Chapter 885: Time to Leave

“Why is the road so empty today?”

A young playboy was speeding down the famous coastal highway on the West Coast, his new girlfriend sitting in the passenger seat.

To the wealthy, the Federation was heaven on Earth. With enough money, anything could be bought here—health, longer life, passionate love, warm and supple bodies…

There was nothing money couldn’t buy. If there was, it only meant you weren’t truly rich.

Every time he had a new girlfriend, he would bring her for a drive on this road. It was the city’s most iconic attraction.

Unlike the East Coast, the West Coast wasn’t uniformly developed. Only a few cities were highly commercialized, but they housed most of the region’s wealthy population.

With so many rich people around, they needed something to show off their city’s status—like this grand, scenic road.

Driving along the wide, smooth coastal highway, with sea breezes brushing past and green surroundings all around, the deep blue ocean in the distance looked like a sapphire embedded in the land—invoking a sense of deep comfort.

One side of the road was lined with bustling commercial areas, full of shops and restaurants. You could buy a small gift, have dinner, open a bottle of wine, and rent a room nearby for some life discussions.

This made the coastal highway a tourist hotspot, usually full of cars and pedestrians.

Strangely, today there was hardly any traffic.

The girl wasn’t familiar with the area. She clutched her designer handbag—the only thing of real value she had—and smiled modestly, trying to appear shy and reserved.

She had mastered this act back in high school.

The car continued a little farther until a police officer waved them down with a warning sign.

“Hey, official operation ahead. You’ll have to take another route.”

The young man glanced forward. There were quite a few people around, but the road itself was clear, though there were several tanker trucks on both sides.

The detour would take at least 20 extra minutes—likely something the local government never expected, given how wide this road was.

He protested mildly. “There’s nothing up ahead, officer. I think you can let me through.”

As he spoke, he pulled out a $20 bill, tucked it into his license holder, and handed it over.

“If we detour, we’ll be late for our reservation.”

The officer shook his head. “While we’re still calmly talking, I suggest you turn around…”

He glanced into the distance—two agents from the National Security Committee were approaching.

The situation involved the safety of over a hundred billionaires or their relatives. The president was taking it seriously, so the NSC had been deployed.

The young man instantly recognized who they were. Thanks to his privileged background, he wasn’t afraid of these authority figures.

That was the privilege of the Federation’s elite.

The same special agents who could kick down doors, storm into a poor family’s home, pin everyone to the floor, trash the place, and leave with a quick sorry, wrong address—these same agents became surprisingly polite around the rich.

They’d pick up their cigarette butts and pocket them, careful not to scuff the marble floors or stain expensive carpets.

The young man assumed the agents would let him through.

Federation citizens had a knack for instantly identifying who was a cop, who was an investigator, and who was a federal agent.

The officer gave it one last shot. “I strongly advise you to leave now. These guys aren’t easy to deal with.”

“No worries.”

The young man grinned. His father was a senator, his mother a CEO of a major local firm—he was used to being untouchable.

As the two agents got closer, he tried to greet them—only to be met with cold indifference.

One agent glanced at him. “Out of the car. Inspection.”

The young man froze, stunned. “Do you know who I—”

But faced with a raised gun, he had no choice but to raise his hands, shut his mouth, and get out of the car in awkward silence, quickly declaring he posed no threat.

As he lay over the hood being frisked, utterly confused, a loud roar suddenly came from above.

A plane shot past him, rapidly descended about fifty meters ahead, and landed.

The people he had seen earlier—all those gathered along the road—rushed toward it. The tankers moved as well.

The pilot climbed out of the plane, visibly excited. “I think I found them!”

The news was exhilarating. Within a minute, the president himself was updated, and he let out a sigh of relief.

He issued the highest-level order from the Office of the President:

“Ensure no one is harmed. If necessary, you are authorized to use deadly force.”

Finding the ship meant half the responsibility was now off his shoulders—a relief for him.

Researchers from the institute began recording everything that had occurred during the flight, rechecking the aircraft’s performance and signs of metal fatigue.

At the time, metal fatigue was a common aircraft killer. Every detail had to be verified.

Luckily, the new materials held up. Some minor issues were found, but nothing critical. Overall, the results were acceptable.

Of course, that level of performance came at a price. Aluminum alloy wasn’t cheap.

To extend the aircraft’s range, the institute had installed four auxiliary fuel tanks—jettisonable ones—to push the plane’s limits as far as possible.Everyone was meticulously recording the coordinates reported by the pilot, and several naval ships at sea began to change course in response.

Meanwhile, Mr. Beret stood at the bow of the ship, gazing toward the sky where that buzzing thing had flown back and forth earlier.

It had been gone for a while, yet for some reason, his heart was pounding uncontrollably. He had a strange, looming feeling—as if something terrible was about to happen.

He felt it had something to do with that flying object. But what the hell was that thing?

Marilo didn’t have any airshows, let alone an aircraft research institute.

The constant wars between warlords had frozen their technological progress in time.

Warlords never invested in scientific research. The returns were too long-term. Rather than wasting their limited budgets on scientists, they preferred to buy more weapons and expand their territory.

He knew nothing about aircraft, but he had a gut feeling—it was definitely connected to the Federation. He might have been exposed.

A failed raid, he told himself.

But not a complete failure. At least he had achieved part of his goal: damaging the prestige of EveryMoment.

Without competition among the major warlords, smaller factions like his would never have a future. That’s why they constantly had to challenge other mid-tier warlords to gain resources and power.

Only by shaking the major powers could the current structure in Marilo be broken.

Beret might not fully understand all this. He acted on instinct—trying to humiliate the big warlords and seize resources to strengthen himself.

Others didn’t dare touch EveryMoment’s ships or the wealthy passengers on board. He did. That was reputation.

Once he returned to Marilo and sold off the loot, he’d have enough money to quickly build a professional army.

The future was within reach.

Having made up his mind, he gave the order immediately: “Tell them to hurry. We need everything valuable off this ship before nightfall.”

He wouldn’t leave yet. He planned to slip away under cover of darkness, just as he had arrived.

That way, even if the Federals showed up, they’d have no idea which direction he went—or how long ago he left.

He even considered killing everyone on board to eliminate witnesses.

But then he thought about that thing flying through the sky—and he hesitated.

Hesitation is the most dangerous moment when making a decision.

If you don’t act on a thought immediately, it gets replaced by another. That’s why people say, Courage fades quickly, and hot blood cools fast.

Everyone went about their business in an orderly manner.

—The Marilo raiders were looting everything of value they could find.

—The ordinary passengers watched helplessly, full of dread, waiting for judgment.

—And Lynch, calmly repeating his scripted speeches, getting people to sign checks.

Lynch’s pace remained steady and undisturbed.

At dinner, Beret sent for Lynch.

He was enjoying a fine meal at the table. The cruise ship had stocked many luxury ingredients, and for the past few days, it had felt like a holiday for Beret and his men.

Every day was filled with good food and drink. And when desires arose, there were plenty of Marilo girls locked up below deck.

Whether for stress relief or something darker, satisfaction was guaranteed.

As he ate high-grade beef, Beret suddenly felt reluctant to give up this lifestyle.

“Sit. Had dinner yet?” he asked, pointing to a chair. “If not, have some. This beef’s great—delicious raw or cooked.”

Lynch glanced at the plate in front of him—still red, with streaks of blood on the white porcelain.

“I’ve eaten.”

Beret leaned back indifferently, grinning as he cleaned bits of food from between his teeth with his tongue, his arms resting on the chair’s sides.

“How’s that stuff you talked about coming along?”