The Wrong Hunter
The light in the study was dimmer than in the afternoon. The downpour had stopped, but the heavy clouds still hung low, prematurely tinging the dusk with a sickly, iron-gray gloom. Outside the window, the rubber plantation appeared as a blurry, wet, dark green silhouette, with water droplets constantly dripping from the broad leaves, making a monotonous and annoying "drip-drip" sound.
Xie Yunchuan sat in the increasingly dark leather chair, the light off, like a stiff statue. His eyes were fixed on the encrypted device on his desk that led to the dark web platform. The screen was dark, but in his anxious gaze, it seemed as if it would light up at any moment, bringing the message he craved.
More than 24 hours have passed since the commission was posted. The platform shows "Approved and entered the public market," indicating that the huge Bitcoin deposit is Enron in the escrow account. But apart from that, there has been no movement. No private messages inquiring, no bidding, and not even any obvious abnormal fluctuations in traffic—of course, in this place where anonymity is paramount, such data is inherently difficult to obtain accurately.
This deathly silence was more agonizing than a direct rejection. It was like throwing a bloodstained piece of meat into a dark jungle, hearing no predator's call. He began to wonder if he had done something wrong. Was the bounty not high enough? Was his description inaccurate? Or... was the power behind K so great that even the hunters of this dark web market hesitated to take action?
"Impossible..." he hissed, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the cold tabletop. The price he offered was enough to drive anyone mad. No matter how skilled K was, he was just a technician, a Rat who needed to hide. Once they found him, a single bullet would solve everything.
He needed to do something; he couldn't just wait around. He took a deep breath, suppressing the burning sensation in his throat and the rage in his heart, and reactivated the encrypted device. He switched to a more covert, platform-bound encrypted messaging channel. Theoretically, this allowed for "secure" initial communication with potential order takers.
He carefully chose his words and sent a broadcast message without a specific recipient, but which would be pushed to all "followers" or "potentially eligible" recipients:
Regarding the engagement of #XXXXX (Technical Expert-K), the client adds: The target may tend to hide in areas with well-developed IT infrastructure, relatively lax internet regulations, and certain financial gray areas. They have extremely high requirements for digital privacy and physical security. Past work patterns indicate a preference for highly automated, remotely controllable environments. Any geographical location information matching this profile is of extremely high value. The client looks forward to communicating with a professional team possessing the corresponding investigative and operational capabilities.
He sent it out, as if completing a ritual, and felt a little more at ease. At least he had provided "clues," although these clues were a hodgepodge of his observations of K's working patterns in Northern Myanmar and his own speculations. He hoped this would attract the attention of the real "professionals," making them feel that this was not entirely without clues.
After sending the message, he collapsed backward as if all his strength had been drained, closing his bloodshot eyes. His ears were filled with the monotonous dripping sound outside the window, and the dull thud of his heart pounding wildly in his chest, fueled by hatred and anxiety.
Scene 2: East Africa, on the outskirts of a border town, a temporary camp converted from an abandoned farm, afternoon.
The sun here was intense and dry, carrying the scent of dust and camel grass. A few camouflage tents and makeshift shacks made of tarpaulins and wooden poles were scattered across a patch of sun-baked, whitish earth. Several Toyota pickup trucks with peeling paint and welded-on steel plates and an old-fashioned truck were parked in the shade. In the center of the camp, several dark-skinned men dressed in haphazard combat or civilian clothes were gathered around a stove made from a gasoline drum, brewing strong coffee and conversing in hushed tones in English with varying accents, occasionally bursting into rough laughter.
This is the temporary shelter of the "Blood Spear" mercenary group. They have just finished a contract to protect a mining company in a neighboring country (the process was not pleasant; several locals tried to steal equipment, resulting in a firefight), and are resting while waiting for a final payment and to handle the compensation and transfer of a member who was seriously injured in the last conflict—money is a bit tight.
Commander Locke sat in the shade of a relatively intact tent, an ammunition box beneath him, a heavy, rugged military laptop on a small folding table in front of him. He was in his early forties, with a very short buzz cut, a gaunt face, and a jawline as hard as rock. A dark scar on his left brow bone made his left eye always appear slightly squinted, conveying a weariness and alertness born from countless life-or-death experiences. He wore dirty sand-colored tactical pants and a sweat-soaked gray T-shirt, revealing muscular forearms covered in both old and new scars.
The computer screen displayed Xie Yunchuan's commission, along with the later added "clues." Locke had read it repeatedly, his rough fingers slowly sliding across the touchpad, his brows furrowed into a deep frown.
"Boss, still looking at that ' Ghost list'?" A tall, burly white man with a shaved head and a scorpion tattoo on his neck walked over with two cups of black coffee. He handed Locke one, took a big gulp himself, and grimaced from the heat. He was the vice-captain, nicknamed "Anvil," a former member of the France Foreign Legion.
"Hmm." Locke took the coffee, blew on it to cool it down, but didn't drink it. "The bounty is tempting. Very tempting."
"Damn, those numbers make my heart race." Anvil clicked his tongue and lowered his voice, "After this job, the remaining payment for our crappy armored vehicle, ' Wrench's' medical bills, and the money back home won't be a problem anymore. Maybe we can even get some new gear and find a place to rest for a few months."
Locke didn't reply, just stared at the screen. "Target description: 'Technical expert,' 'Top-tier,' 'Suspected powerful background.' Requests: 'Confirm location' and 'Final action.' The client is anonymous, but willing to pay this price, indicating strong hatred, or the target is extremely valuable, or... both."
"Just a tech geek," Anvil scoffed. "No matter how skilled he is, can he be more powerful than a bullet? We've dealt with these 'high-value targets' before. Those 'big shots' sitting in air-conditioned offices are nothing in the middle of nowhere. Find him, figure him out, and then 'bang.'" He made a shooting gesture.
"The problem is how to find it." Locke put down his coffee and pointed at the screen. "'Advanced IT infrastructure, lax internet regulation, financial gray areas'... That's basically nothing. Switzerland? Singapore? Dubai? Certain parts of Eastern Europe? Or the damn US-Canada border? The scope is too broad. The clues the client gave us are practically nonexistent. Either he genuinely doesn't know, or he's deliberately being vague."
"Maybe the target really is good at hiding." Anvil stroked his chin. "But boss, isn't this kind of case exactly what we excel at? We'll find clues eventually. As long as he's alive, he'll need electricity, water, and to contact people, leaving a scent. We're not the police; we don't need that much evidence. Just a general location, and the rest... we can 'creatively' solve." He gave a cruel smile.
Locke knew what the Anvil meant. They excelled at brute force infiltration, pinpoint elimination, or armed escort in chaotic areas. This kind of operation, requiring long-term, cross-regional reconnaissance to lock onto a highly alert digital target, wasn't their core strength, but it wasn't impossible; it was just more time-consuming, labor-intensive, and more uncertain. The high bounty, however, could cover these costs and risks.
"And this 'suspected powerful background'," Locke pondered. "If it's just about having money to hire bodyguards, that's fine. But if... there's an official body or some kind of force we can't afford to offend behind it..." He recalled a terrible experience he had in the Middle East where he almost got caught up in a power struggle between two intelligence agencies.
"So what?" Anvil shrugged. "Isn't this all high-stakes business? We take the money, do the job, and disappear without a trace. Who knows who did it? The rule of the dark web is anonymity is everything. As long as we're clean, who can find us?"
At that moment, Locke's computer emitted a very faint beep. It was an encrypted message from the dark web platform, from the anonymous client who had commissioned it. The message was brief, forwarded through the platform, and contained no direct chat window.
The client inquired: Do you have any preliminary intentions or investigative plans? Can you provide further communication channels?
Xie Yunchuan couldn't wait any longer. He was testing the waters and urging him on.
Locke and the Anvil exchanged a glance.
"Looks like our ' Ghost Boss ' is getting a little anxious," Anvil grinned.
Locke stared at the string of numbers representing the astronomical bounty, then glanced at the other side of the camp, at the tent where a seriously wounded soldier lay, the atmosphere oppressive, and then thought of the glaring deficits on the financial ledger. He licked his dry, cracked lips, a struggle flashing in his eyes, but ultimately he was overwhelmed by reality and greed.
"Reply to him," Locke said to Anvil, his voice low and cold, carrying the ruthlessness of a decision. "Tell him that ' Blood Spear ' is interested. But more specific and valuable background information is needed to assess the risks and develop a reconnaissance plan. Have him provide a one-time secure contact method through the platform. Also, remind him that if the target's background is indeed as complex as he implies, the price may need to be reassessed."
"Understood!" Anvil's eyes lit up, and he immediately sat down at the spare computer next to him, beginning to type replies in a style consistent with dark web jargon, as Locke had instructed. They needed a more direct communication channel to extract more information, and also wanted to test the background and determination of this anonymous client.
At the moment the send button was pressed, neither Xie Yunchuan, who was anxiously urging them on, nor Locke, who thought he was carefully assessing the situation and beginning to formulate the hunter's plan, realized that the "technological prey" they saw waiting to be slaughtered had already turned its guns on them. Those eyes, as calm as a deep pool of data, were silently watching their clumsy yet eager "interaction" through countless layers of encrypted network.
The roles of hunter and prey are subtly reversed from the moment the commission is issued.
The blade of the "Blood Spear" was not yet drawn, but it was already pointed at the reflection of the moon in the mirror.
The real thunder is silently gathering in the clouds.