The night was deep, and the bonfire was blazing.
Tonight was the barbecue festival of the Chris Clan.
Every year, they would choose a suitable day after the harvest to hold a barbecue on the farm’s open field. John Chris had to leave temporarily and head to the farm’s warehouse.
"Sir, what should we do with those two special cargos?" a subordinate followed behind him, asking cautiously.
"Dig a pit and bury them," John casually pointed in a direction, his tone ice-cold, "Same as before, bury them over by the orchard."
The subordinate swallowed and reminded in a low voice, "Sir, those two cargos are top-notch. To ensure they remain in their original condition, we were very careful on the way back.
This kind of high-end cargo is rare, and someone on the black market has already placed a down payment, the price is quite high.
If we don’t deliver, we’ll lose our credibility and have to pay compensation. Perhaps... we can deliver in advance?"
John understood exactly what his subordinate meant by ’original condition’ — cargos that hadn’t been abused, unscathed physically and mentally.
If the cargo was damaged or mentally unstable, it wouldn’t fetch a price on the black market. After all, street prostitutes were everywhere and weren’t rare commodities.
To ensure the cargos’ mental state, they had to be treated well during transport, letting them think they just encountered some minor trouble... until the moment they were sold.
But John’s gaze suddenly turned fierce. He spun around sharply, grabbed his subordinate by the collar, and pulled him close.
Their faces were almost touching, John’s menacing breath blowing heavily on his subordinate’s face, exuding an oppressive aura.
"Don’t question my father’s orders, except me." John squeezed out each word through gritted teeth, "I don’t need you to think, just obey, understand?"
Faced with someone who could casually decide to bury people alive, the subordinate’s face turned ashen, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He nodded repeatedly, "Yes... yes, sir."
John let go, and the subordinate staggered back a few steps, almost falling. Not daring to speak further, he followed with his head lowered, as if facing a demon.
In truth, John didn’t think much of it, believing his father was too cautious, making a fuss over nothing.
The Chris Clan had been entrenched in Florida for years, with deep roots, and even the local FBI deputy director backed them.
He was convinced the call tonight was from some unknown troublemaker.
If the other party were really capable, they would have already led a raid on the farm. Why bother calling to ask for someone? It only alerted the Chris Clan to destroy evidence.
This had to be a bluff; he’d seen it many times before.
"Go get an excavator," John ordered angrily as he reached the warehouse entrance.
The subordinate didn’t dare delay, immediately running to get the digging tools ready. John pushed open the small door of the warehouse and walked in.
The inside was spacious and cold, filled with the smell of dirt in the air.
With modern equipment, the warehouse looked more like a laboratory than a traditional farm storage building.
Large compartments were piled with harvested crops, but John’s eyes went straight to a small room at the far end.
That was where they kept the "special cargos."
John walked to the door, lightly pressing his finger on the combination lock, and the door slowly opened.
Inside the room, Julia and Selena were shackled to a steel pillar, their wrists already rubbed raw and bloody.
Julia was struggling desperately to break free from the handcuffs, blood dripping down her arm and staining the floor.
Hearing the door open, both mother and daughter looked up in terror. Selena’s lips trembled as if she wanted to scream but couldn’t make a sound.
Julia stared at John, breathing rapidly and heavily, filled with both fear and anger, she demanded, "Why... why hurt us?"
"Why are there so many whys in this world? Don’t worry, your journey ends here. The pain will soon disappear," John pulled out a handgun, ready to take the mother and daughter away.
At that moment, a low rumble resonated from above the warehouse.
The sound started faintly, like distant thunder, but quickly grew violent, as if a giant beast outside was shaking the warehouse ferociously.
John’s expression changed abruptly. He stood up quickly, his eyes sweeping vigilantly towards the ceiling.
The vibrations intensified, the warehouse walls groaning under the pressure, dust falling from the ceiling fixtures.
"What’s going on?" John cursed under his breath, stepping out of the room.
Just as he stepped out, the subordinate who went to get the excavator rushed in in a panic, shouting, "Sir! It’s bad! There’s a helicopter outside!"
John’s pupils contracted, he shoved the subordinate aside and strode towards the warehouse’s main door.
The blinding searchlight pierced through the night, illuminating the ground. A police helicopter with FBI markings was circling overhead.
"Damn, Schulte either messed up or betrayed us. Otherwise, why would the FBI show up out of nowhere?"
As the searchlight from the helicopter blinded John, a larger, more powerful rotor roar emerged from the darkness.
The fierce wind whipped up debris, the roar threatening the night.
Two ’Osprey’ military transport planes were preparing to hover and land, their four engines tilting upwards, turbulent airflows torn by the rotors, like torrents falling from the sky, crashing into the ground.
The gusts knocked John off balance, making it hard to stand or see. He shouted to his subordinate, "Go, quickly take those two women away, absolutely don’t let them be found."