America: The Cremator

On a highway in a remote suburb of Seattle, three very different-looking vehicles formed a silent convoy.

Adam's sleek Dodge Challenger led the way, followed closely by the Black Panda armored vehicle from the Bizarre Support Bureau, while Suron and Wells' Ford crematorium lagged at the back of the convoy.

As the convoy passed a fork in the road, it turned off the main road and onto a nearly forgotten side road, where the scenery quickly became desolate.

Finally, the convoy stopped in front of a factory area surrounded by barbed wire.

A rusty sign hangs on the crooked iron gate, its paint long since peeled off, but a few words can still be barely made out—Seattle Parker Compressed Candy Factory.

The factory's layout appears cramped and confined. The main warehouse is a huge metal box without any windows. The blue paint on the exterior walls has peeled off in large areas, revealing the rusty original metal underneath. Upon closer inspection, one can even see obvious signs of splicing.

This place doesn't look like a legitimate food processing plant; it looks more like a third-rate workshop used to process illegal drugs.

After everyone got out of the car, Elena checked the map information on her handheld terminal and, after confirming that it was correct, she didn't waste any more words and directly gestured with her chin to the two "Black Chess" task force members behind her.

Two soldiers immediately stepped forward, drew their tactical shotguns from their backs, aimed at the large industrial padlock on the warehouse door, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

"Bang!"

The muffled gunshots echoed through the empty factory area, and the lock snapped and fell to the dusty ground.

The soldier kicked open the heavy iron door, the hinges creaking loudly, revealing a dark, gaping opening.

The next second, a stench mixed with a strong smell of blood, cloying sweetness, and some kind of chemical reagent rushed towards us like a real wave.

The expressions on everyone's faces instantly turned serious.

They silently and methodically checked their equipment, put on full-face gas masks, and then filed into the bottomless darkness.

The warehouse was larger than expected, but it was empty, with only a few dismantled production machines, reduced to mere skeletons, scattered in the corners.

A few rays of light leaked through the seams of the metal roof panels, casting several clearly visible beams of light amidst the dust filling the air.

By the dim light, the group saw a scene in the very center of the warehouse that resembled a painting of hell.

More than twenty corpses were piled up haphazardly, forming a small mountain of flesh.

Their limbs were twisted and intertwined in an unnatural posture, their congealed blood binding them together into an ugly whole.

A crude cross, made of welded rusty iron pipes, was crudely inserted on top of the pile of corpses.

A Mexican man wearing a brown mink coat and a thick gold chain around his neck was bound to a cross. His expensive sunglasses hung askew, obscuring one eye, while the other eye was wide open, its pupil frozen in the terror of death.

As the group approached, the details of the corpse became clearer.

The throats of each corpse were slit open horizontally by a sharp blade, and the tongues were violently torn from the wounds, hanging limply in front of the chest like dark red fleshy ties.

Columbia tie!

The manner of death was exactly the same as that of the previous informant, but there were obvious differences in the details.

The informant's jawbone was completely shattered, while the victims here still had intact jaw structures.

Perhaps the executioners harbored a deeper hatred for the whistleblower, or perhaps it was simply because there were too many victims and they didn't have time to carry out the overly complicated torture procedures.

Elena's fists clenched so tightly they cracked, and her voice came from behind her mask, filled with suppressed anger: "To prevent the news from leaking out, they killed everyone in the entire factory."

Adam ignored the corpse and quickly scanned his surroundings.

The entire warehouse was cleaned exceptionally well; there were no production tools or raw materials in sight, not even a single shell casing.

In some areas where large equipment had been placed, there were even charred marks on the ground from being heated by a spray gun at high temperatures.

He added coldly, "They not only silenced them, they also erased all traces."

Surong and Wells stepped forward, squatted down, and carefully examined the pile of corpses.

The surface of the corpse has begun to soften and ulcerate in small areas, and the skin tissue is slowly turning into black mud.

Wells gently touched the outermost corpse with his gloved fingers. The corpse's skin had lost its elasticity and had a strange, mud-like texture.

Wells stood up and said urgently, "The trend of blackening is already very obvious. These things must be dealt with immediately, otherwise a huge thing will grow and we will all perish here."

"No!"

Adam's voice came from behind him, cold and unyielding.

He took out a pair of disposable latex gloves and shoe covers from his pocket and slowly put them on. "These are important pieces of evidence and cannot be burned until the scene search is complete."

Surong's expression also turned serious. He pointed to the enclosed roof above and reminded him, "Agent Adam, this warehouse is a completely enclosed structure with no ventilation. The temperature and humidity are much higher than outside, making it a natural petri dish."

"The first informant we dealt with had at least a whole night between the report and the burning. Even if the bodies here died later, it was definitely more than eight hours ago."

"If we don't deal with it quickly, the situation could get completely out of control."

Adam didn't even turn around to look at him, his tone full of contempt and arrogance.

"I admit you're somewhat capable and can intimidate me, but you two are just crematorium workers, following us around cleaning up our trash. So, you'd better shut your mouth until my investigation is over."

Elena stepped in front of Surong and retorted without hesitation, "You're the one who should shut up! Surong is right. So you'd better put away your bureaucracy and hurry up and check your evidence."

"If something troublesome hatches later, I'll throw you over there to feed it first."

Adam's expression stiffened for a moment, but he finally let out a cold snort and bent down to examine the scene.

Meanwhile, 800 meters away, an abandoned signal tower stood silently amidst the weeds.

The main structure of the tower has long been eroded by time and is covered with rust. The weeds at the base of the tower are taller than a person, and several abandoned industrial pipes are coiled in the grass like giant pythons.

In the middle of the signal tower, a camouflage netting that blends seamlessly into the surrounding environment cleverly obscures the view from the ground.

On the maintenance platform at the top of the signal tower, everything appeared exceptionally tidy.

A muscular, bald Black man was lying on the edge of the platform. A hideous scar ran from the corner of his left eye to the corner of his right mouth, making his silent expression appear even more fierce.

His body remained motionless, except for his pair of large, bony hands, which were steadily and precisely adjusting the massive NWT-20 anti-materiel sniper rifle in his hands.

Beside him, a skinny Mexican man chewed gum, held up a high-powered telescope, and casually scanned the distant factory area, muttering, "Hey, do you know why FBI agents always operate in pairs? Because one is responsible for reading, and the other for understanding the pictures."

"Do you know why FBI agents never tell jokes? Because they're afraid they'll laugh themselves to death."

The Mexican man's binoculars suddenly swept across an area, he adjusted the focus, and then said with a hint of schadenfreude, "Oh, it seems all our guests have arrived. Look at the three o'clock position, see who they brought..."

"Holy crap, there are even people from the Bureau of Corpses—two poor, unlucky souls..."

The bald black man raised his head, his eyes icy cold, and said, "Report the parameters, you bastard. If you utter another word of nonsense, I'll cut off your penis and shove it into your damn mouth."

The Mexican-American clamor abruptly ceased.

He immediately dropped his joking expression, picked up the walkie-talkie next to him, and reported to his superior in a professional tone: "Hyena calling the hive, all targets have entered the designated area. Repeat, all targets have entered the designated area."

After finishing his report, he picked up the anemometer and began to report honestly: "Current wind speed is 2.1 meters per second, northeasterly wind, air humidity is 75 percent, target distance is 814 meters, and there is no obvious heat flow interference."

A moment later, a static noise came through the walkie-talkie, followed by a distorted voice that was neither male nor female.

"Free to shoot."