69: Chapter 69 This is the hell you wanted.

The rainy night in Washington was like a giant meat grinder, shredding light, sound, and hope into pieces.

A gray Ford sedan with fake license plates swerved crazily across Route 66, its engine roaring in protest.

Patrick Gore sat in the back seat, clutching a briefcase filled with cash and fake passports.

His meticulously styled silver hair was now a mess, and his expensive custom suit was soaked with sweat, clinging to his back and emitting a sour stench.

"Faster! Faster!" Patrick Gore roared at the driver in the front seat. "Those damn FBI agents will have the state line locked down in five minutes!"

The driver was a burly Mexican man with a fleshy face, a criminal getaway driver whom Patrick Gore had bribed with a large sum of money.

He ignored Patrick Gore's roaring, constantly checking the rearview mirror, his cheeks bulging as he chewed gum.

"Shut up, boss." The driver jerked the steering wheel, the car tilting violently as it squeezed past the edge of a tanker truck.

"Unless you want us to turn into a pile of scrap metal, stop yelling while I'm driving."

Patrick Gore shrank back into his seat, gasping for air. He tremblingly took out his phone from his pocket, the screen displaying "No Signal."

Damn it.

He pulled out the SIM card and swapped it for a spare one, the emergency contact number given to him by "The Old Man."

The call connected, but there was only a busy signal.

He dialed again, but it was still a busy signal.

Patrick Gore's heart felt like it was being gripped by an icy hand.

Since two hours ago, he hadn't been able to contact anyone from "The Council."

That contact who had once promised to ensure he could live like a king in South America had vanished into thin air.

"They've abandoned you."

A voice suddenly echoed in his mind—not a hallucination, but a moment of clarity born from extreme fear.

Just then, the driver's phone rang.

It wasn't a ringtone, but a piercing alarm alert.

Immediately after, the brake lights of all the cars in the surrounding lanes lit up almost simultaneously.

The red taillights merged into one, like a flowing river of lava, completely blocking the road ahead.

"Fuck." The driver slammed on the brakes, and the Ford slid for over a dozen meters on the wet, slippery road, barely stopping behind the bumper of a pickup truck.

"Did something happen up ahead?"

Patrick Gore lunged toward the window.

This wasn't a traffic accident.

The electronic billboard on the side of the road flickered twice; the Coca-Cola advertisement that had been playing disappeared, replaced by a huge, clear photo.

In the photo, Patrick Gore was receiving a briefcase with a beaming smile. Next to it was a line of bold, blood-red text:

[WANTED: Patrick Gore. The mastermind behind the Georgetown biochemical attack. This is the traitor who sold out your lives.]

Below it was a line of real-time scrolling subtitles: [Eyewitness Report: Suspect is in a gray Ford, license plate KJD592, fleeing west along Route 66. Current location: Two miles east of the Fairfax exit.]

The blood in Patrick Gore's body froze instantly. He jerked his head to look out the window.

The owner of the pickup truck next to them was rolling down his window, holding his phone and comparing it to the billboard, and then, the man's gaze shifted, locking firmly onto Patrick Gore's face.

There was no curiosity in that gaze, only the raw, violent rage of a beast spotting its prey.

"He's there!" The pickup owner pushed open his door and roared, pointing at the Ford. "That bastard who killed our children is right there!"

This shout was like lighting a powder keg.

The crowd, already irritable from the traffic jam, instantly boiled over.

Some jumped out of their cars, some pulled baseball bats from their trunks, and some were even holding wrenches.

Anger spread faster than a virus on this rainy night; it was pure violence transformed from the fear of death.

"Drive! Ram through! Ram through!" Patrick Gore screamed, his voice as shrill as a rat with its tail stepped on.

The driver glanced at the surging black mass of people outside, then looked at the old man in the back seat who had already broken down.

He spat out his gum, turned off the engine, pulled out the car keys, and pushed open the door.

"Where are you going? I paid you!" Patrick Gore lunged forward, trying to grab the driver.

"You need your life to spend money." The driver kicked Patrick Gore in the chest, knocking him back into his seat. "I'm not doing this job anymore."

The moment the door closed, the first rock shattered the rear windshield.

On an overpass a few kilometers away.

Chen Mo stood by the railing, rainwater streaming down his black raincoat.

He held a military tablet, the screen displaying real-time surveillance footage of Route 66.

In the footage, the gray Ford looked like a dead bug surrounded by a swarm of ants.

"This is a bit... too cruel." Jessica stood behind him, her glock already loaded, but she couldn't find a target to shoot.

This was no longer law enforcement; this was lynching, a riot.

"Cruel?" Chen Mo didn't turn his head, his fingers sliding across the screen to zoom in the camera.

"Think about those students in the hospital whose lungs dissolved. Think about that homeless man who was burned to death like a lab rat in a laboratory. Compared to them, this senator is dying quite a spectacular death."

"He will die at the hands of the mob."

"No." Chen Mo shook his head, his eyes cold.

"The 'Council' won't allow him to fall into the hands of the public, and even less will they allow him to fall into the hands of the police. The living can talk; only the dead will keep their mouths shut."

In the surveillance footage, Patrick Gore's car door was ripped open by force.

Hands reached inside, tearing at his suit and clawing at his face.

The briefcase was overturned, and colorful banknotes fluttered in the heavy rain and mud, but no one went to pick up the money.

People only wanted his life.

Patrick Gore huddled in the corner of the seat, his face covered in blood.

He was crying and begging for mercy, but his voice was drowned out by the deafening curses.

Suddenly, a man wearing a hoodie squeezed into the crowd.

The man moved agilely, slipping to the car door like a fish.

Chen Mo's pupils contracted slightly: "Here it comes."

The man in the hoodie didn't attack anyone; he just took advantage of the chaos to shove something into Patrick Gore's hand, then whispered something into Patrick Gore's ear.

Patrick Gore froze. He looked at the black snub-nosed revolver in his hand, then looked up again at the back of the figure rapidly disappearing into the crowd.

That was the ultimatum given to him by the "Cleaner."

If he was captured alive, his family, his overseas mistress, and his illegitimate children would all be buried with him.

If he left with dignity himself, those people could still live.

These were the rules of the game.

Patrick Gore raised the gun with trembling hands.

Through the broken car window, he took one last look at this rainy night.

No flashbulbs, no red carpet, only twisted faces filled with hatred.

"Did you see clearly?" Chen Mo said softly to Jessica behind him, "This is the hell you wanted."

Bang.

In the surveillance footage, Patrick Gore's head exploded like a ripe watermelon, and red and white matter sprayed all over the car roof.

The crowd fell silent for a second, then erupted into even more intense clamor.

Chen Mo closed the tablet and turned to walk toward the black SUV parked in the shadows.

"Let's go." He opened the car door. "The show is over; time to collect the body."

"Collect the body?" Jessica paused for a moment. "How can you collect the body in that situation? There are at least hundreds of people surrounding it now, and the SWAT team will be there soon."

"Who said I was going to carry the body back?" Chen Mo sat in the driver's seat and started the engine. "I'm just going to retrieve my payment."