Undercurrents Surge

Time goes back to one week ago.

Jobs' private estate was unusually lively.

Everyone who could attend was either wealthy or powerful, and most had long passed their physical prime.

Yet, no sooner had the underground salon ended than Lawrence Dewinter was the first to storm out the door.

At sixty-two, he was the CEO of the defense giant Anvil Defense Systems. At this moment, every strand of his meticulously combed silver hair seemed to radiate fury.

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

"Arrange my ass!" Dewinter slammed a fist into the leather seat of his Lincoln. "They actually told me to wait in line!"

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

"He said rules are rules." Dewinter ground out the words through clenched teeth. "Joe said that Chinese man's rule is only one treatment per month. This month's slot went to some kid who writes code."

He pulled out his phone. On the screen was a young man in a hoodie, whose net worth didn't even reach the spare change of Dewinter's.

"Jobs said the ranking depends on one's contribution to humanity's future." Dewinter let out a cold laugh. "I've sold equipment to protect America for twenty years, and I'm worse than some guy who runs a social networking site?"

The car drove into the night.

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

He had terminal pancreatic cancer. At most, eight months left.

Jobs' recovery was his only hope, and now that hope was telling him: wait in line, and you might wait until you die.

"Have you dug up the background on that Chinese man?" he asked his assistant.

The assistant handed over a tablet: "Asian descent, twenty-six years old, automation engineer."

"Four months ago, he was transferred here for work. Then he mastered an inexplicable medical technology. No political background, no family backing, security... practically zero."

"Security is zero?"

"Yes. He travels alone, and recently he's been aggressively buying up ranches in Montana. Purpose unknown."

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

As the car crossed a bridge, he suddenly spoke: "Contact an intermediary. I want this yellow monkey brought to me."

The assistant's breath caught: "Sir, he's Jobs' friend. If it gets out..."

"Then make sure it doesn't get out." Dewinter's tone was icy. "I want him alive, with the complete technology. Price is no object."

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

Dewinter knew the assistant's concern wasn't unfounded.

If it were just an ordinary person, gone was gone. In America, hundreds of thousands go missing every year—one more wouldn't matter.

But if it was someone protected by a group of rich men, that was a different story.

After a moment's thought, Dewinter spoke: "Go contact some old friends of mine."

Los Angeles East District, abandoned slaughterhouse.

The air was thick with the stench of rust and rotting meat.

Dewinter walked in, followed by two bodyguards.

Under a single lamp sat three men.

A bald, burly man in a floral shirt—Mickey Torino, California's underworld problem-solver.

A thin man with gold-rimmed glasses—a representative of some European family, codename Accountant.

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

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

Sterling's face was sallow. He grabbed Dewinter's sleeve: "Dewinter, I won't make it seventeen months. My doctor says I have at most eight weeks."

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

Dewinter turned to Mickey: "What's your plan?"

Mickey grinned, flashing white teeth: "I got word that Target 5 is heading to Montana to buy a chicken farm. He'll be staying at least a day."

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

"To be safe, I'll grease the National Guard. There's a counter-terrorism drill that night—official channels will be silent for two hours."

"Even if someone calls the cops, the police and National Guard will just circle the perimeter. They won't go in."

Dewinter nodded. He looked at Sterling: "What can you provide?"

Sterling unhurriedly pulled out his phone: "The target has been frantically buying biological raw materials, but none of the cans enter the market, and there are no trademark registrations. I suspect... he might not just be a doctor."

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

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

Derwent smiled. "Even better. That means he can't exactly raise a ruckus with the police if he goes missing—his own hands aren't clean."

The European rep pushed up his glasses. "My client only wants the original treatment agreement intact. Name your price."

Mickey wrote down a number.

Derwent glanced at it. "Fine. Half upfront, half on completion."

"Deal." Mickey extended his hand.

Derwent didn't shake it. He turned and walked toward the door. "Morning of the 6th. I want the target in my meeting room."

The secret meeting wrapped quickly. Derwent hurried into his car.

As the door shut, his face darkened instantly.

"Tell the middleman—don't worry about the money. I want absolute certainty."

"Also, dispatch extra teams. I don't want any surprises. And I don't trust those old foxes."

Derwent knew full well that universal treatment technology and life-extension drugs were temptations no wealthy man could resist.

Who could guarantee that only their group had their eyes on this golden goose?

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

Inside, the middleman slid a tablet across to the man opposite him.

The man's code name was "Gray Stone." He was the captain of a top-tier mercenary squad.

He took the tablet and scanned the info.

The first page was a photo of Fu Haoran—a slightly youthful Asian face.

The second page was the mission brief: capture alive, coordinates, 72-hour time limit.

The third page was the payment.

Gray Stone's finger stopped on the number.

"Fifty million dollars!?"

"That number," he looked up, "is enough for my men to retire three times over. All for catching one guy?"

The middleman nodded. "Just one guy."

"What's the catch?"

"The catch isn't the target," the middleman 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 tracked so far."

"Client A: pharmaceutical tycoon White. Late-stage pancreatic cancer."

"He wants the target alive, with full treatment capability intact."

"Client B: military lobbying group Duke Blackwater. Heart failure. Violent temperament. He wants both the man and the tech, no matter the cost."

"Client C: anonymous European family representative. Suspected to be from some ancient bloodline. They have a religious obsession with rejuvenation. They want the original treatment agreement."

Gray Stone frowned. "So?"

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

The middleman tapped the screen. "So capturing the target isn't the hard part. The hard part is who gets there first and takes him away."

"Remember—the target must be completely unharmed."

Gray Stone leaned back into his seat, a cold smirk curling his lips. He pulled out his phone and started browsing the weapons inventory.

"So half this price is for catching the guy. The other half... is for keeping other teams from stealing him?"

"More accurately," the middleman put away the tablet, "it's the entry ticket to a dark auction. Winner takes all."

Gray Stone's finger traced across Fu Haoran's photo. "An Asian kid worth fifty million... No matter how many people come for him, he's mine."

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

He exhaled his last drag of smoke and crushed the cigarette butt under his boot.

"This is insane."

He quickly made his way to the underground parking lot. Three modified black SUVs sat silently.

He lit another cigarette and took a deep drag.

Inside the vehicles were his twelve most elite men. Gray Stone handed the deputy captain the weapons order he'd drafted.

The deputy captain looked at the list—military-grade Humvees, RPGs, M2 Browning Heavy Machine Guns, Vulcan Cannons... a whole arsenal. He shot his captain a worried glance.

Gray Stone gave him a reassuring look. "Prepare according to this list. As long as we show enough force, the mission won't be hard."

"Also, contact the nearby Sidewinder squad. Have them come overnight to rendezvous. Double their pay. After this job, we all retire—go live it up in the Caribbean!"

One of the men asked uneasily, "Captain, shouldn't we check out his ranch first?"

Gray Stone waved a hand. "No need. Catching some hobbyist farmer doesn't require that much trouble."

"Lastly, tell the brothers—whoever grabs the target first gets an extra twenty percent cut."