Ch: 287-294
287. Then I'll give you dignity.
Locke's tone was light.
As if he were chatting with family; it didn't even feel cold.
"First, tell me everything about the ICA."
Squinting, Locke stood on the pedestrian walkway of Vauxhall Bridge, staring at the conspicuous building, and said to Mrs. M on the phone, "This is your chance to keep your dignity."
Mrs. M didn't flinch: "Second?"
Locke couldn't help chuckling: "Trust me, Mrs. M, you don't want to hear the second."
"Oh, why?"
"Because option two is: the moment I hang up, I'll march to your office. Anyone who tries to stop me will be sent straight to hell—before I even see you."
"…"
At that instant, Mrs. M felt a chill.
Killing intent leaked everywhere!
She couldn't ignore it; even as she listened, her mind painted the building awash in blood.
But… "This is London!"
"Understood."
Hearing that, Locke smiled: "Congratulations, Mrs. M. Remember, every Agent headed for hell now is because of your choice, not mine. I gave you a chance."
Look.
It seemed the same no matter which country he was in.
Locke had tried so hard to sheath his murderous heart, to spoon-feed them a chance at life—yet what happened?
They still stampeded toward death; he couldn't pull them back.
I offered you dignity; you refused.
Then… let's drop the pretense.
With that,
Locke snapped the disposable phone shut and tossed it into the Thames, then sauntered off the bridge, hands in pockets, strolling toward the gleaming, stepped façade of green glass ahead.
"Qian Banni!"
"Ma'am."
The door opened the instant Mrs. M put down the phone and spoke.
"Is 007 back?"
"On his way."
"Good."
Mrs. M nodded gravely: "The moment 007 arrives, send him to me."
Qian Banni nodded.
Just then—
Buzz!
Buzz!
Buzz!
Harsh red lights flashed.
"What's happening?"
"…"
Qian Banni pressed her earpiece, then told the startled Mrs. M: "The metal detector at the gate picked up a strange man."
Mrs. M whipped her gaze to Qian Banni.
Qian Banni blinked.
By the time she recovered, Mrs. M was already striding out; she hurried after her.
Ground-floor security checkpoint.
Wearing shades, Locke raised his hands high. Under the drawn guns of two guards, he obeyed their orders, showing he was no threat.
"What's in your pocket."
"Take it out."
"Now."
Locke smiled at the guards' nervous eyes, then glanced upward—his gaze landed on someone in the seventh-floor corridor.
Mrs. M looked down at the same moment, meeting the sunglassed, swaggering Locke entering her building. Surprise!
Surprise, Mrs. M!
Locke's lips curled.
Mrs. M's pupils shrank: "Seize—"
Before she could finish,
Locke's hands flashed to his waist, drawing two gold pistols and one silver.
Bang!
Bang!
Both guards took bullets to the forehead and crashed to the floor—off to meet Mephisto.
Locke had given Mrs. M a chance; she hadn't taken it.
So what?
MI6 could send killers after him, but he couldn't return the favor?
What?
The Peerless Assassin's persona?
Ha.
Personas, like rules, are made to be broken!
In an instant!
Screams erupted!
Immediately,
shrill alarms rang throughout the building.
The lobby became chaos; a few people, seeing Locke ignore them, bolted for the exit. The crowd surged outward while Locke moved against the tide—an almost cinematic upstream shot.
But it didn't last.
Guns blazing, Locke strode expressionless toward the stairwell.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Don't think every MI6 employee is a 007. It's an intelligence agency—information first. Like Langley, the HQ is packed with desk jockeys, not shooters.
Rat-a-tat!
Thud-thud-thud!
"Watch out!"
Boom!
With a flick of his right hand, the mine that had exploded turned into a streak of gold and returned to Locke. Expressionless, he reverted to his dual-pistol stance, sunglasses on, polished shoes gleaming as he stepped onto the third floor.
He had a mission to complete on this floor.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Harsh red lights and ear-splitting klaxons were now screaming throughout the building.
Bang.
Seventh floor.
An MI6 Agent found Mrs. M still in the corridor: "Ma'am, we have to go."
"Go?"
Mrs. M's eyes widened. "He's alone, for God's sake!"
If they ran now, what would that make MI6?
A laughingstock?
The Agent's face was grave: "Regulations, ma'am."
Only one enemy had appeared, but the protocol was clear: if elimination wasn't certain, Mrs. M had to be evacuated.
"Ma'am..." the Agent said quietly.
As he spoke—
a cellphone trilled.
Mrs. M pulled out her phone and glanced at the number.
Frowned.
Answered.
Locke had already reached the third-floor records room Red Devil wanted. He strolled the aisles as if on a garden walk. "Mrs. M, you're older than I expected."
He slid a file from the shelf.
Mrs. M turned to the Agent-in-charge: "He's in the archives on three—"
Locke laughed. "Of course I'm in the archives. Since I've flown all the way from New York, I'd feel cheated doing only one job. Someone wants something from your vault, so—while I'm here—I might as well collect. Oh, Mrs. M, where do you keep Katya Crozzi's file? I've looked everywhere."
At that moment a squad of Agents reached the records-room door on three.
"Last chance."
Locke smiled. "Tell me where to find ICA personnel before I slaughter my way to you."
ICA couldn't be MI6.
Locke had realized that en route from New York to London.
Simple.
It made no sense.
If ICA answered to MI6, there'd be no need to send both Killer 46 and Kurva—separately.
Then again, it could be misdirection; whoever knew the truth was listening to his ultimatum now.
Mrs. M stared at her phone, then at the Agents. "Take him."
Locke grinned.
Outside, the two lead Agents nodded, sprang up—and the instant one raised his foot to kick the door, a titanic blast tore through the records room.
Boom!
A hurricane of shredded paper and debris slammed into the corridor team.
In a heartbeat
the walkway ripped open; with a scream one unlucky Agent plunged through the gap.
"What—?"
On the seventh floor Mrs. M froze at the sight.
The next second
she watched the Peerless Assassin emerge from the smoke without a speck of dust on him and said nothing.
The Agent-in-charge urged, "Ma'am, we must leave."
If not now, when?
From the third floor Locke watched, smiling brightly, as two Agents finally pulled Mrs. M away.
Bang!
On the rooftop the iron door flew open; the Agent-in-charge rushed Mrs. M and Qian Banni onto the roof.
Not far off
a helicopter waited.
"Damn it."
The Agent scowled. "I told him to start the engine—"
Thud!
"C-cap—"
Pop! Pop!
"He's—"
"He went to four—he's on four!"
Mrs. M stared in shock as the Peerless Assassin appeared from nowhere, then heard over the comm that he'd somehow been lured to the fourth floor.
Locke looked unruffled.
A simple body-double trick.
Nothing special.
Click.
Smiling, Locke pressed the golden Peerless to the male aide's mouth. "ICA."
Mrs. M's brows knit.
Bang!
A scream.
Qian Banni shrieked as the back of her colleague's head exploded.
Locke drew a handkerchief, wiped the golden Peerless, and told Mrs. M: "You can stay silent, but remember—these deaths are on you. Ready? I'm asking again."
He seized Qian Banni by the throat, pressed the golden Peerless to her head, and smiled at the completely unhindered Mrs. M, who could still turn and walk back into the building.
288. A Cunning Rabbit Has Three Burrows
Without glasses, it's life.
Put on the glasses, and it's a game!
Whoever dares to stop me from finishing the mission—never mind humans, I'll kill gods if they stand in my way!
"Forget it."
Locke shook his head. "Too bloody. Not good."
As he spoke...
Locke used one hand to lift Qian Banni up by the neck.
Lifted off the ground, Qian Banni's feet instantly began to kick wildly.
Locke looked at Mrs. M expressionlessly. "It's fine, you can keep refusing to talk. I still have many people—your family, your colleagues. There must be a few you care about. I will find them."
Mrs. M's face turned incredibly ugly. "Shameless."
Locke gave a cold chuckle.
Qian Banni pressed her hands firmly against Locke's arm, trying to push it down, but she was merely making a futile effort.
Locke wasn't in a hurry at all; he had plenty of time.
Mrs. M's face was gloomy, her thoughts unknown.
Gradually...
The twitching of Qian Banni's legs began to slow down.
Mrs. M couldn't hold out any longer.
"Let her go, quickly!"
"Speak!"
"MI5. ICA belongs to MI5."
"Hmm?"
Locke raised an eyebrow. With a soft thud, Qian Banni fell limply to the floor.
MI5?
Interesting.
"The name!"
Locke looked at Mrs. M, who had rushed to Qian Banni's body and was shaking it, and said directly, "The name."
Mrs. M was slumped over Qian Banni's body.
The next second...
Mrs. M spun around sharply, a mini-pistol already in her hand.
She wanted to counter-kill him!
But... Bang!
"..."
Mrs. M instantly froze in place, a very conspicuous bullet hole in her forehead.
Thud!
Locke frowned. Looking at the fallen Mrs. M, he let out a scoffing laugh, raised his gun, and gave Qian Banni a finishing shot to the forehead. Then, he turned and left immediately.
As Locke left the MI6 building, the clone inside that had been engaged in a gunfight with countless Agents also vanished without a trace with a'shoo' sound, turning into black mist.
When the numerous Agents rushed in, all they could find were the firearms that had just made a clattering sound, seemingly falling from the air onto the floor.
A black sedan arrived as scheduled.
Red Devil opened the car door from the inside.
Locke got straight into the car.
"How was it?"
"MI5!"
Red Devil took the three perfectly uncreased files Locke handed over. Hearing those words, he raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't it MI6?"
Locke shook his head and looked at Red Devil. "She shouldn't have been lying to me."
When a person is about to die, their words are kind.
Locke was still a kind and honest man who was willing to believe others' words.
Red Devil shook his head. "So, what do you plan to do? Charge straight in?"
Locke chuckled and pointed to the intersection ahead. "Right here. I'm getting out."
Dunby parked the vehicle without a word.
Locke pushed the door open, a cigarette in his mouth, and hailed a London Taxi Driver.
"Raymond."
Dunby watched the taxi drive away, retracted his wary gaze, and handed the phone to Red Devil in the back seat.
Red Devil took it.
Right before his eyes!
Was a massive breaking news story: MI6 Director Mrs. M and her assistant Qian Banni were found heavily injured on the rooftop and had been rushed to the hospital for emergency treatment.
"Eh?"
Red Devil was surprised. "They aren't dead?"
Sitting in the driver's seat, Dunby heard Red Devil's words and felt he sounded a bit like he wanted to see the world in chaos. "If Peerless had really killed Mrs. M and her assistant, London would go crazy, and the business we want to handle would likely be affected."
Red Devil laughed and put his hat back on. "I'm just curious; this isn't like his character."
However... Red Devil didn't plan to ask.
That guy's killing intent was already up; at a time like this, it was best not to go looking for trouble.
Ding!"
locating card used successfully!"
Targeting: Killer 46!"
Ding!"
Information requires completion. Pay 10,000 achievement points and 10,000 potential points for automatic completion."
Complete!"
Positioning unfolding!"
Sitting in the taxi, Locke opened his eyes and looked at the driver. "Driver, change of destination. We're not going to the museum; go to Canary Wharf."
The Taxi Driver nodded.
Originally, Locke didn't want to use this function that scammed him of achievement points and potential points.
But... he needed to settle this quickly.
He had, after all, just put a bullet through the head of the MI6 Director.
Although Great Britain was now like a setting sun, when Great Britain got angry, it was still very terrifying. Locke came here to finish his mission and fulfill his promise, not to try and take on Great Britain single-handedly.
Maybe in the future.
But for now?
Not yet!
Located in Canary Wharf, beneath a five-story building right by the river.
Mr. C and Mrs. A had also heard the news from MI6 at this moment.
Only... after Mr. C and Mrs. A exchanged a look, they both read a single sentence in each other's eyes.
So fast?
They had expected this Peerless Assassin to enter London quickly, but they had already locked down all the major airports and even mobilized all the surveillance in London to capture him.
But... "Where is he?"
"Disappeared."
"What?"
"That's not important. What's important is what he learned from Mrs. M."
"Where is Mrs. M?"
"The hospital."
"fuck!"
Mr. C looked at Mrs. A as she stood up and said with a smile, "Don't worry, A. He won't find this place."
"Easy for you to say."
Mrs. A stood up and sneered at Mr. C, who was still sitting in the conference chair. "If you're so capable, why don't you and I stop using projections to come here?"
After saying that...
Mrs. A pressed a button on the table, instantly activating the entire building's protection systems. Even Killer 46, who had been sitting there with his head down in silence, looked up and walked out the door expressionlessly.
Mr. C's figure flickered slightly.
If one looked closely, they would find that Mr. C wasn't actually there; he was just being projected there through a projection device. "Mrs. A, rest assured. If he dares to come, I..."
"Beep!"
"Beep!"
"Beep!"
Before he could finish, just like at MI6, alarms suddenly blared out in an instant.
The conference table in front of them lit up instantly, forming a large screen.
Right before their eyes...
In the main lobby of the building above ground.
"Bang!"
"Bang!"
"Bang!"
Locke flicked his right hand, and three bullets instantly left the chamber. With a boom, they shot down the bullets fired at him from three different directions.
The next second...
Gunfire erupted!
Bang bang bang!
The wonderful sound of gunfire was like playing a beautiful symphony.
Sip!
Locke sipped the coffee he had just bought from an Italian cafe on his way here. Stepping over countless shards of glass and corpses, he walked up to a very well-hidden camera and raised his coffee cup. "Hello!"
Mrs. A reflexively pressed a switch, cutting the camera feed immediately.
Seeing this, Locke couldn't help but chuckle.
He turned to look.
The street was deserted; after all, that gunfire just now was no joke.
Playing human wave tactics with him?
What were they thinking?
Locke looked at the little red dot of the positioning system in his vision. He walked until he stood directly over a spot with no visible markings, but which overlapped with Killer 46's position.
There were originally no roads in the world; as more people walked, a road was formed.
Similarly...
The same applied to doors!
The peerless divine weapon shimmered, and in an instant, it turned into a high-powered laser cutter.
Sizzle!
Sparks flew everywhere.
Below, in the conference room.
Mr. I had naturally seen that the Peerless Assassin had already fought his way to the door. Having seen that display of divine power clearly, a glint flashed in his eyes as he said to Mrs. A, "Get over to my place immediately."
Mrs. A was panicking by now.
Just then...
Buzz!
Mrs. A snapped back to her senses and looked up at the ceiling where the cutting was in progress. Thinking of Mr. I's words, she nodded. "I'm coming right now."
Mr. C's hands tapped rapidly on the surface, and in an instant, countless files began executing a deletion program.
Boom!
The moment Locke landed, the submachine guns in both hands spun in a circle like typewriters, firing in all directions. The soldiers in the Underground Room didn't even have time to react before they were all wiped out.
Thud!
Locke landed steadily, the golden dancer returning to his right hand. Then, accompanied by a buzzing sound, he saw the scene of Killer 46 taking an old lady and fleeing for their lives on a jet ski.
But... Locke turned to look at the computer rapidly executing the deletion program, and then at Killer 46, who was fleeing for his life but still within his positioning system. He strode over and pushed open the glass door. With a bang, he finished off a soldier struggling to reach for a gun, pulled a USB drive from his jacket, and plugged it in.
The deletion program was instantly halted.
The next second...
Locke pulled out the USB drive and turned to leave. As for how much information could be recovered from that computer, it would depend on whether his clone back in New York was up to the task.
Although the clone didn't inherit any of his combat power, ordinary skills were a different story.
"A cunning rabbit has three burrows!"
"MI6 was the first burrow!"
"This place is the second burrow!"
"I'd like to see where your third burrow is."
Locke walked to the secret door connecting to the London river, straddled a black jet ski, started it, and with a roar, he also shot out into the waterway.
The next second...
"Don't move!"
"LPD!"
"LPD!"
Just like in the U.S., the Scotland Yard officers, who as always only arrived late after the big battle was over, found the scene already deserted when they arrived.
However... before the Scotland Yard officers could even be shocked by the corpses, they saw the large screen suddenly begin to display a self-destruct countdown: tick, tick, tick.
"Holy shit!"
"Fall back!"
"Get out, get out fast!"
"Get out now!"
289. Great Britain's Face
Scotland Yard Police Officers were scared out of their wits. Watching the countdown tick from ten to zero, they cursed their lack of extra legs and scrambled, tumbling over one another, out of the building.
But… what's going on?
After regaining a bit of composure, the officers exchanged glances, then stared at the building—twenty seconds had passed, yet still no explosion.
They looked at each other in blank dismay.
BOOM!
BANG!
BANG!
Just as they wondered if they'd been tricked, a thunderous roar erupted. In an instant the nearby building crumbled like tofu, a colossal shockwave and deafening blast sweeping wildly in every direction.
THUD!
THUD!
THUD!
The blast flipped cars off the ground as easily as flicking ants with a finger; the vehicles soared, then crashed back down with a thunderous clatter.
On the Thames, Locke—speeding along in a motorboat—glanced over his shoulder.
The ten-second countdown on the big screen had been a fake.
What followed, however, was real.
The countdown hadn't even been set by him; someone else who'd broken in from outside had triggered it.
BOOM!
Locke whipped the boat into a sharp turn, shot from an inner London canal into the Thames, locked onto the red blip in his vision, and gunned the throttle in full pursuit.
Woolwich.
He rammed the motorboat straight up onto the concrete road!
"Whoa!"
A Londoner in an audi leaned his head out the window, unperturbed by the boat blocking his path. "Nice car, ma—"
Locke stepped off the craft, buttoned his suit, and with a flick of his right hand leveled a silenced golden dancer at the driver. "Out."
The Londoner swallowed the rest of his greeting, staring at the golden dancer pressed to his forehead.
Next second.
BANG!
VROOM!
Locke slid behind the wheel, glanced at the man now perched sheepishly on the motorboat, and grinned. "Stylish look!"
The forcibly re-seated Londoner: "…"
VROOM!
Locke floored the accelerator, eyeing the red dot that zig-zagged left and right in erratic evasive maneuvers. "Let's see where you think you're going."
London had been placed under full lockdown.
Fires raged everywhere.
MI6 headquarters had been brazenly assaulted from the front, leaving several Agents dead or wounded.
Then a tower block blew up. Few civilians were hurt, but the repercussions were dire.
"Got him!"
Inside a London building, a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent's eyes lit up. He quickly zoomed the satellite feed, Spotlight locking onto a peculiar man steering a motorboat along a Woolwich street.
"Pull up footage from three minutes ago."
"Working on it!"
"Faster!"
"Subject identified."
Another Agent watched the facial-recognition data flash across the screen, spitting out the man's entire life history on a single sheet.
"An audi?"
"What's the plate?"
"85461!"
"Track it—now!"
Among the intel passed over from Federal S.H.I.E.L.D. was the note: Peerless Assassin has a fondness for—
At that moment
The big screen lit up.
New York S.H.I.E.L.D. Commander Victoria Hand appeared.
At the same instant,
Commander Victoria Hand nodded to the London Commander, arms folded on her own screen. "Good afternoon."
The London Commander returned the greeting.
Satellite maps and feeds from London's CCTV network flicked past, froze, then unraveled like a ball of yarn, camera after camera snapping into focus.
"Target acquired!"
"Plate 85461 confirmed."
"Verify the driver."
"Confirmed—sunglasses, black suit."
"Heading from Woolwich toward Plumstead."
"Local police are in the area."
"Order them to intercept."
"Roger."
"Get the chopper up—stay on him."
The London Commander's eyes blazed as he issued command after command.
Watching his excitement, Commander Victoria Hand offered a caution: "Careful. This Peerless Assassinis slippery."
The London Commander smiled. "This is London."
The implication: New York might have failed, but London would not.
Moments later
His smile froze. On the live satellite feed, two police cars tried to intercept the audi—only to be blown sky-high. "What the…?"
Commander Victoria Hand smiled. "Because your side is London?"
"You..."
"Goodbye, London."
"..."
Commander Victoria Hand waved; once the call cut off she frowned. "The Peerless Assassin never targets law-enforcement—why the change this time?"
Barbara Morse beside her said, "My friend in London reports MI6 headquarters was hit just as hard—casualties are huge, even Mrs. M is hanging by a thread."
"His code is gone."
"But he didn't kill the civilian."
Listening to Barbara Morse, Victoria Hand nodded. "So the code hasn't vanished—it's shifted. Because it's foreign soil, not home soil, right?"
Goodfellas.
Who would've thought the Peerless Assassin might be a patriot? At home he won't clash with law-enforcement; abroad he throws all caution aside.
"This time..."
Commander Victoria Hand shook her head, coming back to herself. "London's pride—no, all of London's face—is about to be lost for good."
Barbara Morse nodded, half-terrified, half-relieved.
Why go and provoke Locke Broughton in the first place?
On paper the man keeps a legal team that can sue you into bankruptcy.
And this time they said no one would take the contract—no one. Thirty million—what's that? Is London's reputation worth only thirty million?
Bang!
Boom!
Face blank, Locke gunned the audi. Without even looking he raised his left hand and shot the helicopter rotor spinning over the Thames, blowing it apart.
He'd wanted to stick to his principles.
Pity the other side broke them first.
If the ICA belongs to MI5, it's easy to explain: this is London's will—MI5 is domestic, like the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Since they made the first move, why shouldn't Locke make the fifteenth?
Besides.
The more who come, the better.
Through the rear-view mirror Locke eyed the devastation behind him, grinned, then floored the accelerator, surging forward with a roar toward the nondescript building now in sight around the bend.
In an instant.
Locke's move shattered their illusions—they'd thought he might just be passing through.
Right then.
Sixth sense flared.
As the car thundered toward the tower, Locke stepped out.
Boom!
The audi slammed into the building, the crash deafening, followed by an almost unnatural cloud of dust.
Danger emerged from that fog.
But it was small.
Insignificant.
Boom!
Clang!
After parrying, Locke watched the man land steadily and raised an eyebrow, noting the exo-armor rig on the man's arms.
"Yo."
Locke lifted a brow. "Pretty fresh."
Jimmy Dalton stared, a mad grin tugging at his lips, then charged without a word.
Crack-crack-crack!
The peerless divine weapon reassembled in Locke's right hand; in a blink a Barrett anti-materiel rifle took shape.
"What?"
Boom!
As the foe pounced like a cheetah, Locke squeezed the trigger. Mid-air the cheetah had no time to react—struck squarely, he exploded into scraps of flesh.
"Sick?"
Locke dismissed the peerless divine weapon, glanced at the gore and recalled the man's startled, rule-breaking stare, snorted. "I'm here for a job, not some duel.
With that.
He turned toward the tower his audi had rammed—yet besides the lone attacker, no one had emerged.
"Interesting."
Locke lifted his gaze to the eighth floor, as if the glowing glass didn't exist, staring straight inside.
Mr. C!
Behind his glasses Mr. C watched Locke stroll casually into the building below. "Brimming with dominance!"
Mrs. A behind him said grimly, "How did he track us?"
"Who cares."
"What?"
Mr. C smiled. "My tower is impregnable—and unlike yours, far from useless."
As he spoke.
Mr. C pressed a switch beneath his desk, then rose, revealing the open panic room and inviting Mrs. Ainside. "Perhaps we nap, and when we wake he'll be dealt with."
Mrs. A: "..."
Two hundred and ninety, two people, please take a seat
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
After Locke entered the hall, he immediately moved to the stairwell the moment the soldiers not far away opened fire. Then, without even looking, he headed straight up the stairs.
He could go berserk later; it wasn't too late to do so after completing the mission.
"Sta—"
"Bang!"
"Thud!"
Locke slightly raised his right hand, not even looking, and continued towards the third floor.
A bullet was fired, and the soldier who had just pushed open the door of the escape route on the second floor hadn't even finished a complete sentence before his eyes widened and he collapsed limply.
Just then.
With a loud boom.
Locke raised an eyebrow as he watched something roll down from upstairs. With two soft thuds, he directly cleared the escape route on the third floor. As he entered what seemed to be a swimming pool on the third floor, an explosion accompanied by screams erupted behind him.
The soldiers rushing up from the first and second floors were blown into disarray by their own grenades.
But… "He's here!"
"Fire!"
"Shoot."
"Puff, puff, puff!"
Locke quickly darted towards the stairs on the side.
"Quick, chase him!"
"Shit!"
"He ran up."
"Quick!"
A group of people ran to the doorway where Locke had just disappeared. The moment they pulled the doorknob, the next second, with a deafening boom, the entire third-floor floor, connected to the second-floor ceiling, vanished.
Whoosh!
Locke grabbed the peerless divine weapon that flew back after the explosion, chuckled, and continued forward, repeating the same trick, accompanied by several deafening roars.
This building no longer had any stairs.
Standing in the eighth-floor escape route, looking down, several surviving soldiers raised their guns, seemingly seeing him, and fired in impotent rage.
"That easy?"
Locke pushed open the door, thinking to himself, and then saw three identical numbered assassins standing at the entrance of the glass office. He immediately smiled, "No surprise!"
Every small boss likes to send a few small minions when someone is about to reach their face.
It's quite normal.
The three numbered assassins displayed emotionless fighting stances.
Locke's smile grew even wider.
The next second.
Guns out!
What era was this? If he could remotely control missiles from home to precisely blow up this place, he wouldn't even be in London.
A long inch is a strong inch!
But… "Bang!"
"Clang!"
"Thud!"
After three gunshots, the three numbered assassins instantly tilted their heads back in unison. However, unlike others, they didn't fall to the ground after being shot.
Instead… Locke looked suspiciously at the silvery-white substance appearing on the foreheads of the three numbered assassins, seemingly realizing something: "Subdermal titanium body armor?"
Wasn't this still in experimentation?
Had the finished product come out?
Last year, rumors spread within the assassin industry about this product, which was hyped up as miraculous. In reality, it involved injecting nanobots in liquid form under the skin, covering the entire body, and even enhancing one's reaction capabilities.
At the time, Red Devil estimated that if it truly succeeded, one injection could sell for two million, and perhaps even much more.
However, Locke didn't pay it any mind.
Locke used to have Toughness, and now he had Steel Skin. Moreover, while this thing was called high-tech, its technology was actually quite rudimentary, and its defensive performance wasn't as excellent as advertised.
Don't forget.
Cells could produce systems on their own.
But the nanobots making up this subdermal body armor couldn't replenish themselves. This meant that to keep the subdermal titanium body armor effective at all times, you might need an injection after every job.
The drawbacks were obvious, and the cost-effectiveness was too low.
"Thud!"
Locke's left hand also moved to his lower back to retrieve something. With two guns in hand, he instantly aimed at one assassin and fired directly!
The two assassins next to him quickly dodged.
But!
"Bang!"
"Thud!"
Locke continuously blasted the head of the numbered assassin blocking his path with one pistol, while his right hand, holding the Golden Dancer, danced, firing bullet after bullet, directly deflecting the bullets coming his way.
"Thud!"
Like a fragile string snapping, the assassin in front, who had endured an entire clip of Locke's bullets in one second, had wide eyes and a prominent large hole in his forehead. The invisible nanobots tried to repair it, but after realizing they weren't enough, they seemed to have malfunctioned.
"Look."
Locke turned to look at the numbered assassins who were also targeted by the Golden Dancer, thinking that hiding behind cover would make them completely untouchable: "It seems my firepower is still strong enough."
He said.
Locke walked behind the cover, observing the bodies of the two numbered assassins who, despite having subdermal titanium body armor, had their heads blown off by him.
No problem this time, right?
Locke raised an eyebrow, turned around, and walked towards the glass-partitioned office.
Upon entering.
It was surrounded on all four sides by glass mirrors.
Looking around, it seemed there were countless Lockes.
On the ground, on both sides of the corridor, and even on the ceiling, there were images of Locke.
"This person…"
Locke looked at the decor and muttered, "Either he's a psychopath, or he has psychological issues."
Who would normally think of using mirrors for walls?
Haunted houses excluded.
"Caw, caw, caw!"
"…"
Locke looked up at the source of the sound with an 'I knew it' expression. Unfortunately, he was wearing sunglasses, so no one could see the look in his eyes: "ICA, you're harder to find."
"But you still found us."
"Luck!"
Locke licked his lips, his expression neutral: "I need some money. Conveniently, you're worth thirty million, and you also meet my order requirements."
Mr. C snorted, "I'm afraid you can't handle it."
Locke smiled, "I've always had a good appetite."
Mr. C changed the subject: "Mr. Wushuang, if you leave now, we can still give you thirty million. Furthermore, if you bring Locke Broughton to us, I can add another thirty million. How about it?"
"Really?"
"Of course!"
"Alright."
"…What?"
Locke seemed to have found the location of the surveillance. He looked over: "Okay, I'll take this job."
Mr. C and Mrs. A exchanged glances.
The next second.
Mr. C frowned, looking at Locke in the surveillance: "Are you playing with me?"
Locke shook his head, walked towards the surveillance camera, and subtly took out a USB drive, connecting it to the port behind the camera: "I'm serious. I just take orders. You haven't paid yet. If you give me a fifteen-million deposit now, I guarantee I'll take this order."
Mr. C looked at Mrs. A beside him, who shook her head.
The Peerless Assassin, once an order was accepted, there was no changing it.
"You're playing me!"
"No."
"Peerless Assassin, the worst thing you could do is step into a trap knowing it's a trap."
Mr. C, after glancing at Mrs. A, temporarily shed his villainous role and, without further ado, pressed the switch on the desk.
Thud!
Thud!
The two sides of the glass corridor instantly sealed shut.
"Caw, caw!"
Mr. C's laughter was as grating as a gander's: "The Peerless Assassin is nothing special after all."
As he spoke.
With a bang, purple, eerie smoke billowed in the sealed corridor. After a while, when the smoke cleared, the Peerless Assassin lay on the corridor floor, covered in sores and pus.
"Hahaha."
"Phew!"
Mrs. A, who had been holding her breath, couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief at this sight. Then, with a venomous expression, she said, "That damned Locke Broughton, find him and turn him into the next doll."
Mr. C chuckled, taking out a cigar with a triumphant air and lighting it: "What Peerless Assassin? Federals are Federals, always boasting. I think this is just an arrogant assassin."
He had actually thought the Peerless Assassin was some formidable force.
He had taken down MI6.
He had taken down Mrs. C's stronghold.
And then, he had directly and brazenly attacked his place from the front?
Mr. C had already made a series of preparations.
But… that was it?
That was the end of it?
Good heavens.
Mr. C shook his head, somewhat speechless, and picked up the phone beside him, dialing.
Soon.
The call connected.
"It's me."
"The problem has been resolved."
"I'm sure."
"Tell them not to come up yet, wait for us to leave."
"Okay."
Mr. C hung up the phone directly and looked at Mrs. A: "We should leave."
Although the Peerless Assassin was dead, the real trouble was just beginning. This time, the Peerless Assassin had completely exposed one of their offices, and even directly leveled an office building.
Mrs. A stood up, putting on her coat, and her gaze inadvertently fell on the monitor: "Wait."
Mr. C had already reopened the door to the safe room. Hearing Mrs. A's words behind him, he didn't even turn his head: "What…"
Mrs. A's eyes widened, watching Locke suddenly vanish without a trace on the monitor. She quickly looked up: "Wait, Peerless Assa…"
Just like Mr. C had stuttered earlier, Mrs. A also stuttered again.
For no other reason.
Locke, with a faint smile, was using the Golden Dancer, pressed against Mr. C's head, as he walked from the chaotic but silently lifeless office into the safe room.
Thud!
Locke even closed the door behind him. Once closed, this safe room would be impossible to open from the outside, even for the most skilled locksmith. Even if one were to forcibly dismantle it, it would require at least half an hour of cutting.
"Enough."
Locke silently thought about the time he would need later, then looked at Mr. C and Mrs. A, a smile appearing on his face. He surveyed the safe room with its bed, sofa, and even surveillance, and chuckled: "You two, please have a seat!"
291. Revenge is a dish best served.
The safe-house had excellent soundproofing.
Locke, smiling, invited Mrs. A and Mr. C to sit, then glanced at the intruders already breaching the perimeter, chuckled, and snatched a bottle of whiskey from the side.
A moment later.
Locke sipped his whiskey, nodded, and looked toward the bound Mr. C, who sat on the sofa beside Mrs. A. "You were the one talking to me just now?"
At this moment, Mr. C's voice carried none of its earlier steadiness. "Fifty million..."
"For what?"
"To buy a life."
"To buy MY life!"
Mr. C said to Locke, "Mr. Peerless, give me an account number and the fifty million will be wired immediately."
Locke nodded. "Sounds like a bargain."
A delighted look flashed across Mr. C's face.
But Locke's tone turned playful. "Since it's that easy, why would I let you go? If I kill you, everything you own is still mine, isn't it?"
Mr. C froze.
Mrs. A, seated beside him, gave a cold laugh. "Stop talking, C. Can't you see? He's never letting us walk out."
"Exactly."
Locke studied Mrs. A—still attractive, though a touch aged—and said calmly, "I take money, I solve problems."
Mrs. A sneered. "I'm sure that's not all."
Locke rose, stood in front of her, and smiled down. "Tell me more."
Mrs. A glanced at him, then closed her eyes, the picture of resignation.
Locke smiled.
The next second—
BANG!
...
Mrs. A jolted, eyes fluttering open in terror. She looked aside to find Mr. C slumped in her lap, a gaping hole in his forehead still oozing blood.
He wouldn't dare kill us, would he?
Just like he hadn't dared finish Mrs. M.
Click!
Before she could think further, she saw Locke's expressionless face and the raised golden dancer. She blurted, "I surrender!"
Locke eased his finger off the trigger, tilted his head, and laughed at the woman who'd yelled surrender with eyes shut tight.
He'd thought an outfit like theirs prized secrecy and sacrifice.
Turned out... they were all the same.
Moments later.
Locke had the whole story out of Mrs. A.
"So this was all Mr. I's idea?"
"Yes."
Once the first sentence left her lips, Mrs. A seemed lighter. The second came easily: "Even back then, when he urged us to set up M Broughton to avenge Mr. M—it was all Mr. I's plan."
Locke smiled. "I don't care why he wanted Lorraine Broughton dead. I want to know why he sent people after Locke Broughton."
"Because Lorraine Broughton isn't dead."
...
Locke blinked. "Sorry, what?"
Lorraine Broughton isn't dead?
Then where the hell is she?
No.
If Lorraine Broughton is alive, why has all this crap landed on MY head—another case of picking on the soft target?
Mrs. A said, "After that ambush, we never found proof Lorraine Broughton died."
"...Do you have proof she's alive?"
"Yes."
Mrs. A nodded. "But it's on my computer."
Locke gave a small laugh. "Pity."
Mrs. A frowned. "I have backups at home."
Locke glanced at the Agents milling around the safe-house and said over his shoulder, "So you came after Locke because you think he knows where Lorraine Broughton is?"
"There's also a flash drive!"
"...What flash drive?"
"The one Lorraine Broughton stole when she infiltrated us..."
Mrs. A clamped her mouth shut. "Let me go and I'll tell you. I can even—"
BANG!
THUD!
A gunshot rang out inside the safe-house, yet the figures on the surveillance feed outside didn't flinch.
Thud.
Mrs. A crumpled to the floor, overturning a bottle of red wine. It glugged out, and within seconds the carpet was a single dark stain—blood or wine, impossible to tell.
"Hmph."
Locke studied the whiskey in his glass. "Blackmail? Threats? Never works on me."
Trying to trade intel for your life?
Cute idea.
Under normal circumstances, Locke might have taken the deal.
But... ten minutes later!
BOOM!
Another massive explosion rocked London—number three, after the afternoon hit on MI6.
Every officer at Scotland Yard was out, clutching sketches of the Peerless Assassin, eyes fixed on every audi—especially the silver ones.
Screech!
Locke yanked open the door and climbed into the black Volkswagen in front of him.
Red Devil watched Locke slide in this time, thought for a moment, then said, "Problem solved."
"Mostly."
Locke smiled faintly. "Still one bug left—and he wasn't home."
"So who was?"
"Nevada."
"Specifics?"
"Sorry."
In fact, while Locke had been dueling Mr. C in the corridor, his double in far-off New York had already slipped in the USB drive, hacked the system, and pulled the location of the call Mr. C had placed right after Locke faked his death.
"By the way."
Locke fished a flash drive from his coat and handed it to Red Devil. "I hate owing favors—especially to the CIA. Tell them they're buying this intel, and they've got one day."
It would take him roughly that long to get back and then reach Nevada; if the CIA hadn't cleaned house by then, he'd do it himself.
Only now did Locke grasp the real point of this assignment.
No escape.
Not for Locke, not for anyone else—for ICA!
Mrs. A was dead.
Mr. C had joined her.
And you, Mr. I—well, you'll have to die too, or I can't mark this job complete.
That's what Locke told himself.
Half an hour later.
A tiny airfield on the outskirts of London.
"Goodfellas!"
Locke stared at the wreck that looked as if it had dusted crops during World War II, then glanced at Red Devil. "You expect me to fly home in that thing?"
Red Devil tapped his watch. "You said you'd be tied up until tomorrow noon; you finished early."
Locke opened his mouth—then shut it.
He had said that. Who knew ICA would fold so fast?
He hadn't even flexed before they collapsed.
But… Locke eyed the battered plane and shook his head. "Get me another ride or I'll swim."
Come on.
He'd just faced off against MI6 and slaughtered ICA's Peerless Assassin; he might not rate a private jet, but he deserved better than a crate too shameful for standby.
Red Devil laughed. "My friend, we're outside the city only because I called in every favor. Do you even grasp the chaos you caused?"
Fortunately, the Peerless Assassin hadn't killed Mrs. M; otherwise the fallout would be worse.
But it was already bad enough.
London had gone berserk.
The media were in a frenzy.
One moment the Peerless Assassin was in New York—next, he was in London, and the opening act was explosive.
Surveillance clips were already leaking online.
People were taking to the streets, protesting the government's cover-up of ICA: why else would the Peerless Assassin's notice name ICA yet come straight at MI6?
And that wasn't all.
Red Devil felt like a man with too much business. While they waited he said, "Three people have already called, asking me to help them get into London."
This was the price of exposure.
Or rather, the blowback from taking jobs without restraint, counting on invisibility, then stepping into daylight too soon.
Everyone had heard of ICA, but hearing wasn't the same as seeing. With CIA's mystique, even those who knew it existed couldn't act—friends or kin of the dead had nowhere to aim their rage.
Now?
Locke's strike had ripped the mask clean off.
The Peerless Assassin accepted the contract, then stormed MI6; claim ICA and MI6 are unrelated and no one will believe you.
Add the massive bombing that followed within minutes.
No doubt about it.
Not just Scotland Yard was mobilizing—so was the entire underworld.
In a word: settle scores, old and new.
Once, an ICA hitman was thought stateless, so no one lashed out elsewhere. Now that London was confirmed, every MI6 Agent abroad became fair game.
Especially informants who discovered their cooperation with MI6 stemmed from ICA murdering their brothers—because ICA belonged to MI6.
In an instant, those informants saw red.
Ring-ring!
As night fell and Locke boarded the plane, MI6's phones began ringing off the hook.
Meanwhile… in Nevada, inside an FBI field office, an operation kicked off the moment Nameless and Agent L touched down.
292. This is what they call 'killing the body and crushing the soul.'
Ding!
Mission complete: 'No Escape!'
Base rewards: 3,000 achievement points, 3,000 potential points.
Maximum bonus multiplier: 100×; using super-natural force caps it at 50×.
Total rewards: 300,000 achievement points, 300,000 potential points.
Status updated!
Click to view.
That was fast.
Locke reached Starlight Tower a little after six this morning, recalled his clone, and was driving to Gwen's apartment when the reward popped up: 'Nameless sure moves quickly.'
How long had it even been since he'd handed the intel to Nameless?
Originally Locke had planned to go to Nevada himself, chop up Mr. I, and deliver the package to Mephisto in person—but after thinking it over, the payoff if he went himself was far lower than if Nameless handled it.
So…
Locke simply asked Red Demon to sell the tip to Nameless. Judging by the speed, Nameless must have bought it and launched an immediate assault.
Not bad efficiency.
Saved me a trip.
That's what Locke told himself as he refocused, watching Gwen cross the street and open the passenger door. 'Morning,' he greeted with a smile.
Gwen kissed him, set her cup in his holder. 'Mom's friend brought these beans yesterday—try it, see if you like it.'
Locke sipped. 'Tastes great.'
Gwen beamed, tucking a strand of her tied-back hair behind her ear and filling the car with a fresh scent. She blinked at him.
Locke raised an eyebrow. 'What?'
Her expression turned odd. 'Nothing—just… today's you feels different from yesterday's you.'
'Huh?''
'Let's go; Cindy and Khan are waiting.'
Gwen urged him on. Yesterday Locke had seemed present in body but absent in spirit. Honestly, when Gwen saw the urgent London news she'd been scared—and Locke had been sitting right beside her.
Now?
Recalling her worst fear, she glanced at Locke guiding the car onto the road—this version felt safe, solid, real.
Why had yesterday felt so off?
Gwen wondered.
Soon…
Locke and Gwen found Cindy and Khan in Central Park.
The pair wore a matching couple scarf, feeding pigeons.
Locke walked over, hugged the just-discharged Khan. 'Buddy, you good?'
Khan's cheeks glowed; Locke had secretly slipped in two drops of life potion. 'Feeling awesome—Doctor says the stitches come out in two weeks.'
Locke congratulated him.
Cindy, arm-in-arm with Gwen, teased, 'Locke, your thirty million's about to become someone else's—regretting it?'
Given London and the Feds' 'father-and-son' relationship, news traveled fast both ways.
Today's front page of New York Daily screamed: sin hunter Descends on London.
Locke grinned at Cindy. 'Money's nothing next to friends—can I talk to a pile of cash?'
Khan was touched; after all, he figured he must be the textbook case of 'three sentences cost a guy thirty million U.S.'
Next second…
Locke's mouth curved. 'Besides—who says I'll lose money?'
He'd actually profited.
That thirty million was just moving from his left pocket to his right; worst case he paid some tax.
But… the intel looted from MI6's third-floor vault plus ICA files? Red Demon had offered ten million for it.
Same old line:
Those documents were priceless—but only to certain people.
To Locke, honestly, even Infinity Stones couldn't pique his interest.
Red Demon, though, could buy the intel for ten million, break it into a dozen one-million chunks, and resell them.
'Won't lose money?'
'Then how will you—'
Cindy blinked, confused, then her eyes widened. 'Oh shit—you're not thinking of suing MI6, are you?'
Locke smirked. 'Why not?'
Technically MI5.
But… sweep the grass, snag a rabbit—MI6 or MI5, either works. Whether the suit lands?
Heh!
The Feds have that long-arm jurisdiction on steroids.
What, you think U.S. law can't chop a British official?
Ha.
Sorry, mate.
Under long-arm reach, Uncle Sam absolutely can swing U.S. law at a British bureaucrat.
And… it fits his persona perfectly.
He's already spent thirty million, and all of New York is watching—you have to give the public an explanation. You can't stir up the media, get the result you want, and then vanish without a follow-up.
Besides, with the year almost over, suing MI5 and MI6 for attempted kidnapping and attempted assault sounds like a fun way to celebrate.
The next day.
Locke waved the folder in his hand at Gwen as she climbed into the car.
Gwen blinked.
"This is…?"
"The connection!"
Locke said, "When I got into the car this morning, the Peerless Assassin found me and told me to pay up."
Gwen's eyes went wide. "The Peerless Assassin is back?"
Last night they were saying London was locked down so tight not even a crow could fly out.
Locke nodded. "Pretty sure it was him; looked just like him."
"And then? You paid?"
"Of course!"
Locke lifted an eyebrow. "Otherwise, how do you think this bag of documents—hand-picked from MI6and that ICA office—ended up in here?"
He'd spent the whole night trimming and organizing them.
Basically, any jury that sees this file will believe the attack on him was orchestrated by MI6 and MI5. As for the motive, Locke didn't hide it—Lorraine Broughton's name is right there in plain sight.
Without Lorraine Broughton, a jury would never buy why London's two big spy agencies would target a seventeen-year-old kid.
But with her name included, everything makes perfect sense.
Soon.
Locke and Gwen called Madam Cort to request a day off, then headed straight for Lawyer Laun's office. When Laun heard who Locke wanted to sue, he froze for a moment.
"Mr. Broughton…"
Lawyer Laun pressed his lips, hesitated, then said, "I've been following the London news lately, but… you know this is…"
He never finished.
Locke handed him the folder Gwen had just finished reading.
MI6!
Top Secret!
Laun stared at the watermark, glanced at Locke, and quietly asked, "Has the Peerless gentleman returned?"
Locke replied, "Thirty million in bearer bonds. I paid the moment I saw the documents."
Lawyer Laun's heart skipped a beat.
A moment later.
He rubbed his face and looked at Locke. "Mr. Broughton, how do you want to play this round?"
Locke smiled. "You're the professional. I trust you'll maximize my interests."
Maximizing Locke's interests meant maximizing his own—after all, this was a civil suit. The bigger the payout, the larger Laun's cut.
Laun chuckled. "All right. I suggest we hold a press conference first: announce the bounty's been claimed and that we have proof identifying ICA as the London culprit."
Gwen asked, "And then?"
Lawyer Laun grinned. "Then we wait for London to come knocking for a quiet settlement. With these documents, squeezing out a hundred million shouldn't be too hard."
"What?"
Gwen wasn't shocked by the amount—she was shocked by the idea of settling at all. "They almost killed us, Lawyer Laun."
Laun nodded. "Trust me, Ms. Stacy, this is the best option."
Locke echoed the lawyer, turning to Gwen. "London's already lost face. If we announce the lawsuit and insist on court, they'll just lose more. If they decide to go scorched-earth, I doubt a New York court can really punish London itself—and they'll do everything to avoid a courtroom."
Just like S.H.I.E.L.D. back in the day.
Worst case: you open your trial, they simply don't show. Once face is lost, what's one more slap?
Gwen frowned. "If they won't appear, why come looking for us at all?"
Locke thought for a second. "Because they're Londoners?"
Gwen blinked.
Locke shook his head and laughed. "Because they're addicted to playing the gentleman."
A real gentleman will even ask you to sit down before he kills you.
And Londoners?
Deep down they're just thugs in fancy dress. Still, that works for me—if they dropped the act and went full shameless, how would a real gentleman outplay a thug?
Luckily.
Before the thug lies down, he still insists on a polite bow.
Before, the Peerless handled the killing!
Now?
Locke is out to destroy their pride!
293. Long-arm Control
Not only did I hit you, but you also have to apologize to me and say you're sorry.
Otherwise?
Your reputation will be torn to shreds by me again.
Although this time, the UK's reputation is certainly going to take a hit, how it falls is also important.
At the very least, the UK would rather lose face to the Peerless Assassin than to Locke.
Nothing else.
They bully the weak and fear the strong!
So... it's a bit of a shame. If they knew he was the Peerless Assassin when the UK apologizes, what would their expressions be like?
Locke thought to himself, a little tempted, but he didn't act.
He wasn't stupid.
The Peerless Assassin's identity could be exposed, it didn't matter, but if it could be exposed later, Locke still preferred it to be exposed later.
Locke looked at Lawyer Raun and asked, "When? Tomorrow?"
Lawyer Raun glanced at his watch: "The sooner the better!"
Currently, London is still under martial law, and they are claiming that the Peerless Assassin cannot escape.
If they hold a press conference at this time, and even announce that they will sue MI5 and MI6 for astronomical civil damages, the effect would be more than just one plus one.
This would be another big news story.
"Tom!"
"Coming."
"Are you still in contact with that international news reporter?"
"Uh... we'll be together this weekend."
"Good, call her now. I have a great, even world-class, news story for her. If I don't see her in half an hour, then this news will pass them by, understand?"
"...Okay."
"Annie!"
"Raun?"
"You go to the Upper East Side court and wait for me. Wait for my message, then you can submit our application for a hearing."
"Okay, against whom?"
"Secret."
"..."
Lawyer Raun stood up directly, opened his office door, and quickly looked at everyone at the entrance of his office, assigning one urgent but seemingly ample-time task after another.
Locke and Gwen sat on the sofa and did not interrupt Lawyer Raun's work.
Professionals do professional things.
Locke believed that Lawyer Raun knew better than anyone how to maximize his interests against MI5 and MI6.
Gwen, however, was a little worried.
Locke listened to this and looked at Gwen, somewhat puzzled.
Gwen shook her head: "MI6 is not to be trifled with. Aren't you afraid they'll target you?"
Locke smiled: "I truly believe they're targeting me, that's why I have to do this."
If you don't hit a dog hard once,
It won't know who the real master is.
Gwen shook her head: "MI6's M died after rescue efforts failed."
Locke raised an eyebrow.
Shouldn't M have died on the spot?
What rescue was needed?
Oh, after all, she was M. Even if her head was a mess, how would they know it was hopeless without taking her to the hospital and trying? They couldn't just stand up and tell the MI6 people, "She's beyond saving, cremate her."
If that were said, someone would probably drop dead on the spot.
"However..."
Gwen looked up at Locke, the worry on her face gone. She held Locke's right hand and said with a smile, "We don't cause trouble, but we're not afraid of it either. If we hit them hard, they won't bother us again."
Locke was slightly startled, looking at Gwen.
Although he didn't understand why Gwen's mindset suddenly changed like this.
But.
This was good.
Locke hugged Gwen and smiled: "Don't worry, I never fight a battle I'm not prepared for."
Gwen responded with a breath like orchids: "I know, I trust you."
The first time, Locke sued the FBI and DHS, sweeping them aside, forcing the FBI to settle out of court and the DHS to pay a large sum in compensation.
Second, Locke sued Nina Bell, and the rest, those who know, know.
Now it was the third time.
Learn from past mistakes.
Gwen trusted Locke, and besides, Christmas was coming soon this year. If this matter wasn't resolved, Gwen felt that the New Year might not be peaceful.
Furthermore.
Three million was spent today.
How much money did Locke have in total?
If another three million were spent, they might as well go sleep under a bridge.
Gwen, who managed Locke's comprehensive tax affairs and knew his daily spending through various tax records, felt that if they could increase their income this time, it would be for the best. After all, she and Locke didn't have a prenuptial agreement.
Gwen also trusted Locke; after all, Locke had never betrayed her trust. So, helping Locke make money was equivalent to helping her make money.
Soon.
Tom's weekend girlfriend, who served as the face of TNT Law Firm and was a reporter with her own column at an international news paper, arrived.
However, even so, she seemed somewhat incredulous after hearing what kind of news Lawyer Raun had given her.
"Are you joking, Mr. Raun?"
The long-legged reporter, who was a quarter Cuban, said, then looked at Locke in shock: "Mr. Broughton, may I ask what you used to pay the Peerless Assassin the thirty million reward? And how did you confirm that the Peerless Assassin gave you the answer you wanted?"
Locke shrugged: "Three unregistered war bonds worth thirty million US dollars, which I asked Lawyer Raun to find for me after I posted the bounty."
The beautiful reporter nodded: "And the evidence..."
Locke smiled.
The next second.
Locke smiled slightly, then exchanged glances with Gwen next to him, held Gwen's right hand, took a deep breath, and then looked at the beautiful reporter, sighing in relief, and said, "Are you ready to hear a secret that I just learned myself?"
Immediately after.
Locke told a story about a legendary female spy full of wonder and magic during the Berlin Wall era.
Yes.
He exposed himself.
Anyway, Lorraine Broughton was already dead, and it had nothing to do with him, so others should know this point, what it means when a person dies, it's like a lamp going out.
Although I am her son, I am not interested in cleaning up her mess. Don't you dare bother me again.
However... this time, he certainly couldn't say it like that.
In the evening.
"I'm home."
"I'm here too."
George, who was in the living room, smiled when he heard Gwen's voice, then his expression turned cold when he heard Locke's voice, and then he looked at Gwen curiously: "Gwen, I went to your school this afternoon, why weren't you there?"
Gwen changed her shoes, ran to the kitchen, glanced around, and listened to George's question: "I was being interviewed with Locke."
"Interview?"
"Mm."
Locke looked at George, who had turned his gaze to him, and smiled: "A small interview, just to tell the world that my bounty is complete and no one else is needed."
"It's good to take it down, no need..."
"Wait."
George suddenly looked up at Locke: "You just said your bounty is complete?"
Locke hummed.
Gwen walked over from the side at this moment: "Yes, Dad, you said the Peerless Assassin is fast, right? Took the order on the first day, did the job on the second day, and completed the order early on the third day. This speed."
This speed was almost comparable to SF Express.
George, however, had a serious expression: "When, where, what did he give you?"
"Morning, garage, information."
Locke not only answered fluently but also learned to jump in with answers, looking at George and saying, "I've already left the information with Lawyer Raun."
"Lawyer?"
"Mm."
Locke smiled and looked at George: "I plan to sue MI5 and MI6!"
George was shocked.
Helen, who was almost due to give birth next month, was also stunned.
After a while.
George regained his composure.
"Wait a minute, sue MI5 and MI6, where are you going to sue them?"
"New York."
"Then you..."
"Long-arm jurisdiction, George. And I not only have evidence that MI5 and MI6 were involved in several attempts to kidnap me, but I also have evidence that MI5 and MI6 formed the IA, attempting to kill my mother."
"What?"
"Dad."
Gwen also walked over from the side, stood next to Locke, and looked at George: "It's all because of MI5 and MI6 that Locke lost his family."
In one sentence.
Gwen made her stance perfectly clear.
Locke, on the other hand, opened his mouth. He was more inclined to have chosen to be alone, after all, being with those foster families would require him to secretly get up in the middle of the night to wash dishes and do chores, which was too tiring, and he could easily be seen as crazy.
George opened his mouth. Was this a matter that could be simply sued?
It was not.
Just then.
George... no.
Everyone's phones rang simultaneously.
Locke and Gwen exchanged glances, took out their phones, and smiled at the rapidly scrolling messages in their friend groups and school groups.
Alright.
The program had already aired.
George seemed to have seen some information as well. He grabbed the remote control, turned on the TV, and in a few quick steps, he jumped to the Cuban-American reporter's channel.
The screen showed an interview.
Locke sat on the sofa, continuing to tell the story of a woman named Lorraine Broughton, while Gwen, next to him, accompanied Locke with a loving expression.
The story was told eloquently and was very captivating. Even those who missed the beginning were involuntarily drawn in by Locke's impromptu, ten-level speaking ability.
Subsequently.
The image of a beautiful spy with white hair, a black overcoat, and long boots, who moved between three intelligence agencies, was instantly outlined.
Cold!
Glamorous!
Sharp!
294. The Courier Who Showed Up Twelve Years Late
Of course.
Locke hadn't maxed out his speech skill and gone on television just to paint a portrait of what Lorraine Broughton looked like or what kind of person she was.
He had real business to attend to.
And that business just so happened to require Lorraine Broughton as the bait.
"So..."
Inside the television screen, the Cuban reporter's expression turned grave. "Mr. Broughton, the attack on Long Island a few days ago—those gunmen were after you, correct?"
Locke nodded. "Correct."
"And you're saying those gunmen were targeting..."
"Also correct."
"IA—my mother, Lorraine Broughton's final mission. Sadly, she was killed in action."
"...Sorry."
"Thank you. But I've just realized the facts don't seem to line up."
"Hmm?"
"Because the person who took the contract didn't just finish the job—he also brought back some documents. And from those files I learned one thing: IA wasn't the one who killed my mother at all."
"What?"
"Yes."
On the screen,
Locke spoke in a low voice. "IA—the International Contract Agency—was secretly set up by London's MI5 and later expanded with help from MI6. So my mother wasn't killed by any assassin, and I was never kidnapped by one either."
"There never were assassins—only Agents!"
"MI5, London, MI5!"
"..."
George was stunned.
Not MI6?
MI5?
Goodfellas.
George sat in a daze, so much so that he missed the end of the interview when Locke announced he was filing a civil suit in the New York courts.
Moments later,
the program finished airing.
Ring-ring!
Both Locke's and George's phones exploded with calls.
"Hello."
Glancing at the caller ID, Locke chuckled, stood, and headed upstairs. Once the line connected: "Mr. Nameless."
In Langley, Nameless—now on the verge of the truth himself—listened to Agent L's report, scarcely believing his ears. "What are you doing?"
Have you lost your mind?
This kind of thing—aired in public?
What about the rules?
If everyone starts running wild, how the hell are we supposed to run intelligence operations?
Locke gave a short laugh. "Mr. Nameless, I never said I'd decided to join you again."
Nameless's voice was hard. "What exactly do you want?"
"Mr. Nameless, do I look like the type who gets hit and doesn't hit back? I'm hitting back."
"You're playing with fire."
"Ha."
"You've already had Peerless Assassin turn London upside-down."
"That wasn't me."
"What?"
Locke stepped into Gwen's Room, closed the door, and smiled. "But it wasn't me, was it? And so what if I sue? They can always choose not to show up—after all, not everyone recognizes our long-arm jurisdiction, right?"
Peerless Assassin had his fun killing.
But Peerless Assassin also got paid.
Don't I deserve to get paid?
Nameless's mouth twitched.
If this actually reached a courtroom, London wouldn't just have a swollen face—it would be a question of whether it still had a face at all.
After saying his piece, Locke paused thoughtfully. "So, Mr. Nameless, did you call to tell me how to do my job?"
Nameless snapped back: "I'm just concerned about you."
Locke smiled faintly. "Thanks. I'm fine."
Nameless drew a long breath, hung up at once, and slumped in his chair, shaking his head.
Locke might be fine now, but someone else wasn't.
London.
Thameside.
Thud.
Agent 007, James Bond, face dark, tossed the tablet onto the desk in front of the Acting Director. "Is what Locke Broughton said about IA true?"
He'd crossed paths with the chaos-wreaking IA more than once.
But bumping into them was one thing; learning the shadowy, money-grubbing outfit was tangled up with his own service was another.
Put it this way:
Agents are trained to kill, but call an Agent a mere hitman to his face and he'll take serious offense.
Now it was worse.
Agents and assassins under the same roof.
Might as well let cats and rats move in together.
The newly appointed Acting Director opened his mouth, still finding his feet.
Bond gave a thin, grateful smile, stood, and walked out, ignoring the cries of "007! 007!" behind him. The door slammed shut with a decisive thud.
"007!"
"Q!"
In the underground garage Bond popped the car door and told Q, waiting beside it, "Home. We're done."
Once New York holds the hearing—no, even before that—once they simply pull out the evidence they have and make it public, what's the point of MI6 even existing?
Or rather, what face would they have left to keep existing?
Q hurried forward and hugged Bond.
Then...
Q lowered his head and left.
Bond blinked, shut the car door, and only then took out the object Q had slipped him: a pen cap.
M's fountain-pen cap.
Bond froze, lifted his gaze, and couldn't help staring.
While Bond sauntered off, MI6's Acting Director was packed tighter than a tin of sardines. A single phone call dragged both him and the Director of MI5 to Downing Street.
"shit!"
"Didn't you swear the man was still in London and hadn't run?"
"So where is he?"
"You guaranteed the Peerless Assassin was locked in that safe house!"
...
The Prime Minister—who'd been hoping for re-election this year—was apoplectic.
With this mess...
Re-election? Fat chance. Not getting impeached would be a miracle.
Yet losing re-election was one thing; letting Britain's reputation go down on his watch was another.
"Now, which of you bloody bastards will explain to me what the hell the ICA is?"
...
MI6's Acting Director shot a look at his MI5 counterpart: Your man, you bloody explain!
The PM couldn't be expected to know.
After all, the ICA had been founded under a different premier, and Prime Ministers rotate; too many secrets are unhealthy.
Same as the U.S. President.
The President probably has no idea whether there are aliens in Area 51, while those in more stable posts do.
The PM fumed.
The head of MI5 stared at the floor, utterly wrong-footed.
Normally he'd never breathe a word.
But the cat was out of the bag; Locke wasn't bluffing. They'd already called his bluff once—sure no one would take the ICA contract—yet some reckless Peerless Assassin went and took it.
Then everything blew up.
They couldn't gamble a second time.
"fuck!"
Sure enough...
When the PM heard MI5's chief admit he didn't know what the ICA office had lost, he cursed: "Damned assassin—have we issued the warrant?"
"It's out."
"To our allies as well."
"Understood."
The PM opened his mouth, waved a weary hand; he couldn't think of a single face-saving move left.
The next day.
New York City!
Locke raised an eyebrow at the headline that had bumped him off the front page: London PM VOWS TO CATCH Peerless Assassin!
Hmph.
Plenty of people want to catch me—who do you think you are?
George is ahead of you in line.
Locke sipped his coffee and nodded at George walking out of the kitchen. "Morning, George."
George's face was blank.
He'd pulled an all-nighter, come home late, and by now seeing Locke at breakfast no longer surprised him.
"Whoa."
Helen stared at her phone and called to Gwen emerging from the kitchen: "Gwen, look."
Gwen peered at the screen. "A Federal Express cargo plane that vanished over the Pacific in 1993 has been found—after the lone cargo guard spent twelve years on an island?"
Goodfellas.
Express delivery.
Cargo?
Locke arched a brow.
Gwen flicked her ponytail. "Wow, Locke, look—he guarded those packages for twelve whole years without opening them. Isn't that romantic?"
Locke glanced at his watch while Gwen thrust Helen's phone at him. "Gwen—time."
Spending twelve years guarding some lost parcels is romantic?
It's just news.
Locke had seen the story yesterday; none of those long-lost boxes could possibly be his, so why bother?
Moments later they left the apartment.
Locke walked ahead, unlocked his car, then noticed a black SUV cruising past. He narrowed his eyes and pulled Gwen behind him.
No gut-level alarm.
But the visitors were clearly unfriendly.
Simple reason: the little flag on the hood wasn't the Stars and Stripes—it was the Union Jack.
Great Britain coming to call, uninvited—what could possibly go wrong?