73: Chapter 73 Jessica is dead

The woman in the mirror was a stranger.

Her signature blonde hair was gone, replaced by a sharp, short black cut; the ends weren't even trimmed, clinging unevenly to her ears.

Two barely noticeable pieces of medical silicone were adhered to her cheekbones, altering the way light refracted off her face and making it look thinner and sharper.

Jessica Vance—no, now it was Elizabeth Wayne.

She tossed the scissors in her hand into the sink, watching a few strands of blonde hair swirl down the drain with the water.

The faucet was still running, the gushing sound drowning out the sirens on the street outside.

Chen Mo leaned against the doorframe, toying with the lighter he had scavenged from the dead sniper.

The lid clicked open and shut with a crisp sound.

"How is it?"

"Ugly." Elizabeth raised her head, looked at herself in the mirror, and tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Like a female drunk who's spent ten years hanging around cheap bars in Brooklyn."

"That's exactly right." Chen Mo put away the lighter.

"FBI Agent Jessica was the type of elite who would spend half an hour blow-drying her hair every day, but 'Nightingale' doesn't have that kind of time. In this circle, being pretty isn't worth anything; staying alive is."

Elizabeth didn't speak.

She bent down and dug a black leather jacket out of the tactical marching bag at her feet, pulling it on.

The jacket had likely been stripped off some dead man by Old George; there was a patched bullet hole on the left shoulder, and it reeked of stale tobacco.

She zipped it up and tucked a worn, paint-chipped glock 19 into the small of her back, her movements as practiced as if she had been doing it for half a lifetime.

"I've finished reading the files on that accountant."

She turned around, her voice raspy.

The integrity and reserve that belonged to a federal agent had completely vanished.

"He's been cooking the books for the Mafia in Los Angeles for three years, and he has a physical ledger recording all the capital flows.

The Mafia is holding him in a villa in Beverly Hills—nominally for protection, but in reality, it's house arrest."

Chen Mo pulled a photo from his pocket; it showed a balding, middle-aged man wearing glasses.

"His name is Harvey. Besides cooking the books, he's also a top-tier actuary. I want you to bring him out, alive."

"That villa has twelve bodyguards, working in two shifts."

Elizabeth took the photo, glanced at it, and shoved it into her pocket. "Even with George's fire support, a frontal assault wouldn't work."

"Who told you to assault it head-on?"

Chen Mo walked up to her and helped her pop the collar of the leather jacket, covering the small scar on the side of her neck.

"You are Nightingale. Nightingales don't break down doors; they slip in through the cracks in the windows."

Elizabeth looked at Chen Mo, who was standing right in front of her.

There was nothing in this man's eyes—no sympathy, no encouragement, only a cold, chilling scrutiny, as if he were inspecting a freshly sharpened knife to see if it was sharp enough.

"The security chief of that villa is named Tony, and he's a gambler."

Elizabeth spoke up suddenly. "He owes usurious loans in Las Vegas and has been looking for ways to sell out his employer's information lately."

Chen Mo raised an eyebrow.

"Looks like you weren't idle while doing your hair."

"I checked his social media accounts and dark web history."

Elizabeth reached into the pocket of her ill-fitting jeans and pulled out an unmarked USB drive.

"Give me fifty thousand dollars, and I'll go buy him off. Or give me a bullet, and I'll go pay off his debt for him."

Chen Mo smiled.

This time, his smile lacked the calculation that made one's spine tingle, and instead held a hint of satisfaction.

"George is waiting for you in the car downstairs; the cash you need is in the trunk."

Chen Mo stepped aside to clear a path for her. "Don't disappoint me, Elizabeth."

The woman didn't look back.

She strode out of the bathroom, her combat boots making dull thuds on the floor.

As she passed Chen Mo, she paused for half a second.

"Jessica is dead."

Her tone was as flat as if she were talking about the weather.

"I know." Chen Mo watched her silhouette disappear around the stairwell corner. "So now, no one can catch you."

The sound of a car engine starting came from downstairs.

Chen Mo walked to the window and pulled back a corner of the heavy curtain.

The black Chevrolet with fake license plates slowly drove into the night.

The rain had stopped, and the puddles on the road reflected the dim, yellow halos of the streetlights, looking like countless prying eyes.

He pulled the encrypted phone from his pocket; the screen displayed a newly received remittance notification.

It was the first "antidote" advance payment from the Rockefeller Family.

The number was long, with many zeros.

But in Chen Mo's eyes, it was just a string of digital code that could mobilize resources.

"Fed one wolf; now it's time to go put chains on the other dogs."

He muttered to himself, his fingers sliding across the screen to bring up the list extracted from Senator Gore's brain.