122: Chapter 122 Your Dog Teeth Aren't Very Good

The calf on the grill had already been sliced down to half a skeleton.

The charcoal fire was still burning hot, and fat dripped onto the glowing red coals, sizzling and sending up a savory, charred aroma.

McLean stood in the center of the crowd, holding a glass of bourbon.

He glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist; the hands already pointed to four in the afternoon.

Two hours had already passed since those two New Yorkers had entered the woods.

"It seems our Miss Rockefeller has lost her way," McLean said, raising his glass and swirling it toward the representatives of several oil companies around him.

With a greasy, confident smile on his face, he added, "There are some forks in these woods; even experienced hunters can easily trip up."

The surrounding crowd burst into cooperative laughter. They were all smart people, and everyone knew what getting lost in Texas meant.

The sheriff named Big Bob was chewing on a piece of bone-in meat, speaking indistinctly.

"The soil here is soft; whether you want to plant corn or bury something, it's very convenient. Don't you agree, Mr. McLean?"

"Of course," McLean said, tilting his head back to down a gulp of liquor. The spicy liquid burned down his throat, making every pore in his body relax.

Just then, the heavy, carved iron gates of the manor were slammed open from the outside.

They weren't pushed open, but crashed open.

A figure came stumbling in.

It was the previously insufferable scout from the mercenary squad.

At this moment, his expensive tactical vest was covered in thorns and dirt, his helmet was nowhere to be seen, and his face was smeared with blood and cuts from tree branches.

Most prominent of all was his crotch.

It was soaked through, a dark urine stain trickling down his pant leg, leaving a trail of foul-smelling footprints on the floor tiles.

"Boss... Boss..."

The scout crawled toward McLean on all fours as if he had seen a ghost, his throat wheezing like a broken bellows.

The originally noisy banquet instantly fell silent.

The guests who had been chatting and laughing froze in their tracks, their glasses suspended in mid-air.

Dozens of eyes stared in unison at this battered intruder.

McLean's smile froze on his face.

He put down his glass, strode over, grabbed the scout by his collar, and hoisted him off the ground.

"What happened?" McLean lowered his voice, his tone laced with ferocity. "Where is the captain? Where are the others?"

The scout was trembling all over, the sound of his teeth chattering clearly audible.

He opened his mouth wide but couldn't utter a single coherent sentence, only pointing a trembling finger in panic toward the main gate.

"Dead... they're all dead..."

Tap, tap, tap.

A slow, unhurried sound of footsteps came from the entrance.

The sound of leather shoes stepping on the marble floor was crisp, steady, and even carried a unique rhythm.

Chen Mo walked in.

The white shirt he wore was still crisp, though there were a few dark red spots where his sleeves were rolled up.

The black compound bow was casually slung in his hand, as if he were carrying a freshly bought baguette.

Ava followed behind him.

Her face was still somewhat pale, but her back was perfectly straight. She tightly gripped a Browning M1910 in her hand; though the muzzle was pointed down, the safety was off.

Chen Mo walked over to the long table, casually picked up a napkin from a plate, and slowly wiped his hands.

"Mr. McLean," Chen Mo said, tossing the soiled napkin onto the table. "It seems the dogs you keep don't have very good teeth. They can't even catch a rabbit."

McLean let go, and the scout collapsed onto the ground like a puddle of mud.

"What did you do to them?" McLean's hand reached toward his lower back.

Several bodyguards nearby immediately closed in, and over a dozen gun muzzles instantly pointed at Chen Mo and Ava.

The atmosphere was tense to the extreme.

The onlookers among the guests retreated one after another, terrified of getting blood splattered on them, but the light of excitement in the eyes of this pack of vultures only grew brighter.

Chen Mo didn't even spare a glance at the gun barrels.

He reached his left hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of items.

Clatter.

With the crisp clinking of metal, five or six blood-stained dog tags were tossed into the expensive glass of red wine in front of McLean.

The dark red wine splashed out, spilling onto McLean's suede jacket and blooming into a stain.

The dog tags sank to the bottom of the glass, making the red wine even more turbid.

"Five in total, all here," Chen Mo said, pointing at the glass of wine. "This round is on me."

McLean stared fixedly at the glass of wine.

Through the glass wall, he could clearly see the names engraved on the dog tags.

It was the elite squad he had paid a fortune to bring over from South America, specifically to handle dirty work.

Now, they had become chips in Chen Mo's hand.

McLean felt his temples throbbing violently, and a surge of murderous rage welled up in his heart.

With just a single command, the bodyguards here could riddle these two New Yorkers with bullets.

But he couldn't.

Sheriff Big Bob was watching him, Lone Star Energy's competitors were watching him, and those damn Wall Street investors were watching him too.

This was a gathering with rules.

Since a bet had been made, one had to accept defeat.

If he broke his word and killed them in broad daylight, Lone Star Energy's stock price would collapse tomorrow, and the hungry wolves waiting to feast would swarm and tear him to pieces.

McLean took a deep breath, forcing down the urge to draw his gun.

The muscles in his face twitched twice as he forced a smile that looked uglier than crying.

"Impressive skills," McLean said, gritting his teeth. "I didn't expect Mr. Chen to be a martial artist."

"Just good luck," Chen Mo said, walking up to him and reaching out to adjust his collar, which had been splashed with wine.

This action was highly insulting.

McLean went rigid all over. If he moved even slightly, the hunting knife in Chen Mo's other hand might plunge into his liver.

"Since the game is over," Chen Mo patted his shoulder, "accept the loss. Where is the deed?"

McLean swept his gaze over the surroundings out of the corner of his eye.

The guests were all whispering, their eyes filled with playfulness and mockery.

He had spent twenty years building his prestige in Texas, only for it to shatter into pieces at this moment.

"Go get it," McLean turned and roared at the butler beside him.

Two minutes later, a manila envelope was delivered to the table.

Inside was the deed to the abandoned copper mine, along with the relevant transfer documents.

Chen Mo didn't reach out to take it. He turned his head and glanced at Ava.

"Go ahead, this is your trophy."

Ava stepped forward and picked up the document envelope in front of everyone.

Her hands were steady, even carrying a hint of composure.

She pulled out the documents inside, and after confirming everything was correct, she took the pen from the butler and signed her name in the transferee column.

"Thank you for your generosity, Mr. McLean," Ava said, closing the folder, her voice cold.

"From today onward, that mine is the Rockefeller Family's new warehouse in Texas. I do not wish to see any unauthorized personnel there, including employees of Lone Star Energy."

This was a blatant slap in the face.

McLean's face turned the color of pig liver, and the veins on his neck bulged.

Chen Mo smiled, turned, and prepared to leave.

As he passed by McLean, he paused and leaned in close to his ear.

"Don't be in such a hurry to get angry."

Chen Mo's voice was very soft, audible only to the two of them.

"This is just the appetizer. What you have hidden beneath that mine shaft is the main course."

With that, Chen Mo ignored the ticking time bomb of a man and strode off with Ava toward the lincoln riddled with bullet holes.

The engine roared, and the car sped away.

The banquet grounds fell into a dead silence.

McLean grabbed the glass of red wine mixed with dog tags and bloody water from the table and smashed it fiercely onto the ground.

Smash!

The glass shattered, and the red liquid spread across the floor tiles like blood.

"Get out! All of you, get out!" McLean roared like a wounded beast.

The guests tactfully dispersed; no one wanted to court trouble at a time like this.

Ten minutes later, only McLean and Big Bob were left on the empty lawn.

McLean pulled out an encrypted satellite phone and dialed a number.

His hand was shaking, not from fear, but from sheer rage.

"Activate Southern Union's Plan B."

McLean roared into the receiver, his eyes bloodshot.

"Contact our friends in Mexico. I want that man and woman dead on the border. I don't care how much it costs, I want to see their heads hanging on my front gate!"