75: Chapter 75 T-501

At dinner time, just as Chen Feng took a bite of pizza, the system panel suddenly popped up.

"Warning: Abnormal data flow detected in the New York city center security network. The public surveillance systems in a three-block radius around the Voice of the Globe building are being directionally jammed. The jamming source is using military-grade electronic warfare equipment."

The pizza in his hand dropped onto the table.

"Marcus!"

"I'm here, Boss."

"Pull up all accessible surveillance feeds around the Voice of the Globe building in New York, now!"

Marcus was fast. Three seconds later, a dozen screens popped up on the large display. Most were static, with only two civilian cameras from distant angles still running—their positions were too remote to be affected.

In the footage, the perimeter of the Voice of the Globe building was normal, the streets were quiet, and there were few pedestrians.

But Chen Feng's system would not report a false alarm.

"Someone is making a move." Chen Feng stared at the screen, his mind racing. Military-grade jamming equipment, directional shielding, late-night operation—he knew this routine all too well.

That lunatic Stone really made his move.

"Boss, are you saying—"

"Edgar. Stone is going to kill Edgar."

Chen Feng didn't have time to explain his reasoning. He grabbed his phone and dialed Clark's dedicated line.

It rang three times before connecting.

"Chen, what is it?" Clark's voice was alert; the old man clearly hadn't slept.

"Where are your Tyrant T-501s?"

"New York. Both are at the safe house in Manhattan."

"Edgar is in trouble. Stone has sent people to the Voice of the Globe building."

There was a second of silence on the other end of the line.

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure. My intelligence won't be wrong. Clark, if Edgar dies at the hands of Stone, 'Operation Broken Sword' will take a hit, and all of us will suffer for it."

"I don't need you to teach me how to do the math." Clark's voice turned icy. "The Tyrant T-501s will deploy immediately. Send me the coordinates."

"Already sent."

Chen Feng hung up and sat back in his chair. He stared at the two remaining surveillance feeds, his fingers tapping the armrest unconsciously.

The pizza had gone cold, and he had no appetite left to eat it.

"Boss, should we send people over too?" Marcus asked.

"It's too late. The fastest flight from Los Angeles to New York takes four and a half hours." Chen Feng shook his head. "The only ones who can save Edgar now are Clark's two Tyrant T-501s."

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving the screen.

He had done everything he could. What happened next depended on whether the Tyrants could run fast enough.

—

New York, Manhattan.

The Voice of the Globe building, 62nd floor.

Edgar Winston held a Cuban cigar in his mouth, leaning back in his leather office chair, happily flipping through the readership data for the day.

Seventy million.

One report, seventy million views in twenty-four hours.

The exposure of 'Project Black Sun' had sent the entire U Federation into chaos. Congress was screaming, the public was protesting, and the stock market was plummeting. And he, Edgar Winston, was sitting at the very center of the storm, smoking a cigar and watching the show.

This feeling was even better than making money.

"Mr. Winston." His private secretary, Lena, pushed the door open. "The security supervisor reports that three surveillance nodes on the building's perimeter suddenly lost signal fifteen minutes ago. The technical department is investigating."

Edgar blew a smoke ring. "Probably a wiring issue. Let them check it."

Lena nodded and was about to leave.

A faint, muffled thud came from the end of the corridor.

It was very faint. So faint that Edgar almost thought it was the noise of the air conditioning ducts. But Lena stopped, turned her head, and the expression on her face changed.

"Mr. Winston, the corridor lights—"

The lights went out.

Not just one or two, but the lights on the entire floor went out at the exact same moment.

Edgar's cigar hovered in mid-air. In the darkness, his pupils rapidly contracted.

"Lena, come back. Close the door."

His voice was surprisingly steady. A man who had worked in media his whole life, what kind of situation hadn't he seen? People had bombed his car, poisoned his drink, and mailed him bullets. But he was still alive.

Lena quickly retreated into the office and shut the door behind her.

A second muffled thud came from the corridor, much closer this time. It was followed by a very short, sharp scream that was cut off abruptly.

Edgar stood up.

He opened the drawer and pulled out a Colt 1911. It was an old piece, but well-maintained, and the sound of it being cocked was crisp and clean.

"Where is security?" He lowered his voice.

Lena's hands were shaking, but she still pulled out the walkie-talkie. "Alpha Squad, report! Alpha Squad!"

No response.

She switched channels. "Bravo Squad!"

Static noise.

"Charlie Sq—"

The walkie-talkie was pressed down by a hand. Edgar shook his head.

"Stop calling. They're finished."

Footsteps began to sound in the corridor. Not just one person, but many, moving with disciplined and restrained tactical precision.

Edgar raised his pistol, aiming at the door.

The door wasn't kicked open.

It was pushed open silently.

Six figures filed in, their movements so fluid they didn't seem human. They wore some kind of clothing that changed color with the environment, making them almost completely invisible in the dark. The green dots of their night-vision goggles were the only things that gave them away.

The leader raised his hand and made a slashing gesture.

Edgar pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck the leader's chest precisely. But the man only swayed slightly, as if he had been given a gentle nudge. He looked down at his chest; the bullet was embedded in the fabric without penetrating.

"That's quite a joke."

The leader removed his mask, revealing a young, indifferent face. Beneath the skin, the faint lines of metal circuitry were visible, and a coin-sized circular device was embedded on each side of his temples.

These were no ordinary assassins.

"Mr. Winston," the man spoke, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, "I read your report. It was well-written."

He raised a silenced pistol.

Edgar stepped back. He knew he couldn't escape. Sixty-second floor, no way out.

"Wait—"

He didn't finish his sentence.

The floor-to-ceiling glass on the right exploded.

It didn't shatter; the entire window was smashed through by a violent force from the outside. The tempered glass turned into countless fragments that sprayed inward, and the night wind rushed in, carrying the debris.

Before the sound of the glass hitting the floor had ceased, a massive black figure was already standing in the window frame.

It was over two and a half meters tall. A black trench coat billowed in the night wind. No hat—this wasn't the prototype Chen Feng had meticulously dressed up; this was Clark's Tyrant T-501. On its exposed head, grayish-white skin was stretched tight over a smooth skull. It had no expression, only two deep-set pupils reflecting a faint light.

The captain of the Ghost Squad reacted extremely quickly—he deserved the title of "super soldier." The muzzle of his gun shifted in 0.3 seconds, firing three shots directly at the Tyrant's head.

All three 9mm bullets hit their mark.

The Tyrant's head tilted back less than two centimeters.

Then it lowered its head and looked at the captain.

"Spread out!" The captain roared.

His team members were well-trained; the six of them instantly spread out, forming a crossfire grid. Automatic rifles and submachine guns opened fire simultaneously, a rain of bullets pouring onto the Tyrant, the muzzle flashes illuminating the entire office.

The Tyrant didn't retreat a single step.

It stepped forward. With every step it took, the marble floor cracked. Bullets hit its body, tearing the trench coat into shreds and revealing the grayish-white muscle tissue beneath—the muscle fibers contracted rapidly at the impact points, pushing out the embedded bullet casings one by one.

"What the hell is this thing!" one team member screamed while changing his magazine.

But before he could finish, the Tyrant's arm swept across, moving too fast for the member to react. The palm, twice the size of a normal human's, slammed into the member's head—helmet and all—and the entire head deformed within its grip.

The sound of bones shattering was exceptionally clear in the brief pause between gunshots.

The body was flung against the wall, smashing a human-shaped indentation into it.

Five left.

The captain gritted his teeth and drew a combat knife from his waist, the blade gleaming coldly in the night-vision view. This knife was custom-made, crafted from a special alloy synthesized in the Vanguard Bureau laboratory.

He charged forward.

The tip of the knife stabbed into the Tyrant's abdomen, sinking in about three centimeters.

Then it stuck.

The Tyrant looked down at the knife stuck in its stomach, then looked at the captain, and then reached for the combat knife embedded in its abdomen.

The captain's right hand, along with the combat knife, was gripped in the Tyrant's fist. The sound of bones breaking rang out seven or eight times in succession, just like crushing Styrofoam. The captain screamed, and the Tyrant lifted him up and slammed him directly into the office desk. The mahogany tabletop snapped in two.

Just then, the second Tyrant T-501 arrived.

It didn't come through the window—it smashed directly through the office's interior wall.

Concrete and rebar flew everywhere, and an equally tall, black figure walked out of the dust and smoke, blocking the only exit to the corridor.

The four remaining Ghost Squad members looked back and realized their escape route had been blocked.

What followed was too gruesome to watch.

The two Tyrants finished the cleanup in less than a minute within the enclosed space. The six "Ghosts," who had undergone both genetic and mechanical modification, ended up as six piles of twisted remains on the floor. Their optical camouflage suits were shredded into rags, equipment was scattered everywhere, and blood flowed from the broken floor-to-ceiling window onto the outer wall, where it was dried by the night wind.

After the battle, the two Tyrants stood quietly in place, motionless.

Edgar leaned against the corner of the wall, still clutching the useless Colt 1911. His cigar had fallen at some point, his shirt was covered in glass shards, a cut from a shard ran down his cheek, and blood dripped down his chin.

Lena was huddled behind him, having passed out.

Edgar stared at the two silent behemoths for a long time.

He raised his hand to wipe the blood from his face and realized his hand was shaking.

"…I owe Weber a life, goddammit."

—

Los Angeles, Umbrella Corporation.

Chen Feng saw the message pop up on the system panel:

["Abnormal data flow at the Voice of the Globe building has disappeared. New York police have received no relevant reports. The incident has concluded."]

He let out a long breath.

"Done?" Marcus asked.

"Done." Chen Feng picked up the cold slice of pizza and took a big bite. "The field test of the Tyrant T-501s went pretty well. Clark should be satisfied."

He chewed the pizza while calculating rapidly in his mind.

Stone had played his "Ghost Protocol" card, but instead of killing his target, he had exposed his biggest trump card. The remains of six "super soldiers" were left at the scene—that was excellent evidence.

As long as Clark and Edgar handled it properly, these remains would be the final nail in Stone's coffin.

His phone rang. It was a call from Clark.

"Did you see it?" Chen Feng answered.

"I saw it." Clark's tone gave away no emotion. "The Tyrants are even stronger than I anticipated."

"They were designed for exactly this kind of situation."

"Chen," Clark paused, "I don't intend to let the news of Stone's Ghost Squad being wiped out last through the night."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have already contacted three core members of the Military Committee. Tonight, they will see a very spectacular video—modified humans bearing the Vanguard Bureau insignia, executing an assassination attempt on a civilian on U Federation soil."

Chen Feng smiled.

"Clark, you really are fast."

"A second too slow on the battlefield means death. I never wait for dawn."