nial labor for the lower, intellectual labor for the middle, managing people for the upper.
The world is filled with too many geniuses. Even at East Sea University, Boss Jiang didn’t think he was the most outstanding student in the managent departnt. So when encountering extraordinary talents like Lin Zhuzhen and Zhuge Xi, he felt no sense of defeat and kept a very calm mindset.
Professional matters should be handled by professionals.
And he.
——Has his own field of expertise too.
A faraway ocean across the sea.
San Antonio.
In a dimly lit bar, a tough guy habitually sat in the corner, not tall and imposing, but the muscles under his denim jacket exuded an explosive power. In front of him was a glass of whiskey, his fingers unconsciously brushing the rim. Unlike the n on the prowl, he neither looked at the hot won in the bar nor the exciting pole dance on stage. His eyes occasionally glanced toward the bar door.
"Hey, handso, can I buy you a drink?"
In a free world, there’s never a shortage of bold won. The flirting woman had a full-figured body typical of Caucasians, her heavy bosom almost bursting out of her neckline. Her fiery red hair curled seductively, radiating a strong sense of hormones.
An all too familiar encounter seed about to unfold.
"I’m GAY."
But the tough guy’s simple response froze the smile on the redheaded woman’s face. Yet, this was not uncommon. In a country with hundreds of genders, being gay was nothing to be surprised about.
Seeing she picked the wrong target, the woman wasted no ti, decisively shut her mouth, and swiftly turned to look for her next target.
"Gulp."
The tough guy paid no mind, took a sip of his whiskey, and glanced at the plain chanical watch on his wrist.
"Ding."
It was exactly nine o’clock.
At the sa ti.
Soone pushed open the door at the bar entrance. The solitary tough guy glanced imdiately at the left hand of the newcor and saw a slightly glowing silver ring on the ring finger.
The tough guy lifted the whiskey again and drank it down.
The man who entered the bar also ignored the teasing pole dance ladies, observed the noisy bar for a brief mont, and then, sensing sothing, directed his gaze to Gibson sitting in the corner and walked straight over.
"Is this seat taken?"
Gibson shook his head.
The man promptly sat down.
A gay rendezvous?
Of course not.
The human lighthouse isn’t the sa as Shen Zhou, advocating love and freedom. Sa-sex couples can openly hold hands on the street without needing to sneak around.
After sitting down, Gibson said nothing, just pushed a triangular folded napkin in front of the man.
The man took it, unfolded it, and saw a pentagram drawn in pencil. The napkin’s edges were slightly worn, clearly folded many tis, with faint whiskey stains remaining on the paper.
The man refolded the napkin and placed it in his pocket.
"Who’s the target?"
After confirming each other’s identities, Gibson got straight to the point, his voice indifferent, devoid of any extraneous emotion.
"Matt Arnold."
The man pulled a photo from his pocket and gently slid it in front of Gibson. "This is his itinerary."
Gibson took the photo, which showed a man in his fifties with a stern face and sharp eyes, seemingly able to penetrate one’s soul through the photo.
Of course.
The key isn’t the target’s appearance.
"The FBI?"
Gibson’s eyes narrowed, instinctively lowering his voice, his cold expression slightly fluctuating.
The other party’s face was calm, rely nodding slightly.
"Sorry, I can’t take this job."
Gibson made a move to leave, but the other party remained indifferent.
"Suit yourself."
Gibson frowned, contemplating for a while, before sitting back down.
The man remained unperturbed. "There’s his itinerary on the back. It should be helpful to you."
Gibson picked up the photo again, flipped it over, and indeed saw densely packed small text on the back.
Using the dim light, he read swiftly.
The target goes to Saint John Cathedral every Wednesday evening. The back of the photo included his usual habits and security details of two agents. If you have bad eyesight, it might be difficult to make out.
"Cathedral?"
"Yes, he goes to pray every week."
"To my knowledge, he’s not a Christian."
Gibson seed familiar with the target.
Also.
An FBI senior mber may not be a household na but certainly isn’t an unknown figure.
"But many of the people he’s dealt with are Christians."
Gibson fell silent.
"One million US dollars, half in advance, the rest upon completion," the other party stated succinctly.
"An FBI senior advisor is only worth one million US dollars?"
"Three million."
The other party simply increased the offer.
This type of deal can’t be treated like regular business, not suitable for prolonged haggling.
Gibson pocketed the photo. "I’ll give you an answer in three days."
"No, now."
Gibson frowned.
The other party remained silent, seemingly waiting for his decision.
Gibson pulled out a piece of paper, scribbled a string of numbers, and stood up.
"Transfer the deposit to this account."
"The money has already been transferred."
Gibson paused, eyes subconsciously showing doubt, then lowered his voice. "Who exactly are you people?"
The other party’s thods were awe-inspiring.
Not only did they know his account details, but they also pre-emptively sent the money to his account.
Were they certain he would agree?
No.
The second possibility is more likely!
That being they never intended to give him a choice to refuse at all.
Gibson warily looked around, amidst the lights and glamor, finding nothing unusual.
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