149: Chapter 149 Your cause of death involves state secrets

The rain in Washington still hadn't stopped; if anything, it was coming down harder.

The windshield wipers scraped against the glass, making a jarring, friction-filled sound.

Chen Mo sat in the backseat, the file on Lieutenant General Hamilton in his hands rustling as he flipped through it.

"That old guy spilled the beans pretty quickly."

Nightingale glanced at the rearview mirror while driving.

She had already shed the severe outfit of a secretary; she was now dressed more like a high-end call girl just getting off work, a wet trench coat draped over a red slip dress.

"Underwood is a smart man." Chen Mo closed the folder and tossed it aside.

"Smart men are all afraid of death. He knew that if he didn't give me a name of sufficient weight, the one feeding the dogs in the rain tonight would be him."

Chen Mo pulled out his phone, an encrypted message from Ava pulsing on the screen.

It contained a few blurry candid photos and a medical report so detailed it even recorded the frequency of his early morning urination.

"Lieutenant General Hamilton, fifty-eight years old, currently serving as Deputy Director of the Army Logistics Agency."

Chen Mo read the words on the screen, his mouth curling into a mocking smirk.

"This old bastard has seventy percent blockage in his coronary arteries; his doctor advised him to rest. Yet he still goes to the Red Velvet Club three times a week, ordering at least two girls each time."

"He's asking for death," Nightingale remarked.

"No, he's just extending his life with drugs." Chen Mo scrolled the medical report to the medication section.

"Long-term use of potent stimulants, plus excessive sildenafil. It's like pouring aviation fuel into a tractor that's about to break down."

The traffic light ahead turned red. The car slowed to a halt.

Chen Mo rolled down the window, letting the cold wind rush in to dispel the warmth in the car.

"Since he wants to prove he's still got it so badly, we'll help him."

Chen Mo watched the streetlights blurred by the rain outside, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his knee.

"No bullets or explosives needed. Just add a little seasoning to his drink to make that already overloaded heart of his beat a few times faster."

Nightingale turned her head, her dark red lips curling slightly: "You want him to die in bed?"

"They say it's the best way to go," Chen Mo chuckled. "For a greedy, lecherous logistics officer, this is probably the most dignified way to die."

The car started again and turned into a quiet neighborhood.

The streetlights here were brighter than elsewhere, and there were more luxury cars parked along the road.

An inconspicuous brass sign hung on the black iron gate—Red Velvet Club.

This place only catered to men who held power in their hands.

"Go," Chen Mo patted the back of the driver's seat. "Be quick. Remember, we want an 'accident'."

Nightingale pushed the car door open, her legs in ten-centimeter heels stepping into the rain.

She ruffled her hair, and her entire demeanor instantly radiated a decadent and dangerous aura of a femme fatale.

Chen Mo watched her back disappear into the small side door of the club, then reached out to close the window.

He picked up a black briefcase from the passenger seat; it was a prop he had prepared for himself.

"This Department of Homeland Security skin should be more useful than a cop's."

Chen Mo muttered to himself and began unbuttoning his shirt.

...

Inside the private room of the Red Velvet Club, the air was sweltering.

Dim, ambiguous lighting hit the wine-red velvet sofa.

Lieutenant General Hamilton was sunk into the sofa, his fat looking like a puddle of melted butter.

His military jacket was tossed on the floor, his tie hung crookedly around his neck, and his bloodshot face was full of excitement.

"Where's the drink? Why haven't you served the drink yet!" Hamilton roared, his voice hoarse and reeking of alcohol.

The door to the private room was pushed open.

Nightingale walked in carrying a silver tray. She moved slowly, the sway of her hips just right—not overly frivolous, yet enough to catch anyone's eye.

"General, your special blend whiskey."

Nightingale's voice sounded as if it had been polished by sandpaper, carrying a special magnetism.

She bent down, her deep cleavage swaying right in front of Hamilton's eyes.

Hamilton's eyes glazed over. He swallowed, a look of instinctive greed.

"Are you new?"

A fat hand covered in black hair reached out, trying to grab Nightingale's wrist.

Nightingale skillfully turned to the side, placing the glass into that hand, naturally avoiding the greasy touch.

"The manager said this drink is a special offering for you. It has a little... something special in it."

She emphasized the word "special," her eyes full of suggestion.

Hamilton let out a lewd laugh. He understood such suggestions all too well.

Here, every "special blend" meant that tonight, he could feel like he was twenty again.

"Good! Good!" Hamilton threw his head back and downed the amber liquid in one gulp.

The spicy alcohol slid down his throat, immediately followed by a wave of heat rising from his lower abdomen.

That was the effect of a mixture of trace adrenaline and high-purity caffeine.

For an ordinary person, it was just a strong drink to wake them up.

But for an old man with severe arterial blockage who had just taken a large amount of sexual enhancement drugs, it was a one-way ticket.

"You, get out first." Hamilton panted heavily, waving her away.

He felt his heart beating fast, thump-thump-thump, as if someone were beating a drum inside his chest.

This feeling made him think he was full of power.

Nightingale retreated obediently, and the moment she closed the door, she glanced at her watch. The countdown had begun.

...

The cafe across the street.

Chen Mo sat by the window, a micro-earpiece in his ear.

The black coffee in front of him had gone cold, but he hadn't taken a single sip.

Heavy, labored breathing came through the earpiece, transmitted by the bug Nightingale had left at the bottom of the glass.

"Heart rate 140... 160..."

Chen Mo looked at the tactical watch on his wrist, the second hand ticking forward, tick by tick.

"Faster."

A woman's scream suddenly came through the earpiece, followed by the dull thud of a heavy object hitting the floor.

It was a dull sound, like a sack filled with sand falling from a height.

All breathing ceased abruptly.

Chen Mo set down his coffee cup and turned up the collar of his trench coat, which bore the "Department of Homeland Security" badge.

"Done."

He stood up, placed a few bills under the coffee cup, and pushed the door open to step into the rain.

...

The back door of the Red Velvet Club.

Two bodyguards in black suits were hauling a heavy, human-shaped object into an unmarked van.

The human-shaped object was wrapped in a thick carpet, with only a pair of feet wearing military boots exposed, the tips of the shoes still twitching unconsciously.

The club manager, a balding middle-aged man, was sweating profusely, wiping his forehead incessantly with a handkerchief.

"Hurry! Everyone, get a move on! Don't let anyone see!"

The manager hissed in a low voice, "If reporters take pictures of the Lieutenant General dying here, we'll all be fish food in the ocean by tomorrow!"

The rain was coming down hard, masking most of the sound. The bodyguards were scrambling to shove the carpet roll into the van.

"Is this how you treat your VIPs?" A cold voice suddenly cut through the rain.

The manager jumped, spinning around violently.

A black long-handled umbrella obscured the person's face; one could only see the sharply tailored black trench coat and the metallic badge on the chest reflecting the streetlight. Department of Homeland Security.

The manager's legs felt weak. While his place had some connections, it couldn't withstand the trouble caused by these intelligence agencies.

"Officer, we... we have a guest who got drunk, and we're just sending him home."

The manager forced a smile, shifting his body to the side in an attempt to block the carpet roll.

Chen Mo closed his umbrella, revealing a cold face.

He didn't look at the manager; his gaze went straight over the crowd and pinned onto the exposed military boots.

"Drunk?"

Chen Mo walked over, his leather shoes stepping into the puddle, splashing mud.

He reached out and flipped back a corner of the carpet.

Hamilton's purple-red face was revealed.

His eyes were wide open, pupils dilated, white foam hanging from his mouth; his expression was frozen between extreme terror and some eerie, ecstatic excitement.

"Is this what you call drunk?"

Chen Mo turned his head, his gaze scraping across the manager's face like a knife.

The manager fell to his knees with a thud.

"Officer! This really has nothing to do with us! He just... he just got over-excited..."

"Shut up."

Chen Mo pulled an ID card from his pocket and flashed it in front of the manager.

"Lieutenant General Hamilton is involved in an ongoing national security investigation. Who he contacted here, what he ate, what he said—all of it is now classified as Level One secrets."

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his waist and tossed them to the bodyguard nearby.

"Cuff yourself. And you all too." Chen Mo pointed at the thugs who were already stunned. "Get over to the wall and squat. Wait for my team to take over the scene."

That aura of someone in a position of power was too strong. That coldness, treating human lives like numbers, couldn't be faked.

The bodyguards looked at each other and finally obediently picked up the handcuffs. No one dared to question a Department of Homeland Security agent at a time like this, especially after a Lieutenant General had died.

Chen Mo watched these people squatting in a row against the wall and nodded with satisfaction.

He turned around and looked at the corpse again.

The rain hit Hamilton's face, his eyes wide in death, washing away the foam.

"Truly ugly," Chen Mo muttered. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on deliberately.

"Let me see exactly how much grease is hidden in that fat of yours."

He bent down and pressed his fingers against Hamilton's carotid artery, which was still warm. There was no pulse.

But that was exactly what he wanted. In his field of vision, the familiar translucent box with golden edges popped up.

[High-value target death detected: Lieutenant General / Deputy Director of Logistics Agency, Robert Hamilton]

[Time of death: 12 minutes ago] [Generating list of extractable Legacy...]

Chen Mo's pupils constricted slightly. Gold.

Although this old guy's character was as rotten as a pile of shit, his skin was indeed quite precious.

"Extract." He thought to himself.

A massive stream of information rushed into his mind through his fingertips. It wasn't just simple memories; it was countless procurement lists, coordinates of secret warehouses, and those shady arms-dealing networks.

And... the thing Chen Mo wanted most.

[Obtained Identity Trait (Gold): Shadow of The Pentagon (Logistics Branch)]

[Obtained Skill (Purple): Military Logistics Deployment Lv. MAX]

[Obtained Key Item Clue: Original Casualty List of the 75th Ranger Regiment (Hidden Location)]

Chen Mo closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the air, which smelled of rain.

The things that had appeared in his mind were rapidly reorganizing. The previously blurry military logistics network was now as clear in his mind as a freshly printed map.

Every node, every flow of funds, and even the names of every quartermaster who could be bribed were glowing red.

"So that's how it is."

Chen Mo opened his eyes and looked at the corpse on the ground, his eyes filled with amusement.

"No wonder Underwood wanted to sell you to me. You're no logistics officer; you're the head steward for this bunch of vampires."

Just then, the screech of brakes came from the mouth of the alley.

Several black SUVs rushed in, their headlights illuminating the dark alley brightly.

The car doors opened, and people wearing uniform tactical gear stepped out, holding short assault rifles. But these were not Chen Mo's men.

The man leading them wore a headset and scanned the area with a sinister gaze, finally landing on Chen Mo.

"DHS?" The man sneered, raising his muzzle slightly. "This case belongs to the Central Intelligence Agency. Leave the body and get lost."

Chen Mo slowly straightened up, took off his gloves, and tossed them onto Hamilton's face.

He looked at the leading Central Intelligence Agency agent, curled his mouth, and wore a dangerous expression.

Just received a big gift, and now someone is rushing to deliver experience points?

"What if I say no?"

Chen Mo's fingers rested lightly on the grip of the gun at his waist.