Capítulo 1437: Chapter 685: If You Won’t Do It, Plenty of Others Will! (Part 3)
“Plunge!!”
The sharp blade pierced through flesh, severed bone, and was directly embedded into the wooden table top!
“Ahhhhhhhhh——!!!”
Lawrence let out an inhuman, extrely piercing scream, his entire body convulsing violently, tears, snot, and blood sared all over his face.
The intense pain almost made him faint instantly.
Victor gripped the knife handle, even cruelly twisted it, causing the blade to grind against bone and flesh.
Lawrence’s scream beca even more heart-wrenching.
“Does it hurt?! Huh?!” Victor leaned down, his face close to Lawrence’s distorted face from extre pain, his eyes filled with bloodthirsty excitent, “This is fucking reality! Not your shitty Hollywood movies!”
He abruptly pulled out the dining knife, bringing out a stream of blood, splattering onto the snow-white tablecloth and his own suit.
Lawrence collapsed, clutching his bloody and convulsing right hand, emitting intermittent, bellows-like sobs and cries.
Victor shook the blood off the knife, using the tip to lift Lawrence’s chin, forcing him to look into his crazed eyes.
“Listen up, you ungrateful trash.”
Victor’s voice lowered, “The thing I hate most is idiots like you who don’t appreciate kindness! You think you’re important? You think Texas won’t run without you?”
He snorted, full of extre contempt.
“You won’t do it? Fine! There’s plenty who will! Those fence-sitting big shots in Texas, they’ll crawl over like dogs to lick my boots, begging to give them a bite!”
His knife tip pressed slightly, leaving a blood mark on Lawrence’s chin.
“But you? And your damned, self-proclaid noble Stuart family?”
Victor’s face twisted into a grim smile, “You’re finished! I’m telling you, you’re all fucking finished! Once I drag Paul out of his turtle shell, I’ll hang both you brothers, and every bastard in your family, at the door of Austin’s Parliant Building!”
He abruptly withdrew the dining knife, casting a disgusted glance at the limp, continuously moaning Lawrence.
“Drag him out! Throw him in the dungeon!”
Victor shouted at the guards standing like statues at the door, “Just an eyesore!”
Two soldiers walked forward expressionlessly, roughly lifting the nearly unconscious Lawrence from the chair, dragging him outside, leaving a trail of blood on the carpet.
Haven’t dealt with people for a while, feels a bit rusty.
Victor adjusted the bloodstained collar of his suit, picked up a clean napkin, leisurely wiping the blood spots on his face and the dining knife, as if he had just completed a trivial task.
“Ungrateful scum.”
He cursed under his breath, disgustedly tossing the napkin on the ground.
Victor took a drag on his cigarette, inhaling deeply, letting the spicy smoke swirl in his lungs before slowly exhaling.
The violent look on his face had faded.
“Rohus.” He spoke to the Deputy Director of the Special Service and his close bodyguard, who had been standing like a shadow at the door.
Rohus imdiately stepped forward, slightly bowing: “Sir.”
Victor’s voice carried no emotion, “Get Hydra moving, and those three departnts, the xico Counterintelligence General Bureau, the xico News Bureau, Internal Affairs Bureau, don’t fucking idle.”
He flicked his cigarette ash.
“Their only task is, by any ans necessary, to connect with those big shot families in Texas who haven’t been bombed stupid yet, Garrett, Taft, Johnson… whoever the fuck, tell them, Paul Stuart’s ship is sinking, smart ones should think about coming ashore.”
“Bring them this ssage, cooperate now, voluntarily correct themselves, and work with our people, and they can retain seventy to eighty percent of their land, oil fields, businesses, and possibly even gain more later.
If they wait for our tanks to roll to their manor doors…”
“I’ll blow up their ancestral graves!”
“Understood, boss.” Rohus nodded.
“Go, move quickly, we don’t have ti to wait for them to hold family etings and make decisions.” Victor waved his hand.
Rohus quickly turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the empty corridor.
Victor took another drag on his cigarette, murmured to himself, a hint of mockery on his lips:
“Afraid there aren’t people willing to be dogs? The world is never short of dogs eager to gnaw bones!”
…
Texas, west of Houston, deep within Braylock Manor.
This is a vast private territory, which is more a small kingdom than a ranch.
High walls, electric grids, private ard patrols, all demonstrating the owner’s profound wealth and vigilance against the outside world.
In the study room of the main house, covered with bear skin carpet, decorated with deer head specins and antique rifles, the atmosphere was unusually oppressive.
Old Elton Braylock sat behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers anxiously tapping the surface.
Nearly seventy, his hair was silver-white, but his gaze remained as sharp as an eagle, only now those eyes were filled with bloodshot and struggle.
Standing before him were his two sons: the elder son Marcus, burly, face full of flesh, wearing cowboy boots, seemingly still carrying the sll of the stables.
The younger son Kohl, suited up, wearing gold-rimd glasses, the actual handler of the family’s business in Houston.
On the desk, an unremarkable satellite phone had just ended a call.
“The xicans… the conditions they’re offering…”
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