Chapter 307: The Snow Mountain Incident and the Gala
"Then it's settled—this Saturday evening. I guarantee you'll have a wonderful time."
Under Sheldon's disdainful gaze, President Siebert patted Sheldon heavily on the shoulder before leaving. As soon as the president departed, Sheldon immediately grabbed hand sanitizer and sprayed it all over the places he'd just touched.
Honestly, Ron felt that President Siebert hadn't expelled him yet, which was already remarkably generous.
Sheldon was a genius—that was an indisputable fact. But at the same time, he was also incredibly difficult to deal with—that was also a fact.
"Oh my god, tater tots and a gala invitation—what a fantastic day!" Rajesh exclaimed, earning a glare from Sheldon, but unfortunately, no one was taking Sheldon's complaints seriously anymore.
Of course, while Ron enjoyed his peaceful and interesting daily life, there were always some restless lunatics trying to cause trouble. For example, right now...
In an unnamed valley in the snow-capped mountains of Argentina, one of the world's most famous ski resorts, in a high-end mountain chalet, an elderly man tightly bound to a chair shivered as he looked at the thugs surrounding him.
These thugs were all bald, not even wearing hats in this freezing mountain environment. They looked like hardened criminals. He really wanted to ask, "Aren't you cold?"
"I'm very sorry, Professor Arnold. Just a little bit more..." The thugs began to peel off the duct tape from his mouth, their movements slow and gentle.
"Good Lord, just rip it off!" The tape had been peeling for almost a minute, and Professor Arnold was losing patience, even losing the basic respect he'd had for his captors.
The mercenary remained polite, even unusually so. "My orders are that you must not be harmed."
With his mouth freed, Professor Arnold said helplessly, "I think you've made a mistake. I'm just a university lecturer. I don't have any money for you."
"This has nothing to do with money. Our employer just wants to speak with you."
"Should I feel relieved?"
"He'll be here soon. He'll explain everything. Want some whiskey?" the mercenary said patiently, then ordered his men. "Reid, bring that bottle of '62 Dalmore."
Behind the professor, a heavyset mercenary got up to fetch it. "Seriously, this whiskey is incredible. You'll definitely appreciate it..."
But just then, a knock sounded at the door.
The snow outside was too heavy, and a thick layer of ice coated the windows, making it difficult to see who was outside. The mercenary leader walked toward the door. Halfway there, he quietly drew his weapon and held it behind his back.
"It's rather cold outside. May I come in for some hot cocoa?"
The door opened, revealing a friendly-looking British gentleman. There was no one else there. Just as the leader breathed a sigh of relief and was about to send him away, he suddenly remembered an urban legend that had long circulated among mercenaries and terrorists.
The legend said that before the fall of several now-destroyed criminal organizations, a well-dressed British gentleman would always knock on the door, appearing completely harmless.
But if you were deceived by his appearance, you were doomed, because this British gentleman was no ordinary person. He was part of the true elite intelligence agency of the British Crown, hidden behind MI6, which had become something of a public-facing organization.
Because this agency was so secretive, the outside world never knew their real name. Among criminals, they were called "the gentlemen," while insiders like Ron referred to them collectively as "Kingsman."
This was because, according to several people who'd had the privilege of working with them, their headquarters and supply depots always seemed to be located in inconspicuous tailor shops in various cities around the world.
These establishments generally specialized in bespoke high-end suits. Ron had several suits made by one of them.
Thinking of this, the mercenary leader's heart tightened. He immediately drew his weapon to eliminate the suspicious man before him. After all, it was snowing heavily—if he dumped someone on the snowy mountain, the body might not be discovered for a week.
By the time someone found him, he'd be long gone.
But the gentleman outside was faster. The leader had just drawn his gun, not even aiming it properly, when a Walther PPK pistol with a suppressor deflected his weapon, pressed against the man's abdomen, and quickly pulled the trigger.
"Pfft! Pfft!"
Two muffled sounds rang out, and the mercenary leader was instantly critically wounded. But that wasn't the end of it. The gentleman didn't push him away—instead, he used his massive body as a shield, propelling him into the chalet.
Before the mercenaries could even decide whether to shoot the gentleman hiding behind their leader, the gentleman's arm shot out from behind, and a deadly bullet instantly tore a bloody hole in one mercenary's forehead.
Bang!
Another shot struck the calf of a merc who'd just stood up from the sofa, sending him screaming and collapsing. The last mercenary had already aimed his weapon at the gentleman.
A slight squeeze of his finger would be enough to send him to meet his maker.
But the gentleman showed no fear. His wrist shifted only slightly, and he pulled the trigger first.
"Bang!" The bullet grazed the gun barrel, knocking away the mercenary's index finger that was about to pull the trigger.
A confident smile flickered across the gentleman's face. This level of marksmanship was child's play for someone with his training.
But the mercenaries didn't see it that way. Both the merc with the shattered index finger and the one shot in the calf wore expressions of utter disbelief—such a thing was unheard of in their combined decades of combat experience.
If Ron were here, he would scoff at their overreaction.
"Please. Hitting a target the size of a quarter from about fifteen feet? Big deal. I can accurately hit the firing pin of an RPG from sixty feet. What's so impressive about that?"
"Ahh!" The mercenary with the destroyed index finger screamed, quickly switching his weapon to his other hand, preparing to fire again at the gentleman. But before he could, the gentleman had already closed the distance, grabbing the hand holding the gun and pulling him close, simultaneously jerking his knee upward.
"AHHHHHH!" The mercenary's scream suddenly rose in pitch, becoming even higher than a soprano, simply because he'd been struck squarely in the groin.
Taking advantage of the moment, the gentleman's finger pressed the magazine release, and as the empty mag dropped, he swiftly pulled another from his pocket and inserted it.
"Bang!" Following the first mercenaries, a bloody hole appeared in his forehead, and he was done.
At this moment, the mercenary whose leg was wounded pulled out a combat knife, intending to make a final stand.
But his courage was destined to be futile. His companions hadn't been able to touch the gentleman with firearms—a knife stood even less chance.
And indeed, the gentleman didn't even look, raising his hand and shooting him dead.
"Professor Arnold, I've come to take you home." The gentleman turned around, flashing what he thought was his most charming smile, but at that moment, he heard the door open, and his expression immediately turned serious.
The mercenary who'd been sent to fetch the drinks was now arriving late with the whiskey, but the suppressed gunfire hadn't alerted him at all. He thought something had merely fallen.
The gentleman rolled forward, coming up beneath the tray of whiskey, raised his weapon, and the bullet entered the merc's chin and exited through his forehead.
The gentleman rose, smoothly catching the whiskey bottle from the falling corpse, and poured himself a full glass.
"A '62 Dalmore—quite excellent," he calmly sipped. "Spilling even a drop of this would be a sin, wouldn't you agree?"
His expression was full of victorious satisfaction, while Professor Arnold hadn't yet recovered from the shock of what had just transpired. It had all happened so fast.
Knock, knock, knock—another knock sounded at the door. The gentleman's expression tightened, his seriousness returning. Holding his glass, he concealed his pistol behind his back and walked step by step toward the door.
But before he reached it, he heard several "snick, snick" sounds behind him. Something was wrong. Were there still mercenaries he'd missed? Just as he was about to turn around, with a "whoosh," he felt a chill run through him, and a bloody line appeared on his face, extending from the top of his head down his entire body. Then, along this line, his body split apart.
An unknown weapon had cleaved his body in two...
"Ron, something this major has happened, and you're really not going to do anything about it? Just think about it—a top operative from Kingsman was sliced in half by a bladed weapon on a snowy mountain in Argentina. You can imagine how explosive this news is!"
A week passed quickly, and just as Ron changed into a sharp suit and was getting ready to attend the gala, his phone rang with Hobbs's excited voice rambling on.
"Those Brits must be going crazy. They only have twelve senior agents. One was killed in Afghanistan, and now this one's mysteriously dead in Argentina. Let's see what they have left to brag about!"
Ron sighed helplessly, adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. "Please, it's just one senior operative. Like you said, we all know Kingsman has twelve senior agents. Even if two are down, they still have ten. It's far from a crippling blow. I think you're celebrating prematurely."
Ever since Hobbs started working with Mr. Nobody, he'd begun calling himself an elite American agent.
Although the US and Britain were nominal allies, within the intelligence community, unless there was a common target, intelligence organizations from different countries were mostly hostile to each other.
Professional rivalry was especially intense in this industry, so Hobbs's schadenfreude was understandable.
"Yes! They're down two people, a full two people!" Hobbs repeated, as if afraid Ron hadn't heard him clearly. "They've lost a sixth of their senior operatives!"
"That's not how it works," Ron straightened his tie and held the phone to his ear. "Kingsman's agents aren't what you think. Although officially the twelve senior agents are equals, there's a hierarchy among them, and as far as I know, the two senior agents who recently died were from the lower tiers."
Ron, who often dealt with the Holmes brothers, clearly knew more about Kingsman.
"As long as those top-tier senior agents are functional, they can immediately serve as mentors, training a group of candidates. They can quickly develop a new senior agent to replace the previous one. Besides, your intelligence is somewhat outdated."
"The agent who died in Afghanistan already has a replacement. There's still only one vacancy."
"Is that so?" Hobbs was startled by Ron's extensive knowledge. "How do you know information I haven't even seen?"
"I've told you before—whether it's the CIA or the FBI, since the end of the Cold War, your field operatives have declined every year. They're less accurate than suburban housewives gossiping at Starbucks. I think it's time to recruit fresh blood."
"Okay, after this, I'll talk to Mr. Nobody about it. Let's get back to the mountain incident. I'm planning to fly to Argentina to investigate. Want to come along?"
"Have a safe trip," Ron replied insincerely.
"Hey! Didn't you used to jump at everything? Why do you seem so disinterested lately? Don't you even want to witness the Brits getting humbled?"
Let's be clear—although Britain and the US are allies, their mutual rivalry is nothing new.
For example, if an American woman is approached by a man with a smooth London accent, she'll almost always be happy to chat, making the British accent one of the sexiest in American women's eyes.
But for American men, there's only one response: eye roll.
Just a bunch of pretentious tea-sippers.
The same applies in Britain. Although the US is now the world's superpower, in the eyes of proper British gentlemen, Americans are still just colonial upstarts who got lucky.
They couldn't make it in Britain, so they left for the colonies, only to turn their backs on the Crown once they struck it rich.
In terms of pedigree, the British Empire is definitely the original article.
"Well, I might have been interested before, but now I'm not at all. Although he was lower-tier, there's no denying he was still part of Kingsman's elite. For him to die so mysteriously, you can imagine what kind of power was involved. I don't want to invite unnecessary trouble."
(End of Chapter)