158: Chapter 158 Only the living can eat steak

The night sky over Washington was cut to pieces by searchlights.

In the maze-like concrete corridors of The Pentagon, footsteps sounded exceptionally hollow.

Chen Mo walked in front, with General Marshall half a step behind.

The crisp electronic sound in his mind finally stopped.

[System upgrade complete. Current level: Lv.5]

[New module unlocked: Faction Aura.]

[Current effect: All units under your command determined to be loyal gain a 10% increase in all attributes. Allies within the aura's coverage area have their betrayal threshold significantly increased.]

Chen Mo felt different.

That feeling was hard to describe in words; it was as if beads that had been scattered on the ground were suddenly strung together by an invisible thread.

He could vaguely sense that thousands of kilometers away in Country K, those veterans from Legacy Defense were wiping down gun oil; in an office in New York, Jack Martin was staring at the data stream on his screen.

That was his web.

"Chen, this way." Marshall's voice interrupted his thoughts.

The old general pointed to a mahogany door at the end of the corridor.

There were no guards at the door, but that in itself spoke volumes.

This was no ordinary conference room; it was where those old men who controlled America's war machine carved up the cake in private.

"Is this the family dinner you spoke of?" Chen Mo stopped and adjusted his cuffs. "I thought there would at least be roast turkey."

"Something more substantial than turkey." Marshall avoided Chen Mo's gaze and reached out to push open the door. "Or perhaps, harder to digest."

The room was filled with smoke.

Four men sat around a long mahogany dining table.

They weren't wearing military uniforms, but the stench of arrogance cultivated by years of issuing orders could be smelled from two meters away.

The Army Chief of Staff, the Deputy Chief of Naval Operations, and two lieutenant generals with real power in charge of overseas bases.

Added to Marshall, these five people gathered together were enough to start World War III.

"Punctual." Army Chief of Staff McNeil, sitting at the head of the table, tapped the table; his voice sounded like it was striking tank armor.

"Sit down, young man. I hear you like your steak rare."

Chen Mo pulled out a chair and sat down.

On the plate in front of him lay a steak, blood seeping along the grain and staining the white porcelain plate red. Beside it lay a sharp silver dinner knife.

"Jack." Chen Mo didn't touch his knife and fork, but spoke to the air instead.

No one responded. But the micro-communicator in his ear flashed a green light.

"Let me introduce my insurance mechanism to you generals." Chen Mo leaned back in his chair, pulled a lighter from his pocket, and lit a cigarette.

"I've set up a dead-man's switch. If I don't input a specific biometric password within two hours, a data packet containing that recording of General Marshall, as well as all of Ares Industries' illegal accounts in Country K, will automatically be sent to The Wall Street Journal, The White House office, and…"

He blew out a ring of smoke, looking at McNeil's face, which was covered in age spots.

"And all of your political rivals."

The atmosphere in the room instantly turned cold.

McNeil's hand, cutting the steak, stopped in mid-air; the knife made a harsh, screeching noise against the plate.

"Are you threatening a general of America?" The Deputy Chief of Naval Operations sneered, his hand already reaching for his waist.

"In this room, it would only take a minute to classify you as a terrorist."

"Don't move." Chen Mo flicked the ash from his cigarette. "This is The Pentagon, not a bar in Texas. Your gun might be fast, but my data transmission is faster. And…"

Chen Mo picked up the dinner knife and cut hard into the bloody steak.

"And, I bet you can't afford to let Ares Industries' two-hundred-billion-dollar annual market collapse completely."

McNeil narrowed his eyes.

"Ares Industries is a core supplier for the Department of Defense. If you bring down Robert, we can just find another agent. But you, an outsider, have overreached."

"An agent? You mean those lunatics from Ouroboros?"

Chen Mo speared a piece of beef, put it in his mouth, and chewed.

"They take the lion's share and leave you only the soup. Look at the ledgers from Country K; Robert made ten billion by manufacturing war, how much was shared with everyone present? Five percent? Or even less?"

He pulled a USB drive from his inner suit pocket and slid it across the smooth tabletop.

The USB drive spun and stopped precisely in front of McNeil.

"This is the smuggling record for Ares Industries over the past five years." Chen Mo's voice was soft, yet it hammered onto the table like a gavel.

"Behind your backs, they sold decommissioned Patriot missiles to armed groups in the Middle East. Those missiles almost bombed your base in Syria last month."

McNeil grabbed the USB drive, his expression terrifyingly dark.

"Ouroboros is a greedy snake; it even eats its own tail."

Chen Mo put down his knife and fork and picked up his napkin to wipe the corners of his mouth. "I'm different. I believe in win-win business."

"Legacy Defense can take over the mess Ares left behind."

Chen Mo held up three fingers.

"First, I don't do human experimentation, and I won't cause you any human rights trouble.

Second, for all military outsourcing contracts, I only want sixty percent of the profits; the remaining forty percent will be legally converted into 'speaking fees' or 'consulting fees' for you after you retire, via overseas offshore trusts."

"Third."

Chen Mo stood up, bracing his hands on the table and leaning forward; that invisible sense of oppression instantly enveloped the entire dining table.

"I am the one who cleans up your mess, not the one who will stab you in the back. Unless… someone wants to stab me first."

The room was deathly quiet.

There was only the humming sound of the exhaust fan.

The generals exchanged glances. That look was one Chen Mo was very familiar with—it was the look of greed and fear wrestling on a scale.

Ares Industries was already a mess.

Robert was dead, and that mysterious Ouroboros organization had never given them any real respect, only demands.

And this young man before them held both the knife and the cake.

One minute.

Two minutes.

McNeil finally moved. He gripped the USB drive in his palm and raised the red wine glass in front of him.

"Marshall is right." A stiff smile squeezed onto the old general's face.

"Young people are indeed more driven. America's peace needs fresh blood."

The other three generals also lifted their glasses one after another.

Chen Mo smiled.

He didn't raise his glass, but instead picked up the pack of cigarettes on the table and turned to walk toward the door.

"This steak is too rare; remember to cook it well next time. After all, only the living can digest things that are bloody."

The door closed behind him.

In the corridor, Marshall chased after him, his face pale and his forehead covered in cold sweat.

"Are you crazy? If McNeil had given the order just now…"

"He wouldn't." Chen Mo didn't stop walking. "Because he wants that villa in Florida even more than you do.

Marshall, remember this: in this world, there is no loyalty that cannot be bought, only the wrong price tag."

The moment he stepped out of The Pentagon, a cold wind hit his face.

The rain had stopped.

Chen Mo looked back at the massive pentagonal building behind him.

In the night, it looked like a silent tomb, burying countless secrets and consciences.

Now, he held the shovel.

A black lincoln sedan was already parked at the bottom of the steps. Jack sat in the driver's seat, the engine roaring.

Chen Mo's hand, reaching for the car door, stopped in mid-air.

A man in an old trench coat walked out of the shadows.

It was an old man. His hair was gray and messy like a bunch of withered grass, and he held a poorly rolled cigarette in his hand.

But his eyes were terrifyingly bright, like an eagle circling in the darkness.

"Mr. Chen Mo?"

The old man's voice was hoarse, carrying a heavy scent of tobacco.

"I'm Hopkins. From the FBI's Cold Case Unit. I want to talk to you about that ledger from Las Vegas... or, perhaps, talk about your female subordinate who came back from the dead?"

Chen Mo's fingers tapped lightly on the car door handle twice.

Interesting.

Just finished dealing with a pack of wolves, and now a sharp-nosed old dog has arrived.