The Prey Caught Wind of It
Mercer Island, Seattle.
This island, located in the middle of Lake Washington, is one of Seattle's most expensive and affluent neighborhoods.
The streets are lined with tree-lined streets and rows of mansions in different styles, each worth over ten million.
The lake shimmered in the afternoon sun, and the snow-capped peaks of Mount Rainier were clearly visible in the clear sky. Everything looked so peaceful and beautiful, like a secluded paradise.
But at this moment, the atmosphere inside one of the sprawling modern mansions stands in stark contrast to the tranquility outside the window.
Mike Anderson stood before the enormous floor-to-ceiling window in his study, a glass of single malt whiskey long since cold in his hand, his gaze completely unfocused on the magnificent lake view outside. His brow was furrowed, his lips downturned, and he exuded an aura of restlessness.
He's been standing like that for almost half an hour.
An open laptop sat on the coffee table, its screen displaying the body of an encrypted email. The email was short, only a few lines long, but every word felt like a needle piercing his heart:
"The Big Snake is dead. The stronghold has been destroyed. The new owner is unknown. We recommend evacuating as soon as possible. --R"
R was an informant he had planted in San Francisco, responsible for keeping an eye on the South District Black Snakes. The Big Snake was a crucial link in his Ponzi scheme's money laundering network—through the Big Snake's gambling dens and drug distribution network, he could "launder" a portion of his illicit gains, transforming them into seemingly legitimate business income. At the same time, the Big Snake was also a potential pawn he used to keep Lin Feng in check—if Lin Feng posed a threat, he planned to use the Big Snake's connections to create some "trouble" for Lin Feng.
But now, the Big Snake is dead. The entire South District Black Snakes was uprooted overnight, and its territory was taken over by an unknown force.
Mike wasn't a fool. He might be greedy, he might be arrogant, but the reason he could run a Ponzi scheme in Seattle for so many years without it collapsing was because of his caution and suspicion. The death of the Big Snake was by no means an isolated incident for him. He was almost certain that it was related to Lin Feng —or rather, to that young Eastern man he still couldn't understand.
He recalled the recent events: the bloody "joke" on the golf course, where he was forced to beat the caddie himself; the two expensive bodyguards who were crippled on the spot; the Painter Isabella had recently lost contact; and the destruction of the South District Black Snakes... All of these things connected to form a clear clue: someone was systematically and methodically cutting off his wings and shrinking his living space.
And this person is very likely Lin Feng, whom he once thought he could manipulate at will and slaughter like a fat sheep.
Mike felt a chill run down his spine. He picked up the now-cold whiskey, downed it in one gulp, and the burning sensation of the strong liquor calmed him down a little.
He put down his wine glass, walked to his desk, picked up the encrypted satellite phone, hesitated for a few seconds, and then dialed the number of a private client manager at a Switzerland bank.
The phone rang twice before being answered. A male voice with Switzerland German accent spoke on the other end, his tone professional and polite. "Mr. Anderson, how may I help you?"
Mike lowered his voice and spoke quickly, "How's the progress on those fund transfers I asked you to handle before?"
"The first batch of funds has been transferred as you instructed. The second batch is being processed and is expected to take another two business days," the account manager replied.
"Speed it up," Mike said, his tone emphasizing urgency. "I need all the funds in the designated accounts transferred to the new account within forty-eight hours. Double the fees are fine; speed is what I need."
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, as if someone was assessing the feasibility, before the reply came, "I understand, Mr. Anderson. I will personally oversee this and try to shorten the processing time as much as possible."
"Very good." After saying that, Mike hung up the phone without waiting for a response.
He put down the satellite phone and paced back and forth in his study a few times. Then, he pressed the intercom button on the table to call his personal assistant.
"Allen, come in here for a moment."
A moment later, a well-dressed middle-aged man wearing gold-rimmed Glasses walked in. He was Mike's most trusted assistant, who had followed him for many years and knew most of his secrets.
"Sir, you wanted to see me?" Allen asked.
Mike didn't mince words and directly issued a series of instructions. "First, cancel all my public appearances for the next three months, including next month's Chamber of Commerce dinner and charity golf tournament. The reason given is that I'm unwell and need to rest as advised by my doctor. Second, contact my private doctor and have him arrange a 'routine checkup,' so I can have a complete medical record made at that private hospital. Third, prepare a regular Ford sedan for me, not registered under the company name, fill it up with gas, and park it in the underground garage at the back entrance."
Allen wrote everything down, but his expression gradually grew serious. Having followed Mike for so many years, he knew exactly what these arrangements meant. He didn't ask further, simply nodding. "Understood, sir. Anything else?"
Mike thought for a moment and added, "Also, inform the pilots to prepare the Gulfstream, fill it with fuel, and make sure it's ready to take off at any time. But don't submit a flight plan yet; wait for my instructions."
"Understood." Allen nodded again, then turned and left the study.
Silence returned to the study. Mike stood by the window, watching the sailboat slowly passing by on the lake, his gaze uncertain.
He knew that what he was doing was tantamount to admitting defeat, admitting that he had lost to that young man from the East in this game. His pride was resisting, but his will to survive was urging him on.
He took a deep breath, picked up the satellite phone, and dialed another number—this time a contact he had arranged in a small border town in Canada.
"It's me," he said. "Is that passport ready?"
"Ready?" came the reply from the other end. "You can come and pick it up anytime."
"Okay," Mike said, "I'll be there in two days."
He hung up the phone, turned off the satellite phone, and put it in his desk drawer.
Then he walked to the wall, pushed aside a decorative painting, revealing a small safe hidden behind it. He turned the combination lock, opened the safe, and inside were neatly stacked stacks of cash, several passports of different nationalities, and some jewelry and watches.
He checked the items inside to make sure everything was there, then locked the safe again and put the decorative painting back in its place.
After doing all this, he went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another glass of whiskey. This time, he didn't drink it all at once. Instead, he took the glass, walked to the window, and gazed at the beautiful lake and mountain scenery outside, slowly sipping his drink.
He lived here for over a decade, hosting countless lavish parties and entertaining numerous celebrities and dignitaries in this house. He once thought he would stay here forever, until he grew old, until he became a legend in Seattle's business history.
But now, he knows it's time for him to leave.
He didn't know if he could come back after leaving, or even if he could leave alive. But he knew that staying here meant certain death.
He finished the last sip of wine in his glass, put it down, and turned to leave the study.
Outside the window, the snow-capped peaks of Mount Rainier were bathed in a magnificent orange-red hue under the setting sun. On the lake, the sailboat had already sailed far away, leaving only a small white dot, gradually disappearing into the horizon.
Night is about to fall.