150: Chapter 150: Dead people's accounts are the best to use.

The rain was still falling, soaking the back alley visited only by trash cans and stray cats.

Facing the pitch-black muzzle, Chen Mo's fingers didn't reach for the gun at his waist; instead, he pulled a rain-soaked pack of cigarettes from his pocket, leisurely shook one out, and clamped it between his lips.

"The CIA certainly has a keen nose." Chen Mo lowered his head to light it, the flame flickering in the wind and rain.

"But the things stuck to this old man are likely too much for that body bag of yours, which can barely hold a few newspapers."

The lead agent didn't move, rainwater dripping from his rugged chin into his collar.

He stared at the Department of Homeland Security badge on Chen Mo's chest, his eyes filled with contempt, as if looking at some wild thing that had wandered into the wrong territory.

"This isn't a request." The agent clicked off the safety with a crisp sound. "Get out."

"Fine." Chen Mo exhaled a cloud of smoke and raised his hands, though the cigarette remained clamped between his fingers.

"The body is yours. But this is the Deputy Director of Logistics for The Pentagon, dead amidst a pile of Viagra and a naked woman. If The Washington Post asks tomorrow, I'll just say I tried my best, but the people from the CIA insisted on taking over the scene."

The corner of the agent's eye twitched.

It wasn't the body he cared about, but this mess.

Hamilton had died far too indecorously; once exposed, everyone involved would be skinned alive.

"Get in." The agent lowered his muzzle an inch and pointed at the truck disguised as a seafood transport vehicle.

"Before we reach the safe house, you'd better keep your mouth shut. If a single word leaks out, I'll stuff you inside Hamilton's stomach."

Chen Mo shrugged, stepped through the muddy water, and ducked into the narrow cargo hold.

The manager of the Red Velvet Club was huddled in the corner like a frightened quail, clutching the corner of the rug used to wrap the body.

Seeing Chen Mo climb in, he shuddered, nearly letting out a cry.

The door slammed shut, plunging the cargo hold into darkness, filled only with the murky smell of fish and the stench of alcohol and incontinence emanating from Hamilton's corpse.

The vehicle started, and the bumping caused the body to slide across the floor toward Chen Mo.

Chen Mo didn't dodge. He reached out and pressed his hand onto the cold head beneath the burial rug.

In the darkness, no one saw the golden light ignite in his eyes.

[Contacting Target: Hamilton (Deceased)]

[Identity Verification: High-Value Target]

[Extraction Initiated...]

A massive and chaotic stream of information instantly washed over Chen Mo's nerves.

It felt as if the entire archives of The Pentagon had been forcibly shoved into his brain.

Countless container numbers, shipping route maps, passwords for overseas secret accounts, and those black contracts that were only signed in cigar rooms late at night.

Chen Mo closed his eyes, digesting this heavy "Legacy" in the darkness.

[Skill Acquired (Purple): Master-Level Military Logistics]

[Item Acquired (Gold): The Pentagon Black Budget Accounts (Encrypted/Highest Access Level Granted)]

[Key Memory Fragment Acquired: Codename "Sandstorm II" Proxy War Plan]

Chen Mo's breathing stopped for half a second.

He saw it.

Deep within the sulci of Hamilton's gradually stiffening brain lay a shocking plan.

The so-called "Sandstorm II" was not for counter-terrorism at all, but for clearing out inventory.

Ares Industries.

This name appeared repeatedly in the memory fragments, like a greedy ghost.

They had produced too many missiles and armored vehicles that couldn't be sold; their warehouses were about to burst.

So they needed a war, an inventory-clearing operation paid for by the taxpayers.

And Hamilton was the one responsible for opening the floodgates.

"What are you doing?" The manager, huddled in the corner, suddenly spoke, his voice trembling uncontrollably. "You... aren't you afraid? That's a dead man."

Chen Mo opened his eyes. The light from streetlamps outside the vehicle swept through the cracks, illuminating his face and revealing a cold, grim smile.

"Dead men are the most honest."

Chen Mo let go and pulled out his phone. The blue light from the screen illuminated his rain-streaked face.

He dialed Jack's number.

"Listen, whatever you're doing, stop." Chen Mo's voice was low, but terrifyingly clear in the enclosed cargo hold.

"I'm sending you a set of account credentials and dynamic passwords now. This is the highest-level access account belonging to that old ghost, Hamilton."

The sound of Jack frantically typing on his keyboard came from the other end of the line.

"Boss, this is the military intranet... God, this access level is terrifyingly high! What do you want me to do? Look at nuclear launch codes?"

"Nothing so boring." Chen Mo glanced at the corpse at his feet.

"Go to the procurement system. Ares Industries has a bid proposal for next-generation light tactical vehicles; it should be in Hamilton's pending approval list."

"That's a top-secret document..."

"Not anymore." Chen Mo said coldly. "The old guy's death certificate won't be entered into the system for another two hours. Until then, he is still the Deputy Director with tens of billions in budget. Download that bid proposal, and leave a backdoor in their system."

"Understood. Give me three minutes."

Hanging up, Chen Mo turned to look at the manager.

The manager was trembling as he pulled a gold watch from his pocket—a limited edition Patek Philippe with diamonds embedded in the dial.

"Of... officer." The manager handed over the watch, his teeth chattering. "I picked this up from his pocket. It's yours, it's all yours. I didn't hear anything, really."

Chen Mo didn't take the watch. He reached out, grabbed the manager by the collar, and hauled him up in front of his face.

"I don't need a watch." Chen Mo stared into the manager's fear-filled eyes. "I want your place."

"W-what?"

"The Red Velvet Club." Chen Mo straightened the manager's crumpled bowtie, his movements as gentle as if he were handling fragile porcelain.

"From today on, it belongs to me. All the cameras, all the recording equipment, must be replaced by my people. Whatever the generals and congressmen who come to drink say or do, I want to know."

The manager's face turned deathly pale. "Th-that's impossible, the boss will kill me..."

"Why do you think that CIA agent didn't kill you to silence you just now?"

Chen Mo patted the manager's cheek. "Because I vouched for you. But if you think your boss is more terrifying than me..."

Chen Mo pointed at Hamilton at his feet.

"You can go down and keep him company. This cargo hold is quite spacious; it won't be crowded with one more."

The manager looked at the corpse, then at Chen Mo's cold, lifeless eyes.

He finally understood that he wasn't facing some law enforcement officer, but a predator more vicious than any of those politicians.

"I... I'll do as you say." The manager slumped down.

The vehicle braked sharply.

The rear door was pulled open, and the torrential rain poured in again. The agent stood outside and waved impatiently. "Get out. Your ride is over."

Chen Mo jumped out and straightened the hem of his trench coat.

"Thanks." He waved at the agent. "By the way, the old guy's zipper is down; remember to make him look decent."

The agent cursed something, then slammed the door shut.

Chen Mo stood on the side of the road, watching the truck loaded with billions in secrets disappear into the rain. His phone vibrated—a message from Jack.

[Done. The bid proposal has been sent to Ava. Also, Ares Industries' quote is $240 million.]

Chen Mo smiled. He hailed a taxi in the rain.

"Georgetown, safe house."

Twenty minutes later.

Chen Mo pushed open the door to the safe house and tossed the still-hot phone onto the table.

Ava was sitting on the sofa wrapped in a blanket, with three laptops in front of her, the screens filled with dense data.

"Take a look at this." Chen Mo took off his soaked trench coat and threw it on the floor. "The cards Ares Industries is holding."

Ava picked up the phone and quickly browsed through the stolen bid proposal.

A few seconds later, she looked up abruptly, her eyes filled with disbelief.

"This... is this tomorrow's bid proposal?" Her voice trembled slightly with excitement.

"They've monopolized almost all the technical parameters. If we quote according to standard procedures, we won't have a chance."

"Which is why we aren't following standard procedures." Chen Mo walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

"Hamilton is dead, and Ares Industries has lost their man on the bench. Now, all we have to do is muddy the waters."

He raised his glass, looking at Ava through the amber liquid.

"Change our quote to 238.8 million. Just 0.5% lower than theirs."

"0.5%?" Ava frowned. "That price difference isn't enough to make them switch suppliers."

"No, that price difference is to humiliate them." Chen Mo downed the drink, the spicy liquid burning down his throat, dispelling the chill from the morgue.

"And the real killing blow will be at tomorrow's hearing."

"Oh, right." Ava suddenly remembered something. "The Ares representative for tomorrow's hearing has been changed. Look at this name."

She turned the computer screen around.

In the competitor column, a surname that was not unfamiliar to Chen Mo was clearly written.

[Robert Rockefeller (Ares Industries · Special Consultant)]

Chen Mo looked at the name, the smile on his lips deepening.

"A side-branch mad dog of the Rockefeller Family?" He put down his glass and tapped his fingers lightly on the table.

"It seems I won't have to go collect a body this time. Someone has delivered their own coffin to my doorstep."