Chapter 2012 - 1453: Winning Without Fighting

7:50 PM, Georgetown, M Street

Song Heping parked the car at the street corner and walked toward the bar.

The night in Georgetown was quiet, with few pedestrians on the street.

November in Washington brought a chilly night wind, rustling the sycamore trees along the road.

He walked slowly, relaxed.

But each step matched the rhythm of the message Grey Wolf sent twenty minutes ago.

"Boss, that bastard is at the Blues Bar. Alone, sitting in the corner, ordered a glass of Whiskey. The two eyes outside the hotel have been dealt with, it's safe."

Song Heping looked at the message at the time, the corner of his mouth slightly curling up.

Victor.

Top assassin.

Took three million to end his life.

Now sitting alone in the bar drinking.

Song Heping did not reply.

He simply put on his coat, picked up his car keys, and left the hotel.

Better to meet him openly than let him stalk me every day.

Go see him.

Song Heping pushed open the bar door.

The bar was small, dimly lit, with a faint scent of cigars and Whiskey in the air.

A Black musician was playing the saxophone on stage, a low melody flowing through the room.

Not many patrons, seven or eight tables, mostly couples or middle-aged people drinking alone.

In the corner, a man sat at a table.

Victor Krasic.

A glass of Whiskey in front of him, sipping slowly, his gaze sweeping to the doorway.

Then his movements froze.

Song Heping was walking toward him.

Victor's eyes changed in an instant.

Not fear, not panic, but a stunned shock.

The kind of shock when he thought himself the Hunter only to find he was the prey.

His left hand instantly dropped under the table, reaching for his waist.

There was a Glock 19 with a silencer, loaded.

But as soon as his hand touched the grip, it stopped.

Because Song Heping sat across from him and spoke.

"Move, and you die."

Victor's fingers froze on the grip.

His eyes locked onto Song Heping, his brain racing.

How did he find this place?

The eyes he planted outside the hotel?

Gone?

How did he know I was here?

Did he come alone?

Or—

Song Heping did not look at him.

He slightly tilted his head, gesturing toward the window.

Victor followed his gaze.

Across the street at the newsstand, a man reading a newspaper.

The man wasn't reading, he was watching here.

The delivery truck parked by the roadside, the driver in the seat.

The driver's right hand wasn't on the steering wheel.

He looked down at his chest.

A red dot hovered slightly.

Victor's breath paused for a second.

Then he scanned other directions.

An elusive figure at the alley entrance.

Another highly concealed observation post on the opposite rooftop seemed occupied.

At least five people.

No, likely more.

And he hadn't noticed any.

Victor's left hand slowly moved from his waist, resting on the table.

"Mr. Song." He said, his voice calm.

But only he knew, his back was soaked.

Song Heping looked at him, without smiling.

"Mr. Victor."

They locked eyes.

The saxophonist continued playing, the melody flowing throughout the room.

Victor raised his right hand with the glass, took a sip.

His movements were slow, steady, as if nothing had happened.

But his mind was frantically calculating.

How did Song Heping find him?

He decided to come to this bar this afternoon. Told no one. Used no phone location. Even circled three times, changed cars twice to ensure no tail.

Yet Song Heping found him.

What does this mean?

It means from the start, his whereabouts were in the opponent's grasp.

It means all his tracking, all his surveillance, all his meticulous arrangements over the past three days were under the opponent's nose.

It means—

He wasn't the Hunter.

He was the prey being watched.

Victor put down the glass, looked at Song Heping.

"How did you find me?"

Song Heping did not answer.

He just looked at him, eyes calm as if viewing a dead man.

"Victor." He said, "You've been following me for three days. My people have been following you for three days. Where you live, what you eat every day, who you meet, when you sleep, when you wake, I know it all."

He paused.

"This afternoon, at four, you decided to come to this bar. At five-thirty, you changed cars twice, circled thrice. At six-twenty, you walked through this door."

Victor's pupils slightly contracted.

"Your people—"

"Your people." Song Heping interrupted him, gesturing with his chin toward the delivery truck by the roadside: "They're in the truck, asleep."

Victor fell silent.

He knew that what Song Heping said was true.

The people he sent to surveil were probably already controlled, or even finished.

"So," Song Heping continued, "you have two choices now."

He leaned forward slightly.

"First, you continue to reach for that gun. Then my sniper—in the window on the second floor—will shoot through your heart without hesitation. My people will clean up the scene, and your body will be found in the Potomac River tomorrow."

Victor said nothing.

"Second, we have a talk."

Victor stared at him, silent for a long time.

"Talk about what?"

Song Heping leaned back against the chair.

"Talk about Robbin. Talk about that three million. Talk about how you plan to leave Washington alive."

Victor's fingers tapped lightly on the table.

He was thinking.

Thinking about whether there was any chance for a turnaround.

"Stop thinking."

Song Heping's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Victor looked up.

Song Heping looked at him, his gaze carrying a meaning only veterans understood.

"Even if your people are still alive, they can't save you. If they charge in, they'll only die with you."

He paused.

"Victor, you've done this for twenty years, killed forty-seven people. You should know when to concede."

Victor was silent for a long time.

Then he laughed.

The laughter was light, nearly drowned by the saxophone's melody.

"Mr. Song," he said, "I admit defeat."

His hand moved away from his waist, placed on the table, far from the gun at his waist.

Song Heping nodded.

"Smart."

He raised his hand, making a very slight gesture towards the window.

The man reading a newspaper at the newsstand across the street turned a page.

The reflection in the second-floor window disappeared.

The shadow at the alley's entrance took a step back.

But the red dot on Victor's chest remained.

Victor watched all this, a fierce chill surged through him.

Song Heping only needed a gesture to change everything.

He suddenly recalled the ten seconds of confrontation in the restaurant last night.

At that time, he thought it was just a probing encounter.

But now he understood.

In those three seconds, when Song Heping grabbed his wrist, the place his fingers touched was precisely his radial artery.

At that position, if Song Heping had a small knife, he would be dead now.

And Song Heping just touched it and withdrew.

That was no trial.

That was a warning.

"Last night..." Victor began, "In the restaurant, was it intentional when you grabbed my wrist?"

Song Heping looked at him.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to see," Song Heping said, "how fast you are. And you're always following me, which annoys me."

Victor's gaze tightened slightly.

"The result?"

"Very fast," Song Heping said, "faster than I expected, but not fast enough."

He paused.

"But you have a problem."

Victor waited for him to continue.

"After you dodged, you used a dinner knife. The tip pointed upwards, aiming at my abdomen. Very standard, very effective."

Victor said nothing.

"But you didn't notice," Song Heping continued, "when you countered, my left hand was already on the outside of your elbow joint. If you moved an inch forward, I could dislocate your arm."

Victor's pupils constricted slightly.

He remembered that moment.

All his focus was on the dinner knife, completely ignoring Song Heping's other hand.

If Song Heping had truly acted then—

"Also," Song Heping's voice was calm like chatting with a neighbor, "your left little finger trembled slightly when countering."

Victor's face finally changed.

Left little finger.

It was the injury he sustained twenty years ago in Kosovo.

At that time, a bullet grazed his left hand, damaging the nerves.

Since then, every time he struck with full force, his left little finger would involuntarily tremble slightly.

This detail, besides himself, no one knew.

"How do you know?"

Song Heping did not answer the question.

He simply picked up the glass of whiskey on the table and took a sip.

"Good drink," he said.

Victor stared at him, his gaze complex.

He finally understood.

From last night's restaurant, this match was already over.

He didn't lose today, didn't lose in this bar.

He lost last night, at the moment Song Heping grabbed his wrist.

That man, in those three seconds, saw through everything about him.

Victor took a deep breath, picked up his glass, and drained it in one go.

"Mr. Song," he said, "I've lost."

Song Heping looked at him, very seriously asked, "Lost what?"

Victor put down the glass, forcing a smile.

"From the beginning, I never had a chance to win."

Song Heping shook his head.

"You didn't lose. You figured it out."

"Then what do you plan to do with me now?" Victor bitterly spread his hands, "Get rid of me? You surely can do that. I accept my fate."