21: Chapter 21 Madda's Eyes

New York, Midtown Manhattan.

Maida Group headquarters building, 47th floor, Victor Hamon's office.

A $120,000 Italian leather office chair silently supported the body of this pharmaceutical emperor.

In front of him, an 8K curved screen displayed a report with the title marked in bold red font: "Confidential — Competitor Intelligence Analysis".

The report was signed by Lane Black, the head of Maida Group's Corporate Security and Competitive Intelligence Department, a tough character poached by Victor Hamon three years ago from the CIA's Operations Directorate with a $4 million annual salary.

Hamon's gaze swept over the complex charts and finally rested on the conclusion section.

"ruisu."

He tapped the word on the screen lightly with his finger.

The core content of the report hit Maida Group's softest underbelly like bullets:

The Hua Federation CNDA, the National Medical Products Administration, approved the emergency use authorization for an imported drug two weeks ago.

The applicant, the Hua Federation pharmaceutical giant, Jinghua Pharmaceutical.

The original developer, a micro-company named "Maple Leaf Bio" in Los Angeles, California, U Federation.

Clinical data showed that the analgesic efficacy of the drug was twenty times that of Maida's flagship product, "Tylenol Extra Strength". The anti-inflammatory efficiency was fifteen times that of another star product, "Celebrex".

The most lethal point was: no addiction, no drug resistance.

At the end of the report, Blake, using the emotionless tone typical of a former intelligence officer, attached three evaluation opinions:

1. If the data for ruisu is true, its pharmacological mechanism will constitute a paradigm shift in the pharmaceutical field. Translated, this means: this thing is a dimensional strike.

2. The two major product lines under Maida Group, "Tylenol" and "Celebrex", with a combined annual sales of $3.1 billion, will suffer a direct and devastating impact.

3. A large sum of capital has recently been injected into Maple Leaf Bio from an obscure source, ultimately pointing to a trust account of an old local family in Los Angeles.

After reading the report, Victor Hamon slowly took off his reading glasses and placed them on the calfskin-covered desk.

He began to rhythmically and slowly tap the desk with his index finger knuckle.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The office was so quiet that the faint sound of the central air conditioning vent could be heard.

In his sixty-two years of life experience, from a street thug in Brooklyn to the head of a pharmaceutical empire with a market value of $500 billion, the most important lesson Victor Hamon had learned was: what can truly bite you to death is never the competitors shaking hands with you in suits on the stage, but the things crawling out of the sewer that you haven't even heard the names of.

Rats, or something else.

He picked up the internal communication phone on the desk and dialed Blake's number.

The call was answered almost instantly.

"Lane." Victor Hamon's voice was calm and waveless.

"Boss."

"I want all the information on that founder of Maple Leaf Bio." Victor Hamon gave the first order, "Within forty-eight hours. His academic background, social connections, the source of every cent—I want to know if he likes donuts or sandwiches for breakfast."

"Understood."

"Second," Victor Hamon's knuckle stopped its tapping, "I want the complete formula and production process for ruisu."

Blake on the other end of the phone was silent for two seconds, then asked: "Commercial means first?"

This was jargon. It meant to try to solve it with money first, such as initiating an acquisition, proposing technical cooperation, or using patent litigation to harass.

"Of course." A cold curve appeared on the corner of Victor Hamon's mouth, "We are decent people. But if decent methods don't work..."

He paused, letting the chill travel through the line.

"Then take the gray channels."

Blake's voice remained calm: "The specific authorization boundaries for the gray channels?"

Victor Hamon leaned back in his chair, looking at the skyscrapers of Manhattan outside the window; in his eyes, those buildings were just piles of blocks built with money and power.

He said only one sentence.

"I want results. Unlimited budget. Leave no fingerprints."

...

Forty-eight hours later, a new report appeared on Victor Hamon's desk. This time, it was a printed hard copy that could be sent directly to the shredder after reading.

The content of the report was concise and clear.

Chen Feng, twenty-four years old, ethnic Chinese, born in Los Angeles. His parents were first-generation immigrants who died in a car accident, leaving him a nearly bankrupt Maple Leaf Biopharmaceutical Company. His resume was as clean as a blank sheet of paper; he graduated with a master's degree in biology from the University of Los Angeles and had no outstanding academic achievements.

But within three months, this person, this company, popped up like a ghost.

The report also included an analysis of the forces in the South District of Los City.

"Iron Fist Gang, the largest gray force in the South District of Los City. The gang leader is Raymond Cole, nicknamed 'The King'. This person once had a direct conflict with Chen Feng, but currently, both sides are in a strange state of peace."

Blake gave his suggestion at the end of the report, in just one short line.

"Suggested entry point: Iron Fist Gang. Target: the gang's number two, 'Razor' Ricardo."

The attached reason was equally simple and brutal: gang members generally have criminal records, are extremely short of money, and hold grudges against new upstarts like Chen Feng. As long as the price is right, they are the best tools in the city's shadows.

The most critical thing is that even if it is exposed afterward, if a mad dog from the South District of Los City bites someone, no one can trace the owner of this dog to a top-floor office in Manhattan.

After reading it, Victor Hamon picked up a pen and drew a simple "V" at the bottom of the report.

Approved.

That afternoon, a call was made through three layers of intermediaries from New York to a noisy underground boxing gym in the South District of Los City.

The call reached "Razor" Ricardo, who was supervising two newcomers sparring.

Ricardo walked to a relatively quiet corner and answered the encrypted satellite phone.

The voice on the phone had been processed; it was impossible to tell if it was male or female, old or young—it sounded like machine-synthesized audio.

"Mr. Ricardo, there's a job."

"I have many jobs." Ricardo wiped the sweat from his forehead, his tone impatient.

"One million dollars."

Ricardo's hand gripping the phone tightened. This number was enough for him to buy half a street in the South District of Los City.

"Speak." He spat out only one word.

"Maple Leaf Biopharmaceutical Company. We want its core R&D data and at least ten finished samples of 'ruisu'."

Ricardo narrowed his eyes.

Maple Leaf Bio? Chen Feng? That ethnic Chinese kid who had recently stirred up the whole South District of Los City? The King, Raymond Cole, had even specifically warned people in the gang a while ago not to provoke that building.

But Raymond Cole's warning meant nothing in front of one million dollars.

He, Ricardo, had worked in the Iron Fist Gang for ten years and had long been tired of being Raymond Cole's deputy. He needed money, he needed an opportunity.

The voice on the other end of the phone seemed to have anticipated his thoughts and added unhurriedly: "After the job is done, the money will be wired to an offshore account of your choosing. This money belongs only to you."

Ricardo licked his cracked lips, feeling the dual stimulation of money and betrayal.

He did not hesitate for more than three seconds.

"Done."