"Victor" naturally understood why "Harden" was a thorn in the sides of certain individuals. He retorted, "It seems you don’t like him very much?"
"Who can tolerate a lunatic?" The seasoned bureaucrat was deeply disgusted even by the ntion of "Harden’s" na, bitterness evident in his tone. "But it’s not Harden that’s the problem now, it’s our... President."
"President?" Victor’s nerves instantly tightened, urgently asking, "What’s happened to the President?"
At the beginning of the pandemic, the "real estate" President fell ill and couldn’t manage governntal affairs, temporarily handing over power to the Vice President.
After half a month suffering through the pandemic, many senior officials returned to their posts, but the "Yellow Hair" who enjoyed boasting in front of caras did not return.
The seasoned bureaucrat lowered his voice and replied, "There’s a rumor that our President... is brain dead.
The Vice President is actively preparing to take over, and promoting Harden is one of his tactics."
Victor was shocked at the words. "Where is this source from? I’m with the Departnt of Holand Security; why haven’t I heard anything about this?"
The seasoned bureaucrat shrugged, "The President is currently at the Reid Fort Military dical Center, which has the tightest security asures. The news is heavily shielded.
I can’t confirm the authenticity of this information for you; I can only ask if you can find a way to deal with Harden and stop the Vice President’s plan?"
Victor remained silent for a long ti, without making any promise, ultimately responding only, "I’ll see what I can do."
For the rest of the ti, he couldn’t focus on his work, until leaving the office at dusk and driving back to his residence in Maryland.
On the way ho, various guesses and doubts grew wildly in his mind like entangled vines.
He couldn’t help but turn on the display screen in the car, browsing the latest intelligence information aimlessly, trying to catch a trace of clues from it.
Until he stopped the car in front of his house, the screen just happened to display the file photo of "Oliver Harden." He stared at the face of this "colleague," an indescribable strange feeling welling up inside.
"Why do I feel like I’ve seen Harden sowhere... this guy gives a... very familiar feeling."
Victor trusted his intuition; that face must have left a deep imprint in so corner of his mory.
Even until pushing open the door to his ho’s living room, Victor was still deep in thought. He raised his hand intending to deactivate the alarm...
The alarm’s casing had already been violently dismantled, the sensor for detecting open windows and doors had been short-circuited, completely losing its intended warning function.
Victor’s pupils shrank suddenly, instinctively reaching for the gun at his waist, his gaze sweeping across the tranquil living room like a falcon.
Then he saw a scene that made his eyes bulge with anger — on the soft carpet of the living room, there was a conspicuous blood trail.
Looking in the direction where the blood trail extended, it led to the entrance of the dining room.
Rationality scread wildly, urging Victor to retreat imdiately, escape here, and call for help. But an irresistible wave of emotion bound his legs, unwillingly propelling him two steps forward.
He witnessed a scene of despair — his wife’s head was shot, lying powerless on the cold dining room floor, blood spreading beneath her body.
"No..." Victor wanted to let out a low howl, but grief and rage caused his lungs to struggle for breath, his throat expanded but no sound erged.
At this mont, retreat was no longer an option for him.
A silenced gun erged from the shadows of the dining room, releasing a soft ’pop’, a bullet precisely hitting his chest.
This high-ranking intelligence analyst from the Departnt of Holand Security instantly lost all strength, his body collapsing like a sack.
The gunman wearing black stockings swiftly ca to the fallen Victor, gloved hands expertly rummaging through his clothes pockets, extracting his phone, wallet, and other personal items.
On the brink of death, Victor’s eyes widened, staring intently at the face of the assailant tightly wrapped in stockings, emitting indistinct sounds of struggle from his throat, attempting to raise his hand to tear away the perpetrator’s face.
Due to their close proximity, he faintly discerned the rough face contours of the killer through the thin layer of stockings, a shocking thought flashed through his mind like lightning.
Summoning his last ounce of strength, he urgently shouted, "Victor... I know it’s you, it has to be you!
You... really have so nerve, daring to disguise as ’Harden’... daring to infiltrate the ’White House’...
I understand now..... When I found the underground hospital, you didn’t run off at all; you were hiding there, sheltered by those dical staff..."
Under the black stockings was indeed the face of "Oliver Harden," but Victor accurately called out his true identity.
The killer tried to unlock Victor’s phone using his fingerprint, but several attempts failed, as this cautious analyst hadn’t set up fingerprint unlock at all.
"You’ll never find any secrets on ... not a chance!"
Victor knew he was dood, he desperately twisted his eyeballs, looking toward the dining room, filled with unwilling anger, "Killing is one thing... why did you kill my wife?"
The killer wearing black stockings looked down at him coldly, his tone icy and contemptuous, "When you killed Thomas, you also killed his wife.
I stayed at the Thomas Family for several days, every day staring at the dark bloodstains left over the sofa and walls, imagining how desperate and enraged Thomas must have been.
You can kill others’ whole family, why can’t I kill yours? In this world... are you the only one who has family?"
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