"Hey guys, I know a great Italian restaurant nearby—we should totally go there..."
As soon as Ferede heard they were having Italian, he chimed in from the side, "It's seriously amazing, trust me. I can still remember the flavor of their baked escargot—absolutely incredible..."
"Baked escargot? Isn't that French?"
"Uh… I think Italians eat snails too? Anyway, it's delicious, trust me..."
Everyone shot Ferede a skeptical side-eye that basically screamed, "Yeah right." Still, they ended up going to the somewhat questionable Italian joint. After all, what they were eating didn't matter as much as the fact that they were eating together.
On the way there, Owen held Monica's hand like a young couple in the throes of love, prompting the guys behind them to start teasing loudly. Owen didn't care in the slightest—he was more than happy to rub it in. Just a bunch of single guys, and this wasn't the first time he'd made them suffer a little with some PDA.
Ferede flitted around Becky like a butterfly, constantly trying to make conversation, but the sweet-faced brainiac wasn't giving him much attention.
"Hey man, that tattoo is awesome. I've already decided—once Becky and I have kids, I'm totally getting something like that too..."
Since Becky wasn't biting, Ferede pivoted over to Kasibayev and started jabbering to him instead. Kasibayev gave him a dramatic thumbs-up.
"Dude, I admire your bravery—charging down the path of self-destruction with so much confidence."
Ferede shrugged like it was no big deal, but when he turned around, Becky was glaring daggers at him.
"Oh really? Good. Then next time you're out on assignment, I'll feed you false intel and send you straight to heaven. Don't worry—there'll be a flag on your casket, and your family will be very proud of you..."
"Uh…"
Ferede was instantly deflated, sending everyone into peals of laughter. Becky was precious to the team—Omega's crown jewel. Out in the field, she was God, and a single word from her could decide who lived or died.
They didn't drive. Since Ferede said the place was close, they all walked. Monica's doctor had said that while pregnant women shouldn't overexert themselves, light activity like walking was beneficial. The sun was shining, and the streets of D.C. buzzed with the quiet rhythm of passing cars and weekend foot traffic.
As they passed a few small boutique shops, Owen noticed Monica's eyes sparkle. He didn't need to be told—he knew exactly what that look meant.
Monica and Becky darted into one of the shops with giddy excitement, and Owen dutifully followed. Every man knows: when it comes time to pay, you better be nearby.
"I want to buy a few little gifts for my kids—they'll love the surprise..."
Kasibayev spotted some cute accessories and walked in, his face lighting up. With two daughters and a son, he knew these trinkets would be a hit. You could tell he was a good dad—always thinking of his kids, even on a casual outing.
Ferede followed them in, still trying to earn some points with Becky.
The rest of the guys stayed outside—no wives, no kids, no real reason to go in. Besides, what were they going to say? That they liked miniature crystal unicorns? Yeah, right. They'd never live it down.
While everyone inside was browsing, Owen waited near the entrance, bored. Ferede, naturally, had wandered over to the shop owner—a middle-aged Mexican woman—and started chatting her up.
"Hey beautiful, got a lighter?"
"Nope, don't sell those here."
"Then what did you use to ignite my heart?"
"Wow"
The Mexican woman burst into laughter. This guy was a real character. Of course, she wasn't taking any of it seriously—she was old enough to be his mom.
"Your stuff's really cute. Is it from China?"
"How'd you know? One of my Chinese friends sent it. He's in Yiwu—you know that place?"
"Of course. Yiwu Small Commodity Wholesale Market, right?" Ferede replied, his Chinese a bit clumsy but recognizable.
"That's right—that's what it's called!"
Owen, standing nearby, could only shake his head at the two amateurs. Even with the name butchered, they were still having a grand time.
"You know, Yiwu's basically taken over the U.S. market. Their stuff's cheap and good quality."
"Yeah, it's crazy. Same product, a fraction of the price. I have no idea how they make money. I used to sell Mexican goods. A lot of my friends did too. But now, everybody's buying Chinese."
"Haha, look at my belt—it's made in China. Beautiful, and only a few bucks..."
Ferede proudly lifted his shirt to show off the belt.
"You know why Chinese goods dominate? There's a saying: If your quality's good, I'm cheaper. If your finish is flawless, I'm cheaper. If your brand's top-tier, I'm still cheaper. If your stuff is eco-friendly, guess what—I'm cheaper. No matter what you bring to the table, I'm always cheaper."
"HAHAHAHA\~\~"
Owen cracked up too. He didn't expect Ferede to actually understand the essence of Chinese business philosophy. Should he be worried? Maybe this guy knew too much and needed to be silenced...
After picking out their items, the group headed to the register—and Ferede revealed another talent.
The guy was a master negotiator. With some fast talking and a stream of irrelevant chatter, he somehow managed to get everything for less than half the original price.
"Kid, you're a riot. But... don't come back next time."
"Why not? I thought we had a nice chat!"
"That wasn't shopping. That was robbery."
As they left, the Mexican shop owner watched them go with a half-pouting look of mock betrayal. Everyone who'd bought something was thrilled. The prices were ridiculously good—even Becky, who'd previously been annoyed, seemed to be looking at Ferede a little differently.
"Hey guys, I just remembered—there's a shortcut nearby. If we cut through a little alley, we'll shave off some time..."
Ferede was quiet for only a minute before he started up again.
Given his recent win, no one had the heart to object. They humored him and followed his new route.
Owen honestly couldn't reconcile this guy with the idea of a sniper. The two personas didn't match at all.
The shortcut took them through an older part of the neighborhood. Two- to three-story buildings lined the street—no lawns or gardens, just plain concrete and narrow sidewalks. It was the kind of place typical of America's working class. And like most such areas, it didn't have the best reputation for safety.
Not that anyone in their group was worried.
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