172: Chapter 172 The search came up empty-handed, and another crop of leeks grew.

The emotional fluctuations from both sides were simultaneously settled in the system backend, totaling eight million credited.

Coupled with the 7.5 million remaining previously, he now held 15.5 million emotion points.

15.5 million, placed in the past, would have been enough to excite him for quite a while.

But right now, what he was calculating in his head was another ledger.

The grand spectacle of Grey Alien' million-strong fleet attacking Earth could not be glossed over simply by a few holographic projection spaceships and a few bionics fighting in the sky.

To fabricate an invasion script for a million-strong Space Fleet, the physical existence of the fleet itself, the hull appearance, weapon special effects, spatial rifts, shield interactions, casualty wrecks... every single item burned money.

15.5 million sounded like a lot, but when the day really came to build a million-strong fleet, it wouldn't even be enough for pocket change.

Before that, he had to constantly stir up trouble and continuously harvest emotion points,

every wave of new plot had to be more thrilling, more despair-inducing than the last, making people see a glimmer of hope after despair, only to be crushed over by an even greater despair,

only in this way could he accumulate enough emotion points reserves before the Space Fleet officially debuted, making this grand drama realistic enough.

On the system interface, another monitoring screen was simultaneously broadcasting the real-time footage of Mar-a-Lago in Florida:

FBI Director Michael Whitfield was leading a large number of heavily armed federal agents to forcefully break into the manor gates.

The security personnel of Mar-a-Lago formed a human wall in front of the iron-grate gate,

someone held up a walkie-talkie and shouted: "This is the former president's private residence, you have no legal authorization!"

someone stretched out their arm, trying to block the tactical boots rushing up the steps, and was directly pinned by FBI agents with their hands twisted behind their backs, shoved onto the gravel ground of the driveway.

Whitfield stood in the center of the manor's driveway with his hands behind his back,

on that face—beaten black and blue by Moran with a swivel chair and a code of law, and not yet completely de-swollen—hung a cold and stiff expression completely different from before.

He even personally said to an old security butler being dragged away:

"Resisting federal law enforcement officers executing a legal search warrant constitutes obstruction of justice in itself!"

Zhang Yi stared at the face of Whitfield in the screen, who was still trying to reshape his tough-guy image, and the corners of his mouth curled up slightly.

Letting the situation become one-sided would not do.

The greater the difference in the cards between the two sides, the faster the struggle would end, and the shorter the emotion points harvesting window would be.

The rules of the game for this behind-the-scenes bookmaker were very simple:

Whoever was about to lose would be dealt a card that could turn the tables, keeping the game at a stalemate forever.

He opened the system inventory, selected the bionic person card marked "Tech Faction Official Joshua", and then pressed the drop button.

...

Florida, Palm Beach, Mar-a-Lago.

FBI Director Michael Whitfield stood on the circular driveway in front of the manor's main residence with his hands behind his back,

watching team after team of heavily armed federal agents rush past him into the archive room, study, and basement entrance on the flank of the manor.

The bruises on his face had not completely faded, and at the edge of his left eye socket, there was still a small patch of pale yellow subcutaneous hematoma residue,

but at this moment, his standing posture, tone, and the crisp, no-nonsense rhythm when giving orders all seemed like he had changed into a different person.

The matter of Deputy Director Philip Moran rushing into his office earlier and beating him until his head was covered in lumps had already spread throughout the entire FBI interior,

even within the circles of Washington, those senior bureaucrats who never discussed internal scandals in public were privately referring to him as "that director who was beaten as a punching bag by his own deputy director".

Everyone knew that letting Moran investigate the Hoover Dam case was using his deputy as a scapegoat,

while when things came to a head, he shrank back and didn't even show his face.

This crafty image was an incurable disease for any federal agency head who still wanted to climb higher in Washington.

Therefore, he had to reshape his image, starting with helping the President handle Prant.

As long as he could search out the batch of classified documents that Prant took away when leaving the White House from Mar-a-Lago with the momentum of falling autumn leaves,

he could take the arrest warrant and personally send Prant onto the transport vehicle of the Federal Detention Center in front of the cameras.

By then, everyone who mocked him for being crafty would shut up!

"Group A! The study in the east wing of the main residence, focus on the wall-embedded safe and all locked filing cabinets!"

"Group B! The basement storage room, carry out all cardboard boxes marked with the words memos during the former president's term!"

"Group C! The independent archive room on the side of the garage, do not miss a single inch of gap from the floor to the ceiling!"

His voice was transmitted from the command channel, steady and resolute in tone,

even the two young agents nearby who had just unloaded evidence boxes from the armored personnel carrier couldn't help taking an extra look at him.

Then the search began.

FBI agents pushed open the doors of every room in the manor, flipped open every drawer, and pried open every cabinet.

The oil paintings on the wall were taken down to check the back, the carpets were rolled up to check the floor gaps, and even the lockers in the dressing room by the pool were opened one by one.

But there was nothing.

When the first batch of search reports was transmitted back, Whitfield merely frowned and ordered another round of search.

The second batch of search reports was transmitted back, and still there was nothing.

His brows furrowed tighter, but he didn't panic, merely having each operation team expand the search range to the detached garage and employee dormitories on the periphery of the manor.

The third batch of search reports:

Detached garage, none.

Employee dormitories, none.

Even the wooden shed used for stacking gardening tools at the north corner of the manor had been turned over, yet no target documents matching the description were found.

Sweat beads began to ooze from Whitfield's forehead.

Those classified documents were hidden right here.

The Defense Intelligence Agency informant reports, the National Archives and Records Administration tracking records, and two independent internal witness testimonies all pointed to Mar-a-Lago.

Although these chains of evidence could not withstand court cross-examination one hundred percent, they were more than enough to apply for a search warrant.

But now not even a single piece of paper was found, so the problem was not that the search was thorough, but that the reason for the search itself was no longer valid.

If no documents were found, then this FBI raid against the former president's private residence would no longer have a legal basis.

Without a legal basis, it was illegal law enforcement.

Whitfield would not only face retaliatory lawsuits from Prant's campaign legal team, but might also be charged with malfeasance by the Department of Justice for abusing federal law enforcement authority.

By then, let alone reshaping his image, being able to avoid going to jail would have to be considered Biden risking his life to cover for him.

He switched the command channel to the internal encrypted line, lowering his voice to the extreme, but his tone had completely lost that cold and resolute tough-guy shell from just now:

"Search again."

"Turn every cabinet, drawer, safe, and storage room that has already been checked upside down from the beginning."

"Even if you have to dig three feet into the ground, find those documents! Now!!"