50: Chapter 50: Secret Organization Transfer, Investigation Suppressed

Diana's brows knit together slightly.

She didn't take this moment to press Charles on "Why didn't you tell me about such a crucial follow-up sooner?", because her mind was already racing along with what he had just said.

Then she spoke slowly, her voice more guarded than it had been during all their previous arguments, like someone touching a piece of red-hot iron that had to be flipped over to see the underside.

"That last order, did Father tell you that separately?"

Charles shook his head.

"No."

"But it's not hard to guess."

"Isn't that the Deep State's style of doing things? They are also the establishment, exactly the same as those five snipers you blew up—if you can't get the job done, that's the consequence."

"You disrupted their line of succession, so they simply tore you off the list."

He raised his eyes, quietly looking straight at his sister.

Diana didn't respond.

At that moment, her cold eyes showed neither shock nor defiance; they simply paused for a second, taking in her own brother from head to toe—dressed in greasy work clothes, with white stubble growing at his temples.

Charles didn't offer any more explanation, reaching into the inner pocket of his overalls, which were stained with engine oil and antifreeze, and pulling out what looked like an ordinary, old-fashioned keypad phone.

Black casing, small screen, physical number keys; it looked like a low-end contract phone given away for free by carriers twenty years ago.

He placed it in Diana's palm; the casing was warm, as if it had just been unplugged from a live circuit.

"The contact information for the members of the Colt Association is all in here."

"From today on, you can mobilize the power of the Colt Association at will."

Diana looked down at the old phone in her palm—not cool, not mysterious at all—and then raised her eyes to look at her brother, who was covered in the smell of engine oil and wore overalls with frayed cuffs.

The layer of cold sarcasm she usually used to shield herself was already poised on her lips,

but looking at this man she thought she knew so well, she suddenly realized she couldn't quite understand him.

"Now that you're handing the Colt Association over to me, does that mean I'll have to... report to you in the future?"

As she spat the words out, there was a hint of sarcasm and a cold sense of distance.

Charles glanced at her.

In those gentle eyes—which never looked like a leader's or a tycoon's—there was no provocation, no testing,

only the same calm content as always, devoid of any unnecessary emotion.

"As for the answer to how you managed to build a b-2 bomber in just three years, I never want to know."

"And you should never report that kind of work to me."

When he placed the old keypad phone in Diana's palm, his fingertips brushed against her skin—rough, dry, and smelling of old engine oil and metal shavings.

Then he withdrew his hand and turned to walk toward the old Chevrolet pickup with its engine block only half-hoisted, as if there had been no farewell at all.

...

Washington, 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, Hoover Building.

This gray-brown concrete building, the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, appeared exceptionally dull under the afternoon sun in Washington.

There were no windows on its outer walls,

or rather, the floors that did have windows were sealed from the inside with dark brown blackout blinds.

The entire structure looked like a giant concrete monolith forgotten on Pennsylvania Avenue.

On the seventh floor, the door to the Director's office was tightly shut.

In the hallway outside, agents in dark blue uniforms occasionally walked by quickly, their footsteps absorbed by the thick gray carpet, leaving only a vague, muffled echo.

Inside the Director's office,

Michael Whitfield sat behind his walnut desk, which he had been using for nearly six years.

He was sixty-one years old this year, his hair having faded from dark brown to iron gray, combed meticulously back to reveal a forehead that had been forged into sharp, chiseled angles by countless meetings in Washington's political circles.

He kept himself in good shape, wearing a custom-made dark navy suit with a crisp white shirt collar; his tie was the traditional Federal Bureau of Investigation dark blue with a subtle gold badge pattern.

Standing opposite the desk was a much younger man.

Daniel Cross, thirty-two, a special agent in the Criminal Investigative Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, had joined the Federal Bureau of Investigation straight out of the University of Virginia School of Law three years ago and was assigned to the Public Corruption Unit.

He wasn't particularly handsome, but he had a pair of energetic eyes,

and at this moment, they were flashing with the kind of excitement only a thirty-two-year-old could have—the feeling that he was about to crack the case of the century.

"Director," Cross's voice was fast and eager; he clutched a stack of printed documents, the edges of the paper already crumpled from his grip.

"I've been following a lead recently. At first, it was just a few scattered suspicious incident reports from the West Coast, but the deeper I dig, the more I realize how vast the connections are."

"This matter is nine times out of ten related to a corruption case involving a military industrial giant, and it's very likely linked to the construction of the Hoover Dam."

He placed the documents on Whitfield's desk, his fingers flipping through the pages rapidly, as if presenting key evidence to a jury in a courtroom.

"Nevada Senator Edward Warren."

He pointed to a printed summary sheet, which was covered in markings made with red and blue highlighters.

"His behavioral patterns have shown significant anomalies over the last few months."

"He mobilized his private staff to pull large-scale hydroelectric operational data from the Hoover Dam, covering all historical records from 1947 to 1997."

"And our people in Nevada reported that his motive for doing this wasn't to prepare a proposal for a congressional meeting."

"He wants to use the engineering corruption at the Hoover Dam as a weapon to strike at his political rivals in Nevada."

Cross turned to the next page, his speaking speed increasing, barely giving himself a moment to breathe.

"More importantly, Edward has also made contact with Eli Walsh, the Director of the Office of Intelligence and Analysis at the Department of Homeland Security."

"The intelligence we intercepted shows that before his death, Walsh used classified funding from the Department of Homeland Security, through three layers of shell companies, to finance a drilling project in downtown Los Angeles."

"Nominally, it was a geothermal system upgrade, but in reality, they drilled to a depth of one kilometer, precisely reaching a specific area that had been repeatedly omitted from the Hoover Dam project files."

"And then this matter snowballed."

"The Hopkins Family, that military industrial family controlling Northrop Grumman, seemed afraid of being implicated and moved directly to silence them."

"They orchestrated a shooting in Los Angeles targeting Edward and Walsh."

"Walsh died on the spot, but Edward and that rocket guy, Musk, both escaped."

Whitfield leaned back in his chair, his hands crossed and resting on his knees, listening to Cross's entire report in silence.

His expression remained unchanged from beginning to end.

Neither surprised nor angry,

not even the encouraging nod of "Go on, I'm listening" that Cross had expected.

He was like a stone statue placed in the Director's leather chair, simply watching the young agent with those pale, almost grayish-blue eyes, silently observing the fine sweat beading on the young agent's forehead.

"Director, there's one more thing I haven't cleared up yet: why Musk got together with Edward."

"But if we want to thoroughly investigate this relationship, we might need resources from headquarters, including access to the electronic surveillance team's encrypted channels and collaboration from the Department of the Treasury on financial flow investigations."

"As long as you give me enough authority and manpower, I guarantee I can piece this whole case together."

"By then, we will hold the ironclad evidence to send Edward Warren, Elon Musk, and the Hopkins Family all to federal prison."

"This is a major case that will shake the entire Lighthouse Country. If we pull it off, Director, you can disclose it at the right time. This will be great for your political capital accumulation..."

"Cross." Whitfield spoke for the first time.

His voice was very soft, unhurried, like pouring a spoonful of cold water into a pot of boiling water.

Cross's torrent of words came to an abrupt halt at the sound of those two syllables.

He watched the Director's mouth, waiting for the next sentence.

Then Whitfield moved the stack of documents that had been pushed to the edge of the desk toward the corner, moving very slowly, as if tidying up an old, expired newspaper.

"Don't investigate any further. That's enough."

Cross was stunned on the spot.

He opened his mouth, as if he didn't know how to breathe after being pulled out of the water.

He looked down at the stack of documents he had spent nearly a month staying up late to organize, then looked up at the Director's plain expression, which looked as if nothing had happened at all.

A deep sense of unwillingness, like a raw egg crushed in his chest, surged stickily into his throat.

"Director, it's just the last step."

His voice was half as loud as before, but the eager heat hadn't dissipated; instead, it had become even hotter for being blocked.

"From Edward's investigation path to Walsh's drilling project, and then to the ballistic data from the shooting scene, the entire chain of evidence is missing only a few key links."

"As long as we can get the communication records of Musk and Edward's meeting in Los Angeles, and the follow-up financial transfer flows, this case that will shock the whole nation will be one I've solved for you!"

"This is good for you too, Director. You know that at next year's personnel adjustment hearing, if this case can be listed under law enforcement achievements..."

"Cross." Whitfield called him again.

This time, his tone was no different, still possessing that same cold, calm composure,

but he pulled his hands from his knees and placed them on the desk, fingers interlaced, his posture as relaxed as if he were giving a neighbor practical advice.

He didn't frown, didn't sigh, and looking straight at the young face in front of him, he said, word by word:

"Do not investigate any further."