10: Chapter 10 Undercurrents

The time goes back to a week ago.

Jobs' private estate was exceptionally lively.

Those who could attend were either wealthy or influential, and most had already passed their physical prime.

However, as soon as the underground salon ended, Lawrence Derwent was the first to storm out, slamming the door behind him.

At sixty-two, he was the CEO of the military-industrial giant 'Anvil Defense Systems.' At this moment, every strand of his meticulously combed silver hair seemed to be fuming with rage.

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His private doctor hurried to meet him: "Mr. Derwent, what did Mr. Jobs say? Can he arrange..."

"Arrange my ass!" Derwent slammed his fist onto the leather seat of the Lincoln. "They actually told me to wait in line!"

The doctor was stunned: "But you just passed a thirty-billion-dollar defense order..."

"He said rules are rules." Derwent squeezed the words through his teeth. "Joe said that Chinese man's rule is to only perform one treatment a month. This month's slot was given to some kid who writes code."

He pulled out his phone; on the screen was a young man in a hoodie whose net worth wasn't even a fraction of his own.

"Jobs said the ranking is based on the value of one's contribution to humanity's future." Derwent sneered. "I've been selling equipment to protect America for twenty years, and I'm not as good as someone who runs a social networking site?"

The car drove into the night.

Derwent stared out the window, his fingers tapping his knee.

He had late-stage pancreatic cancer, with eight months left at most.

Jobs' recovery was his only hope, but now that hope was telling him: wait in line, and you might wait until you die.

"Have you looked into that Chinese man's background?" he asked his assistant.

The assistant handed over a tablet: "Of Asian descent, twenty-six years old, an automation engineer."

"He was dispatched here four months ago for work, and subsequently mastered inexplicable medical technology. No political background, no family support, and security... is almost zero."

"Security is zero?"

"Yes, he travels alone and is currently buying up ranches in Montana on a large scale for unknown purposes."

Derwent tapped the tablet with his fingertips, lost in thought.

As the car crossed a bridge, he suddenly spoke: "Contact the broker. I want this yellow monkey brought to me."

The assistant's breath hitched: "The target is a friend of Jobs. If he finds out..."

"Then don't let him know." Derwent's tone was icy. "I want him alive, the complete technology, and price is no object."

The assistant said urgently: "Sir, we can't withstand the subsequent retaliation on our own. Other tycoons won't sit idly by and watch the technology slip away."

Derwent knew that his assistant's concerns were not without reason.

If it were just an ordinary person, if they disappeared, they'd be gone; hundreds of thousands of people go missing in America every year, and one more wouldn't matter.

But if it was someone protected by a group of wealthy individuals, that was a different story.

After thinking for a moment, Derwent instructed: "Go contact a few old friends for me."

...

An abandoned slaughterhouse in East Los Angeles.

The smell of rust and rotting meat mingled in the air.

Derwent walked in, followed by two bodyguards.

Three people sat under a single, lonely light.

A bald, burly man in a floral shirt, Mickey Torino, a fixer for the California underworld.

A thin man wearing gold-rimmed glasses was a representative of a certain European family, code-named 'The Accountant.'

The third person surprised Derwent: it was Eric Sterling, sixty-five, a real estate tycoon with late-stage pancreatic cancer, ranked seventeenth on the treatment list.

"Sterling?" Derwent frowned. "What are you doing here?"

Sterling's face was sallow as he grabbed Derwent's sleeve: "Derwent, I won't live to see the seventeenth month. The doctor says I have eight weeks at most."

"Count me in on your operation. I have money and connections. I only ask for one thing—once he's caught, treat me first."

Derwent looked at Mickey: "What's your plan?"

Mickey grinned, revealing white teeth: "I've received word that Target No. 5 is going to a ranch in Montana to acquire a chicken farm and will stay for at least a day."

"At that time, we will strike, cut off communications, and complete the capture within half an hour. Three hours later, the target will be on a private jet."

"To be safe, I've bribed the National Guard. There's a counter-terrorism exercise that night, and official channels will be silent for two hours."

"Even if someone calls the police, the cops and the National Guard will only circle around the perimeter and won't go inside."

Derwent nodded. He looked at Sterling: "What can you provide?"

Sterling unhurriedly pulled out his phone: "The target is frantically acquiring biological raw materials, but none of the canned goods are entering the market, and there's no trademark registration. I suspect... he might not just be a doctor."

"What do you mean?" the European representative asked.

"He might be stockpiling strategic materials for some organization," Sterling said. "Those cans might be some kind of carrier."

Derwent laughed: "Even better. That means he won't dare to make a big fuss and call the police if he disappears; his own hands aren't clean."

The European representative pushed up his glasses: "My client only wants the original treatment protocol intact. Name your price."

Mickey wrote down a number.

Derwent glanced at it: "Fine. Half upfront, the other half upon success."

"Deal." Mickey reached out his hand.

Derwent didn't shake it. He turned and walked toward the door: "On the morning of the 6th, I want the target to appear in my parlor."

The secret meeting ended quickly, and Derwent hurried into his car.

As the car door closed, his expression instantly darkened:

"Tell the middleman not to worry about the money; I want this to be foolproof."

"Also, send a few more squads. I don't want to see any surprises! I don't trust those old foxes either."

Derwent knew very well that universal healing technology and life-extending drugs were temptations that no wealthy person could refuse.

Who could guarantee that they were the only group eyeing this goose that laid golden eggs?

...

Late at night, a black van was parked in the shadows.

Inside the van, a middleman pushed a tablet computer to the man opposite him.

The man was code-named 'Graystone,' the captain of a top-tier mercenary unit.

He took the tablet and scanned the information on it.

The first page was a photo of Fu Haoran, a somewhat youthful Asian face.

The second page was the mission summary: Live capture, coordinates, 72-hour time limit.

The third page was the reward.

Graystone's finger stopped on the number.

"50 million dollars!?"

"This amount," he looked up, "is enough for my men to retire three times over. Just to catch one person?"

The middleman nodded: "Just one person."

"Where's the catch?"

"The trouble isn't the target," the middleman leaned forward, "it's the competition."

He pulled up two other files.

"There's more than one client; there are at least three. These are the ones I've investigated so far."

"Client A, the pharmaceutical giant White, late-stage pancreatic cancer."

"He wants a live subject and the complete treatment capability."

"Client B, the military lobbying group 'Duke of Blackwater,' heart failure. He's violent and wants the person and the technology at any cost."

"Client C, an anonymous European family representative, suspected to be of some ancient bloodline. They have a religious obsession with rejuvenation. They want the original treatment protocol."

Graystone frowned: "So?"

"Counting our employer, at least four forces will intervene."

The middleman tapped the screen, "Therefore, capturing the target isn't the difficult part. The hard part is who can catch him first and take him away."

"Remember, the target must be completely unharmed."

Graystone leaned back in his seat, let out a cold laugh, and pulled out his phone to start browsing the armory.

"So this price—half is for the capture, and the other half... is to guard against other teams trying to snatch him?"

"More accurately," the middleman put away the tablet, "it's an entry ticket to a dark auction. Winner takes all."

Graystone's fingertip slid over Fu Haoran's photo: "An Asian kid worth fifty million... no matter how many people are fighting for him, he can only be mine."

Graystone pushed open the car door and walked out into the night.

Graystone exhaled his last puff of smoke and crushed the cigarette butt.

"This is truly insane."

He quickly went to the parking lot downstairs, where three modified black SUVs were parked quietly.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

Inside the cars were his twelve most elite team members. Graystone handed his drafted weapon order to the deputy captain.

The deputy captain looked at the list—military Humvees, RPGs, M2 Browning heavy machine guns, Vulcan cannons... and a series of other weapons. He looked at his captain with some concern.

Graystone gave him a reassuring look: "Prepare according to this list. As long as we show enough strength, the mission won't be difficult."

"Also, contact the nearby Sidewinder Squad and have them rush over tonight to regroup. We'll double their pay. Once this job is done, we all retire and go to the Caribbean for our old age!"

A team member asked uneasily: "Captain, should we check the background of his ranch first?"

Graystone waved his hand: "No need. Capturing a rancher who's just playing around doesn't require that much trouble."

"Lastly, tell the brothers: whoever catches him first gets an extra twenty percent."