Winston gave William a disapproving look. "You can say whatever you want now, but someone else has already cleaned up those loose ends for you, all for the sake of the Hammer family's businesses and wealth."
"Haha, then I should properly thank those folks!" William spread his hands with a grin. "Too bad the timing's a bit off. Otherwise, I'd demand some compensation. Without me burying the Hammer father and sons, would they have taken over the Hammer Group so easily?"
Winston rolled his eyes at William's obsession with money. After a moment of silence, he added with a sigh, "A bullet fired from the hand of a ten-year-old has the same power as one fired by a thirty-year-old. William, I hope you won't regret showing unnecessary mercy someday."
"Who knows?" William shrugged. He would have preferred to clean up everyone involved, but certain higher powers wouldn't allow it.
If he made a move, he might find himself immediately knocked down by forces beyond comprehension.
Not wanting to linger on the topic, William changed the subject. "Do you know an Indian female arms dealer? Based on what I remember, X will likely approach her for information about the bullet."
"An Indian arms dealer?" Winston thought for a moment before replying, "You must mean Silma. She's an agent who specializes in handcrafted firearms and ammunition. Many clients with high standards order from her.
"She uses a special type of Damascus steel to make her weapons. They're not only functional but also beautifully patterned. If you're interested, you could try ordering from her."
Winston pulled a handgun from under his arm and handed it to William. "This one is from her. The only downside is that fully steel guns can feel heavy for some people."
The weight didn't matter to William. Even a five-kilogram weapon felt no different than a one-kilogram one in his hands. He waved it off without taking the gun. "She probably won't live much longer. The cannon fodder I'm recruiting might target her directly."
"Fair enough." Winston frowned slightly but put the gun away. "That's unfortunate—I actually get along with Silma. But it's no big deal. She's just an agent. If she's gone, she's gone. If you like, I can help you order from other craftsmen."
"Never mind. Just give me her contact information. I might order a lot. If possible, I want one of each handgun model for my collection in Oxford."
"One of each?" Winston rolled his eyes again. "Forget it. Those Damascus steel handguns are so rare they only make about twenty a year. No way they'll let you buy them all."
Hearing about the limited production, William immediately lost interest. "In that case, never mind."
Having finalized his plan for the cannon fodder, William left the Continental Hotel and drove to Wesley's office building, guided by Sunday's directions.
If he wanted Wesley as an ally, he needed to reach him before Sloan did.
After parking his car, William ordered a cup of American coffee at a nearby outdoor café and enjoyed the evening sun. Half an hour later, as it neared six o'clock, Sunday suddenly reported, "Sir, I recommend you get dinner. It looks like Wesley Gibson is staying late at work."
"Damn it," William cursed, annoyed. "Alright, place an order with Wesley's company and make sure he comes to meet me."
"Understood, Sir. However, I suggest you decide what to buy. If not, Wesley Gibson might face trouble from his boss tomorrow."
"Why would I care if his boss gives him a hard time?" William rolled his eyes. "Besides, he won't be at that company much longer. Just make sure no one is tailing him—I can't afford to reveal myself yet."
"Understood, Sir."
While Wesley was working overtime, his overweight boss, Janie, suddenly waddled over to his desk.
"Field assignment, Wesley."
"What?" Wesley looked at her in surprise.
"For God's sake, are you deaf? Field assignment! A client wants to see you."
Janie glared at him, her face sour. "Hurry up, loser. If you screw up this order, I guarantee the boss will personally fire you."
"But I'm not in sales or promotions—I've never dealt with clients," Wesley protested.
Seeing his reluctance, Janie roared, "Damn it! If the client hadn't paid a $10,000 deposit and specifically requested you, do you think I'd let you handle this? Get moving, idiot!"
Just then, Wesley's desk phone rang.
"Hello? This is XX Company. How may I assist you?"
"Wesley Gibson?"
"Yes, yes, this is Wesley Gibson."
"You have fifteen minutes to get to the Italian restaurant on XX Street. A car will pick you up at your office entrance in three minutes. Don't be late, and wear formal attire. Thank you."
The call abruptly ended, leaving Wesley stunned.
"An Italian restaurant two blocks away?" He stared at the phone, baffled. Who would arrange a meeting at a Michelin three-star restaurant with him?
Janie, on the other hand, was green with envy. She had been to that restaurant once, only to spend $400 on the cheapest set menu. Now someone was treating Wesley to a free meal there?
"Move it, idiot! Didn't you hear the client say not to be late?!" Janie shouted, practically frothing with jealousy.
"Oh, oh, okay!" Wesley scrambled to his feet, grabbed his suit jacket, and rushed out. His curiosity about the mysterious client grew.
After a frantic ride in the waiting taxi, Wesley arrived at his destination. The Italian restaurant looked unassuming from the outside.
He smoothed his appearance, nervously climbed the steps, and was met by a neatly dressed middle-aged man.
The man smiled and asked, "Wesley Gibson?"
"Yes, yes, that's me," Wesley stammered.
"I'm Vincent Tangwen, the restaurant's maître d'. Please follow me, Mr. Gibson—your table is ready." Vincent gestured politely for Wesley to follow.
"Thank you, Mr. Tangwen."
Unused to such respectful treatment, Wesley clutched his briefcase tightly and followed Vincent to a window-side table.
"Wait," Wesley said, noticing the empty table. "Sorry, Mr. Tangwen, I'm supposed to meet a client here, but it seems they're not here yet. So, um…"
He hesitated, unsure whether to wait at the table or in the lounge. Having never dealt with clients before, he was unsure what the polite course of action was.
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