72: Chapter 72 Clearing the Card Table

The rain finally stopped.

The early morning in Washington D.C. was shrouded in a thin mist.

The sound of sirens was much less frequent than last night, replaced by the rumbling of National Guard armored vehicles patrolling the streets.

On the TV news, the President's press secretary was reading a statement to the camera with a look of profound grief.

"...Following a joint investigation by the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security, we regret to announce that former Senator Patrick Gore was the primary mastermind behind this horrific biochemical attack.

Evidence shows that, with his long-standing corrupt activities about to be exposed, he frantically colluded with overseas terrorist forces, attempting to cover up his crimes by creating chaos..."

The screen cut away, and a photo of Patrick Gore from before his death was enlarged, accompanied by a pixelated image of his gruesome death during the riots.

"That is a perfect scapegoat."

Inside the safe house in Brooklyn, Chen Mo held a cup of instant coffee, watching the projection on the wall.

"Too perfect." Old George was sharpening a knife nearby; it was a tactical dagger he had been accustomed to using during his time as a "Cleaner."

"Patrick Gore is dead, and dead men tell no tales. The public's rage has an outlet, the government saved face, the Rockefeller Family obtained the vaccine technology, and even Ouroboros retreated safely."

"Ouroboros didn't retreat; they just severed their tail." Chen Mo took a sip of coffee, the bitter taste spreading in his mouth. "Look at this news."

He pressed the remote, and an inconspicuous news ticker scrolled at the bottom of the screen: [The Pentagon announces the suspension of cooperation with three defense contractors, and the relevant personnel are undergoing internal review.]

"Those three companies are all peripheral tentacles of Ouroboros." Chen Mo pointed at the screen.

"The 'Old Man' sitting behind the scenes is very decisive. He knows I have Patrick Gore's brain in my hands, and he knows what would happen if that list were exposed. So, before I could make a move, he cut those lines himself."

"A warrior cutting off his own arm?"

"It's a gecko severing its tail." Chen Mo sneered.

"This also means we are safe in Washington for the time being. They are like frightened turtles right now, having retreated into their shells. Before this storm blows over, they won't dare to make any big moves."

"Then how do you plan to spend that two hundred million dollars?" George held up the sharpened knife and blew on it against the light. "Buy an island and retire?"

"In the eyes of real players, two hundred million dollars is just enough to buy a ticket."

Chen Mo put down the cup and walked over to the computer in the corner of the room.

The screen was densely packed with dozens of windows, showing the flow of funds that Jack Martin was operating.

"Thirty million will be kept as liquid funds." Chen Mo's fingers tapped on the keyboard.

"Send fifty million to Jack, have him go to Silicon Valley and Boston to acquire a few big data startups for me. I want the kind of algorithms that can analyze what a person had for breakfast from their social media and consumption records."

"You want to build an intelligence network?"

"In this country, privacy is a joke. As long as I have enough data, I can calculate where the 'Old Man' wants to take a dump next."

Chen Mo entered a string of commands. "I will use the remaining money to build the skeleton of 'Legacy'."

"The skeleton?"

"We have police identities in New York, Jack as a white glove on Wall Street, and nothing yet in Los Angeles. But that's not enough."

Chen Mo pulled up a map of the United States, marked with several red dots.

"We need more professional violent organizations, more secretive transport channels, and... our own network of safe houses."

"You want to start a private CIA?" George raised an eyebrow.

"Better than that." Chen Mo turned around and looked at the figure who had been sitting silently in the corner. "The CIA has rules; we don't."

The shadow in the corner moved.

Jessica Vance... no, she should be called "Nightingale" now.

She sat there holding a pair of scissors, with her long golden hair scattered across the floor at her feet.

"Patrick Gore is dead." Her voice was hoarse, as if smoked.

"But I watched the news last night, and that National Guard colonel who ordered the lockdown at the biology building was promoted today."

"That's a bone the 'Old Man' threw to a loyal dog." Chen Mo said.

"I want to kill him."

"You can." Chen Mo answered quickly. "But not now, and not with a gun."

He walked up to Jessica and looked down at her.

"Killing someone is too easy; that's what a butcher does. What I want you to do is make him lose everything, ruin his reputation, and make him beg you to kill him in despair. That is the way of 'Legacy's' revenge."

Jessica looked up.

Those eyes, once filled with a sense of justice and inner struggle, were now like a pool of stagnant water, deep and bottomless.

"Teach me." She said.

Chen Mo picked up a document from the table and tossed it onto her lap.

"This is your first mission. Not to kill, but to save someone."

"Save who?"

"An accountant who can help us launder all our dirty money and help us spin lies into truths in Hollywood."

Chen Mo's mouth curved into an arc. "He's being held by the Mafia in Los Angeles. Bring him back."

Jessica grabbed the document and stood up.

"If you walk out now, you'll be recognized." George interjected from the side. "The FBI wanted poster hasn't been withdrawn yet, even though it says 'Confirmed Deceased'."

Jessica didn't speak.

She picked up the tactical dagger from the table and walked to the dust-covered mirror.