"Okay, I understand, Boss."
Toru put down his phone.
The call had come from his adoptive father, Spencer. He had only given one instruction:
Do not kill Vermouth.
The FBI had long been investigating Vermouth's identity, while the CIA Director had known all along that Chris Vineyard was Vermouth.
Combined with the detailed intel Vermouth had just spilled about him, Toru could now confirm one thing.
There was indeed a connection between the Black Organization and the CIA.
And that connection was the CIA Director himself.
No, not an undercover agent.
A collaboration.
Toru silently mulled it over, quickly reaching that conclusion.
If the Organization had managed to insert a mole all the way to the Director's seat, it wouldn't be getting hunted by intelligence agencies worldwide.
The Organization was strong, yes. But it was still just an international criminal group that emerged after the war. It wasn't powerful enough to control the CIA, which answered only to the President.
Vermouth hung up around the same time. The once-tense and hostile atmosphere eased slightly.
Just moments ago, they'd been aiming to kill each other.
Now, they stood on the same side.
"Boy, it's best not to aim that thing at people. Accidents happen."
"I'm already about to go off accidentally."
Toru smirked, the meaning behind his words obvious.
Now that her life wasn't in danger, Vermouth returned to her usual mysterious charm.
She rose from the edge of the bed in her black lace underwear, stretching her arms. Her supple waist formed a perfect arc, her body gracefully displayed as she casually stretched.
Toru silently put away his pistol.
Vermouth opened her mouth to say something, but just then, the suite's doorbell rang.
"Who is it?"
Toru called out from inside the bedroom.
"Sir, I've brought the food and drinks you ordered."
Toru glanced at Vermouth.
She gave a small nod. "I ordered it earlier when I woke up."
With that confirmation, Toru picked up her clothes from the floor and tossed them over. "Get dressed."
He walked out to the living room, headed to the hallway, and looked through the peephole.
A waiter stood outside with a dining cart.
Toru opened the door, stepped aside, and gestured. "Bring it in."
The waiter wheeled the cart into the suite. Vermouth emerged from the bedroom, now fully dressed.
"Sir, please sign here."
The waiter handed Toru a bill and a pencil.
Toru took the pencil, but his expression shifted instantly.
In a flash, he gripped the pencil in his right hand. His arm became a blur as he stabbed it straight into the waiter's trachea.
At the same time, he spread the fingers of his left hand, swung it like a hammer, and slammed it into the waiter's temple with a cupped-palm strike.
The waiter barely registered the pain in his throat before it felt like his skull had exploded. Dazed, he collapsed to the floor.
With the pencil embedded in his throat, he couldn't make a sound. Gurgling, gasping, twitching, his pupils soon dilated.
Dead.
Vermouth stood frozen.
Toru lifted the dining cart's tablecloth.
No food.
An MP9 submachine gun lay beneath it.
Seeing the weapon, Vermouth's expression turned serious.
"How did you know he was a fake?"
Toru answered calmly, "I saw his hand. There was a thick callus between the thumb and index finger. That only forms from years of holding a gun."
"Second, waiters in a high-end hotel like this are professionally trained. His service etiquette was way off. Too many mistakes. No way he was legit."
With Vermouth's background in acting, she should have picked up on that.
But her mind had been in disarray. She hadn't noticed.
She glanced down at the corpse, quietly impressed.
This guy was clearly a trained pro. But he got taken out by Toru.
With a fucking pencil.
Unbelievable.
At that moment, Toru felt a chill run up his spine.
Alarms blared in his mind.
"Get down!"
He shouted, throwing himself over Vermouth and tackling her to the floor.
The next instant.
Da da da da!!
A hail of gunfire tore through the room. Bullets shredded the suite's front door and ripped through the living room.
A wave of metal devastation surged through.
Glasses exploded. Water spilled across the floor.
The sofa was torn to shreds, sponge filling exposed.
Decorations crashed to the ground.
The luxurious suite was reduced to rubble in seconds.
Toru clutched Vermouth and dragged her into the bedroom.
No matter how far he pushed his physical limits, he was still made of flesh and blood. A direct hit from this kind of barrage meant death.
Just as he and Vermouth scrambled into the inner bedroom, the shattered front door finally collapsed.
A flashbang was tossed into the living room.
A moment later, it erupted in a blinding burst—170 decibels of noise, over 6 million candela of light.
Fortunately, Toru had already pulled Vermouth out of the blast zone.
Even with his special training, if he had been caught in that, he'd have been disoriented, maybe even temporarily disabled.
Three fully armed attackers stormed into the suite.
Finding no one in the living room, they turned their attention to the bedroom door.
One of them pulled out another flashbang and hurled it toward the bedroom.
But just as it crossed the frame.
A blur.
A whip kick.
Toru used the move to send it flying back.
Bang!
None of the intruders had expected that.
Another blinding explosion rocked the room.
The shockwave stunned all three.
Toru rolled to the doorway, body low to the ground.
From his M9, three shots rang out.
Two to the chest, one to the head.
Three kills.
In one breath.
As the bodies hit the floor, his magazine dropped, and a new one was already in place.
Gun steady in both hands, Toru advanced with swift steps, sweeping the living room, then moved to the hallway.
Outside, a hotel waiter was crouched down, hands over his head, textbook response.
Once he confirmed the area was secure, Toru returned to the room and checked the bodies.
"A drug cartel hit?"
Vermouth was still a bit shaken, but she pulled herself together quickly.
"No. Drug cartels don't train personnel like this, and they wouldn't dare go all-in with military-grade weapons in New York."
"If this were a cartel, the FBI Director and CIA Director should both resign on the spot."
The attackers had been using HK UMP9 submachine guns.
Toru removed a magazine and showed it to her.
"Check out the rounds. Armor-piercing. It's like they were afraid they couldn't kill you even with a vest."
"This has Mossad written all over it. I've dealt with them before. No regard for consequences. Launching a hit on American soil is exactly their style."
"My status is tied to the CIA. I've never crossed Mossad. No way they're here for me."
"They're here for you. I just happened to be in the way."
He narrowed his eyes.
"...Vermouth. Did you go to Israel and stir something up?"
Her face turned grim. She pulled out her phone and quickly made a call.
"Gin. There's a mole in the Organization. Mossad, most likely. I've just been attacked. Track down whoever leaked my location. Fast."
Not many people knew Chris Vineyard was Vermouth.
But within the Organization, a few people were aware of her whereabouts. Internal collaboration made secrecy hard to maintain.
Toru looked down and spotted blood trickling down Vermouth's pant leg.
His brows furrowed.
"You're injured?"
(To be continued.)
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