338: Chapter 338 Three Deadly Things

Screams swept across the entire square like a tsunami. People began pushing, shoving, and climbing over barricades. Secret Service agents instantly lunged forward, using their bodies to shield those on the ground while roaring, "Shooter! Shooter! Southwest!" as they drew their sidearms and aimed in that direction—but the target was too far; neither pistols nor submachine guns could reach it.

Three Black Hawk helicopters adjusted course and dove toward the warehouse. Three minutes later, they landed on the rooftop, finding only an abandoned MK13 rifle, an "Authorization of Action" printed in Persian—stamped with the seal of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard's Quds Force, though the font of the seal had subtle differences from the one used on genuine official Quds Force documents that only a handful of Western intelligence analysts could detect—and a Dallas Public Library card with a few Persian words written on the back.

The shooter was gone. The site was cleaned so thoroughly it was as if he had never been there. But the truly fatal work was already done. In the distance, a chorus of sirens wailed toward downtown Dallas as helicopter after helicopter took to the skies, and CNN's breaking news alerts began to bombard every mobile screen across the USA.

At almost the exact same time.

In an alley three hundred meters to the southwest, a white van was burning. The chassis had been doused in gasoline, and flames spread from a tire, igniting the plastic partitions inside the cargo area and emitting a pungent chemical odor. In the driver's seat, the man who called himself Michael Ray Peterson sat with his head tilted back, mouth slightly agape, and pupils dilated. There was a fingernail-sized entry wound at the back of his head, while his entire forehead had been blown open by the exiting bullet. There was no gunpowder residue around the wound, indicating the shot was fired from over a meter away; the gunman had fired from the passenger seat. The glove box was half-open, and the Glock pistol that should have been inside was gone. Every sign pointed to the same conclusion: this wasn't suicide; this was a silencing.

As for the identity of the silencer, it would be described as "undetermined" in a CIA internal investigation report "accidentally" leaked to The New York Times months later.

At 7:30 PM, Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas issued an official statement: President Te passed away at 6:42 PM Central Time due to massive hemorrhaging and traumatic cardiac arrest resulting from gunshot wounds, despite emergency resuscitation efforts.

At that same moment, in the East Room of the White House, the Vice President was sworn in by the Chief Justice. "I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States." His voice wasn't powerful, but it didn't tremble either. He gave no impromptu speech after finishing the oath, merely standing there in silence, looking at the faces of the congressmen, cabinet secretaries, and high-ranking military officials gathered in the East Room. Those faces all wore a fitting degree of grief, yet beneath that grief lay terror in some, calculation in others, and on a few faces, expressions so calm they bordered on indifference.

One of those faces belonged to the Deputy Secretary of Defense. He stood on the right side of the second row, bowing his head along with the others during the moment of silence. However, his hand gripped a phone with a lit screen, displaying a two-word message from an encrypted channel: "Done."

In Naypyidaw, Zhang Cheng finished watching the full video of the scene and then reviewed the photos of the items left behind on the warehouse rooftop taken by the Secret Service—the rifle, the Persian document, and the library card. He then handed the tablet to Old K. "Have our intelligence analysts investigate three things. First, the origin of the paper and the chemical composition of the printer toner for this so-called 'Persian document.' Second, Morrison's personal finances—check all his linked accounts, his wife's accounts, and the source of his son's tuition. Third, see if there are any clues about this silenced gunman in the CIA's personnel files."

He paused. "But as for the investigation, we won't go public. Keep this evidence for later use."

Old K took the tablet but didn't leave immediately. "Sovereign, do you think the USA will find the truth?"

"No," Zhang Cheng said flatly. "Because the people who don't want the truth found are the very ones who hold the power to investigate. Those who want to find it don't have the authority to touch that file cabinet. This is what's called the 'Deep State'—it's not a conspiracy theory; it's a silent understanding where property rights are unclear but power and responsibility are crystal clear. This understanding usually involves undermining each other, but at critical moments, they stand united." He leaned back against the sofa, crossing his hands over his abdomen. "If they can assassinate a president they helped install, they can do the same to anyone at any time. We must be on guard. Activate the 'Iron Wall-7' contingency: conduct a comprehensive screening of all positions in close contact with me and Lan Zhi, including logistics, medical, secretarial, and motorcades, extending the scope to third-level networks. Revoke and review all permissions. Additionally, deploy anti-drone and anti-ballistic missile interception systems within a three-kilometer radius of the Presidential Palace, the Prime Minister's Office, and the Ministry of Defense command center. This must be completed within twenty-four hours."

Old K took his orders and withdrew. Li Lanzhi walked in carrying a cup of freshly brewed tea and placed it by Zhang Cheng's hand. "The USA is in chaos," she said softly. "Who will they strike next?"

"They'll strike Persia," Zhang Cheng said, picking up the teacup. "But not because the killer is Persian; it's because they need an enemy. They need an enemy they can bomb with aircraft carriers to make up for that embarrassing live stream in the Red Sea and the impenetrable tunnels in Gaza. Whatever the truth is, the truth doesn't matter. What matters is who controls the podium, who holds the gun, and who prints the money. These three things are now in the hands of the same group of people."

Early morning, the third day after the assassination. A private hunting ground in northern Texas.

This hunting ground spanned nearly two thousand acres, nominally belonging to a Dallas real estate investment trust, but the actual beneficiary was a family trust under Greenberg's name. Deep within the grounds stood a hunter's cabin built of logs and limestone; it looked rugged and rustic on the outside, but the interior was equipped with anti-eavesdropping signal jamming systems, military-grade encrypted satellite communication terminals, and an entire wall of embedded touchscreens.

At this moment, Greenberg stood before the fireplace. The fire was burning brightly, the crackling of pine wood mingling with the whistling of the North Texas wind outside. Sitting across from him were four people: the hedge fund manager Abramovich, the Raytheon director Haskins, the woman serving as an "independent advisor" to the Federal Election Commission—her real name was Madeline Klein, a former Deputy Attorney General and current staff consultant for the Senate Judiciary Committee—and a man leaning in the corner of the sofa. This man did not introduce his full name, only saying he was from Langley. Judging by his posture and eyes, he had spent more than ten years in Langley, and he wasn't the office-sitting type.

Greenberg threw a piece of firewood into the fire and turned around. "The Vice President has been sworn in. The next forty-eight hours are the critical window. We need three things to happen simultaneously: first, Congress must pass a war authorization; second, there must be a sufficiently persuasive public chain of evidence to make the American public believe Persia is the mastermind; third, the military high command must, at least on the surface, unanimously support the action. I don't need to assign who is responsible for which part, do I?"