Seeing the information on Patrice Saint-Clair, Jack suddenly realized something—he had never heard of Jeffrey Epstein in this world, nor had the Lolita Island scandal ever surfaced.
A quick search confirmed that the U.S. did have a billionaire with the same name, but he had died in a plane crash years ago.
Did a certain former presidential couple take him out preemptively? Jack knew better than to dig too deep into things that didn't add up. In his past life, aside from a toothless documentary, no movies or TV shows had dared to touch the scandal involving the upper echelons of Western society.
In that case, it made sense that in this world—so heavily influenced by film and television—such a global controversy never broke out.
As soon as Frank got the results, he rushed out the door. Meanwhile, Castle, who hadn't witnessed the horrors inside the Albanian gang's den firsthand, was now gritting his teeth while watching the news coverage.
Despite the seemingly close ties between Western nations, they never hesitated to expose each other's scandals—especially when it came to negative news.
If you wanted to learn about American scandals, Reuters, the BBC, and AFP were the best sources. Likewise, the AP loved to dig into European royal family gossip.
And if the scandal involved both sides of the Atlantic, your best bet was TASS. As for that parroting media outlet from a certain Eastern country, it wasn't even worth mentioning.
Seeing the tragic state of the rescued girls on TV, Castle, who might have previously thought Jack and his father's methods were excessive, now only regretted not personally torturing Mark Ocha himself.
"There's an underground auction tonight," Frank announced upon his return.
He looked a little disheveled. Jack noticed bloodstains on his sleeves and scrapes on his knuckles.
"What did you do?" Jack asked, more out of concern for potential complications than pure curiosity.
He had already done his best to cover their tracks—keeping Bryan from contacting his former intelligence colleagues in France and disposing of Mark Ocha's body.
Taken 2's plot revolved around Mark Ocha's family seeking revenge against Bryan after learning his identity from his former colleague. But now that Mark Ocha was gone, Taken 2 was unlikely to happen.
That meant Bryan was in the clear. The problem was Frank—Jack just hoped he hadn't stirred up any new trouble.
Frank flexed his wrist dismissively. "Just met an old friend for drinks. Local gangs these days have no manners."
Seeing that Frank didn't want to elaborate, Jack didn't press further. Compared to Bryan, Frank's past was much more classified.
He had been active during the late Cold War era—a time when the upheaval in Eastern Europe was like a global earthquake, birthing a generation of intelligence legends rivaling 007 himself.
The fact that Frank had two long-term safe houses in Paris alone was proof that he had operated extensively in both Eastern and Western Europe.
"This auction is disguised as a banquet, starting at 9 PM. It's being held in Mark Ocha's private club," Frank added, his expression dark.
Jack checked the time—3 PM. Not much time left to prepare. No wonder the bald man looked pissed.
"How are you planning to get in?"
Forging invitations was out of the question. Their goal was to rescue people, not shoot their way in and out. Paris was still a capital city, after all—disguising themselves was the only viable option.
"I hear you're pretty good in the kitchen?" Frank smirked at Jack.
"Eh?"
——
When a hobby turns into work, all the joy disappears.
Expressionless, Jack drizzled sauce over a few plates of foie gras, estimating that the timing was just right. Seizing a moment when no one was looking, he slipped into a storage room, stripped off his chef's uniform, put on a suit, and adjusted his tie—restoring his usual suave appearance.
The grand hall was bustling with guests, engaged in hushed conversations in small groups. No one noticed an uninvited guest had just blended in.
"Can I help you with anything, sir?"
Bryan, dressed as a waiter in a black bow tie with a white towel draped over his arm, approached Jack with a tray in hand.
"Thanks." Jack took a glass of champagne, took a sip, and smiled. "Where's the restroom?"
"This way." Bryan gestured.
Once they were in a quiet corner, Jack lowered his voice. "Have you spotted Patrice Saint-Clair?"
Bryan nodded and motioned toward an inconspicuous door at the far end of the hall. "There's an elevator inside. He went down earlier with a group. But there's a guard posted at the entrance."
With that, Bryan nonchalantly stepped on a nearby trash bin, dumping all the glasses from his tray into it. He stashed the tray behind a potted plant, then casually walked into the restroom.
Moments later, Bryan re-emerged in a high-end suit. The two then made their way toward the small door.
Opening the door, they found a black-suited security guard standing inside the elevator room. He greeted them politely, "How can I assist you?"
"We're here to see Mr. Saint-Clair," Bryan said with a friendly smile.
"May I have your names?" The guard flipped through a list.
"John Wick," Jack replied casually, subtly closing the door behind them.
"Uh… I'm sorry, but your name isn't on the list," the guard said, glancing at Jack in confusion before shifting his gaze toward Bryan—
But before he could react, Jack suddenly lunged forward, driving a fist into the lower edge of the guard's ribcage, right near the abdomen. The blow sent a sharp pain through the diaphragm, instantly robbing him of the ability to breathe—let alone call for help.
As the guard doubled over in pain, Jack swiftly moved behind him, locking his arm around the man's throat in a rear-naked choke while his other hand pressed the elevator button.
With a soft "ding," the elevator doors slid open. Jack dragged the convulsing guard inside while Bryan followed, pressing the button for the basement level.
Everything happened in the blink of an eye. Before the guard could even attempt to resist further, Jack twisted his neck with a sharp "crack."
Another "ding" signaled the elevator's arrival. As the doors slid open, Bryan swiftly peered out with his silenced "Viper" pistol, scanning for threats. Seeing no one in the corridor, he stepped out and held the adjacent utility room door open.
Jack dragged the corpse inside, shut the door, then took a moment to assess their surroundings.
The underground auction was exactly what it sounded like—literally underground.
Although the elevator panel had only indicated a single basement level, the descent time suggested they were at least 10 meters below ground. Jack suspected this place might be part of an old civil defense structure.
Two passageways extended from the elevator area.
To the left, a metal door blocked the way, with faint cold air and humidity seeping through. Based on his mental map of the club's location, Jack estimated that this passage likely led to the banks of the Seine.
To the right, a staircase led further downward. The passage was lavishly decorated, with marble-patterned tiles lining the walls.
No doubt—the auction was down there.
______
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