New Mexico, along the U.S.-Mexico border.
A lean and efficient-looking team passed through the checkpoint one by one, flashing their IDs.
They ignored the buses hawking rides and headed straight to the outskirts of a border town, stopping beneath a battered old billboard.
Three ordinary black Ford sedans waited silently.
A limping old man in a fisherman's hat handed the keys to the team leader.
"Where's the gear?" the leader asked.
"In the car," the old man replied, opening one of the doors.
Inside, equipment was neatly placed on every seat.
"Don't recognize you new guys," the old man said with a grin.
The leader's face turned cold. "Don't ask what you don't need to know."
With that, the team drove off.
The old man smirked at their retreating vehicles. "Amateurs. Can't even keep hold of the target photo."
He bent into the roadside grass and picked it up.
As a former elite agent of the Strategic Intelligence Bureau, the old man had planned to clean up after the impolite youngsters.
But the moment he saw the person in the photo, his pupils contracted.
His lame right leg suddenly ached as if transported back to that cave prison on Guadalcanal where he'd been held for two years.
His leg had rotted from a gunshot wound soaking in seawater.
The man in the photo—he was the one who had saved him.
"How can I ever repay you..." he recalled saying.
The young man with a handsome face and cold eyes had replied simply,
"Help me, where and when you can."
After being wounded, the old man had been reassigned to the rear, and as time passed, he assumed he'd never get the chance to repay the debt.
After all, that young man had since become a billionaire.
But when it came to choosing between duty and humanity, the old man chose the latter.
He no longer approved of the CIA's current methods.
As a seasoned operative, he had his ways to send a message.
He wrote a letter with invisible ink—one that could only be revealed with a special solution—and gave it to a young trucker heading toward Richmond, Virginia.
Though the transport wouldn't beat the assassin team's cars in speed, the old man wasn't worried.
Assassinations still required scouting, planning, tracking. His message would be early enough.
When Leo received the letter, he could tell from the faded ink that two days had already passed.
That meant the hit squad had likely already begun their prep work.
He immediately called Joseph. "Find them. Fast."
"No problem, boss," Joseph replied. "If they show even a hint of a tail, they're gone that day."
"Don't act yet. Not time to burn you all. And I want to know who's in such a rush to see me dead."
Over the next few days, Leo kept a low profile, rarely leaving home.
The Valentino Estate was vast and secure—far out of range for sniper rifles.
Its security detail was made up of elite veterans from the Veterans Mutual Aid Committee—all personally trained by Leo, people he knew inside and out.
Leo, one of the world's top special ops tacticians, wasn't about to play by their script.
He would drain their patience and control the battlefield on his terms.
On the rooftop of the only high-rise in the Sector District, the hit squad's captain lowered his binoculars and muttered,
"Damn, this guy's nothing like a young man. Stays home like a retiree. How the hell did he make his money?"
It was their tenth day in Richmond.
Yesterday, their handler gave a final ultimatum: complete the mission in three days.
The captain was at his wit's end. All of Leo's business partners were coming to him—Leo didn't even need to go out.
Their initial Plan B—storming the place—was scrapped after seeing the security team's readiness.
You could tell from their posture: these were pros. One of them could even sense being watched.
So they were left with one option: wait for Leo to leave the house.
Then—
"Captain! He's out!" a teammate called.
The captain grabbed the binoculars.
Sure enough, Leo was getting into his Lincoln.
But according to intel, the car was bulletproof—so an ambush on the road was out.
He turned to the team's sniper. "Wolf, this one's on you. Don't screw up."
The silent sniper nodded.
One of the younger members whined, "Boss, what about us? We came all the way from the Philippines and haven't fired a shot!"
"Shut it. You still haven't paid for dropping the photo. If Wolf misses, we storm. You'll take point. And bring your scope. That guy wrote our training manual."
As the Lincoln cruised along the highway toward Washington, Leo glanced in the rearview mirror and said to Noodles,
"Relax. They won't strike here."
"You saw something? I didn't see anything," Noodles said, checking his mirrors.
"That's the problem. If we were at war, you'd be dead in half a second. They're pros. And they're using my training—except I never taught them the trick I kept to myself."
The car soon entered a private horse ranch in the D.C. suburbs.
At the gate, a crowd had gathered. The only familiar face to Leo was President Truman, surrounded by aides.
This visit had a dual purpose: flush out the killers and accept Truman's special invitation.
"Leo, let me introduce my core team," Truman said.
"John Steelman, my indispensable chief of staff.
Clark Clifford, my foreign policy advisor and close friend.
Louis Johnson, my campaign fundraiser—you two have met.
Alben Barkley, Senator from Kentucky, and a loyal supporter.
And James Rowe—young, brilliant, and the soul of my team."
Leo knew these names, especially James Rowe.
He had seen the man's fingerprints all over Truman's political comeback in documentaries.
"Gentlemen," Truman said, "Mr. Valentino is the reason we can still stand here laughing today.
Without his support, I'd still be locked up in the White House by the party chair, forbidden from speaking in public.
So I've invited him to join my campaign team."
The group mounted horses and began a leisurely ride.
As they rode, Truman and Senator Barkley moved ahead, clearly giving the others time to speak privately with Leo.
Clifford smiled. "Mind if I call you Leo? The papers say you're only 23 and already a billionaire. Impressive."
Leo simply smiled back, saying nothing.
James Rowe, impatient and less experienced, jumped in:
"Mr. Valentino, I hear your company's expanding.
My family holds some sway in Kansas. We've got a couple construction companies.
Would be an honor to do business with you."
Leo instantly sensed the group's attention shift—subtle, but focused.
They were eyeing his wealth like vultures.
Still, he decided to hear them out. Maybe they'd prove useful.
"Oh? Let's hear it. Valentino Corp. is indeed expanding into the Northeast."
James Rowe smirked. "Here's the idea: I offer equity in three companies in exchange for shares in Valentino Corp.
Then your company invests in land, and I'll secure local bank loans and political protection for your developments.
Sound good?"
Leo suppressed his anger and asked,
"And the valuation of your three companies?
Because our last audit valued Valentino Real Estate at $300 million."
Translation: Who the hell do you think you are, trading shares with me?
Rowe's face darkened. "A company's value isn't just in cash flow.
With my family's influence in Kansas, we can smooth everything.
If I don't give the nod, no outsider nails a deal in Kansas.
And don't forget—we're the ones backing Truman.
If you want in, you've got to give something up."
Leo dropped the smile.
It was the first time since becoming a billionaire someone had dared threaten him so bluntly.
"And what did you give up to join this team, Mr. Rowe?
When I donated to President Truman's campaign, your name wasn't on Louis's list.
Nor do I recall your family among Kansas's top elites."
Rowe had been brought in by Clifford—an old money political family man, former Freemason at Harvard.
Leo's jab hit him hard. Clifford tried to defuse the tension, but Rowe exploded.
"You're just some backwater punk! You think you can compare to me?"
Leo shrugged. "You're right. I'd never be thick-skinned enough to ask for equity with that attitude."
Rowe turned purple. "No one eats alone in America!
Your company will be shut out! And forget joining the campaign!"
He rode off to tattle to Truman.
Leo chuckled. "Is he really complaining to his dad?"
Silence. The cheerful mood vanished like a bubble popping.
Steelman said coldly, "Is it true Valentino Real Estate won't go public?"
Leo could see what was happening. More and more people wanted a piece of his pie.
"I will. Just not yet."
"Capital rules this country. But capital is people, and the ultimate game? Presidential elections.
If you want in, you must pay—money, power, or something else. Especially someone like you, with no roots," said Steelman.
"Isn't money a root?" Leo replied.
"Without a president behind it, your money belongs to someone else.
Let us into your company, and you become one of us."
Leo knew their game.
Take one step back now, and they'd soon have his entire boardroom filled with their own men.
Then—
A glint. A sniper's scope.
Leo kept his face calm, but he knew the assassin had taken position.
He glanced at Rowe, still arguing with Truman.
An idea bloomed—kill two birds with one stone.
"Mr. Steelman, give me a moment. I need to apologize to Mr. Rowe. Team unity is important."
He rode ahead.
Clifford asked, "Think he'll say yes?"
Steelman smirked. "He has to. Toppling the Cotton family means he now depends on us.
Going to apologize proves he's accepted that. Walter from Citibank? Idiot. Letting him manage U.S. affairs was a mistake."
Clifford shrugged. "Fine by me. When Truman loses, Leo's worthless. We'll kick him from his own company, and I'll return to Citibank a hero."
They laughed—until—
BANG!
James Rowe pushed Leo, who ducked.
The bullet struck Rowe's skull mid-fall, bursting it open in a red bloom.
Two more shots rang out.
Leo rolled under his horse, then pulled Truman down with him.
From the ridge, the assault team realized the sniper missed.
"Charge!" the captain shouted.
Too far to drive, they had to guess Leo was here based on the Lincoln's presence.
Afraid of scope glint, they didn't verify his companions—big mistake.
The sniper, a Filipino who didn't read English news, hadn't recognized Truman.
And so, the ambush turned into a victory—for the Secret Service.
The team was wiped out—except the sniper.
In the aftermath, the bodies were lined up.
Among them: the assassins and Truman's top advisor—James Rowe.
Truman believed the assassination was aimed at him. Rowe, tragically, just collateral damage.
Two of the attackers had clearly Filipino features—immediately linking them to a certain arrogant general in the Far East.
Truman's eyes burned with fury.
The gathering disbanded.
He ordered the sniper captured alive.
Nodded to Leo, then left.
As Leo's car left D.C., Joseph's vehicle caught up.
He rolled down the window and made a throat-slitting gesture.
Sniper: handled.
Leo wouldn't let Truman catch him alive.
The misunderstanding? All to Leo's benefit.
As for joining the campaign team—he'd wait.
Without Rowe's advice, Truman would come crawling back soon enough.
Thanks, MacArthur. Good man.