109: Chapter 109 The Final Collection of the Corpse and the Truth

Streamers lay like a stale blizzard, burying the entire Times Square underneath.

The air was thick with the smell of sulfur—the stench of corpses from dozens of tons of exploded fireworks, mixed with the acidic sweat of tens of thousands of people packed together, hitting the senses with overwhelming force.

Chen Mo had his arm under the armpit of Siberian Wolf; the corpse was dead weight, like a bag of wet cement filled with gravel.

"Excuse me, excuse me, my brother had too much to drink."

Chen Mo shouted at the blonde girl in front of him who was still screaming while taking a selfie with her phone.

He didn't wait for her to move; he dropped his shoulder and forcibly shoved his way through.

Siberian Wolf's toes dragged on the ground, carving two long trails through the littered confetti.

No one noticed. At this hour, there were more people lying down, vomiting, or being carried away on the plaza than there were people standing.

Everyone was busy kissing, or busy shoving their tongues into the mouths of strangers.

Chen Mo turned into a fire alley on 46th Street.

The clamor vanished instantly, as if cut by a knife.

The alley was as dark as a coffin, with only a sliver of neon light from the entrance barely illuminating a fat rat perched on a trash can.

The rat wasn't afraid of people; it stared with beady eyes as Chen Mo threw the corpse onto the puddle-filled ground.

"Plop."

The corpse hit the sewage, splashing up a few specks of black mud.

Siberian Wolf's gray eyes were still open, pupils dilated, reflecting the streak of pale red light from the alley entrance.

His expression was frozen in a moment of mixed fanaticism and bewilderment, like a clown who didn't understand the joke.

Chen Mo crouched down and reached for the corpse's waist.

The silver metal canister disguised as a lens barrel was still there.

Cold and heavy. It contained a neurotoxin capable of turning half of Manhattan into a morgue.

Chen Mo unscrewed the canister and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his trench coat.

This thing was dangerous, but in the right hands, it was a bargaining chip.

Next was the M1911.

Chen Mo wiped the muzzle on the corpse's clothes and tucked it back into his sleeve.

Then, he took off his right glove and pressed his palm against Siberian Wolf's still-warm forehead.

A dead person's brain was like an undegaussed hard drive; once powered on, the secrets hidden deep within would gush out like a data stream.

[Contact Target: Former 76th Guards Airborne Division Captain / Mercenary Commander]

[Extracting core memory fragments...]

Chen Mo's optic nerves twitched violently.

The fire alley before his eyes vanished.

It was replaced by a blinding white light—the scorching sun of high noon in Texas.

Heat waves distorted the air.

A gray-white building deep in the desert had no markings on its outer walls, only a few huge cooling towers spewing white smoke into the sky.

It was surrounded by a fence with high-voltage wires, and every fifty meters there was a guard post; inside weren't security guards, but fully armed private military contractors.

The perspective landed in a climate-controlled conference room.

The owner of that perspective—Siberian Wolf—was standing at the end of a long table, holding that silver metal canister in his hand.

Sitting at the head of the long table was a typical Texan.

Around sixty years old, the skin on his neck was as loose as a turkey's; he wore a white cowboy hat and was cutting a bloody steak.

His tie clip was a golden five-pointed star, engraved with a line of small text: Lone Star Energy.

"Does this thing actually work?" The old cowboy shoved a piece of beef into his mouth, chewing, his voice slurred.

"I don't want those New Yorkers to die too quickly; they need time to scream, time to post on Twitter, and time to make those softies in Washington wet their pants."

"This thing will make their lungs melt in three minutes."

Siberian Wolf's voice sounded very respectful in the memory, "This is enough to create panic, Mr. McLean."

"Panic is the best lubricant."

The old cowboy named McLean put down his knife and fork and picked up a napkin to wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth.

"As long as New York is in chaos, the people at the Department of Homeland Security will pounce like sharks smelling blood. They will need more security equipment, more surveillance, more... order."

He stood up, walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window, and looked at the pumpjacks constantly nodding on that desert outside.

"And that new National Defense Authorization Act will pass unanimously at Monday morning's hearing."

"Lone Star Energy's stock price will double, and our subsidiary will get the border security contract for the next ten years."

The old cowboy turned around and stared at Siberian Wolf.

"Go, drop that canister in Times Square. That's not poison gas, that's money. That's the future of America."

The memory images began to shatter and rotate.

Finally, it locked onto an electronic map. It was an underground coordinate located fifty miles north of El Paso.

That was Lone Star Energy's black site, and also Ouroboros's logistics hub in North America.

[Extraction Complete]

[Key Intelligence Obtained: Lone Star Energy's Backroom Deal]

[Asset Clue Obtained: Texas Underground Base Coordinates]

[Passive Skill Obtained: Heavy Weapons Proficiency]

Chen Mo pulled his hand back.

He let out a long breath, which turned into a cloud of white mist in the cold air.

The alley was still the same alley; the rat was already gone.

From the distance, Times Square echoed with the sound of tens of thousands of people singing "Auld Lang Syne"—out of tune, off-key, but deafening.

"So that's what it was."

Chen Mo stood up and fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, the cheap stuff he'd swiped from Sergeant Miller's drawer.

He lit one; the flame illuminated his expressionless face.

It wasn't some simple terrorist attack, nor was it religious fanaticism.

It was to sell security contracts.

That was very American.

To make that damned stock price go up a few points, to get those multi-billion dollar government orders, these people didn't hesitate to turn tens of thousands of people into corpses on New Year's Eve.

This was darker than him, a Corpse Collector—dark, transparent, and sophisticated.

"Your boss sold you for a good price." Chen Mo looked down at Siberian Wolf's corpse and flicked his ash. "Too bad, this deal belongs to me now."

He didn't dispose of the corpse.

A corpse of this caliber was more useful left here than hidden away.

The NYPD needed a reason to close the case, the FBI needed a terrorist to take the fall, and the citizens needed a "foiled conspiracy" to see on tomorrow's newspaper headlines.

Siberian Wolf's corpse was that perfect full stop.

Chen Mo turned and walked out of the alley.

The fireworks in the sky reached their climax right at that moment, dyeing the entire night sky a blood-red color.