133: Chapter 133 Target Locked, Waiting in the Desert

He fanned his open collar outward and pushed his cigar further away, asking with forced patience:

"Where exactly is your logic going off the rails? From what I've heard so far, it seems Grey Alien were captured by the Longevity Faction, and the Fourth Prince was likely captured by the Longevity Faction as well."

"The alien storage device in our possession says that Solomon is conspiring with the Mothmen to rule humanity. These two things might not be in conflict; it's possible they are part of the same chain of events."

"Distance."

Rockefeller III crossed his hands before his knees, his gaze meeting Samuel's levelly. There was no hint of contempt, only the weight of self-audit after a logical recalibration.

"Zeta Star is 39 light-years from Earth."

"Moth Star, if calibrated from the data coordinates in that alien storage device, is 2616 light-years from Earth."

"In other words, by the time the Zeta Star's million-strong fleet arrives and wraps the entire Solar System in a tactical encirclement, the Moth Star's fleet will still be in the deep space acceleration phase, at least thousands of light-years away from Earth."

"Grey Alien can send a fleet here now because the distance is short, only 39 light-years."

"Moth Star is over two thousand light-years away; they can only communicate, not mobilize armed forces."

He unclasped his hands, picked up the glass of whiskey on the table that had become a bit too watered down, took a small sip, and then placed the glass gently on the edge of the table. Every sentence he spoke was slow and extremely precise.

"Therefore, Solomon and that group of Jewish Financial Groups can currently only serve as intelligence proxy envoys for the Mothmen; they cannot mobilize any armed forces from the Moth Star."

"This is not on the same power scale as the arrival of 200,000 Space Fleet vessels, crossing spatial rifts, and issuing the Zeta Star Fourth Prince ultimatum."

"At most, they are an intelligence liaison station."

Samuel Astor slowly leaned his back against the sofa. His cold, old-school aristocratic face suddenly showed a tremor of something like relief under the lights—not quite release, but more like he had finally grasped the only accurately calculated point amidst all the complex information segments.

He lowered his voice, almost as if reciting terms from a ledger:

"So our goal remains unchanged: the Fourth Prince, Prince Dao Dun."

"As long as we find the Fourth Prince and hand him over to the Zeta Star, we will be the agents of Grey Alien."

"Except now, according to what Edward said, we should be looking for the Longevity Faction, not Solomon."

"His words can only be taken as a reference." Rockefeller III's eyes flashed with keen light, and he immediately refocused his gaze on Edward.

"Hearing is deceptive; seeing is believing."

"After all, we are old-school aristocrats; we only believe half of what anyone says."

He turned to Edward. There was none of the perfunctory kindness from the earlier information exchange in his gaze, only that kind of distrust for outsiders common among ancient noble families, trusting only the hard evidence they held in their own hands.

Samuel also stood up, put down his cigar, and waved his hand at Edward. The motion was slight, but his tone was full of the composure of an old-school aristocrat who never speaks definitively and never leaves himself without a fallback.

"We trust the data information analyzed from the wreckage of Grey Alien' flying saucer more."

"That thing won't lie, nor will it be led by the nose by interests."

Edward watched their reaction and fell silent.

In that instant, he was a bit confused himself. Perhaps the Fourth Prince was indeed captured by the Longevity Faction, but maybe some accident occurred in between, leading Solomon and that group of Jewish Financial Groups to obtain the Fourth Prince's corpse?

After all, in his understanding, the fact that the Longevity Faction was transplanting hearts from Grey Alien was already a set-in-stone fact. If the Fourth Prince fell into their hands, he couldn't see any other possibility than him becoming a corpse with all usable organs removed.

He watched the backs of Rockefeller III and Samuel as they turned to leave, without offering any further explanation.

...

Hollywood Hills, detached villa.

Zhang Yi leaned back against the sofa. The system interface in front of him was still displaying the real-time feed from Spring Mountain Manor:

Rockefeller III and Samuel Astor were leading people out of the Warren Family's manor. The file boxes on the ground, filled with a century's worth of evidence of crimes, had not yet been completely gathered up by Edward.

Zhang Yi watched Rockefeller III's unhurried retreating figure, and a thought suddenly popped into his mind.

Solomon Crane and the Jewish Financial Groups behind him were deep-rooted; relying solely on himself to peel them back layer by layer using scripts and illusions was too inefficient.

But old-school aristocrats like Rockefeller III and Samuel Astor were already itching for a fight, ready to settle scores with the Jewish Financial Groups. They had money, armed forces, a power network that had permeated the Lighthouse Country for over two hundred years, and a personal, long-standing grudge against the Jewish Financial Groups that had been accumulating since their great-grandfathers' generation.

If he could provide a little guidance at key nodes and let The Five Great Families be the blade that struck for him, it would be more effective than him writing ten more scripts himself.

Just as he was about to flesh out this thought in his mind into a complete plan to borrow a knife to kill, another monitor on the system interface suddenly flashed with a real-time update:

Over in Arizona, Biden's motorcade had arrived at the gate of Casablanca Manor.

Zhang Yi temporarily set aside the matter of The Five Great Families and moved the feed to the main screen.

...

Arizona, Scottsdale, outside the main gate of Casablanca Manor.

The presidential motorcade had been stopped in front of the manor's ancient wrought-iron gate for nearly forty minutes.

In the August Sonoran Desert, the afternoon temperature was nearing 110 degrees Fahrenheit, and the heat waves rising from the asphalt road distorted the outlines of the cacti in the distance.

Madeline Rasmussen walked up to the President for the third time, whispering in his ear, asking to go and knock on the door again to get the people inside to open it as soon as possible.

Her makeup artist had just touched up her makeup before she got off the plane, but now a fine layer of sweat had already seeped onto her forehead.

National Security Advisor Ronald Sawyer stood behind her, his face equally full of impatience and confusion.

Vice President Harris crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. She didn't speak directly to the President, but her face was written with the same question: Why are we standing in this desert, waiting for an arms dealer who refuses to open the door, for nearly an hour?

Secretary of Defense Lawrence Graves and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Mark Milley stood side by side in front of the motorcade. The two men, accustomed to commanding millions of troops at The Pentagon, found that the only thing they could do at this moment was stare blankly at the dust on their leather shoes.

Graves looked down at his watch for the third time, then looked at Biden, asking in a tentative tone: "Mr. President, should we send someone to knock on the door again?"

Biden just shook his head slightly and said to keep waiting.

Biden stood there, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, his gaze resting calmly on the manor's tightly closed wrought-iron gate. He remained motionless, like a stone in the desert that had been blown by the wind for decades, yet had never moved from its spot.

The hot desert wind ruffled a few strands of his white hair, but he didn't raise a hand to tidy it.