"Make it quick."
The person got up and left the bar.
Gibson watched his back.
"Another glass of whiskey."
Over the next few days, as usual, Gibson began tailing the target, Matt Arnold. Information from others was never as accurate as personal confirmation. The first rule in this line of work is to trust no one!
Just like the intelligence on the back of the photo, the target’s life was very routine. Every morning at seven, he would arrive at the San Antonio FBI office on ti and leave at eight in the evening. Every Wednesday night at half-past eight, he would appear at Saint John Cathedral.
After observing and silently recording every detail like a ghost, Gibson returned to his equipnt-filled safe house, his fingers sliding over the cold silencer, deciding to act.
It was another Wednesday night.
Gibson arrived at the cathedral two hours early, having changed his appearance, wearing a priest’s black robe, donning a wig, and hanging a cross on his chest.
The cathedral was suffused with a faint scent of incense, candlelight flickering before the holy icons. Everything was so serene and peaceful.
Gibson stood before the statue, his eyes downcast, the wide robe covering his form. He looked compassionate and convincing, without any sense of discord.
Ti ticked by.
At this mont, a black Cadillac was driving towards the cathedral. In the back seat, FBI senior officer Matt Arnold was holding a phone, listening to a subordinate’s report, leaning slightly forward. Despite his lack of expression, his body language suggested he was excited.
"Finally a slip. Thinking they can run back to Shen Zhou and be safe. As long as we gather enough evidence and present it to the international court, let’s see what excuses the hypocritical Shen Zhou can make."
"Check, check these accounts imdiately. No matter where they are, we have to root them out."
"Boss, I’m afraid we can’t catch them."
"Why? Haven’t we already tracked their accounts? I gave you maximum authority to have all departnts cooperate."
"Boss... these nas, Lin Daiyu, Qin Keqing, Jia Baoyu, Wang Xifeng, Shi Xiangyun, they’re not Asians. They’re nas from Shen Zhou’s Four Great Classical Novels, from the Dream of the Red Chamber."
"What do you an?"
Matt Arnold couldn’t react imdiately.
"They’re... fictional characters."
Hearing the straightforward explanation from his subordinate, Matt Arnold remained silent, then involuntarily clenched his molars. If given another chance, he would make that cunning bastard feel the world’s most brutal punishnt.
"Zhuge Xi..."
Dammit!
It’s all those indecisive fools’ fault. Talking about preserving such talent, thinking they could make use of them, thus giving them the chance to escape!
The car stopped.
"Keep a close watch on him. If he leaves Shen Zhou, imdiately, get him, dead or alive!"
"Roger!"
Matt Arnold hung up the phone, taking a deep breath.
The cathedral had arrived.
Ti to adjust his emotions.
Before the statue.
Gibson silently calculated the ti. The target should have appeared by now.
Did sothing go wrong?
Just when his thoughts were running wild, footsteps approached, and his heart settled.
Matt Arnold seed preoccupied, ignoring the priest, only pausing before the statue, then making a sign of respect before heading to the confessional, entering the right booth.
The world seed the sa everywhere.
Those haunted by evil ghosts are more drawn to worship.
Like temples, churches are places where people let down their guard, whether devout believers or not. Everything proceeded according to plan. Unhurried, Gibson followed into the confessional after the target entered.
However, he entered the left booth.
A partition separated the two, gridwork dividing them into sections.
"Sorry Father, I’m late."
"It’s alright; your work is noble, serving the nation and people. The Lord will forgive you."
Gibson’s voice was deep, imbued with a priest’s warmth. Even if not a professional actor, his performance was comndable, yet Matt Arnold sensed sothing was off.
The priest never spoke so much before.
Through the grid in the partition, Matt Arnold glanced over.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Arnold?"
"Who are you?"
Matt Arnold beca more certain sothing was amiss, suspecting the priest’s identity but still unaware of the danger.
During mass, the priest wouldn’t call him by na, only as "my child."
"Aren’t I the priest?"
Gibson lifted his head, a cold glare shooting through the grid, shattering the atmosphere.
Matt Arnold’s face changed, realizing the peril too late.
A silenced handgun appeared in view, and without any further ado, Gibson aid through the grid and pulled the trigger decisively.
"Bang."
A specially crafted bullet penetrated the partition, accurately hitting Matt Arnold’s forehead, spraying red and white from the back of his head onto the wall.
Gibson didn’t linger; a real man never turns back to look at the body. After finishing the target with a single shot, he pushed open the confessional door, a sudden tension gripping him.
According to his intel and observations, Matt Arnold only had two security personnel, who wouldn’t enter the church during prayers. Yet rounding the corner was unexpectedly a third agent, checking his watch.
"Father, tonight’s mass..."
The agent’s pupils contracted upon noticing the blood on Gibson’s robe.
The three ters closed quickly. Gibson vaulted off a bench, his robe spreading in the air like bat wings. The agent’s hand reached for his holster, only to be tackled and knocked to the ground.
They rolled on the colorful glass-lit floor, Gibson pinning the opponent’s gun hand, slamming it against the ground. Bones cracked and the Glock 19 clattered free simultaneously.
The agent didn’t relent, viciously kneeing his ribs, but was intercepted by a preemptive elbow strike to the kneecap.
"Stop!" ca the shouts of two more agents from the doorway.
Gibson grabbed the fallen gun, smashing the butt into the struggling agent’s throat. As the dying spasms jolted his palms, a "bang" resounded, the first bullet piercing the wooden door.
Gibson rolled toward the Holy Relic Room, timber splinters hovering in candlelight behind him.
"Side entrance! Block the side entrance!"
A second gunshot followed, a bullet grazing his ear, obliterating the Virgin statue’s head. Gibson hurled a knife backward, its sheen embedding into the pursuer’s weapon hand. As cries echoed, he crashed through a stained-glass window, landing in the courtyard.
The cold night air filled his robe, chaos erupting behind him: "He’s heading for the graveyard!"
Gibson discarded the hindering black robe, revealing a black tactical suit beneath, weaving between tombstones under spotlight pursuit.
When the first pursuer rounded the angel statue, what awaited was a tombstone entwined with piano wire.
"Snap!"
A muffled gurgle from a severed windpipe disappeared into the night breeze. Gibson seized the fallen’s MP5 submachine gun, delivering a three-shot burst to shatter the chasing spotlight. As darkness fell, he vaulted a rusted iron fence, landing on a prepped motorcycle.
"Thud, thud, thud..."
As the engine roared through the night sky, the cathedral clock tower chid nine tis.
Back at the safe house, Gibson turned on the TV, the news already breaking the urgent report of the FBI senior officer’s assassination at the church. He switched it off, opened his laptop, confirming the remaining one and a half million US dollars had been credited.
No wonder it’s the United States.
The speed of paynt is impressive.
anwhile, Gibson’s attention was drawn to an unfamiliar email, containing Matt Arnold’s records.
Three years ago, Matt Arnold had commanded an anti-terror operation. In that action, Gibson’s special forces unit was wiped out, only he survived.
The email also included a photograph of the entire special forces squad back then.
Gibson gazed at his comrades’ faces in the group photo for a long ti.
A phone call interrupted his mory.
Gibson pressed the answer key, slowly bringing the phone to his ear.
"The mission was excellently done; are you interested in the next collaboration?"
Gibson looked at the photo on his computer, his eyes quiet.
"Ti, place."
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