Undercurrents

A week earlier.

Jobs's private estate was unusually lively.

Those who could attend were either rich or powerful, and most of them had already passed their physical prime.

But as soon as the underground salon broke up, Lawrence Dewinter was the first to storm out.

At sixty-two, he was the CEO of the military-industrial giant Anvil Defense Systems. At that moment, every perfectly combed strand of his silver hair seemed to be on fire.

His personal physician hurried over. "Mr. Dewinter, what did Mr. Jobs say? Can he arrange..."

"Arrange my ass!" Dewinter slammed a fist into the leather seat of the Lincoln. "They actually made me get in line!"

The doctor froze. "But you just secured a thirty-billion-dollar defense contract..."

"He said the rules are the rules." Dewinter ground out the words. "Joe said that Chinese guy only does one treatment a month. This month's slot went to some kid who writes code."

He took out his phone. On the screen was a young man in a hoodie, whose net worth was nowhere near a fraction of his own.

"Jobs said the order is based on how much you contribute to humanity's future." Dewinter sneered. "I've spent twenty years selling equipment to protect America, and I'm worth less than some guy who runs a social media site?"

The car drove into the night.

Dewinter stared out the window, tapping his knee with his fingers.

He had late-stage pancreatic cancer. He had eight months at most.

Jobs's recovery was his only hope. Now that hope was telling him to wait in line—possibly until he died.

"Have you checked out that Chinese guy?" he asked his assistant.

The assistant handed him a tablet. "Asian descent, twenty-six, automation engineer."

"He was transferred here for work four months ago, then acquired inexplicable medical skills. No political ties, no family backing, and virtually no security..."

"Virtually no security?"

"Yes. He travels alone. At the moment, he's buying up ranches all over Montana. His purpose is unclear."

Dewinter tapped his fingers against the tablet, lost in thought.

As the car crossed a bridge, he suddenly spoke. "Contact an In-Betweener. I want that yellow monkey brought to me."

The assistant's breath caught. "He's a friend of Jobs. If anyone finds out..."

"Then don't let him find out." Dewinter's voice was icy. "I want him alive, and I want the complete technology. Money is no object."

The assistant spoke urgently. "Sir, we can't withstand the retaliation on our own. The other wealthy men won't sit by and let the technology slip away."

Dewinter knew his assistant's concerns were well-founded.

If it were just an ordinary person, it wouldn't matter if he disappeared. Hundreds of thousands of people went missing in America every year. One more wouldn't make a difference.

But if the person had a group of rich men protecting him, that was another matter.

After a moment's thought, Dewinter gave an order. "Get in touch with a few old friends for me."

An abandoned slaughterhouse in East Los Angeles.

The air reeked of rust and rotting flesh.

Dewinter walked in, followed by two bodyguards.

Three men sat beneath a solitary light.

The bald, burly man in a floral shirt was Mickey Torino, the problem-solver of California's underworld.

The thin man wearing gold-rimmed glasses represented a European family. His codename was Accountant.

The third man surprised Dewinter: Eric Sterling, sixty-five, a real estate tycoon with late-stage pancreatic cancer, ranked seventeenth on the treatment list.

"Sterling?" Dewinter frowned. "What are you doing here?"

Sterling's face was sallow. He grabbed Dewinter by the sleeve. "Dewinter, I won't last another seventeen months. The doctors say I have eight weeks at most."

"Count me in on your operation. I have money and connections. I only ask one thing—once you catch him, treat me first."

Dewinter looked at Mickey. "What's the plan?"

Mickey grinned, baring his white teeth. "I've heard the target is heading to a ranch in Montana to buy a chicken farm, and he'll be there for at least a day."

"We'll make our move then. Cut communications, complete the capture within half an hour, and have the target on a private plane three hours later."

"To be safe, I'll take care of the National Guard. There's a counterterrorism exercise that night, and official channels will be silent for two hours."

"Even if someone calls the police, neither they nor the National Guard will go inside. They'll just patrol the perimeter."

Dewinter nodded. He turned to Sterling. "What can you offer?"

Sterling calmly took out his phone. "The target is frantically buying biological raw materials, but none of the canned goods ever reach the market, and there are no trademark registrations. I suspect... he might be more than just a doctor."

"What do you mean?" the European representative asked.

"He could be stockpiling strategic supplies for some organization," Sterling said. "Those cans might be some sort of carrier."

Dewinter laughed. "Even better. That means he won't dare make a big fuss if he disappears. He's got something to hide himself."

The European representative adjusted his glasses. "My client only wants the original treatment protocol, intact. Name your price."

Mickey wrote down a number.

Dewinter glanced at it. "Fine. Half in advance, the other half upon success."

"Deal." Mickey held out his hand.

Dewinter didn't take it. He turned toward the door. "On the morning of the sixth, I want the target in my reception room."

The secret meeting ended quickly, and Dewinter hurried into his car.

As the door shut, his expression darkened instantly.

"Tell the In-Betweener not to worry about the money. I want this to be foolproof."

"Also, send more teams. I don't want any surprises! And I don't trust those old foxes."

Dewinter knew full well that no tycoon could resist the temptation of miraculous medical treatments and life-extending drugs.

Who could guarantee that their group was the only one after this goose that laid golden eggs?

Late at night, a black van sat in the shadows.

Inside, the In-Betweener slid a tablet across to the man opposite him.

The man's codename was Gray Stone. He was the leader of an elite mercenary unit.

He took the tablet and glanced over the information.

The first page showed a photo of Fu Haoran, a young-looking Asian man.

The second page contained a mission summary: capture alive, coordinates, seventy-two-hour deadline.

The third page listed the payment.

Gray Stone's fingers stopped on the number.

"Fifty million dollars!?"

"That much," he said, looking up, "would let my men retire three times over. All to capture one man?"

The In-Betweener nodded. "Just one."

"What's the catch?"

"The target isn't the problem." The In-Betweener leaned forward. "It's the competition."

He pulled up two more files.

"There's more than one client. At least three. These are the ones I've found so far."

"Client A: White, a pharmaceutical tycoon with late-stage pancreatic cancer."

"He wants the target alive, and he wants the complete treatment capability."

"Client B: Duke Blackwater, a military-industrial lobbying group with heart failure. He's violent by nature. He wants the man and the technology, no matter the cost."

"Client C: an anonymous representative of a European family, possibly one with ancient bloodlines. They're religiously devoted to rejuvenation. They want the original treatment protocol."

Gray Stone frowned. "So?"

"Counting our employer, at least four factions will get involved."

The In-Betweener tapped the screen. "So capturing the target isn't the hard part. The hard part is who gets to him first and carries him away."

"Remember, the target must be unharmed."

Gray Stone leaned back in his seat, a cold smile forming as he took out his phone and began browsing the weapons catalog.

"So half the money is for the capture, and the other half... is to defend against the other teams trying to snatch him?"

"More precisely," the In-Betweener said, putting away the tablet, "it's the entry fee for a dark auction. Winner takes all."

Gray Stone ran a finger over Fu Haoran's photo. "An Asian kid worth fifty million... No matter how many people come after him, he'll be mine."

Gray Stone pushed open the van door and stepped into the night.

Gray Stone took one last drag, then stamped out his cigarette.

"This is insane."

He hurried down to the parking lot. Three modified black SUVs sat quietly there.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

His twelve best men were in the vehicles. Gray Stone handed his deputy a weapons order he had drafted.

The deputy looked over the list—military Humvees, RPGs, M2 Browning Heavy Machine Guns, Vulcan Cannons, and an assortment of other weapons—then glanced at his commander with concern.

Gray Stone gave him a reassuring look. "Get everything on that list. If we show enough force, this mission won't be difficult."

"Also, contact the nearby Sidewinder team and have them come join us tonight. Double their pay. Once we're done with this job, we all retire and settle down in the Caribbean!"

One of the men asked anxiously, "Commander, shouldn't we check out the ranch first?"

Gray Stone waved him off. "No need. We're grabbing a hobby farmer. It doesn't take that much trouble."

"Lastly, tell the boys that whoever catches the target first gets an extra twenty percent."