I have ten trillion licking dog gold

The lower class people work with their physical strength, the middle class people work with their brains, and the higher class people work with their people.

This world is filled with too many geniuses. Even at Tunghai University, Boss Jiang does not think that he is the most outstanding student in the School of Economics and Management. Therefore, when he saw talented people like Lin Zhuzhen and Zhuge Xi, he did not feel frustrated and his mentality was very peaceful.

Professional matters should be left to professionals.

And he.

——You all have your own areas of expertise.

Far away across the ocean.

San Antonio.

In a dim bar, a tough guy habitually sat in the corner. He was not tall and strong, but his muscles under his denim jacket were obviously full of explosive power. There was a glass of whiskey in front of him, and his fingers were unconsciously stroking the rim of the glass. Unlike the men who were hunting for beauty, he did not go to see the hot girls in the bar, nor did he go to see the exciting pole show on the stage. His eyes occasionally looked towards the door of the bar.

"Hey handsome, can you buy me a drink?"

The free world is never short of proactive and bold women. The one who approached her had a plump figure of a white man, with the heavy fruits on her chest almost crushing her collar and shaking them out. Her long red hair had a sexy curve and exuded a strong smell of hormones.

A commonplace affair seems to be about to happen.

"I'm gay."

But who knew that the tough guy's simple response would make the red-haired girl's smile suddenly freeze. However, this is really too common. In a country with hundreds of genders, homosexuality is not worth making a fuss about.

Seeing that she had chosen the wrong target, the girl did not waste any time, but shut up decisively, turned around and left, continuing to search for the next prey.

"Gulu."

The tough guy ignored it, took a sip of whiskey, and then looked at the plain mechanical watch on his wrist.

"Ding."

Nine o'clock arrived.

at the same time.

At the bar, someone pushed the door open. The tough guy sitting alone looked at the other person's left hand at the first moment, and saw a slightly glowing silver ring on the other person's ring finger.

The tough guy picked up the whiskey again and drank it all.

The man who entered the bar also did not look at the pole dancers posing coquettishly. He looked around the noisy bar, and then his eyes seemed to be aware of something, and he looked at Gibson sitting in the corner, and then walked straight towards him.

“Is anyone here?”

Gibson shook his head.

The other party sat down immediately.

Gay joint?

of course not.

China is not the beacon of humanity. It advocates love and freedom. Same-sex people can walk hand in hand on the streets openly without having to be secretive.

After the other person sat down, Gibson didn't say anything, but just pushed a napkin folded into a triangle in front of the other person.

The man took it, unfolded it and saw a five-pointed star pattern drawn in pencil on it. The edges of the napkin were a little worn, obviously it had been folded many times, and there were faint stains of whiskey on the paper.

The man refolded the napkin and put it in his pocket.

“Who is the target?”

After confirming each other's identities, Gibson went straight to the point with a calm voice without a trace of unnecessary emotion.

“Matt Arnold.”

The man pulled a photo out of his pocket and gently pushed it toward Gibson. “This is his schedule.”

Gibson took the photo, which showed a man in his fifties with a serious face and sharp eyes, as if he could see directly into people's hearts through the photo.

of course.

What matters most is not the target's appearance.

"FBI?"

Gibson's eyes narrowed, he lowered his voice subconsciously, and his cold expression fluctuated slightly.

The other party was calm and just nodded slightly.

"Sorry, I can't take this order."

Gibson pretended to stand up and leave, but the other party remained indifferent.

"On your own."

Gibson frowned, weighed the pros and cons, and finally sat down again.

The man remained calm and said, "There is his schedule at the back, it should be helpful to you."

Gibson picked up the photo again, turned it over, and sure enough, he saw densely packed small words on the back.

With the help of the dim light, he could read ten lines at a glance.

The target goes to St. John's Cathedral every Wednesday night. The back of the photo also has daily habits and security details with two agents, which may not be clear if you are short-sighted.

"church?"

“Well, he goes to pray every week.”

"As far as I know, he is not a Christian."

Gibson seemed to know the target.

Also.

Senior FBI officials may not be household names, but they are certainly not unknown.

“But the people he dealt with, there were a lot of Christians.”

Gibson was silent.

"Five hundred thousand US dollars, half paid in advance, and the final payment will be paid after the deal is done." The other party was brief and to the point.

"A senior FBI assistant is only worth half a million dollars?"

"one million."

The other party simply raised the price.

This kind of transaction cannot be treated as a real business, and it is not suitable to bargain all the time.

Gibson put the photo in his pocket and said, "I'll give you an answer in three days."

"No, not now."

Gibson frowned.

The other party remained quiet, seemingly waiting for him to make a decision.

Gibson took out another piece of paper with a string of Arabic numerals written on it, then stood up.

“Put the deposit on this card.”

“The money has arrived.”

Gibson was stunned, his eyes subconsciously showed doubt, and then he lowered his voice, "Who are you?"

The other party's methods are awe-inspiring.

Not only did we know his account information, but we also deposited money into his account in advance.

Are you sure he will agree?

No.

The second possibility is more likely!

That means there is no intention to give him any room for refusal.

Gibson looked around vigilantly. There were lights and feasting everywhere, but he didn't find anything unusual.

"hurry up."

The other person stood up and left the bar.

Gibson watched him go.

"Another whiskey."

In the next few days, as usual, Gibson began to track his target Matt Arnold. The information given by others is never as accurate as that confirmed by himself. The first commandment of this line of work is that you can't trust anyone!

Just like the information on the back of the photo, the target lives a very regular life. He arrives at the San Antonio FBI office at 7 a.m. every day, leaves at 8 p.m., and appears at St. John's Cathedral at 8:30 p.m. every Wednesday night.

After watching and recording all the details like a ghost, Gibson returned to the safe house filled with equipment, slid his fingers over the cold muffler, and decided to take action. It was another Wednesday night.

Gibson arrived at the church two hours early. He had changed his appearance and put on a priest's black robe, a wig, and a cross on his chest.

The church was filled with the faint scent of incense, and candlelight flickered in front of the holy images. Everything was so quiet and peaceful.

Gibson stood in front of the statue, with his head lowered and eyes downcast. His wide robe covered his body and his expression was compassionate. It was so realistic that there was no sense of incongruity.

Time passes bit by bit.

At this time, a black Cadillac was driving towards the church. In the back seat, Matt Arnold, a senior FBI agent, was holding a mobile phone and answering reports from his subordinates. His upper body was slightly leaning forward. Even though he had no expression, judging by his body language, he was in an excited state.

"Finally, they've revealed their true colors. They thought everything would be fine if they just ran back to Shenzhou. As long as we get enough evidence and submit it to the International Court of Justice, I don't think the hypocritical Shenzhou people will have any excuses to evade us."

"Check these accounts immediately. No matter where they are, you must find these people for me."

"Boss, I'm afraid there's no way we can catch them."

"Why? Don't we already have control over their accounts? I will give you the greatest authority and let all departments cooperate with you."

"Boss... these people, Lin Daiyu, Qin Keqing, Jia Baoyu, Wang Xifeng, Shi Xiangyun, these are not Asians, but names from the four great Chinese classics, Dream of the Red Chamber."

"What do you mean?"

Matt Arnold didn't respond.

"They...are all fictional characters."

Hearing his subordinate's embarrassed and straightforward explanation, Matt Arnold fell silent, then clenched his back teeth unconsciously. If he were given another chance, he would definitely let that cunning bastard experience the cruelest punishment in the world.

"Zhuge Xi..."

Damn!

It was all those indecisive fools who said they wanted to keep such talent and thought they could naturalize the other party and use him for their own purposes, thus giving the other party a chance to escape!

The car stops.

"Keep keeping a close eye on him. If he leaves Shenzhou, immediately, catch him, no matter if he's dead or alive!"

"Roger that!"

Matt Arnold hung up the phone and took a deep breath.

We have arrived at the church.

You have to adjust your mood.

In front of the statue.

Gibson silently calculated the time. Logically, the target should have appeared by now.

Is there something wrong?

Just as he was daydreaming, he heard footsteps and his heart calmed down again.

Matt Arnold seemed to be preoccupied and did not look at the priest. He just stopped in front of the statue, bowed, and then walked towards the confessional and entered the compartment on the right.

It seems to be the same all over the world.

The more evil spirits a person harbors, the more he likes to worship Buddha.

Like a temple, a church is also a place where people can easily let down their guard. Regardless of whether one is a devout believer or not, everyone will put away their vigilance here. Everything develops according to plan. Gibson is not in a hurry. After the target enters the confessional, he also follows him in.

But he entered the compartment on the left.

A partition separates the two people, and the grid on the partition divides the people into pieces.

"I'm sorry Father, I'm late."

"It doesn't matter. Your cause is a great cause. It is for the benefit and glory of the country and the people. The Lord will forgive you."

Gibson has a deep voice with the kindness typical of a priest. Even though he is not a professional actor, his performance is remarkable. However, Matt Arnold still discovered the flaw.

Priests in the past would not talk so much.

Through the mesh on the partition, Matt Arnold can be seen looking over here.

"What's the problem, Mr. Arnold?"

"who are you?"

Matt Arnold became more certain that something was wrong and began to doubt the priest's identity, but still did not realize the danger.

During Mass, the priest would not call him by name, but only "my child."

"I am not a priest."

Gibson raised his head, and his cold eyes passed through the grid and collided with Matt Arnold, instantly destroying the entire atmosphere.

Matt Arnold's face changed and he realized something was wrong, but it was too late.

A pistol equipped with a silencer came into view. Without further ado, Gibson pointed the gun at the grid on the partition and decisively pulled the trigger.

"boom."

The special bullet penetrated the partition and hit Matt Arnold's forehead accurately. Red and white objects splashed out from behind Matt Arnold's head and sprinkled on the wall.

Gibson did not stop. A real man never looks back at a corpse. After killing the target with one shot, he pushed open the wooden door of the confessional, and suddenly his heart tightened.

According to the intelligence he had obtained and the information from tracking and observation, Matt Arnold had only two personal security personnel, and they would not enter the church during prayer times. But now there was a third agent at the corner of the corridor, looking down at his watch.

"Father, there's mass tonight."

The agent's pupils suddenly shrank when he looked up, his eyes falling on the bloodstains on the corner of Gibson's robe.

The three-meter distance was gone in a flash. Gibson jumped into the air by stepping on the bench, his black robe spread out in the air like a bat's wings. The agent's hand just touched the holster under his armpit, and he was knocked to the ground by the flying figure.

The two men rolled in the light spots projected by the colored glass. Gibson clamped the other's gun-holding wrist with his left hand and slammed it to the ground. The sound of bones breaking and the crisp sound of the Glock 19 falling to the ground rang out at the same time.

Not willing to be outdone, the agent bent his knee and thrust it fiercely into his ribs, but was hit on the kneecap by a right elbow that had been anticipated.

"Stop!" Two other agents shouted from outside the door.

Gibson picked up the fallen pistol and smashed the butt of the gun heavily on the Adam's apple of the agent below him. When the death spasm reached his palm, there was a "bang" and the first bullet had penetrated the wooden door.

Gibson rolled along the ground toward the sacristy, and the flying sawdust behind him raised a golden cloud of dust in the candlelight.

“Side door! Block the side door!”

The second gunshot followed, the bullet grazed his ear and smashed the head of the Virgin Mary. Gibson swung the dagger back, and the cold light pierced the wrist of the pursuer holding the gun. Taking advantage of the moment when the other party screamed, "clang!" He broke through the stained glass window and jumped into the courtyard.

The cold night wind blew into his robe, and chaotic shouts came from behind him: "He ran to the cemetery!"

Gibson tore off the black robe that was in the way, revealing the black tactical suit underneath. He ran in a serpentine manner among the forest of cross monuments, with the beams of searchlights chasing and blocking him from behind.

When the first pursuer bypassed the angel statue, he was greeted by a steel wire as thin as a hair.

"Crack!"

The muffled groan from the cut throat was swallowed up by the night wind. Gibson quickly picked up the dead man's MP5 submachine gun and shattered the pursuing searchlight with three bursts of fire. The moment darkness fell, he climbed over the rusty iron fence and landed on the motorcycle that had been prepared long ago.

"Boom, boom, boom..."

As the roar of the engines tore through the night sky, the church bell tower struck nine o'clock.

Back in the safe house, Gibson turned on the TV, and the news had already begun to broadcast the news that a senior FBI official had been assassinated in a church. He turned off the TV, opened his laptop, and confirmed that the remaining $500,000 had been received.

It’s America indeed.

Salaries are paid really fast.

At the same time, Gibson's attention was attracted by a strange email. When he clicked it, he found Matt Arnold's file.

Three years ago, Matt Arnold was in charge of commanding a counter-terrorism operation in which the special forces team was wiped out and only one person survived.

Attached to the email was a group photo of all members of the special operations team at that time.

Gibson is on the list!

No wonder I was chosen.

Gibson stared at the faces of his comrades in the photo for a long time, and his sharp memories were interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

Gibson pressed the answer button, slowly picked up the phone and put it to his ear.

"The mission was accomplished brilliantly. Are you interested in the next cooperation?"

Gibson looked at the photo on the computer with silent eyes.

"Time and place." (End of this chapter)