Chapter 2026 - 1458: Silent Assassination (Part 4)

"Squirrel" was also working on his disguise. He removed the brown colored contact lens, revealing his original eye color, and combed his hair back, changing his hairstyle.

While waiting at the red light, "Squirrel" glanced at Grey Wolf through the rearview mirror.

"Boss," he said, "why didn't you tell him his last words?"

Grey Wolf stuffed the clothes he had changed out of into a plastic bag and zipped it up.

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him who wants to kill him."

Grey Wolf looked out the car window.

The streets of Zurich were absurdly clean, with trams dinging past, filled with people heading to work.

A little girl in a school uniform rode her bike past the car, her basket filled with books and a baguette.

"Everyone else will know," Grey Wolf said, "except him."

When the light turned green, "Squirrel" hit the gas and drove toward the airport.

At 8:45, the trio arrived at Zurich Airport.

"Squirrel" parked the car in the lot, and the two entered the terminal from different entrances.

Grey Wolf printed the boarding pass at the check-in counter — a ticket from Zurich via Frankfurt back to his country, economy class, using a name on a Hong Kong passport.

The passport was real, the photo was his, but the name was fake, and so was the identity.

During security checks, Grey Wolf put his backpack on the conveyer belt and walked through the metal detector.

No sound. He picked up his backpack and headed to the boarding gate.

The waiting hall was crowded, with mixed languages swirling together.

English, German, French, Italian, Chinese, Arabic, like a sea of sound.

Grey Wolf stopped at a duty-free shop door, picked up a watch, looked at it, and put it down.

Through the glass, he saw "Squirrel" also passing through the crowd, carrying that black backpack, holding a cup of coffee, looking like a regular university student ready to start a trip.

At 9:30, the announcements rang out.

"Flight LH5763 to Frankfurt is now boarding, please proceed to gate A22."

Grey Wolf stood up, put the unfinished magazine back on the rack, and walked toward the boarding gate.

While queuing, he took out his phone and sent a message.

Just one word: "OK."

Then he deleted the message, activated flight mode, tucked the phone into his pocket, and handed his boarding pass to the ground staff.

The staff scanned the barcode, smiling as she returned the boarding pass: "Have a pleasant journey."

Grey Wolf nodded and walked into the jet bridge.

As the plane took off, Grey Wolf sat by the window, watching Zurich shrink, buildings turning into blocks, rivers into ribbons, and the snow-capped peaks of the Alps gleaming under the sun.

The flight attendant pushed a cart over, asking him what he'd like to drink.

"Water," he said.

The attendant handed him a bottle of mineral water. He took it without opening it, just holding it in his hand.

The plane cut through clouds, leaving only a patch of white outside the window.

Grey Wolf closed his eyes.

The final expression of the "accountant" appeared in his mind.

Confusion, reluctance, and that slight trace of release.

The plane continued to climb, breaking through the clouds, entering the stratosphere.

Outside the window, the sunlight was glaring.

Grey Wolf opened his eyes, unscrewed the bottle, and took a sip.

The water was cold, tasteless.

He turned his head, looking at the endless sea of clouds outside the window.

Below the clouds, Zurich was starting a new day. The person slumped over the desk wouldn't be discovered until the next morning.

The property management would call the police, they would come, seal the scene, check surveillance records, discover interference, find the electric meter tampered with, and realize the office belonged to a company that had been deactivated three years ago.

Then they would investigate, trace the gray Audi, discover the "accountant's" real identity, and his ties to certain organizations.

But in the end, everyone found out the "accountant" had too many enemies to trace any leads.

But none of it mattered anymore.

Grey Wolf wouldn't know the follow-ups, nor did he need to know.

His mission was completed.

The plane steadily flew above the clouds, the engines emitted a low hum.

Grey Wolf leaned against the seatback, closing his eyes.

He just wanted to take a nap.

Zurich.

Old Town Niederdorf Street.

9:50 a.m.

Sunlight shone on the cobblestone streets, on the boutique windows, on the outdoor seats of the "Black Forest" café.

Tourists began to increase, in groups, taking photos with cameras.

Queues formed at the bakery door, freshly baked bread giving off an enticing aroma.

In the first floor control room of the business center, security guard Peter Schmidt finished his last mouthful of protein shake, stood up, and stretched.

Time for a patrol.

He pushed open the door, walking into the corridor, starting his routine check.

First floor, normal.

Second floor, normal.

Third floor—

He paused at the door of room 316.

The door was ajar but not locked, inside was silent.

Usually at this time, there wasn't anyone in the office.

He frowned, straightened up, knocked on the door.

No response.

He knocked again, still no response.

He pulled out his walkie-talkie from his pocket, "Hans, did the tenant of 316 come by today?"

The walkie-talkie crackled with static: "316? Yes, he came."

Schmidt was stunned for a moment.

Then, he gripped the handle, gently pushed it.

The door opened.

He walked in.

Then he saw the person lying over the desk.

He saw the spilled coffee cup.

He saw the face buried in the coffee.

He saw the small, round hole in the forehead.

The walkie-talkie slipped from his hand, hitting the carpet with a muffled sound.

But it still transmitted sound: "Peter? Peter? What's going on? What happened?"

Schmidt didn't answer.

He just stood there, staring at the dead person.

Sunlight streamed in through the window, shining on the Christmas tree, on the landscape painting on the wall, on the person's back.

Everything was eerily quiet.

As if nothing had ever happened.

The clock tower chimed, striking ten.

The mechanical figurines came out to dance, making a circle on the clock face, then another turn.

On the street, tourists looked up, laughing, taking photos.

No one noticed the tightly shut window on the third floor.

No one knew what had happened there.

A new day had started in the Old Town of Zurich.