"What was captured?" Victor asked nervously, silently praying that nothing more would go wrong. But as fate often has it, the more you hope, the more reality turns against you. Taking the photos handed to him, the first thing he saw was an image of William, wearing a hat and large black-framed glasses.
"This... this..." Victor stammered, staring at his assistant in disbelief. "God, don't tell me this is who I think it is!"
His assistant shrugged. "It's exactly who you think it is."
"Damn it! Lock this down immediately. If Carl Becken, the interior minister, finds out about this, I might as well retire," Victor grumbled as he angrily tossed the photos onto his desk and slumped into his chair. "What the hell is he doing in Paris? Wasn't he in New York just a few days ago?"
"I checked the entry records," the assistant explained. "William Devonshire and a young woman named Jesse Barrett, 20 years old, arrived in Paris on his private jet three days ago. They're staying at a private villa at 18 Champs-Élysées."
"18?" Victor thought for a moment before asking, "Isn't that the property of Marco Kance, the chairman of the Kance Group? How did that stingy old man agree to sell such a prime property to William Devonshire?"
"You don't know?" The assistant seemed surprised by Victor's ignorance. Seeing his boss's confused expression, he explained, "Marco Kance's late wife was the sister of Duke Devon, and we both know the Duke's relationship with William Devonshire."
"Damn these connections," Victor muttered, shaking his head in frustration. "These high-society types are always related in some way or another." He picked up another photo, this one of Christmas. "And who's this guy?"
"No idea," the assistant replied, shaking his head. "I checked our database, and there's nothing on this bald man. However, based on the on-site investigation and surveillance footage, we suspect he was meeting with the intelligence broker Rick, who was killed in the explosion."
The assistant inserted a disk into the television, and footage began to play. The video showed two nearly identical bags, each with a stuffed bear attached. Victor cursed under his breath, realizing the incredible coincidence of the situation. Staring at a photo of Michael Mason, he sighed, "Aside from William Devonshire, send all other details to the CIA. Maybe they can dig something up."
"Understood," the assistant said before leaving the office.
Half an hour later, at the Paris CIA office, station chief Karen Dyke stormed into the monitoring room. Clapping her hands to grab everyone's attention, she pinned photos of Christmas and Michael Mason to the whiteboard.
"Alright, people, figure out who these two are, where they live, and what they've been up to."
"Got it."
It didn't take long to gather information on Mason. His file popped up on the screen.
"Michael Mason. Born in Las Vegas. Profession: con artist. Wanted in four states for fraud. He fled to Paris 18 months ago on a tourist visa and has been working as a pickpocket ever since."
After hearing the summary, Karen frowned in confusion. "Why would a small-time con artist and pickpocket become a suicide bomber?"
The team shared her confusion, but the surveillance footage clearly showed Mason detonating the bomb without any coercion.
"Who knows what kind of trouble this idiot got himself into during the past 18 months," someone speculated.
Unable to find an immediate answer, Karen turned her attention to the other individual. "What about this other guy?"
"Sorry, boss," one of the team members said, raising a hand. "His file is classified. We don't have the clearance to access it. Only headquarters can retrieve it."
"What?" Karen exclaimed, her eyes widening in surprise. "We're the station chief's team here in Paris!"
"Still, we can't access it," the team member said, shrugging. "Either he's one of our own, or he's connected to someone high-ranking in one of our allied agencies."
Karen mulled over this for a moment. Staring at the footage of Christmas grabbing the charred documents at the explosion site, she muttered, "Who are you? What kind of intel was in that file that you'd blow your cover to retrieve it?"
Before she could ponder further, a voice shouted from across the room, "Boss! Look at this! He's on the Champs-Élysées!"
"What?!" Karen rushed over to the monitor, instantly recognizing the bald-headed Christmas standing near the wall of a villa, keeping an eye on the street.
After a moment of thought, Karen turned to a nearby operative, a large man named Sean Brewer. "Sean, secretly apprehend this guy. And remember, with the parade less than two days away, do not use firearms unless absolutely necessary."
"Understood," Sean said with a nod, leaving the room.
A few minutes after Sean left, the CIA operatives monitoring Christmas saw a Rolls-Royce pull up to the villa's gate. Christmas approached the car, knocked on the window, and handed a paper bag to the driver before walking away.
"F***!" someone shouted. "Find out who owns that villa!"
It didn't take long for the information to come through. Karen stared blankly at the screen displaying William Devonshire's photo.
"Damn it. Why him?"
For a moment, Karen was at a loss. She retreated to the corner of the room to call her superior and report the situation.
To her surprise, her boss expressed keen interest in the documents Christmas had retrieved. At the same time, however, she was warned not to make a move against William without concrete evidence. Instead, she was ordered to focus on capturing Christmas discreetly.
Orders were orders. Reluctantly, Karen followed through, though she knew this could lead to trouble. Unfortunately for her, Christmas wasn't the mercenary he used to be. His casual attire wasn't just for show—it was bulletproof and designed to absorb 30% of physical impact.
This put Sean Brewer at a significant disadvantage. He landed over ten punches on Christmas, who didn't so much as flinch. Meanwhile, Christmas's blows quickly overwhelmed Sean. Within a few rounds, Sean was on the ground, handcuffed to a metal pipe.
Checking Sean's ID, Christmas pulled out a gun and pressed it against his head, growling, "What the hell are you? Human or ghost?"
Taking a photo of Sean with his phone, Christmas received an immediate response from Sunday: "Retreat."
Startled for a moment, Christmas holstered his gun and grabbed Sean by the collar. "Stay out of my way. Next time, I won't be so nice."
As Christmas walked away, Sean let out a sigh of relief. Knowing that Christmas had spared him despite discovering his CIA affiliation suggested they weren't necessarily enemies. However, Christmas's remark about him being "human or ghost" left Sean deeply unsettled.
Does this mean he suspects there's a mole among us? Sean thought to himself, his unease growing.
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Fairy Tail: Igneel's Eldest Son (Chapter 256)
I Am Thalos, Odin's Older Brother (Chapter 336)
Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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