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Chapter 916 - Chapter 916: Chase and Escape

"Tobin Frost?"

At a moment like this, seeing a legendary figure who had been on the American wanted list for over twenty years and still managed to stay alive, White Ghost couldn't help but feel a jolt of unease.

After all, a man's name carries weight just like the shadow of a tree. In the underworld, anyone with a reputation was never someone easy to deal with—and to stay famous for over a decade? That took either absurd luck, or a ruthless and cunning mind.

As soon as he saw Tobin's shoulder twitch, White Ghost knew he was reaching for a gun.

But that didn't alarm him—in fact, it pleased him. He knew very well that aside from his face, the rest of his attire could withstand any handgun round.

While drawing his own pistol with his right hand, White Ghost raised his left arm, using his bulletproof glove to shield his forehead.

Just as he was about to take down Tobin with a shot, the so-called legendary figure, who had made even White Ghost cautious, suddenly crouched behind panicked patrons and fired at the ceiling—then bolted.

"Damn it, I knew these old guys who rely on talk and experience would run the moment they saw me."

He said it out loud, but truthfully, he was covering for the awkwardness of having been momentarily shaken by Tobin's reputation.

Cursing the coward to himself, he holstered his gun and left the tavern.

As he walked toward his car, he asked Sunday, "You got a lock on that loudmouth?"

"Rest assured, Sir. The spider-bots latched onto Tobin Frost during his meeting with Eric. The Black Hornet drone will have visual in five seconds."

Footage quickly appeared in White Ghost's smart glasses. "Nice. Can't believe that guy really is the legendary CIA traitor.

Tell me, if I capture him alive, think our stingy boss might be happy enough to tell me who killed my uncle?"

"I'm sorry. What Devonshire will or will not do is something only he knows."

"Hah, you're the biggest bootlicker in the AI world," White Ghost mocked Sunday as he opened the car door, slammed the accelerator, and began pursuing Tobin and Eric.

The chase had only just begun when Sunday suddenly warned, "Two unidentified vehicles have also joined the pursuit of Tobin Frost."

Footage of the vehicles popped into view. Then Sunday added, "Several blocks ahead, there's a large gathering of football fans crowding nearby streets. Tobin and Eric will likely be forced to flee on foot."

White Ghost gently tapped the brakes, allowing the other two pursuers to move ahead.

As the streets grew more congested, Sunday not only captured footage of the armed men exiting the two vehicles but also tagged and tracked each one.

Seeing the crowded street, White Ghost smirked, parked in a roadside space, threw on a baseball cap, and got out.

Following Sunday's guidance, he weaved rapidly through the sea of people and soon caught up with three of the armed men.

Calculating his attack order silently, he reached into his suit. With two thin, sharp needles between his fingers, he pressed them into the temples of two operatives who were fixated on Tobin and Eric.

They instantly lost consciousness. White Ghost caught and lifted them, propping their bodies casually on a nearby bench.

This exact scene was spotted by Tobin, who had turned back to observe from a street corner several dozen meters away.

"Damn it. How did he spot me?"

Tobin glanced at Eric's panic-stricken face, and when he looked back, White Ghost had already subdued the third armed man—his hand wrapping from behind the man's neck.

Crack!

Another one down.

Seeing White Ghost flash a grin at him from dozens of meters away, Tobin's face darkened as he turned and walked away.

As he moved, he said to Eric, who had hurried to catch up, "We're splitting up."

"No, no, Tobin, please don't leave me!"

Eric, in his panic, ignored every rule about maintaining composure and avoiding attention from enemies or law enforcement.

"Idiot. If we split up, each of us has a fifty percent chance of escaping. Think, damn it—White Ghost's more likely to chase me than you, understand?"

Eric paused. It made sense. Realizing this, he said, "Take care," and immediately headed down a different street.

After walking a dozen meters, he turned back—and was thrilled to see White Ghost simply glance his way before decisively going after Tobin instead.

But the moment he turned again, he slammed right into a man in a black jacket.

Then came a sharp prick on his neck—and everything went black.

Watching the entire sequence through his smart glasses, White Ghost covered his ear and barked at Sunday, "Kill that damn traitor."

"Apologies. Only Mr. Devonshire has the authority to issue termination orders."

"F**k. So you're just going to watch him get captured?"

Furious, White Ghost picked up his pace. Tobin was already in his fifties and had to exert himself to keep ahead—soon he was breathing hard.

Worse, they had emerged onto a main street where the number of football fans had sharply decreased.

Out in the open like this, he would be easy prey.

Fortunately, luck hadn't abandoned him yet. Across the street was the U.S. Consulate.

Being captured by Americans at least meant the CIA would try to extract information.

As long as he wasn't killed on the spot, he had a chance to escape later. Far better than being gunned down by the infamous White Ghost.

Turning back and seeing White Ghost only twenty meters behind, Tobin didn't hesitate.

He pulled out a U.S. passport from a bundle inside his backpack, discarded all his weapons and gear—including guns, magazines, and knives—into a trash can,

then quickly crossed the street, passport in hand, attracting the attention of the guards.

By the time a few wary guards had reached for their holsters, Tobin calmly said, "My name is Tobin Frost—CIA's most wanted."

With that, he stopped worrying about the guards drawing their weapons and turned to look back at White Ghost, who was now peeking from the street corner, half his face visible.

White Ghost gave him a throat-slitting gesture and watched as Tobin was hauled into the consulate.

Then he asked Sunday, "Can you keep eyes on that bastard?"

"No problem. If necessary, I can deploy over a hundred spider-bots into the consulate."

"Good. Then let's go after that traitor Eric," he said, turning around without another word.

"And when I catch the bastards who tried to steal my mission, I'll make them kneel and tell me exactly who they are."

Walking back several dozen meters and cursing at the still-dense crowd of football fans, White Ghost suddenly remembered—he didn't need to retrieve his car at all.

Looking up at the surrounding buildings, he made his way into a fifteen-story tower. "Have the Kun fighter jet decloak and come pick me up."

Not long after, White Ghost violently forced open the rooftop door and reached the top.

There, on the empty rooftop, a hatch suddenly opened in midair.

"Take me to Eric."

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