I Have 10 Trillion Dollars only Usable For Simping Chapter 2162 - 1386: Pentagram

Previously on I Have 10 Trillion Dollars only Usable For Simping...
Jiang Chen converses with Zhuge Xi, probing his enigmatic past and affirming his respect for the Heaven and Earth Bank as more than a mere vault but a sophisticated financial tool. Zhuge Xi presents a 'Book of Life and Death' containing profiles of around thirty influential foreigners, proposing their elimination as his condition for unwavering loyalty. Demonstrating his expertise, Zhuge Xi effortlessly makes fifty billion dollars vanish and reappear in a bank account, prompting Jiang Chen to pat his shoulder and instruct him to do a good job.

Lower classes handle menial tasks, middle ones tackle intellectual work, and upper echelons oversee personnel.

Genius overflows in this world. Even within East Sea University, Boss Jiang never viewed himself as the premier student in the management program. Therefore, when facing exceptional prodigies like Lin Zhuzhen and Zhuge Xi, he experienced no defeat and preserved an utterly composed attitude.

Experts must address professional issues.

And he.

——Possesses his own domain of specialization as well.

A distant sea away.

San Antonio.

Within a shadowy bar, a rugged man customarily occupied the corner seat, not towering or grand, yet the sinews beneath his denim coat pulsed with raw strength. Before him sat a whiskey glass, his digits idly tracing its edge. Differing from the hunters among men, he avoided eyeing the alluring females in the venue or the thrilling pole performances onstage. His gaze sporadically shifted to the bar's entrance.

"Hey, handsome, can I buy you a drink?"

In a realm of liberty, audacious females abound. The approaching flirt boasted a voluptuous Caucasian build, her ample chest straining against her low-cut top. Fiery red locks cascaded in enticing waves, exuding potent allure.

A routine flirtation appeared imminent.

"I’m GAY."

However, the rugged man's blunt reply chilled the redhead's grin. Still, such outcomes were routine. In a nation boasting myriad identities, homosexuality raised no eyebrows.

Realizing her error in selection, the woman promptly sealed her lips and pivoted sharply to seek another prospect.

"Gulp."

Unfazed, the rugged man sipped his whiskey and checked the simple mechanical watch encircling his wrist.

"Ding."

Nine o'clock struck precisely.

Simultaneously.

A figure swung open the bar's front door. The lone rugged man swiftly eyed the intruder's left hand, spotting a faintly luminous silver band on the ring finger.

The rugged man raised his whiskey once more and drained it fully.

The newcomer disregarded the provocative dancers, scanned the boisterous interior briefly, then, detecting a presence, locked eyes on Gibson in the shadows and strode directly toward him.

"Is this seat taken?"

Gibson shook his head.

The man settled in without delay.

A homosexual meeting?

Hardly.

The lighthouse nation diverges from Shen Zhou, embracing affection and liberty. Same-sex pairs stroll hand-in-hand publicly, free from concealment.

Once seated, Gibson uttered no words, merely sliding a napkin folded into a triangle toward the man.

The man accepted it, spread it open, and discovered a pencil-sketched pentagram. The paper's borders showed wear from repeated creases, bearing subtle whiskey marks.

The man refolded the napkin and tucked it into his pocket.

"Who’s the target?"

With identities verified, Gibson cut to the chase, his tone flat and stripped of surplus feelings.

"Matt Arnold."

The man extracted a photograph from his pocket and eased it across to Gibson. "This is his itinerary."

Gibson grasped the image, depicting a fiftyish man with a severe visage and piercing stare, as if peering into one's essence via the picture.

Naturally.

The essence lies beyond the target's looks.

"The FBI?"

Gibson's gaze tightened, his voice dropping instinctively, a flicker crossing his icy demeanor.

The counterpart's expression stayed serene, offering only a subtle nod.

"Sorry, I can’t take this job."

Gibson shifted to depart, yet the other stayed nonchalant.

"Suit yourself."

Gibson furrowed his brow, pondered briefly, then resumed his seat.

The man showed no reaction. "There’s his itinerary on the back. It should be helpful to you."

Gibson retrieved the photo anew, turned it, and noted the reverse side crammed with tiny script.

In the faint illumination, he scanned it rapidly.

The subject visited Saint John Cathedral each Wednesday dusk. The image's rear detailed his routines and the two agents' protection. Those with poor vision might struggle to decipher it.

"Cathedral?"

"Yes, he goes to pray every week."

"To my knowledge, he’s not a Christian."

Gibson appeared well-acquainted with the mark.

Moreover.

A high-ranking FBI official may evade fame but surely isn't obscure.

"But many of the people he’s dealt with are Christians."

Gibson grew quiet.

"One million US dollars, half in advance, the rest upon completion," the other party declared concisely.

"An FBI senior advisor is only worth one million US dollars?"

"Three million."

The other party upped the sum effortlessly.

Such transactions demand swift closure, unfit for drawn-out bargaining.

Gibson stowed the photo. "I’ll give you an answer in three days."

"No, now."

Gibson scowled.

The other party held silent, apparently awaiting his verdict.

Gibson produced a sheet, jotted a sequence of digits, and rose.

"Transfer the deposit to this account."

"The money has already been transferred."

Gibson halted, suspicion flashing in his eyes, before murmuring lowly. "Who exactly are you people?"

The counterpart's tactics inspired respect.

Not merely aware of his banking info, but they'd already deposited the funds preemptively.

Did they assume his acceptance?

No.

The alternative rings truer!

Namely, they offered no option for refusal from the start.

Gibson scanned the surroundings cautiously, amid the dazzle and revelry, detecting no anomalies.