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Both Henry and John Garrett had overestimated humanity's tolerance for fear.
Back in the age of bows, swords, and close-quarters warfare, once casualties on one side exceeded thirty percent, morale could collapse entirely and soldiers would rout.
Modern society… had not progressed nearly as much as people liked to believe.
When more than half the members of a single group died in "accidents," who could still sit calmly in the same place? Who could continue living normally under those circumstances?
Even when only a few people had died, the Russians had already been terrified.
Cybertek personnel and Garrett's local contacts in Toronto had tried every possible method to calm them down—using work, money, and financial incentives to keep them under control.
But once the death toll surpassed half, nothing worked anymore.
In fact, insisting there was no killer behind it all—that everything was merely a string of coincidences—only frightened them even more.
And contrary to popular belief, Westerners weren't free from superstition.
Even people who had never read the Bible knew about the eternal war between angels and demons.
So these Russians, who believed they had finally escaped Russia with great difficulty, fled once again.
In their minds, they had already reached North America.
In this era, when the American Dream still dazzled the entire world, surely they wouldn't starve to death even without Cybertek salaries.
No matter how Garrett's remaining people threatened or tempted them, the Russians still scattered without hesitation.
And they dispersed separately.
Among the many possible explanations, Henry Brown naturally remained a suspect.
In fact, from the moment the first deaths occurred, there had already been whispers claiming the alien was taking revenge.
The problem was that there was no evidence.
Every sign pointed toward accidental deaths.
Now that they had decided to leave, naturally they wouldn't stay grouped together and give Henry Brown a chance to wipe them all out at once.
Among the survivors, one theory had gradually become accepted as truth:
So many people had died because they had made one fatal mistake.
They had relaxed too much, assuming the alien would never retaliate, and had therefore gathered together too densely.
If that was the problem, then separating would solve it.
As long as they fled somewhere the alien couldn't find them, they would be safe.
The glittering American Dream still awaited them somewhere in the near future.
Thus, before John Garrett could even return from Eastern Europe to Toronto, the people he and his subordinates had painstakingly gathered and smuggled out of that chaotic region had already scattered like startled birds and beasts.
The Toronto contacts even attempted to conceal the matter from their superiors while secretly trying to track everyone down again.
After all, many of these people were highly educated intellectuals from elite universities of the former Red Empire.
They hadn't even generated any value yet for the Deathlok project before disappearing.
If John Garrett found out, he would absolutely lose his mind.
This development likewise caught Henry off guard, though it still made perfect sense.
He understood it and didn't react with particular urgency.
First, he retrieved all the surveillance equipment installed inside the Russians' former residences, since those devices were now useless.
Only the external cameras monitoring the entrances remained, recording anyone who came to "visit."
Those people might very well become S.H.I.E.L.D.-HYDRA personnel worth watching in the future.
The Russians' vehicles had already been under surveillance from the start, so Henry didn't need to hastily establish new tracking measures.
Unless they changed cars, they still remained within his grasp.
Although the previous observational intelligence had become obsolete, panicked people made mistakes easily.
Which meant more opportunities would eventually appear.
Just like hunting.
The calm and patient side was the hunter.
The impatient and reckless side became prey.
However, one family had cleverly chosen to leave by train.
That group needed to be handled first.
Because among all the trackers, the one attached to that target was the only remaining active tracker on Henry's to-do list.
There was no way of knowing when it might fall off or stop functioning.
So, unwilling to lose track of them, Henry ignored S.H.I.E.L.D.'s warning and quietly followed.
They had boarded the International Limited, the international train route running from Toronto through Sarnia and Port Huron, terminating in Chicago.
The total journey covered 808 kilometers and took roughly eleven hours.
Crossing the border required inspection, but since the rail gauge followed American standards from the beginning, passengers didn't need to switch trains.
At this point in history, the U.S.-Canada border inspections were probably the loosest in the world outside what would later become the European Union.
Most of the time, immigration officers simply boarded the train and went through the motions.
Since the targets were aboard the train, should he engineer a derailment?
No.
Leaving aside the massive collateral damage, it still wouldn't guarantee eliminating his intended target.
Henry quickly abandoned the idea.
Soon enough, however, he spotted another opportunity.
In the 1990s, anti-smoking campaigns had only just begun spreading worldwide.
Public smoking bans had not yet become universal.
In order to appear health-conscious and progressive, many enclosed public venues created separate smoking and non-smoking areas, dividing smokers from everyone else.
Naturally, this international train between Toronto and Chicago had adopted the trend as well.
Considering families preferred sitting together, the train wasn't divided into smoking and non-smoking cars.
Instead, it had a dedicated smoking area.
Heavy smokers could gather there with fellow smokers, where no one cared about secondhand smoke because everyone was poisoning each other equally.
The International Limited stopped at nineteen stations along the route.
Its only emergency medical supplies consisted of the conductor's first-aid kit.
Equipment like AEDs? Impossible for this era.
A few bandages and a triangular cloth already counted as being well-equipped.
Toronto winters brought snow.
Even though the train had heating, the smoking area kept windows open for ventilation, allowing icy wind to pour inside.
As a result, nearly everyone entering the smoking area was bundled up heavily.
Henry wore a thick overcoat, a wool hat pulled low enough to nearly cover his eyes, and a fluffy scarf wrapped around his neck.
A few steps behind his target, he entered the smoking compartment.
The moment he stepped inside and removed his knitted gloves, Henry copied the behavior of the others—rubbing his hands together and breathing warm air onto them.
"This damn weather," he muttered.
The smokers in the compartment were all men, casually chatting among themselves without restraint.
Henry's complaint sounded completely ordinary.
His target had just finished a cigarette and didn't immediately leave.
Based on previous observation, the man liked to remain inside the smoke-filled compartment for a while afterward, spacing out.
Henry casually walked over in front of him, opened a newly purchased pack of Marlboros, and placed one between his lips.
Then he patted himself down and cursed in Russian:
"Damn it, where'd my lighter go?"
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