119: Chapter 119 An Unexpected Event for Civilized People

The corridor of Midland Memorial Hospital was filled with the smell of cheap disinfectant mixed with old floor wax.

Just past midnight, the call buttons at the nurses' station rang one after another, like the dying chirps of cicadas.

The door to private ward 302 was not closed tightly.

"Sue! I'm going to sue that yellow-skinned monkey, and that bitch from the Rockefeller Family!"

Hank's roar pierced through the door, startling the drowsy night-shift nurses in the hallway.

Although this former union leader had a broken arm and several broken ribs, his voice was still as loud as if he were directing a crane on an oil rig.

Inside the ward, Hank clutched the telephone receiver tightly with his good hand, spraying spit all over the sheets.

"I want to see a reporter! When is the person from the Houston Chronicle arriving? Tell them I have ironclad proof that the Rockefeller Family hired someone to kill me.

Violent suppression, this is a bloody scandal! I want five million... no, ten million dollars in hush money! Otherwise, I'll strip them down to their underwear."

He gasped for air and hung up the phone, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The excruciating pain of broken bones made his facial muscles twitch, but the excitement brought by greed was more effective than morphine.

He seemed to have already seen countless camera flashes and mountains of Franklins.

The door was pushed open.

A maintenance worker wearing dark blue overalls and a baseball cap walked in.

He was carrying a greasy toolbox, his cap pulled low, making it impossible to see his face, only the dark stubble on his chin.

"Get out!" Hank grabbed the water cup from the nightstand and threw it, "I didn't call for room service."

The plastic water cup hit the maintenance worker's shoulder, rolled on the floor a couple of times, and spilled a puddle of warm water.

The maintenance worker didn't speak, not even pausing his stride.

He turned around and locked the door behind him.

A soft click sounded, which seemed particularly piercing in the noisy night.

Hank froze for a moment, instinctively sensing something was wrong. He reached out to press the red call button on the headboard.

A gloved hand, wearing rubber, pressed down on his wrist.

The strength was astonishing, like a hydraulic clamp.

"Shh."

The maintenance worker looked up. It was a nondescript Latino face, dark-skinned, with sagging corners of the eyes.

But those eyes were as black as if they had been soaked in asphalt, without a trace of warmth.

Hank opened his mouth to scream, but the maintenance worker's other hand had already gripped his jawbone.

Crack.

His jaw was dislocated. The scream turned into a guttural "gurgle" in his throat.

Chen Mo did not remove the disguise of the [Thousand-Faced Deceiver].

He looked at the man in front of him like a fat pig waiting to be slaughtered, his eyes as calm as if he were looking at a piece of scrap metal.

"You're too loud."

Chen Mo's voice was very soft, yet it carried a chill that made one's marrow freeze.

He let go, and Hank collapsed onto the pillows like a pile of mud, snot and tears all over his face, desperately trying to shrink into the corner of the bed.

Chen Mo opened the filthy toolbox.

Inside, there were no wrenches or screwdrivers, only a syringe already filled with liquid.

The liquid in the tube was clear and transparent, refracting cold light under the incandescent lamp.

This was a welcome gift given to him by the old smuggler who served as a priest at the border before he left New York.

It was said to be a variant of the "truth serum" left over from when the CIA was conducting interrogations there, with a purity high enough to make an elephant see God.

"This thing is called Stairway to Heaven on the market."

Chen Mo flicked the syringe to expel an air bubble, "But I prefer to call it Nightmare."

Hank shook his head frantically, his good hand grabbing at the air, trying to push away that probe of death.

Chen Mo showed no mercy.

He held down Hank's arm, which was still in a cast, and the needle precisely pierced the medication port of the intravenous line.

Push.

The plunger hit the bottom.

Three seconds.

Hank's pupils instantly dilated to the limit, and the whites of his eyes were covered in red bloodshot veins.

A wheezing sound like a bellows came from his throat, and his body began to convulse violently, like a live fish thrown into a wok of oil.

Chen Mo pulled out the needle, tossed it into the toolbox, and then popped Hank's jaw back into place.

"Enjoy your night."

Chen Mo picked up the box, lowered his cap, turned, and walked out of the ward.

In the hallway, he walked like an ordinary night-shift worker, dragging his feet with some heaviness, avoiding the direct angle of the surveillance cameras, and disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell.

Three minutes later.

A shrill scream suddenly came from ward 302, a sound that didn't seem to be made by a human, but more like a flayed beast.

"Snakes! They're all snakes! Get away! Get away!"

"Fire! The oil is on fire! Help!"

The nurses and patients in the hallway poked their heads out in terror.

They saw Hank smash open the door like a madman.

He ripped off his IV line, and fresh blood dripped onto the floor along his arm.

He waved his cast-covered arm as if to drive away the invisible devils before him.

"Don't come over! Don't burn me!"

He sprinted down the hallway, knocking over the dressing cart, scattering gauze and medicine bottles all over the floor.

Two security guards tried to stop him, but were directly knocked aside by him, who now possessed immense strength.

"Exit! I want to find the exit!"

In his hallucination, Hank saw a door leading to heaven.

He laughed and jumped off the fourth-floor stair railing.

That was a shortcut to hell.

Bang!

A dull, loud noise echoed through the open hall.

Screams erupted instantly.

...

The next morning.

The Texas sun was still scorching, shining through the bulletproof glass onto the oak dining table.

Chen Mo was wearing a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the smoothly defined muscles of his forearms.

He held a knife and fork, leisurely cutting the medium-rare T-bone steak on his plate.

The blade sliced through the muscle fiber, red blood seeping out, staining the white porcelain plate.

Opposite him, Ava Rockefeller was holding a tablet, her face even paler than yesterday.

"...Early this morning, a tragedy occurred at Midland Memorial Hospital. Former oil union head Hank, suspected of suffering from sudden delirium due to excessive psychological stress after surgery, rushed out of his ward and fell to his death. Police have ruled out foul play and are currently investigating whether there was any medication error at the hospital..."

The news anchor's voice was crisp and clear, accompanied by a picture of Hank's mosaiced corpse, as well as a puddle of dark red blood on the ground.

Ava's hand trembled, and the silver spoon clattered against the rim of her coffee cup.

"An accident?" She looked up at Chen Mo.

"Of course it's an accident." Chen Mo forked a piece of beef and put it in his mouth, chewing carefully.

"This is a country that respects the law. Whether it's the Rockefeller Family or that poor foreman, everyone must follow the rules."

He swallowed the food, picked up a napkin, and wiped the corners of his mouth, his movements as elegant as a true aristocrat.

"Besides, mental instability is a very reasonable explanation. After all, he just suffered huge physical and mental trauma yesterday and lost his job."

Ava looked at the bloody beef on the plate and suddenly felt her stomach churning.

She pushed the plate away, picked up her coffee, and took a big sip, trying to suppress the nausea.

"Is anyone from the union still causing trouble now?" Chen Mo asked.

"No... no more." Ava took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down.

"Once this news came out, three union representatives came to find me this morning, saying they are willing to accept the new shift system, as long as the bonuses are paid on time."

Fear.

This was a more effective management tool than dollars.

When the leader of the trouble not only broke his arm but also died inexplicably in the hospital, the rest would understand that some red lines could not be crossed.

This was more effective than the one million dollars Chen Mo had scattered on the oil rig.

"Very good." Chen Mo nodded, "Get the drilling rig spinning. I want to see the core samples, as soon as possible."

Just then, the villa's butler walked over.

He was a Mexican-American old man in his sixties who had worked here for twenty years. At this moment, he was holding a silver tray, looking a bit nervous.

"Sir, Miss Rockefeller. Someone just delivered a letter."

Chen Mo put down his knife and fork.

On the tray lay a black envelope.

The paper was thick, with an embossed texture similar to crocodile skin on the surface, and a golden lone star logo stamped in the corner.

No stamps, no postmark.

Chen Mo reached out and picked up the envelope. The moment his fingertips touched the paper, he smelled a scent.

It wasn't the smell of ink, nor the smell of paper pulp.

It was a strong scent of cologne, mixed with the smell of gun oil and residual cigar smoke.

That scent was extremely aggressive, just like a male lion marking its territory.

"Who sent it?" Chen Mo asked.

"People from that security company... Southern United Security." The butler said in a low voice, "They drove up, stopped at the main gate for a moment, and left."

Chen Mo opened the envelope.

Inside was only a piece of cardstock, with handwritten words in fountain pen, the strokes sharp and piercing through the paper.

[To our friends from New York: Heard you like the wildness of Texas. This weekend, I am hosting a small hunting party at the Lone Star Hunting Ground. The wild boars here have been running rampant lately and need some excellent hunters to clear them out. Please do us the honor. — McLean]

Underneath the card, two brassy bullets were pressed.

Those were .338 Lapua Magnum sniper rifle bullets. The initials of two names were engraved on the bullet heads: C and E.

Chen Mo and Ava.

Ava looked at the two bullets, and her face, which had just regained a bit of color, turned pale again instantly.

"This is intimidation." Her voice trembled a little, "He is showing off to us."

"No."

Chen Mo picked up the bullet engraved with "C" and spun it flexibly between his fingers.

The cold touch of the metal made him somewhat excited, and the blood in his body seemed to be warming up faintly.

"This is a declaration of war."

He stood the bullet on the table, placing it next to the bloody steak.

"A Hongmen Banquet." Chen Mo smiled, a hint of bloodthirst in that smile, "He wants to see who is the prey and who is the hunter."

"Are we going?" Ava asked, her eyes full of unease.

"Why not go?"

Chen Mo stood up and straightened his collar.

"Since the host is so enthusiastic, we should prepare a return gift. Did Jack find the location of McLean's armory?"

"Found it." Ava nodded, "It's in the abandoned mining area thirty miles west of Midland."

"Very good."

Chen Mo picked up the black invitation and tossed it into the fireplace next to him.

The flames licked the paper, and the golden lone star logo twisted and blackened in the firelight, finally turning into ashes.

"Tell McLean we will be there on time."

Chen Mo turned and walked towards the door, the sunlight elongating his shadow like an unsheathed black blade.

"Also, help me contact that priest. I think he should have some more good stuff. Since we're going hunting, bringing just shotguns won't be enough."

The wind in Texas was still hot and dry, rolling dust and slapping against the windows.

A bigger storm was brewing.