The President was still lost in his fantasy of capturing Shen Bing.
To the United States, there was no difference between a crippled Shen Bing and an intact one. As long as his brain and hands remained functional, his value would not change.
Perhaps, with Shen Bing in their hands, the many problems American scientists had failed to solve could finally be resolved with ease.
Suddenly, urgent knocking came from the door. He looked up and saw his aide walk in.
"Mr. President! The plan failed." The aide looked as though he had swallowed a steaming pile of shit—the kind with fumes still rising from it.
The President shot to his feet, as though someone had clubbed him over the head in the middle of a sound sleep.
"What did you say?"
The aide said bitterly, "The CIA's operation failed."
"How is that possible? I assigned him elite agents from all over the country and transferred military personnel to assist. Once Shen Bing was wounded, we could have taken him away under the pretext of rescuing him. We deployed hundreds of people. Are you telling me they couldn't stop his handful of bodyguards?"
"The problem is that Shen Bing wasn't wounded," the aide said. "Our snipers even fired a second time, but they still failed to hit him."
The President froze, then roared in fury, "Were those two shooters eating shit? Who the fuck told me they were expert marksmen?"
"Judging by their previous records," the aide said, "both shooters did qualify as expert marksmen."
"Then why did they fail?" the President demanded. "Were they bought off? Arrest them! I'll have them court-martialed."
The aide gave the President a helpless look and squeezed out a few words. "They're already dead! Both were shot in the head and killed instantly."
The