The atmosphere in the conference room underwent a subtle shift as Felix pushed out those documents.
Politicians' fear of death is always fleeting, but their desire for power and profit is eternal.
Hearing Felix speak with such conviction, everyone felt a sense of anticipation.
Speaker Blaine was the first to pick up the document on top. His gaze swept over the title on the cover, and a flash of surprise crossed his eyes.
"General Electric Company Washington D.C. Municipal Network Renovation Plan?"
Blaine looked up, eyeing Felix with some confusion.
"What does this mean? I recall that Washington was already building a thermal power plant, wasn't it?"
"But that only covered the White House and a few other areas, Speaker Blaine."
Felix stood up and walked to the blackboard next to the conference table, gesturing directly with his hand.
"Over the past few months, my General Electric Company has made significant progress in our technical laboratories. I know there are some crude telegraph lines on the market now, but that is far from enough."
Turning around, Felix looked at these men who held the nation's lifeline in their hands.
"Therefore, I intend to increase investment in building power stations in Washington D.C. and laying an entirely new cable network. Not just for sending those tick-tock telegraph codes, but for two things that will fundamentally change the way humanity lives: the telephone and the electric light."
"The telephone? Are you referring to that thing in the office?"
Conkling frowned; that contraption didn't seem to offer much privacy.
"Yes, that's exactly it. Although it currently requires a relay station for connections, General Electric is confident that we will achieve direct telephone lines in the future. In other words, in the future, even while sitting in a Congressional office, one will be able to pick up the receiver and speak directly to the governor in New York," Felix explained patiently.
"And as for electric lights, everyone knows they use electricity for illumination. There's no need for gas or to worry about fire hazards. Just flip a switch, and the entire room will be as bright as day."
"Currently, these two things are only applied on a small scale in Washington D.C., and I believe that for the nation's capital, this is far from sufficient."
"So, you mean you want to increase investment in this within Washington D.C., is that right?" Secretary of state Fish keenly grasped the main point.
"Yes," Felix nodded.
"You should know that most of New York City is already electrified, and nearly half of New York State is as well. The next primary goal for General Electric is the nation's capital, Washington D.C. We will fully fund the project, and within the next six months, we will lay main electrical circuits into every street, factory, and private residence in Washington D.C. This is not just a commercial investment; it is an excellent political achievement for the Republican Party during its term, showcasing the nation's modernization process to all of America and even the world."
Felix looked at Sumner and Wilson.
"Just imagine it. When the midterm elections arrive, everyone will be standing on a plaza illuminated as brightly as day by electric lights, telling voters that it was the Republican Party that led the United States into the electrical age. What will the Democratic Party have to compete with that?"
This immense temptation was impossible for everyone present to refuse. It was not just a vanity project; it represented significant political capital and an opportunity to be remembered in history.
"Of course, besides that."
Felix did not give them a chance to catch their breath and continued to throw out chips.
"Regarding the tragedy of President Grant, I feel deeply regretful. To express the Argyle Family's respect for the President's contributions to the nation, if President Grant truly... fails to recover, I will establish a special trust fund of two hundred thousand dollars for the President's family at the Imperial Bank in New York."
Conkling's expression finally softened.
Two hundred thousand dollars was a huge sum, enough to allow the family of President Grant to maintain an extremely decent standard of living for decades to come.
This could also be considered Felix's appeasement toward the faction of President Grant.
Although, it seemed Felix was also a victim.
But who could help it when it was President Grant who was actually lying in the hospital bed?
Felix walked back to his seat.
"Finally, all the newspapers, publishing houses, and news agencies under my name will continue to cooperate with the candidates within the Republican Party for comprehensive promotional campaigns in all upcoming elections. The Democratic Party won't even have the chance to place advertisements on the front page."
Substance, prestige, political achievements, money, and public opinion.
Felix satisfied the most urgent needs of the Republican Party.
Thomas Clark looked at his son-in-law, feeling a sense of admiration.
It seemed the timing was perfect.
"Ahem~ Gentlemen."
Thomas tapped the table, the expression on his face becoming very relaxed.
"I believe Mr. Argyle has already proven with concrete actions that he remains the most steadfast ally of the Republican Party. At this moment, when the nation faces a crisis, what we need is unity, not baseless mutual accusations."
"Indeed."
Speaker Blaine also smiled.
"This plan by General Electric is very grand; Congress will pass the relevant municipal construction permits as soon as possible. Felix, you are indeed a man who can bring about miracles."
Everyone returned to that harmonious state of being a community of shared interests.
Everyone saw clearly what Felix wanted to express.
The Argyle Family was their super partner, definitely not a subordinate that could be pushed around at will.
However, just as the atmosphere had completely eased and everyone was preparing to have a glass of whiskey to celebrate reaching a consensus.
Felix suddenly put away his smile and said seriously.
"Gentlemen, it seems the compensation and cooperation have been agreed upon. But as I said before, commercial competition is always done in the open. However, if someone shoots at me from the shadows, I must make him pay the price."
Felix looked at Secretary of state Fish.
"Since the Secret Service will soon be able to obtain David Burke's confession regarding Old Morgan planning the assassination of President Grant, then this is no longer a private feud between me and the Morgan Family."
"Mr. Fish. I suggest that Congress authorize vice president Thomas to, in the name of acting President, immediately invoke the Webster-Ashburton Treaty signed between us and the British in 1842. You should know that Old Morgan is a citizen of the United States."
Upon hearing the name of this treaty, Fish's expression changed abruptly.
"You mean..."
"That's right."
A cold sneer curled at the corner of Felix's mouth.
Old Morgan wanted to turtle up and hide in London; Felix would not Grant him his wish.
The Echo in Europe had already reported that Old Morgan's residence could be said to be in the heart of the British Empire.
Although the people he sent had attempted to storm Old Morgan's residence, that old fellow seemed to be under protection.
Without using a large amount of explosives, there was really no way to deal with that old fellow.
So Felix thought of using other methods, preferably one that would distance himself from the act.
"According to Article X of the treaty, I suggest that the government of the United States formally submit a diplomatic note to 10 Downing Street in London, England. Extradite Junius Morgan on the charge of suspecting him of the murder of the President of the United States of America!"
The conference room was somewhat stunned.
Everyone was too shocked by Felix's proposal to speak.
Extradite a British banking tycoon?
When did we in America ever have the strength to go to the British Empire to handle such a thing?
"This is impossible!" Fish immediately retorted.
"The British government will not agree to extradite a banking tycoon of the British Empire like Old Morgan. This will trigger a serious diplomatic crisis!"
Felix stared at Fish without backing down.
If I'm not afraid, why are you?
Oh~
It wasn't him going to negotiate, so that was fine.
"Whether they agree is a matter for the British government, but the United States must propose the extradition."
"Only in this way can Old Morgan be completely nailed to the pillar of shame for assassinating the President in terms of international jurisprudence. We must also let all of Europe know that whoever dares to assassinate the President on the soil of America, the warships of the United States will dare to go and demand them!"
Pressing his hands heavily on the conference table, Felix's gaze was like a torch.
"Most importantly, I do not believe that the British government would damage relations with America for the sake of Old Morgan, a suspected mastermind behind the assassination of the President."
Secretary of state Hamilton Fish felt nothing but absurdity after hearing Felix's words. He hurriedly pushed back his chair and stood up, his knee striking the heavy walnut table leg with a loud thud due to the sudden movement.
But he did not even care about the pain, staring straight at Felix.
"Absolutely impossible! Felix."
Fish's voice became somewhat shrill with agitation, completely losing the composure of a seasoned diplomat.
"Just because you don't believe it, we should demand extradition from the British Empire? Do you have any idea what you are saying?"
Felix remained leaning back in his chair, toying with his empty coffee cup.
"I am very clear about what I am saying, Mr. Secretary of state. According to Article 10 of the Webster-Ashburton Treaty of 1842, murder is explicitly included in the scope of extradition. Now that the President of the United States has been assassinated and the mastermind is hiding in London, it is entirely reasonable and lawful for us to submit a formal request for extradition."
"That is legal theory! But this is not a courtroom; this is international politics!"
Fish waved his arms angrily.
"You are a businessman; you only see the debits in the ledger and the black ink on white paper of the treaty. But I deal with those bureaucrats at Downing Street every single day!"
Fish walked around the table and stood between Felix and Thomas Clark.
"Gentlemen, we need to recognize the reality."
Fish looked around at the politicians present.
"What is Britain today? It is the world's premier empire! Their Royal Navy possesses the largest ironclad fleet in the world and could blockade our East Coast at any moment. How many years has it been since the Civil War ended? Our country is still stopping the bleeding, and the reconstruction of the South is not yet complete. What do we have to slam the table and demand people from the British?"
"So we should just let it go?"
Roscoe Conkling, sitting in the corner, could not help but interject.
"I think Felix is right. Our President was assassinated in his own country, yet the murderer is sitting in a London club, drinking black tea and mocking us? If the government of the United States does not even have the courage to demand the person, then what is the difference between us and a British colony!"
"Senator Conkling, courage cannot be used as a cannon."
Fish retorted coldly.
"Do you think the British government cares whether an American President lives or dies? They might even be popping champagne in secret to celebrate! You fundamentally do not understand the logic behind how the British operate. They are the greatest troublemakers in the European continent, and indeed the entire world."
Fish pulled out his chair and sat back down, picking up the water glass on the table to take a sip, trying to calm himself.
"Felix, do you think the British will obediently hand over Junius Morgan for the sake of so-called justice?"
"I bet that as soon as our diplomatic note reaches London, they will immediately turn this matter into a political carnival directed at America."
James Blaine, the Speaker of the House of Representatives who had been silent until now, rubbed his chin.
"Fish, do you mean the British will use this incident to make a fuss?"
"Not just make a fuss, they will completely ruin our reputation." Fish slapped the table.
"Think about it, everyone. What is Old Morgan's status? Although he is an American, he is also a prominent banker who has spent years in the City of London. If the British government refuses extradition, how will they explain it to the outside world?"
Fish asked and answered himself, his tone filled with helplessness regarding the treacherous nature of diplomacy.
"I have already thought up the front-page headlines for 'The Times' and 'The Daily Telegraph' for them. They will proclaim loudly: 'Look at the barbaric United States of America! How terrible their domestic political environment is, and how cruel their oppression of businessmen is. So much so that a wealthy banker, respected in Europe, was driven to the wall and had no choice but to assassinate their own President to vent his anger.'"
Upon hearing these words, everyone in the conference room, including Felix, frowned.
"Although this narrative is absurd, it would definitely have a market in Europe."
Henry Wilson, the chairman of the Radical Republican caucus, sighed.
"Those old aristocrats in Europe already look down on a republic like ours that lacks history; they are just looking for an opportunity to strike at our international reputation."
"That is the core of the problem." Fish tapped the table.
"If the British spread this kind of rhetoric, what will be the consequences? Gentlemen, what is our country lacking most right now? It is capital! It is labor!"
Subsequently, Fish looked at Felix again.
"If the whole world believes that America is a chaotic place where even its own wealthy citizens are forced to commit assassinations, which European bank would dare lend us money to build railroads? Which European factory would dare come to New York to build a plant? Would those European immigrants queuing up at the ports of Liverpool and Hamburg to buy tickets still choose to come to a place where Civil War could break out at any moment? They would rather go to Australia!"
Fish's analysis accurately hit the fatal weakness of all the politicians present.
Reputation, which is the country's credit rating.
If America's credit goes bankrupt, economic development will come to a complete standstill. By then, let alone the power grid plans of General Electric, even the government bonds issued by Congress would become worthless paper.
"Therefore, I am opposed to submitting an extradition request to Britain."
Fish made his final conclusion.
"We cannot, for the sake of a tragedy that has already occurred and perhaps cannot be reversed, actively ignite a diplomatic powder keg that could burn the entire country to ash. We can put out a warrant for Old Morgan, and we can seize all his remaining assets in the country, but we absolutely must not drag the British government into this."
Silence fell over the conference room once again.
Conkling was still breathing heavily, but he could not find strong words to refute the Secretary of state's diplomatic logic. Although he was loyal to Grant, he was also a politician who knew that national interest was above all else.
Thomas Clark also frowned.
He was inclined to support Felix, but Fish's words made him realize that this move was indeed quite risky.
"Felix."
Thomas's tone carried a hint of dissuasion.
"Fish makes a valid point; we cannot underestimate the malice of the British. Should we reconsider this extradition matter? After all, we have already locked onto the direct perpetrator domestically, so we have an explanation for the public."
Felix did not answer immediately.
He turned his head and looked at the construction sites still underway in Washington D.C. outside the window.
This was America in this era, full of vitality but also as fragile as an infant.
He admitted that Fish, this seasoned diplomat, saw things very clearly.
Britain, that troublemaker, was indeed capable of such acts—twisting facts and kicking people while they were down.
But Felix could not swallow this insult.
If he did not nail Old Morgan firmly to the pillar of shame, his future business in Europe would continue to face sabotage.
"Mr. Secretary of state, your concerns are very thorough."
Felix spoke. His tone was no longer aggressive, but instead became surprisingly calm.
"However, gentlemen, while you are calculating international interests and the flow of capital, you seem to have forgotten the group of people on this land who are the most unreasonable, yet also the most dangerous to provoke."
"Who are you referring to?" Speaker Blaine asked.
Felix turned his head, his gaze piercing directly at Roscoe Conkling.
"I am referring to the millions of Union veterans who, a few years ago at Gettysburg and Vicksburg, followed that President of yours who is now lying in a hospital bed, crawling through mud and blood to win this Civil War!"
Felix's words were like a heavy club, striking the back of every politician's head present.
"You only see the British ironclads on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, but you fail to see the wounded veterans with missing limbs on the streets of Washington."
Felix stood up from his chair, pressed his hands onto the tabletop, and scanned the room with an imposing sense of oppression.
"President Ulysses S. Grant is not just the president elected by the Republican Party. He is the god of war in the hearts of these millions of Union veterans, the supreme commander who saved the United States. This is the foundation upon which he stands in this country."
Felix walked over to Conkling and patted the hardline Senator on the shoulder.
"Senator Conkling, you just asked what the difference is between us and a colony if we don't even have the courage to demand a person. I tell you, we don't need to wait for the British to mock us. If we truly play deaf and dumb, it will be our own people who tear us apart first."
Felix's voice echoed in the conference room.
"Everyone, imagine this: we announce through the newspapers that the president was assassinated by a rich merchant hiding in Britain who paid to hire killers. And then what? Nothing follows. We don't submit a protest to Britain, we don't demand extradition. Are we going to tell our citizens that we decided not to pursue it because we were afraid of the British Navy?"
Felix sneered.
"What will those veterans think? They weren't even afraid of death when they defended this country back then. Now their commander has been shot in the back, and the government doesn't even dare to make a sound! How will Grant's former subordinates in the army, General Sherman and General Sheridan, view everyone present here?"
"When that time comes, the Democratic Party won't need to impeach anyone. Thousands of veterans will march directly to Capitol Hill and blow your brains out with their own rifles. If Grant really dies, this anger will evolve into a riot even more terrifying than the Civil War. Who will take responsibility for this? Secretary of state Hamilton Fish, will you?"
Hamilton Fish's face instantly drained of color.
He understood diplomacy, but he understood politics even better.
In America, offending veterans is equivalent to political suicide. If the government truly displayed such weakness, the Republican Party would be drowned by the public's spittle.
"This..."
Senator Charles Sumner swallowed hard.
"I think Felix is right. We cannot show cowardice in front of the public. Even if we can't get him back, we must at least make the gesture."
"But what if the British use public opinion to retaliate against us?"
Speaker Blaine remained deeply worried.
Watching this group of politicians caught in a dilemma, Felix knew the time was right.
He had to give them a way out—a step that would allow them to show a tough stance while avoiding a complete falling out with Britain.
Felix walked back to his seat and sat down.
"Gentlemen. I said earlier that we are not declaring war on the British government. We are just asking for a murderer. And the British smear campaign you are worried about actually has a very simple solution."
"What solution?"
Thomas Clark immediately pressed.
"Turn Junius Morgan from a 'persecuted American merchant' into a 'mad dog that is a threat to everyone'."
Felix picked up his water glass and took a sip to moisten his throat.
"Fish, you must understand. In our diplomatic note, we are not accusing the British government of harboring a criminal. We are reminding them, or even asking them to assist in cleaning up a dangerous terrorist."
"First, while submitting the extradition request to Britain, I will utilize all the financial connections and media channels I have established in Europe, especially in London. I will have every tabloid in London publish a piece of news."
"I want all the British people to know that Junius Morgan's assets in America have been completely destroyed. He is now not only a pauper on the verge of bankruptcy, but all his descendants are gone too. He is just a desperate old man with nothing, who is mentally unstable."
Those present felt a chill down their spines as they listened to Felix's calm tone. Everyone knew who had caused Old Morgan's downfall.
"Then, we must amplify the two cruel assassination plots he orchestrated in America to the extreme," Felix continued.
"And we must tell the British public. To seek revenge, this man could recklessly throw out millions of dollars, hiring killers to use weapons and indiscriminately shoot people on busy streets. If he dares to kill the president of his own country, would he care about the common people in London?"
"Just imagine. A bankrupt, desperate, and extremely violent madman is now hiding in a wealthy district of London. Aren't the British aristocrats and capitalists afraid? If one day Old Morgan feels displeased with a certain British bank, might he also hire a few killers to take out the British Chancellor of the Exchequer?"
A smile appeared on the corner of Felix's mouth.
"We need to implant this sense of panic directly into the minds of the citizens of London. When that happens, we won't need to say anything; the British public and those capitalists who value their lives will pressure Downing Street themselves, demanding the government immediately throw this dangerous mad dog out of the British Empire."
Speaker Blaine's eyes lit up as he listened.
"In other words, we are packaging a diplomatic incident into a public safety incident?"
"Certainly," Felix nodded.
"Even if the British government, for the sake of so-called face, forcibly withstands the public pressure and refuses to hand him over, so what? We have done our best. We can answer to our citizens and veterans back home. We can tell them it's not that the United States is weak, but that the British have shamelessly harbored a mentally unstable murderer."
"By that time, the one whose international reputation will be damaged won't be us, but the British government, which disregarded its own citizens' safety just to spite us."
This coherent and tight combination of moves dispelled the concerns of everyone present.
This not only resolved the domestic political crisis but also turned the tables on Britain.
Most importantly, the government wouldn't need to spend a penny on public relations; the Argyle Family would bear all the costs for the public opinion campaign in Europe.
Hamilton Fish was silent for a long time, and finally, he let out a long sigh.
"Felix, if you weren't a businessman, I would definitely pull you into the State Department. Your calculation of human nature is even more effective than diplomatic rhetoric."
"Alright, I agree to draft this extradition note. I will send someone to deliver it to the British Embassy in Washington this afternoon."
Conkling finally revealed a satisfied smile, walked up, and took the initiative to extend his hand to Felix.
"Mr. Argyle. We will remember what you have done for President Grant."
Felix stood up and shook Conkling's hand.
"We are allies, Senator. Dragging the rat hiding in the sewer out is everyone's shared responsibility."
New York, Brooklyn.
A cold night rain lashed down on the dilapidated wharf area known as "Red Hook." The air was thick with the stench of dead fish, the acrid odor of burning low-quality coal, and the briny, bitter scent of seawater corroding the pilings.
This was the most chaotic district in all of New York.
Gangsters, smugglers, stowaways, and destitute dockworkers were packed together like maggots.
No decent person would ever set foot in this neighborhood after dark.
But tonight, Red Hook welcomed a group of uninvited guests.
Several unmarked black carriages pulled up outside a muddy dead-end alley. A large number of men in black raincoats leapt from the carriages like ghosts.
Without making a sound, they dispersed with disciplined precision, sealing off every intersection in the vicinity.
Timmy stood in the rain, the hem of his black raincoat flapping violently in the wind. He held an unlit cigarette between his fingers, his cold gaze fixed on the dilapidated three-story brick-and-timber apartment building ahead.
Senior Agent Higgins of the Secret Service walked over from the side, rainwater dripping steadily from the brim of his hat.
"All escape routes have been sealed off. I've even stationed men to watch the sewer outlets," Higgins said, lowering his voice, his breath forming white mist in the cold air.
"Mr. Timmy, your intelligence personnel are truly impressive. To be able to dig someone out in a Brooklyn this large within four hours..."
Timmy tossed the cigarette into the mud and water.
"That is the power of money and greed."
Timmy pointed to the middle-aged man being held down on the ground by two agents from the Intelligence Department. The fellow was trembling uncontrollably, wearing a filthy burlap shirt.
"This guy is the black-market landlord for this neighborhood. Our men went street by street in Red Hook, holding David Burke's portrait and carrying bundles of dollars. In less than two hours, someone sold this landlord out to us."
Higgins walked over to the landlord and crouched down.
"You say that man with the European accent rented the basement of this apartment building?"
The landlord nodded frantically, his teeth chattering from the cold.
"Yes, Officer! Just a week ago. That man gave me two thousand dollars in cash. He said he wanted to rent the entire basement and a small warehouse connected to the freight rail tracks. He warned me that if I dared to step near there, or tell anyone about it, he would slit my throat. I swear I really don't know what he did! I'm just a money-grubbing bastard!"
"After he went in, did anyone else enter?" Timmy asked, walking over.
"There were... there were a few guys who looked like murderers who snuck in late at night a few days ago. They were carrying several long wooden crates. But last night, I saw those people leaving in a hurry, as if they were rushing off somewhere. Now, only that European man is inside!"
"Very good, you didn't lie." Timmy patted the landlord's face, then signaled to the agent beside him.
"Drag him away, don't let him get in the way."
Higgins drew the revolver from his waist and checked the cylinder.
"Mr. Timmy, according to protocol, the Secret Service must lead this capture. We need him alive; after all, he is not only the mastermind behind the assassination attempts on Mr. Argyle and the President, but also the key witness to clear Mr. Argyle of suspicion."
"No problem, the Boss's instructions were also to take him alive." Timmy drew a double-barreled pistol from his waist.
"But this man is extremely dangerous. If he resists, I cannot guarantee he won't be missing a few parts."
Higgins nodded and raised his hand, giving a tactical signal to the Secret Service agents behind him.
A dozen fully armed agents immediately hugged the walls, creeping toward the basement entrance of the dilapidated apartment building like cats. The rain fell harder, masking the sound of their footsteps in the mud.
The basement entrance was behind a rusted iron door, which had a thick brass padlock hanging on it. A Secret Service agent stepped forward; instead of using a crowbar, he pulled a small glass bottle filled with strong acid from his pocket. He carefully poured the acid into the padlock's cylinder.
Acrid white smoke rose as the metal components inside the lock were rapidly corroded. A few seconds later, the agent, wearing thick leather gloves, gave a sharp twist. With a "click," the padlock was easily destroyed.
The agents gently pushed open the iron door, and an even stronger smell of coal ash and mildew rushed out to meet them.
It was pitch black inside, with only the faint light filtering through the door crack barely illuminating the narrow wooden stairs leading down. Higgins took the lead, with Timmy following close behind. They stepped on the creaking wooden planks, walking down step by step.
The basement space was unexpectedly large. It had originally been a large wine cellar used for storing smuggled goods.
Deep inside the cellar, a dim kerosene lamp was lit. A man wearing a gray vest with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows was standing at a wooden table, his back to them. The table was piled high with various documents, telegrams, fake passports, and a stack of bearer bonds that hadn't been burned yet.
The man seemed to be packing things up. He had sensed that the wind was blowing the wrong way outside and was preparing to destroy the evidence and flee.
David Burke—the deadliest ghost-hound Old Morgan had raised in Europe.
"Don't move! Federal Secret Service!" Higgins rushed down the last few steps, gripping his gun with both hands, aiming steadily at Burke's back.
Simultaneously, a dozen agents flooded into the basement from all directions, surrounding Burke completely.
The sound of bolts being pulled echoed throughout the empty basement, and countless dark gun barrels were pointed at the man standing before the table.
Burke's movements stopped. He didn't raise his hands in panic, nor did he attempt to grab the revolver on the edge of the table.
He turned around slowly; on that gloomy, gaunt face with typical European features, there was no fear—only the madness of a man driven into a dead end. Those deep-set eyes swept over the Secret Service agents surrounding him, finally settling on Timmy, who was wearing a black raincoat.
"Whoa~ The Secret Service isn't usually this fast."
"You must be Argyle's men."
"Since you know, don't do anything stupid." Timmy pointed his short-barreled pistol at Burke's head.
"Put your hands where I can see them, and get on your knees."
Burke suddenly laughed, the sound appearing extremely harsh in the dim wine cellar.
"Mr. Morgan was right; Argyle is a monster. He calculated long ago that I would be exposed."
Burke's gaze turned extremely vicious.
"But do you think that by catching me, you can report back to Washington? That you can clear Argyle of suspicion?"
Burke's hand suddenly reached into his vest pocket with extreme stealth.
Higgins's pupils contracted sharply, and he pulled the trigger without hesitation.
"Bang!"
The bullet struck Burke's shoulder, bursting into a spray of blood. Burke let out a muffled grunt and his body staggered, but his hand still pulled something from his pocket with absolute determination.
It was not a gun. It was a match.
And only at that moment did Timmy and Higgins realize that in the corner of this coal-ash-filled basement, there were several wooden barrels with their lids already opened, placed there silently. Besides the smell of coal ash, the air was heavy with the odor of a strong, volatile liquid. It was high-concentration kerosene shipped from the Appalachian Mountains.
Burke looked at them, a twisted smile appearing on his face. He struck it sharply. A flame danced in the darkness.