"Ouch!"
Time flashed back to five minutes ago. Langston had punched Reacher in the face, accidentally bruising his pinky and cursing in pain.
"God knows, I had it all planned out: get paid, wait a while, and then quietly retire,"
the old man rubbed the back of his hand, cursing furiously. Surrounding him and Reacher stood seven or eight former NYPD cops, armed with various firearms.
These were his longtime subordinates, a team they'd all been in the NYPD with. Over the years, Langston had truly never let any of them down, so even in front of so many people, he felt free to speak his mind.
"That idiot Swan started snooping around and even recruited help. He and his friends ruined my carefully crafted plan."
Langston gave up on punching and kicking Reacher, who was chained to the chair, and switched to a more insulting slap across the face.
"But it doesn't matter. I can modify the plan and sign the documents in Swan's name. If the FBI or something comes to investigate, it will all look like he did it.
Swan made the deal and disappeared with the money, and I can still enjoy women, sunbathing, and cold beer on the beach."
"But now, because of you, you and the rest of your team, this plan has become a piece of shit again!"
He pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Reacher's bruised face. "I'll ask you one last time, where are your team now? What are you planning to do?"
Reacher spat out a mouthful of blood foam and grinned. Although there was blood between his teeth, his smile was extremely bright. "You look angry, but I'm curious, can you really still enjoy women at your age?"
Langston couldn't help but hit him again with the butt of the gun. He was clearly the one who had been beating people one-sidedly, but he was so tired that he held his knees and gasped for breath, which made the scene before him seem a little funny.
If you ignore the bruises on Reacher's face and the blood at the corners of his mouth, the sadist and the masochist inexplicably gave people a sense of dislocation.
"You're a stubborn, stubborn bastard, just like the soldiers you once commanded." Lanston finally caught his breath, his anger mostly vented, and his threats turned into inducements.
"You know what? I originally suggested giving Swan a share of the profits, and the same advice applies to you. Tell me the whereabouts of your accomplices."
Reacher raised his bruised eyelids and asked in a calm tone, "Where is he?"
"Your friend? He's here," Lanston said, suddenly realizing. "Is that why you're here? You wanted to see him?"
The old man smiled a malicious, mocking smile. Under Reacher's gaze, he walked to a cabinet, opened a drawer, and pulled out a glass jar filled with liquid.
The glass jar was filled with a clear liquid, and to his horror, an eyeball and a finger were soaked in the clear liquid.
"See? Sometimes, to frame someone, you don't need their entire body. I only need their fingerprints for computer verification so they can sign some documents.
I only need one eyeball for iris verification, to scan certain areas of the headquarters building and create the illusion he's still alive."
Seeing Reacher turn his head away in dismay, Langston deliberately stepped in front of him and gently shook the glass jar in his hand. "He insisted on playing the hero and refused to say anything, but I still found out about the other three.
Are these the idiots you taught? Haha, so this is all your fault. You taught them to meddle in other people's business. You're the one who cost them their lives."
Langston spoke wildly, observing Reacher's expression, but still to no avail. Knowing he couldn't force the big man to surrender, a strong sense of unease welled up in him.
But things had reached the final stage, and he couldn't imagine how a mere four or five of them could still cause any further damage to his plan, especially with their commander still in his hands.
Langston was a veteran cop who didn't like leaving any traces behind. Just as he'd escaped the NYPD unscathed, he was convinced he could do the same this time.
But the thought of those few escaped arrests forcing him to leave the country and become incognito at considerable expense irritated him, so he decided to do something that would make him feel better.
Langston handed the glass jar containing Swann's eyeball and finger to one of his men. "The reunion party's over. Flush these. We shouldn't leave any evidence behind."
Then, pointing at Reacher, he said, "Get a stretcher. We'll get him on the helicopter when we leave."
Reacher, still looking at the man impassively, carried what was likely the last trace of Swann left in this world into the bathroom. His hand, cuffed to the back of the chair, quietly touched the heel of his shoe.
Suddenly, a loud bang erupted outside, followed by a strange sound of music.
"I'm not the lucky one. Some
people aren't born with silver spoons in their hands. Lord, will they save themselves? Oh, but when the IRS comes knocking, Lord, that house looks like it's going to a clearance sale, yes...
"A runaway truck?" Langston, putting down the walkie-talkie, was startled. Realizing it might have been Reacher's companions outside, he sneered.
"Send the helicopters, get us out of here." He strode over to a row of servers, opened the cabinet doors, and pulled out the hard drives inside.
These drives contained all the data on the "Little Wings" project, which might even be used to negotiate a deal with the middleman later.
The veteran cop, with over 30 years of experience in the NYPD, knew full well that such a reckless official action would be impossible. Furthermore, using a truck to ram the door open, rather than an armored police vehicle, was clearly the work of Reacher's companions outside.
However, before he could move or give any instructions, another explosion echoed, and the surroundings were plunged into darkness, with only the multicolored lights on the servers continuing to flash.
As the generator automatically kicked into action, the emergency lights illuminated, but the room was no longer bright, plunging into a dreary darkness.
"What the hell is going on?" Langston tried to adjust his eyes to the sudden change in brightness, oblivious to the fact that Reacher, previously handcuffed to the chair, had vanished.
The singing from outside suddenly faded, replaced by the faint rhythmic crackle of gunfire and the panicked cries of the guards returning fire, creating a sense of unreality.
The music resumed, but this time it was no longer singing, but the symphony "Ride of the Valkyries." The prelude was faint at first, but just as everyone was in a state of confusion, another loud bang erupted.
The lowered shutter door buckled and twisted, and a black Pontiac Firebird roared into the room, its body swerving 90 degrees and sending an armed security guard at the door flying.
Jack hadn't turned on his headlights; in the dim light, only a crimson streak flickered from the front of the car, scanning the room like the eyes of a ferocious beast.
"Fortunate Son" is also known as "Good Morning, Vietnam," and "Ride of the Valkyries" is the classic soundtrack to "Apocalypse Now."
(End of the chapter)