128: Chapter 128 Only the Dead Keep Their Promises

The night wind swept in the dry heat of the desert, brushing against the face like sandpaper.

Chen Mo threw the old Nokia phone to Jack Martin.

"Can you catch that 'good uncle's' tail?"

Jack took the phone, plugged in a data cable, and his fingers typed on the keyboard, leaving a blur of afterimages.

Green code cascaded down the screen like a waterfall, reflecting on his pale face and making him look like a ghost.

"An encrypted line. The springboard is in the Cayman Islands, and the server is in Zurich."

Jack mumbled with a lollipop in his mouth, "But he made a mistake. He thought this was just a normal call and didn't use a VPN."

Two minutes later.

"Got him." Jack turned the screen around.

"Even though he used a voice changer and a virtual number, the signal landed at a base station in the Manhattan Upper East Side. That location... is the Rockefeller Family's private estate."

Chen Mo lit a cigarette, the spark flickering in the darkness.

"That's not enough." Chen Mo blew out a smoke ring. "I want concrete evidence. The kind of nail that will pin him to his coffin."

"This will require a little cooperation." Jack grinned, the typical look of a hacker spotting a vulnerability.

"Boss, you have to get him to send money. As long as the funds move, I can bite onto his account like a shark smelling blood."

Chen Mo picked up the phone and pressed redial.

Beep— Beep—

"Mr. Chen?" The elegant voice on the other end sounded again, carrying a calm sense of being in control. "Have you thought it through?"

"I've thought it through." Chen Mo's voice became somewhat greedy, sounding like a typical mercenary. "But your price isn't enough. I want more money."

There was a second of silence on the other end, followed by a soft chuckle.

"Greed is a good thing, Mr. Chen. Greedy people are easy to control. How much do you want?"

"A ten million deposit. Right now." Chen Mo flicked his cigarette ash.

"You know, the one I'm supposed to kill is a goose that lays golden eggs. The risk is huge. If the Rockefeller Family investigates, I need running money."

"Ten million in cash flow is a lot. It takes time..."

"Don't give me that bullshit," Chen Mo interrupted him. "Ten minutes. If I don't see the money in ten minutes, the deal is off. And by the way, I'll send this recording to Ava."

"You're a lunatic." The voice on the other end grew cold. "Account number."

Chen Mo recited the shell company account in Switzerland—which Jack had just registered five minutes ago.

Three minutes later.

Jack's computer let out a crisp notification sound.

[Received: 10,000,000.00 USD]

"Done." Jack's fingers tapped rapidly. "Reverse trace successful. The sender is the Blue Horizon Fund, and the actual controller is... Robert Rockefeller. Miss Ava's biological uncle."

Chen Mo looked at the name, his face devoid of any expression.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number again.

"The money has arrived," Chen Mo said.

"Very good." Robert's voice carried a hint of ruthlessness. "I want to see a corpse. Tonight."

"You will." Chen Mo hung up the phone.

He turned to look at Ava, who was sitting on the sofa in a daze. The young mistress had heard the entire conversation just now, and her face was as white as a sheet of A4 paper.

"Give me your phone." Chen Mo reached out his hand.

Ava handed over her phone mechanically.

Chen Mo tapped a few times, and the screen showed that the transfer was successful.

*Ding.*

Ava's phone rang. She looked down to see a bank deposit notification. Ten million dollars.

"This... what is this?" Ava stammered.

"Pocket money from your uncle." Chen Mo threw the phone back to her. "Family dividends. Take it and spend it. Go buy some bags, or replace the equipment in that crappy oil field."

"You lied to him?"

"This is called business fraud," Chen Mo corrected. "Also, don't use such an ugly word like 'lied'. This is a tactic."

He turned to look at Jack.

"Now, let's send this good uncle a big gift."

Chen Mo pulled a document from his coat pocket and threw it on the table.

It was a portion of the financial statements brought out from McLean's underground laboratory—artfully processed, of course.

"Jack, draft a report. Title it 'Audit of Lone Star Energy's Undisclosed Earnings'."

Chen Mo's fingers tapped gently on the table.

"Multiply McLean's profits over the past five years by ten. Tell the Rockefeller Family's Council of Elders that the old Texas cowboy made five billion every year but only handed over five hundred million to the family."

"This is basically putting McLean on the grill." Jack whistled. "The Rockefeller Family hates nothing more than people stealing their money."

"Not only that." Chen Mo sneered. "Add Robert Rockefeller's name to it. Say he is McLean's umbrella of protection within the family, and the two of them teamed up to embezzle family assets."

"Once this report is sent out..." Ava swallowed hard. "The Council of Elders will tear them apart."

"Exactly." Chen Mo stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the pitch-black wilderness in the distance. "This is what I want to see. Dog eat dog."

Half an hour later.

New York, Rockefeller Estate.

An emergency family video conference was underway. The atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.

On the screen at the end of the long table, the white-haired old man—the current head of the family—had a face so gloomy it could practically drip water.

"Explain this, Robert." The old man's voice wasn't loud, but it struck Robert's chest like a heavy hammer. "What is going on with the data in this anonymous email?"

Robert looked at the terrifyingly detailed financial report on the screen, and cold sweat instantly drenched his shirt.

It clearly listed every single "hidden income" of Lone Star Energy, and even the ten million he had just wired to Chen Mo was labeled as "money laundering dividends."

"This... this is slander!" Robert stood up abruptly, his voice shrill. "This was forged by that mercenary."

"That mercenary?" The old man narrowed his eyes. "How do you know it's that mercenary? Have you contacted him?"

Robert froze. He realized he had fallen into a bottomless pit.

"No... I didn't..."

"Shut up." The old man interrupted him. "The family audit team has already stepped in. Before everything is cleared up, all assets under your name are frozen. As for that McLean..."

A flash of murderous intent crossed the old man's eyes.

"Notify all banks on Wall Street to cut off Lone Star Energy's line of credit. Tell those suppliers that anyone who dares to give McLean even a single screw is making an enemy of Rockefeller."

"I want him bankrupt. Before tomorrow morning."

...

Texas, Lone Star Energy Headquarters.

McLean's office was in a complete shambles. Expensive antique vases had been reduced to shards on the floor.

"Why? Why did you stop my loans?" he roared into the phone, the veins on his neck bulging like earthworms.

"I'm sorry, Mr. McLean." On the other end of the line was the manager of Citibank, his voice as cold as a robot's.

"This is an order from above. In addition, your personal account has also been frozen on suspicion of large-scale money laundering."

Beep— Beep—

The call disconnected.

McLean slumped into his chair, the phone slipping from his hand.

It was over. All over.

Tens of billions in assets had turned into waste paper in an instant.

The supply chain was broken, the capital chain had dried up, and those politicians and businessmen who usually bowed and scraped to him were now avoiding him like the plague.

"Chen... Mo..."

He squeezed these two words out from between his teeth, mashing them up and swallowing them down.

He walked to the window and looked down at the wage-demanding workers and media reporters gathered below. When a wall starts to collapse, everyone gives it a push.

A breaking news flash was playing on the television.

"...The Governor will arrive in Midland tomorrow to deliver an important speech on shale oil development and border security..."

McLean stared fixedly at the smiling politician on the screen.

That was a dog he had once spent a fortune to feed.

Now, even this dog was coming to trample on him, perhaps even wanting to use his head to claim credit from the Rockefeller Family.

"Good... very good..."

McLean pulled open a drawer and took out a gold-plated revolver. But he didn't aim it at his own temple.

His eyes were bloodshot, filled with the madness of a gambler who had lost everything.

Since you won't let me live, then none of us will live.

He picked up the encrypted satellite phone and dialed a number.

"Hello? It's me."

"Plan B. Get the death squads ready."

"No matter how many people die, I want tomorrow's speech venue turned into a living hell."

McLean's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grinding. "Remember, have them wear the uniform of that damn Legacy Defense."

"I want that yellow monkey buried with the Governor."