The Newspaper at the Café and the Argument Between Two Black Men

The rain in Seattle took a rare break in the afternoon. A few gaps appeared in the leaden clouds, allowing a few pale, weak rays of sunlight to peek through, barely dispelling some of the damp, cold air from the streets and alleys. The air remained crisp, mixed with the aroma of coffee, car exhaust, and the faint earthy smell rising from the rain-soaked roads.

Diagonally opposite the Pan-Pacific Ocean Center building is a simply decorated, well-run chain coffee shop. Several small white round tables and wrought iron chairs are set up in the outdoor area along the street. Although the weather is gloomy and cold, a few customers who are not afraid of the cold are either alone in front of their laptops or chatting quietly in twos and threes, enjoying this moment of rain-free respite.

At one of the tables on the outer edge, where the view was best, sat a man wearing a dark gray fleece jacket and khaki cargo pants, with a copy of the Seattle Times spread out on his lap. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with an average appearance, brown hair, and ordinary black-rimmed Glasses. Beside him was a cup of almost untouched Americano.

He looked no different from the other office workers around him who came out for some fresh air during their lunch break. His gaze seemed to be focused on the financial section of the newspaper. He would occasionally pick up his cup and take a sip, his eyes indifferently sweeping over the street scene.

He is the "Painter" of the "Ghost" team, his real name long abandoned. At this moment, he is the eyes of the assassin team, the hunter's most sensitive tentacles. His task is not to take action, but to observe, record with precision down to the second, turning the target's habits into analyzable data, and ultimately into fatal flaws.

The newspaper provided excellent cover. The thick paper could obscure most facial expressions and the angle of his gaze. He appeared to be reading a dry analysis of the stock price fluctuations of a local tech company, but in reality, through the deliberately left gaps along the top edge of the paper and the barely perceptible reflections from the edges of his Glasses, he was intently focused on the vehicle entrance ramp of the glass-walled building dozens of meters away.

The time is 2:17 PM. Based on the pattern of the past few days, the target usually leaves the building between 2:30 PM and 3:00 PM.

What he needed to record was the precise time point, the order in which the convoy appeared, the target's gait as they approached the vehicles, the positions of the accompanying personnel, and—most importantly—the short, open-air distance of a dozen meters from the building's revolving door to the door of the Escalade in the middle, the time window in which the target was exposed.

He waited patiently, his breathing steady, his heartbeat even slower than usual.

His years of professional experience taught him to transform tension into even greater focus. He noticed the shift changes of the security guards at the entrance, the frequency with which the cleaners pushed their garbage carts by, and even the regularity of the opening and closing of the small door to the fire escape on the side of the building. Every detail could come in handy in the future.

At 2:21 PM, a teammate's Whisper came through the headset, switching in from the traffic monitoring channel. "There's movement on the sensor at the garage exit; the target vehicle is suspected to be warming up."

The "Painter" subtly adjusted his posture to make the newspaper's obscuring angle perfect. His peripheral vision was fixed on the entrance ramp.

At 2:24 PM, three black Escalade, like well-trained black beasts, slowly drove out of the underground garage ramp, one after the other, and parked in the temporary parking area under the eaves. The windows were tinted dark, but the car models and their order of arrangement made them clear.

The doors of the front and rear vehicles opened almost simultaneously, and two men in dark suits, with lean builds and sharp eyes ("Blood Spear" mercenaries) stepped out of each vehicle.

They quickly took up key positions around the vehicle, their eyes scanning the surroundings like radar. Their hands seemed to hang casually at their sides, but "The Painter" could tell it was the most convenient posture for drawing their guns quickly. Well-trained and flawless.

The rear door of the middle vehicle was pushed open from the inside. The first to get out was the ever-present, aloof Asian assistant, "K". He didn't move immediately after getting out of the car, but instead turned slightly to the side, his gaze sweeping over the surroundings before he opened the door.

The target— Lin Feng —came down. Today, he was wearing a well-tailored dark gray cashmere coat over a simple black turtleneck sweater, and his face still held that calm, almost indifferent expression.

He walked steadily toward the building's revolving door with almost no pause, flanked by K and another "Blood Spear" mercenary who got out of the passenger seat on either side. Throughout the process, he hardly looked up or glanced around, as if he had absolute control over his surroundings, or rather, absolute trust in his bodyguards.

Exposure time: approximately twelve seconds from getting out of the vehicle to entering the revolving door. The path is fixed, taking the most direct route directly under the eaves. The guards are positioned in a tight triangular formation, protecting the target in the center, with almost no angles for long-range shooting from the sides.

The "Painter" imprinted all these details into his mind like the most sophisticated camera. He needed at least three to five such observations to confirm whether this was a fixed pattern or whether there were any accidental deviations. Today's task was to collect data from this first afternoon's departure.

The group disappeared behind the revolving doors. The "Painter" remained in his newspaper-reading posture, silently calculating the time. As usual, they wouldn't stay in the building for long; they might be retrieving documents or having a brief meeting. He needed to wait for them to come out again and record their return journey to the vehicle.

Time ticked by. A couple of groups of customers came and went in the outdoor area of the coffee shop. The Americano had gone completely cold.

Just then, a sudden, loud argument broke the relatively quiet atmosphere of the street corner in the afternoon.

The sound came from another table diagonally behind the "Painter." Two young Black men, dressed in hip-hop style oversized jackets and wearing exaggerated metal chains, suddenly stood up, seemingly agitated, for some unknown reason.

One of the bald, burly Black men slammed his hand on the table with a loud thud, causing the coffee cup on the table to jump and spill brown liquid.

"Motherfucker! What did you say?! Say it again if you dare!" The bald black man pointed at his relatively thin accomplice wearing a beanie, spitting almost onto the other's face.

"I'm telling you, you're a fucking idiot! You can't even handle such a small thing! Where's the money? Where's my money?!" The man in the wool hat retorted without backing down, flipping over a chair, the metal legs scraping loudly against the stone floor.

The argument quickly escalated, from mutual accusations to a barrage of highly insulting slang. Their voices grew louder, their physical actions more exaggerated, and they began pushing and shoving each other, almost coming to blows. The surrounding customers were drawn to the sudden conflict, some frowning in displeasure, others with curious expressions of anticipation.

The "Painter" furrowed his brow almost imperceptibly behind the newspaper, muttering to himself, "Shit."

For a surveillance mission like his that requires absolute secrecy and focus, such a sudden disturbance that attracts public attention is one of the worst-case scenarios.

It subtly raises the "alert level" of the entire area, unconsciously drawing everyone's attention (including potential, yet unnoticed, counter-surveillance forces). Moreover, if the conflict escalates further, attracting the police or security guards, he might even be forced to leave this excellent observation point.

He weighed the options in an instant. Getting up and leaving now would certainly avoid being caught in the crossfire or attracting unnecessary attention, but it would also mean ending the surveillance mission early and missing out on crucial data on the target vehicle's return. This would prolong the entire reconnaissance period and increase uncertainty.

He chose to stay. A professional surveillance officer also needs the ability to remain concealed and focused in noisy and unexpected environments.

He raised the newspaper slightly, hiding himself more completely behind the paper, and only glanced briefly, almost casually, at the direction of the argument with the very edge of his eye to confirm that it was just a street thug-like quarrel, and there was no sign that it would spread or directly threaten him for the time being.

Then, he immediately drew all his attention back to the building's exit, trying to block out the increasingly loud shouts and the sounds of tables and chairs clattering behind him.

Like the other guests who hadn't left yet, he turned slightly towards the direction of the argument, tilting his head, adopting a bystander's posture that showed a mixture of curiosity and a desire to avoid trouble.

This posture was natural, explaining why he was turned to the side and allowing his face to be turned in a reasonable direction, preventing him from staring intently in one direction for too long and arousing suspicion. However, his eyes moved with minimal movement behind his glasses, his focus remaining fixed on the exit of that building.

The argument continued, and even seemed to be escalating. The man in the beanie grabbed the wrought iron chair he had been sitting on, as if to smash it, but the bald man stopped him. The two wrestled, making the empty table next to them clang loudly. A waiter in the coffee shop tried to intervene, but was roughly pushed away by one of them.

Amidst the chaotic noise and focused attention, the "Painter" sensed someone approaching his table.

Not from the direction of the argument, but from his side and slightly behind, at the doorway leading from the café interior to the terrace. The footsteps were light, with the kind of carefulness typical of service industry workers who don't want to disturb their customers.

The "Painter" glanced at the scene with extreme caution, using the corner of his eye.

He was an Asian male waiter. He was very young, in his early twenties, with delicate features. He was wearing the coffee shop's uniform black apron and white shirt, carrying a silver tray for clearing tables, and had a clean white napkin draped over his arm.

He was also looking in the direction of the argument, a businesslike, slightly helpless smile on his face, as if he were used to such customer disputes but had no choice but to deal with them.

"A harmless, ordinary waiter," the "Painter" judged instantly. The waiter's gaze was fixed on the argument, not on him. He was probably just passing by, or perhaps he saw customers and came over to routinely ask if they needed their glasses cleared.

He relaxed his momentarily tense nerves and refocused his attention. The argument had attracted the waiter's attention, which was reasonable, even advantageous, since the waiter wouldn't notice him.

The waiter did stop at his table, but instead of clearing away the cups immediately, he leaned forward slightly, just like the other curious customers, to look at the center of the argument, as if trying to see how far things were going and whether he needed to call the manager or the police.

The "Painter" could even smell the faint, distinctive coffee bean and cleaning agent scent emanating from the waiter. He ignored it, maintaining his "spectator" posture, his peripheral vision like the most precise calipers, measuring every inch of the building's exit, waiting for his target to reappear.

However, just as the waiter's figure stopped less than half a meter behind him, perfectly blocking the view that might fall on him from inside the café, and precisely in that subtle moment when other customers were blinded by their attention to the argument—

The "Painter's " entire body hair stood on end in a fraction of a second!

A near-beast-like intuition, honed through countless brushes with death, sent him a sharp, piercing alarm!

It's not a sound, not a smell, but a disruption of the subtle perception of "existence," an instinctive reaction to the intrusion of "safe distance"!

He wanted to move. He wanted to turn his head, flip the table, draw his gun, and use any means necessary to create distance and see the threat clearly!

But it was too late.

Just as his muscles received the nerve signals and were about to unleash their power, he felt an extremely slight, cool, and swift sensation on the side of his neck, near the junction of his jaw and earlobe—a sensation so subtle it was almost unreal.

The feeling was like being gently touched by a very thin, very cold piece of ice.

There was no sharp pain, only a momentary, spreading coolness.

But the "Painter's" blood froze completely at that moment. He knew all too well what that feeling meant. He had seen it too many times and created it too many times in his career.

Throat slitting.

Professional, precise, and swift carotid artery severance.

He could even "hear" the barely audible, almost imagined "hissing" sound of the blade slicing through the skin, cutting through the fascia, and touching the blood vessel walls.

"Uh..." A short, choked gasp escaped uncontrollably from his slightly parted lips. He wanted to raise his hand to cover his neck, to shout, to warn his companions...

Two hands reached out "just in time" from the side, one on the left and one on the right, firmly and powerfully supporting his arms. They were the two "customers" who had been sitting at the next table, seemingly drawn by the argument, and had just stood up. Their movements were natural, as if they had only been caught up in the argument and had accidentally bumped into him while getting up, or as if they were kindly trying to help him since he "looked a little unwell."

But the "Painter" could feel the force coming from those two hands, like iron clamps, instantly locking all possible leverage in his arms. He was "helped" up from the chair in a manner that seemed like support but was actually completely controlled.

His vision began to blur rapidly, darkness engulfing him from the edges of his field of vision like a tidal wave. The excruciating pain and suffocation surged in like a tidal wave, but it was too late to turn into effective resistance. He could feel warm liquid gushing from the side of his neck, quickly soaking the lining of his jacket.

In his last glance before his consciousness sank completely into darkness, his downcast, unfocused gaze barely caught the Asian waiter's gesture of withdrawing his hand.

The waiter's businesslike smile had vanished, replaced by a cold, absolute indifference. He Chief General rapidly retracting a small, delicate knife with an extremely thin blade, gleaming with a dark blue light, and a smear of glaring red on its tip, hiding it beneath a white napkin draped over his arm.

Then, with the other corner of the napkin, he calmly and carefully wiped his fingers, which had just held the knife, with fluid movements, as if he had only wiped away a little water.

The two "customers" supporting him were half-dragging, half-carrying him, walking without stopping towards an inconspicuous alleyway on the side of the coffee shop, piled with junk boxes. A dark gray van without any markings silently slid open its back door, and it seemed that someone was waiting inside.

The argument continued, attracting even more onlookers. No one noticed that in the corner, an "uncomfortable" customer was being helped away by his "friend," and no one saw the Asian waiter, after wiping his hands, expressionlessly stuff a corner of the blood-stained napkin into his apron pocket, pick up the almost untouched coffee cup and the spread-out newspaper, and, as if tidying up a table after a regular customer had left, turn and walk back into the coffee shop.

Everything happened in less than ten seconds.

Quiet, efficient, and perfectly utilizing and blending into the noise and chaos of the environment.

"The Painter"—the sharpest eye of the "Ghost" team—closed his eyes forever, just a few dozen meters from the target building, amidst the sparse afternoon sunlight and the constant arguing.

The last piece of data he collected was a silent countdown to his own death.