Chapter 884: So, Should I Leave?

It was already late. Lynch glanced at his watch as he stepped outside, then walked toward his room.

“Tell your boss I’m going to rest. Whatever it is, let’s talk tomorrow.”

Lynch was grateful that everyone in this world spoke the same language—otherwise, communication alone would be a nightmare.

Just imagine two soldiers who couldn’t understand him pointing guns at his head and yelling dog dog. Terrifying.

Sometimes the higher-ups were easier to persuade. It was often the low-ranking ones who were rigid, unwilling to adapt—partly out of fear.

As soon as he pushed open the door, Lynch knew someone had been in the room. Too many details gave it away.

He frowned slightly and looked toward the bedroom. There were blood spatters on the wall, with vertical streaks formed as the blood slowly dripped downward.

He stepped in, glanced at the lifeless female manager lying on the bed, then turned and walked out. He didn’t even check with Penny to see if she was okay.

God knows if someone was still hiding inside. And besides, her death was a warning from Beret.

A message: everything was still under his control.

Lynch sat back down on the sofa in the living room. After ten or twenty minutes—just as he was about to rest—Beret barged in.

With a fake smile plastered on his face, he raised a bottle of alcohol. “Hey, buddy. Mind sharing a drink with me?”

Several soldiers stormed in behind him and searched every room. Lynch acted like nothing happened and nodded. “Sure. But I can’t drink much.”

“No problem…”

Beret really played it like a casual drink. He said nothing else, just poured Lynch a full glass.

Federals were strange.

They liked using huge glasses to serve very little liquid—like the square glass.

Each square glass had at least a 450 ml capacity (about 15 oz), but they were rarely filled. Most of the time, only about 100 ml (around 3.4 oz).

Even with ice, it was far from full.

The more luxurious the glass, the less it was filled. Some experts claimed this aesthetic came from an ancient culture that equated size with prestige.

Over time, people got used to it. A massive glass would hold just a trickle of drink.

But the one in front of Lynch—this was the first time in years he’d seen a glass filled to the brim. Even overflowing.

“I can’t drink that much.”

Lynch didn’t touch it. He knew if he picked it up, he’d have to finish it.

Truthfully, with his alcohol tolerance, this amount was nothing. Liquors of 30–40% alcohol once felt like water to him.

But he couldn’t drink it—not because of the alcohol, but because of what it represented.

The soldiers who had searched the rooms returned. They left the way they came in.

No one extra.

Beret drew his pistol and slammed it on the table. “Drink or not?”

“I’ll drink—when you point the gun at my head and disengage the safety. But not now.”

Beret was momentarily stunned by Lynch’s response.

After seven or eight seconds, he burst into laughter. “You’re really something, Lynch. Are you saying you’re afraid of death?”

Lynch nodded seriously. “Terrified. When I don’t feel death, I’m fearless. But when I think I’m about to die—I lower my head.”

“You’re the first person to admit that. You’re interesting!” Beret’s emotions were erratic—mood swings sharp and unpredictable.

A trait many dictators shared. Not that Beret had the makings of a true warlord, but his temperament was certainly “convenient.”

He put the gun away and didn’t force Lynch to drink. “I was just joking, friend. Why would I ever do that?”

He picked up his own glass—filled to the brim—and took a large gulp, spilling some on his hands, his knees, and the expensive carpet.

Then he wiped his wet hand on Lynch’s chest. “Since you won’t drink with me, I’ll leave.”

He smiled, stood up, looked down at Lynch for a moment, then turned and left.

Lynch lay back on the sofa as if nothing had happened.

The next morning, he took a shower, changed into clean clothes, and chose a tie that wasn’t too bright—bright colors made him look younger, and he needed to project mature credibility.

He checked himself in the mirror to make sure he looked right before leaving the room.

He’d spent the night with a corpse. Of course, he slept on the sofa, the corpse on the bed.

But he wasn’t afraid—it was just a dead body.

Since morning, he had been going about his business. Some people disdained his actions; others were deeply grateful. The contradictory reactions were plain to see.

Those who disliked him saw him as an accomplice of the hijackers, exploiting their wealth. It wasn’t exactly an experience they wanted to remember.

Meanwhile, in the captain’s cabin, several people were destroying the instruments and control panels. They even jammed the helm in one direction and locked it in place.

They were preparing to leave, of course.

Just as Lynch had said, there wasn’t much cash to be gained from this crowd. Now, their only hope was that Lynch’s check would clear—and that he’d keep his word.

Beret wouldn’t stay much longer. With so many wealthy Federal citizens missing, he could already guess how the authorities were reacting.They had definitely deployed the navy to search for the ship. The longer they stayed, the more dangerous it became for him.

Lynch sat quietly on the small stage on the lower deck, staring out toward the horizon, his gaze seemingly stretching endlessly along the sea.

“Commander, we’ve destroyed the captain’s cabin,” reported his adjutant—basically just a more presentable lackey.

Today, the lackey had some ideas of his own. “I think we should set a fire. Just to be safe.”

Beret shot him a sideways glance and kicked him. “If anyone dares start a fire, I’ll kill him myself.”

In Marilo, all warlords—big or small—were involved in smuggling.

Of course, the big ones called it foreign trade. Only the small-time warlords had to call it smuggling.

And smuggling always involved maritime routes—by far the most convenient.

With the Federation’s vast coastline, it was impossible for the coast guard to be everywhere. There were always ways to sneak through.

Out at sea, it’s hard to determine direction, let alone locate anything specific.

But a column of smoke would immediately draw attention.

The lackey, staggering from the kick, scratched his head awkwardly and backed away.

“Have the men prepare some sacks. We didn’t get much cash this time, but those rich folks have plenty of valuables on them.”

“Take everything from them. Now. Go.”

The lackey still scratched his head. “And if someone resists…?”

Beret gave him another cold look. “I didn’t buy you guns to cuddle them. If someone resists, shoot them.”

Soon, the soldiers split into small teams of two or three. Carrying large sacks, they entered different cabins, forcing everyone to hand over anything of value.

Faced with these men finally acting like proper bandits, the rich passengers actually seemed more at ease.

Strange? Not at all. If the robbers had planned to kill them, they would’ve done it already and taken their valuables off the corpses.

The fact that they didn’t meant they weren’t planning to kill anyone.

It was the first piece of good news in a while, and the wealthy cooperated—even if it stung a little.

Lynch had taken a million from them earlier, but they hadn’t minded. A million was still far from their psychological limit. It didn’t even feel like a real loss.

Plus, that money had technically bought a small share of a company—at least it had some nominal return.

But these personal items were different. Some were one-of-a-kind, some heirlooms passed down through generations. The women’s jewelry alone often exceeded a million in value.

Faced with the choice between life and wealth, a few made the wrong call and became examples. Everyone else knew what to do.

What no one expected, though, was that even their clothes weren’t spared.

This was humiliating. They were left nearly naked, exposed in their most primitive and vulnerable state.

Sagging-skinned old men with bloated stomachs, wide-hipped, drooping women, men desperately trying to hide behind their underwear, women so loose and lifeless there wasn’t a hint of elegance left.

Ugly.

Lynch was probably the only one spared this embarrassment. But even if they had forced him, he wouldn’t have cared—he wasn’t the one with insecurity issues.

Beret’s sudden shift made Lynch realize that he was planning to leave. In truth, Beret had never fully controlled the situation on the ship.

He couldn’t get any cash. The check couldn’t be used freely. And now he had offended a ship full of untouchable billionaires. Once his head cleared, he realized he’d screwed it all up.

A hundred years in the future, this wouldn’t have been a problem. One click and the money transfers instantly.

But in this era? Hijacking a cruise ship full of cashless billionaires in the middle of the ocean—what could you possibly get?

Absolutely nothing.

Since there was nothing to gain, Beret had no reason to stick around. He was planning to retreat.

So then…

Lynch stroked his chin.

Should I let him leave?