Chapter 2015 - 1455: Ace Broker (2)

"You threatened him?"

"Just an exchange." Henry corrected him. "I told him I'd never breathe a word about that matter, it would rot in my stomach forever. In return, he helps me pull the logs from that jump layer. He agreed, but his condition was eighty thousand US Dollars—he needs that money to shut some other people up. You can't handle this kind of thing in person."

Song Heping exhaled a lungful of smoke.

"Eighty grand for a favor that lasts ten years, that's cheap."

Henry smiled and went on.

"The hardest part was the Netherlands jump layer." He pointed at the data on the screen. "It's a virtual hosting provider, registered in Amsterdam, but the actual servers are in a data center in Rotterdam. Their security is extremely tight, all logs are stored encrypted, and the keys are held by three people. I originally thought that route was dead—"

He paused, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.

"—then I found out the company's CFO has a discreet gambling habit. Every month he goes to an underground casino in Antwerp to play Texas Hold'em, and he loses more than he wins."

Song Heping's eyes narrowed slightly.

"You got to him?"

"Not me." Henry shook his head. "A Belgian I know did. He used to be a tech contractor for the MI6 Brussels station, now he's freelance, specializes in handling things that 'require in‑person communication.' He tailed the CFO for two months, shot photos of him losing money at the tables, and dug up proof of him cooking the books behind the company's back."

"How much?"

"One hundred and twenty thousand." Henry said. "That covered the photos, the evidence, and one 'friendly conversation.' After the talk, the CFO volunteered to decrypt the logs."

Song Heping was silent for a few seconds, then smiled.

"Worth it. Very worth it."

With the Boss's approval, Henry let out a breath.

"The nastiest layer is Luxembourg." He kept scrolling through the accounts. "That company's servers are hidden in an industrial zone by the Alzette River. On the surface they do data backup; in reality, they're one of the channels for Russia's oligarch money laundering. They don't retain any logs at all. All traffic is forwarded in real time, leaving no traces."

Song Heping's brows knit together.

"So what did you get?"

Henry bared his teeth in a grin.

"I got their physical address."

He pulled up a photo.

It was an unremarkable gray building, surrounded by warehouses and logistics centers, a few trucks parked out front.

"This building looks like a logistics warehouse; three levels underground is the server room." Henry said. "I hired a private investigator to check it out on site. He bribed a delivery guy to run a pizza into that server room, then took the chance to rummage through the trash and pulled out a shredded shift schedule."

Staring at the reconstructed photocopy of the schedule on the screen, a trace of approval flashed in Song Heping's eyes.

"How much did that cost?"

"Eighty thousand." Henry said. "The PI and his team were five people in total, plus the bribe for the delivery guy and the cost of renting surveillance gear—it came to about that."

Song Heping nodded.

"And what about the office location?"

Henry's expression turned a little odd.

"That one… was the cheapest."

"Oh?"

"Twenty thousand US Dollars." Henry said. "I directly hired a local Zurich private investigation firm, had them pose as telecom technicians and go into that business center for 'line maintenance.' While the property manager wasn't looking, they secretly shot a full floor plan of the building and copied the power meter readings from the electrical room. The whole thing took two days, twenty grand, and they even issued an invoice."

Song Heping couldn't help laughing.

Sometimes the most straightforward method is actually the cheapest.

"Including your cut," he said, "that's three hundred and fifty thousand total?"

Henry shook his head.

"Forget my cut." He said, his tone flat. "I'm on salary at headquarters, and I get a field allowance. That's enough. This intel was paid out of channel fees, not my labor cost."

Song Heping was silent for a few seconds.

"You'll get what you should." He said. "There's more work coming your way. I'm not letting you work for free."

Henry didn't refuse.

He knew what Song Heping was like.

Work for this man, as long as you've got the skills, he'll never shortchange you.

"Thank you, Boss."

Song Heping waved his hand.

"Keep watching. I want to know what this 'accountant' looks like, what he drives, which route he takes, who he meets. Even what coffee he drinks every morning and how many sugar cubes he uses—I want it all."

Henry nodded.

"Understood. I've already placed someone in the café diagonally opposite that building. She'll be on site at seven‑thirty tomorrow morning sharp. There's a window on the second floor of that café that faces directly into room 316. If the accountant likes to work with the window open, or stands by the window to take calls, we'll get high‑res shots."

Song Heping thought for a moment.

"Tell your people to be careful. Old foxes like this accountant are hyper‑aware of their surroundings. No pro cameras, don't stare in one direction too long. Best to dress up as a tourist."

"Relax, chief." Henry smiled. "I picked a girl—twenty‑six, blonde, sweet‑looking. Her real background is ex‑monitoring staff at MI5, you know the type. Our England intel services always have some peripheral hires around Europe to collect low‑sensitivity intel. The pay's lousy though, so this little chick quit. Now she travels all over Europe and picks up side jobs. Her acting is better than a pro actress's. Even if someone gets suspicious, they'll just think she's a British tourist in Zurich, shopping and grabbing a coffee."

Song Heping's eyebrows lifted slightly.

"You know people like that too?"

"Back when I was in Navy intelligence, we did a few joint ops with MI5." Henry said. "Her name's Emily, and she's very good at what she does. But peripheral staff wages are mediocre—they can't keep talent. Nowadays she specializes in gigs that 'require acting.' Her rates are reasonable, and she's never blown a job."

Song Heping nodded.

"Good. Tell her to be careful."

He paused, then added:

"And that Cayman account. Track down exactly which account that money came from. I want proof, a full money trail. Not some screenshot you can fake, but actual bank transaction records."

Henry's movements paused.

"Chief, that means… people inside those financial institutions. Their asking prices are high. And it takes time."

"Whatever it costs, I'll pay." Song Heping cut him off without the slightest hesitation. "Is five hundred thousand US Dollars enough? If not, make it a million. I don't care about the money. I care about the result."

Henry drew in a deep breath.

On the screen, his expression shifted slightly.

"It's enough. I've got some friends with connections in the offshore financial service outfits in Cayman. They used to launder money for arms dealers, then they supposedly went clean, but they still have a few channels. It's just that…"

"Just that what?"

"Just that they only take cash, and they don't accept any job under six figures."

Song Heping let out a cold snort.

"Expensive? How expensive can it be? The bounty on a single hitter is more than that."

He got to his feet and walked to the window, looking out at the Washington D.C night.

"Henry, remember this. We're not begging favors now, we're doing business. Paying for intel is perfectly normal. Whatever they ask, we pay. But there's one condition—"

He turned back, locking his gaze on Henry's face on the screen, his eyes suddenly razor‑sharp.

"The intel has to be real. If it's fake, or if they try to play both sides, I don't care which god‑forsaken hole they hide in—our company has plenty of people who'll find them. And what they'll be facing then won't be any offshore‑finance 'rules.' It'll be bullets."

Henry nodded, his expression almost grimly serious.

"Understood, chief. I'll make that crystal clear."

Song Heping waved him off.

"Go. Stay in touch."

The video call cut off.

The room went quiet again.

Song Heping stood by the window, staring at his own reflection in the glass.

Three hundred and fifty thousand US Dollars, to buy the hideout of a hit‑broker.

Another million to chase the money trail.

Worth it?

More than worth it.

Because that's not just the accountant's hideout. It's the source of Robbin's bounty, the chokepoint every killer who wants him dead has to pass through.

As long as the accountant is alive, there will be a steady stream of killers picking up contracts, wave after wave coming at him.

Victor leaves, others will follow. Victor fails, there'll be a next one.

Unless—

The accountant dies.

He has to die.

Die in Zurich, die in that office he logs into for five minutes every day, die openly and unmistakably, so the entire contract‑killing circuit understands—take a job on Song Heping, and this is what happens.

These days, if you're not ruthless, you don't last.

Especially in this line of work.

Without some thunderbolt moves, people will treat you like a Chihuahua.

He pulled out his phone, opened the encrypted comms app, found a familiar avatar, and hit the call button.