Taking the cash, the paparazzo smirked and teased, "Wearing a hat, huh? I could tell right away you're new to this game. If you'd handed over the money earlier, we wouldn't have had that little misunderstanding."
"Fine, I'll admit I'm new to this," Bernie Lapossen played along. "Lost my old job, so I had to pivot to frontline reporting. Now, tell me, who's inside?"
The paparazzo rubbed the bill between his fingers to confirm it was real, then grinned. "Buddy, you're way out of the loop. It's been almost three hours, and you still don't know William Devonshire is inside?"
Feigning ignorance, Bernie glanced at his watch and muttered to himself about how long William had been in there just to eat.
But that small gesture instantly made the paparazzo clam up. He shoved the money back at Bernie and quickly backed away, keeping a safe distance.
"What the hell?" Bernie muttered in confusion, watching as the paparazzo, now visibly anxious, hurried to his car and sped off like he'd seen a ghost.
"Damn it," Bernie cursed under his breath, now fully aware that his cover had been blown.
Looking down at his watch, he realized what had tipped off the paparazzo. "Damn it! Are these guys so sharp they can recognize a 20-year-old Breguet watch at a glance?"
The commotion had drawn the attention of other paparazzi. Bernie, now feeling the heat, lowered his head and stepped away, waiting at a distance.
He hadn't realized how much his desperation was showing. As time crawled on, another half-hour passed, and his impatience reached a boiling point.
Finally, several cars arrived, pulling up in front of the restaurant. A dozen men in black suits stepped out—bodyguards, without a doubt.
William emerged shortly afterward, escorted by the restaurant's chefs, including the elderly head chef.
The paparazzi, who had been waiting nearly four hours, swarmed forward, shouting questions and thrusting their recording devices past the bodyguards.
William, having enjoyed authentic Chinese food, rare medicinal liquor from Chef Li's private stash, and the evening's unintended "clown performance" by Bernie, was in an exceptionally good mood.
He stopped to chat with the reporters, a rare occurrence, and praised the restaurant's authentic Chinese cuisine and the medicinal wine, which he claimed left him feeling warm and rejuvenated. He even made a point to remind everyone not to drink and drive.
Chef Li and his team couldn't stop grinning. Having lived in New York for over a decade, they knew this exposure would guarantee their restaurant a feature in all the major papers by morning.
Before getting into his car, Chef Li promised to call William once the stinky mandarin fish was ready.
As the convoy departed, Bernie, who had edged closer during the chaos, overheard everything. Gritting his teeth, he muttered bitterly, "Damn it! Don't drink and drive, huh? So now my entire night's work was for nothing? And you're just leaving your $100,000 custom truck behind like it's nothing?"
For the first time, Bernie began doubting whether William's name truly belonged on the Loom of Fate.
"Why does he always manage to dodge my traps so easily? Damn it! If I can't kill you, I'll go after your mother," Bernie growled. "No way both of you are this lucky."
Meanwhile, in the convoy, William clenched his fist. After a brief pause, he tapped his earpiece and whispered, "Take care of him."
"Understood, sir," Sunday responded.
Bernie, unaware that he had just sealed his fate, returned to his car. Lighting a cigarette, he mulled over Lena Devonshire's information. After finishing the cigarette, he started the car.
Distracted by his thoughts, Bernie failed to notice that the air conditioning had turned on. Within minutes, he coughed softly, then more violently as time passed.
"Cough, cough!" Each breath felt heavier, and soon, his whole body began to heat up.
Rolling down the window for fresh air, Bernie noticed a faint gray tint in the air inside the car.
"Oh, God," he whispered. Being an expert in poisons, he immediately realized he had been set up. Worse, his assailant had used the exact method he had intended for William.
He glanced at the AC controls and held his hand near the vent. A faint warm breeze blew out.
"F***, F***!" Bernie coughed violently. "I can't believe this. After nearly 20 years in this business, I end up poisoned by my own concoction!"
He knew that after ten minutes of exposure, there was no saving him. Even if he made it to a hospital, the toxin was incurable.
Signaling to pull over, he intended to call Sloan. But as he moved his foot off the gas pedal, an electric jolt shot through his right leg, causing him to stomp down involuntarily.
The car roared forward, accelerating uncontrollably. Before Bernie could regain control, another shock jolted him, making it impossible to lift his foot.
"Ahhh!" Bernie screamed, blinded by the headlights of an oncoming truck.
With a deafening crash, the truck struck Bernie's car, sending it careening off the road and flipping multiple times before slamming into a convenience store.
Fortunately, it was late at night, and only one unlucky store clerk was injured by falling shelves.
A piercing metallic screech echoed as Bernie, still barely conscious, heard someone shout, "Fire! The car's on fire! It's going to explode!"
Panic spread, and potential rescuers fled the scene.
Resigned to his fate, Bernie cursed them in his final moments. After a fit of coughing, his thoughts grew unnaturally clear—a grim sign of impending death.
"Damn it," he muttered with bitter clarity, "this is what I get for rushing to meet Satan."
------------------
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