I Have 10 Trillion Dollars only Usable For Simping Chapter 2163 - 1386: Pentagram_2

"Hurry up."

The individual rose and exited the bar.

Gibson observed his retreating figure.

"One more whiskey."

In the following days, following his routine, Gibson started shadowing the target, Matt Arnold. Details from sources could never match the reliability of firsthand verification. The top principle in this profession: believe no one!

As indicated by the info on the photo's reverse, the target's daily routine remained highly predictable. He showed up at the San Antonio FBI headquarters precisely at seven each morning and departed at eight in the evening. On every Wednesday evening at eight-thirty sharp, he made his way to Saint John Cathedral.

Having shadowed him invisibly and noted every aspect in silence, Gibson went back to his safe house packed with gear, his hand gliding across the chilly silencer as he resolved to proceed.

It was yet another Wednesday evening.

Gibson reached the cathedral ahead by two hours, altering his looks with a priest's dark robe, a wig, and a cross dangling from his neck.

A subtle aroma of incense permeated the cathedral, with candle flames dancing before the sacred images. The atmosphere felt utterly calm and tranquil.

Gibson positioned himself in front of the statue, gaze lowered, the expansive robe concealing his build. He appeared kind-hearted and believable, without any hint of inconsistency.

Moments passed steadily.

At that instant, a black Cadillac approached the cathedral. In the rear seat, FBI high-ranking agent Matt Arnold clutched his phone, absorbing a report from a team member, body leaning ahead slightly. Though his face stayed neutral, his posture betrayed eagerness.

"At last, a mistake. Believing they could flee to Shen Zhou and find safety. Once we compile sufficient proof and submit it to the international tribunal, we'll see what alibis that duplicitous Shen Zhou can offer."

"Examine, scrutinize these accounts right away. Regardless of their location, we must eradicate them completely."

"Sir, it seems we won't apprehend them."

"How so? Didn't we trace their accounts already? I've granted you full clearance for every agency to assist."

"Sir... these identities, Lin Daiyu, Qin Keqing, Jia Baoyu, Wang Xifeng, Shi Xiangyun, they're not from Asians. They're figures from Shen Zhou's Four Great Classical Novels, specifically from Dream of the Red Chamber."

"What are you saying?"

Matt Arnold failed to grasp it at first.

"They're... made-up characters."

Upon hearing the direct clarification from his underling, Matt Arnold fell quiet, then tightly ground his teeth. If he had the opportunity again, he'd subject that sly rogue to the cruelest torment imaginable.

"Zhuge Xi..."

Curse it!

It's those hesitant idiots' doing. Blathering about nurturing such skills, imagining they could exploit them, and thus allowing the escape!

The vehicle halted.

"Monitor him closely. Should he depart Shen Zhou, seize him at once, alive or dead!"

"Understood!"

Matt Arnold ended the call, drawing in a steadying breath.

They had reached the cathedral.

Moment to compose himself.

In front of the statue.

Gibson mentally tracked the hours. The mark ought to have shown up already.

Had an issue arisen?

As doubts swirled in his mind, approaching steps sounded, calming his pulse.

Matt Arnold appeared distracted, brushing past the priest, halting only at the statue for a gesture of reverence before proceeding to the confessional and stepping into the right compartment.

The world held similarities everywhere.

Individuals tormented by dark specters seek solace in faith more than others.

Similar to temples, churches serve as spots where defenses lower, for the pious or otherwise. The scheme unfolded as intended. Without rush, Gibson trailed into the confessional once the target had settled.

Yet he chose the left side.

A divider stood between them, latticework segmenting the space.

"Apologies, Father, for my delay."

"No concern; your duties are honorable, protecting country and citizens. God understands."

Gibson's tone resonated low, laced with clerical kindness. Though no trained performer, his portrayal impressed, but Matt Arnold detected an irregularity.

The usual priest spoke far less.

Peering through the lattice separator, Matt Arnold looked across.

"Something troubling you, Mr. Arnold?"

"Who might you be?"

Matt Arnold grew convinced of the anomaly, questioning the clergyman's authenticity while oblivious to the imminent threat.

In services, the priest addressed him solely as "my son."

"Am I not the clergyman?"

Gibson raised his chin, a icy stare piercing the lattice, disrupting the calm.

Matt Arnold's expression shifted, comprehending the hazard mere moments too late.

A suppressed pistol emerged into sight, and without pause, Gibson directed it via the lattice and fired without hesitation.

"Bang."

A custom round breached the barrier, striking Matt Arnold's forehead precisely, erupting crimson and pale matter against the rear wall.

Gibson didn't delay; a true operative avoids glancing at the remains. Having dispatched the objective with one round, he shoved open the confessional exit, a abrupt unease seizing him.

Per his gathered data and surveillance, Matt Arnold traveled with merely two bodyguards, who stayed outside during devotions. However, turning the bend revealed an unforeseen third operative, glancing at his timepiece.

"Father, this evening's service..."

The operative's eyes widened at the stains on Gibson's robe.

The gap of three meters vanished swiftly. Gibson leaped from a pew, robe billowing like shadowy wings. The operative fumbled for his sidearm, but Gibson collided and toppled him down.

They tumbled across the mosaic floor glowing from stained glass, Gibson restraining the man's firearm grip, bashing it repeatedly. A snap of bone echoed as the Glock 19 skidded away.

The operative fought on, thrusting a knee toward his side, only for Gibson to counter with an elbow to the joint.

"Halt!" yelled two additional agents from the entrance.

Gibson snatched the dropped weapon, ramming the grip into the agent's windpipe amid his resistance. With final throes shaking his hands, another "bang" rang out, the initial shot splintering the door.

Gibson dove toward the Holy Relic chamber, wood fragments drifting in the glow of candles trailing him.

"Cover the side door! Seal the side door!"

A follow-up shot whizzed by his ear, demolishing the Virgin's sculpted head. Gibson flung a blade rearward, its edge lodging in the chaser's gun arm. Amid the howls, he burst through a colorful window pane, hitting the garden below.

Chilly evening wind rushed into his garment, turmoil exploding in pursuit: "He's making for the cemetery!"

Gibson shed the cumbersome robe, exposing a sleek black combat outfit, darting amid graves under beaming lights.

As the lead hunter curved around the angelic monument, a gravestone laced with taut wire met him.

"Snap!"

A choked rasp from a ruptured throat faded into the gusts. Gibson claimed the dropped MP5, firing a trio of rounds to demolish the tracking beam. In the ensuing gloom, he cleared a corroded metal barrier, mounting his waiting bike.

"Thud, thud, thud..."

The motor thundered into the darkness as the cathedral's bell tolled nine.

Returning to the hideout, Gibson activated the television, where reports already blared the shocking slaying of the FBI official in the church. He clicked it off, launched his computer, and verified the final one point five million dollars deposited.

Truly, the United States lives up to its name.

Payment arrives with remarkable swiftness.

Suddenly, Gibson noticed an unknown message, holding Matt Arnold's background.

Three years prior, Matt Arnold led a counter-terror raid. That mission eradicated Gibson's elite team, leaving him as the sole survivor.

The message attached a snapshot of the full squad from that era.

Gibson stared at his fallen brothers' images in the picture for an extended while.

A ringtone broke his reminiscence.

Gibson hit accept, gradually lifting the device to his head.

"Outstanding execution; care for another partnership?"

Gibson eyed the screen's image, gaze serene.

"When, where."