54: Chapter 54 Don't rush, send them an email first.

The heavy rain drenched the industrial park in Queens, making it look like a giant, abandoned aquarium.

The black Chevrolet Suburban had its engine cut, parked in the shadows of a pile of rusted shipping containers.

The windshield wipers were frozen on one side, and rainwater snaked down the glass, blurring the searchlight from the cold storage facility in the distance into patches of hazy, pale light.

Inside the car, there was only the buzzing sound of the laptop fan running at full speed.

Chen Mo rested the military-grade rugged laptop on his knees; the cold light from the screen made his face flicker between light and shadow.

He wasn't in a hurry to get out, his fingers tapping out a meaningless rhythm on the keyboard, as if playing a silent piano piece.

"What are you doing?" George was in the backseat checking the detonator of the bag of C4 explosives, still chewing on his unlit cigar. "We're here to kill people, not to mooch off the WiFi."

"Killing requires a bit of foreplay." Chen Mo didn't turn his head, his finger hovering over the Enter key for a second before he tapped it lightly.

The red "Access Denied" pop-up on the screen flickered once, then instantly turned a delightful green.

[Access Point Confirmed: Queens 4th Cold Chain Transit Station]

[Network Level: Class B Encryption]

[Uplink: Potomac River Underground Facility (Unit-734)]

Chen Mo's lips curled up. As expected, all the Ouroboros nests were connected.

"George, this place isn't just a cold storage facility."

Chen Mo adjusted his seating position, pulled a cigarette from his trench coat pocket, and tucked it behind his ear.

"This is their data transit station. That guy called the Butcher is a bit more important than I imagined."

He had just used the [Advanced Engineering] knowledge dug out of that unlucky contractor's brain to construct the standard weaknesses of such underground bunkers in his mind.

The corners of the ventilation ducts, the routing of the backup power lines, and even the locations of the server room cooling vents were as clear as blueprints.

But that wasn't enough.

Chen Mo switched interfaces and activated [Hacking Mastery].

If you don't knock on the door loud enough to shake the sky, how can you show the guest's enthusiasm?

"I'm going to scout the sentries." George slung the backpack containing the C4 over his shoulder and pushed open the car door.

The cold, damp air flooded into the car instantly. "Give me ten minutes. If I'm not back, drive off and get lost."

"Five minutes." Chen Mo stared at the screen. "In five minutes, I'll make them blind."

George snorted, pulled his hoodie over his head, and scurried into the rain like an old rat, disappearing into the shadows of the containers in the blink of an eye.

Chen Mo retracted his gaze and refocused on the screen.

Now, only he and the invisible Ouroboros remained here.

He didn't choose a brute-force attack.

For a security system of this level, a brute-force attack would only trigger an alarm and cut the physical connection.

He chose a more elegant and insidious method.

[Thousand-Faced Deceiver] activated.

A strange sensation flowed through Chen Mo's nerve endings.

At this moment, he was no longer an intruder; every byte his fingers typed carried the scent of "one of their own."

He simulated the digital fingerprint of a higher-level authorization, disguising himself as a routine data inspector from the Washington headquarters.

This was the chemical reaction between [Hacking Mastery] and [Thousand-Faced Deceiver]—it didn't just fool people; it could even fool the logic of machines.

The data stream on the screen instantly became docile.

Chen Mo was like a landlord with a master key, swaggering in and pushing open the door to the cold storage's internal surveillance system.

The images popped up.

Sixteen split screens covered every corner of the cold storage.

In the hallway, two men in blue work uniforms were pushing a cart covered by a tarp, from which a pale arm protruded.

In the loading area, four armed guards were gathered around a table playing cards, with Uzi submachine guns resting by their feet.

And in the deepest office, Chen Mo saw the so-called Butcher.

He was a man as fat as a mountain of flesh, wearing a greasy white butcher's apron. He was facing away from the camera, wielding a boning knife and venting his energy on a piece of pork—or perhaps some other kind of meat—hanging from an iron hook.

"Looks like he's got plenty of energy." Chen Mo commented softly.

His fingers slid across the touchpad, the cursor hovering over the "System Maintenance" option.

Since he was here, he had to say hello.

Chen Mo entered a line of commands.

It wasn't to cut the power, nor to lock the doors.

Those methods were too low-level and would easily make the opponent wary, like a trapped beast.

What he wanted to be was a ghost.

Command sent.

The next second, all sixteen surveillance screens flickered simultaneously.

The previously clear images began to show large areas of snow and static; the figures in the footage were stretched and distorted, and the audio turned into grating electronic interference.

It was like the signal interference in those old horror movies.

This interference lasted only three seconds before returning to normal.

Ten seconds later, there was another bout of interference.

This irregular, glitchy malfunction was the best way to torture one's nerves.

Chen Mo watched the guards in the surveillance footage start anxiously tapping their walkie-talkies, and watched the Butcher stop what he was doing, looking up suspiciously at the flickering ceiling lights.

This was the seed of fear.

It wasn't over yet.

Chen Mo opened a new window.

It was an internal encrypted email address extracted from the contractor's memory fragments, leading directly to the person in charge of Washington Stronghold No. 3.

He didn't need long-winded threats or to demand a ransom.

For these rats hiding in the gutters, the greatest fear is being exposed to the sunlight.

Chen Mo typed a short line of text in the body of the email:

[The sample from Unit-734 is not very stable. I suggest reinforcing the ventilation system in Area B of Stronghold No. 3. Also, your dog in Queens is barking too loudly.]

There was no signature.

In the attachment, he pasted a high-definition screenshot he had just taken of the Butcher's greasy face, and with a red brush, drew a large X on his forehead.

Send.

The progress bar reached the end, displaying "Send Successful."

Chen Mo closed the laptop; the thrill of controlling everything made his pupils contract slightly.

This email would be like a stone thrown into a calm lake; the people in Washington would probably have a sleepless night.

They would speculate, conduct internal investigations, and panic.

And this chaos was Chen Mo's favorite camouflage.

The car window was tapped twice lightly.

Chen Mo turned his head; George's face, drenched pale by the rain, was pressed against the glass, scarier than a ghost.

He rolled down the window.

"Done." George wiped the water off his face, his voice very low.

"Those idiots buried the sensor lines in the drainage ditch. I've already cut the perimeter alarm system. But there are tough nuts inside; I can't see inside."

"I can." Chen Mo stuffed the computer into his bag and unplugged the connection cable.

"There are twelve people inside, four submachine guns, and the rest have pistols. The fat guy is in the innermost freezer."

George was stunned for a moment, then glanced at the laptop, which had already gone dark, and grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth: "Did you even see what color underwear they're wearing?"

"I didn't notice that." Chen Mo pushed open the car door, his feet stepping into the muddy water, splashing up a black spray. "But we'll be able to see soon enough."

He adjusted the collar of his trench coat and pulled his wide-brimmed hat down, covering most of his face.

The rain was still falling, and it was getting heavier.

"Let's go, George." Chen Mo drew the M1911 from the small of his back and racked the slide. The movement was fluid, carrying a strange rhythm from having just fused a skill. "The email has been sent; now it's time to deliver the attachment."

George followed behind him, holding the modified Remington shotgun, looking at the young man's back.

He didn't know if it was an illusion, but he felt that Chen Mo was even more dangerous now than he had been in the car.

Just a moment ago, he was a cold, venomous snake; now, the snake had bared its fangs.

"What did you send them?" George couldn't help but ask.

The two walked to the rusty side door of the cold storage. Chen Mo stopped, listening to the faint sound of heavy metal music coming from inside.

"Nothing." Chen Mo raised his foot and kicked the iron door hard. "Just telling them that the Corpse Collector has arrived for his shift."

Boom!

The iron door collapsed with a roar under the immense impact. In that instant, the M1911 in Chen Mo's hand and George's shotgun spat fire simultaneously.

The gunfire illuminated the pitch-black rainy night and also lit up the cold smile on the corner of Chen Mo's mouth.

If the hacking intrusion just now was a silent declaration of war, then the current gunfire was the Grim Reaper's knock on the door.