At night, inside the Wildcat Bar.
Owen sat at the bar and ordered a shot of tequila. Benjamin sat beside him. For the past few days, CTU and the FBI had been working closely together, targeting White Mask.
According to FBI intelligence, White Mask was responsible not only for the recent premiere bombing but also for multiple murders.
As the investigation progressed, more and more information poured in.
White Mask was not only brutal but also extremely cunning. They never stayed in hotels or within the city. Instead, they hid in residential areas near the suburbs, where the population was sparse and houses were spaced miles apart.
When they took over a house, they would control the owners, making them help with various tasks before eventually killing them just before moving on.
The elderly couple from the cabin had been their fifth victims. Their bodies had been found in the bathroom tub. According to the townspeople, the husband, Old Horns, had even driven a young man into town a few days earlier.
This only highlighted White Mask's ruthless yet audacious nature.
Given the multistate murder spree, the FBI couldn't stand idly by. The case naturally fell to Benjamin, leading to the current close collaboration between the two agencies.
Yet despite several days of investigation, there was still no trace of White Mask. It was as if they had vanished.
...
The next morning, in Nevada.
Avril, now mostly recovered from her wounds, dressed in clean clothes and walked into a smoke-filled office.
Several burly, vicious-looking men loitered around. As Avril entered, some of them gave her predatory stares.
Unbothered, Avril walked straight to the center desk. A dagger was stabbed into the wood. Behind it sat a man quietly observing her. He had never seen a woman walk into the Wolf Gang's turf so brazenly.
"You 'Bat' Wells?" Avril asked disdainfully.
The man behind the desk nodded. Avril tossed a handbag onto the table with a sharp "thud."
"There's two hundred thousand dollars inside," she said.
Wells sat up, glancing first at the money, then at Avril, a gleam of greed in his eyes. But he restrained himself and asked, "What do you want?"
"Two hundred grand is just the down payment. I'm hiring you and your men for three days. After that, you'll get another two hundred grand. But during these three days, you do exactly what I say—no questions asked. Killing, arson, anything. If you disobey..."
With a flick of her wrist, the dagger was suddenly in Avril's hand and then flew across the room, stabbing dead center into the dartboard on the wall.
"Fine. Deal. You want me to attack the White House, I'll do it," Wells agreed cheerfully, snatching the bag.
America never lacked mercenaries. Give them enough cash, and they'd do anything.
Avril nodded in satisfaction, while Wells subtly signaled his men to stand down.
He had considered double-crossing her. His men were itching for it. But Wells was no fool—he had seen the thick calluses on Avril's hands, the kind only someone experienced with firearms would have.
After checking the bag and seeing neat stacks of Benjamins, he decided it was better to earn the easy money than risk his life.
That night, Wells led over thirty of his men into California. Avril had never considered abandoning Zheng Anshun to save herself.
Though Zheng hadn't been part of her original team, once she recognized someone as one of her own, she would do anything to rescue them. As for cannon fodder like Wells' men—they were expendable.
Under the cover of night, they reached Los Angeles. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Avril pointed to a small villa on a hillside. "There. We'll stay there tonight."
Wells barked a few orders into the radio, and the convoy headed up the slope, parking in front of the dark villa.
The place seemed abandoned. Wells and a few of his thugs approached cautiously.
The barking of dogs broke the silence, but after two sharp "whimpers," the barking ceased. Then the lights came on, and a voice shouted, "Boss, no one inside!"
Wells' men laughed and whooped as they swarmed into the house.
Avril scowled and slipped quietly into one of the bedrooms. She needed a quiet place to work.
Meanwhile, Wells' gang ransacked the place.
In the kitchen, a dead puppy was kicked aside. Someone raided the fridge and threw food around the living room. Others found the wine cabinet—champagne, tequila, whiskey, martini—all top shelf. They cracked them open without a second thought.
Still others urinated in the pool, trashed the bedrooms, and smashed anything they couldn't steal.
In her room, Avril listened to the chaos with a frown.
On the nightstand was a framed photo of the villa's owner—a handsome middle-aged man in a suit with neatly slicked-back hair and a short beard.
"Beep beep."
A new message arrived. Finally, her contacts in Los Angeles had delivered solid intel.
"Tomorrow night, Zheng Anshun will be transported by FBI to Baldwin Park Prison. The route is..."
Avril immediately pulled out her laptop and began studying the route carefully. Los Angeles wasn't her turf. She needed a flawless plan. This mission had to succeed—no matter what.
...
The gang kept partying late into the night. Eventually, Avril ordered two men to stand guard while the rest slept.
The villa's real owner never returned that night.
The next morning, Avril summoned Wells and his men and began assigning tasks.
She personally devised the entire operation plan—a specialty of hers.
By midday, they set out in their vehicles. Avril had decided not to engage the FBI head-on. Instead, they would need to prepare some special equipment.
They left in a hurry, not bothering to finish wrecking the villa before they went.
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