On that red and white fox mask, the narrowed, painted red eyes looked exceptionally eerie under the dim lights of the second floor, as if a fox demon that had attained immortality was looking down on these mortals.
Swept by that gaze, the thugs downstairs felt an inexplicable chill.
Faced with their boss's hysterical command, they looked at each other, hesitated for a moment, and eventually backed away one by one, lowering their guns, though they still watched the second floor warily.
Alice withdrew her gaze and turned her head to look at the pale, sweat-drenched Kirill in front of her.
"A wise choice."
She reached out with her left hand and, as if taking back her own property, snatched the Desert Eagle from Kirill's waist that he hadn't been able to draw.
It had a heavy feel, like a finely crafted steel brick.
".50 caliber, good stuff."
Alice skillfully checked the magazine with one hand, engaged the safety, and then casually stuffed it into the large front pocket of her hoodie.
Every little bit counts.
In this World, nothing provides more security than a large-caliber handgun.
If anything does, it's two of them.
Alice flipped the stolen gold coin with her right thumb; it tumbled in the air, making a pleasant sound, before she caught it back in her palm.
"How many more of these do you have?"
Kirill swallowed hard, his features distorted by pain.
He didn't dare lie and pointed tremblingly at the office behind him: "In the safe, there are five more. That's the operating budget Mr. Viggo gave us to grease some palms."
"Only five?" Alice seemed a bit disappointed, but she quickly regained her composure. "Where's the money?"
"It's inside too," Kirill said urgently, fearing that a second's delay would result in his throat being slit. "The safe isn't locked. The code is—no, it's not locked. I was just about to get the money."
Alice's gaze swept across the office and landed on the leather sofa next to the executive chair.
There sat a large black sports duffel bag, made of nylon and looking quite sturdy.
For mobsters like these, who are always ready to run or move assets, such an inconspicuous duffel bag is practically standard equipment.
"Please pack all that money for me. Don't play any tricks; you know the consequences."
Alice slightly eased the pressure of the blade, signaling him to move.
Kirill didn't dare say no.
Enduring the excruciating pain in his knee and wrist, he hobbled on one leg, trembling as he grabbed the duffel bag.
He unzipped it; there was already some cash inside.
He crawled to the half-open safe, not daring to look at the hidden firearms inside, and desperately scooped out the rolls of Franklins bound with rubber bands, stuffing them all into the bag.
Finally, with trembling hands, he poured out the five gold coins from an exquisite wooden box at the back of the safe and carefully placed them in the bag's side pocket.
"It's all here."
Kirill pushed the heavy bag to Alice's feet, his voice carrying a sob.
His heart was bleeding; this was all the cash flow from the recent period, plus those immensely valuable gold coins.
If Viggo found out the money was gone, he would surely skin him alive.
But he was more afraid of the blood flowing from his neck right now.
"There's about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and those five gold coins." Kirill lowered his head like a dog with a broken spine.
"One hundred and fifty thousand?"
Alice's heart skipped a beat, and the corners of her mouth under the mask couldn't help but turn up.
This was more than she had expected.
Indeed, no horse gets fat without night grass, and no man gets rich without a windfall. Is this the joy of robbing the mob?
Is this the 'gold content' flowing through one's veins?
With this money and these gold coins, her early survival issues in New York were completely resolved.
"Pleasure doing business with you, thanks."
Alice's voice carried a hint of playfulness.
Before Kirill could process the meaning of those words, her left hand had already transformed into a knife-hand strike, hitting his carotid sinus with speed and precision.
Kirill didn't even let out a grunt; his eyes rolled back, and his massive frame went limp, collapsing to the floor in a deep coma.
Alice picked up the heavy duffel bag, slung the strap across her back, and adjusted its position to ensure it was tight against her back so it wouldn't interfere with the intense movement to follow.
She glanced at the restless thugs below, raised the handle of her utility knife, and smashed it hard against the floor-to-ceiling glass window that led to the back of the building.
"Crash!"
Tempered glass is hard, but it was still fragile against Ackerman-level explosive power.
The glass shattered on impact, turning into countless crystal-clear shards that rained down into the dark night outside like a shower of diamonds.
A gust of wind instantly rushed into the office, sending papers flying everywhere.
This was the back of the second floor, and outside the window was a dead-end alley filled with scrap tires and rusted containers—the optimal retreat route she had scouted and pre-planned before infiltrating.
Hearing the sound of shattering glass, the thugs downstairs rushed frantically up the stairs, but the few seconds of delay were enough.
"Goodbye, gentlemen."
Alice stood on the broken window frame and leaped.
The black figure merged into the night, vanishing without a trace.
Leaving behind only the angry roars from behind and the 50 Cent music still playing, echoing through this absurd New York night.
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