The Repairman and the Cleaning Cart

At 2:37 p. m., the revolving doors of the Pan-Pacific Ocean Center building briefly shut out the outside noise and damp, cold air. The lobby was spacious and bright, with gleaming marble floor tiles, and soft background music and the hurried footsteps of people echoed in the high-ceilinged space.

The air was filled with a mixture of warm air from the central air conditioning, a light fragrance, and the faint scents emitted by electronic devices.

A man wearing a dark blue overall and carrying a gray tool bag with the "Pulitzer Heating and Cooling Equipment" logo walked into the lobby with the flow of people. He was of medium height and had an unremarkable appearance, the kind of look you'd see anywhere among repairmen, deliverymen, or property management staff.

His work clothes were somewhat worn but clean, and his face bore the perfect balance of weariness and focus typical of manual laborers. He was an infiltration expert for the "Ghost" team, codenamed "Mole."

His gaze seemed to casually sweep across the lobby. A huge floor plan was on the right side of the entrance, and with just a glance, he clearly remembered the name—"Mofeng Capital) "—floor 23. His mission was not to infiltrate, but to confirm it up close and obtain a precise timestamp.

He maintained a steady pace, neither too fast to attract attention nor too slow to lose track. A dozen meters ahead was the target group. K and Lin Feng walked in the middle, with two "Blood Spear" mercenaries in front and behind them. Their steps were steady, their goal clear, and they headed straight for the private elevator area located deep in the hall.

The "Mole's " ears perked up slightly, capturing the subtle sounds around it, while its peripheral vision acted like the most sophisticated scanner, recording everything: the shift change frequency of the security guards behind the security desk, the way the receptionist answered the phone, the route the cleaners took pushing their vacuum cleaners, and the current status of several elevators.

He saw the group of people stop in front of the elevator marked "VIP/High-Level Exclusive". One of the "Blood Spear" mercenaries stepped forward and seemed to use some kind of access card or password. The elevator doors slid open silently, and the group filed in. K was the last to enter. He turned around, his gaze like a cold probe, and in the instant before the elevator doors closed, he swept across the lobby again.

The "Mole's" heart beat steadily in his chest, his face showing no sign of distress. Just then, as if drawn by something, he slightly turned his head to look at a tall potted plant beside him, perfectly avoiding any potential gaze. The elevator doors closed, and the indicator lights above began to flash: 18...20...22...23. Stopped.

Time: 2:39 PM. Target confirmed to have entered the 23rd floor.

The information has been obtained. But his mission is not over. A professional assassin needs verification, cross-confirmation, and a seemingly plausible "backstory" for the operation. He didn't leave immediately, as that would arouse suspicion. He needs to complete a closed loop of "entry-inquiry-departure."

He carried his tool bag and turned to the service counter on the left side of the lobby. Behind the counter sat two impeccably dressed receptionists, processing documents or answering phones.

"The Mole" stepped to the front of the stage, a slightly reserved and apologetic smile on his face, and began speaking in English with a slight regional accent:

"Excuse me, ma'am. This is Pulitzer Company. We received a repair call saying there's a problem with the air conditioning system in the ' Mofeng Capital ' building on the 23rd floor, and they want me to come and check it. Could you please confirm which specific office it is, or contact their administration? I'm worried I've come to the wrong place."

His reason was flawless. Air conditioning repair—the most common excuse for a visit. The company name he gave was that of a real local service provider (Ledger had done his homework beforehand), the target floor was accurate, and his tone was natural. He even deliberately placed his toolbox at his feet, making a slight metallic clanging sound to increase authenticity.

A receptionist glanced up at him, her gaze lingering on his work clothes and tool bag for half a second before she gave him a professional smile. "Please wait a moment, I'll check for you." She turned to the computer and began typing.

"The Mole" waited patiently, his body slightly relaxed, his gaze seemingly casually glancing at the elevator indicator light again. The number "23" was still lit. Good. But his ears were perked up, listening to the sound of the receptionist typing on the keyboard, and what she might be saying to the internal communicator.

"Yes, this is the front desk. There's a Pulitzer Company repairman who said he reported an air conditioner repair request from Mofeng Capital on the 23rd floor... Okay, I understand." The receptionist hung up the phone and smiled at him, "Sir, I've already checked with the upstairs staff, and they said there's no record of an air conditioner repair request today. Are you sure you haven't made a mistake with the floor or the company name?"

"Huh? Really?" "Mole" feigned a perfectly timed look of confusion and embarrassment, scratching his head. "The client's order does say ' Pan-Pacific Ocean Center, Mofeng Capital, 23rd floor'... Maybe there's a miscommunication, or maybe it's with another department? Sorry to bother you, I'll double-check with our company's dispatcher. Thanks!"

He thanked them repeatedly, picked up his tool bag, turned around, and walked back towards the revolving door he had come from, with a hint of annoyance on his face.

His pace quickened slightly compared to when he came in, befitting a repairman whose task had gone wrong and eager to leave to verify the situation. But his mind was racing:

The receptionist confirmed that "Mofeng Capital" was on the 23rd floor, which was good. No repair records? That didn't matter; his objective had been achieved. Now, he would leave the building, transmit the information "Target enters the 23rd floor at 2:39 PM, estimated stay time unknown" to "Painter" guarding the coffee shop via encryption, and then move to the next backup observation point.

He walked through the spacious lobby, less than ten meters from the enormous revolving glass door. Afternoon light filtered through the glass, casting blurry patches of light on the floor. Occasionally, someone would enter or leave the doorway, bringing in a wisp of cool air from outside.

Just as he was about to take the final few steps, ready to blend into the street scene outside the door—

A figure emerged from his left, seemingly having just retrieved something from the nearby parcel locker, and hurried out, creating a slight oblique angle between them.

"The Mole's" vigilance had already heightened the moment he stepped into the public area. He quickly glanced at the newcomer out of the corner of his eye: a young white male, dressed in a plain dark jacket and jeans, carrying a flat courier document bag, head down, seemingly looking at his phone, hurrying along. A typical office worker or visitor, with no threatening features.

Their shoulders almost brushed against each other.

In that fleeting moment, less than half a second, as they brushed past each other—

The Mole's muscles suddenly stiffened!

A sharp, icy, bone-chilling pain suddenly and violently exploded in his lower right abdomen without warning! The pain was so intense and so abrupt, it felt as if a red-hot iron rod had been stabbed in and cruelly twisted!

It wasn't an impact, it wasn't a sprain. It was a stab wound! The terrifying sensation of a sharp object penetrating clothing, skin, and muscle, reaching deep into internal organs!

His pupils contracted sharply, and his breath caught in his throat. He wanted to look down, to shout, to fight back immediately! But years of training and his survival instincts forced him to suppress all reflexes that could cause him to collapse at any moment, even as the excruciating pain surged through him. He couldn't fall here, he couldn't cause a commotion! He had to warn the "Painter" outside immediately! There was an ambush! A trap!

He groaned, his body staggering forward a small half-step due to the intense pain and impact. But he steadied himself with the strength of his legs, his left hand instinctively reaching for his abdomen where the pain was radiating, while his right hand flashed towards the gun handle hidden in the waistband of his work pants!

His eyes snapped upwards, trying to lock onto the passing figure, while his mouth opened, ready to send a coded alarm into the Mike hidden in his collar—

However, just as he stumbled, raised his gaze, and his fingers touched the cold gun handle, his movements were interrupted by another force.

It didn't come from the front, nor from the person who stabbed him.

It came from the side, not the side.

A large, double-decker stainless steel utility cart, the kind commonly seen in hospitals or office buildings, was steadily pushed to the side of him, neither too early nor too late, by two men dressed in light gray sanitation worker uniforms, wearing masks and plastic gloves. The upper level of the cart contained buckets, mops, and cleaning agents, while the lower level held several large, covered black plastic trash cans.

"Hey, watch out!" A cleaner pushing a cart muttered in slightly accented English, seemingly just complaining about almost being bumped into.

But out of the corner of his eye, "Mole" caught a glimpse of another cleaner—the one standing behind the cart—raising a dim metallic reflection in his hand! It wasn't a cleaning tool!

It was a heavy, well-maintained pipe wrench!

"Call!"

The wind whistled briefly.

"Bang!"

A dull, teeth-grinding thud exploded in the right temple of "Mole"!

The world instantly lost all sound and color, leaving only a buzzing darkness and a dizzying sense of weightlessness. All thoughts, alarms, excruciating pain, and the urge to retaliate were utterly shattered and scattered by this precise and heavy blunt strike. In his last, hazy consciousness, he only felt his heavy body lose all support and slump forward.

He did not fall to the ground.

Beneath his limp body, the lid of the largest black trash can on the lower level was silently lifted by a third sanitation worker who had approached unnoticed. Inside the can were thick black plastic garbage bags.

Like a discarded, broken tool, the "Mole" accurately and headfirst plunged into the open trash can, hitting the can walls and the garbage bag with a slight thud.

Everything happened in the blink of an eye. From being stabbed to being knocked down and falling into the trash can, the whole process took no more than three seconds.

People in the lobby were still hurrying along in the distance. Nearby, someone seemed to have caught a glimpse of a repairman who appeared to have tripped, but seeing the cleaner and the storage cart nearby, they assumed that the cleaner had accidentally bumped into someone, or that the repairman was feeling unwell and was being helped by the cleaner.

The "office worker" who stabbed the "Mole" had already walked out of the revolving door without looking back and disappeared around the corner, as if it had nothing to do with him.

The cleaners didn't stop working for a moment.

The sanitation worker who knocked down the "Mole" with the Wrench quickly tucked Wrench back into a special tool sheath on his waist. The sanitation worker who lifted the trash can lid had already reached into the can the instant the "Mole" fell in.

Holding a pre-prepared syringe with a thick needle, he didn't hesitate to plunge it into the vein on the side of the limp body's neck, forcefully injecting the entire amount of the transparent, colorless, potent nerve-numbing agent into the syringe.

Then, he deftly pulled out the syringe and threw it into another small yellow bin for medical waste next to him. The bin lid clicked shut softly, sealing it perfectly.

The first cleaner pushing the cart picked up the large cotton mop leaning against the cart, dipped it in the disinfectant-mixed water that had been prepared in the bucket beside it, and began to vigorously drag it back and forth across the marble floor where the "Mole" had stumbled and fallen, where a drop or two of blood might have dripped. The water quickly spread, covering up all traces.

The second cleaner righted the cart, then shrugged helplessly at the security guard who happened to be looking over from a distance with a slightly puzzled expression. He pointed to his head, then to the trash can, and mouthed, "He seems to have suddenly felt unwell and fainted. Let's take him to the back rest room to check on him." His movements were natural and smooth.

The security guard glanced at the ordinary cleaner and the garbage cart, then at the closed trash can (completely obscuring its contents), frowned, but said nothing. He simply waved his hand, signaling them to hurry up and clear the way.

Two cleaners, one in front of the other, pushed the cart carrying a killer who had just lost his life and various cleaning supplies, steadily and inconspicuously towards the heavy fire door marked "Logistics Exit/Employee Only" at the back of the lobby. The door was pushed open, the cart disappeared into the darker corridor behind it, and the fire door slowly closed automatically, separating the two worlds.

In the lobby, the soft music continued, and people continued their walks as usual. The gleaming marble floor, now dry, was so smooth it reflected light, as if nothing had ever happened.

Only a faint, almost imperceptible, rusty smell lingered in the air, quickly dissipated by the central air conditioning's recirculating air, silently recounting everything that had happened in those brief but deadly ten seconds.

In the distance, the hustle and bustle outside the coffee shop may not have subsided yet. But inside the building, a "Mole" that had sneaked in has been buried forever in the dark "garbage".