dance music surrounding them.

"Siberian Wolf is a professional soldier. To him, this kind of occasion isn't a party; it's a trench."

"He will instinctively look for a high vantage point, or a vent that can cover the maximum blast radius."

"This is like looking for a needle in a haystack," Jack cursed, but his typing speed didn't slow down.

"Nightingale, how's it going on your end?" Chen Mo pressed his earpiece.

"I'm next to the hot dog stand under the Nasdaq screen." Elizabeth's voice sounded a bit breathless; she was clearly pushing hard through the crowd.

"These people are crazy. A drunk guy almost spilled beer on my pistol just now. Nothing unusual, except for the hormones and alcohol everywhere."

Chen Mo raised his wrist; red numbers were flickering on the Casio's LCD screen.

23:50.

Ten minutes left.

Once that metal canister containing "Red Dusk" was opened—whether through the ventilation system or detonated right in the center of the crowd—ten minutes later, the cheers here would turn into the sound of blood coughing from corroded lungs.

"He won't be hiding in a corner." Chen Mo stared at the crowd, his pupils slightly contracting.

The [Cold-Blooded Hunter] state granted by the system made his senses exceptionally sharp. The surrounding noise seemed to have been filtered, leaving only the information he cared about.

Siberian Wolf wanted a "cleansing."

He was a madman, but he was also a performer. He needed an audience and the best spot on the stage.

"Jack, check the list for the media area on-site," Chen Mo suddenly said.

"If I wanted to watch these people die from the closest possible distance without looking out of place, I would turn myself into a documentarian."

"The media area... that's a restricted zone. Only reporters with special permits can enter." Jack paused for two seconds.

"Wait, you're right. There's a freelance photographer on the list named Peter Romanov who just passed security ten minutes ago, but the media outlet he's affiliated with is a shell company that was registered just yesterday."

"Location."

"Directly under the crystal ball, the best shooting position."

Chen Mo didn't answer; he started moving through the crowd.

This wasn't walking; this was gliding.

He was like a drop of water falling into a frying pan, cutting through the gaps in the crowd.

He turned his shoulder to avoid a fat man trying to hug him, and with a tap of his toes, he slipped past a group of girls taking selfies.

[Crowd Camouflage (State) Activated]

This was a little gadget extracted from the corpse of a professional pickpocket.

At this moment, Chen Mo's presence was reduced to the absolute minimum.

People would subconsciously ignore this Asian man in the black trench coat with the cold eyes, just as they would ignore a fire hydrant on the side of the road.

23:55.

The massive speakers blared the host's roar: "New York! Are you ready?!"

The crowd erupted.

The roar of the crowd hit their eardrums like a physical force.

Chen Mo squeezed to the edge of the police cordon.

A few NYPD officers maintaining order had their backs to him, nervously watching the restless crowd.

Chen Mo didn't stop. He pulled out a pre-prepared fake ID from his pocket—one he'd swiped from that dead IRS agent—hung it around his neck, and naturally lifted the caution tape to duck inside.

The officers only saw a hurried back and the swinging ID badge, subconsciously assuming he was plainclothes from some department, and didn't stop him.

Thirty meters ahead.

That "photographer" was carrying a bulky telephoto camera, the lens pointed at the frenzied crowd.

He was wearing a somewhat bulky tactical vest, with a vest printed with "PRESS" worn over it.

The baseball cap was pulled very low, covering half his face, but it couldn't hide those gray, dead-fish-like eyes.

That silver metal canister hung at his waist, disguised as a storage tube for a spare lens.

Siberian Wolf's finger wasn't on the shutter, but at his waist.

23:58.

"Boss, you need to hurry." Jack's voice in the earpiece had changed pitch.

"I've hacked into the surveillance in that area. He's looking at his watch! That guy is smiling, and it's fucking chilling!"

Chen Mo didn't run.

Running would attract attention and trigger those damn helicopter searchlights.

He was still walking, but his pace was astonishingly fast.

Ten meters.

Siberian Wolf seemed to sense something.

This was that beast-like intuition of someone who had crawled out of a pile of corpses.

He whipped his head around, those gray eyes piercing through the crowded press pack, locking onto Chen Mo with precision.

In that instant, no words were needed.

Siberian Wolf recognized the man who had slaughtered half his squad in the air-raid shelter.

He grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth—it was a sneer.

His hand quickly pulled off the cap of the "lens tube," his thumb pressing toward the red detonator valve.

Five meters.

Chen Mo's hand pulled out from his trench coat pocket.

"Ten!"

The host's tearful countdown began. Hundreds of thousands of people roared along.

"Nine!"

Siberian Wolf's finger applied pressure.

"Eight!"

Chen Mo raised his arm; the black muzzle was almost invisible under the neon lights.

"Seven!"

The reporters around them were cheering and hugging; no one noticed these two men standing at the eye of the storm.

"Six!"

A flash of madness crossed Siberian Wolf's eyes. He just had to press it, just once.

"Five!"

Chen Mo pulled the trigger.

"Four! Three! Two! One!"

Massive fireworks exploded overhead.

Golden, red, and purple flames tore the night sky to shreds. The deafening sound of the explosion covered everything.

No one heard that muffled "thwip."

It was an M1911 fitted with a custom silencer.

Siberian Wolf's head jerked violently backward.

His baseball cap flew off, and a smoking bullet hole appeared between his eyebrows.

The hand pressing toward the detonator valve froze in mid-air, then fell limply.

"Happy New Year!"

Countless streamers and confetti fell from the sky like a colorful snowstorm.

People were screaming, kissing.

Chen Mo strode forward and, before the corpse could hit the ground, reached out and grabbed Siberian Wolf by the shoulder.

"Hey, buddy, had too much to drink?"

Chen Mo leaned into the dead man's ear, speaking in a voice only the two of them could hear.

The scorching gun in his hand had already slid back into his sleeve, and his other hand was firmly pressing down on that metal canister that had almost been opened.

Siberian Wolf's eyes hadn't closed yet; his gray pupils were hazily reflecting the fireworks filling the sky.

"See," Chen Mo patted his back, as if comforting a drunken old friend, "this is New York's welcome ceremony."