The next day, after feasting on delicious roasted chicken and downing quite a bit of whiskey, William slept soundly until almost eleven in the morning.
After washing up, Sunday reported, "Sir, I have searched all of Macallan's company servers and have not found any projects related to metal-devouring weapons.
However, after reviewing past surveillance footage and analyzing lip movements, I did discover that Macallan himself has mentioned nanotechnology twice."
"That means the research data is definitely stored on an isolated server in a secret facility. Keep an eye on Macallan and find that base for me."
"Understood, Sir." After logging the task, Sunday continued, "Second matter: Eric Wayne has been located, and you may find his contact quite interesting."
A photo appeared in midair on a virtual display.
William immediately felt the person looked familiar, and then Sunday provided the answer. "Do you remember Clyde Shelton, the man who wreaked havoc on the New York judicial system?"
"Of course." The moment William heard the name, he recalled the ruthless man who avenged his wife and daughter.
The Punisher was brutal, but at most, he simply executed criminals on sight without mercy.
Clyde Shelton, on the other hand, took vengeance to an extreme that could only be described as twisted. It was impossible for William to forget him.
"If you remember Clyde, then do you recall the mentor he mentioned—the one who introduced him to the black ops world?"
William thought for a few seconds before replying, "Tobin Frost."
"Yes, Sir. Tobin Frost, the legendary traitor of the CIA. Since defecting from the U.S. in the 1980s, he has been engaged in intelligence trading ever since."
"You're suggesting that this Tobin guy is likely targeting me this time?"
"I can't say for sure, Sir. But considering that Clyde Shelton died because of you, the Titan was handed over to England by you,
and, let's not forget, you still hold a supervisory position in MI6—it's not impossible that Tobin Frost has set his sights on you."
William didn't care whether Frost was after him or not. His philosophy was simple—better to kill unnecessarily than to let an enemy slip away.
"Where's White Ghost?"
"White Ghost tracked Eric to Johannesburg. Upon discovering that Eric's contact was Tobin Frost,
he also noticed a group of about ten armed individuals monitoring Eric as well.
After dealing with this 'eyesore' of a team, White Ghost chased Tobin Frost so relentlessly that he had no choice but to recklessly flee into the U.S. embassy in Johannesburg.
If you'd like to see the full footage, I have recordings captured by Black Widow spiders and Black Hornet drones."
"Play it," William instructed.
The virtual display immediately showed an older man with graying hair—clearly Gareth's missing subordinate, Eric.
Judging from his movements, it was evident that this old man was a seasoned operative. He had prepared a backup identity well in advance—one that was both unexpected and, in hindsight, quite logical.
Eric, carrying a backpack, had boldly walked into London Airport before his betrayal was even discovered.
Using his Air Marshal identification, he switched places with the onboard security officer on a flight to Hamburg. An hour later, he arrived in Hamburg and then flew directly to Johannesburg.
Had it not been for Sunday's near-total surveillance coverage of London, it would have been much harder to track down the mustached Eric.
But now that he was found—even though his flight had already been in the air for over an hour—there was no way he could arrive faster than White Ghost aboard the Kun-style fighter jet.
By the time Eric stepped out of Johannesburg Airport, White Ghost had already taken a shower at the airport hotel, changed clothes,
and was now comfortably sitting in an air-conditioned Land Rover, casually tossing a handful of small, black, bean-sized robotic spiders near the airport exit.
Then, while watching the drone feed on his laptop, he simply waited.
As soon as Eric exited the airport and stopped to hail a taxi, the robotic spiders climbed onto his shoes, tucking themselves discreetly into his pant cuffs.
They followed him all the way to a small tavern.
White Ghost had just parked outside and was about to follow him in when Sunday's voice came through his earpiece. "Unknown armed personnel detected."
White Ghost, hand on the car door handle, instinctively let go and turned to watch the drone feed.
A quick glance was enough for him to confirm that several armed individuals were stationed in an office unit of a building about fifty meters from the tavern, watching it closely.
"Can you identify them?"
"Hold on," Sunday paused for about ten seconds before replying with words that nearly made White Ghost punch his screen in frustration.
"Apologies, your clearance does not grant you access to classified government intelligence databases."
Again with this?! White Ghost gritted his teeth and cursed a few times before asking, "Are you telling me these guys are government operatives?"
"Uncertain. However, there are no records of these individuals in my current databases."
That was enough confirmation for White Ghost. If they weren't CIA, they were working for another major power.
"Then notify our boss and have him grant me access."
"Apologies, Sir. Devonshire is drunk. Disturbing his sleep right now would not be a wise decision."
"Fine. Then I'll just get rid of these nuisances myself. You keep tracking Eric and his contact."
Now in an incredibly foul mood, White Ghost pulled out the two pistols hidden under his suit, checked them, attached suppressors,
put on his smart glasses, and shoved open the car door. He didn't care that his movements had already drawn the attention of the men in the building fifty meters away.
Even though he was furious, he wasn't stupid enough to march straight into the building. Instead, he entered a nearby alley, took a detour, and approached from a less conspicuous route.
Riding the elevator to the seventh floor, he used a specialized lock-picking tool to open the door of a residential unit.
Peering out the window and seeing no one looking his way, he jumped out.
In a swift, headfirst dive, he descended toward the sixth-floor balcony.
Half a second later, the armed men watching the tavern from the sixth floor spotted him.
But against a man of White Ghost's caliber, they didn't stand a chance. Before they could react, White Ghost, still mid-air, fired four silenced shots—
Pfft, pfft, pfft, pfft!
Then, using one hand, he grabbed the sixth-floor balcony railing, swung around, hung from the outer wall, holstered his gun, and, with a powerful push, flipped into the room.
After confirming the room was empty, he casually whistled as he exited the building and walked toward the tavern.
As he walked, Sunday fed him real-time updates on Eric's conversation with his contact inside.
The moment he entered the tavern, he saw a middle-aged black man wearing a small round hat, a cape, and carrying a backpack step out of a private room.
At a glance, White Ghost locked eyes with him.
The instant the black man—Tobin Frost—saw White Ghost, his pupils dilated in shock.
Realizing the situation was dire, Tobin didn't hesitate. He immediately drew his gun, crouched, and fired a few shots at the ceiling.
Taking advantage of the ensuing chaos as patrons screamed and scattered, he slipped out the back door without a second thought.
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