"Boss, do you really think this can be used in combat?"
There was still some uncertainty in Sun Tianlei’s voice.
"Can it really kill Japanese soldiers?"
"Trust me—it can. Not only can it kill them—it can kill a lot of them."
Smiling, Pierre looked at Sun Tianlei and added:
"As long as, one day, we don’t regret it."
"Regret? Why would we regret it? After everything the Japanese did to us? Did they ever regret it?"
Pierre nodded slightly. He knew Sun Tianlei’s attitude represented that of most Chinese people—blood must be repaid with blood.
When Galston and the other Americans eventually realized their work could lead to the deaths of 20 million Japanese civilians, what would they think?
**Would they become saints like Oppenheimer—**overwhelmed with guilt, claiming their hands were soaked in blood?
"Saints must die first in times of chaos..."
There was truth to that saying.
Seeing his boss go quiet, Sun Tianlei asked curiously:
"Tweak the equipment—get ready for mass production. As for me... I’m going to Washington."
After instructing the company to begin equipment calibration and prepare for production, Pierre headed off to Washington without delay.
After all, the only people who could authorize a plan to dump this stuff over all of Japan—were in Washington.
But once he got there... who would he even talk to?
Even though he wasn’t sure yet, Pierre boarded a train to Washington anyway. Not long after departure, he turned to Ding En and Hank and said:
"You two stay here—I’m going for a walk."
By "walk," he meant heading to the bar car for a smoke and a few drinks.
The bar in first class differed from a regular one only in this: the liquor was more expensive—but unlimited.
Otherwise, it was the same—full of balding, overweight middle-aged men in suits, discussing nothing but politics, money, and, of course, war—especially how to profit from it.
"What a bunch of boring people..."
Sitting by the window, Peggy let out a sigh as she sipped her drink, then turned to gaze out at the passing scenery.
Married for only six months, Peggy was already fed up with her marriage—her husband cared only for politics and business. That’s why she often ran off to Atlantic City or Havana.
Her post-marriage life was utterly dull.
As her lips touched the rim of the glass, she caught a glimpse—someone had just entered the car.
He was wearing formal attire today, but she recognized him instantly—the guy from Havana!
What was he doing here?!
As he walked toward her side of the car, Peggy’s heartbeat quickened. What if he recognized her?
Even now, she couldn’t figure out what exactly had happened that night.
Was it just the alcohol? Or was it something else...?
Lost in her thoughts, Peggy suddenly saw the man walk right past her without a second glance.
A wave of conflicting emotions surged within her.
He... he didn’t recognize me!
No—wait, not a total waste. He paid.
Thinking of that, Peggy reflexively touched her purse. The hundred-dollar bill was still inside—Benjamin Franklin, a quiet reminder of that wild night.
"He really didn’t recognize me?"
As she watched the man take a seat at the bar, a thousand thoughts raced through her head.
At first, she’d worried he might recognize her. But now, she was bothered that he hadn’t.
"Seriously... why didn’t he recognize me?"
Sitting at the bar, Pierre had no idea someone was eyeing him so intensely. He took a sip of whiskey and lit a cigarette, thinking about his next move in Washington.
"The key is getting in the door."
Furrowing his brow, Pierre thought about lobbyists—the most common type of person in D.C.
"Maybe I should find a lobbyist... but can one of them even get me into the Pentagon?"
The more he thought about it, the more daunting the challenge seemed.
He was new to this country. Walking straight into a Pentagon meeting? Not realistic.
Just then, a conversation drifted to his ears:
"...the National Hotel. That’s where I secured my contract. You never know who you’ll bump into at the sixth-floor restaurant. A general? A colonel? Don’t think too highly of those guys—one dinner, and you could land a major contract..."
Curious, Pierre looked toward the group speaking—but they were a bit too far to hear clearly.
That’s when the woman at the next table caught his eye.
She looked familiar... Wait, it was her!
In Cuba, blondes were rare. Blonde women this beautiful were rarer still—especially those in her line of work.
And now she was on this train?
Was this another venue for her business?
With that thought, Pierre stood and walked toward her.
Peggy stared at him in a daze as he approached. Flustered, she discreetly covered her wedding ring with her hand.
"Miss, we meet again..."
With that, Pierre sat down across from her—a spot perfectly positioned to overhear the nearby conversation.
Seeing her at a loss for words, Pierre smiled and pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, speaking softly:
"Miss... I need a favor."
A hundred-dollar Franklin.
In an instant, Peggy’s eyes widened. Her sea-blue gaze locked onto the man, then down at the bill on the table. For a moment, she was tempted to throw her drink right in his face.
Did this man really see her as a call girl?
But then she noticed—his attention wasn’t even on her. He was focused entirely on those older men nearby, and on their conversation...
Watching the man quietly eavesdropping, Peggy felt a rush of complicated emotions.
Maybe... maybe she’d imagined a dozen versions of this moment in her dreams—their reunion. But it had never looked .
He was supposed to be surprised to see her, then...
No matter how she’d pictured it, it definitely wasn’t this kind of indifference. At first, he hadn’t even recognized her—and now, even after sitting down, it was obvious: this bastard was only here to listen in on someone else’s conversation.