Night Raid Comes Up Empty

Night, like the thickest ink, permeated the entire Puget Sound region. Bellevue East, the famous "Hilltop" upscale neighborhood, became even more secluded and tranquil after midnight.

Along the winding driveway, mansions of varying styles are hidden behind meticulously manicured trees and towering walls, with only a few streetlights and garden decorative lights casting a soft glow on the sleek lawns and exquisite sculptures. The air is crisp and cool, carrying the unique scent of mountain vegetation and a faint salty tang from the distant bay.

A dark gray Honda Accord without any markings, like a silent Ghost, quietly glided onto a secluded side road on the outskirts of the community and came to a stop under the shade of a dense cedar hedge. The engine was turned off, and the last faint light inside the car disappeared.

In the driver's seat and the passenger seat sat two Asian men. They looked to be around thirty years old, with ordinary appearances, the kind that would blend into a crowd and go unnoticed. They wore well-fitting but unremarkable dark sports jackets and cargo pants. Their faces were expressionless, and their eyes were as calm as two ancient wells in the darkness.

Without exchanging a word, the man in the driver's seat pulled a flat, black nylon gun holster from under the seat and unzipped it. Inside were two well-maintained Glock 19 pistols, their frames and slides having a matte finish. Next to them were several spare magazines neatly arranged, as well as two short, stubby cylindrical objects—high-efficiency suppressors.

The two men each took out a pistol, skillfully checked the condition of the weapons, then picked up the silencers, steadily screwed them onto the muzzle threads, producing an extremely faint "click" locking sound that was almost drowned out by the night wind.

Next, they inserted the silenced pistol into a specially designed portable holster with a magnetic clasp on their waist. The holster was concealed, but the angle for drawing the gun was optimized so that it could be fired in 0.5 seconds.

Ready? The two exchanged a glance and nodded slightly. They opened the car door and, like two shadows blending into the night, silently got out of the car, gently closing the door behind them without making a sound.

Their target was a estate about two hundred meters ahead, covering more than three acres and surrounded by high wrought iron walls and dense woods.

That is one of the Walton Family's most important and most frequently mentioned residences in Bellevue. According to the Old Walton's past public schedules and inside information, he spent at least 40% of his time there.

The two did not use the driveway. They moved along the hedge and in the shadows, their steps as light as cats, making almost no sound.

They soon arrived at the side of the manor's wall. The wall was about three meters high, topped with barbed wire and concealed vibration sensors. But to professionals, it was not insurmountable.

The man in the passenger seat (A) took out a palm-sized electronic device with a suction cup and a miniature screen from a small bag at his waist and gently attached it to an inconspicuous seam in the wall.

The screen glowed dimly, quickly scanning for signals behind the wall. A few seconds later, he made a few simple hand gestures to his partner (B): infrared motion sensor, interval patrol, low frequency, blind spot at three o'clock, trees obstructing the view.

B nodded. The two of them tacitly walked around to the "three o'clock direction." There stood a tall North America redwood there, with lush foliage and some branches extending over the wall.

A crouched down, B took a few steps back, and with a light running start, B pushed off A's crossed and outstretched hands, using the momentum to leap upwards. B precisely grabbed the thick, protruding tree branch, used his waist and abdomen to power his body, and flipped up like a monkey, landing among the branches and leaves. The whole process took less than three seconds and was almost silent.

B observed from the tree for a moment, then used sign language again to confirm that it was safe below.

Following the same method, A, with B's assistance, also scaled the wall. Instead of jumping down, the two used the thick branches and the wall's shadow to move silently sideways for more than ten meters, like two giant geckos, avoiding a passive infrared detector hidden in the bushes below. Then they lightly leaped down, landing on the soft grass, quickly rolling to dissipate the force, and disappearing behind a large tree.

The interior of the manor appears more spacious than the exterior. The main house is a massive stone building in the Tudor style, with most of the lights off, except for ground lamps illuminating the porch and a few paths.

In the distance, the outlines of a separate garage, pool house, and servants' quarters can be seen. Two uniformed security guards are patrolling leisurely along a fixed pebble path with a German Shepherd on a leash, their flashlight beams casually sweeping across the lawn and bushes.

A and B did not move. They patiently waited for the patrol to pass by, and then, like two separate shadows, A went left and B went right, taking completely different but mutually supporting routes, using the sculptures, trees and garden ornaments in the courtyard as cover, and quickly and cautiously approached the main house.

Their movements possess a rhythm honed through countless trials; every pause and every movement is precisely timed to coincide with the moment when security guards shift their gaze or when surveillance cameras scan.

Occasionally, a night bird would be startled into flight or leaves would rustle, and their figures would freeze instantly, blending into the shadows until the danger was over.

They arrived near a back door on the side of the main house leading to the kitchen. The door was made of heavy solid wood and had an electronic lock. A took two thin, long metal probes with special structures at their tips from another small bag on his waist, carefully inserted them into the keyhole, his ear almost pressed against the door, and his fingers moving extremely slightly. Ten seconds later, a slight "click" sounded. He put away his tools and nodded to B.

What B drew from his waist was not a silenced pistol, but two tactical knives that were completely black, without any reflection, and with smooth blade lines.

The blade was treated with a special coating, making its outline almost invisible even in low light. He held it in a reverse grip, the blade against his forearm.

A gently pushed open the door a crack, listened carefully, and after confirming that there was nothing unusual, slipped inside. B followed closely behind and closed the door slightly behind him.

The room was completely dark, with only the faint glow of emergency exit signs and some electrical appliance indicator lights. The air was filled with a mixture of cleaning agents, antique furniture, and expensive fragrances.

The two moved through the spacious and complex interior like true Ghost. They had a clear division of labor: A was responsible for scouting ahead and choosing routes, while B was responsible for covering the rear and eliminating any potential threats. But their daggers were never actually drawn.

They walked through the quiet corridors, inspecting the study, living room, dining room, and sunroom on the first floor, the master bedroom, guest bedroom, dressing room, and small library on the second floor, and even the activity room and observation deck on the third floor.

Everywhere you look, the decor is luxurious and the furnishings are exquisite, but the place is empty. The beds are neatly made, showing no signs of use. The wardrobes are full of designer clothes, but they lack any sense of recent life. Only a few servants' rooms have faint snoring sounds coming from them.

In the master bedroom, A gently pulled open a drawer containing some of Old Walton's personal documents and an expensive pocket watch, but it was clear the owner hadn't returned recently. B checked the bathroom; the towels were dry, the toiletries were neatly arranged, and there were no water stains.

The two met at the end of the second-floor corridor, exchanged a glance, and a knowing look flashed in their eyes. They hadn't found their target, and there was barely any indication that the target had recently resided there.

They communicated quickly using sign language:

A: The primary target is not here. The secondary target (family members) is nowhere to be found.

B: The safe house may have been moved.

A: Evacuate. Remain hidden.

Without hesitation or delay, the two immediately retraced their steps, moving even faster than when they entered, yet still silently.

As B passed the kitchen, he casually put the door lock back on. He left the main house, blended into the shadows of the courtyard, avoided the security guards and dogs patrolling again, and reached the wall. Using the trees he had come from and with the help of others, he easily climbed over it.

I returned to the dark gray Accord, opened the door, and got in. The engine started silently, and the car slowly glided out of the shadows, driving away from this quiet and heavily guarded affluent neighborhood, as if it had never existed.

Almost simultaneously, in Snohomish County, at the foot of the Cascade Range, the Walton Family's ancestral estate, "Heather Manor," which had been run for over eighty years, was engulfed by a completely different kind of violence.

Here, there is none of Bellevue's refinement and seclusion, only ruggedness, vastness, and a sense of historical weight accumulated over generations. The estate covers hundreds of acres and includes pastures, woodlands, and a central group of family buildings.

The tall wrought iron gate looked majestic and heavy under the starlight. Behind the gate was a long, straight gravel driveway leading to the main house in the distance. There were guard booths on both sides of the gatehouse, and the figures of security guards on duty could be vaguely seen inside.

2:15 AM.

Three unmarked, dark desert camouflage-painted modified jeeps roared down the county road toward the manor gate like beasts leaping out of the night! The roar of their engines was particularly jarring in the silent valley!

The security guard in the booth was alerted. He picked up his walkie-talkie and peeked out to check.

The passenger window of the first jeep rolled down, and a figure wearing a black hood leaned out, an RPG-7 rocket launcher slung over his shoulder! Without aiming or hesitating, he pulled the trigger amidst the vehicle's jolting!

"Whoosh-- Boom!!!"

A streak of orange-red flame tore through the night sky as the rocket, trailing a blinding glint of death, slammed straight into the center of the heavy wrought-iron gate!

A deafening explosion! Flames shot into the sky! The gate, a symbol of the Walton Family's prestige and security, along with its pillars and sections of the stone walls on either side, twisted, shattered, and collapsed in the explosion! The scorching blast wave and debris overturned the guard post, and the security guard inside was engulfed by flames and steel fragments before he could even scream.

"Charge in!" came the cold command from the lead vehicle.

The three jeeps didn't slow down at all, running straight over the still-burning ruins and gate wreckage, crashing into the estate! Sand and gravel flew everywhere!

The chaos near the gate attracted patrolling security guards from further away. Several beams of flashlight swept frantically across the area, some people cried out, and others tried to draw their guns.

The jeep ignored them and drove straight down the driveway toward the main house. But as it passed the area near the gate where the explosion occurred, and saw figures wriggling or trying to get up on the ground, all three cars rolled down their windows simultaneously.

Several automatic rifles, fitted with silencers but still emitting muffled "thump-thump" sounds in the silence, extended their muzzles and calmly, one by one, finished off each still-moving body on the ground.

The bullets made a dull "thud" as they hit flesh, barely noticeable amidst the aftershocks of the explosion and the roar of the engine. Ensuring there were no survivors was crucial to triggering an effective alarm or counterattack.

After finishing off the enemy, the car windows rolled up. The convoy continued its high-speed run, kicking up clouds of dust, heading straight for the brightly lit, massive stone mansion deep within the estate, which had clearly been alerted.

The security forces within the manor were stunned by this sudden and extremely violent attack, but they were, after all, professional guards kept by the Walton Family, and they quickly organized sporadic resistance.

Gunfire erupted throughout the manor, but lacking unified command and heavy firepower, it was quickly overwhelmed by the well-trained, well-equipped attackers with the advantage of assault vehicles.

The gunmen in the jeep used precise bursts of fire and the vehicle's maneuverability to eliminate resistance points one by one along the roadside and at the windows of the main house.

Within minutes, the gunfire subsided. Three jeeps screeched to a halt, skidding to a stop in front of the grand entrance steps of the main house.

Nearly ten attackers, also wearing black hoods, full combat uniforms, and well-equipped, jumped out of the vehicle. They quickly dispersed, took control of the entrances and exits, and in pairs, kicked open the heavy doors and stormed into the building.

"Search! Every room! Every corner! Find Old Walton! Alive or dead!" the leader growled.

The attackers, like hungry wolves pouncing on a flock of sheep, scattered swiftly and methodically, kicking open doors and pointing guns at every dark corner. Chaos reigned inside the main house; awakened servants screamed, but were quickly subdued or herded together. Any resisting bodyguards were swiftly shot dead.

The search lasted for twenty minutes. From the lobby, banquet hall, and study on the first floor, to the bedrooms, guest rooms, and living room on the second floor, and then to the basement, wine cellar, and even the attic... every possible hiding place was turned upside down.

The leader stood in the center of the spacious, luxurious hall, which was filled with the smell of gunpowder and an atmosphere of fear. He listened to the reports coming from his subordinates from all directions, and his face behind his mask grew increasingly grim.

First floor, no destination.

"Second floor, no target."

"Basement, no target."

"The servants' quarters are devoid of purpose, filled only with servants."

"Garage, fully stocked with vehicles, but no specific, frequently used car."

Old Walton was not at the manor. Neither his wife nor his other children were there. Only some bodyguards, butlers, and ordinary servants remained.

"Withdraw!" The leader gave the order without hesitation, his voice filled with suppressed anger and a hint of barely perceptible surprise. The enemy had moved ahead of time, and moved very thoroughly.

The attackers quickly retreated from the main house, jumped into their jeeps, roared to life, turned around, and sped back along the path they had come from, crushing the debris in their wake. They burst through the broken gates and disappeared into the thick of night, leaving behind only flames, smoke, corpses, and the deathly silence of the manor.

Downtown Seattle, at the top-tier private hospital that treated Brandon Walton, on the VIP floor.

It was three in the morning. The corridor was softly lit and quiet. Two Asian men, dressed in hospital maintenance uniforms but with sharp eyes, pushed a tool cart and stopped naturally in front of the top-tier suite where Brandon Walton had been.

One person looked around, while the other quickly took out a master card (or lock-picking tool) and swiped it lightly on the access control.

With a soft "beep," the green light came on. The door opened.

The two slipped inside and closed the door behind them.

The room was spacious and luxurious, equipped with complete medical facilities, but it was deathly silent. The hospital bed was empty, the bedding neatly arranged, showing no signs of use. The monitor screens were black.

In the private bathroom, the towels were dry, and the toiletries were unopened disposable items. The wardrobe contained only a few hospital gowns.

The entire suite was so clean it looked like no one had ever stayed there.

The two exchanged a glance, silently left the room, gently closed the door, and pushed their tool cart, as if they had just completed a routine night patrol, calmly heading towards the elevator.

The target was not found. Brandon Walton had already been moved.

Early morning, in the study of the safe house.

The sky outside the window was just beginning to lighten, and the air after the rain carried a damp freshness. Lin Feng sat behind his desk, a steaming cup of black coffee in front of him. K stood at his sides in front of the desk, having just finished a detailed report on the entire process and results of the three operations last night.

Lin Feng picked up his coffee, blew on it gently, and took a small sip. The bitter liquid slid down his throat, bringing a refreshing and invigorating sensation.

He put down his cup, leaned back in his chair, and a cryptic expression crossed his face—a mixture of mockery, understanding, and a knowing indifference.

He chuckled softly and shook his head, as if he had heard news that was neither surprising nor even somewhat laughable.

"As expected of the Old Qian family," Lin Feng's voice rang out in the quiet morning study, carrying a unique, slightly mocking tone, "They really are thieves!"

He commented, his tone revealing little disappointment or anger, but rather a statement of an objective fact—the vigilance and survival strategies of core members of a family like the Walton, rooted in the local community for decades or even centuries and having weathered many storms, are far more complex than they appear on the surface. Having multiple burrows is their survival instinct.

K remained silent, simply waiting. Although last night's operation hadn't achieved its primary objective, it was part of a test and pressure campaign, and the outcome was within the plan.

Lin Feng glanced at K, his tone returning to its usual calm. "But it's alright. I was just planning to give it a try anyway, to see if I could 'kill two birds with one stone' and cause them some trouble while I'm at it."

He paused, his fingers lightly tapping on the smooth tabletop, his gaze becoming deep and resolute:

"Since we haven't caught them yet, let's continue according to plan. We'll take our time, no rush."

K nodded and replied in a deep voice, "Yes, boss."

He understood his boss's meaning. Direct physical elimination was the most efficient but also the most likely to cause uncontrollable consequences. Last night's attempt was a test of extreme pressure. Since the other side was prepared and this line of action was temporarily blocked, then the focus should be completely shifted to another front that was already prepared, more covert but also more deadly.

It was a slow but inescapable noose woven from capital, rules, information, and human weaknesses.

Lin Feng waved his hand, indicating that K could leave. He picked up his coffee again, his gaze fixed on the gradually brightening sky outside the window, the faint smile on his lips appearing even more profound and unfathomable.

The smoke of the night raid has dissipated, but the real hunt has only just begun on another invisible battlefield.