Sixty minutes ago, in a phone booth by the roadside, a middle-aged man in a trench coat stood inside, clutching a lit cigarette.
He continually nodded at the phone, wearing an expression as if he had eaten shit.
"...I don't care how you do it, I just want to see that bastard Lance White appear in the newspaper, you understand me?"
"He's lying on the ground or somewhere, with a hole in his head, that's all I want!"
"As for how you do it, I don't care!"
The director directly slammed the phone, because the gunmen told him it was difficult to find a suitable opportunity to act against Lance shortly.
Lance traveled with three or four cars, four or five cars, a large group of people.
The place he lived was heavily guarded, his travel habits and routes weren't fixed, and once at the location, his bodyguards would first clear the area before he'd get out of the car...
Trying to intercept and kill him on the road was basically very difficult unless they could get more people involved.
