Chapter 60 The Columbus Bombing

Before the designer had even left, Mu Xin saw a piece of news.

His phone was on the table, and the screen lit up with a push notification from CNN.

He picked it up casually, intending to swipe it away, but his finger froze the moment his eyes scanned the headline.

"Explosion at a residence in North Columbus, two dead, suspected gas leak."

Mu Xin set down his coffee cup and tapped on the news item.

The page loaded for a few seconds, and a photo of the scene appeared on the screen.

It was a two-and-a-half-story detached house with a large hole blown into the exterior wall; broken bricks and glass were scattered across the lawn in front of the door.

The red and blue lights of fire trucks flashed in the night, and yellow caution tape cordoned off the entire street.

The body of the news report stated: The explosion occurred at 9:40 PM local time at a residence on Northwood Avenue in North Columbus.

Preliminary investigations by the fire department indicated that the cause of the explosion was suspected to be a leak resulting from aging gas pipelines.

The deceased were a man and a woman, and their identities were currently being verified.

Nearby residents stated that the house was occupied by a middle-aged woman and her daughter, but the daughter happened to be away attending a school activity when the explosion occurred, sparing her life.

Northwood Avenue.

Mu Xin stared at the address for a few seconds, then put down his phone, picked up his coffee cup, and took a slow sip.

He rummaged through his drawer for the document he had previously asked Jessica to investigate and turned to the first page.

Catherine Mitchell, Residential Address: Northwood Avenue, North Columbus.

He closed the file, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

He hadn't asked John when he would act, didn't ask how he would act, and didn't even ask if he would act at all.

He hadn't participated from beginning to end.

He had provided a key and told John a location, and then John had gone to get the items himself.

As for how John used those items, when he used them, or on whom he used them, he didn't know, nor did he want to know.

But now he knew, not because John had told him, but because the news had jumped out in front of him.

Aging gas pipelines, what a convenient excuse: aging gas pipelines.

Mu Xin opened his eyes, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly; John hadn't used that C-4, at least not in the conventional way.

C-4 is an explosive; it leaves behind specific chemical residues after an explosion, and a forensic examination would immediately reveal it wasn't an accident.

But a gas explosion is different; aging gas pipelines, a leak, an encounter with an open flame, and boom.

There are hundreds of such accidents in the United States every year; no one would suspect anything.

John had spent so many years in the special forces; he hadn't just learned how to kill, he had learned how to make killing look like an accident.

This, goddamn it, was true professionalism!

Mu Xin had gone to great lengths to get the C-4 from Tom, thinking that was the best way to help John.

It turned out the guy didn't need it at all; he could handle it himself. Mu Xin couldn't help but laugh out loud.

The phone rang again. This time it wasn't a push notification, but a message from Jessica: "Did you see the news?"

Mu Xin replied with one word: "Saw it."

"Did he do it?"

Mu Xin thought for a moment and typed: "I don't know, but if he didn't do it, then it was a genuine accident."

"If he did do it, then he is the most professional person I've ever met."

Jessica sent a string of ellipses and then added: "Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid that one day he'll use the same method on you."

Mu Xin looked at the message, was silent for a few seconds, and then typed: "He won't."

He placed the phone face down on the table and stood up to walk to the window.

Outside the window was the main street of Oxford Town, which was only two blocks long. There were few people on the street, and in the distant parking lot, a brand-new Ford Explorer drove by slowly.

Mu Xin thought of the little girl named Lily; she was almost eight years old this year and lived in North Columbus. Tonight she was at school participating in an activity and wasn't at home.

So she had survived. This wasn't a coincidence; no matter how professional John was, it was impossible for him to control her daughter's whereabouts.

Unless he had known in advance; he had been watching all along.

A person who had been wandering the streets for six years could do nothing every day but sit in some corner, watching the world go by.

He had plenty of time, plenty of time to spend watching someone's movements.

He knew what time Lily went to school, what time she got out of school, when she had extracurricular activities, when she was home, and when she wasn't.

He had waited for an opportunity, an opportunity when Lily wasn't home, and then he had acted.

Mu Xin took a deep breath and pushed the window open a crack; the wind poured in, carrying a hint of chill.

He suddenly felt that he had been right to use Lily to control John back then; this man was too dangerous.

If he had no weakness, he would be a knife without a handle; anyone who held it would cut themselves.

But it was different now; Lily was his handle. As long as Lily was under Mu Xin's control, this knife would never be able to hurt him.

Mu Xin turned off his phone, returned to his desk, and locked the file about Catherine Mitchell in the drawer.

He opened his computer and continued looking at the conceptual sketches sent by Rick Joy.

The hotel project couldn't stop; there was less than eleven months left, and every day was precious.

As for the Columbus explosion, it had nothing to do with him.

He was just a Chinese international student in Oxford Town, building a hotel in Hueston Woods.

Other matters, he didn't know, and he didn't care.

The next morning, Mu Xin was drinking coffee in his office on the third floor of the Morris Building when his phone rang.

It wasn't John; it was Tom Carter.

"Mr. Mu, are you available now? I'm downstairs." Tom's voice was a bit hurried, not like the steady Police Chief he usually was.

Mu Xin carried his coffee to the window and took a look down. A brand-new Ford Explorer was parked at the entrance of the Morris Building, and Tom Carter was standing by the car, dressed in his police uniform with an expression as serious as if he were about to handle a major case.

"Come on up." Mu Xin hung up the phone.

In less than two minutes, Tom knocked and entered.

He didn't exchange pleasantries as he usually did, but walked straight up to Mu Xin and asked in a low voice:

"Mr. Mu, have you seen that explosion case in Columbus?"

"I have." Mu Xin pointed to the coffee pot on the table. "Want a cup?"

"No." Tom shook his head; the expression on his face was as tense as a taut string.

"Mr. Mu, I just want to ask you one thing."

"Does that incident have anything to do with you... or with that batch of items from our Police Department?"

Mu Xin looked at him. He didn't rush to answer, but instead picked up his coffee cup, took a slow sip, then picked up his phone from the table, flipped to the news item, and handed it to Tom.

"Take a look," Mu Xin said.

Tom took the phone and quickly scanned the news content.

His gaze lingered on the words "aging gas pipelines" for several seconds, his brows furrowed tightly, as if he were trying to decipher what those words actually meant.

"Aging gas pipelines?" Tom looked up at Mu Xin, his eyes filled with a trace of confusion, a trace of suspicion, and a trace of relief.

"Aging gas pipelines," Mu Xin repeated, emphasizing the words "gas pipelines" heavily.

"It has nothing to do with explosives, and nothing to do with that batch of items in your warehouse."

Tom stared into Mu Xin's eyes for a long time; there was no evasion, no guilty conscience in those black eyes.

"Mr. Mu, are you really sure?" Tom's voice was a bit hoarse.

"I'm sure." Mu Xin took the phone back from Tom's hand and put it back on the table. "Tom, think about it."

"If it really had been an explosive detonation, the forensic and fire scene reports wouldn't say aging gas pipelines."

"They are more professional than you and I; they can tell the difference between explosives and gas."

"If the report says gas, then it's gas. You're the chief of a town Police Department; why are you worrying about the state capital?"

"Or do you want to go to Columbus and be the police chief there?"

Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly; his whole body seemed to have offloaded a heavy burden, and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"Mr. Mu, you don't know, I didn't sleep at all last night." Tom's voice carried a weariness of someone who had just survived a disaster.

"When I saw that news, my heart almost jumped out of my chest. I thought..."

"Thought what?" Mu Xin interrupted him, his tone like he was coaxing a frightened child.

"Thought that batch of items had been taken and used by someone? Tom, that batch of items is still in your warehouse; no one has touched it."

Tom was stunned for a moment, then nodded slowly. Everything Mu Xin said was right!

"Mr. Mu, I'm sorry, I..." Tom rubbed his hands, feeling a bit awkward.

"No need to apologize." Mu Xin patted his shoulder. "You are a good cop; it's normal for you to be worried."

"But this matter has nothing to do with you, and nothing to do with us. The gas pipelines in Columbus are old and need to be replaced; it's as simple as that."

Tom looked at Mu Xin, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he said nothing.

He nodded, turned, and walked toward the door.

"Tom." Mu Xin called out to him.

Tom turned around.

Mu Xin's tone was very casual. "Remember to lock the warehouse door."

Tom's expression shifted slightly, then he nodded and pushed the door open to leave.

Mu Xin stood at the window, watching Tom's police car drive out of the parking lot and disappear at the end of the street.

He picked up his phone, flipped to John's number, looked at it for a few seconds, then locked the screen and put the phone back in his pocket.

He didn't need to call John, didn't need to ask if he had done it, and didn't need to say anything at all.

Some things don't need confirmation; the news is the confirmation.

He only needed to know that, from today on, John Mitchell was his man.

Not because he had taken the explosives, not because he owed a favor, but because from now on, the fact that they were the only ones in the world who knew the truth about that explosion was the strongest bond.

Mu Xin sat back at his desk, opened his computer, and continued looking at Rick Joy's conceptual sketches.

The hotel's scale, orientation, materials, landscaping—every detail needed to be scrutinized repeatedly.

Eleven months; he couldn't afford to waste a single day.

The phone lit up again. This time it was a message from Jessica: "Did Tom leave?"

"He left."

"Did he believe it?"

"He believed it."

"And you? Do you believe it?"

Mu Xin looked at the message and smiled. He didn't reply, just placed the phone face down on the table.

The Columbus explosion had nothing to do with him; he was just a Chinese international student in Oxford Town.